In the back seat of Candy’s car, I change Scarlett’s nappy, mix some formula, then feed her as I watch the crowd grow. The mysteries beat through my brain like a chant: the car crash, the stolen corpse, an abandoned baby, a dead millionaire. What the hell is going on? The timing and proximity link the incidents, but I know from experience that while patterns and connections are important, forcing cases together can be a mistake. Each one deserves to be investigated on its own merits, and the victims need as much objectivity from us as we can summon—they don’t tend to get it from anyone else. But the reality is that puzzles often overlap; when they do, it’s critical to find where they join.
I pull Scarlett’s onesie back on. It’s covered in tiny pumpkins in honour of her favourite food. Mac bought it for her.
I push thoughts of Mac aside and think about cases I’ve worked where there was an abandoned child or infant. Every one of them was left by a young mother who felt she’d run out of options, a female between sixteen and twenty-five with no tertiary education and either earning a low income or unemployed. Drugs were usually involved, as was mental illness, and the mother usually had a sense the baby was better off without her. At least whoever left the baby at the lake didn’t decide she was better off dead; I’ve worked several of those cases, too, and there is no light to be found in that darkness. I still think there’s a chance the baby belonged to the woman from the car crash, although the interviews with Ash, Freddie and the medical team don’t indicate she recently gave birth. But if the baby does belong to the dead woman, it might provide a motive for stealing her corpse—a way to buy some time before she could be linked to the baby. But why would that be important, seeing as the little girl was dumped at the lake?
I tap my finger on Scarlett’s bottle, which is almost empty. Now Roger is dead. Could he be the baby’s father? Maybe he was having an affair.
I feel a wave of frustration. We need the DNA reports from all of the victims as well as the tox and forensic reports from the car crash asap—and knowing how long they can take, I just hope Everett has a good relationship with the lab.
Sitting Scarlett upright, I burp her as she tries to pull my hair.
‘Who knows what’s going on, hey?’ I say as I nuzzle her cheek. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Gah!’ she cries, pointing at the people on the street.
The driver’s door swings open, and Candy sticks her head in. ‘Hey, ladies.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘This story is wild. I can’t believe it! Roger was already newsworthy, and this just makes him more interesting.’
‘Please don’t ever consider switching to a career in life coaching.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s a massive story! Sad, obviously, but undeniably massive.’
We turn in response to a rise in volume from the crowd. Dominique has reappeared on the street, and people hiss at each other to make room as she staggers past. Carlyle follows, calling her name, his handsome face ashen.
‘See,’ murmurs Candy, craning her neck. ‘It’s a cracker.’
I can tell she’s thinking about headlines and copy, how to package up the shock and grief and deploy it as soon as possible to her growing readership.
‘I saw you go inside,’ she says. ‘How was it?’
‘Unpleasant.’
She nods, and I can tell she’s dying to ask for details but realises I won’t give her any.
‘Tell me what you know about Roger’s uncle,’ I say. ‘I know he’s a doctor. And he owns a retirement home. And he’s extremely wealthy …’
‘Tick, tick, tick. The consensus is that Carlyle is a genius. Before he turned eighteen, he studied medicine at some fancy university—in Switzerland, I think—and came back with top honours in psychiatry. Years ago he invested in pharma companies and made a killing. That’s how he got the cash to set up his psych clinic and Lyle Lodge, the state-of-the-art retirement home, and buy all that property. His next big bet is the research centre. He’s got the mayor in his pocket—you should hear her talk about it, you’d think NASA was setting up in Smithson.’
I remember what Jonesy said. ‘To be fair, I’ve been advised that the designs do give off convincing spaceship vibes.’
‘I’m not knocking it,’ Candy says. ‘It’s going to be great for business.’
‘You mean your business?’
‘Yes, of course! It will give us access to some of the country’s top scientists. Science sells these days, especially anything to do with mental health and reversing the ageing process, two things the new centre is planning to focus on. I’ve had some initial conversations with Carlyle’s people about establishing a media partnership.’
‘Which has nothing to do with getting revenge on Nate,’ I say, teasing.
‘Absolutely nothing. I love science, always have.’
I laugh. Candy loves making money and winning.
‘But why is Carlyle staying in Smithson?’ I ask. ‘He’s obviously extremely talented, so why wouldn’t he move overseas?’
‘No idea. He’s environmentally conscious and lives in a huge eco lodge outside town, so maybe he just wants a quiet lifestyle. He’s crazy wealthy, but I don’t think he’s very showy. His daughter Mauve is his lead comms person, and she’s already made it clear that if we do a deal, the media coverage is to be focused on clinical trials and patient outcomes rather than Carlyle himself.’
In primary school Mauve was a confident, showy kid. Franklin was more reserved but, even then, I knew they were wealthy.
‘Where did Roger go to school? He wasn’t at Smithson Primary like his cousins.’
‘In Sydney, I think. His dad was a successful businessman and I think they left Smithson when Roger was a baby. He’s always been close to his uncle. I think Carlyle sees, I mean saw, Roger as his successor. Mauve’s ambitious and highly competent, but she’s not interested in science.’
‘Franklin was a nice kid, from what I remember.’
‘Yeah, it was sad what happened to him.’
‘He’s a quadriplegic?’
‘I don’t think he ever woke up after the accident.’
I can vaguely remember the news coverage. I was eighteen and dealing with the fallout of my boyfriend’s suicide, a tragedy that left me with no capacity to absorb a story so similar. Franklin, back in Smithson after his final year at boarding school, was camping with friends near Tyson Falls. They claimed that while he was in good spirits at the camp site when they went for a walk, he was nowhere to be found when they returned. He’d suffered depression on and off throughout secondary school, so speculation was rife that he’d jumped. Tyson Falls was a known suicide spot. A frantic search was conducted, and Franklin was found the following day on a ledge a few metres down the cliff face. He had a serious head injury and spinal damage and was flown to Sydney for emergency surgery but remained in a vegetative state. I remember hearing something about him receiving experimental treatment overseas. While the prognosis is clearly grim, I can understand someone with a science background like Carlyle wanting to do everything in his power to save his son.
‘You should check out Carlyle’s website.’ Candy scrolls on her phone as she talks. ‘He has a cult following in the psych world—he’s all over TikTok and Instagram. And since he built the nursing home, he’s always being asked to comment on aged care issues.’
‘Wasn’t there a lawsuit against Lyle Lodge few years ago? What happened?’
‘Alleged neglect. But Carlyle wasn’t charged in the end.’
‘So the claims were bogus?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I spoke to a lot of people at the time, and it sounds like there were some pretty bizarre things happening out there.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like patients claiming they were being denied certain foods despite there being no medical reason for it. And stories of them being left alone for periods of time or being forced to listen to certain music.’
‘Music?’ I repeat.
‘Yeah.’ Candy wrinkles her nose. ‘One woman told me her mother swore the nurse put on aggressive rock music when she cleaned the room and didn’t turn it off when she left. The old woman complained, but the nurse refused to do anything about it and left it on all night. The patient was very upset.’
‘Maybe the residents were confused. Wouldn’t a lot of them have had dementia?’
‘Maybe. The lawyers did struggle to get coherent witness statements. Plus there were a lot of people coming out in support of the place. It’s very popular.’
‘Other residents, you mean?’
‘Yes, and their families,’ she says. ‘There was a lot of community support, too. It’s not like there are that many options to ship your folks off to around here, and it employs a lot of people. And the staff accused of wrongdoing swore black and blue that nothing untoward was going on.’
‘What was your take?’
‘All the residents and families I spoke to seemed genuine, and they had no reason to lie. It did sound like some unusual things were going on, but maybe there were just a few staff members trying to push their views about food and exercise onto their patients. Even though Carlyle was in the clear, he promised to overhaul the staff and review all the policies and procedures.’
‘Did he … ?’ I pause as another news van turns into the street. These aren’t local journos: Roger’s murder has attracted the heavy hitters.
Candy scowls at a woman sashaying past in a sleek pantsuit, her blonde bob stiff with hairspray. I recognise her from Sydney news bulletins. ‘Bloody thinks she’s Lois Lane or something,’ Candy hisses.
I smile. I’ve always enjoyed Candy’s public displays of jealousy. ‘Where’s Sam?’ I ask.
‘Hopefully climbing Roger Kirk’s back fence and getting some decent snaps of his backyard.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Okay, well, I’m going to head off.’
Her fingers hover above her phone. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’ I gather my things. ‘I’m just not on duty.’
‘As if Jonesy cares. He wants you here, you know that.’
‘I’ve got to get her home.’ I pull Scarlett back into the carrier.
Candy looks stricken. ‘I can’t leave now.’
‘It’s fine—I’m going to walk.’
Her phone rings, and I take the opportunity to exit the car. I swing the nappy bag over my shoulder and wave goodbye, but she’s already lost in conversation. Making my way to the back of the crowd, I edge past the Kirk residence again. I can’t see any CCTV on the house or in the front yard, but some of the opulent houses closer to the corner have external security cameras. None of them appear to be angled at the Kirk residence, but I make a mental note to ask Jonesy about pulling everything we can get our hands on.
‘It’s just unbelievable,’ a woman mutters to the man next to her as I walk past. ‘I saw him yesterday.’
Another woman stands with her hand over her mouth, her head shaking from side to side. ‘God, it’s just awful, those poor kids. And Dom—did you see her? A total mess.’
Further along, two women are propped on each side of a boxy brick letterbox, their heads bent close. ‘Surely Dom will move to Sydney now,’ one of them is saying.
I slide my sunglasses on and pause next to them, hoping they didn’t see me with the cops. ‘This is so awful,’ I say. ‘Did you know him well? I can’t imagine how his wife must be feeling.’
They exchange glances. ‘She might be his ex-wife, actually,’ the one with the dyed red hair says conspiratorially. ‘I’m pretty sure they just split.’
‘Gosh,’ I say. ‘That’s complicated.’
The blonde sniffs. ‘Yes, well, Dom doesn’t mind a bit of drama—not that she would want anything like this to happen, of course,’ she adds hastily.
‘You live here?’
They nod.
‘All my life,’ replies the blonde. ‘My parents left me this house.’
I flick a look at the grand double-storey dwelling and its manicured garden. I can’t imagine living somewhere so perfect. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Not so lovely today,’ says the redhead darkly. ‘I can’t believe someone was murdered less than fifty metres from my bedroom.’
‘Did they fight a lot?’ I ask.
‘Not lately,’ says the redhead. ‘But I assume that’s because they finally called it quits.’
‘Last Christmas, on the other hand, was a doozy,’ adds the blonde. ‘There was screaming in the street, which was embarrassing—especially because I had guests over. Dom took the kids and didn’t come back for a week. She’s been away with the children a lot ever since.’
Two more police cars turn into Emerald Drive, serious young faces behind the tinted glass as they inch their way through the human traffic.
I ask, ‘I wonder what Roger and Dom were fighting about … ?’ The woman swats a fly away with a manicured hand and purses her inflated lips. ‘Something about him lying to her again. He was obviously cheating on her, the arsehole.’