The forensic pathologist was standing by the corpse, in full protective wear, staring grimly towards the house when DI Singh returned to the tennis court. Next to him a similarly dressed photographer snapped away while two more plastic-shrouded forensic officers inspected something on the far side of the court, Pauly beside them.
“Welcome to the party, Scelosi,” Singh called out as she stepped closer. “Like the gift I left for you?”
Frank Scelosi smiled dimly. “I would have preferred chocolates.” Then a glance back to the body. “I expect she would have too.”
Singh nodded sagely. “I know it’s early, but please tell me you’ve got some answers for me. Or do I have to bring in Henryhan? Don’t make me call Scaryhan.”
“Too late, I’ve already called him.”
She groaned as a butterfly suddenly flittered inside her stomach.
“Sorry, Singo, but you’re gonna need Ballistics for this one. I can confirm that’s a bullet wound, but that’s about all I can confirm. You know I don’t see many of these. Until I get her back to the lab, Henryhan’s your man.”
She groaned louder. “What’s the point of you again?”
He smiled. “I can give you time of death if that helps.”
“Go on then.”
“She’s been dead at least two hours. No more than four, I’d say.”
Singh did the maths. Greta was last seen by Ronnie at the party just before seven. Her body was found by the book nerds at nine. It was now close to eleven. “That fits,” she said. “I have a hunch she was shot around seven thirty during the birthday fireworks.”
“Perfect time to do it,” he agreed, then added, “Who gets fireworks for their birthday?”
She glanced around. “The same people who get private tennis courts. What else have you got?”
He pointed at the victim’s shattered back and said, “That is not a close-range wound as far as I can tell. Massive tissue destruction. Exit wound. My guess—and it is only a guess—is that she was shot from a distance.”
Singh’s eyes lit up. “Interesting.” She glanced around. “Okay, let’s see if we can do this without Scaryhan. We know she was standing this way when she was shot in the back…” She faced away from the net, in the opposite direction of the house, staring into the taller forest. She then turned and looked outwards. “So, what kind of distance are we talking? Could the shooter have been at the pavilion?”
“Wrong angle,” he said, and she glanced back, then shifted her gaze a little.
“On the pathway? Hiding in the bushes perhaps?”
“Further,” he said again, and she frowned, then followed his gaze all the way back to the house.
“Seriously?”
He pointed upwards. “With the right weapon, the only place they could have got a clear shot, over all those scrubby trees, is one of those top-floor windows or maybe from the roof. Anywhere with a clear view across to the court. But that is only a guess, I can’t stress that enough.”
Singh wondered about the observatory that Ronnie had mentioned. That’d be a top spot to take a few potshots, except… wouldn’t that be facing the other way? Out towards the sea?
“And what about the noise?” she asked Scelosi. “There were about fifty people at the house. How could they not notice gunshots? Could they have used a silencer?”
He shrugged. “Even silencers make some noise; that’s why we prefer to call them suppressors. However, you did mention fireworks. Even more reason to believe that’s when they took the opportunity to shoot.”
She nodded. Glanced backwards. “That’s a fair distance. They’d have to be a crack shot.”
“Or just lucky.” He pointed now to the gashes in the court surface between them and the tall forest on the other side. “They obviously tried a few times, missed at least twice.”
Singh’s lips squished to one side. “Would’ve been dark then though. I’ve been informed the court lights were off during the fireworks. Could the ambient light from the pavilion have lit the vic up enough for such a long shot?”
He considered it. Squinted up towards the tall lights. “You sure these weren’t on?” She nodded, and he turned his eyes to the bullet holes on the surface. “Might explain why they missed.”
“Okay, but I guess this rules out my missing man. Because he was here with her, by all accounts. Either that or he lured her here, returned to the house, took a few shots before hitting the mark.” She groaned. “This is frustrating. The way I see it, there are only two reasons Mr Jones is still missing. He fled from the shooter and met a similar fate to the vic, in which case he might be dead or bleeding out somewhere. Or he did a runner because he’s our perp. Are we looking for a victim or killer? Whose blood do we think that is, dripping across the court?”
“We’ve taken samples, won’t know until—”
“Yeah, yeah, yada, yada.” She exhaled heavily, looking around again. “Where the hell is the missing guest?”
Scelosi smiled. “You’ll have to determine that for yourself. But I do think you need to put your big-girl pants on and work with Henryhan. He’ll tell you precisely where the shot was taken, judging by the angle of those bullets, the wound and the way this body has fallen. But like I said, I’d put money on one of the top windows of the house.” Then, as though to cheer her up, he added, “At least we’ve recovered some bullets that can point you to the weapon.”
She scoffed. “I suspect the weapon went over that very conveniently located cliff a few hours ago.” She groaned. “Damn it, Scelosi, you’ve just cracked the case wide open, because if the shots were fired from the house, it means anyone at the party could be responsible. That’s a shit-tonne of suspects I’ll have you know.”
“Consider it my gift to you,” he said, trying not to chuckle.
~
As Officer Markovic continued making his way around the group in the parlour, Sanchez now supervising beside him, the book club huddled around Ronnie, trying to digest what she had told them.
“They’re searching the house?” said Perry, glancing upwards. “Why? Do they think the killer’s lurking upstairs in a cupboard?”
He was joking, but now Ronnie’s lips were quivering as all eyes shot towards the ceiling.
“Indira can’t really think your nephew killed Greta, can she?” asked Missy.
Perry and Lynette exchanged grimaces. “Sorry, Ronnie, but we got that vibe from Singh too. Not sure why she’s got it in for Sebastian.”
“Actually,” said Ronnie, voice heavy as she glanced across to Seamus, who was beside the bar, deep in conversation with Hugh. “I might have stupidly blurted about Greta switching brothers. I guess Singh’s reaching for the most obvious motive, jealousy. But Seb would never hurt a woman. It’s absurd. I’m not sure that DI knows what she’s doing.”
“Oh, she’s okay,” said Alicia, almost reluctantly. “Jackson swears by her.”
“Speaking of whom,” Ronnie shot back. “Where is he, Alicia? I thought you said Jackson was coming.”
“I thought he was too. I’m as confused as you are. I tried phoning, but it’s going straight to voicemail. He must have got called to another job.”
Because she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit that her boyfriend had handed this case over to his snarky colleague so willingly. Lynette gave Alicia a curious look but said nothing, while Ronnie looked disappointed.
“More’s the pity,” she said. “Jackson knows me, he knows… Oh look, Seamus is coming over.” She lowered her voice. “Please don’t mention DI Singh’s suspicions to him. He’s shaken up enough as it is.”
They all nodded as Seamus approached. He leaned down and hugged his aunt. “Any news?”
She shook her head. He scratched his, then knelt on the floor beside her. “Listen, Aunty Ronnie, Hugh said something to me, about the family tree.”
“Family tree?” echoed Alicia.
“Oh, Seb was researching my side of the family,” Ronnie explained. “The Joneses. He was intending to put a book together, for Christmas I believe.” She dabbed a tissue at her eyes. Gave herself a shake. “What about it, Seamus? What’s that got to do with any of this?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what Hugh was trying to say because every time someone came close, he shut down and changed the subject. The guy’s all over the place.”
“That’s understandable, darling,” said Ronnie. “It’s a tremendous shock.”
“Well, I don’t know about Sebastian’s book,” said Missy. “But has anyone else noticed how this event is turning into those books we were going to read? Gone Girl and The Guest List?”
“Excuse me?” said Claire.
“I’m not sure…,” began Queenie.
“Think about it,” said Missy. “Gone Girl is all about a missing person and we have a missing person. Plus there are twins in that book too.”
“Oh, the missing person wasn’t a twin in Gone Girl,” said Ronnie. “That was the husband, dear. And he had a sister, not a brother.”
“What about The Guest List then?” Missy persisted. “There was also a shooting in the middle of a big celebration, and it was set in a remote location, during a storm…”
“There was no storm tonight, Missy,” corrected Queenie.
“No, but there were fireworks—which is kind of similar to lightning if you think about it. They can sound ominous.”
“If your mind is dark and loopy, sure,” said Perry. “How many times must we say this, Missy? Not all murders match fictional ones, honey. Stop trying to make it all fit.”
She groaned back at him. “You guys are no fun.”
“That’s because this is no fun,” said Queenie, her eyes darting across to Ronnie and Seamus. “This is somebody’s life we’re talking about here. Real life, yes? Not fiction?”
Missy gulped, blushed, said, “Of course, yes. I didn’t mean to make light of it. I’m so sorry, guys.”
But Ronnie and Seamus didn’t appear to be listening. There was another sound now, one more serious than Missy’s prattle, more ominous than fireworks.
“Oh dear,” said Perry. “Things just got even more real.”
And they all looked out the large bay windows and towards the sound of a helicopter hovering overhead.
~
DI Singh stared up at the search helicopter, which was sweeping its powerful beam down and across the property, sending leaves and debris in all directions, and pulled her hair into a tight ponytail as she walked back to the house. The winding path between the court and McMansion was probably a delightful one during the day when you didn’t have a gusty chopper overhead, a silly bloody dress on, and a homicidal maniac to locate, and Singh was already over it.
As the crow flies, it had to be less than eight hundred metres, but some drongo had thought to make it wind through a densely planted garden, and so the trek seemed interminably long.
“Wasn’t that a golf buggy I noticed at the front gate when I arrived?” she called back to Pauly as they trudged.
“Yes, ma’am. Belongs to the security guard, I think.”
“Not anymore it doesn’t. Requisition it for me, will you? This walk is getting very old, very fast.”
“I’m on it,” he said, pulling out his phone to call one of the uniformed officers he knew was keeping guard at the gate. “Er… no signal… Ooh, okay, I have a bar… Nope, no, lost it.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. All the money in the world and they can’t even make a simple call.”
They had just reached the house when Senior Constable Zion Goldstein appeared on the path with a smile on his moustachioed face.
“Are you just happy to see me, Zion, or has one of the staffers confessed to everything and we can all go home now?”
His smile deflated. “Oh, no, it’s just the ballistics guys. They’ve arrived, ma’am. Henryhan says he’ll meet you at the court.”
“The court? I just came from the blasted court!”
She straightened her tangled ponytail and turned, pretending it was the long walk that was flustering her, not the thought of seeing Scaryhan again.
~
Alicia’s stomach fluttered like a seagull as she tapped out the text to Jackson. She wasn’t sure why she was nervous, but something was off. She could sense it.
“Everything okay?” she wrote. “Singh’s here. Where are you?”
She added a thinking emoji followed by a love heart, then pressed Send and waited a beat. Waited a few beats more.
Jackson was famously good at replying to Alicia’s texts. He knew how vivid her imagination was and never kept her waiting long, lest her mind go into panic mode, usually imagining him dead in a dark alley somewhere, incapable of replying.
Finally she saw the phone do its little dot dance, indicating he was replying, and her heart lifted. Then the dance stopped, the dots vanished, and her screen went still again.
Alicia chewed at her lower lip. That was weird, she thought, now picturing that urine-drenched alley…
~
DI Singh was a grown-up, of course she was. And yet there was something about the ballistics team that left her feeling like a child. Or, more specifically, the chief ballistics expert Miles Henryhan. There was a reason she called him Scaryhan. Because he was. Incredibly. And his military buzz haircut and sharp, angular jaw didn’t exactly help. Nor did his deep, gravelly voice, which had a way of making you feel like the dimmest person in the room.
Or in this case, the tennis court.
“Evening, Detective,” he said, his voice lower than she remembered. His expression serious.
“Evening,” she managed. “So…” A quick breath. “What do you think?”
He launched into his “preliminary analysis” but didn’t share much more than she and Scelosi had already deduced.
Yes, the entry wound suggested the victim had been shot from a distance, using a high-velocity long-range rifle.
Yes, she had been standing, facing away from the house when she was hit.
And yes, the angle of the wound suggested the shooter had been in one of the top northwest windows of the house. Or the roof. He couldn’t tell yet. “I’m good, but I’m not that good, DI Singh.”
She glanced across but he wasn’t smiling, and she wondered again which side the observatory was facing…
“As for the bullet holes in the court?” he said, striding across and forcing her to scurry after him. “Apart from the exit shrapnel back near the corpse, these ones, I believe, were done afterwards. Probably aimed at your missing man.”
“So the perp kills the woman, then tries to kill the man and misses?” said Singh, and he looked at her blankly.
“Either that or the bullets went through her, left no mark and found their way to the asphalt.”
He smiled finally, and she tried to smile back, but her lips weren’t cooperating this time. She turned and waved Pauly over. “Pauly, get back to the house, make sure the search team focus on the top floor, the rooms facing away from the ocean, back towards this court. I want that entire northwest wing roped off. Oh and also check the roof and the observatory.”
“Would you like to know the weapon?” Henryhan asked. “Or do you not care about the finer details?”
She tried not to be offended. “Go on then.”
“Judging from the heterogenous pattern of the entrance wound, not to mention the bullet fragments we’ve found, it was a sporting rifle of some sort, probably a .243 Winchester. That one has a decent rifle scope and would do the job easily enough. In the right hands. Matches one I was informed is kept on these premises. That makes your job nice and easy, Detective.”
She disagreed. If it had been another gun, any gun, they might have been able to trace it back to someone who wasn’t its original owner and now lying six feet under. It also meant any of the guests, or the staff for that matter, could have popped up to the observatory and helped themselves to that rifle at any time during the party.
“Thanks for your time,” she said to Henryhan.
“Always a pleasure,” he replied. Then he leaned in and said, “Can I ask you something?”
As he lowered his voice and posed his question, Singh’s stomach was suddenly swirling with a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
When the detective returned to the house ten minutes later, she noticed Zion back at the door, the same smug smile under his dopey moustache.
“Don’t tell me someone else has shown up at the court,” she said to him. “Because I am not going back.”
Singh was using the buggy now, but that didn’t mean her legs weren’t still wobbling. Not after Henryhan’s unexpected question.
“Oh, no, this time I do have good news for you, ma’am.”
She stepped off the buggy. “Oh yes?”
“Two lots of good news, actually. We’ve searched that upstairs room they call an observatory and spoken with that old security guard down at the gate. He told us there should be three weapons stored in there, but one of them is missing.”
“The rifle,” she said, and his smile deflated as she beat him to it. “Does the observatory face northwest, back towards the tennis court?”
“Er no, ma’am, it’s on the eastern side, bang in the middle, got the most amazing view out across the water. You should take a look. I’d kill for a—”
“What’s the second bit of news?” Singh was grumpy, had hoped they’d located the shoot site.
Now Zion’s smile was back as he produced the bag with the designer-cased mobile phone inside. “Jarrod just cracked the password. Was a cinch. Sebastian Jones was using part of his birth date.” He scoffed. “And Australians wonder why they get scammed so—”
“Get on with it!”
“Right, well…” Zion’s smile was now Sydney Harbour Bridge-wide. “I think we have our perp.”
And now Singh’s butterflies were caught in a whirlpool, but for all the right reasons this time.