Rick smiles back, the laughter lines deepening around his eyes. ‘Kind of.’
‘He was distracted, you know, and coming off a night shift. It didn’t seem like he wanted to be there or had much time for it.’ She exhales hard. ‘I thought the woman in the pool, whoever she was, deserved better.’
Rick is looking sympathetic. Lizzie’s gaze is on Philip, who’s frowning.
Moira wonders whether to come clean and tell them what she did.
Philip shakes his head. Looks earnest. ‘Every victim deserves justice.’
Rick and Lizzie nod agreement. Moira makes her decision.
‘They do. That’s why I kept the pictures.’ Pulling her phone from the pocket of her hoodie, she unlocks the screen and goes to her photos. ‘I know it might seem creepy, but I just . . .’ She shrugs.
Holding her phone towards the group, she scrolls through the pictures she took at the crime scene before the cops arrived. The first few are the wide view of the pool and the patio. Then come the close-ups, stark and uncompromising in the early morning sunlight – the young woman in the pool, crimson smeared across her chest and yellow dress; the trail of blood and the splatter on the stone edging; the dollar bills floating on the water; the black bag submerged beneath the surface.
None of them speaks for a moment, then Rick asks, ‘You tell this Detective Golding you got these?’
‘No. I was going to delete them.’ She meets Rick’s gaze. ‘Then, when he seemed so distracted, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I felt involved because I found her. Almost like I should do something to help myself, you know? Like I was somehow responsible.’
Philip nods. Rick as well.
‘It’s understandable,’ says Lizzie, a sympathetic expression on her face. ‘Finding someone dead is a big deal.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Philip, patting Moira on the arm. ‘It’s bad even when you’re a trained professional and used to crime scenes, but for a civilian like yourself it must be especially hard.’
‘It’s not just that.’ Moira doesn’t let herself rise to Philip’s patronising comment. Instead she taps the screen, enlarging the young woman’s face – her eyes open yet unseeing. Gripping the phone tighter, Moira looks back at the three retired law enforcers. The tremble is back in her voice when she speaks and it’s not entirely due to the light-headedness. ‘The way the detective – Golding – seemed so unbothered really riled me. This poor young woman died last night. Someone should care about what happened to her.’
6
RICK
As he pulls off Sea Spray Boulevard into the parking lot of the Roadhouse, Rick feels his Apple watch vibrate again. Glancing down, he sees there’s another message from Sandi – the manager of the Roadhouse – asking where they are. It’s the third she’s sent in the last ten minutes and this one’s a whole lot less polite than the first. Word is, things are getting rowdy in the back room. Rowdy by The Homestead’s standards anyways.
‘Problem?’ says Philip.
‘The guys wondering where we’re at is all.’
Rick parks round back and they hurry towards the building. He can hear rock music through the open windows and the noise of chatter over the top of it. No shouting, no breaking furniture – nothing that constitutes rowdy in any place but this.
Reaching the entrance, they go inside. The Roadhouse is barely ten years old, but built to look like it’s been standing for a couple of hundred more. Rustic weatherboard, exposed brick walls, dark wood furniture and low lighting make Rick feel like he’s going straight from day to night. It’s designed to look rough around the edges but, as this is The Homestead, the smell of polish is stronger than the beer, and chewing tobacco and smokes are banned. Still, even though he quit near on five years ago, Rick feels the urge for a smoke every time he sets foot in the place.