You Had It Coming Read online

  ‘Detective Sergeants Bridget Kennedy and David Nesbitt from Homicide. It’s Leo, isn’t it? Can we come inside for a minute?’

  ‘I’ll get my dad,’ he says abruptly.

  Bridget and Dave are left standing on the threshold. A number of conclusions can be drawn from Leo Malouf’s reluctance to invite them in. A lack of manners. Deference to his father, given that it’s his house. Or trust issues with the police.

  Leo’s father comes to the door: early sixties, grey-black hair, swarthy skin. He offers his hand to shake.

  ‘Joe Malouf. Leo said you’re from Homicide?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve taken the case over from local police. We have some questions.’

  Joe regards them warily. ‘I’ve got a full house this morning. Family and friends consoling my wife … We’ll have to talk here.’

  No settling in for a long chat, then. Bridget whittles down her questions to the most important ones. ‘Can you tell us what frame of mind Thomas was in? Was he worried about anything?’

  ‘Thomas enjoyed life, had a good circle of friends. He was an upbeat fellow.’

  ‘Did he have a girlfriend or partner?’

  Joe shakes his head. ‘His mother wanted him to settle down, but he wasn’t ready.’

  ‘Any financial problems you’re aware of?’

  ‘Not at all. He had a good job. Besides, he always knew he could come to us if he ran into trouble.’

  The cushioning effect of family wealth. Lucky for Thomas. And Leo.

  ‘So, no long-term effects from the rape trial?’ Bridget asks, inwardly wincing at her bluntness. This is what comes of not being able to sit down and ease into things.

  Joe’s jaw clenches. ‘Thomas put it behind him. We all did. Nasty business. Nasty girls.’

  Bridget recoils. Nasty girls. Is that how Joe and the rest of the family saw it?

  Dave puts forward the next question. ‘We’re investigating whether William Newson’s recent death is related to Thomas’s. Do you have any information to offer on that possibility?’

  Joe is resolute. ‘No information.’

  Bridget and Dave are back in the car within minutes. Bridget hesitates before driving off, staring up at the big glass windows on the second floor. In one of those bedrooms, two seventeen-year-old girls were allegedly raped. What really happened that night?

  ‘It all started in this house,’ she says, half to herself.

  Nasty business. Nasty girls. Megan mentioned yesterday that she and Jess are no longer close. It suddenly feels important to know why the friendship fell apart.

  31

  JESS

  Megan’s dad’s funeral. He was only sixty-one, two years younger than Jess’s dad. He’d had cancer and – quite unfathomably – declined chemotherapy treatment. So, there was a strange atmosphere in the church. A ‘what if’ question undermining the rhythm of the service. What if he’d had chemo and cooperated with the doctors and oncologists? What if he’d fought his illness instead of succumbing to it? What if this funeral never needed to happen? Megan wouldn’t have red-rimmed eyes from crying; Seb wouldn’t need to chew on his lip to contain his emotions; Roslyn wouldn’t look as though she’d keel over at any minute from the weight of her grief.

  While the priest went through the motions, Jess closed her eyes and thought about the man who had died. A man who had seemed very ordinary and accessible when she first met him. A man who was proud of Megan in such a simple, uncomplicated way. A man who was so much more vulnerable and brittle than he appeared on first impressions. Peter Lowe was a burly man, a builder who was used to hefting things around. He had big, rough hands that looked like they could handle anything; the fact was, they couldn’t.

  Jess joined the line of people to pay her respects once the service was over. Roslyn, Seb and Megan stood in the church porch. Rain was lashing sideways at the windows; the weather seemed to suit the occasion.

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ the people in front of her were saying.

  Jess didn’t know what to say. Maybe squeezing each of their hands would relay her sadness and sympathy, and relieve some of her guilt? Because she was another ‘what-if’. What if she had gone home when Megan asked to go home? What if she had respected Megan’s wishes and contained the damage to just the two of them? Megan had always been more intuitive than her; she should have listened.

  ‘You!’ Roslyn gasped when it was Jess’s turn. ‘You!’

  ‘Mum!’ Megan whispered urgently. ‘Shush!’

  ‘How dare you show your face … This is all your fault.’ Roslyn’s voice was gaining strength. ‘What kind of friend are you, anyway? If you’d been a good friend, my husband would still be alive today.’

  ‘Mum! Stop!’ Megan pleaded. ‘That’s not fair.’

  It was fair. Jess’s bad decisions had played an undeniable part in the premature death of a beloved husband and father.

  Seb took his mother’s arm, tried to get her to back down. Roslyn stood her ground.

  ‘Get out of here!’ she screamed in anguish. ‘Go!’

  Jess went. She ran.

  Megan sent a text later that night.

  I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over Mum.

  Jess replied:

  I’m sorry, too. I should have realised I wasn’t welcome.

  And that was that; they didn’t see each other or communicate again until the night William Newson was shot. Some damage is beyond repair. Deep foundational cracks at the time of the trial that led to a catastrophic rupture at a suburban funeral many years later. An insurance company would have looked at the wreck of their friendship and declared it an unequivocal write-off.

  It’s Monday morning. Jess is awake early again, thanks to Alex.

  ‘Can’t you be quieter?’ she grumbles, covering her eyes with her hand.

  ‘Sorry, babe,’ he says breathlessly. ‘In a bit of a rush. Can’t be late for your mother.’

  He’s pulling out drawer after drawer, obviously searching for something. ‘For God’s sake, what are you looking for?’

  ‘A work T-shirt that doesn’t have holes in it.’

  Despite herself, she smiles. He’s trying to impress her mother. Her very aloof mother, who is not easy to impress.

  ‘Put on something, anything, and stop clattering around!’

  The work at her parents’ house is in its second week. Alex has spent a lot of money on materials – bricks, paving, cement, topsoil – and is worried about cash flow.

  ‘Did you do your invoicing last night?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  Jess is irritated but unsurprised. She is also fully awake now. ‘Fuck’s sake, Alex. You said you’d do a partial invoice. You could’ve given it to Mum this morning and had money in the bank by tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll wait till the job’s finished.’

  ‘Why? You’ve got to treat her like any other client.’

  ‘But she’s not like any other client.’ He plants a warm kiss on her forehead. ‘She’s fifty times more intimidating.’

  Can’t argue with that. Alex’s noise follows him to the kitchen, where cabinet doors are being opened and closed in the same frantic manner. What is he looking for now? Finally, the front door slams and he is gone.

  The flat is deliciously quiet in his wake. It’s just after 6 a.m. A lazy morning stretches ahead; Jess doesn’t need to be at the gym until lunchtime. She closes her eyes, even though there’s little chance of falling back to sleep. Her thoughts circle before snagging on her mum and dad. She understands them better now than she did at seventeen. Megan’s parents felt more real, more relatable, back then. Compare their fathers, for instance: a builder and a surgeon. Men who work with their hands, and that was the extent of what they had in common. Money, confidence, status: all the things that protected Jess’s father were absent in Peter Lowe. Then their mothers: a housewife and a concert pianist. Roslyn so passionate and involved, Margaret cold and contained.

  The day that Roslyn had to be escorted from th
e courtroom symbolised the differences. William Newson had called Jess and Megan liars; Roslyn went berserk.

  ‘Stop saying those terrible things about my daughter!’ she cried, not caring that she was in contempt of court and causing a massive scene.

  Jess’s parents remained dispassionate, as though they didn’t have an opinion one way or the other about her ability to tell, or sustain, lies. She sat there, wishing that her parents believed in her half as much as Roslyn and Peter believed in Megan.

  But Roslyn’s passion had a flip side, which Jess realised nine years later as she ran from a church porch into near-torrential rain. Suddenly, Jess was the person who Roslyn was calling out. When you’re put on the spot like that, very publicly, it’s hard to summon a defence. Yes, Jess was in the wrong, but Megan was in the wrong too. She cost them a week, a whole week of resisting while Jess begged her to go to the police. A week in which they showered morning and night, washing away vital evidence. A week in which swelling and redness had time to recede. A week in which the clothes they’d worn had been washed, as had the sheets of the bed where it happened. Body fluids, fingernail scrapings, traces of potential drugs: all gone. All that was left was their word against the boys’ word. Their ‘flimsy, unreliable’ – according to William Newson – word. Jess was in the wrong, but so was Megan. They could have won the case if she hadn’t dragged her feet.

  Jess is on the verge of falling back to sleep when her phone beeps with an incoming text. Her eyes fly open. She has been waiting for this: Megan’s response.

  Yes, we should talk. I’ve got a day off today. Let me know when you’re free.

  That’s twice they’ll see each other in as many weeks. Is it stupid to hope? It’s too late to salvage their friendship, but maybe forgiveness is within reach.

  32

  BRIDGET

  Bridget arrives back at headquarters armed with a tray of take away coffees. Nothing like good coffee to help revive the troops.

  She knocks on Katrina’s door. ‘Skinny flat white delivered with an update, if you have the time.’

  ‘Excellent. Come in.’

  Bridget helps herself to a seat. ‘Lots of progress to report. Dylan O’Shea is coming in later this morning – hopefully he’ll give us some insight into the dynamics at the time of the trial. Dave has a person of interest who was at the station at the same time as Thomas Malouf. We’re enhancing images to show to colleagues and family to see if we can get an ID. I talked to Megan and Jessica over the weekend. Their alibis are pretty water-tight, so I’m branching into the families. Definitely some resentment from Megan’s mum. She works in a car rental company. Guess what’s directly across the road from her workplace …’

  Katrina shakes her head, evidently not in the mood for guessing games.

  ‘That motorcycle café. You know the one.’

  Katrina nods and grimaces. A café slash motorcycle accessories shop. A reputed hub for drug and other illegal dealings. The shop has been closed down and reopened numerous times, its ownership changing with dizzying frequency.

  ‘And Jessica’s parents?’

  ‘Her family is well-to-do, which means plenty of money to pay someone to do their dirty work. Her partner, Alex, also deserves a closer look.’

  Katrina sips from her coffee and regards the white-board on her wall. The names are still intact since their meeting last week: Suzanne Newson, Joshua Newson, Fergus Herrmann, Laura Dundas, Emily Wickham, Megan Lowe and Jessica Foster.

  ‘Any names we can take off?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sasha has confirmed that Fergus Herrmann was at work but there is doubt about his specific location. His delivery truck doesn’t have a tracking device – which is a bit suspicious, because most delivery vehicles do these days – so he really could have been anywhere. Sasha is checking CCTV from the Pacific Highway to see if there’s evidence of the truck being in the area. Of course, the bike could have been stored in the back, which would explain its disappearance after the shooting. They haven’t been able to confirm connections between Fergus and a bikie gang, but Bridget maintains her suspicions. The distinctive beard. The faded angel-wing tattoo. A bikie gang would explain where the weapon came from, and the context for how a distraught father could become a violent killer.

  Laura Dundas: maybe her name can be removed? Patrick spent a large part of Sunday driving to the Blue Mountains and speaking to Laura and her family in person. According to Patrick, the arts student was vague and lethargic – side effects from a heavy dose of antidepressants – and displayed none of the passion that had propelled her to protest outside the courthouse and break into Newson’s chambers. The family were protective of Laura, but cooperated in terms of establishing their whereabouts on the night of the murder. No guns or motorcycles were registered to the property.

  But … from near-nude protests to psychiatric treatment, one extreme to the other. Bridget isn’t quite ready to put a line through Laura’s name.

  Katrina runs a hand through her hair, dishevelling her usually immaculate bob. ‘How about Joshua and Suzanne Newson?’

  ‘Still possibilities. William Newson was a wealthy man – Joshua and his brothers will inherit all that wealth. Suzanne abhorred her husband – her motivation would be hate rather than money.’

  Bridget tells Katrina about the flowers that Joshua sent Megan. ‘Apparently, he wanted to know if his father had any dying words. Maybe understanding all the details helps Joshua cope … or maybe he’s afraid his father said something incriminating.’

  ‘Impossible to know without asking him outright,’ Katrina muses.

  Bridget’s instincts are to hold off. ‘He doesn’t know I know about the flowers. Let’s wait and see if he makes another move.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Bridget finishes off with a mention of the Malouf family. ‘Pretty frosty reception this morning. You’d think they’d want the police investigating every possibility. Maybe it was because we called at a bad time … they had visitors.’

  Katrina sets down her coffee and frowns at the white-board. ‘So, we need to add three or four names, and take none away?’

  ‘Er … yes …’

  The detective inspector raises one thin silver eyebrow. ‘And you’re calling this progress?’

  Dylan O’Shea is waiting in one of the interview rooms downstairs. Bridget asks Dave to join her; the meeting with Katrina has left her feeling less confident of the direction she’s taking. Not Katrina’s fault. The detective inspector is doing her job, a degree of scepticism being part of it.

  Dylan stands up to shake her hand, then Dave’s. His skin is pasty white, his curly hair on the wild side: he looks like an overgrown university student.

  They all sit down. ‘Thanks for coming in, Dylan. This is an informal chat. We’re not recording and you’re not a person of interest.’

  ‘Sure.’ His eyes are bleary, betraying a night with little sleep. ‘What would you like … to know?’

  ‘Can you start by telling us the last time you saw Thomas Malouf?’

  ‘The middle of March. It was a school catch-up. Just drinks in one of the … pubs in the city. There’s usually one every few m-months. I … don’t always go.’ His reply is relatively stutter free; it’s obviously a question he anticipated being asked.

  ‘How did Thomas seem to you that night?’

  ‘The same as … always. Boasting about chicks, cars and real-real-estate.’

  ‘So, you’re no longer close friends?’

  Dylan shakes his head emphatically. ‘Don’t know why we were in the first p-place. He’s always been a d-d-jerk.’

  Bridget recalls one of the things she read in the court transcript. A message that Thomas had sent the morning after the party: What a fucking night. Two virgins! Sick. The message was sent to a group of ten school friends, their responses crude and derogatory. Were these the same men who gathered on a regular basis for drinks in the city? Bridget could only hope that their attitudes to women had b
ecome more respectful. Although, given Dylan’s comments, bragging about sexual conquests was not something Thomas had grown out of.

  Bridget is not here to go over what happened on the night of the party. The court transcripts painted a very vivid picture, some of which – as the mother of teenage children – has kept her awake at night. What she needs to know is what happened afterwards.

  ‘How did you feel when the trial was over? Was it a relief? Did it take long to get back on your feet?’

  ‘Yeah, I was r-relieved, but I wasn’t cel-celebrating. The Maloufs threw a party to … celebrate the verdict. Thomas was annoyed when I didn’t show up. What was there to celebrate? Yeah, we didn’t get thrown in jail, but our lives were … fucked. In many ways, the verdict didn’t matter. Our names were out there, in the p-public domain. It felt like the whole c-c-country knew what we’d been accused of. I wanted to hide … never show my face again.’

  Bridget experiences a flare of sympathy. In NSW the complainant’s identity is protected but not the defend-ant’s. The media coverage would be difficult to recover from. Probably easier to make a life overseas, although with the internet you’d always be a few clicks away from being identified. Dylan is right; the verdict would be irrelevant to prospective girlfriends and employers who wouldn’t want to take the risk. Obviously, the Maloufs weren’t looking into the future when they threw the party. What did the Lowe and Foster families do on the night the verdict was handed down? Cry themselves to sleep? Plan their revenge?

  ‘Did you receive any threats from Megan or Jessica’s families following the verdict?’

  ‘No. M-Megan’s mum had some outbursts during the trial, but there was n-n-nothing afterwards.’

  ‘What kind of outbursts?’

  ‘Said some s-s-stuff to the media. Escorted from the-the courtroom, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Were you afraid for your safety at any point?’

  ‘Not really … She was just a mum.’

  Just a mum. Is Roslyn Lowe being underestimated?