You Had It Coming Page 12

  Katrina adds Megan Lowe and Jessica Foster to the list, leaving a gap before their names.

  The detective inspector flops down on her seat. Both women stare at the whiteboard. William Newson was a wealthy man. A multi-million-dollar house, hefty super-annuation balance, high-performing share portfolio, and various investment properties dotted strategically around the city. Wealth complicates things. There’s more to gain, especially for family members. Contract killing becomes an option, and with that alibis become decidedly less relevant.

  ‘Are we sure it’s not a case of mistaken identity?’ Katrina murmurs.

  It’s a fair question. The wrong house was targeted in a drive-by shooting in the western suburbs last month. Bullets peppered the lounge window of a terrified single mother, who, quite miraculously, wasn’t hurt even though the sofa she was sitting on absorbed six of the bullets. Her children’s bedrooms were at the back of the house, thank God, all four kids sound asleep. Extensive investigation found no links between the woman and organised crime. Her ex-partner was quickly cleared of suspicion. Everyone was bewildered until a note was left in the mailbox the following week.

  Sorry. Wrong house. Hope your kids are okay.

  This doesn’t feel remotely the same. Bridget isn’t bewildered with nowhere left to turn. Suzanne Newson, Joshua Newson, Fergus Herrmann, Laura Dundas, Emily Wickham: these names are legitimately on the board. Megan Lowe and Jessica Foster might look like an afterthought, with that gap before their names, but they have motive, too: it could even be argued that the passing of time has intensified their sense of injustice.

  The problem is Bridget has too many directions to turn in.

  She looks her boss straight in the eye. ‘I’m one hundred per cent sure that the person who shot William Newson didn’t make a mistake.’

  ‘What are we searching for, exactly?’ Dave enquires when he meets her outside William Newson’s house in Killara.

  ‘Inspiration,’ Bridget replies sarcastically.

  She’s holding the crime-scene photographs. She studies them before positioning herself on the driveway, on the spot where Newson fell. Her eyes scan from left to right. Front lawn on the left, driveway straight ahead, wooden fence on the right, garage directly behind.

  ‘So, he hid over there?’

  She is using ‘he’ for convenience; a female is very possible. Tyre marks on the night suggested that the killer (and motorbike) were hidden behind the large gum tree. Wouldn’t have worked in the daylight, but more than ample screening for a dark night. According to the timeline, and allowing for travel time from the 7-Eleven at Lindfield – where the suspected vehicle was captured on CCTV – the killer waited for up to fifteen minutes.

  What did William Newson notice when he walked down the driveway, the wheelie bin rumbling behind him?

  Did he see a silhouette emerging from the shadows?

  Did the killer say something before pulling the trigger?

  Afterwards, he, or she, mounted the bike and drove it over the lawn, down the driveway and along the street at high speed. No CCTV images for afterwards, implying that the driver didn’t go very far, or managed to replace the registration plates somewhere close by. No trace of the weapon or clothing being discarded anywhere in the local area.

  Bridget strides across the lawn, towards the gum tree. The grass is dry, the ground unyielding. The tree is enormous, with the potential to wreak untold damage if it were to come down in a storm. A slight movement catches the corner of her eye. She stops in her tracks, looking up, her eyes training on one of the upstairs windows of the house next door. There’s someone there, watching. A partially obscured face. Blonde hair. Bridget catches the woman’s eye and she moves out of sight.

  ‘What did you say the neighbour’s name was again?’

  ‘Diana Simon. Why?’

  ‘She’s having a stickybeak at us.’

  Bridget recalls the very specific information Mrs Simon supplied about Joshua, who conversed with her on the Sunday before his father’s murder; when he was apparently distracted and looked over his shoulder several times. Cold hard fact: being specific doesn’t mean one is telling the truth. Is there an ulterior motive lurking behind those twitching curtains?

  Bridget takes hold of herself. Mrs Simon was not home on the night of the shooting and her daughter has corroborated this fact. The woman is being nosy, and that – unfortunately – is not a crime.

  Bridget stands behind the tree trunk and imagines herself in the killer’s shoes. Shrinking to make oneself invisible. Waiting. Waiting. Probably feeling nervous. Hands shaking? What did he or she think about? How did they pass the minutes? Fifteen of them. Not a long time. Unless you’re waiting to kill someone.

  Bridget squints her eyes. What’s that on the tree? Words! Something etched into the bark.

  She steps closer. The letters are jagged and superficial, quite easy to miss. It takes a moment to segue them together. Her breath catches.

  ‘Dave! Dave! Come over here!’

  He arrives, breathing heavily. She points.

  YOU HAD IT COMING.

  22

  MEGAN

  ‘So, how was your long weekend?’ Lucas is relaxed, chatty. ‘Didn’t even get the chance to ask yesterday.’

  They’re on the way to help an obese patient who can’t get himself out of bed. It’s not a lights-and-sirens emergency so they can afford to catch up. Megan missed him during her time off. She always does. The pathetic thing is, he doesn’t miss her. Why should he? He has Daniella.

  She smothers the flare of jealousy with a laugh. ‘Had a paintbrush glued to my hand for most of it!’

  ‘You should have called me. I’m pretty handy at cutting in edges.’

  She glances at him; his eyes are full of a genuine desire to help. Her gaze falls to the lower half of his face; at some stage over the weekend he decided to ditch shaving. The bristle makes him even more attractive: that masculine, rough-and-ready look – the last thing she needs. She turns her attention back to the road, flicking the indicator for an upcoming left turn.

  ‘My brother is coming on the weekend to help out.’

  ‘How much older is your brother?’

  ‘Four years.’

  Megan is fond of Seb, and he’s fond of her in return, despite having spent little time together as adults. She is looking forward to seeing him on Saturday. Giving him a hug, hearing all about his little family, and engineering some alone time so she can discuss her concerns about their mum.

  Megan’s foot is pressed on the brake pedal; she is driving down a narrow steep hill, with cars parked bumper-to-bumper on both sides of the road. As a child, she used to have a recurring dream about a hill like this one. Her mum, dad and Seb striding effortlessly up the incline, Megan sliding backwards, unable to get a grip with her hands or feet. Calling after them with increased desperation.

  They’ve reached the address on the mobile data terminal. Steps lead down into a thickly forested hollow; one can only assume there’s a house down there somewhere. Bad news if their bariatric patient needs a visit to hospital. She and Lucas won’t be able to manage without back-up.

  ‘Shit!’ Lucas sighs. ‘Well, this should be interesting.’

  The sandstone steps are uneven and slippery. Thankfully, the handrail is solid and Megan holds on firmly, the medical kit in her other hand. She counts the steps as they go: fifty-seven.

  There’s a slim middle-aged woman waiting at the bottom. ‘Oh, thank God you’re here. Be careful on that last step, it’s the deadliest one. I’m Cathy, Ray’s wife. This way. This way.’

  The house has a surprising amount of light, and a stunning 180-degree view of the surrounding bush. It’s hard to believe they’re less than fifteen kilometres from the centre of Sydney. The master bedroom contains a large window (with another breathtaking view) and a large body lying flat on the king-size bed. Lucas starts chatting while Megan sets up equipment.

  ‘Hi there. I’m Lucas and this is Megan. What’
s been happening here?’

  Ray is about Cathy’s age, somewhere in his fifties, and weighs around 200 kilos, if Megan’s estimation skills are any good.

  ‘Can’t move my legs. Can’t get up.’

  ‘Are they numb?’

  ‘Yeah. My hip, too.’

  ‘Looks like you have some blood-flow issues. Has this happened before?’

  ‘Not this bad.’

  Ray is wearing pyjama shorts and the skin on his right leg is red and inflamed.

  ‘Is that cellulitis causing you pain?’

  ‘Bloody oath. Especially the abscess.’

  The abscess, on the inside of his thigh, is leaking pus. There are several blisters in other areas, and some red streaks, an indication that the infection is spreading.

  ‘Have you been given any medication for this, Ray?’ Megan asks, leaning over him so he can see her face.

  ‘Been taking antibiotics about a week now.’

  Megan and Lucas exchange a look. If oral antibiotics aren’t working, then an IV is required in hospital.

  ‘You have a bit of a temperature, Ray, so we’re going to give you something for that, which will also help with the pain. We want to get you to hospital so they can treat the cellulitis infection and the circulation problems. Plan A is to try to get you on your feet and very, very slowly up those steps. If that doesn’t work, Plan B is a stair chair.’

  Plan C is Fire and Rescue, but Megan leaves that possibility unsaid. She unclicks her radio and calls for back-up.

  ‘Car 482. Can we get a bariatric ambulance, please?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Ray covers his face with two oversized paws. ‘This is so bloody embarrassing.’

  Lucas pats him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. This is our job.’

  ‘I’m just a fat bastard taking up too much space in the world.’

  His wife chides him immediately. ‘Stop being so down on yourself, Ray.’

  ‘We’ve moved people much larger than you,’ Lucas says.

  This is an outright lie but it immediately makes Ray feel better. He comes out from behind his hands, even manages a self- deprecating joke. ‘You mean I’m not the biggest fat bastard you’ve had to deal with?’

  ‘No. Sorry. You’re boringly average.’

  They all laugh and the atmosphere in the room becomes positive.

  ‘Right. The drugs should be taking effect now, Ray. We’re going to try to get you into a sitting position. Slide your legs over this way. Take my hand and Megan’s. On the count of three. Everyone ready?’

  It takes more than half an hour to manoeuvre Ray from the bed to the hallway, then outside to the front path, and up all fifty-seven steps. He leans heavily on the handrail on one side, and on Lucas on the other. Lucas uses a combination of patience, cajoling and laughter, with Ray panting, swearing and guffawing in response.

  The bariatric ambulance and crew are waiting at the top. Ray pauses to catch his breath and look around him. He’s emotional. ‘Been more than a year since I’ve come this far. Bloody oath.’

  Megan and Lucas help get him settled before wishing him luck.

  Cathy clutches Lucas’s hand. ‘Thank you for being so extraordinarily kind.’

  The bariatric ambulance strains its way up the hill. Megan waits a few moments, giving it a head start. Lucas clears the job from the MDT before slumping back in his seat. Kindness can be exhausting.

  The road is so steep it feels as though they’re suspended in mid-air. Once again, Megan is reminded of that childhood dream. Losing traction, sliding backwards. Her hands flailing, her calls going unnoticed. Not one member of her family hears or turns around. She doesn’t know what the dream signified at the time. She wasn’t abandoned in any way. They were a happy family, a close-knit one. Maybe it was a premonition of what was to come.

  Finally, the vehicle is on flat ground and Megan can relax somewhat. She glances at Lucas. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed in a momentary reprieve. The roster changes next week. They’ll be assigned to new partners and go their separate ways for at least a few months, until the roster fairy reunites them again. The thought of being without him makes her feel untethered.

  ‘Hey, Megan, there’s been a delivery for you,’ Kaz says when they get back to base.

  The delivery is hard to miss. A long rectangular box tied with an elaborate white ribbon is taking up most of the table in the kitchen. Inside are a dozen roses, blood red, plastic water phials at the end of each elegant stem.

  ‘Nice,’ Kaz says. ‘Secret admirer?’

  Megan snorts. ‘Probably an old geezer saying thanks for restarting his heart.’

  Lucas and Kaz are watching as Megan opens the accompanying envelope.

  Dear Megan,

  Thank you for treating my father on the night he was shot. My family and I have some questions, the answers to which might help us come to terms with this awful tragedy. I would be grateful if you could call me on the number below.

  Joshua Newson

  Megan’s legs go from under her. She sits down heavily at the table, pushing the roses as far away from her as possible. Joshua Newson knows her name and where she works. Something tells her he also knows that she is much more than one of the paramedics who treated his father. She is probably overreacting, but those perfect red flowers don’t feel like a thank-you; they feel like a threat.

  23

  JESS

  The train station is closed. An incident on the track. A relief bus is parked on the street outside, but has pulled away by the time Jess realises that she needs to be on it. She approaches the security guard, who is standing on the steps to the entrance, turning people away.

  ‘When’s the next bus?’

  ‘About twenty minutes,’ he says in an unconvincing tone.

  She is deeply tired. It’s dark and cold. Twenty minutes, if it’s really that, is too long.

  ‘Do you know when they’ll reopen the station?’

  ‘Not anytime soon. It’s a fatality. Big clean-up, if you know what I mean.’

  She’s sorry she asked. Someone’s remains are being scraped from the train and tracks. What a messy way to die. But when you’re in that frame of mind you’re not thinking about the impact on the train driver or the emergency workers or anyone else.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, moving away. No taxis in sight, and a quick check of her Uber app shows nothing close by. She dials Alex’s number.

  ‘Babe, I’m stranded at Artarmon station. Any chance you can come and get me?’

  He sighs. He’s deeply tired too. Their jobs are physically demanding. She’s had seven hours instructing classes, followed by a tough one-on-one training session with Vince. Alex spent the day digging and bricklaying at her parents’ house. At this time of night, neither of them has much energy left in the tank.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A fatality. The train line is closed and I’ve just missed a bus.’

  ‘Okay.’ Another reluctant sigh. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Jess sits on a bench and huddles into her hoodie. Vince added extra rounds to her routine tonight and demanded higher intensity. Both of them temporarily forgot that she’s not a professional, or even an amateur; there’s no need to push so hard. It felt good, though, pummelling the bag to his chant of ‘harder, faster’. Now she’s paying the price. Her shoulders are somewhere between aching and numb. She’s dehydrated and slightly nauseous. A headache is threatening. At this stage it isn’t an unpleasant feeling: a mild sensation behind her eyes, heaviness in her limbs.

  She opens her backpack, extracting some migraine pills and her water bottle. She has learned, the hard way, not to ignore the warning signs.

  ‘Act early,’ the doctor has said. ‘You’re not being a hero if you wait.’

  A white ute is coming down the street. She jumps to her feet before realising that it isn’t Alex. Back down on the bench, the cold metal penetrating her Lycra gym pants. Her phone rings in her pocket. Alex? No, an unfamiliar number. S
uddenly she knows, somewhere in the pit of her stomach, exactly who it is.

  Breathe. Breathe. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Jess?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘This is … It’s Dylan O’Shea.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she snaps.

  ‘I just want to … talk. Can we meet some-some-somewhere?’

  ‘Why do we have to meet? Can’t you just say what you want to say?’

  ‘It’s com-complicated.’

  Bullshit. It’s pretty simple from where she’s sitting. He wants one of two things: to make amends or to plead his innocence again. Well, Jess wants something too: answers.

  ‘What about Megan? Have you been pestering her, too?’

  A long pause. ‘M-Megan won’t … speak to me. I’ve tried and … tried … and she just won’t …’

  Typical Megan, turning the other cheek. Typical Jess, unable to resist confrontation.

  ‘Do you know William Newson’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I-I-I …’

  She doesn’t owe him anything, not even the politeness of waiting for him to finish what he’s trying to say. ‘Okay, I’ll meet you, but just so you know, the truth isn’t complicated – it’s simple, actually, so how about you keep that in mind when we have this talk.’

  ‘Is t-tomorrow good?’

  Tomorrow is far too soon. Next week, maybe. She needs time to prepare. ‘I’ll text you when and where. Don’t call me again. Is that clear?’

  No more halting voice messages. No more calls out of the blue. This is on her terms.

  ‘Thank you … S-Sorry about your train …’

  She has hung up before she realises what he said about her train. What the fuck? She swings her head from side to side, her heart banging with fear and adrenalin. A small crowd has gathered by the bus-stop, waiting for the next relief bus. Some cars are parked by the kerbside; they look unoccupied, but it’s hard to tell for certain. The rest of the street is fairly deserted, apart from a few customers in the fast-food restaurants across the road. How the fuck does Dylan O’Shea know that her train didn’t come? Is he watching her? Or is it an educated guess, intended to send her off balance? The fact that the train line is closed is likely to be all over the media. Typical Dylan. Always looking for a way to get his foot in the door. A disarming smile. A drink to offer. Condolences about the delay in public transport.