My hands are like claws around the steering wheel, my dislike for Everett growing with every passing second. Who does he think he is, grilling me like that? And why does Jonesy seem to hold him in such high esteem?
As much as it pains me, I know the answer: Everett is an option for the top job as much as I am—and, in the eyes of many, a more suitable candidate. There’s a difference between being incompetent and intolerable, and in fairness he’s probably only the latter, which doesn’t make him a bad cop. Jonesy is simply hoping a smooth transition to his successor will be part of his legacy. Still, Everett’s attitude toward me rankles.
I check the time. Just over three and a half hours until I need to get home and look after the kids. I call Lenny’s number and get no answer, so I call the hospital switchboard and ask to have him paged, only to have the receptionist inform me he’s not rostered on today. I try Rufus, his boss, who confirms it’s his day off. Now what? I could go to his house, but there’s every chance he won’t be home and then I’ll have wasted my morning.
Screw Lenny Tisdale, I think, veering off the main road to head east—and screw Everett as well. He said I could do whatever I like so I’ll go and speak with Carlyle Kirk myself. I’m aware that my desire to talk to him goes beyond asking questions about Roger’s murder: I’m fascinated by his ethos, his ambition and his optimism for humanity. He’s also highly perceptive and I’m interested in his reaction to his nephew’s death. In the podcast interviews I’ve listened to, he said he works in his psychiatry practice seven days a week, so it’s a safe bet I’ll find him there. Whether he’ll talk to me or not is another story.
Despite the promise of sun, the day is decidedly grey. The wind reveals the underside of the leaves as the fields of grass ripple like the sea. I call Mac on the bluetooth but get his voicemail. A light anxiety settles across me after I leave a message, and I fight the urge to call Candy for an update on Scarlett or to text Ben. Flicking on the radio, I do my best to relax into a pop song.
The news comes on, signalling it’s ten am. There’s only a brief mention of Roger’s murder: Candy was right, the lack of new information has downgraded the story from an inferno to a grassfire. It’s been replaced by the unexpected death of a high-profile rugby coach in Sydney. The attention economy theory is supported by our reactions to homicide—good luck to your dead self in getting more than a brief by-line if you’re not attractive, white or wealthy. Even then, the general public is only interested for a week or so. Journos like Candy are doing everything they can to even things out when it comes to diversity in death reporting, but it will take them a while to help dismantle decades of bias, especially when the audience votes with their eyeballs.
Twenty minutes later, The Lyle complex looms before me. Its shining white walls and European-style roofs jar against the dense Australian bushland; it looks more like a set of extravagant dollhouses than destinations for psychiatric services and aged care.
I turn off the highway and into the full car park. Cloud Consulting, Carlyle’s private practice, is to the left, while the retirement village, Lyle Lodge, is on the right. Further along is Harmony, the health centre that offers Pilates, yoga and an onsite dietician. I park in one of the few spare spots, noting the fee of three dollars an hour, a concept unheard of in Smithson.
I walk back toward Lyle Lodge. It’s huge: four levels high and at least twenty rooms wide. Large windows look out on lush lawns and a front yard reminiscent of pictures from Rebecca’s gardening magazines. Wattle trees explode on both sides of the building, creating the impression it’s backlit. I watch the groups on the lawn, mainly elderly people with their adult children and grandchildren. A few staff members mingle with them, leading the groups in simple-looking activities. Near the main entrance, a little boy performs somersaults while his father and an elderly man shower him with applause. Everything seems pleasant enough, if not slightly manufactured.
I double back and approach the psychiatric clinic. Cloud Consulting is about a quarter of the size of the retirement village. Its curved walls are paired with sharp angles, all done in a palette of cool earthy tones. I push through a mirrored door to the reception area, where an elegant East Asian woman in a fitted white dress is watering a towering fiddle-leaf fig in a shiny ivory pot. Abstract paintings matching the ones at Roger’s house adorn the walls, and lifestyle magazines are spread out on the glass coffee table. A middle-aged white woman sits on one of the three chairs in the corner, so quiet and still I didn’t notice her at first; she seems enthralled by whatever she’s reading in her magazine, only her eyes moving.
The Asian woman places a dainty watering can on the floor and comes to the podium desk, where a lone laptop is positioned. She asks how she can help me. After I introduce myself and explain I want to speak with Carlyle, she exits the sparse room without a word. I’m not sure if she’ll return with Carlyle or security—or at all.
I wait awkwardly in the corner, trying to understand the appeal of the paintings. They look like nondescript grey blurs to me.
‘Detective.’
I spin around. Carlyle Kirk is standing next to the fiddle-leaf fig. He’s wearing brown slacks and a blue shirt with a charcoal cardigan, an outfit reminiscent of a college professor. Despite his age, his posture is ruler-straight, and his dark eyes are alert. He has an undeniable presence and I get the sense he doesn’t miss much.
‘You’re welcome here, of course,’ he says, ‘but I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘It’s somewhat of a surprise visit,’ I acknowledge. ‘We’re covering a lot of ground, talking to a lot of people. I’m hoping you have some time to chat with me.’
‘Mary Flynn,’ announces a robotic female voice from a speaker in the ceiling.
The woman in the corner tosses her magazine on the coffee table and strides across the room. Smiling shyly at Carlyle, she pushes one of the wooden panels and disappears through it.
‘I’d be happy to have a chat, detective.’ He ushers me toward a hidden door on the other side of the room. ‘My office is this way.’
I follow him along a sleek grey corridor until we reach a chic office where there are more vibrant plants, a tasteful lamp on a glossy wooden desk, and gauzy curtains revealing a lush green lawn in an enclosed garden. ‘This is all very impressive,’ I remark.
‘Is this your first visit to The Lyle?’ He sounds delighted, as though he’s showing off his newborn baby.
I nod.
‘I hope you like what you see.’
I can’t help but think how young he looks: his tan skin is clear, his eyes sparkling with good health.
‘Would you like some tea? I’m having some.’
‘No, thank you.’
I take a seat in an extremely comfortable armchair watching as he pours a shot of tea from a teapot on his desk into a small glass and drinks it in one gulp before settling in the chair opposite, rather than the one behind his desk.
Before I can speak, he says, ‘We service a large area, from Smithson to Gowran, and increasingly people are coming from Sydney, even Melbourne and Adelaide. It means their families visit less, but it’s preferable to the uninspiring sardine tins on offer in the city.’
I’m not sure whether this is a generic comment or a sales pitch. I think about Dad and wonder if he would ever agree to live in a place like this. Until his heart attack he’d always been so healthy that caring for him in old age seemed a long way off. I’m certain he’d prefer to stay at home, but I suppose at some point that might not be an option.
Carlyle seems to expect a response, so I simply say, ‘I’ve lived away from Smithson a long time and wasn’t here when The Lyle was built.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Folding his hands together, he leans forward slightly and looks at me expectantly.
‘I’m sorry about your nephew,’ I begin.
‘I’ve endured tragedy before, so there is a familiarity to this situation. But I can assure you it’s not the kind of path you want to be experienced in walking. And the shock of something like this is always difficult to process.’
‘Of course.’ His words ring true when I think about the familiar grooves of my own grief. ‘I remember Franklin. We were in primary school together.’
‘It’s been almost twenty years since his accident, an amount of time that seems impossible.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I offer again, unsure if it’s the right thing to say.
He sniffs in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. At least Roger’s murder doesn’t involve the humiliation I experienced with my son—and the cruelty of hope.’
I feel a pulse of empathy. It must have been very difficult to be an esteemed clinician specialising in mental health and have a child with such serious mental health issues. The judgement must have been brutal, yet Carlyle persisted and succeeded.
‘Is there still hope for Franklin?’ I ask tentatively.
Carlyle’s face softens. ‘I’m not often asked about my son,’ he says quietly. ‘I appreciate the opportunity to talk about him. Yes, there’s progress in the fields of neuroscience and stem cell research. I believe we will be able to bring Franklin back eventually.’
Part of me thinks he’s crazy for keeping his son alive, but the other part knows I would probably do the same if it were Ben or Scarlett.
I ask, ‘Do you get to see him often?’
‘Several times a year. He is in excellent care with my friends in Switzerland.’
‘Is any research you’re involved in linked to Franklin’s condition?’
‘Not specifically, although there are adjacent benefits to all scientific developments.’
‘I’ve been reading up on the research centre.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he says warmly. ‘The more people we have interested in science the better.’
‘I do wonder about Smithson being positioned as a global scientific hotspot, though. Is that realistic?’
‘Why not? I’ve got support from the mayor and the business community. It could increase our commercial growth by a further ten per cent per year for the next decade.’
‘Because of the scientific developments … ?’ I say, trying to understand.
‘In part, yes, but also because it will help attract all kinds of critical roles to the area. The positive halo effect it will have on the community will be unprecedented. We’ll run global conferences and set up various clinical trials. This kind of investment is a magnet for young professionals and their partners.’
It’s a speech I’m sure he has given before, and his delivery is compelling. The family resemblance with his nephew goes beyond traditional good looks. Roger exuded the same easy charm and firm conviction, but Carlyle also has a gentleness to his demeanour, a softness. But what he’s saying still doesn’t quite add up to me. I get that Smithson is his home and his ambition has paid off here so far but surely it makes sense to develop the research centre in a major city.
‘You didn’t consider Sydney or Melbourne?’
A text lights up his phone and he grimaces gently. ‘No, I only ever wanted to build my centre in Smithson. I’m sorry, detective, but will this take long? It’s been lovely to meet you and have a chat—I’m just not sure how I can help you. I assume you’re aware I’ve spoken to your colleagues.’
I scramble to catch up with his gear change. ‘Yes, they were checking off your alibi and gathering basic information.’
‘And you’re here for something else?’
His grey eyes fix on me and I experience an odd sensation. It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking. I rearrange my legs and reset my expression in an attempt to override the feeling. I came here on a whim, partly out of curiosity and partly because I wanted to speak to Carlyle myself and not be stuck with more of Everett’s secondhand information. But now that I’m here I find myself wanting his professional perspective. I’ve worked with psychs throughout my career and I’m sure he will have formed a robust psychological profile of his nephew whether he intended to or not.
‘I’d like to know what you think your nephew did—or didn’t do—that led to someone wanting him out of the picture.’
‘I wish I could tell you.’
‘You have no opinion?’
A smile flutters across his lips. ‘I always have an opinion but it’s not going to give you any answers, just context, I suppose you’d call it.’
‘I’m listening,’ I say. I can see why he has done so well in his field; he has such a nice way of putting things.
‘Well, detective, I think it’s fair to say my nephew carried the Kirk curse.’
He states this so earnestly it implies I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about but I haven’t a clue.
I clear my throat. ‘Sorry, what does that mean, exactly?’
He plucks a pen from his shirt pocket and twirls it deftly. ‘Roger comes from a line of tortured geniuses—my grandfather, my great-grandmother and her mother before that; more recently, my mother, my brother and my son.’ He pauses briefly and looks at the pen. His expression is sad and I’m sure he is thinking about Franklin. ‘On a good day I put myself in the same category.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t really see your point.’
‘We Kirks are highly intelligent and driven, but sometimes these qualities are directed toward misguided ventures. For Franklin, it was drugs and railing against authority. He suffered from manic episodes, severe highs and lows. For my mother, it was dangerous men. For my grandfather, it was gambling. Gambling is my brother’s vice, too—or at least it was until he was estranged from the family. For me it’s work, and Roger was the same. We are passionate about what we do, but we can be unhealthy about it.’
‘And you think this led to Roger being murdered?’
‘Roger and I were close from a business point of view, but we didn’t talk a great deal about personal matters. In recent years I recognised in him an obsessiveness about work that has caused me to act foolishly in the past. And with Roger there was something else, too—he was quite distracted by money and power.’
‘He was trying to attract investors for the research centre,’ I say. ‘I assume it’s hard to avoid becoming quite focused on money.’
‘Yes. But Roger was on the phone to investors around the clock, chasing every deal as if his life depended on it. It was unhealthy. I was worried about him.’
I lean forward, mirroring his stance. ‘I’m still not understanding why you think Roger’s workaholic tendencies might have led to someone wanting him dead.’
‘I’m not confident I can draw a direct line between the two for you. It’s simply my observation that Roger became greedy. He had never been exposed to this level of wealth before, and he became addicted to it, calling me at all hours, wanting to discuss ideas and opportunities.’ Carlyle looks away, as if he’s retrieving a memory. ‘Then, over the past month or so, he stopped sharing information with me … and Dominique, although that is another story. He withdrew. I now believe, considering what happened, that along the way he became tangled up in something, something, ah—’ he looks around the room as if searching for the right words ‘—something that became dangerous.’
‘Dangerous,’ I repeat, but I’m considering his mention of Dominique. They seemed close outside the crime scene, and I don’t think Carlyle is in a relationship. I wonder if he was the catfisher. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he knows how to conceal himself online; if he doesn’t, he must know people who could do it on his behalf. But why? I think about the content of the emails. Maybe he has feelings for Dominique but couldn’t act on them because of Roger. Or maybe it’s more sinister—wooing Dominique might have been a way to exert perverse power over his nephew.
‘Roger was exhibiting signs of poor decision-making,’ Carlyle continues. ‘He started doing foolish things, such as trying to pit investors against one another. We had a come-to-Jesus moment about a fortnight ago, and discussed whether he was the right person to be announced as CEO. He was contrite and convincing and, against my better judgement, we went ahead with the original plan.’
‘Against your better judgement because you didn’t believe he could change his ways?’
‘I had a gut feeling. I’m sure you experience them in your line of work. They have no scientific explanation but I rarely find them to be wrong.’
‘And you think Roger was involved in something dangerous? Can you be more specific?’
‘I saw his body, detective.’ He winces at the memory and begins spinning the pen through his fingers again. It must be a nervous tic. ‘I don’t think the danger is a point of contention.’
I try to clarify. ‘What I mean is, do you Roger’s death was linked to his business dealings or something else?’
Carlyle seems disappointed in my question. ‘It stands to reason that if you gather the evidence, you will find your answers.’
I’m annoyed at his unsolicited advice and I’m starting to feel like I’m being managed. I ask him outright, switching to a direct approach. ‘Do you know who killed your nephew, Dr Kirk?’
He blinks in surprise but quickly resumes his unflappable persona. ‘I would obviously tell you if I did!’
‘Was Dominique involved in Roger’s business dealings?’
Carlyle laughs politely. ‘Absolutely not. She’s a sweet woman, but she does not have a mind for business. She’s far more interested in spending money than making it.’
‘She generates a revenue stream from selling art, surely?’
‘She does well off the back of our connections.’ He gestures to a canvas featuring a hazy blur of white and yellow shapes near his office door. ‘But outside of the art world she would be lost.’
Maybe my theory is off, I’m not getting the sense that he has any interest in her. ‘The marriage was in trouble—had they decided to separate?’
‘I’d say that was the most likely path forward, although Roger was in no hurry.’
‘Was he involved with someone else?’
Carlyle lifts his shoulders briefly. ‘I’ve learned never to say never when it comes to that kind of thing, but I very much doubt it. He was simply obsessed with his work.’
‘Lots of busy people manage to find time for an affair.’
‘True.’ Carlyle presses his lips together as he studies me intently and I fight the urge to squirm. Can he tell I’m talking from experience? I let out the breath I’d been holding as he continues.
‘But Roger loved Dominique, even though he was neglecting her. He was too wrapped up in his own ventures to be worried about anyone else.’
‘Do you think—’
He holds out an open hand to quieten me and stands. From someone else this might come across as rude but from him it seems gracious. ‘Detective, I have enjoyed our conversation very much, but I have appointments and funeral arrangements to attend to. You know where to find me should you need to talk again.’
It feels like an invite to see him professionally and I scramble to my feet and stand as tall as I can to reassert the appropriate dynamic. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you for taking the time.’
He reaches past me to his desk and picks up a brochure. ‘Here, please take this.’
A full-bleed shot of The Lyle complex is on the front page with a gold-embossed headline reading Welcome to a Healthier Life.
‘I’m happy to show you around or discuss our services if you want to make an appointment.’ He presses a button on the phone on his desk.
I open the brochure and scan the copy. It does look a lot better than the other aged care facilities I’ve seen. Maybe I should use it to guide a discussion about the future with Dad. ‘Thank you.’
The door swings open and the elegant lady from reception appears.
Carlyle smiles. ‘Esme, please show the detective out. And please give her a Harmony voucher.’ He places his hand on the small of my back and brings his head to mine conspiratorially as he guides me to the door. ‘We offer meditation, yoga, Pilates, music therapy, nutrition plans—all wonderful for stress.’