The Dark Lake

by Sarah Bailey

  I wanted him to think that this letter was the end between them.

  To realise that he had made a mistake.

  To see what we had all along.

  I needed to keep them apart. I didn’t want her to beg him for a second chance. Deny that she sent it.

  I bit my lip, the final stage of my plan forming in my mind.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Saturday, 26 December, 4.09 pm

  I call Our Lady Private Hospital to talk to George Ryan but I’m told he’s not able to speak with me at the moment. ‘Only family,’ the nurse snaps into the phone.

  Felix is nowhere to be found. I recall Jonesy dressing me down and rage pulses through me again in waves. I’m exhausted and desperate to take my mind off Felix’s betrayal.

  Timothy and Bryce Ryan were released without charge following the incident at the house. Neither was willing to press charges but clearly something has come between them. I wonder if it has to do with Rosalind.

  It’s 1.15 pm in Shanghai when I call Lila Wilcox. I can hear the grime and colour of the exotic city pulsing down the line as she answers. It sounds a lot further than half a world away. ‘Ms Wilcox? Detective Woodstock.’

  ‘Oh.’ She falters. ‘You have news?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t. We’re still working through a lot of information.’

  ‘I see.’ Relief comes in the form of a long breath and then, as if realising that not knowing is worse, her breathing quickens again. ‘Well, how can I help?’

  ‘Lila, I want to ask some questions about when you were married to George Ryan.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I arrange the photos of the Ryans on my monitor as I talk to her. ‘Was George ever violent?’

  ‘No. Arrogant. Dominant, perhaps, and moody sometimes, but not violent.’

  ‘He never hit you? Never lashed out at the boys?’

  ‘Not that I ever saw. He was very strict with them—too strict, I thought—but not inappropriate. He never touched me.’

  ‘What about Rosalind?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘Ms Wilcox,’ I say, ‘this is important. I don’t want to have to bring you back here. It’s a long flight.’

  ‘No. Look, it’s nothing. He never touched her either. I wouldn’t have stood for it. But there was something off with the way he was with her.’

  ‘Off?’

  She speaks quickly. ‘Nothing like that. Really. More like he was nervous around her. Don’t get me wrong. He spoiled her. Gave her things. Loved her. But he seemed uncomfortable with her.’

  ‘Maybe at that age he felt it wasn’t right to be too close?’

  ‘Maybe. I never understood it. It was almost like he was scared of her.’ Lila laughs. It’s a nice sound. ‘Silly, really. I tried to discuss it with him but he said I was imagining things. I don’t know. Perhaps I was. She didn’t mind. She was so self-sufficient.’

  ‘What about the boys? Did they ever touch her? Were they ever violent?’

  ‘No. Not that I saw.’

  I look at my screen again. I’m deep down rabbit holes but the rabbits are everywhere except where I’m looking.

  A horn blares. She’s crossing a road.

  ‘There was something,’ she says hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s anything really. After all, they were just children.’

  ‘What happened?’ I say.

  ‘Okay, well, I could tell something was going on. This would have been around two years before I left. Rosalind was perhaps twelve.’

  ‘And what was going on?’

  ‘Well, it started with some silly inappropriate comments. Sneaking around. Normal kid stuff.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘They were taking pictures.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of Rose.’

  ‘What kind of pictures?’

  ‘You know. Those kind of pictures. There was a vent in the ceiling of her room, and Tim and Bryce set up one of George’s cameras in it. They took photos of her in her room. Undressing and whatever.’

  ‘Not Marcus?’

  ‘He knew about the photos but I don’t think he was really involved. He was close to Rose. Tim and Bryce were always the leaders, even though they were younger. Marcus was a sweet boy. He never wanted to cause trouble.’

  ‘Did you tell your husband?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think it was worth it. I reasoned they weren’t pornographic, more opportunistic. I went crazy at them and made them destroy all the photos. Grounded them. They claimed she knew all about the photos, that it had been her idea in the first place. I told George they’d been talking back to me. He was away on business anyway.’

  ‘Did Rosalind know about this?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I didn’t want her to know. Like I said, I think it was just kid stuff. Not good, obviously, but probably just pushing boundaries. They were always hard to manage and I didn’t think it was worth making it into a bigger deal. They were just messing around. Oh god.’

  ‘Ms Wilcox? Lila?’ I say, when she doesn’t answer.

  Her voice shakes now. ‘They were just kids … You don’t think that the boys are involved in what happened to her? God.’

  Tapping my pen against my teeth I try to imagine it. ‘I really don’t know,’ I say.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Sunday, 27 December, 3.02 pm

  ‘It feels weird being here.’ Melanie Cousins shifts her gaze furtively to the left, then to the right, the small piercing high in her ear sparkling in the sun.

  ‘Because of Ms Ryan?’ Tara Boffin shades her eyes from the glare and notices Melanie’s piercing, wishing her mother would let her get one like it.

  ‘Yeah,’ replies Melanie. ‘Mum’s still beside herself about it.’

  ‘Same. Mine’s obsessed. Keeps shushing everyone when the news comes on.’ Tara hasn’t minded though; she’s been devouring the news on Ms Ryan’s murder, searching for information online long after everyone has gone to bed. Some of the comments she read at the end of one report were probably the worst things she has ever read.

  ‘Do you think the guy’s still out there?’

  ‘I guess so. They haven’t caught him yet.’

  The girls walk over the rocks to the left of the playground. The sun has shrunk the often watery pools to nothing. Tara concentrates to keep her balance. She’s larger than Melanie and less steady on her feet. The slighter girl scrambles over the rocks easily.

  ‘Want one?’ Melanie holds out a cigarette.

  ‘Sure.’ Tara tries to hide her huffing.

  They sit companionably together in silence, smoking.

  ‘Do you think it hurt?’ Melanie asks.

  ‘When she died?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I reckon. I read she was raped before he killed her.’ Tara shudders.

  ‘I heard it was after, like when she was already dead.’

  ‘It’s so gross,’ says Tara.

  ‘Yeah.’

  A woman who has been walking her dog near the playground stops in the middle of the path and lifts her hand to shield her eyes and then waves at them enthusiastically.

  ‘Who’s that?’ says Melanie, stubbing out her cigarette.

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe our next-door neighbour?’ says Tara, also killing her cigarette and managing to burn the tip of her thumb at the same time.

  ‘Quick, let’s get away from here where she can’t see.’

  Tara follows Melanie, who weaves expertly through the bracken down to the water’s edge. ‘In here,’ says Melanie.

  Tara looks at the gaping entrance to the concrete tunnel and stops short.

  ‘C’mon!’ The walls give Melanie’s voice a masculine edge.

  ‘I don’t know, Mel.’

  Melanie’s voice starts to fade away, disappearing into the dark void.

  ‘Okay, wait. I’m coming.’ Tara steps tentatively into the nothingness, the slosh of shall
ow water underneath her shoes.

  There’s a flicking sound and then a yellow glow; Melanie is illuminated by the flame as she leans in to light a cigarette. ‘For you?’ She offers the lighter to Tara, who obliges by shifting forward and letting her catch the end of the cigarette with the flame.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘An old drainpipe or something. I don’t think it’s used for anything. Matt and I come down here sometimes to … you know.’ Melanie raises her eyebrows.

  Tara pictures Matt pinning her friend against the dark concrete wall, kissing her, and the two of them having sex in this dirty place, and thinks that as much as she’d like to have a boyfriend she wouldn’t like him to bring her here. Especially not since Ms Ryan was murdered a few metres away.

  ‘Wow. This is cool,’ says Melanie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This. Look.’

  Tara makes her way over to where Melanie is standing next to the wall, using the lighter like a torch. ‘I think we should get out of here. What if the water comes on or something?’

  ‘It won’t. Jeez, relax. And look at these. I’ve never noticed them before. Some of them are really good.’

  Tara takes in the artwork on the curved wall. Melanie’s right, some of the pictures are impressive. Complicated patterns, dramatic graffiti and excellent likenesses to people. Brad and Angelina are wrapped around each other in an awkward embrace, their heads large on tiny bodies. There is a cartoon of the mayor that makes her giggle, his recognisable features twisted into a squinty pig-like creature.

  ‘I like that one.’

  Melanie moves the lighter to where Tara is pointing, illuminating a picture of a large glowing gem. Somehow it looks lit up; the artist has used white shading and silver paint to give the gem its own light. It’s abstract, but beautiful. Tara’s never seen anything quite like it before.

  ‘Yeah, that’s really cool.’ Melanie takes out her phone to snap a picture of it.

  Tara drops her cigarette in the water while Melanie’s not looking. She is queasy from the smoke and feels a mild flutter of panic as she turns back towards the small circle of daylight, but her eyes keep being drawn to the glittering gemstone, as if it’s a rare archaeological find, noting the tiny words—JM + Gem. Always—at the very sharpest point of the jewel.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Monday, 28 December, 10.06 am

  From the tearoom I see Felix pulling into the car park and I bolt out the front before he has the chance to get out of the car. Kenny sniggers as I rush past. Felix wasn’t in yesterday and had been mysteriously in Paxton on Saturday ‘looking into things related to the case’. He has been ignoring my calls, and seeing him now has tipped my simmering over to a fully fledged boil.

  ‘Why are you ignoring me?’ I hiss.

  He looks up at me, squinting. ‘What?’ He takes his time gathering his bag. Putting his keys in his pocket.

  ‘You’re ignoring me,’ I say, though the sight of him has numbed me somewhat.

  ‘I had a day off, Gemma,’ he replies, putting sunglasses on. ‘I needed a break.’

  Anger bubbles up inside me again. ‘Why did you tell Jonesy about the flowers?’

  ‘Gemma, it’s a criminal investigation.’ I can tell by the way he’s talking to me that Maisie hasn’t said anything about seeing him. Seeing us. He’d be different. Frazzled. Instead, he’s looking at me with calm pity. I wonder whether she just hasn’t realised what she saw or whether she has decided to keep a secret from her father.

  ‘I fucking know that. Don’t be an arsehole.’

  He looks at me evenly. ‘Gemma.’

  White hot anger burns through my body. I can’t even speak.

  ‘Your son was taken. You’re not thinking straight. I think we all need to have all of the information. You can’t do this on your own.’

  I kick at the ground and his mouth twitches into a brief smile.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He hardens. ‘Gemma. Come on. I’m trying to help.’

  ‘I’m not trying to do this on my own.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ I cry.

  ‘Gemma, now is not the time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For a discussion about this.’

  Two junior uniforms push out of the main entrance and glance apologetically our way before scuttling to their patrol car.

  ‘About what?’

  He sighs as if I am a toddler throwing a tantrum. ‘About our relationship.’

  ‘Oh, is that what this is? I thought we were going to discuss the case.’ I whirl around and stalk back towards the office, yelling over my shoulder. ‘I’m going to talk to the Ryans. Timothy and Bryce have some explaining to do.’

  Timothy had flown back to Sydney on Saturday night for a fortieth and Bryce said he had gastro, so I wasn’t able to speak to them again yesterday. Neither of them was thrilled when I arranged for two fresh-faced uniforms to pick them up from George Ryan’s house bright and early this morning. Then, I deliberately kept them waiting for over an hour, scowling as they sat opposite each other on the uncomfortable chairs in the front room, before I suddenly separate them to begin the interviews.

  They both maintain that their argument on Boxing Day was a silly misunderstanding.

  They hadn’t slept well and it led to a fight over cooking breakfast.

  Timothy misinterpreted something Bryce said and he snapped.

  They’ve been under a lot of pressure.

  They want to go home.

  They have their lawyers on speed dial, you know.

  Their father is very ill.

  They need to be with him.

  ‘You weren’t with him yesterday,’ I point out.

  ‘I was sick myself,’ says Bryce.

  ‘It was my best mate’s birthday,’ says Timothy.

  ‘Let’s talk about your sister,’ I say.

  They both pause.

  ‘Tragic, obviously,’ says Bryce.

  ‘Just a nightmare,’ says Timothy.

  ‘Okay, let’s go over a few things again. Where were you on Friday, 11 December?’

  ‘The school play,’ says Timothy cockily. ‘Romeo and Juliet. It was great. Much better than I thought it would be.’

  ‘But you didn’t speak with your sister?’ I ask.

  ‘No, she was busy, everyone wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘What about you, Bryce?’

  ‘Yep. Like I said, I got takeaway from the chicken shop, went home and watched a movie. I already told you all this.’

  ‘And you heard your brother come home?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, like I said, I think so. Around eleven. I was on the phone to my girlfriend. She had a migraine, that’s why I stayed home that night. I heard the door open so I knew Timothy was home.’

  ‘Was Bryce’s door closed when you got home? How did you know he was home?’

  ‘I could hear him talking. I assumed he was on the phone.’

  ‘Okay. Back to Rosalind. Did you always get along?’ I ask Timothy.

  ‘She was our only sister. We spoiled her.’

  ‘And what about when you were younger? Did you get along?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Bryce.

  ‘Very well. She was very easygoing,’ says Timothy.

  ‘So easygoing that you took photos of her getting undressed?’ I press.

  Indignant splutters are followed by the clearing of throats, which turn to narrowed eyes filled with suspicion.

  ‘I don’t really remember anything like that,’ says Bryce. ‘We were just kids mucking around.’

  ‘That was all her idea!’ says Timothy. ‘She wanted us to take photos of her. She was always asking us to do stuff like that.’

  ‘So you’re saying she instigated the photos being taken?’ I ask.

  ‘She definitely wanted us to take them,’ says Bryce.

  ‘I really don’t see the point in going over any of this. But yes, she knew. She
always loved being the centre of attention,’ says Timothy. ‘She was manipulative.’

  ‘Do you think your sister was manipulative?’ I ask Bryce.

  He shrugs. ‘She got what she wanted most of the time. Is that the same thing?’

  ‘I want to go home,’ says Timothy. ‘Are you charging us with anything?’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ announces Bryce. ‘Dragging all this up isn’t helping anyone.’

  Chapter Sixty

  Tuesday, 29 December, 6.55 am

  The Sonny Lake car park is empty. For the first time in days it’s cool and the clouds are swollen with rain. I sit for a moment inside the quiet of the car and look out across the lake. The water is still, as if someone hit pause. I let my eyes drop a little and it could almost be an ice rink. In the early light the water is silver. I know Rosalind was already dead by the time she went into the water, but I still imagine her thrashing about, gulping for air as water fills her mouth, her dark eyes wide with fear. In my vision she is terrified, knowing she is about to die.

  A motorbike revs loudly on the highway. I grab my thermos of instant coffee and walk down towards the lake. Dew shimmers on the grass. Small birds twitter and jump frenetically around the low shrubs that line the path. My limbs feel loose and long, finally free from the heat, though the smoke-choked sun is staging a comeback, peeking out from the edge of the earth like a hazy fireball. I sip at the tepid coffee and some spills down my chin.

  ‘Dammit!’ My anger flares but it’s Felix I’m thinking about. How fucking dare he?

  Wiping away the coffee, I walk past the silent playground, away from the tower and over to where the lake curls out sharply from the path. The trees, mainly gums, hang low here, dipping sporadically into the water. There is only a clumsy rail to prevent people from stepping off the path and tumbling into the water. At night, it would be easy to slip and become tangled in the greenery and be eaten by the earth. We used to come down here and covertly smoke cigarettes during lunch, planting ourselves in the gazebo at the end of the pier so that we could spot the teachers coming. A strange flutter of desire for a cigarette bubbles inside me and I almost laugh, wondering whether the craving will ever fully leave me. I make do with another sip of coffee instead. I keep walking. I know I’m going to where she was found in the water but I take my time.