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‘Dad, what’s auto-erotica asphyxiation?’
I choked on a mouthful of honey chicken, and washed it down with the rest of my wine. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘I got this forensics book out of the Wollongong University library, and it’s got, like, real photos of real dead people in it and everything. And it’s got, like, this guy hanging in his undies in his wardrobe?’
She mimed a noose around her neck.
‘Uh huh,’ I said.
‘And it says at the bottom, possible cause of death: auto erotica asphyxiation.’
I bet she doesn’t ask Dee these questions.
‘It’s people who bring themselves close to dying and they... like doing it.’
‘What? That’s so stupid.’
‘It is stupid. It’s what some, not all, people do.’
She rolled a piece of chicken around on her plate. ‘Can you talk to mum?’
‘About what?’
‘She found the book and freaked out.’
‘Oh.’
‘She reckons I shouldn’t be looking at things like that.’
‘She just cares about you, hon.’
‘I didn’t even get it. Rosanny’s sister let me borrow it.’
‘Who’s Rosanny?’
‘I play with her on the PSVR in Rec Room, and we hang out. She got, like, the tiniest little tattoo of a butterfly for her birthday.’
‘That right?’ I refilled my glass and took a solid slug. ‘And how old is Rosanny?’
‘Fourteen. Well, fourteen in four months.’
‘I’ll call your mum tomorrow, okay?’
She nodded and speared two pieces of honey chicken.
I said, ‘Do you like forensics?’
‘Heck yes! There’s this forensic scientist guy on YouTube, GavGus, and he’s got these videos on how you can tell how long a bodies’ been dead for. They, like, look at the blood when it pools in the body and how, like, if they find a body in the bathroom, they have to figure out how the guy died. It’s really cool.’
‘Sounds morbidly interesting.’
We ate in silence for a while, and I noticed how much her hair had changed.
‘Hey, Dad?’
‘Hm?’
‘Why is the ocean so friendly?’
‘Dunno, but you’re gonna tell me, and I hope it’s really bad.’
‘It always waves.’
I punched her softly in the arm. ‘Love it. I’ll keep that one.’
‘Dad, what do you think happens when you die?’
‘Wow, that’s a heavy one. Don’t know, hon’. Might be like the billions of years before I was born.’
‘Don’t you believe in heaven?’
‘It’s a nice idea.’
‘Don’t you think you’ll see Poppy Kowalski again?’
‘He’s in the other place, hon,’ a tougher man would say.
‘Don’t know. I reckon this life is our little heaven. That’s why we should make the best of it.’
‘Rosanny’s Hindu. She reckons we come back as animals. She wants to come back as a dog and sleep all day and get fed and don’t go to school.’
Once she’d unpacked her shampoos and creams in the bathroom, she helped me put fresh sheets on the fold-out bed in the spare room. I offered her my bed, as I usually did, and she made a scrunched-up face. ‘Ew, gross, no thanks. I love you, Dad, but... no. I like this room! It’s the only one with a fancy roof.’
For some reason, someone had decorated the roof and cornices of the spare room in a Victorian style completely incongruous with the nineteen-seventies architecture.
She got into bed and sat up with her phone.
‘Not too long on that, okay?’ I said. ‘It’s after nine.’
She nodded and said, ‘‘Night, Dad. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
I closed the door and thought about updating the case file, but called it in early myself.
In the morning, Alice hogged the bathroom for half an hour, until she presented herself wearing her uniform and a forced smile.
I got my things together and dropped her off a block before her school.
She kissed me and said, ‘I hope you get the guy who killed those girls.’
‘You heard about that?’
‘Sorry for being a sticky-beak.’
I kissed her on the head. ‘Don’t worry about it. Love you. Talk soon, ‘kay?’
She got out and gave me a wave. It went into the precious vault.
I found Aunty’s number and rang it. A familiar husky voice with a Kiwi accent answered. ‘IFCC, good morning.’
‘Aunty, this is Matt Kowalski. We ran into each other at Glebe morgue Saturday morning. Remember me?’
‘Yeah, ‘course I do. Muscles. How’s it hanging?’
‘I’m good, can’t complain.’
‘You still looking for that girl?’
‘I am.’
‘And you need something, am I right?’
‘You are right on the money. Nothing gets past you. I remember you saying you had good contacts?’
‘Abso-fucken-lutely.’
‘Do you have access to domestic flight manifests? I need to find out if someone took a domestic flight out of Sydney.’
‘They’re called passenger name records, and you bet your arse I can. Where from and where to?’
‘Sydney to Queensland, the major airports, between the thirteenth and the fifteenth of March this year.’
‘D’you mean Kingsford Smith?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look, I’m bailed up right now as a witness for a corruption case at ICAC. I’ll email you a secure link in about five hours, give or take. Text me the info, ‘kay? I don’t have a pen, and my memories gone to shit. As soon as I get it, I’ll email you instructions.’
‘Sound great, thank you. Oh, and Aunty? Is there any way you can check people’s bank accounts?’
‘Yep.’
‘I need to check if twenty thousand dollars is being deposited each week into a particular account for the last four weeks.’
‘Sounds like you need it ASAP.’
‘I was hoping.’
‘Hold your horses. Takes three weeks to get around firewalls without raising heads.’
‘Not to worry. Park that one for now. Chat soon.’
‘See you, Muscles.’
She hung up, and I texted her the details, adding a thumbs up emoji to help cement the relationship.
