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I rang Jeff’s number and waited nine rings before it answered.
‘Lyons Media, Evelyn speaking.’ Her voice caught me by surprise.
‘Evelyn. Hi, it’s Matt Kowalski. We met last night at The Pavilion?’
‘I might be over the limit, but I do remember you. You’ve caught me at a bad time.’
‘Is Jeff available?’
She cleared her throat. ‘He will be as soon as the ibuprofen kicks in.’
‘Big night?’
‘The biggest. Six hundred and sixty-five subscriptions, with a potential reach of three times that number via the free trial, with the projected demographics reading at full engagement.’
‘Glad to hear it. Listen, something’s come up and I need to talk to Jeff in confidence. I’d appreciate it if you could put me through to him. I know I’m putting you on the spot.’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to talk to him right now. And Jeff’s confidentiality extends to me, particularly if it involves Tamsin.’ Her tone took on a low tone. ‘Have you found her?’
‘Unfortunately, no. I’m in a hard spot, Evelyn. What I tell you could have serious ramifications.’
‘Jeff trusts me with his daughter’s life. I assure you that whatever you say to me will remain in confidence. People tell me I don’t have a filter, so don’t have a filter with me, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Please say what you need to say.’
‘Okay. I want to know if Jeff received any threatening phone calls or ransom demands since he last spoke to Tamsin on the 12th of March?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Jeff’s phone diverts to me. He doesn’t have a direct line—not into the office, not into his home—so I know with absolute certainty there have been no calls out of the ordinary. I would have called the police, or, at the very least, I would have told you last night. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m ruling out a theory. I thought Tamsin might be held somewhere against her will. Children of wealthy media magnates are susceptible to it.’
‘Yeah, look at John Paul Getty. He was cute until they cut his ear off.’ She took a pull on her beer. ‘You think she’s been kidnapped?’
‘I don’t know what to think. I drove to the Queen Mary Building hoping to find Tamsin or at least make some inquiries. Security let me into her room and I found a woman’s body.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Police didn’t confirm it, but I think it’s Tamsin’s roommate. She was murdered last night.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
‘I don’t know if it’s connected, but it’s a hell of a coincidence. The homicide guys are all over it.’
Evelyn exhaled. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Its early days. I’ll continue to make inquiries, conduct some research, and see if anything connects.’
Evelyn’s breathing became shallow and low.
To break the silence, I said, ‘The optimist in me says Tamsin’s not in any direct danger.’
‘What does the realist in you say?’
‘The realist says she may be caught up in something bigger than herself. Would you know where Tamsin lived before moving into the Queen Mary building?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think she’s been living there for a while.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘For one thing, the other bed was made up with fresh sheets and the pillow hadn’t been slept on. Most of the shared desk area was clear, and I noticed only one toothbrush in the bathroom.’
‘Very weird. Tamsin used to live with her mother in Clovelly. It was only temporary while she found a new place to live, or until she killed her mother—whichever came first.’
‘Could you give me her name and address? I’d like to talk to her.’
Evelyn scoffed. ‘You don’t talk to the ice queen. You tolerate her.’
‘I’ll take that into consideration.’
‘Her name is Zara Venables. She moved on with husband number three a few years ago but didn’t invite me to the wedding. Go figure.’
She gave me the address and told me that if Zara wasn’t home, I’d find her swimming laps at Bronte Baths.
I thanked her and hung up.
I found the address online, and negotiated jittery lunchtime traffic and manic taxi drivers until I reached the beachside suburb of Clovelly, where local eateries charged thirty-dollar lunches and arty types quaffed sauvignon blanc and discussed the next big social media influencers. Lithe, botoxed joggers in active wear paraded their labrapoodles on the running track that hugged the coastline.
The house, a double storey postmodern affair that lacked any character, sat on a narrow coastal road atop a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Its narrow, cement rendered balcony, replete with glass sliding doors and matching Wiccan chairs, enjoyed a view of the coastal shipping routes, the land no doubt appreciating by the second.
A narrow alcove led to the front door, and I rang the doorbell. After two more rings and no signs of life, I stepped back and inspected the northern side of the property. Behind a group of yakka trees, a tall fence obscured the view into the rear yard. I made my way back to the front and crossed the manicured lawn to the southern side. A shaded path lined with stepping stones led to a small gate. I heard a man’s voice and strained my ears.
‘I’m going to give you what you’re begging for, bitch.’
It came from the backyard.
I reached through a hole in the gate, slowly and carefully lifted the latch, and went through.
A woman’s voice said, ‘My husband will be home soon.’
‘Come here,’ the man purred. ‘It won’t hurt. I promise.’
I came around the back of the house past leafy garden beds and saw a stocky man standing at the edge of a lap pool with his back to me. He wore a balaclava, black shorts and a tight-fitting sports tee shirt. I couldn’t see his hands.
A woman with long black hair and wearing a blue swimsuit stood chest deep in the pool. She backed away from the man, her eyes locked on his.
