You Had It Coming Page 19

  Suzanne’s denial is vehement. ‘No! My relationship with Diana began at least six months after the separation. I think I mentioned before that William started to represent repeat offenders? That was the tipping point for me. I couldn’t reconcile myself to his job, or – eventually – to him.’

  Sasha clears her throat, seeking permission to speak. Bridget nods.

  ‘Can you tell us who the repeat offenders were?’ the young woman asks tentatively.

  Suzanne wouldn’t know names. Any discussion would have been in general terms due to client confidentiality.

  Suzanne looks from Sasha to Bridget and back to Sasha again, her eyes pinpricks in her cushiony face. ‘Thomas Malouf, for one.’

  Well, so much for client confidentiality!

  Suzanne is perceptive enough to know exactly what Bridget’s thinking. ‘William wasn’t indiscreet … I know it was wrong of me, but I used to read some of the files he brought home.’

  Bridget takes a moment to marshal her thoughts. Forget confidentiality and Suzanne’s means of obtaining the information. This is a significant revelation. Just as Bridget was at the point of separating the deaths of William Newson and Thomas Malouf, here is something linking them together again.

  ‘Thomas Malouf?’ she double checks, to buy some time. ‘From the Malouf–O’Shea trial in 2007?’

  Suzanne’s nod is definitive. ‘I couldn’t believe it when his name popped up again. I was so cross with William. The second case didn’t even go to trial. My husband got Thomas off on a technicality and, of course, his previous sexual history bore no relevance. My husband was enabling a monster.’

  A monster indeed. Thomas Malouf clearly didn’t feel remorse about what happened with Megan and Jess all those years ago. He didn’t see the ‘not guilty’ verdict as a warning to keep on the straight and narrow. He saw it as a green light to do whatever he wanted.

  ‘Thomas Malouf was buried yesterday,’ Bridget says, sitting down on the floral sofa. ‘Tell us everything you know about this other case.’

  38

  JESS

  ‘Tyler, don’t tell me you forgot your mouthguard again. Come on, mate. We’ve had this discussion. Just tell us if you don’t want to spar, and tell us if you don’t want to be here at all, for heaven’s sake … I can talk to your mum for you.’

  Tyler mutters something indecipherable in response. What is it with this kid? Is he scared of his mother? Or maybe it’s the father who is exerting pressure. Parents send their kids to youth boxing for different reasons: to toughen them up, to calm them down, to provide an outlet for aggression, frustration or genuine athletic ability. Boxing helps with all of the above, but more than anything it instils discipline. There are clear rules and protocol. The coach is the boss. No back-answering, no messing around, no half measures. Most kids, even the unruly ones, conform. What is the problem with Tyler?

  On the other end of the spectrum there’s Andy: over-weight and lacking in natural ability, but here of his own volition and giving it everything he has. Andy arrived fifteen minutes early, and is already warming up with the skipping rope. Andy has ambition, a goal to gain cred with the kids at school; Tyler can’t seem to summon enough ambition to tie his shoelaces.

  ‘I’m going to bring a spare mouthguard to the next class.’ Jess tries to look the kid in the eye but it’s easier said than done. His gaze bounces away before she manages to hold it down. ‘So, there’ll be no more excuses, mate. You’ll either have to spar or tell me what’s going on.’

  It’s obvious that he’ll never become a boxer, not even at a social level, but it might be possible to teach him a different skill: to be honest with himself.

  ‘Some days I’m more like a life coach than a bloody boxing coach,’ Jess joked to Natasha when she turned up unexpectedly.

  ‘What would you say to someone like me?’ her sister countered, clasping her hands around her coffee mug. ‘I could do with some life coaching at the moment.’

  Jess glanced at Lucy, so angelic in her pram … now that she had succumbed to a badly needed nap. Apparently, Jess had been a difficult baby too, doggedly fighting sleep. Apparently, she became happier once she was able to crawl around, the movement reducing her frustration and wearing her out for longer sleeps. This is what her mum told Natasha in an attempt at consoling her: Lucy might be just like Jessica; things will get easier once she starts moving.

  ‘Someone like you … Mmm …’ She assessed her sister in the same way she’d assess a prospective gym member. Translucent skin, gritty eyes, leftover baby weight. If Natasha came into the gym, she’d be torn between devising a gentle routine to ease her in or sending her straight home for a long sleep. ‘Well, it all depends on what’s driving you through the door. It wouldn’t be a need to prove yourself, because you’re the most accomplished person I know. And it wouldn’t be fitness or strength, because running is more your thing … No, you’d be there because you feel frustrated and want to hit something.’

  Natasha sucked in her breath, displaying her surprise.

  ‘Don’t be surprised.’ Jess smiled. ‘Even an idiot can see what’s going on. You’re a super-organised person and have excelled at everything … until the unpredictability of being a mum. When did you last get out for a run, Nat?’

  Her sister scrunched her face. ‘Not since before Lucy.’

  ‘You need to get back to it.’ Jess smiled again, to show that she understood it wouldn’t be easy. ‘Try to run a couple of times a week, but don’t go too hard. Your body is still recovering. You need to be kind to it.’

  Natasha’s sigh was full of weariness. ‘Oliver gets home so late and I’m bone tired by then.’

  Bloody Oliver. Carrying on like nothing has changed. ‘Oliver can come home on time once or twice a week. He must make some sacrifices, too. I think the stock market will survive.’

  Exhibit A: the hard-learned maturity and diplomacy of Jessica Foster. The old Jess would have said something scathing about Natasha’s husband, which – no matter how true – would have put her sister instantly offside.

  ‘You’re a good agony aunt,’ Natasha said as she was leaving. ‘Thanks for listening, and the coffee. I’ll dust off my running shoes.’

  Speaking of footwear, Tyler is still wearing his school brogues.

  ‘Are you planning to change those?’ Jess asks sarcastically. ‘Come on, mate. Enough delaying tactics. Get your runners on and over to the mat quick smart.’

  Billy turns up towards the end of youth class. Jess hasn’t seen him since Sunday. He’s wearing a dark-grey suit, a white shirt and a weary smile. His gym bag is slung over his shoulder.

  ‘How was the business trip?’ she asks. It’s getting harder and harder to keep him at arm’s length. The forced intimacy from all the extra training sessions, not forgetting that strange stand-off with the detective, when he got all lawyer-like and protective.

  Billy sighs. ‘Not as successful as I hoped. Couldn’t get the parties to come to an agreement.’

  For some reason, she finds his lack of success pleasing. ‘Well, you better get changed. You’ve got a lot of work to do if you don’t want to get smashed next week.’

  The fight will be at the local community hall. Vince has lined up fights for Lachlan and Jordy, too, and he’s encouraging all members to attend, including the youth class and their parents. A boxer’s first official fight is like a religious celebration: a coming-of-age or a welcome-to-the-fold. Sometimes their first fight is also their last – if they decide they aren’t cut out for it – or it’s the start of an ache that doesn’t go away until they next hear the clang of the bell. Jess’s first fight at nineteen was against a twenty-two-year-old from Queensland. Jess went into the fight as the underdog and came out, predictably, without her arm being raised in victory. She fought well, though, and the result was close. Vince was thrilled with her performance. All she could think about was her next fight.

  Billy emerges from the change cubicle wearing his black sweatsuit and gro
in guard. ‘Heard anything more from that detective?’

  ‘Nope.’ She chucks him a skipping rope, which lands at his feet. ‘Come on, mate. You need to make up for the last few days. Sitting on your arse in the office when you should have been training.’

  Billy starts skipping, and soon is too out of breath to ask any more questions. Jess has been on tenterhooks all week, half expecting Bridget Kennedy to stage another ambush, in addition to waiting for Dylan O’Shea to get back to her. He sent a text about ten minutes after their arranged meeting time at the park:

  Are u coming?

  Jess didn’t answer until after Natasha and Lucy left for home:

  Sorry, something came up last minute. Can we reschedule?

  No reply since. Dylan’s obviously pissed off and Jess hasn’t pressed him; she has come to the realisation that she should run any further arrangements past Alex.

  ‘That’s enough skipping, Billy. Get on your gloves. Time to start hitting.’

  Alex is going to take a lot of convincing. He won’t want her to meet Dylan. At a minimum, he’ll insist on coming with her. There are two reasons why this won’t work: Alex’s glowering presence will get in the way of an honest discussion; and Jess is frightened of what he’ll do if he loses his cool.

  Alex can be deceptively laidback to those who don’t know him well. Beneath the casual exterior exists a rarely ignited temper, a dangerous strength.

  39

  BRIDGET

  ‘Hello. I’m here to see Emily Wickham. It’s Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy.’

  ‘Is Emily expecting you?’ the receptionist enquires pleasantly, a different young woman to last time.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Bridget replies in an equally pleasant tone. She deliberately didn’t make an appointment or call ahead. Today she wants William Newson’s assistant to be a little more on the back foot. Less rehearsed. Less word perfect. More real.

  Bridget takes a seat on one of the plush armchairs, and once again appreciates the large artwork on the far wall. It’s a different piece to last time: Aboriginal style with thousands of tiny white, black and ochre dots. Painstaking detail paired with a simple colour palette. How long has this particular piece been on display? Is everything in this reception, including the young women behind the desk, on constant rotation?

  Emily appears within a couple of minutes: blonde, slender, her dainty feet encased in teetering shoes. Her cheeks are slightly flushed.

  ‘Detective Kennedy. I’m so sorry, I’m just about to go into a meeting … Is it something quick?’

  Bridget stands up and smooths down her trousers. ‘Just a file I’d like to see. And a chat, whenever you’re free.’

  ‘Which file?’ Emily seems frazzled, as though retrieving a file is beyond her capacity right now. Why so busy all of a sudden? Last time they spoke, she was uncertain about her future with the practice.

  ‘Thomas Malouf. The complainant was a woman called Hayley Webster.’

  ‘I remember it.’ Emily tucks a strand of straight blonde hair behind her ear. ‘About two years ago. The charges were dropped. I’ll see if I can quickly locate the file.’

  Bridget sits back down. Her eyes veer back to the painting and her thoughts veer to her daughter, who has submitted her university preferences and is putting the finishing touches to her portfolio. Each piece has been laboured over … and cried over. Bridget can’t help worrying what will happen if Cara doesn’t get her first – or even second! – preference.

  ‘Let it play out, Bridge,’ Shane said this morning. ‘It is what it is.’

  He’s right, and it’s not like Bridget to be a helicopter parent.

  Emily has returned, victoriously clutching a thin manila file. ‘Here it is.’ The flush on her cheeks has deepened. ‘Lucky it wasn’t archived. Shall I find you an empty room?’

  She’s being genuinely helpful, despite being under pressure for time. Bridget warms to her; she knows that rushed feeling all too well.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m absolutely fine here. Much quieter – and more comfortable – than what I’m used to at headquarters. I’ll see—’

  ‘Emily?’ A deep voice interrupts Bridget mid-flow. Joshua Newson. Neither she nor Emily noticed his approach. Bridget catches the flash of irritation on his face. ‘Detective, I didn’t know you were coming in today. Emily, you should have said—’

  ‘It was a surprise visit,’ Bridget interjects. ‘Just needed to see one of your father’s files.’

  ‘What file?’ he asks sharply, looking from Bridget to Emily.

  ‘The Malouf one, from 2017.’ Emily’s voice is wobbly. Suddenly she seems less self-assured and more vulnerable. Less the ultra-professional assistant and more a girl.

  Joshua pushes his glasses further up his nose. Then glances, pointedly, at his expensive watch. The time seems to deter him from making further objections.

  ‘We have to go,’ he says to Emily, while staring at Bridget, hinting that she should also depart.

  Does Emily work for him now? Is that why they’re attending meetings together? It would also explain why Emily organised those flowers for Megan.

  ‘I’m happy to wait here,’ Bridget says cheerfully, and sits down to prove the point.

  She watches Emily and Joshua walk towards the security door leading to the offices beyond. Emily looks even tinier next to Joshua’s oversize frame; she’s half running in her high shoes to keep up. Did Joshua claim his father’s executive assistant in the same manner he’ll claim his inheritance? How does Emily feel about it? From father to son. From sexual assault cases to drug offences. From someone who made her feel valued to someone who makes her feel under pressure. Perhaps Bridget is reading too much into Emily’s body language. Perhaps she is thrilled about the job security and seems flustered purely because she’s trying too hard to impress her new boss.

  Bridget opens the manila file and begins to read. Hayley Webster was a twenty-three-year-old nurse on a night out with colleagues when she met Thomas Malouf at a city-centre nightclub. Hayley admitted that she found him attractive, but she had a boyfriend and was interested in nothing more than dancing. Hayley’s friends went home about 2 a.m. but Hayley didn’t go with them; she caught a taxi to her apartment in Redfern about an hour later, with Thomas. She remembers him kissing her in the taxi, and having sex when they got back to the apartment, although she’d told him – repeatedly – that she had a boyfriend. Late the next morning – when Thomas was long gone – Hayley realised how oddly compliant she’d been about the sex. The whole night, after she’d met him, felt like a dream. Hayley called her friends, who confirmed she’d been acting strangely. Hayley, a nurse, knew the protocol: she went straight to hospital, to have her blood and urine tested, and then to her local police station.

  The police laid charges, which were later dropped due to insufficient evidence to allow for a reasonable chance of conviction. The nightclub’s CCTV showed Hayley on the dance floor and at the bar. Dancing suggestively with Thomas, in between glugging back gin and tonics. A statement from the taxi driver said they’d been behaving ‘amorously’ in the back of his vehicle. The blood and urine tests showed no illicit substances, and the medical examination showed no evidence of bruising or physical harm. Essentially, it could not be proved that the victim was not consenting, and neither could it be proved that the defendant was aware that the victim was not consenting.

  Nowhere in the file did it mention that this was Thomas Malouf’s second time being accused of sexual assault. Bridget knows that the sexual history of the complainant is not always admissible, but what about the sexual history of the defendant? Was this an oversight by the police, or was it – unbelievably! – deemed irrelevant when determining if there was enough evidence? William Newson knew, though. He knew that this was Thomas’s second time round. He knew that before Hayley Webster there was Jessica Foster, and potentially Megan Lowe, although Thomas never admitted to having sex with Megan. How on earth did the defence barrister sleep at night? Did
he ever stop to think of future victims he was putting at risk by continuing to get Thomas Malouf out of trouble? The right to legal representation is a civil right, as is the acknowledgement that the defendant is innocent until proven guilty. William Newson might have persuaded himself about Thomas’s innocence the first time, but not the second.

  Emily reappears about forty-five minutes later. She sits carefully on the armchair next to Bridget’s; her fitted skirt doesn’t allow for sudden movements.

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’ she asks with a weary air that’s well beyond her years.

  The answer is yes, and no. Hayley Webster has reason to be very angry with both Newson and Malouf. Bridget has yet another name to add to the whiteboard; and she needs another suspect like a hole in the head.

  Bridget holds up the file. ‘This was Thomas Malouf’s second time, did you know?’

  ‘No.’ The young woman seems genuinely shocked. ‘I can’t remember reading that anywhere in the file …’

  ‘That’s because it isn’t in the file. The first charge was long before your time.’ Bridget changes tack suddenly, hoping to catch Emily off guard. ‘We’ve been investigating Mr Newson’s banking transactions and found one concerning you.’

  Emily’s reaction is immediate. Her face turns bright red before she covers it with her hands. ‘Oh God! I didn’t want that money! I told him I didn’t need it!’

  So, the money transfer was unwelcome? What was going on between these two? ‘If you didn’t want or need it, why did he give it to you?’

  ‘Because I was getting married.’ She comes out from behind her hands. ‘Because he saw himself as a father figure. Because he had trouble believing I could stand on my own two feet.’

  ‘A father figure?’

  Emily sighs rather loudly. ‘He’s known me since I was fourteen. We were part of a programme where successful business people become mentors for disadvantaged youths. I was in foster care at the time and he took me under his wing, coaxed me to study during my final years of high school. When I didn’t get enough points for University of Sydney, he advised me to consider going to Newcastle. He helped with my fees and accommodation costs, and he gave me a job when I finished my degree. I owe everything to him.’