You Had It Coming Page 14

  ‘Hard day at the office?’ he asks Bridget, shortly after they’ve sat down with his homemade green chicken curry, a family favourite.

  ‘Was it ever …’ Her reply is deliberately lacking. She is hoping for one of the kids to notice, for their curiosity to be piqued.

  Cara obliges. ‘What are you working on, Mum?’

  ‘That defence barrister who was shot outside his house. I’ve been looking into some of the cases he was working on … They’re upsetting, that’s all.’

  Again, she stops herself from going further. It needs to come across as organic, rather than engineered.

  ‘What kind of cases?’ Cara again. Ethan isn’t biting. But he’s listening and watching, hooded eyes glancing at his mother.

  ‘Sexual assault. The barrister was pretty good at getting people off. He was a hero to his clients but a lot of other people hated him.’

  ‘Do you think one of the victims killed him?’ Shane asks, his tone casual.

  ‘Maybe. Or perhaps someone from one of the families. I saw a dad yesterday. He’s devastated, and really, really angry.’

  ‘Would you kill someone if I got raped?’ Cara demands of her father.

  Shane chokes on his food. Bridget winces. Ethan’s eyes fly open.

  ‘I’d want to,’ Shane says when he recovers himself. ‘But I don’t fancy going to prison, so try not to get yourself into that situation.’

  Cara, failing to hear the irony in her father’s voice, immediately goes on the defensive. ‘It’s not as if I could help it! Rapes happen, like, all the time.’

  ‘Yeah, you can help it.’ Ethan joins the conversation with a tone that’s somewhere between bored and pragmatic. ‘Don’t go off with strange men. Don’t get so pissed someone can take advantage of you. Don’t say yes if you mean no.’

  ‘All good suggestions.’ Shane nods diplomatically. ‘Also, don’t say nothing. Speak up. Some girls get raped because they don’t want to cause a scene.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be one of those girls,’ Cara protests, rolling her eyes. ‘I’d knee him where it hurts if he didn’t listen.’

  Would she? Bridget is doubtful, but maybe now, after talking about it, the possibility is unlocked.

  ‘Good,’ says Shane emphatically. Then he turns his eyes to Ethan. ‘And you, young man, should never take advantage of someone who is drunk or under the influence of drugs or just not very communicative. The girl must explicitly say “yes”.’

  ‘She’d have to be out of her mind to say “yes” to him,’ Cara snorts.

  Bridget and Shane smile. Jokes are allowed. Anything is allowed, once the children walk away from this table with a clear understanding of how to act if they should find themselves in a predicament.

  Bridget guides the conversation back to her work. ‘One girl had a breakdown and is getting psychiatric treatment. Another is a social hermit, her confidence shattered. The effects can last a long, long time. For both parties.’

  Bridget is just as worried for Ethan as she is for Cara. What if her son were to misread the signals? He’s withdrawn at the best of times; how will he find the words to navigate a sexual encounter with a girl? She suspects he would be mute, hoping that the girl was ‘into it’ but not brave enough to double check. Jemma Herrmann was on a different wavelength to her attacker – she thought they were going somewhere to kiss, he assumed they were going to have sex. She froze when things got rough and was too shocked to even say ‘stop’. Bridget doubts Ethan’s ability to read body language; he has enough difficulty with garden-variety spoken language.

  ‘Most cases don’t go to court,’ Shane adds. ‘It’s because nobody really knows what has happened, other than the two people involved. That’s why you need to do your best to protect yourself. Be clear about what choices you’re making. Keep your wits about you.’

  ‘He means don’t get pissed,’ Ethan quips.

  Bridget resists the temptation to deliver a further caution about the perils of underage drinking. This is more than enough for one sitting.

  ‘Does anyone want more rice? There’s heaps left over.’

  Ethan wants more rice. Like most teenage boys, her son is perpetually famished. Cara’s appetite, while still healthy, seems to have stabilised during the last few months. Her body has the curves of a grown woman. With make-up and the right clothes, she could pass for early twenties. This line of thought is not helping Bridget’s worry levels.

  The kids clear the table and disappear upstairs. Shane migrates to the couch and turns on the evening news. Bridget starts cleaning up the kitchen.

  ‘That went well,’ she says, from her position at the sink.

  ‘Yeah, very professional for a pair of amateurs.’

  They share a grin – sometimes parenting feels like a challenging game of chess, every move requiring scrupulous forward planning.

  Bridget finds the washing-up calming. A lot of people say the same about gardening. She sighs; she must really work out a watering roster before the lawn turns to dust. In all other areas, she and Shane manage to muddle along. The garden seems to have fallen through the cracks.

  The news announcer’s voice infiltrates her thoughts. ‘The body of the man killed on the T1 train line on Thursday has been formally identified.’

  Bridget looks up from scrubbing one of the pots. A female reporter is standing outside a train station, commuters swirling in the background.

  ‘Thomas Malouf joined commuters waiting at the far end of platform one at about eight p.m. Witnesses say Thomas lurched forward as the train arrived, giving the driver no chance to stop.’

  Bridget freezes. Thomas Malouf: she knows that name.

  ‘Turn it up.’ She abandons the washing-up and hurries across to the lounge area. Her hands are dripping wet.

  ‘Police are reviewing CCTV footage and talking to witnesses. It’s believed Mr Malouf may have conversed with someone on the northbound platform before changing to the southbound one. Anyone with information is urged to come forward.’

  ‘One of yours?’ Shane asks, his voice sounding far away.

  Thomas Malouf. Thomas Malouf and Dylan O’Shea. Bridget has placed him.

  ‘He is now!’

  She rushes to find her phone. Two main players in the Malouf–O’Shea case are dead. Now that Bridget has finally found what direction to point herself in, she’s frantic that Dylan O’Shea is next to be targeted.

  27

  JESS

  Billy is warming up on the tear-drop bag, doing under-cuts, hooks and rips. He’s wearing a black sweatsuit, along with headgear and a groin guard, which he needs to get used to before his fight. It’s Sunday morning. The gym is deserted except for the two of them. Vince took some persuading to open up this morning.

  ‘Billy can’t come a few nights this week,’ Jess wheedled. ‘He has to go interstate with work. If he doesn’t get enough training, we’ll have to cancel the fight. No point if we’re not fully prepared.’

  Vince gave in after a visible internal wrestle: his long-held belief that Sundays are a day of rest versus all the preparation that has gone into this debut. ‘Two hours max. But we’re not making a habit of it.’

  ‘It’s a one-off. Promise.’

  Billy moves from the tear-drop bag to the uppercut machine. His face glistens with sweat, even though the gym is chilly enough to see your breath. Jess begins her own warm-up, skipping and some practice on the bag. After about twenty minutes they’re ready to spar. Slipping through the ropes into the ring is always a good feeling.

  She presses the timer on the wall, which starts the countdown.

  ‘What’re you waiting for, Billy? Don’t be put off by the fact that I’m a girl. If you hesitate, I’m just going to hit you … Too late, mate. You’ve got to get in those right hands all the time.’

  Sparring and coaching at the same time is challenging. Jess has to keep her wits about her, defend and attack, as well as pinpoint areas where Billy can improve.

  ‘Last thirty seconds …
You know where to go … I want left hooks … You’re coming up too late … Time!’

  They glug some water, catch their breath. Then she starts the timer again.

  ‘That’s good, Billy. But you didn’t finish! Don’t reach for me. In and out. That’s it. Find your aggression. Pretend I’m someone you hate. That’s better.’

  Sometimes the person you’re fighting isn’t your enemy, but it helps to pretend that they are. Jess used to visualise William Newson and Thomas Malouf. Picturing their faces never failed to produce a fresh surge of hatred and aggression.

  They’re reaching the end of the third round when there’s a loud banging on the roller door, which is at half-mast to let in some natural light.

  ‘Come under,’ she yells, without taking her eyes off Billy. ‘Go right, Billy. Don’t let me off the hook like that … faster hands … good pressure … One, two … That’s it! … Time!’

  Jess and Billy touch gloves before pulling off their headgear. A woman with shoulder-length red hair is observing them. She’s accompanied by another, younger, woman, but it’s clear which of the two is in charge.

  ‘Jessica Foster?’

  ‘Yes. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy.’ She’s wearing a dark trouser suit. Up close there are fine lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy. I was wondering if we could have a word.’

  Sweat is dripping from Jess’s forehead into her eyes. ‘Just a minute, please.’

  Billy follows her over to the locker area. ‘Why does a detective need to speak to you?’ he asks in a low, serious tone.

  ‘I guess I’m about to find out.’

  ‘You don’t need to talk to her. You have a right to remain silent.’

  ‘I know my rights.’ Jess buries her face in a towel before using it to wipe around her neck and chest. ‘Do ten minutes on the reverse climber. Get your heart rate up even more. Then start your core work.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer. I don’t think you should—’

  ‘I know you’re a lawyer. That’s why I enjoyed beating the crap out of you just now.’

  Bridget Kennedy is watching their exchange from her position next to the ring. Her fresh-faced colleague is looking around the gym, cataloguing the layout and equipment.

  ‘Reverse climber,’ Jess reminds Billy before sauntering towards them. She can do this. She’s strong enough to deal with whatever they want to dredge up.

  ‘We’re not usually open Sunday mornings,’ she says; they’re probably wondering where everyone is. ‘How can I help?’

  Blue-green eyes bore through her. ‘William Newson and Thomas Malouf. I believe both these men are known to you?’

  ‘Yep. From long ago.’

  ‘Have you seen either man recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me when you last had contact with them?’

  That’s easy to answer. ‘The trial, twelve years ago.’

  ‘How about Dylan O’Shea? When did you last have contact with him?’

  ‘A few days ago, actually,’ Jess admits with a frown. ‘He called out of the blue.’

  ‘What day, precisely?’

  ‘Thursday, I think. Yeah, the trains weren’t running. I was waiting for a lift when he called.’

  The detective narrows her eyes, as though Jess has revealed something vital. ‘And you’re not in regular contact?’

  ‘Fuck, no! He wanted to meet up for some reason.’

  ‘Did you meet up?’

  ‘Not yet … Probably some stage this week.’

  Billy is poised between sets on the reverse climber, blatantly eavesdropping. Jess glares at him until he resumes, his calf muscles flexing.

  ‘So, you commute by train?’

  Jess turns her gaze back to the detective. ‘Yep, the station’s a five-minute walk from here.’

  ‘You say you got a lift on Thursday night. Who gave you a lift, Jessica?’

  ‘Alex, my boyfriend.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Sometime after eight …’

  ‘And where was Alex before he picked you up?’

  This is starting to feel like a cross-examination. Maybe she should have listened to Billy. ‘At home … Look, where is this going?’

  ‘Thomas Malouf died on Thursday night.’

  The shock is intense. ‘What?’

  ‘It was his body on the train tracks, Jessica.’

  Blue-green eyes are raking her face for some indication that she already knew this. Suddenly, Jess sees herself, sitting on the cold metal bench outside the station, waiting for Alex. How could she have been so oblivious? Surely, she should have known, at some instinctual level, that he had been dangerously close to where she was sitting? Surely, she should have been able to tell, via some sort of physical reaction, that he was dead?

  Detective Kennedy is asking a question. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that he died here, in Artarmon, at the very same station you pass through every day?’

  It is odd. Extremely odd. Jess recalls the fleeting image of the man who could have been Thomas at Killara station earlier in the week. Maybe it was him. Maybe they’ve been sharing trains and part of their commute all along. Jess needs to sit down. She grips on to the ropes around the ring for support.

  ‘I was here, at work,’ she says in reply to the accusation embedded in the detective’s question. ‘Dozens of people can vouch for that. Same applies to the night William Newson died.’

  Detective Kennedy isn’t finished. ‘And so odd that Megan Lowe was the paramedic who attended to William Newson.’

  Jess takes a shallow breath. ‘Sometimes life is like that. Weird things happen.’

  The detective’s expression is thoughtful. ‘Does Alex have a motorbike, Jessica?’

  ‘Not here. Back at the farm.’

  ‘And where’s this farm?’

  ‘The Hunter Valley … Look, I don’t know what you’re implying—’

  ‘I assume they have guns at the farm, too?’

  The question sends Jess reeling.

  Billy stops pretending that he hasn’t been listening and gets down from the reverse climber. He puts a supportive arm around Jess’s waist. How could he tell that she needs help standing up?

  ‘That’s enough,’ he commands, every inch the lawyer despite the sweatsuit and groin guard. ‘I’ll be recommending Jess gets legal advice before answering any further questions.’

  28

  BRIDGET

  Bridget and Sasha debrief in the car. The young detective constable seems unperturbed about working the weekend. Bridget likes her dedication.

  ‘Right, so we need some background checks on the boyfriend, Alex, and a list of the vehicles and firearms licensed to the family farm. Can you run with that, Sasha?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  It’s a twenty-minute drive to Megan Lowe’s address, their next port of call. Another cloudless blue sky and a lazy Sunday-morning air. Sadly, Bridget has too much happening to enjoy the drive.

  ‘Let’s check in with Dylan, make sure he’s safe.’

  Bridget spoke to Dylan last night and relayed her concerns for his safety without sharing too many specifics about the investigation – a very delicate balancing act. Dylan would be on her visiting list today if he weren’t away on the south coast for the weekend. Bridget considered driving down there until common sense – and her overwhelming workload – prevailed. A twenty-four-hour delay is tolerable, once she knows he’s not in harm’s way.

  ‘Dylan? This is Bridget Kennedy again. Just checking in.’

  ‘Everything’s f-fine.’

  ‘What time are you getting home tonight?’

  ‘Ah … Ah … ten … May-may-maybe later.’

  Too late to arrive on the doorstep of the family home; Dylan still lives with his parents.

  ‘Look, can you send me a quick text when you get back? Just being cautious until we get to th
e bottom of what’s happening here … And I’d like us to talk at some stage tomorrow. Can you come in to see me?’

  They agree a time and Bridget ends the call. She’s interested to see him face to face, this stammering man who was accused of sexual assault at the tender age of eighteen. What kind of impact did the case have on his life? I haven’t been able to sleep, he said in his statement at the time. I feel so guilty and embarrassed. I really liked Megan, and I thought she liked me. I was drunk, too. My judgement that night was pretty crap. I’m so sorry that I hurt Megan.

  Now that Bridget has spoken to him a couple of times on the phone, she knows that the statement would have been delivered in a very faltering fashion, with none of the fluency of the written version.

  William Newson and Thomas Malouf are dead. Is Dylan nervous that he’s next?

  Megan Lowe’s house is on a tree-lined sleepy street, two kilometres outside Hornsby’s town centre. It’s a weatherboard, a small house on a large block like most of its neighbours. A ladder leans against the gutter; there’s a man standing three-quarters of the way up. A woman is painting the trims of the doorway, and another is engaged in vigorous sandpapering. Music is playing loud enough to be heard from a distance: Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’, one of Bridget’s favourites. Their arrival has been registered by the woman who’s doing the sandpapering, presumably Megan’s mother. She turns the music down abruptly.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Her tone is hostile, which is off-putting because her appearance is so cheerful: pink lipstick, dyed brown hair held back from her face with a floral bandana.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy, from the Homicide Squad. Just wanting a few words with Megan.’

  Megan sets down her paintbrush. The hand she offers has spatters of light-grey paint on it. ‘This is my mum, Roslyn, and my brother, Seb. Do you want to talk out here or go inside?’

  Megan exudes an air of quiet capability that Bridget remembers from last time. Her brother descends from the ladder, a tin of paint dangling from his hand. He has tattoos on both arms and a stare that’s as hostile as his mum’s. Megan’s family are clearly not fans of the police. Is it because they felt let down by the justice system during the trial, or is it something more systemic than that?