You Had It Coming Read online

  Another white ute materialises from one of the side streets, an older more battered model, driving too fast. Definitely Alex. Moments later she is inside, garden debris under her feet, and the safe smell of earth and hard work filling her with relief.

  ‘All right, babe?’ he asks, the engine growling as he accelerates away.

  His hair is damp and he’s wearing a checked shirt she’s never seen before; Alex rarely buys new clothes. She can’t tell him about Dylan O’Shea. He’ll be so mad at her. Why didn’t you hang up on the dickhead? No fucking way are you meeting him! They’ll have a massive fight. She’s too weary to fight, or to explain about Dylan. Even too weary to compliment him on his new shirt.

  ‘Yep, fine.’ The migraine tablets are starting to work; they make her dazed before they make her feel better. She closes her eyes, visualising her bed and the soft warmth of her pillow pressing against the side of her face. ‘Thanks for rescuing me.’

  24

  BRIDGET

  I want people to see my face and my body. I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.

  A quote from Laura Dundas, the bikini-clad protester. Bridget scours the accompanying photograph for clues. Laura’s chin with its proud tilt, her eyes, unblinking and defiant. The placard – I’M NOT A LIAR! – shielding most of her body. Lawyers and other people passing in the background wearing overcoats; definitely not bikini weather. The journalist proclaimed her as admirable and courageous yet all Bridget can see is vulnerability and bravado. Laura’s defiance is underscored with strain. This is taking an enormous toll. She is not a natural show-woman: she has been driven to these lengths.

  Bridget emails the article to Patrick, along with a list of questions: Did Laura finish her arts degree? Where is she living now? Has she staged any other protests? Links between Laura’s family and criminal networks? Check social media for whereabouts and posts during the past few weeks.

  Experience tells Bridget that a twenty-two-year-old female is unlikely to have either the resources or the know-how to procure a gun, or the mettle to point-blank shoot her adversary. Bridget is not being ageist or sexist, just realistic. Besides, Laura made her point, very publicly and effectively. She doesn’t seem like the type to operate in the dark of night.

  Fergus Herrmann is another matter. Mid-fifties, more likely to have knowledge about guns, target surveillance and how something like this could be pulled off. A man who has already been physically violent to William Newson. A father. According to Emily Wickham, it’s the fathers who take it the hardest.

  Fergus Herrmann lives in Mount Colah, a suburb that Bridget is not familiar with. Sasha, one of the dedicated young detective constables, is her partner today. They’re parked outside a single-storey red-brick house. Weeds grow between the concrete slabs on the driveway and the lawn is equally neglected. The garage door is askew, lending the impression that it can’t be opened. No evidence of a car or, more pertinently, a motorbike.

  On approaching the house, the detectives hear the muted sounds of a television. There’s no doorbell; Bridget knocks loudly. The sheer curtains on the glass panel are pulled to one side to reveal dark eyes and a bushy beard. The door is opened.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy,’ she says, offering her hand. ‘This is my colleague Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy.’

  ‘Come in. This way.’

  They follow Fergus Herrmann into the front room. Matching sofas, nice cushions and pictures on the walls; the inside of the house appears to receive more attention than the outside. He turns off the television and gestures for them to sit. Taller than average height, black T-shirt and jeans, faded tattoos on his muscled arms, one of which looks like angel wings. An intimidating man. Bridget has no difficulty visualising him attacking William Newson outside the courthouse.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us, Mr Herrmann. As I mentioned on the phone, we’re investigating the death of William Newson. Can you tell us where you were between seven and eight p.m. on Tuesday August twentieth?’

  Blunt fingers scratch his grey-black beard as he casts his mind back. ‘Tuesday nights I’m at work. I do night deliveries for a supermarket. Start at six p.m., finish at midnight.’

  Bridget is surprised by his answer. He has an air of unemployment, of long empty hours spent in front of a television and getting up to no good once darkness has fallen. The bikie beard has strong connotations; it’s hard to shake the bias. She asks if there is someone who can corroborate his whereabouts, and he readily supplies a phone number for his boss. Then she asks where his daughter was that night.

  ‘Jemma was at home. With my wife.’

  ‘You sound very certain about that.’

  ‘Jemma doesn’t have much of a social life.’

  This is Bridget’s cue to bring up the rape charges. ‘Is that because of her bad experience?’

  His jaw clenches. There’s deep-rooted anger in his dark eyes. ‘She goes nowhere. Comes home from work every day and sits exactly where you’re sitting, a book on her lap. It’s fuckin’ sad. For her. For me and her mum. These should be the best years of her life. School done and dusted, money coming in from work, no big responsibilities yet … She should be having the time of her life.’

  According to Bridget’s research, Jemma was assaulted in the public toilets next to a beach. She met the man in a bar, and had been talking to him for some time, supposedly flirting. They left the premises together. To go for a walk, Jemma thought; the man obviously had other ideas. The DPP dropped the charges because it was ascertained that Jemma did not clearly indicate dissent to the man. CCTV footage showed her entering the public toilets in a willing manner, holding his hand.

  ‘She was innocent for an eighteen-year-old.’ The harshness of the father’s tone barely disguises his anguish. ‘Sex wouldn’t have been on her radar going into those toilets. He was six years older than her – that’s a lifetime at that age. He knew what he was doing. He paid her attention at the pub because he could tell that she was easy to manipulate. Fuckin’ dirty bastard.’

  Bridget can’t help transposing Cara into the same situation. Inexperienced. Trusting. A little bit flattered. Cara has no trouble being assertive at home, but how would she cope in the situation Jemma found herself in?

  ‘I have a daughter around that age,’ she murmurs sympathetically. ‘They’re so young and vulnerable. It scares the hell out of me to think that this time next year she can legally drink and meet men like that in bars.’

  They share a look of solidarity.

  Sasha asks the next few questions. ‘Do you have a car registered to this address?’

  ‘Yes. A Mazda 6. My wife has it at the moment.’

  ‘Any other vehicles? Your truck? Any motorbikes or scooters?’

  ‘The truck belongs to the supermarket. No motor-bikes or anything else.’

  Bridget holds his eyes for a moment. He looks like the owner of a motorbike. Has she got him all wrong?

  ‘Do you mind if we take a squiz around the backyard and the garage? You don’t have to say yes. It just saves us from coming back at a later point.’

  He hesitates. She doesn’t know if it’s the inconvenience or some other reason.

  ‘Sure. If you turn a blind eye to the mess.’ His smile reveals a missing molar.

  He leads them through the hallway and into a modern kitchen. Sliding doors open to a back patio and a rectangle of grass that’s as overgrown as the front lawn. She pokes her head into the small shed that contains a lawnmower, gardening tools and several bags of potting mix.

  ‘Just need a quick look at the garage and we’ll be off.’

  They double back through the house and access the garage via a door in the hallway.

  He turns on a light but it’s not much help. ‘Sorry. The roller door is broken.’

  Bridget peers through the gloom: a folded-up table-tennis table, a couple of push bikes, some fishing rods and an extensive collection of half-empty paint tins.

  No Yamaha in sight.

  B
ridget instructs Sasha on the drive back to headquarters. ‘Request a full history of registered vehicles from roads and maritime services, going back at least five years. Check Fergus Herrmann for connections to outlawed bikie gangs. Call his boss, see if the truck has a tracking device.’

  Links to a bikie gang would give Fergus Herrmann access to any number of motorcycles … and any number of illegal guns.

  YOU HAD IT COMING.

  Forensics were embarrassed to have missed the etching on the tree. Light of hand, most likely done using the blade of a key, definitely recent, was their analysis on re-examination of the scene.

  Did Fergus Herrmann believe that William Newson got what he deserved? The assault outside the courthouse happened three months ago. How did the distraught father use those intervening months? To calm himself down, or work himself up into a greater fury?

  25

  MEGAN

  Lucas has offered to speak with Joshua Newson.

  ‘I was the one with his dad on the way to the hospital,’ he reasons. ‘If anyone should speak to the family it’s me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Megan gives him a grateful smile.

  Bereaved relatives make contact from time to time. The ambulance staff are not obliged to respond, but kindness prompts them to offer whatever solace they can. Maybe a quick chat will help the Newson family come to terms with their loss?

  Saturdays are non-stop, sporting accidents compounding the usual volume of emergency calls. Their current patient, a middle-aged man who overestimated his agility on the soccer field, has broken his leg in multiple places. After dropping him at Royal North Shore, they finally get a lull. Lucas makes the call while Megan sits intently by his side.

  ‘Joshua? This is Lucas Halliday from NSW Ambulance … Sorry, Megan is unavailable today …’ Lucas holds her gaze while he speaks. ‘How can I help?’

  A pause while he listens. ‘Your father didn’t regain consciousness, Joshua … No, he didn’t speak at any stage … Megan? Megan was driving, I was in the rear with your dad … Not a word, but at least he was spared the pain … Megan will be off for the next few days. Sorry, I need to get back to work. Please extend my sympathy to all your family.’

  Lucas hangs up. ‘Boy, he’s really fixated on talking to you.’

  She sighs raggedly. Joshua Newson knows exactly who she is, then. ‘Does he think I didn’t try my hardest or something?’

  ‘No, not that. More that his dad might’ve had some dying words that he needs to know about. Don’t worry about it, Megs. I’ll handle any further contact.’

  Joshua Newson is not going to let it go. Megan wishes now that she had just spoken with him. Hiding behind Lucas has made her feel like a helpless seventeen-year-old all over again.

  Saturdays are full of extremes. From wholesome ‘sporting’ accidents to the substance-abuse variety. From unlucky or misguided to the self-inflicted and reckless. From blue skies and grass fields to nightclubs and neon lights.

  Teenagers kick off the transition. I can’t wake up my friend … My boyfriend has taken something … I’m at a party and this guy is unconscious … As the night goes on, the patients become more mature, in their twenties, thirties or even forties. Old enough to know better, but yet they somehow don’t. The woman on the floor is called Rachel. She is twenty-five years old. Her friend – Sophie – relays these facts because Rachel is unable to speak for herself.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ Lucas asks in a calm tone that belies his level of concern.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sophie replies hysterically. ‘She was missing for a while. I went looking for her and found her in here, completely out of it …’

  ‘In here’ is the living room of a family home in St Ives. There’s a piano, an expensive rug and family photographs on the walls. Rachel has been sick on the rug and on her Lycra dress, which has ridden up her legs. Megan pulls it down, protecting her modesty.

  ‘What has she taken?’

  ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘Find her purse and check to see if there’s anything in it.’

  Sophie scrambles away to do as she is asked. There’s a small group standing in the room, watching with concerned expressions. It’s confronting, seeing a friend in this condition; it might make them think twice about mixing drugs and alcohol in the future, probably what’s happened here. Music is playing somewhere else in the house; someone doesn’t want the party to end. There are always the nonchalant types, who assume that everything will turn out fine, that this is just a misadventure they’ll laugh about tomorrow. The girl’s vital signs are worrying: irregular breathing and heart rate, low body temperature and elevated blood pressure. Absolutely nothing to laugh about here.

  ‘I can’t find anything in her bag.’ Sophie has upended the contents on to the rug: lipsticks, keys, receipts, a few pens.

  ‘Check the coin area and pockets.’ That’s often where the pills are located, if any are left over.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Has she taken drugs before?’

  A telling pause. ‘Speed.’

  ‘And what has she been drinking tonight?’

  ‘Vodka.’

  Speed stimulates the central nervous system while alcohol depresses it. Rather than balancing each other out, the combination conceals the effects of alcohol, with people becoming dangerously intoxicated without realising it. The end result can be alcohol poisoning or coma.

  Lucas goes to fetch the stretcher. One of the bystanders, an attractive young woman wearing far too much make-up, smiles flirtatiously as he passes. Megan is both disbelieving and resigned.

  ‘Can you come in the ambulance?’ she asks Sophie.

  ‘Yes.’ Sophie rubs smudged mascara from under her eyes. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Get your things. We’re leaving soon. And don’t forget Rachel’s bag. Do you have a number for her family?’

  Somewhere in this city, there’s a mother and a father who believe their daughter to be safe and well and perhaps too old to find herself in such a predicament. Their Saturday night is about to be blown apart.

  Rachel is a dead weight. It takes four people – Megan and Lucas, with the help of two bystanders – to lift her on to the stretcher. Megan readjusts her dress again, pulling it further down her legs, which are tanned and strong. The music is still playing. Megan expects it will be turned up as soon as they leave.

  They spend some time in the rear of the ambulance, stabilising Rachel before setting off. Sophie is on the phone, giving a sobbing account of what has happened to someone on the other end, presumably one of Rachel’s parents.

  ‘All good to go?’ Lucas asks, looking closely at Megan.

  She gives him a nod. He slides shut the side door and goes around to the driver’s seat. He knows, without having to ask, that she prefers to stay with patients like Rachel. She feels protective of them. Sees herself and Jess in their young faces. Going that step too far. Paying the ultimate price. Waking up to a new, ugly reality.

  ‘We’re just on our way now,’ Sophie says into the phone.

  Sophie will never forget this night. This fearful journey to the hospital. What will happen when they get there. The role she played and if she could have done anything differently. It’s all flashing across her face. Fear. Guilt. Uncertainty.

  Megan reaches across and smooths Rachel’s hair away from her face. It’s matted with particles of vomit. She uses a surgical wipe to gently remove what she can.

  Megan and Lucas need to restock and clean the vehicle before handing over to the next crew. They work efficiently, ticking off their checklists and completing reports. This is their last shift together for the foreseeable future. Every moment of today has been precious. His willingness to field Joshua Newson’s questions. His touching concern about Rachel. His banter with the middle-aged man on the soccer field. The chocolate muffin he bought her from the hospital cafeteria.

  They leave the building together, pausing in the shadowy car park, th
eir cars on opposite ends of the bitumen.

  ‘Want to go for a quick drink?’ he asks suddenly.

  ‘Can’t, sorry. Seb arrived this morning. Need to catch him before he crashes for the night.’ The day has been so jam-packed, she’s barely had time to think about her brother.

  Lucas moves closer to give her a hug. ‘See you around,’ he says, his breath in her hair.

  She pushes him away. ‘Yuck! You smell of vomit.’

  He’s laughing as she walks towards her car.

  She cries for most of the journey home, overtired and overwhelmed. The toll of seeing the girl, Rachel, in such a bad way. The guilt that all she can offer Seb tonight is a bone-tired husk of his sister. And scathing of herself for falling in love with someone unattainable, yet again.

  26

  BRIDGET

  Laura Dundas was in the middle of her honours’ year at the University of Sydney when she made her shivering near-naked protest outside the courthouse. According to Patrick, she abandoned her studies before the end of the first semester, returning to the family home in the Blue Mountains. Patrick has spoken to her mother, who initially said that Laura was burnt-out and needed a rest. On closer questioning she admitted that her daughter had a serious ‘breakdown’ and was undergoing psychiatric treatment. One night out, life-long implications.

  ‘This is something I need to talk to the kids about,’ Bridget says to Shane when she gets home late Saturday evening. They decide that the dinner table is the best place to broach the subject. Shane promises to steer the conversation in the desired direction.