As Mary MacDonald opened the door, Jake was hit by an overwhelming impression of pink. Rose-coloured walls, hot-pink cushions, and large, fake flowers with oversized cerise petals in clear glass bottles. The saccharine notes of a daytime series theme tune played on the television.
‘Amelia?’ she called, her voice noticeably higher than before.
A small white barrel of a dog launched itself across the room, yapping madly.
‘Scottie, down! Amelia?’
‘I’m in the bathroom, Mum. I said I’d come out after my show finishes.’
‘The detective is here now, Amelia. You’ll have to watch it later.’
‘All right!’
The woman that emerged from the bathroom—who Jake knew to be twenty-four years of age—was dressed in a form-fitting, pink Lycra crop top and hot-pink leggings, her white-blonde hair arranged in pigtails above her ears.
‘Amelia,’ her mother repeated. ‘Turn the TV off, put Scottie out, and come to the lounge room. Now, please.’
‘Okay,’ she said, glancing at Jake, then Evelyn behind him. The jarring effect of an outfit more commonly seen on a six-year-old was augmented by Amelia’s mask of make-up, her eyes barely visible beneath thick layers of eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara.
She frowned heavily as she bent to call the little dog to her.
Jake followed Mary to the lounge room and sat on the threadbare cushion of an armchair, watching as Amelia MacDonald took a seat on the lounge next to her mother. Although she had flicked her eyes in his direction twice since entering the room, she had yet to look at Evelyn who had placed her apparently unwanted dessert box on the coffee table.
Jake pulled out his phone, set it to record and conspicuously placed it next to the cake. ‘I’ll be recording the conservation, if that’s okay?’
‘So, you’re here to ask me about Ms O’Brien.’
Amelia’s assertiveness was unexpected. ‘Yes,’ Jake answered. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘I knew you’d ask me that.’
Mary MacDonald patted the side of her daughter’s thigh. ‘Just answer the question.’
Amelia waved away her mother’s hand. ‘Not for years. I mean, I’ve seen her in town, but I’ve never spoken to her since I came to live with Mum.’
Another maternal pat on the thigh. ‘And Dad, and Andrew.’
Amelia twitched one shoulder forward. ‘Sure.’
‘Could you be more specific please, Amelia?’ Jake asked. ‘When was the last time you saw Ava O’Brien?’
‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but maybe last year in the supermarket?’
‘And when was the last time you spoke to her?’
‘The day I came to live here.’
‘When was that?’
‘Three days before my fourteenth birthday, so ten years ago.’
Jake leaned forward. ‘Where were you on Thursday night?’
‘I’m always here.’
‘She never goes out,’ Mary MacDonald added.
‘Do you have a car?’ Jake asked Amelia.
‘I don’t drive.’
‘You don’t have a licence, or you can’t drive?’
‘Can’t. I’ve never even tried.’
As she talked Amelia waved her arms in large, looping gestures. Jake noticed that her long pink nails were press-ons, angled up strangely toward the front. She noticed Jake looking at her hands and promptly sat on them.