You Had It Coming Page 15

  ‘Inside would be good.’

  Bridget and Sasha follow Megan inside. Cardboard boxes line the hallway. The walls are bare and freshly painted.

  ‘Are you moving house?’ Bridget asks, taking in the evidence.

  ‘Yeah. Selling up after thirty years.’

  Moving home after such a long time is a big decision. Are Megan and her family drawing a line of some description? Selling the family home, and at the same time settling old scores?

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Megan asks, grimacing at the half-packed kitchen.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks. You’re busy, so we’ll try to keep this short. Are you aware that Thomas Malouf died on Thursday night?’

  Megan’s face is an open book: confusion wrestling with genuine shock.

  ‘Oh my God! William Newson and Thomas Malouf are both dead?’ Her voice is faint, incredulous.

  Bridget nods and continues to scrutinise her face. ‘I spoke to Jessica this morning. Actually, I thought she might have called to let you know we’d been around.’

  Megan rests one hand against the edge of the counter. Short nails. Sturdy fingers. Hands that have saved lives. ‘Jess and I aren’t in regular contact. We spoke when William Newson died but that was the first time in years.’

  Bridget decides not to pussyfoot around. ‘Did Jessica ever say anything to you about wanting either of those two men dead?’

  Colour floods Megan’s face. ‘Emotions were running high at the time … I said some pretty bad things too …’

  That’s as good as a yes. The thing is, Jessica has a watertight alibi for both nights.

  ‘How about Jessica’s family? Did they make any threats?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Her family are the opposite of hot-headed. She’s different from them.’

  ‘What about Jessica’s boyfriend?’

  ‘You mean Alex?’

  ‘Yes, Alex. Does he strike you as the type to take justice into his own hands?’

  She blinks. ‘I barely know him. As I said, Jess and I haven’t been close.’

  There’s something in her tone. Why did these two stop being friends? Was it something to do with Alex?

  Bridget hears the murmur of voices from outside. ‘What about your family, Megan? Did they make any threats?’

  Another surge of colour. ‘As I said, emotions were running high, everyone was upset …’

  ‘Do you know where your brother was on Tuesday twentieth of August?’

  ‘Seb was in Melbourne – he lives there. He’s visiting this weekend, to help. We haven’t seen him since last Christmas.’

  ‘How about your mother?’

  ‘Mum was here. She’s always here on weeknights. She’s like clockwork.’

  ‘Did you actually see her on that night?’

  Megan takes a moment to cast her mind back. ‘She was in bed when I came home. I remember feeling relieved. I wasn’t in the mood to talk.’

  Bridget can easily imagine herself in Roslyn Lowe’s shoes. A man hurting her beloved daughter, and escaping justice. Her rage would have no boundaries.

  Megan frowns, her gaze hopping between Bridget and Sasha. ‘There’s something that might be important … Joshua Newson tracked me down. He sent flowers and a card saying he wanted to talk. Lucas, my colleague, spoke to him. Joshua seemed very concerned about what his father might have said during his last moments …’

  Bridget is momentarily thrown; Joshua Newson hasn’t been much on her mind the last few days. ‘But Mr Newson didn’t regain consciousness, did he?’

  ‘That’s what Lucas told him. I think Joshua knows exactly who I am. He didn’t really want to talk to Lucas – he wanted to talk to me.’

  Megan could be on to something. Bridget nods at Sasha: another strand for the young detective to run with, see where it leads.

  Bridget thanks Megan, and at the same time reminds herself of the importance of staying neutral. Down-to-earth, get-on-with-the-job, calm and helpful: it would be easy to be fooled by Megan’s apparent good qualities.

  ‘I like that shade of grey,’ Bridget says to Roslyn, pausing when she gets outside. ‘What’s the name of the colour?’

  The older woman presses her lips together. She is the epitome of barely restrained anger.

  Megan answers on her behalf. ‘Ashville grey. It’s nice, isn’t it?’

  Today has thrown Jess’s boyfriend, Alex, into focus, and there is also the need to double-back on Joshua Newson. But standing in front of Bridget is the personification of another cold hard fact. A mother’s love is a force of nature: primal, fierce and boundless.

  YOU HAD IT COMING.

  Is it possible that Roslyn etched those letters into the gum tree, to remind herself of the reason why she was about to cross the most abominable of lines?

  29

  MEGAN

  ‘What did they want?’ Roslyn demands, watching the detectives getting into their car.

  Megan is overdue a discussion with her mum, but this is hardly the ideal time, with Seb halfway up the ladder and heaps to get through before his flight tonight. She keeps her answer simple, brief.

  ‘Thomas Malouf died on Thursday night, and William Newson was shot a few weeks ago. The police believe their deaths are related. Maybe something to do with the trial.’

  Colour infuses Roslyn’s face. ‘What? The trial was twelve years ago, for God’s sake. Why can’t they leave us alone? Haven’t we been through enough?’

  ‘They’re just doing their job, Mum. Sometimes they have to ask uncomfortable questions. Two men are dead. Their families are owed some answers.’

  ‘Families?’ she splutters. ‘Since when did they start caring about families? They never cared about us. They ruined us. They made you look like the criminal, and your father, your poor father …’ She flings the sandpaper block away. ‘I’m going inside.’

  ‘Don’t be upset, Mum. This is just routine.’

  Roslyn opens and closes her mouth, as though words fail her. Then she’s gone, and Megan and Seb are left looking at each other.

  ‘She’s right,’ he says darkly, glaring down from the ladder. ‘They did ruin us.’

  It’s not fair to blame the police. They did everything they could, including prosecuting when there was probably not enough evidence to get a conviction. If anything, it’s the legal system that let them down: the impossibly high level of proof, the rigidity of the court process, yet the creativity afforded to lawyers to craft their own narrative. But in Roslyn’s eyes – and Seb’s too, apparently – the legal system and the NSW police are all the one entity.

  Megan and Seb continue to work, assuming that their mum will return when she’s ready. Megan is overdue a discussion with her brother, too, but there’s a risk of their voices carrying inside and Roslyn overhearing. Once again, the brushstrokes are satisfying, therapeutic. Clean paint obliterating the grubbiness of what went before. Thomas Malouf is dead. How does she feel? Not sad. Not even that curious.

  When Roslyn finally reappears, she’s sullen and begins work down the side of the house. By 6 p.m., they’ve finished the entire front façade and both sides. The difference is both dramatic and validating; Megan is starting to feel more optimistic about the achievability of the sale price.

  ‘We should get going soon, Seb.’ Megan is mindful of the fact that traffic to the airport can be unpredictable.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll just have a quick shower. Are you coming, Mum?’

  ‘I’ll tidy up here.’ This means Roslyn is still out of sorts.

  Half an hour later they’re on the road. It’s the first time brother and sister have been properly alone all weekend. Megan doesn’t intend to waste it.

  ‘I’m worried about Mum,’ she says bluntly.

  ‘Me too.’ He sighs. ‘I don’t remember her being so easily riled.’

  ‘It’s the trial. Anything to do with it makes her go crazy. Even after all these years.’

  Seb wasn’t there for the trial; he was travelling in
South America. Megan is glad he wasn’t there, glad he didn’t hear all the gory details, or experience the full, crushing impact of the verdict. He’s the only one of the family who’s normal.

  ‘Seb, I found some stuff on Mum’s phone. She had a map open. The street where William Newson lived. And she’s been reading all these articles about the shooting.’

  She glances at her brother just in time to catch his frown. ‘Maybe she’s curious?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess she is, but it looks bad. The detective asked me where Mum was on the night of the shooting. She was in bed when I got home, so I didn’t actually see her …’

  He gets where she’s heading. ‘Which means she doesn’t have an alibi, plus she’s got all this incriminating stuff on her phone.’

  ‘So, you can see why I’m worried?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I can. But Mum wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun, or ride a motorbike. I don’t think she’d stand up as a suspect for very long.’

  True! It’s good to talk, get perspective.

  Traffic is sparse; they get a pleasing run of green lights until the M2.

  ‘Have you spoken to Jess recently?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘Yeah, I went to see her a couple of weeks ago. She’s working in a gym in Artarmon.’

  ‘Still fighting?’

  ‘Nah, she’s a trainer now.’

  Seb’s interest in Jess has always been solicitous. She used to fancy him in the way seventeen-year-old girls fancy unattainable men in their twenties. In the way seventeen-year-old girls think there’s nothing sexier than a boy with brooding eyes and long hair, who plays the guitar. In the way that seventeen-year-old girls think they’re being subtle when they are, in fact, being utterly transparent. Jess used to dress in ripped jeans and black T-shirts, the same uniform as Seb. She engineered it so she was in the same room as him whenever possible. In fairness to Seb, he always gave her time. Asked her about school and karate, never made her feel like a pest. He even sent her the occasional postcard from his travels.

  Seb is staring ahead, still frowning. ‘So, I guess the police have been to see Jess, too?’

  ‘Apparently. But I’m not the first person she’d tell. Things have never been the same between us.’

  They’ve entered the Lane Cove Tunnel. The radio goes scratchy; Seb turns it off. An articulated truck trundles past in the next lane, scarily close. Neither of them speaks, both thinking about the same thing: their father’s funeral. The ugly scene between Roslyn and Jess outside the church that turned a painful day into an excruciating one. It signified the end of Megan’s friendship with Jess and a fault line in her relationship with her mother.

  On exiting the tunnel, Seb changes the subject to something easier. Cassie is talking about returning to work now that Tia is approaching her first birthday. Seb will be the primary carer for his daughter and continuing to pick up whatever night-time gigs he can get. Finances will be better (Cassie earns a lot more than he does), which means he’ll be able to come to Sydney more often.

  ‘What I really want is for Mum to get down to see you,’ Megan says, flicking on her indicator to overtake. ‘Once the house is sold, there’s nothing to tie her to Sydney – she could live in Melbourne for a while. A change of scene would do her good. Might help her let go of all the sadness and anger.’

  ‘Cassie and I would love to have her. An extra pair of hands would be brilliant, short term or medium term or whatever she decides.’

  ‘Great! We’re on the same page. Now all we have to do is get the damned house sold.’

  Fifteen minutes later they’re pulling up outside the domestic terminal. Seb leans across to peck her cheek before jumping out. The boot of the car opens and closes as he extracts his bag. Her brother: the only person she has in the world, besides her mum. It feels slightly dissatisfying every time they catch up; it’s never quite enough.

  When Megan gets home Roslyn is already in bed. It’s only eight; she seems to be going to bed earlier and earlier. Selling the family home is a big upheaval. Maybe her outburst today was more to do with emotional stress than anything. Megan sits on the couch with her phone, which she has barely looked at all day. Three new text messages.

  Lucas:

  Rachel regained consciousness during the night. She was discharged today. Another one saved from the jaws of death. xxx

  Seb:

  Never even asked you about your love life. Are you seeing anyone? When do I get to play disapproving older brother?

  Jess:

  Have you heard about Thomas Malouf? We need to talk. When can we meet up?

  30

  BRIDGET

  Bridget is in Shane’s bad books. She worked all weekend, leaving meals, household chores and teenager management to him. Now she’s flying out the door, and he’s left to deal with the Monday-morning scramble. The kids are technically old enough to get themselves ready for school. The reality is they show less independence and initiative than ten-year-olds.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bridget says, scouring a drawer for her car keys. ‘Got a huge day. Feel like I’m on the verge of a massive breakthrough.’

  Shane’s sigh is resigned. His job comes second, he understands that. Nothing is more urgent than a murder investigation (potentially a double-murder investigation, in this instance).

  Homicide is now leading the investigation into Thomas Malouf’s death, and Katrina has allocated more resources accordingly. Two additional detective constables, and Dave Nesbitt, seconded from Chatswood, are now full time on the case. Bridget arrives in the office to find that her old academy friend has hijacked the empty desk next to hers. He’s examining CCTV footage from Artarmon station, his nose almost touching the computer screen as he endeavours to catalogue every detail.

  ‘Here’s Malouf, arriving at the station. He’s jumpy. Keeps looking over his shoulder. Taking his hands in and out of his pockets. Goes to platform two, changes his mind and heads for platform one. Classic sign that something’s up. Who decides to go in the opposite direction all of a sudden, unless they’re not sure about their whereabouts?’

  Dave keeps up a running commentary that Bridget finds both irritating and reassuring. She can trust him not to miss anything, although she might eventually have to tell him to shut the hell up.

  ‘Hey, Bridge, take a look at this.’

  She jumps up to peer over Dave’s shoulder. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘This individual here. Walking behind Malouf on his way into the station. They’re on platform two, and hey presto, here they are on platform one a minute or so later. Just like Malouf.’

  The figure is blurry and dressed in a nondescript manner. Dark puffer jacket with hood. Head downcast. None of Dave’s frames have a clear shot of the face. The mystery person is standing close enough to be conversing with Malouf in one of the frames, but it’s impossible to tell from the angle of their heads.

  ‘Something was going on. Some kind of game was being played. I think Thomas Malouf jumped because he felt he had no other choice. Or else he was given a helping hand. It wasn’t an accident.’

  The problem is that there’s very poor coverage of the actual event. Far end of the platform, obscured by the toilet block and other commuters. They can see Malouf’s body lurching forward, but no amount of enhancing or freezing can determine if the momentum was his own, or provided by someone else.

  Bridget’s lips press together. ‘I never thought it was an accident, Dave … Or a coincidence that both Newson and Malouf are dead within weeks of each other.’

  ‘Coincidences are often not coincidences at all,’ he recites without taking his eyes off the screen.

  ‘Exactly. Do what you can to find out who that person is. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.’

  The figure on the screen is not especially tall or muscular and the puffer jacket disguises the shoulders, which can be a good indicator of gender. The gait does look a bit masculine. Bridget suddenly remembers the manner in which Jessica Foster sauntered across th
e gym yesterday morning: legs further apart than you’d usually see in a female. Lucky for Jessica, she has plenty of witnesses who can confirm that she was at the gym at the precise time of both deaths.

  Bridget spends the next hour briefing Patrick, Sasha and the new members of the team on the various lines of inquiry. Alex Leary. Roslyn Lowe. Fergus Herrmann. Laura Dundas. Joshua Newson and his mother. They must keep the William Newson investigation ticking over, even though Bridget’s gut is telling her that the answers will ultimately lie with Thomas Malouf. Newson had a lot of people who were unhappy with him. Malouf, from what they know so far, was a much simpler individual: account manager in the training sector, committed to his social life and the recreational use of cocaine. So easy to pass off his death as a suicide, but Bridget knows there is much more to the story. He worked in North Sydney and lived, alone, in Mosman. He had no business at Artarmon station at 8 p.m. on a Thursday evening. Uncovering what prompted him to be at that station at that time will uncover the facts behind his death and William Newson’s death, too. Bridget is convinced of it. Because they’re linked. They have to be.

  ‘Hey, Dave, want to take a break from the screen? I think it’s time we had a chat with the Malouf family.’

  Dave doesn’t need to be asked twice. He is thrilled to be working full time on the investigation. ‘Let’s go, Bridge.’

  The Malouf family home is in Gordon: a brash, two-storey house that stands out from its neighbours, which are mostly single-level Federation-era homes. A water feature in the front garden, an imposing second-floor balcony, three luxury cars parked in the driveway.

  ‘Never guess Dad’s a property developer,’ Dave says sarcastically.

  The front door is double-size and the bell can be heard echoing inside the house. The door is opened by a youngish man, presumably Thomas’s brother, Leo: mid-twenties, brown hair, soft features.