You Had It Coming Page 2

  Boxing saved her, albeit not from a poor background. It provided a release. It gave her focus, goals and a training routine to cling to. More than anything, it rebuilt her self-respect, which William Newson had done his utmost to destroy.

  ‘You had it coming,’ she says, as though it were his reflection in the mirror and not her own. ‘You had it fucking coming.’

  3

  BRIDGET

  Jesus. A shooting in Killara. A suburb associated with corporate executives, sky-high real estate prices and insidious wealth. Bridget pulls into the street, flashing blue and red lights heralding the precise location about two hundred metres ahead. Three squad cars flung at odd angles, offending her innate sense of order. She parks next to the kerb, cuts the engine and takes a steadying breath before getting out: you never know what you’re about to face. The wind lasers through her, a command to zip up her jacket.

  ‘Bridget.’ Detective Sergeant David Nesbitt is an old friend from her academy days in Goulburn. It seems incongruous that his party trick on drunken nights out was the Moonwalk. Bridget’s party trick was sculling a schooner in under ten seconds. Now Dave works out of police command in Chatswood and she’s with the Homicide Squad. His dancing would be limited to the jostle between family life and work demands. Her drinking constitutes a half-hearted glass of wine before falling asleep on the couch.

  ‘Hey, Dave.’ They shake hands, even though a hug would feel more natural. ‘Give me the run-down.’

  He’s slightly breathless as he complies. ‘Male, late fifties, identified as William Newson. Apparently, he’s a barrister with a number of high-profile cases.’

  A barrister? It’s usually the drug dealers or gang leaders who’re shot down outside their homes. Forensics have taped off the area. They’ve commenced swabbing, dusting and searching for holes and defects from projectiles that may have missed the target. She’s not sure they’ll find much, other than bullet casings, blood spatters and perhaps footprints and tyre marks. A police photographer is present too, crouched down as she photographs the bloodstains on the driveway.

  ‘Two gunshot wounds?’ Bridget says, repeating what was relayed over the phone: it’s amazing how many inaccuracies infiltrate that first swathe of information. People find it hard to be factual when confronted with traumatic situations.

  Dave nods. ‘Alive on arrival to Royal North Shore but in a critical condition. Mr Newson lives alone. There’s an ex-wife and three grown-up children. The family are being informed.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘Two neighbours who came to his aid. We’ve taken statements and sent them home. They heard shots, saw the motorbike speed away, and could offer nothing more than the fact that the driver was wearing dark clothes and a black helmet. We’re door-knocking every house. Someone might have seen something in the lead-up.’

  She glances at her watch: 8.45 p.m. Twenty minutes ago, Bridget was in her fleecy pyjamas watching ‘bathroom week’ on The Block. Regardless of the inconvenience, and the jarring change from cosy living room to this hastily constructed quadrangle of police tape, her heart rate has increased and her mind has started flying off in different directions. There is nothing quite as invigorating as a new case. Technically not homicide, but it will be by morning: the victim is not expected to make it through the night.

  ‘Make sure that counselling is offered to the witnesses. Hard to get over something like this. So close to home, too.’

  She steps back from Dave to look up and down the length of the street. Jesus, that wind feels like it’s from the Antarctic. Occasionally, Sydney produces a genuinely freezing winter’s night, as though to say, Don’t ever get complacent. A group of neighbours are watching from outside the tape perimeter. There’s not much to see; she has a strong urge to tell them to get in from the cold. It’s the mother in her. Hard to quell, even when she’s acting in a professional capacity.

  The street is located within a maze of similarly quiet streets. No traffic lights or shops in the immediate area, which essentially means no CCTV. The main road is nearly three kilometres away. How many motorbikes zoomed past during the period in question? How many intersections will need to be reviewed? How long did the perpetrator lie in wait? Did he – or she – come to anyone’s notice? It sounds like the witnesses didn’t have much detail to offer; the door-knock might be more successful.

  Dave takes her arm and guides her to a spot where there is a clearer view of the front garden. ‘Looks like he hid behind that gum tree, waiting for his moment. Bang, bang, then back on the bike and away.’

  In Dave’s mind, it’s already a ‘he’. A dangerous assumption.

  The gum tree is one of those huge ones that give you vertigo just from looking up at it. Its trunk is substantial, and that area of the front garden is dark and murky: perfect for stealing up on someone.

  Bridget turns her attention to the victim’s house. A steep driveway leading to what appears to be an architect-built home. Three levels. Two balconies.

  ‘Big place for just one person,’ she says, a little enviously. ‘Have we had a look inside?’

  ‘A quick squiz to make sure it was secure. Nothing untoward. No sign of a struggle or forced entry. The garage door was open. He must have come out that way to access the bins.’

  ‘We’ll send forensics up when they’re done here. Seize his laptop and any other devices. I’ll go to his workplace first thing in the morning.’

  She assumes that his chambers are located in the city centre, close to the courts: she deals with her fair share of lawyers. He’ll have an assistant, probably a pretty young thing, but now she’s guilty of making assumptions. Regardless, Bridget knows exactly what she wants from the assistant. Details of the cases that William Newson has been working on, the clients he’s been meeting with, and if he’s done anything to upset anyone.

  ‘Random or personal?’ she asks Dave.

  He blinks. ‘Doesn’t look very random to me.’ ‘Me neither. Let’s hit the ground running. Let’s talk to colleagues, friends, family, neighbours, lovers, doctors, anyone who can vouch for Newson’s state of mind and if he was worried about anything or anyone in particular. But first things first – the bins. Contact the council and suspend collection tomorrow morning. Sort out some extra manpower. We need to search each and every bin on this street, and the next street, and probably the entire area.’

  Dave’s mouth drops open at the magnitude – and messiness – of the job, but the necessity is indisputable: the weapon or clothes of the perpetrator could be discarded in any one of those bins.

  Another car has arrived, a familiar silver-haired head alighting: Katrina, Bridget’s boss.

  ‘The detective inspector is here … One more thing: we need an address for the ex. We’ll call on her tonight. Don’t want to give her too much time to think about things.’

  William Newson, by the nature of his job, might be moving in the same perilous circles as criminals and other shady characters. A crime like this – involving a motorcycle, an assumedly illegal gun and at least some degree of target surveillance – suggests outlawed bikie gangs, drug wars or some other organised crime. Nevertheless, Bridget always, always starts with the wife – or ex-wife, in this case.

  Cold hard fact: we’re more at risk from our beloved than anyone else.

  4

  MEGAN

  Megan wakes up with the sensation of not knowing where she is, which happens quite a lot. It’s been nine years since she returned to Sydney. It doesn’t make sense that her body – after all this time – thinks it’s in Europe or Asia or South America.

  You’re here, at home, where you always are!

  Next is the pervading feeling that something really bad has happened, another throwback to waking up in those foreign cities, listening to the babble of strange voices and sounds, her stomach clenching at the thought of what had driven her there.

  Oh God, William Newson!

  It’s happened twice before: arriving unsuspectingly at the scene,
heart plummeting at the realisation that she knows the patient. One was a former friend of her mother’s, a glamorous and devout woman who collapsed at Sunday church. The other was someone from school, a boy she used to like. Both occasions were extremely disconcerting. Trying not to be distracted by her personal feelings. Trying not to be thrown by the abrupt change in context and roles. Her mum’s friend shuddering, frightened and looking ten years older than her age. The boy from school: a grown man, filthy drunk and concussed. Now a third occasion: William Newson.

  A knock on her bedroom door. Her mum sticks her head around.

  ‘Oh good, you’re awake. It’s gone eleven. Might want to shake a leg, love.’

  Eleven? That late? Oh God, her mum’s birthday lunch!

  ‘Coming,’ she promises, and swings her legs out of bed. ‘Happy birthday, Mum!’

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  None of last night went to plan. An hour late clocking off work. Exchanging late-night texts with Jess. Would have been simpler to phone, but they haven’t spoken in years. Then awake into the early hours of the morning, reliving the shame, the unfairness and, like a scab wanting to be picked at, the apportionment of blame.

  Toiletries, bathrobe, fresh underwear: her body is stiff and uncooperative as she moves around the room. This happens. Para medical work is strenuous. Lifting and manoeuvring bodies on and off stretchers, and up and down stairs. Crouching, kneeling, bending over. You need to be strong, physically and mentally.

  The bathroom is a draughty walk down the hallway. Her hair – dark brown, shoulder length – needs a wash but she is not sure there’s enough time. Would William Newson have recognised her last night if he’d been conscious? Twelve years is a long time. It’s the difference between a hopeful seventeen-year-old and a hardened twenty-nine-year-old. It’s three years of running away (in the guise of travelling), three years of intensive studying and training, and six years on the road as a qualified paramedic. In those twelve years she has seen the best and worst of life. What happened to her and Jess wasn’t the worst. But it was close.

  In the end, Megan washes her hair because if she doesn’t her mum will be quick to read things into her lack of effort. Back in her bedroom, she uses two fingers to separate the horizontal window blinds. It’s one of those stunning blue-skied winter days: warm in the sun, cold in the shade, with an air quality that’s pure and rejuvenating, unique to this time of year.

  She surveys the contents of her wardrobe and eventually chooses a maxi dress she bought in Portugal. The dress is old but doesn’t look it. Large hoop earrings, a light cardigan, open-toe espadrilles. She is ready with a few minutes to spare.

  She should ring the hospital, find out if William Newson lasted the night. She should not ring the hospital. She did her job, gave him the care he needed and got him to A&E in record time. Way more than he deserves.

  Step back, don’t get sucked in, pretend he’s someone else. But following that logic, she always checks on critical patients, phoning the next day to see how they’re doing. Sometimes there’s been a miracle and they’ve pulled through. If the news is not good, it’s closure: she says a prayer for them, and moves on.

  Her phone is in her hand. She is still see-sawing – call, don’t call – when a message comes in from Lucas.

  He died during the night. How did you know him again?

  Lunch is at a modern-Australian place in Turramurra. Megan is distracted, her mum is forced, but after a couple of glasses of wine they both relax and somewhat enjoy themselves.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Roslyn exclaims, blotting the napkin carefully to her lips. Her lipstick and finger-nails are in matching pinks, complementing the tiny dash of pink in her floral dress. She’s from that generation who’re obsessed with matching their outfit with their shoes and accessories. Roslyn is a receptionist with a busy car rental company, her uniform of white blouse, navy trousers and flat shoes thwarting her love of accessorising.

  ‘Yeah. We should come here again.’

  Megan had asked if she wanted to invite any of her friends today but she’d insisted she wanted only the two of them. The truth is, Roslyn doesn’t have many close friends. Some fell by the wayside during the trial, appalled by the unpleasantness and unwanted publicity. Her husband’s death was another layer of contagion; people were sympathetic but they didn’t know how to act so it was easier to keep their distance. It’s the same for Megan. Her mother is her closest confidante as a result.

  ‘You seem a bit tired, love,’ Roslyn says now, her gaze becoming more scrutinising.

  ‘Is that your way of saying I’ve got bags under my eyes?’

  ‘You know it isn’t. But it must have been a difficult shift for you to sleep in so late.’

  Roslyn was in bed by the time Megan got home last night. She’s an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, which fits well with 7 a.m. starts at the car rental company. Megan was relieved not to have to face her last night, and she has no intention of bringing up William Newson now: that would be one way of completely ruining her birthday. But it feels so odd and discombobulating to keep something this big from her mum. He’s dead … Someone actually shot him … I was one of the last people with him. She has to concentrate to keep the constant inner dialogue from spilling into spoken words.

  ‘I’m so full. I really shouldn’t have dessert.’ Not the most subtle change of subject but Roslyn falls for it and convinces Megan to order the pavlova.

  Megan is slightly tipsy on leaving the restaurant. An Uber and fifteen minutes later they’re home.

  She stifles a yawn. ‘I’m just going to have a lie-down.’

  ‘Don’t fall asleep or you’ll have trouble tonight,’ Roslyn warns.

  Twenty-nine years old and still being told what to do by her mother. It’s wrong, but fixing it is complicated. Her whole life is complicated.

  Megan’s bedroom is her haven, albeit cramped and drastically over-furnished. Double bed with bohemian-style pillows and cushions. A writing desk where she laboured over school homework, before her bachelor of paramedic practice. A long low-level bookshelf, which complicates access to the window. A built-in wardrobe and two crammed-in bedside lockers. Unfortunately, there’s no other viable layout for the furniture. Her father used to talk about knocking through the wall to Seb’s old bedroom, affording her more space, as well as installing a modern kitchen and much-needed second bathroom. The plans were a mere fantasy: there was never the money. His death arrested any further thought of renovations. His death arrested everything. Three years later, Megan and Roslyn still haven’t regained rhythm to their lives. Everything feels flat and kind of pointless.

  Megan kicks off her shoes and moves some cushions on the bed: the wine has wiped her out. Two glasses are her limit. Lucas calls her a lightweight.

  She types a text to Jess.

  He’s dead. I know I should feel sympathy but I can’t.

  How odd if someone else, a stranger, were to read the message. What would they make of such a callous statement? Does Jess tell people about what happened to them? Is she open about her history? Megan isn’t. She tried with some of her earlier boyfriends; it quickly killed dead any romance.

  Seventeen: so young. Megan picks up a lot of teenagers in the ambulance, most of them comatose drunk or high on drugs. In between checking their vitals and giving them fluids, the same refrain repeats over and over in her head: You’re too young, you’re just a kid; go home to your parents where you’ll be safe.

  She searches the news headlines while she waits for a reply from Jess. All the channels are headlining the story.

  A well-known barrister was shot outside his home at approximately seven thirty last night. Mr William Newson was taking out his bins when residents heard two gunshots … The motivation for the shooting is not yet known and police are appealing for witnesses.

  It’s only a matter of time before Roslyn hears about it, but hopefully not today.

  Megan closes her eyes. Her limbs feel both heavy and weightl
ess. Fragments of last night begin to replay in her head. The concrete unyielding against her knees as she bent over his body. Blood glistening on the grey-white skin of his torso. Light escaping from the rear doors of the ambulance, revealing the face from her nightmares. Doing over a hundred on the Pacific Highway, siren screeching. At one point she clipped the kerb and almost sent the vehicle over on its side. Never has she driven so recklessly, putting everything on the line to get William Newson to hospital. Trying to save his life. Which is completely inexplicable because he destroyed hers.

  5

  JESS

  Alex is still in bed when Jess gets home from work, just after lunch. He came in from the pub at 3 a.m. – she heard the front door creak, checked the time on her phone and sighed. In fairness, he tried to be quiet, whispering swear words when he dropped something in the kitchen. He navigated his way to the bathroom, using the torch on his phone to avoid turning on the lights, but still managed to trip over something, which resulted in more swearing. Stealth is difficult when you’re six foot three, not naturally light-footed and three sheets to the wind.

  It’s always good to open the front door and come home. Jess loves this place, the high ceilings, big windows and generous proportions giving her space to breathe. Her things, her décor, her rules. Alex knows this and doesn’t interfere. As far as she’s aware, Megan still lives at home. Jess doesn’t know how she can stand it. She’d live on the streets before going back under the same roof as her parents.

  Food is always her first thought when she gets home, and her stomach makes a weird noise to remind her it needs filling. A quick scan of the fridge and pantry before assembling a punnet of cherry tomatoes, a jar of pesto and a packet of dried pasta. The pasta will replace her lost calories as well as settle Alex’s stomach when he decides to surface.