‘Yes,’ said Miss de Berigny, hesitant, anticipating Angie’s next move. ‘But I can’t let you take it,’ she added. ‘Not without Mr Romero’s consent.’
‘Where is he?’ Angie asked.
‘At home. He’s been away sick for the last few days.’
Angie expertly shot her gloves into the rubbish bin on the way out of the classroom. ‘Okay, so Mr Romero isn’t here,’ she said. ‘It’ll take me an hour or two to get a warrant from a magistrate. With what I’ve got in here,’ she indicated the envelope in her briefcase, ‘and the fact that Mr Romero had meetings scheduled with both victims, we’ve got reasonable cause to search Mr Romero’s possessions. We can do this quietly or we can make a big fuss about it. Which do you think would look better to the parents?’
Gemma could see the struggle reflected in Miss de Berigny’s face—the fearful eyes and trembling mouth as the woman looked from Gemma to Angie. She’s really stuck, Gemma thought. If she insists on a warrant, it’ll look as if there’s something to hide. But if she doesn’t, she can’t know what Angie might find.
Finally, the principal capitulated. ‘It seems I have no choice, do I?’
Angie took the laptop and Gemma noticed that as the principal relocked the History office door, her hands were shaking. She accompanied them in silence to the main entrance, remaining at the top of the entrance steps to watch as they left.
Outside, in the darkness of the fig trees’ canopy, leathery wings flickered and swooped in total silence just on the edge of the lights in the grounds. The fruit bats were moving in.
‘Do you think something’s going on between Romero and the principal?’ Angie asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
‘I’ve always thought that,’ said Gemma. ‘Or at least allowed for the possibility. I told you how Romero barged into Miss de Berigny’s office the day I was there and said, “I thought Tasmin might be here with you”.’
Angie looked askance. ‘Oh, boy,’ she said. ‘You mean you think that’s the secret—Miss de B having an affair with one of the students?’
Gemma shrugged. ‘I hadn’t actually thought of that. But of all the places Tasmin could’ve been in that huge school, he thinks to go to the principal’s room?’
‘Maybe the kid was always in strife. Or maybe he was creating a diversion, planting an alibi.’
‘Maybe, maybe, maybe,’ said Gemma as they approached the police car. ‘At this stage, we don’t have anything except a whole lot of maybes. But put yourself in Tasmin’s shoes—her best friend’s just vanished into thin air. Maybe something happened to cause her to bolt.’
Around them, the last of the parents’ cars were pulling out of the school grounds.
‘Did you see Miss de Berigny’s face,’ Gemma asked, ‘when you said that about her guessing the initials at the end of that letter?’
Angie nodded, opening the passenger door of the police car. ‘Hop in,’ she said. ‘I’ll run you to your car.’
‘Hell, I almost forgot,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ve got a letter too.’ She pulled it out. ‘I grabbed it from Mr Romero’s office. I’m suspicious now about anything addressed to that man.’
‘Read it,’ said Angie, switching the car light on.
‘
Dear Mr Romero
,’ Gemma read, ‘
this is the third time I’ve had to ask you. Will you please tidy up your things? It’s a disgrace and the neighbours say they saw rats. If you don’t do this within seven days, I’m going to get a man in and get it all tipped. Sincerely, Mavis Ponzi.
’
‘Not exactly a love letter,’ said Angie.
‘Sounds like someone from the body corporate,’ said Gemma, restowing the letter.
A few short moments later, Angie pulled up beside Gemma’s white Honda. ‘I want to talk to Romero too,’ Gemma said, opening the passenger door.
Angie shrugged. ‘You can’t come with me. But I can’t stop you turning up at the same time I’m there. I’m going to drop this laptop over to the technical people—they’re up all night anyway. Then I’ll go to Romero’s place.’
Gemma smiled, grabbing her notebook from her bag. ‘Have you got the address on hand?’
•
Gemma, tired and hungry, stopped for a cappuccino and focaccia from Café Hernandez before driving to Mr Romero’s address, a block of units in Paddington, not far from Centennial Park’s northern gates. She pulled up behind Angie’s car and hurried to join her friend who was pressing the security doorbell.
Mr Romero, in a grey tracksuit and old pink T-shirt, opened the door. With his glasses and tousled hair sticking up at the front, he reminded Gemma of a sad old cockatoo. Angie identified herself and walked in, as Romero backed away. Gemma followed, looking around, expecting to see a mess after Mrs Ponzi’s complaint, but the place wasn’t particularly untidy.
‘Hello, Mr Romero,’ she said to the surprised man, extending her hand. ‘We’ve met before, at the school, but we weren’t introduced. I’m Gemma Lincoln, employed by Netherleigh Park as a private investigator.’
He frowned, taking her hand in an automatic way, not recognising her.
His apartment, decorated in muted tones of grey, apricot and white, reflected his interests: framed photographs of ancient ruins hung on the walls and the French doors to the balcony were framed by half-size marble nude statues. Interspersed between the ruins were Pre-Raphaelite-style prints, similar to the postcard Gemma had found in his office at the school; they showed nymphs caught in various poses, pastel, sentimental, their draped clothes revealing more than concealing their nubile bodies. On the polished dining table, a dainty art deco maiden wound herself nakedly around a bronze centrepiece.
‘What the hell do the police want with me?’ Mr Romero remonstrated. ‘I’m not at all well and you come banging on my door at this hour.’ He turned on Gemma. ‘What’s going on? What’s a private investigator doing at my place? I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘Couple of reasons for this visit, sir,’ said Angie. ‘But first, you live here alone?’
‘I do,’ he said.
While Angie determined Mr Romero’s marital status—divorced—and date of birth, Gemma looked more closely at the framed group of nymphs hanging on the wall near her. She noticed two things: first, that these weren’t prints but watercolours signed ‘Mannix Romero’ in a flowing hand; and second, the faces and bodies of the nymphs were those of pubescent girls.
‘I need to give you a receipt for the laptop I removed from your office,’ Angie was saying. Gemma studied Romero’s face carefully but discerned no change of expression. ‘I’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.’
‘Why did you take my laptop?’ Romero asked, puzzled, Gemma thought, rather than scared. She continued checking the watercolours and found them to be all very similar—young girls, artfully and suggestively draped.
‘The second thing is,’ Angie continued, fishing the letter out of her briefcase, ‘this letter we found in your classroom desk drawer. Obviously written by one of your students, declaring her love for you and wanting a private meeting.’
If Romero had seemed shocked at their arrival, this hit him like a body blow. ‘A letter?’ he repeated, faintly.
‘If I tell you it’s signed with the initials AB,’ Angie pressed on, ‘perhaps you might remember it better?’
Romero’s mouth dropped open.
‘Amy Bernhard has those initials,’ Angie continued, waving it at him.
Romero tried to rally. ‘That damn letter!’ he cried. ‘I’d completely forgotten it! Someone put it in my desk—I don’t know who! I swear I have no idea. I should have thrown it away the minute I noticed it.’
‘Amy had a meeting with you,’ Gemma reminded him ‘on the morning she disappeared. So did Tasmin Summers—both girls, before your class. And you arrived late to school on both days. Tasmin is missing and Amy is dead. And her initials are on a letter to you suggesting a meeting that morning.’
‘But I didn’t see her! There was no meeting! Either before school or at school. I missed her!’
Angie tapped the letter. ‘Did you have a meeting with her somewhere else?’ she said. ‘At the beach—like this letter suggests?’
‘Jesus,’ he whispered, all the fight gone out of him. He sagged against the long white lounge, slowly sinking into it. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘You admitted you were late to school that morning,’ Gemma said. ‘Why? What kept you?’
‘For God’s sake, I’m often late! It’s just coincidence. Ask the principal. She’ll tell you.’
‘Mr Romero,’ said Angie, pulling on another pair of disposable gloves and opening the letter. ‘Let me read this to you. It might refresh your memory.’ She was about to start when a voice calling from outside in the hall interrupted her.
‘Mannix? It’s me. Open the door, please!’
‘That’s her now,’ said Mr Romero. ‘She’ll tell you. That I’m often late.’ He hurried to the door and opened it to reveal Beatrice de Berigny. She stopped mid-step when she saw Angie and Gemma.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ No one spoke for a long moment. ‘Something was found in your desk, Mannix,’ she said finally. ‘Some love letter from one of the students! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’ve just been trying to tell them—’
‘You know it’s school policy. Anything like that must be brought to my attention immediately. If you’d done that, none of this would be happening.’
Not quite true, thought Gemma, but the letter did make things worse for the History teacher.
‘You should hear this too,’ Angie said, turning to Beatrice de Berigny. ‘You said earlier you might be able to throw some light onto the matter. Here it is.
‘
Dear Mr Romero
,’ Angie read, ‘
I am totally in love with you. You are the most sexy man I have ever seen. I just sit staring at you, wishing I could kiss you and put my arms around you. Whenever you walk around the classroom and come near me, I just melt. I so totally want to touch you. Please meet me before school on Wednesday. I will wait for you at the beach at eight o’clock. I dream of being alone with you. Heaps of love and kisses, AB.
’
All the colour had drained from Mr Romero’s face. He was as pale as the marble nudes flanking the French doors.
‘I’d completely forgotten it,’ he whispered. ‘I stuck it in the drawer and never gave it another thought.’ He looked around his flat, throwing out an arm. ‘I don’t believe this is happening. Everything I say gets twisted around. Beatrice, you must believe me!’
Why was he appealing to her? Gemma wondered.
‘Mannix,’ said Miss de Berigny, ‘you must get a lawyer. Don’t say another word until you get legal advice.’
‘Before you do that,’ said Angie, ‘may we search your apartment? We can do it quietly in the morning with your permission, or I can get a warrant.’
‘Do it!’ he cried, throwing up his arms in helpless protest. ‘Do it whichever way you like. You won’t find anything here!’
His words rang out dramatically and Gemma’s deception detector flashed a red light. Something’s going on, she thought. His words kept ringing through her head.
‘We’ll be back in the morning,’ said Angie. ‘You can stay or sit with a neighbour while we do the search.’
She was about to step outside when she turned to him again. ‘Do you like fishing?’ she asked. ‘Or kite-flying?’
Romero stared blankly at her. ‘What?’
‘Do you?’ Angie persisted.
‘I’ve never done either in my life,’ he said, distressed. ‘What on earth are you asking me that sort of foolish question for?’
Angie smiled. ‘Have a good night, sir.’
Angie and Gemma let themselves out, leaving Romero and the principal staring after them.
They retraced their steps, stopping in the foyer long enough to read the names of the occupants picked out in white plastic letters in a glassed-in box near the lift.
‘No Ponzis,’ said Gemma. ‘I was going to ask him about Mrs Ponzi,’ she said, ‘but I want to keep that up my sleeve for a bit.’
‘I can’t see why anyone would be complaining about mess,’ said Angie. ‘Certainly not rats. His place was perfectly clean.’
They left the building, heading towards their respective cars. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall,’ said Gemma, ‘and hear the conversation going on up there. Mr Romero looked so pathetic towards the end.’
‘So did Saddam Hussein,’ said Angie. She indicated the plastic bag housing the envelope and letter she’d found in Romero’s desk. ‘Do you think it’s Amy Bernhard?’
‘It’s only circumstantial,’ said Gemma. ‘Anyone with access to a computer could have written this. And put it in Romero’s desk.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said Angie, unlocking her door, ‘we might find traces of them on the paper.’
‘Someone could have set him up. Planted that letter in his desk.’
‘Who?’
Gemma considered. ‘The killer, for one. Someone on the staff who hates his guts? Take your pick. Anyone with a computer and an inkjet printer could have written it. Or a student with a grudge to get him into strife.’
‘I’ll pass it over to the physical evidence people,’ said Angie. ‘See if they can get a match from Amy Bernhard.’ She got into her car and wound down the window.
‘Don’t you think,’ Gemma said, ‘it’s weird that he should still have it? Why the hell would he keep something so obviously compromising him? It’s a year since Amy disappeared. Now she’s found dead. Wouldn’t you think he’d get rid of it?’
‘Did you notice all those half-naked young girls hanging on his walls?’ she added.
Angie nodded, fitting her keys into the ignition.
‘He painted those,’ said Gemma. ‘I saw his signature on them.’
‘It’s not looking too good for the old History teacher,’ said Angie.
‘But if he’d done away with Amy,’ Gemma persisted, ‘he’d hardly keep that incriminating letter.’
‘Overweight, middle-aged school teacher,’ Angie said, starting her car, ‘finds gorgeous schoolgirl in love with him. Of course he’s going to keep such a flattering letter. He can read it over and over and feel like he’s really got it. What about all the married dickheads who keep text messages from their lovers? They can’t bear to get rid of them either.’
Angie pulled her seatbelt across. ‘God, I’m tired. I haven’t had much sleep lately.’
‘Stop boasting.’
‘It’s been a while. I’m allowed to boast.’
‘Romero seemed genuinely puzzled by your references to fishing and kite-flying,’ said Gemma, getting back to the subject.