by Sarah Bailey
She looks at me curiously. ‘It’s pretty unlikely. It’s not scientifically impossible but it’s definitely not common. Especially if the shade is really dark.’
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ I say smoothly to Felix, who sticks his tongue out at me.
I don’t often dream about Jacob anymore, but for about three years after he died I had a recurring dream almost every other night in which he was running away from me in the dark, his bare feet pounding on the hard ground as he ducked past branches and pushed through long grass. I didn’t know why I was chasing him but I knew that he was going to die, and panic was high in my throat, my heart pulsing like a drumbeat as we broke out of the dense bush and onto a moonlit sand dune.
‘Jacob!’ I screamed over and over, but he ran away from me, faster than he had ever run before, our feet catching on the cold sand.
I could feel death calling for him and I was crying messily, when he suddenly stopped and turned around. I came to a halt too. A ghostly glow bounced off his face and he looked straight through me with a sad smile. A goodbye smile, I thought a moment too late. A loud clock tick echoed around us, signalling that it was all over, and in unbearable slow motion, he fell backwards with total abandon. It seemed impossible that no one would catch him. But he was gone and I was left alone on the sand dune. There was no sound: it was like I was in the centre of a windowless dome.
Sobbing, and with silence blaring in my ears, the dream version of myself went to where Jacob had been standing, and it was then I realised I was teetering on the sharp edge of a huge cliff. I looked down at the broken star of his body. He stared blankly back at me from the middle of a rock as the arms of the navy blue ocean curled angrily around the edges of his cold, hard grave.
Chapter Twenty-two
Wednesday, 16 December, 10.11 am
‘It must be very difficult.’
George Ryan nods in reply. He looks better today. Some of the colour has come back into his face. He’s wearing charcoal suit pants and a crisp white shirt. I spy an ostentatious watch on his wrist. He moves slowly, his blue eyes cloudy. This is a look I know well. Often, when people lose a loved one, this flatness appears in their stare. It’s not so bad when they are talking or actively performing a task, but as soon as they stop, their eyes wander back to the grief and the marble sets in. I know I have this look too. It’s a sad thing when your default gaze broadcasts to the world that you’re thinking about death.
George places two mugs of tea on the coffee table and settles heavily into the armchair. A slight groan escapes his lips.
‘How are you feeling?’
He shrugs. ‘Oh well, it’s hard to say really. If you mean from the operation, then I’m not sure. Physical pain has somewhat taken a back seat.’
I sip at the tea and nod.
‘There’s not really an instruction manual for something like this,’ he says, his eyes fixed to a section of the wall.
‘No, there isn’t. That’s very similar to what John Nicholson said, actually.’
He looks up blankly. Then, ‘The principal at the school?’ He straightens and his voice thickens, carrying a sudden hardness.
I watch him carefully. I can picture him in a business environment; there is a sense of quiet power about him. ‘Yes.’
‘Well. He’s right, I suppose.’ George adds, ‘That man’s been bothering us about having a memorial at the school on Friday.’
‘Yes, I heard that,’ I say.
A flash of anger flickers in his eyes and he grunts.
I find myself coming to Nicholson’s defence. ‘Well, it might be good for people to have the chance to say goodbye. Especially her students.’
Neither of us speaks for a few moments as thoughts run through my mind. He overreacted just now, but the difficulty with a murder case is that everyone’s oddness is likely to be legitimate. Virtually everyone we speak to is feeling some sense of loss. Plus, they are scared; their normal lives have been pulled apart by the blunt reminder of mortality. Navigating the difference between weird but normal grief as opposed to truly suspicious behaviour is key for any detective worth their stripes.
‘Do you mind if I ask what your surgery was for?’
He relaxes back into his chair and his eyes soften again. ‘I have prostate cancer.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ I say.
He waves my comment away. ‘It’s manageable so far and I’ve kept it all very low-key. I don’t want to make a big fuss. So far I seem to be hanging on remarkably well.’
‘When did you go into hospital?’
He gives me a look that makes it clear he knows I’m confirming his alibi but he answers easily. ‘I went in at about seven on Friday morning. Marcus picked me up from the hospital on Saturday morning on the way back from the airport. I think around nine.’
‘Your other sons couldn’t pick you up?’
He grimaces. ‘My other sons don’t get up early. Plus, I was at Our Lady, so Marcus was coming past anyway.’
His voice rolls across the vast room, up the walls and along the ceiling. It’s a classic sales voice and I remind myself that this man is used to being in control. He isn’t familiar with situations that you can’t pay your way out of. Like a murdered daughter. Or even, perhaps, an adulterous wife.
‘Do your sons always stay here when they visit?’
‘Usually. When Timothy was still with Alice they sometimes stayed with him, but he’s here now anyway.’
‘Are you happy to have him living here?’
George looks at me without talking for almost a minute and I have to force myself not to squirm. ‘Well, the house is big enough that I barely notice. It’s fine for now.’
‘Mr Ryan, I have to ask you about your sons.’
‘Yes,’ he says, a defensive note creeping into his voice.
‘We’ve confirmed that Marcus flew into Gowran on Saturday morning but we’re finding it difficult to confirm that Bryce was home all evening and that Timothy was at the school before he returned here. I assume you have security tapes in the house?’
His eyes are steel but after a moment he waves his hand. ‘Yes, just outside. You’ll be able to see cars coming and going from the garage. And the street in front of the house. You can look at the files whenever you want.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ryan,’ I say. ‘I’ll have them all collected this afternoon.’ Then, changing tack, I ask, ‘How is your business these days?’
‘Well, I’m getting a bit old to manage things but I believe it is ticking along nicely.’
I look him in the eye. ‘We’ve heard that there are a few issues. You seem to have a few enemies.’
He lightly snorts air out of his nostrils. ‘No one special. I have found in business, detective, that if you don’t have someone upset with you then you’re not doing it right.’ He folds his hands together and firms his jaw.
‘So all the turmoil about Aussie jobs and the salaries of your senior executives doesn’t concern you?’
He sighs and says mildly, ‘It concerns me, yes. But it has nothing to do with Rose.’
‘How do you know?’ I press.
‘Because it’s all a political beat-up. And the reports are misleading, so we’re focusing on setting the record straight.’
‘Have you received threats?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, nothing directly. I’ve never really been threatened about the company. There was a bomb threat made here to the house once but that was years ago now.’
‘Tell me about Rosalind,’ I say, changing the subject again.
His hands flutter briefly away from his lap before settling back into place. ‘What else would you like to know?’
‘Well, how did you feel about having a daughter finally, after three sons?’
He looks surprised but says, ‘Rosalind’s birth was not a happy time, unfortunately. As you know, Olivia died very shortly after Rose was born and I’m afraid a new baby was a very hard thing to have to deal with.’
‘Understandable,’ I murmur.
‘Yes. It was very hard. It was Christmas Day, which added to the strain. This has never been a happy time of the year for our family. Rosalind was quite a good baby but the boys were young and scared without their mother and there simply weren’t enough hours in the day. I made sure I had help.’
‘From family?’
He laughs. ‘No. Not from family, though Olivia’s mother tried her best to help. Mad as a cut snake, that woman. I wouldn’t let her anywhere near the children. No, I had paid help mostly. Fortunately, I had the means.’
‘What was your wife like?’
He sips at his tea thoughtfully and then looks up at me as if he is trying to decide how much to reveal. ‘Olivia was a very complicated woman.’
‘And very beautiful,’ I say, indicating the photo of Olivia on the mantelpiece.
He nods, looking at it too. ‘Indeed she was. Incredible-looking. Like Vivien Leigh, I used to think. But she did know it. I loved her to death but she was very difficult.’ He smiles. ‘My very own Scarlett O’Hara.’
‘Difficult how?’
He sighs heavily. ‘Difficult in all the ways a woman can be difficult. She was very selfish. Very demanding. She would occasionally have episodes. Quite bad episodes. We had been having a lot of trouble before she died. Pregnancy seemed to make things worse. Hormones, I suppose. I was keen to keep that side of her away from the boys.’
I nod. ‘It’s challenging looking after children when you are dealing with all the things that adults have to work out.’
‘Yes. Being an adult is something that I don’t think you ever really get used to.’ He gives a brief ironic laugh. ‘You must have children yourself to say that.’ He releases another heavy sigh. ‘But this is not about Olivia, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. But sometimes this kind of background information is helpful. Do you think Rosalind was impacted by not having a mother?’
‘Impossible to say. She never knew another life. She was very quiet and sort of self-contained. Smart and opinionated at times but not overly affectionate. I remarried for a while and she seemed to like having Lila around, but that didn’t work out in the end.’
‘I didn’t know you had remarried,’ I say.
‘Yes, to Lila Wilcox. She’s a good woman but we were terribly unsuited.’ He clenches his fists as if trying to get his blood flowing. ‘To be honest, their closeness bothered me sometimes. I felt a bit excluded, though I recognised it was probably good for Rose to have another woman around. Seems ridiculous now. I don’t know if they were in touch. Lila lives in China.’ He looks around the room absently. ‘I should tell her what’s happened, I suppose.’
I make a note to call Lila Wilcox myself.
‘Mr Ryan, I know this is hard, but what was your relationship with Rosalind like?’
George Ryan glances outside to the shimmering pool. He looks regal sitting in profile, his shirt tailored, his hair groomed. I recall seeing a similar scene online a few days ago in a local news article that profiled his business. I keep catching the startling blue of Olivia’s frozen stare in my peripheral vision.
‘I loved Rose, but I think that, as hard as I tried, it was difficult to separate losing Olivia from gaining her. I suppose she might have sensed that sometimes.’ He finishes his tea and the cup slips as he places it on the saucer. The clatter of china needles up my spine. ‘But I always looked after her. I loved her. I’m just not sure I really knew what to do with a daughter.’
His formality feels jarring. I sense he is telling the truth but there is a coolness that has me on guard.
‘Do you think Rosalind liked living in Smithson? I mean, I assume she must have, to come back.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose she did.’ The furrow on his brow deepens as he says, ‘In many ways, Rosalind wasn’t very ambitious. But she was happy to work hard. Not like my boys, who have high expectations but want everything to fall into their laps. She always had her head in a book. She liked reading and writing and those kinds of things. She did live in the city for a few years but I don’t think she really enjoyed it. I understood that, as I am not well-suited to the city lifestyle either. And there was some trouble at the school she taught at.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Yes. Some issue with a love-struck student, which caused her a lot of grief. She didn’t want to discuss it but I got the sense she was quite angry about it. She decided to move back here to teach after that.’
‘That must have been very stressful for her,’ I say. Felix and I made some calls to her old school late yesterday and are waiting to hear back. Something definitely went down there.
‘She took it all in her stride. She wasn’t one to dwell on things, really. Despite how she looked, she was very strong.’
‘We’ve been to her house,’ I say abruptly.
George seems mildly surprised. ‘Well, yes, I suppose you have. Of course.’
‘Once we have everything we need we’ll let you know so that you can have her things. And you may wish to sell the house in time.’
He waves his hand limply in my direction. ‘None of that seems to matter right now.’
‘You bought her the place, is that right?’
He looks at me and I feel the mood shift again. He seems to shut down and sink into himself, wary.
‘Yes. I’ve helped all my children in different ways, depending on what they wanted.’ He carefully rolls up the cuff of his shirtsleeve. ‘Rose only wanted a little place. She was not an extravagant person. I thought it was a good idea after so long being the only girl, and the baby, that she have a bit of independence.’ He smiles at me, his mouth pulling sharply at both ends until it seems to fall into a small snarl. ‘Have you any further information on what happened that night?’
‘At this stage nothing concrete, unfortunately. We’re gathering a lot of information and speaking to a lot of people who knew your daughter. There’s still a lot to review. We’re doing everything we can.’
‘Is it true what they say, that if there is no suspect in the first seventy-two hours, the case isn’t likely to be solved?’
I make myself look him in the eye. ‘We certainly prefer to have a suspect or suspects straight away, Mr Ryan. That tends to lead to a better outcome. But every case is different and follows its own course. I can promise you we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to your daughter.’
‘The funeral is on Friday, you know. In the afternoon.’
‘Yes, I heard that,’ I say.
‘It is unthinkable to have to plan the funeral of your child.’
‘I honestly can’t imagine how hard it must be, Mr Ryan.’
‘No.’ He grabs at his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘Mr Ryan, you are a wealthy man. I have to ask, will each of your children receive an equal part of your estate eventually?’
He sighs. ‘Yes, yes. I’ve arranged all of that.’
‘Is it something that you discuss with them?’
‘My wealth is not a secret. But neither is the fact that over half of my estate is going to various charities.’
‘Without wanting to be presumptuous, Mr Ryan, I assume that still leaves a significant inheritance for your children?’
‘Yes. Certainly. A percentage of my estate will be split evenly between them. Assuming they sell the business, they will receive around a million dollars each.’ His eyes drift to the floor again as he says, ‘More now, I suppose.’
I let the motive sit between us for a few seconds. George eyes me steadily but I notice his left hand shaking.
‘Your daughter …’ I say, letting the word linger a moment. I want to ask him directly if he is Rosalind’s father, but if he is clueless about the possibility that she isn’t his daughter, I have to consider whether he deserves to deal with deceit as well as death.
‘Yes?’ He looks up at me expectantly.
‘She seemed quite different to your sons. Different to you. Would you say she was a
bit of a black sheep?’
His eyes meet mine and then drop back to the floor. ‘I suppose she was. Yes.’ His papery face creases as he brings his hands to his cheeks. ‘She was very special. People were always drawn to her. I used to marvel at it when she was a child.’ He wipes at the jowly skin under his eyes. ‘I hardly knew her in a way, but the thing is, I loved her all the same.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Wednesday, 16 December, 9.02 pm
Sitting in the dark on my couch, with my laptop propped on the coffee table, I watch grainy figures pour out of the dimly lit school hall again. They link elbows, lean close and talk excitedly to one another. The heat from the night is evident in their short skirts and skimpy tops. A pixellated Rosalind emerges about ten minutes after the play ends, bouquets piled in her slender arms. Her beauty transcends the poor quality of the CCTV files that Smithson High’s security company provided. She looks like a ballerina, graciously accepting enthusiastic praise. Pulling my gaze away from the computer screen, I briefly place my half-finished beer bottle on each eye. Blood surges, and it feels like tiny bugs are crawling through the capillaries in my eyelids. I blink a few times, gearing up for another viewing. So far, I haven’t been able to identify Timothy Ryan, though he could be one of about fifteen blurry men.
I interviewed Kai Bracks today. A vacant, clammy kid who looked up at me stupidly from underneath heavy-lidded eyes. He seemed to have trouble focusing on any one thing; his gaze swayed around the room as he considered my questions.
He said he’d heard about the flowers that had been sent to Rosalind Ryan for Valentine’s Day—everyone heard about it—but he didn’t know anything about them. No, he definitely wasn’t the one that sent them. No, he didn’t know who had. Sure, he’d liked Ms Ryan, she was nice. Yes, he thought she was pretty, just like everyone thought she was pretty.
We had nothing. The flowers were bought so long ago and it had been vague at the time, all hearsay and gossip. And Rosalind wasn’t around to question.
Kai’s movements on Friday night are also unhelpfully sketchy: he was at the play, he had a backstage role, and then he went to the after party but claims to have gone home in between to pick up some booze. His parents were at a friend’s place so no one can vouch for this, though some other kids do remember him at the party. Of course there’s absolutely nothing to prove that he went anywhere near the lake either. A loose thread or a dead end? I can’t tell at this point.
