‘When is the memorial?’
‘The day after tomorrow. Do you want a cup of tea?’ She sounds like her mother.
‘No, I’m fine.’
Aiden checks his phone before sitting next to his sister, who is perched on the edge of the sofa, as though I’m interviewing her for a job. She’s holding a small stuffed monkey in her lap that makes her look younger.
‘Is that one special?’ I ask.
‘Jodie won it for me at the Goose Fair. You had to get five balls through the hoop. I couldn’t get one.’
‘You two were friends for a long time?’
‘We went to the same primary school and to Forsyth Academy and dance classes and skating and we went on holidays together and other stuff.’
‘Do you skate?’
‘No. Daddy says I skate like a baby hippo.’ There’s no hint of regret in her voice.
‘How often did Jodie come here?’ I ask, motioning around me.
‘All the time. We were like sisters.’ Again it’s her mother talking.
‘After school?’
‘Yeah. Aiden used to help her with her homework.’
I glance at Aiden for confirmation. ‘She was missing a lot of school,’ he explains, not bothering to look up from his phone. ‘I helped her with her maths.’
‘How often?’
‘Twice a week.’
‘Who arranged that?’
‘Aunt Maggie asked Mum and she asked me.’
‘Were you paid?’
‘What?’
‘Were . . . you . . . paid?’
‘Yeah.’
Another silence. Tasmin is growing bored because it’s not about her. She’s playing with the monkey in her lap, twisting its arms into a knot and undoing them again.
‘I talked to some of Jodie’s skating friends who mentioned that she wanted to quit figure skating because of her injuries and headaches. Did she ever say anything to you?’
‘Dad would have had a fit,’ says Aiden.
I’m waiting for Tasmin who is looking at the scuffed toes of her school shoes, swinging them back and forth.
‘No,’ she whispers, but I suspect she’s lying.
‘Did you ever feel jealous of Jodie?’
The question seems to surprise her but she doesn’t hesitate. ‘All the time.’
‘Why?’
‘It was always Jodie this and Jodie that. Every time she sneezed or sniffled or fell over, people would be fussing over her, calling the doctor, handing her tissues. Isn’t she wonderful, isn’t she beautiful, isn’t she talented . . .’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ says Aiden.
‘How would you know?’ snaps Tasmin. ‘They said the same things about you. You’re the golden child and I’m the golden retriever.’
‘Shut up, Tas.’
‘You shut up!’
I interrupt. ‘Did Jodie have a secret boyfriend? Someone older.’
‘What difference does that make?’ asks Aiden.
‘I’m just trying to understand her.’
Tasmin scratches at the bridge of her nose but her eyes betray something other than jealousy or boredom.
‘Sometimes she’d tell Aunt Maggie that she was staying with me, but then she’d go off and do other stuff.’
‘What other stuff?’
‘You shouldn’t be telling tales,’ says Aiden.
‘They’re not tales. Jodie used to sneak out at night and come back before we all woke up. I used to worry that she’d be late for practice, but she never got caught.’
‘Do you know where she went?’ I ask.
Tasmin shakes her head.
‘When did this start?’
‘During the summer holidays.’
I turn to Aiden. ‘Did you know?’
‘I’m her cousin, not her babysitter.’
‘You didn’t notice her coming and going?’
‘I’m not here,’ he replies, pointing into the garden where a small egg-shaped caravan is parked against the back fence. A power cable snakes across the lawn to the house.
‘How did Jodie get in and out?’ I ask.
‘I’d leave the sliding door unlocked on the patio,’ replies Tasmin.
‘What about the night she disappeared – did you leave it unlocked?’
She lowers her head and bites her bottom lip, leaving white marks in the indentations.
‘Did you forget?’
‘No.’ A teardrop hangs on her lower lashes, growing fatter before it falls. ‘I wanted to punish her for leaving me alone at the fireworks . . . not taking me along.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ says Aiden, putting his arm around her shoulders.
‘If I’d left the door unlocked, she wouldn’t have tried to walk home. She wouldn’t . . .’
Tasmin can’t finish and Aiden doesn’t know how to comfort her.
A door key slides into a lock and the front door swings open. Bryan and Felicity Whitaker carry bags of groceries into the hallway, still arguing about something that must have started in the car. They stop abruptly.
‘What are you doing here?’ asks Bryan, his eyes sparking with anger.
‘I’m talking to Aiden and Tasmin.’
‘Without our permission.’
‘Aiden is an adult.’
The groceries are dumped without ceremony on the floor. ‘I don’t want you talking to my children without us being here. I don’t want you putting words in their mouths.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing.’
Everybody is on their feet and the sitting room feels small. Felicity has gone to Aiden, putting her arm around his waist. She went to him first, not Tasmin, who is clearly more upset.
‘Jodie was pregnant and planning to run away,’ I explain. ‘I thought she might have talked to Tasmin.’
‘You think our daughter deliberately withheld information,’ says Bryan.
‘No.’
‘That’s what you’re inferring.’
‘It’s all right, Bryan,’ says Felicity. ‘Let it go.’
‘He accused me of molesting Jodie.’
Tasmin makes a gagging sound and Aiden laughs sarcastically. I don’t know what makes Bryan Whitaker angrier – my presence or the reactions of his children. He’s not a big man, but he makes himself larger, lunging at me.
Felicity intercepts and pushes him back, warning me to leave.
I take a business card from my jacket pocket and give it to Aiden and Tasmin.
‘This is my address and my pager number. If you think of anything – get in touch.’
‘You’re not welcome here,’ yells Bryan. ‘Don’t come back.’
Felicity catches up with me before I reach the footpath. She pushes hair from her eyes, blinking wetly.
‘You have the wrong impression of this family, Dr Haven, if you think we’d do anything to hurt Jodie.’
46
Angel Face
The pizza is cold by the time it arrives. I have a slice and leave the rest to Keeley, who eats noisily, letting cheese hang from her lips. In between mouthfuls, she guzzles glasses of pink wine from a box, treating it like cordial. Where does the food go? There’s nothing of her.