Except for the ambulance in the driveway, Jack’s script would have been perfect. Had something happened?
Ryan didn’t seem put off by the ambulance. He caught Jack looking at it and said, ‘Oh good, he’s home. Don’t freak, we’re not gonna see, like, a dead body or anything. Dad’s an ambo.’
‘They let him just take it home?’ This seemed surprising to Jack, but he didn’t know any paramedics. Maybe things were more relaxed down the coast.
‘Man’s gotta eat,’ Ryan said. ‘He does the whole stretch for the hospital in Arlington, like thirty minutes away. This is in the middle of the route. Parked at the fish ’n’ chip shop, parked here – does it matter? Better to keep the thing on the road than at the hospital, if something happens.’
‘It takes thirty minutes to get to a hospital?’ Jack said.
‘Ah, sick. I see what you’re doing. Right into the investigation. Depends. The night Lily died, he did it in fifteen.’
‘Coming or going?’ asked Harry.
‘That time, he came from the hospital,’ Ryan answered cheerfully, clearly not enough of an aspiring investigator to note the real question: where was your father the night your sister died?
Jack was impressed. Harry had astutely established an important fact. Maurice Connors wasn’t home when his daughter died. The two of them were starting to think alike.
‘Maybe that’s why he keeps it close,’ Harry said, looking at the ambulance. They hopped onto the porch. The floor was pocked with holes, gaps in the planks, not large enough to roll an ankle in, but they would swallow up dropped keys. ‘He doesn’t want it to happen again.’
Ryan chewed slowly while he nodded. ‘Or he likes Mum’s cooking.’
‘Your dad’s home for lunch?’ Harry asked. ‘Does he know we’re coming?’
Ryan’s eyes flashed. The black cloud on his forehead jumped and he smirked as he opened the door. ‘It’s a surprise.’
Maurice Connors’ face moved so little, Jack suspected his son’s animation compensated for it. He and a woman Jack assumed was his wife looked up at the sound of footsteps. His expression didn’t change as, mid-bite of a ham and cheese sandwich, he took the two men in, and said flatly, ‘What’s he done?’
Jack liked him immediately. ‘Can we sit down?’ Jack asked.
‘Don’t know you yet.’ At this, Maurice put the sandwich down, dusted his fingers. Thick blue veins ran ridges on his hands. ‘No point sitting if you’ll be leaving soon. I recognise you.’ The last was to Harry. Maurice just rattled off his thoughts like he was reading a shopping list.
‘Harry Midford. I used to live next door.’ Maurice didn’t react, so Harry continued. ‘Sam’s brother – he’s on TV a bit.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And this is Jack Quick,’ Ryan said. ‘He’s a documentary maker. Solves murders.’
‘Ryan,’ the woman admonished, her platinum blonde curls jiggling as she shook her head. ‘He doesn’t need this.’
‘But Mum—’
‘It’s fine, Sue.’
‘Blood pressure, love.’
‘Well, if I pass out,’ Maurice said, standing, ‘zap me with the thing in the driveway.’
‘We’re not here to cause a scene,’ Jack said. ‘Ryan told us about Lily. He said you might know something that perhaps wasn’t listened to properly thirteen years ago. About her death.’
‘Dad, he solves murders,’ Ryan repeated. ‘Ones no one believes. Like hers.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I’m not going to tell you I’m here to solve her murder. But I am here to listen.’
‘What’s he told you?’ Maurice asked.
‘I told them about the letter, Dad,’ Ryan said. Maurice sighed.
‘Ry,’ said Sue. ‘Your father’s worked really hard to put this behind him.’
Ryan looked crestfallen. Jack knew he had built up their visit as a big event in his mind, figuring they’d kick the door down and blast the case wide open. To him, Sam’s death had connected with the mysterious letter his father had received and, if linked, brought a new opportunity to discover the truth. Maurice had believed for a long time that Lily had been a victim. His still-living son had to share the attention with his sister, and now was Ryan’s chance to not only impress his father, but, if he could put it to bed at last, perhaps get his real attention back too.
Sue’s worry over reopening Maurice’s amateur investigation seemed genuine. Jack wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he knew Sue had one more reason to be concerned. If Sam was killed because he knew something, they might be putting Maurice in danger too.
‘It’s okay,’ Maurice said, and gave his son a squeeze on the shoulder. But it was one of resignation, not pleasure. Ryan looked at the floor. ‘If you’ve already told them as much. They’ve come all this way. Wait here.’
Maurice led Jack and Harry upstairs and to the left. Lily’s old bedroom had been rejigged as an office. A desk, neatly organised, sat by the window. The remnants of the girl that used to live here were a child’s single bed with a metal frame and a pink doona, and a framed collage of photos hanging by the door. Lily looked like any teenage girl. Her collection was as Jack would have expected: schoolyard snaps of a group of friends; a netball team; one major hair-remodel, jet black with a blue streak. She also had a habit of chucking up two fingers – it alternated between peace and up yours – in photos.
‘Sam bought her that.’ Harry tapped the corkboard. Jack noticed she had a green-gemmed ring that was clearly a favourite.
‘Sorry about Ryan,’ Maurice said. ‘He gets his hopes up. There’s not much to see. If you’re looking for fingerprints or hair or anything, you probably missed the boat.’
‘Tell us about the night she died.’
He swallowed. ‘I was at work in Arlington. Hadn’t even got the call from the police yet, but the emergency doc pulled me aside and gave me a heads up that they were bringing someone in. Maybe just in a cop car, he thought. Said the address was mine. I got back here as fast as I could. Ambulances can really move.’
‘And when you got here?’
‘There were cops everywhere. I just kind of ran in. I was in uniform, so everyone just assumed I was the paramedic – they would have kept me out if they’d known I was her father. I still didn’t know what exactly had happened, otherwise maybe I would have kept myself out. Maybe not. I remember feeling like my heart was in my knees when I saw everyone gathered in here. She was . . .’ He looked at the closet, blinked a few times and sat on the bed. ‘She was in there.’
‘Can I?’ Jack asked, hand on the closet door. Maurice nodded. Jack opened the walk-in and looked inside, Maurice peering in after him. It was empty. A silver bar ran across the top of the space. Otherwise, it was unremarkable. Harry just stood in the doorway, watching Jack’s examination. ‘You don’t have to tell me what you saw, but it might help.’
‘She was hanging. Hung herself? Been hung? I’m not sure what phrase my therapist wants me to use. He says when I say it a certain way there’s an implication . . . I don’t know. It was a belt, leather, men’s style with a big square silver buckle. I remember the buckle because we had to put a chunky necklace on her for the funeral, it had cut into her so badly.’
‘She took one of yours?’
Maurice shook his head. ‘Not mine. I asked around. But a lot of shops sell belts – it’s not like she was buying a gun. No one remembered selling her one.’
‘What happened when you found her?’
‘The police in the room realised who I was pretty quickly, I guess when I started screaming. I had bruises down my arms from them dragging me out. They locked us in the kitchen. You know something bad’s happened when a stranger makes you tea with your own kettle.’
‘And Ryan?’
‘Ryan was only seven. We did our best to keep him occupied. He was interested in why all the people were in the house, but he was happy enough to be staying up late and watching television.’
‘Why does he say you th
ink it’s a murder?’
Maurice stood up and peered into the closet. ‘For a long time, I did,’ he said. ‘There’s no point lying to you because everyone in town knows it. Someone else will tell you if I don’t. For years, I tried to find something more behind it. There was blood on the carpet, you know that? People think it’s less messy, hanging, but the back of her heels were all cut up from scraping against the carpet. It was so violent. She was missing a fingernail. Every time I saw someone with a facial scar, I wondered if she’d scratched them.’
‘Did you have any hard evidence?’
‘I couldn’t see my beautiful girl doing this. It felt so wrong. The police refused to take it further, to look deeper. No one else could have got in or out. The window was locked and only locks from the inside. So does the door – I know it’s not great parenting, but you try arguing with a teenage girl who wants a lock on her door. And locked it was. Until Sue went to say goodnight and said she heard noises on the other side. Thuds, a struggle. By the time she got through, well . . . Point is – that’s a closed room. No one in. Or out.’
‘She asked for the lock?’ Jack said, levering the door. He was surprised that the lock was on the inside. A slide bolt. Pretty durable for a teenager’s bedroom.
‘Couldn’t talk her out of it. Brought it home one day from the hardware store herself. Said she wanted privacy,’ Maurice said. ‘Puberty, I guess.’
‘I get it,’ Harry said from the doorway. ‘You decided it had to be a murder because that’s the only way it made sense.’ Harry said it like he knew it was true, because it was exactly what he’d done with Sam, Jack thought. Harry proceeded into the room and started fiddling with the locks on the window. Checking them, Jack realised. The windows were easily big enough for someone to slip through, but that couldn’t have happened if they were found locked from within.
‘Sue found it tough, me hunting ghosts and rumours. We’d fight. It got worse. And at school I knew Ryan was known as the kid with the crazy dad trying to play detective. No one believed me. I was angry all the time. I know things about hanging no parent – no person – should know. How long it takes blood to stop getting to the brain. The colour cheeks go. It’s not blue – everyone thinks it’s blue, but it’s a greeny-grey kind of thing. There’s a map of new red freckles and thin lines across your cheeks, in your eyes – a constellation of ruptured blood vessels.’ He took a deep breath and blinked back a memory. ‘There I go again,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful Sue got me into therapy. The guy I’m seeing – he made me realise that I had to choose between the family I’d lost and the family I still had.’ He rubbed a hand over the blanket. ‘A family is a bucket with a hole in it. You fill it up with a wife and kids, and sometimes it’s so full it sloshes over the sides. It’s magic. But from the moment you have kids, they’re leaving. From the moment you say “until death”, you’re dying. It’s a slow leak, but it’s a leak. Mine had a bigger hole than most. I realised I had to plug it up.’
‘What changed?’
‘I did what I had to. What I didn’t want to. I found a way to let Lily go. It was the hardest thing I ever did.’
Jack knew already he didn’t have the same strength for Liam. His dad had shown him that. His voice cracked as he tried to keep the interview moving, to distract himself. ‘That’s why Sue doesn’t want us here. We’re a leak.’
Maurice nodded. ‘She’s worried you’ll excite me. Set me back in therapy. I don’t want to think about Lily’s death like that anymore either. But it’s okay, I’ve moved on.’
‘No one believed you?’
‘No one. Except’ – he pointed at Harry – ‘your brother.’
‘Ryan told us about a letter from Sam,’ Jack prompted.
‘Of course he did. I was just giving you context before I showed you.’ Maurice stood and walked to the desk. He opened the drawer and flicked through a few documents, removing a plastic sleeve with a single piece of paper inside it. He walked over to Jack; didn’t hand it to him, but held it out for him to read. The light shone off the plastic and Jack had to tilt his head to read certain sections. Harry peered over his shoulder. The letter was short, typed and undated. It was noticeably old, a few years even, with faded ink. Scarred from refolding. This was no suicide note.
Dear Maurice,
It’s funny how everything important people have to say to each other seems to come in three-word packages. Every important moment. If you love someone, that’s the obvious one. If you hate someone, too. And there are the three words that I owe you, that I think you haven’t heard enough in the years since Lily died: I believe you.
You’ve always been right. It was staring me in the face the whole time and I didn’t see it. So I’m sorry for not believing you. No one did. I know this now, and I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out. But figure it out I have. There are three more words for you now that I finally understand: Lily was murdered.
Sam
There was a silence in the room as they absorbed the words. Harry shut his eyes and chewed his lip, eventually speaking first. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’
‘He never mentioned it again.’
‘You talked? Celia said you visited them?’
‘A few months ago, yeah. That was probably the only time I saw him since getting the letter. Celia let me know he was struggling. Depression. She was hoping I could help him move on as I had. Let him know it wasn’t his fault.’
‘He apologises twice in the letter.’ Jack pointed to the repetition of the word sorry. ‘When did he write this?’
‘A while ago. Before he was on TV, I’d say.’
‘Five years. Jesus. He never forgave himself for that stupid flat phone,’ Harry said.
‘What phone?’ There was a warble in Maurice’s voice as he struggled to keep his disaffected tone. New evidence? He still wanted to know who had murdered his daughter. Sure, he had a great speech about how he’d moved on, but deep down he never could. Not really. No one ever did. Jack had his brother in a bed. Harry had a room full of voices.
‘Missing her calls that night . . . This letter was his apology for that,’ Harry explained.
‘The missed calls, yes. I saw her outgoing log. She reached out to him.’ Maurice squeezed the letter. He knew about those. No new information. ‘That was why Celia invited me to talk to him, because he was holding on to that guilt. I think we all sit and wonder what we could have done after something like this. Those little ripples. You know I swapped a shift with a mate so he could go to the football? If I hadn’t, and I’d been with her, would we be here? Or would she have done it another time? I don’t blame him for not picking up the phone. I told him that.’
‘He blamed himself well enough,’ Jack said. ‘I haven’t said it out loud yet, but I assume you watch at least some television?’
‘I didn’t see it happen, but I know what you’re talking about.’ Maurice grimaced.
‘Then,’ Jack said, ‘not to reopen old wounds, but if I tell you we have suspicions that Sam’s death wasn’t suicide either – or at least it wasn’t without coercion – I’m assuming you’ll arrive at the same place I have?’
Maurice stuck his tongue between his teeth and reread the letter. ‘I’m happy,’ he said, looking up at Jack. ‘I really am. It took me a long time to get here. And don’t tell Sue, but I promised I wouldn’t lie to you. And part of me does want you to know. Hell, you make podcasts – maybe the world should know. Maybe it will help someone else.’
‘He found something,’ Harry whispered.
‘I think that sounds plausible.’
‘But this letter was written ages ago, wasn’t it?’ Harry asked.
‘Maybe when he wrote this he’d figured out how, but didn’t know who. He’s accepting that it was a murder, but he doesn’t say any more than that. And if he only found that out recently, and was about to drop it on someone, maybe they took their chance to cover it up,’ Jack said.
‘Yeah, that sounds right.’ Maurice seeme
d to be struggling with whether to reopen those doors, unplug that bucket, restart the leak. He swallowed. ‘Then I’d say the person who murdered my daughter is the same person who killed your brother.’
CHAPTER 22
The carnival was in full swing when Jack and Harry walked back down the hill from the Connors’. The sounds filtered up to them: the whole thing clanked like an old ship coming to port.
‘I know Dad was actually stoked to see you there,’ Ryan said. Salt air and sunlight had recharged him somewhat. ‘Just had to play it cool in front of Mum, you know?’
‘Your dad’s been through a lot, Ryan,’ said Jack. ‘But therapy’s for him as much as it is your mum.’
‘He still believes it though, doesn’t he? You can tell when someone’s lying or not? Done enough of these interviews?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Tell me he doesn’t believe it.’
‘Yeah,’ Jack said, watching the kaleidoscope of the carnival lights below. ‘He still believes it.’
‘Is the letter all he had?’ Harry asked.
‘Well, yeah, but, like, her fingernail and stuff. What if she scratched someone? Where did the belt come from? The thuds from her room. And now Sam’s dead too because he found out who the killer is.’ His mouth dropped into an O. ‘Oh. My. God. We’re not looking for a murderer – we’re looking for a serial killer. Record that. Perfect cut to ads, right? I’ll say it again if you want to record it.’ He put on a slightly deeper voice, aiming for gravitas. ‘We’re not looking for a murderer—’
‘Serial killers don’t have motives, they have methods,’ Jack interrupted. ‘And I’m not recording, I’m just canvassing at this stage. If this is true, and that’s a mighty big if, and the second killing came from the first – the motives are the same. It’s all about covering up the same thing. That’s your garden variety murderer.’
Either Side of Midnight : A Novel (2020) Page 16
