Chapter 47

chapter forty-seven

Now

‘That was the last time I saw Savannah,’ said Troy Delaney.

‘Did she return the money?’ asked Christina.

Detective Senior Constable Christina Khoury was in what her mother would describe as a ‘tetchy’ mood.

She didn’t have a body like she’d thought she’d had the day before. The call had come through almost immediately: Not yours. Skeletal remains.

This woman had died at least thirty years previously, back when Christina was a child, trying to decide whether she wanted to be a police officer or a marine biologist when she grew up, and why had she not stuck with marine biology? She could have been floating about looking at starfish right now.

Furthermore, a member of Joy Delaney’s tennis club, a Fiona Reid, had just called in with the wonderful news that she’d seen Joy, yesterday afternoon, getting off the train at Central, looking as hale and healthy as could be, although sadly she hadn’t seemed to hear her name when Fiona called out to her.

Because it wasn’t her,you fool, thought Christina.

Meanwhile a psychic had just gone public with the news that her feeling was that Joy was alive, but being held captive, somewhere near water, or possibly in the desert.

Christina did still have her motive. Joy Delaney’s hairdresser, Narelle Longford, had contacted police the moment she heard about yesterday’s discovery of the body, and she had shared all the information that her client had ever shared with her, including the story of a decades-old secret, revealed last year by their young house guest, who was not in fact a random stranger at all.

Stan’s children had shared precisely none of this with Christina. They knew it made their father look bad and had chosen to say nothing up until now.

Christina studied Joy Delaney’s second son, a good-looking man buffed by money and success, no doubt adored by his mother, but a man who had fallen with absurd ease for a young woman’s blackmail.

She and Ethan were talking to him in his luxury apartment. The blindingly beautiful views from the huge windows were an irritation, like distractingly loud music. She found herself wanting to say, ‘Can’t you turn that down a notch?’

‘She actually did return the money,’ said Troy. ‘She sent me a cheque in the post. I tore it up. Never banked it.’ He shifted slightly in his chair, which looked spindly and cheap to Christina, like an office chair from the 1950s, but which was apparently something to be impressed by, according to Ethan, who had asked Troy if it was a genuine something-or-other and it was a genuine something-or-other. Why even bother asking? Troy was the sort of guy who took pride in overpaying for everything. Even blackmail. ‘I suspect it would have bounced but I don’t know that for sure.’

‘Why didn’t you bank it?’ asked Christina.

‘After she left, I started to feel sorry for her,’ said Troy. He tapped a beautifully manicured thumbnail against his teeth. ‘She’d obviously had a troubled childhood, and we were all cruel to her when she came to our house as a child, unwittingly cruel to her, but still, we were, and the more I thought about her, the more I realised how much we had in common.’

‘What did you have in common?’

‘Both our fathers chose Harry Haddad over us,’ said Troy. He smiled wryly as if he wanted to give the impression that it didn’t matter now but he couldn’t quite pull it off, the childish pain still visible. ‘She said something about how painful it was whenever Harry was on television, and I feel exactly the same way: I always change the channel whenever I see that guy’s smug face.’

‘Just to clarify: is anyone in your family in contact with Harry Haddad?’ asked Christina.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Troy, the distaste clear on his face.

‘And this Savannah is estranged from her brother? As far as you know?’

‘As far as I know. I would think if she had anything to do with her brother she’d go to him for money.’

That didn’t necessarily follow. Christina wrote down: Interview Harry Haddad.

It would probably tell them nothing, and celebrities took their time returning phone calls, but it was another box that needed ticking.

‘So Savannah left . . . and your parents never heard from her again?’

‘About a month after she left, this young couple showed up with a van and said Savannah had sent them to collect her stuff. Mum said they were “hippie types”. She said they barely said a word, and they seemed terrified of Mum, so God knows what weird story Savannah fed them.’

‘And that was it? No other contact from her?’

‘As far as I know,’ said Troy. His knees jiggled. He pressed his hands to his thighs to still them, as if they belonged to someone else.

‘I assume there must have been some fallout after this revelation about what your mother had done. Presumably your father felt . . .’ She paused, in the hope that he might fill in the word. He said nothing so she gave him some options. ‘Angry? Hurt?’

Troy didn’t pick a word. He said carefully, ‘Possibly.’

‘That moment he first heard,’ said Christina. ‘What did he do? Did he lose his temper? Shout? Swear?’

‘My father never shouts when he is truly angry,’ said Troy. ‘He left. He just walked off. That is his . . . ah, coping mechanism, I guess.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘Well, this time he didn’t get very far. He was walking. About ten minutes from the house. He fell. A pothole. He dislocated his kneecap. Tore his meniscus. Fortunately someone we knew was driving by and drove him home. He already had problem knees so that . . . was pretty bad.’

‘No more tennis?’ asked Ethan.

‘He was told no tennis for at least six months.’ Troy unconsciously put one hand to his own knee. ‘Although he always defies expectations.’

‘That must have upset him,’ said Christina.

‘Tennis is his life,’ said Troy, with feeling.

‘So no more tennis for your mother either, then,’ said Christina, thinking of how often people had gone on about the wondrousness of the Delaneys’ marriage because they played doubles.

‘Well, actually, my mother started playing in a singles comp,’ said Troy.

‘Without your father,’ said Christina.

‘My mother was a top-ranked singles player when she was a teenager,’ said Troy obliviously. He seemed to be missing the symbolism. ‘She competed in her first Australian nationals when she was only fourteen, she beat Margaret –’

‘Got it, got it,’ said Christina, before she heard the woman’s full CV. ‘So your mother is out playing tennis while your father is stuck at home doing nothing, unable to play the sport he loves, feeling betrayed by his wife: I would assume it wasn’t exactly a happy household.’

‘I guess not,’ said Troy. ‘I don’t know, I was busy with my own life.’ He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then back at Christina. ‘I thought everything had gone back to normal, although I will admit –’

He stopped and she saw him swallow: an involuntary, convulsive swallow.

‘On Christmas Day, I did think, it kind of shocked me, that I would think this –’

He stopped again, and Christina gritted her teeth. Up until now he’d been answering her questions in a comfortable, urbane manner, like a successful man being interviewed for a magazine profile, but now his veneer had slipped. She wanted to grab him by his stylish linen shirt and yell, Just tell me! Your dad did it! We all know he did it!

His hands were locked as if in prayer. ‘For the first time in my life I thought . . .’

He looked at her pleadingly, as if he needed exoneration.

‘What did you think?’ Christina weighted her voice with authority.

‘That my parents might truly hate each other.’ He turned his gaze back to his shiny harbour view. ‘It was mutual, by the way. The hatred was mutual.’