You Had It Coming Read online

  Emily’s background is nothing like the privileged one Bridget had imagined. It took grit and the helping hand of William Newson to get where she is today. Quite a few hats he was wearing: father figure, mentor, boss, saviour.

  ‘So, the money was a wedding gift?’

  ‘Yes. But I really didn’t want it. He’d done enough for me. Besides, people see things like that and draw all the wrong conclusions. They assume there must be a sexual relationship or some sort of manipulation going on. I promise you, I’m not that kind of girl.’

  Bridget believes her. At least, she thinks she does. ‘How did Suzanne and the kids react? Did they mind Mr Newson supporting you financially at university?’

  Another audible sigh. ‘Suzanne was always lovely, Joshua and his brothers less so. William would invite me around to the house the odd time. Joshua was super possessive about his dad, and the other two were really awkward with me. William wasn’t always attuned to the undercurrents.’

  So, Joshua wanted his dad to himself. Middle-child syndrome? Insecurity? Possessiveness is a very plausible motive for murder.

  ‘If it wasn’t for William, I’d have left school by Year 10. I’d be in some dead-end job with barely enough money to pay my rent.’

  Bridget gazes at the young woman, whose hands are clasped together on her lap. So well-spoken, well-dressed and professional. All thanks to William Newson, apparently.

  Who was he? The good guy or the bad guy? A heartless, morally questionable lawyer – or a fair-minded, charitable family man? If Bridget can figure out who he really was, she might also have a better chance of figuring out why he was murdered in cold blood while putting out his rubbish bins.

  40

  MEGAN

  It’s not an official engagement party, just drinks, no gifts. If Lucas had given more notice Megan could have arranged to be working. As it was, she had Friday night free and everyone knew it.

  What to wear? Something arresting, that will catch his eye and make him wonder what the hell he’s doing marrying Daniella? Or something sedate, an outfit that will make her blend into the background: where she obviously belongs.

  Black skinny jeans, black flowy top, black suede boots. More make-up than usual: a mask she can hide behind.

  ‘All in black?’ Roslyn comments on seeing the outfit. ‘You look like you’re going to a funeral.’

  It does feel like someone has died. Megan woke this morning with a sense of catastrophe. Lucas is engaged. Lucas is getting married. Lucas and Daniella are a permanent fixture. There’s no hope. There never was, you idiot!

  The drinks are upstairs in a popular pub in North Sydney. There’s a night-view of the Harbour Bridge, and access to a balcony with outdoor heaters. Kaz thrusts an oversized glass of wine into her hand as soon as she arrives. She takes an uncharacteristically large glug: Dutch courage. How long does she need to stay in order to be polite? Kaz and the others look like they’re up for a big night.

  Megan’s eyes scan the room for Lucas. There he is, his arm around Daniella’s tiny waist. She looks stunning in a forest-green jumpsuit and high strappy shoes. Daniella is slim compared to Megan’s sturdiness. She’s blonde-haired compared to Megan’s dark-brown. She’s the one Lucas loves; Megan is just the work friend.

  Lucas spots her and smiles widely. He is coming over. Another large glug of wine to brace herself. The alcohol goes straight to her head; she’s not much of a drinker.

  He leans in, kisses her cheek. ‘I didn’t see you come in.’

  ‘Just got here,’ she says, feeling heat rush to her face. ‘Congratulations.’

  He met Daniella just a month before meeting Megan. Four weeks: that’s all that was in it. With different timing, it could have been Megan celebrating tonight. Perhaps she is fooling herself.

  ‘Long or short engagement,’ Sakar asks, joining their conversation.

  ‘Short.’ Lucas grins. ‘We’re both ready to take the leap.’

  Sakar laughs, so does Megan, even though her laugh is more like a cough. There’s a permanent lump in her throat these last few days.

  Sakar and Lucas start to talk shop: a bad house fire that required several ambulances. Multiple casualties suffering from smoke inhalation and burns. A woman in peri-arrest, who needed to be intubated. Trying to avoid members of the same family being split up and dispatched to different hospitals.

  ‘I kept reassuring the kids,’ Lucas says to Sakar, his voice heavy with empathy. ‘Told them everything was going to be okay, that they’d see Mum in hospital.’

  Where can I find another you? Megan asks silently. Someone a fraction as caring? Someone a fraction as gorgeous, inside and out? Where can I find another you? Where?

  Because she has looked and looked and looked. The fact is, she has slept with a lot of men. Mostly one-night stands, only a few proper relationships. It’s obvious, even to her, that she tried to obliterate the significance of the rape by throwing herself into other sexual experiences. The men came in all shapes, sizes, ages and nationalities. She had her heart broken a few times and took it on the chin: the pain was welcome. She broke some hearts herself, and that felt quite cathartic, as though she’d reclaimed a part of herself.

  What a fucking night. Two virgins! Sick. It’s a hard thing to obliterate.

  Lucas and Sakar are still talking about the house fire.

  ‘The family dog raised the alarm, barking his head off until Mum woke up. Poor thing was taken to the vet, suffering smoke inhalation too.’

  Lucas has no inkling of her feelings, which is good because the last thing she needs is his pity.

  She wakes on Saturday morning with a headache and a heartache. She tries to swallow; the lump is still there. Lucas is getting married.

  For the last three years she has been conducting a relationship in her head. For the last three years she has put other men on hold – avoiding getting serious with anyone – wanting to be available should Lucas and Daniella ever break up. For the last three years she has been deluding herself.

  She hauls herself out of bed, navigating her way around packing boxes. Everything feels like it’s coming to an end. This house. The future that she imagined with Lucas. Even her past is disintegrating; Thomas Malouf and William Newson are dead.

  The bathroom mirror tells the truth. The dregs of last night’s mascara. Undertones of pallor to her skin. Flaky lips and bleak eyes. How many drinks last night? Three? Four? A lot for her. She doesn’t drink much for a reason.

  Ten minutes later she is sitting outside on the deck with a strong cup of tea and a slice of wholegrain toast. Roslyn left a note on the counter: Gone to buy more packing tape. Megan is glad of the empty house, glad to be able to lick her wounds and contemplate where to go to from here.

  The house is going on the market next week. Removalists are booked and practically everything is going into storage. This is what she wanted, so why does she feel so directionless and off kilter? Pathetic.

  As for Lucas, she has wasted the last three years loving him, hoping against hope that fate would intervene and make them a couple. Beyond pathetic.

  The caffeine and air are starting to take effect. Now that her head is clearing, anger is taking hold. She is furious with herself.

  It’s time to get your shit together. Stop falling for the wrong men. Stop making excuses for your bad judgement.

  It’s a busy day ahead. There’s packing to finish and some final touches with the painting. Not forgetting that she should dedicate some time to finding somewhere new to live. Better get going. Rinse her cup at the kitchen sink. Back to her bedroom to get dressed. Why is she rummaging through boxes of clothes for gym wear? Why is she lacing up runners, and rushing out the door as though being chased by someone?

  Twenty minutes later she arrives at the industrial estate where Jess works. She sits in the car for a minute, gazing sightlessly at the half-mast roller door.

  Lucas is getting married. It’s time to get your shit together.

  Megan slams the car
door, the sound reverberating around the half-empty car park. Her breath is coming in short angry gasps. She ducks under the roller door; the gym started its life as a warehouse. The air thrums with the beat of Billie Eilish’s ‘Bad Guy’. Boxers, wet patches under their arms, are sparring in the ring. Skipping ropes whistle through the air. Some kind of class is going on over at the mat.

  Jess is striding towards her, ponytail bouncing, a question on her pale face. ‘Megan? What are you doing here?’

  Megan exhales the breath she has been holding since finding out about the engagement. ‘I want to hit something. I want to hit something really, really hard.’

  41

  JESS

  Jess can guess why Megan is here. She turned up like this before, years ago. A married man had let her down. The relationship had come to a predictable end. She was disappointed, hurt, wanting to lash out.

  Today, Jess doesn’t ask her who it is, or what he has done.

  ‘You can join the intermediate class.’ She points her to the mat. ‘We’re only five minutes in.’

  As with most of the classes, there’s a rotation system in operation. Megan starts on the agility ladders, stumbling her way at first, but quickly getting the hang of it. Then it’s two minutes of skipping, followed by squatting against the wall, then an exercise that involves jumping from side to side, to build up calf muscles. Megan’s wearing a vest and leggings, like most of the other women, and is keeping up with the pace. Her core fitness is good, but anger can get you a long way, too. Jess should know.

  Finally, it’s Megan’s turn on the punching bags. Jess hands her some elasticated wraps and a pair of gloves. She wipes sweat from her face with her arm before letting loose.

  ‘Two slow ones, then through,’ Jess directs. ‘That’s it. Keep it tight. Now, jab with the left and straight right. Good, keep it up … One, two, rip … One, two, upper-cut … One, two, rip, uppercut …’

  Megan is hitting the bag strongly. Is it another married man or some other doomed relationship? Everyone has different ways of retaliating when they get hurt. Jess used her fists, while Megan used sex. In the ring, Jess could unleash her aggression and frustration, and the harder she fought, the calmer her mind became. Stretching the limits of her endurance and pain tolerance restored her self-respect. Now she suspects that she healed better than Megan did.

  The session ends about forty minutes later. A babble of chatter breaks out; the members know each other well from years of attending these Saturday-morning classes.

  Megan surrenders her gloves and the wrap. ‘That was exactly what I needed. Sorry for turning up out of the blue.’

  Vince is close by, working on Billy’s technique using the floor-to-ceiling ball.

  ‘Turn up anytime you want,’ he says, pausing his critique of Billy’s defensive reflexes. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

  Vince never forgets a face.

  ‘Thank you.’ Megan smiles, a trickle of sweat running down her temple.

  ‘We have a fight night at the community hall next week,’ Vince says, his gaze refocused on Billy. ‘This man is having his debut. It’s going to be a big night. You should come.’

  Megan is visibly taken aback by the invitation. ‘I – I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Meet Billy,’ Jess chimes in. ‘When he’s not in a sweatsuit, he’s in a suit and tie. You should come to the fight, Megan. It’s not every day you see a lawyer getting beaten up.’

  ‘Hey!’ Billy objects, without losing rhythm on the ball. ‘What did I do to deserve that?’

  ‘Just being a lawyer is enough,’ Jess says, only half joking. ‘Megan’s opinion of your profession is just as bad as mine.’

  Jess’s shift finishes at lunchtime and she heads over to her parents’ house. Alex’s ute is parked in the driveway, Natasha’s Audi directly behind it. There’s a huge mound of soil on the front lawn, along with a tangle of half-assembled irrigation pipes and driplines. What started as a relatively small job has been getting bigger and bigger. Extra garden beds. More paving. A new irrigation system, which seems pointless given the current water restrictions.

  Jess is surveying the chaos when Alex appears from around the side of the house with a wheelbarrow. ‘Hey, babe.’

  He’s filthy, streaks of dirt on his face and a worrying twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Don’t you dare come anywhere near me,’ she warns him, edging away.

  He lunges. She shrieks and runs for it. Reaching the safety of the front door, she turns to blow him a kiss.

  Her dad, Natasha and Lucy are in the kitchen. They seem startled by her breathless arrival.

  ‘Alex chased me,’ she explains, because the three of them share the same uncomprehending frown. ‘Sometimes he’s just an oversized kid.’

  Lucy is nestled in her granddad’s arms, and seems happy despite the tiny frown. Natasha is nursing a cup of tea and looks white-faced with exhaustion. In the background, Jess can hear a two-handed scale being played on the piano; Margaret must have a student.

  ‘Nice to see you, sweetheart,’ Richard says. ‘Have you come from work?’

  ‘Yep.’ She switches on the kettle. ‘What are you three up to?’

  ‘Shooting the breeze,’ Richard replies, sounding more like a surfer than a heart surgeon. ‘I was just about to take Lucy for a walk. Hopefully get her off to sleep.’

  The family is starting to understand that Lucy and sleep are a tricky combination. Walks in the pram, drives in the car, Granddad lending a hand, whatever it takes.

  Richard deposits Lucy in her pram, and familiarises himself with the brakes before setting off at what promises to be a jaunty pace.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Jess says, opening the fridge. ‘Want something to eat?’

  Natasha shakes her head, and watches while Jess assembles a ham and cheese sandwich.

  ‘It’s real work, isn’t it?’ Natasha says, gazing out the window. Jess looks out. Alex is depositing a barrow-load into one of the new garden beds by the pool.

  ‘Sure is. Real and very dirty.’

  ‘He’ll make a good dad. He knows how to get stuck in.’

  Jess rolls her eyes. ‘Listen to you! Suddenly, every male is being judged on their potential as a father.’

  Her sister grins ruefully. ‘It’s like I have this whole new lens on life. It’s okay to tell me to shut up. I know I’m being annoying.’

  Jess knows what she’s getting at, though. Oliver deals with numbers, share prices and stock markets every day. Maybe if he got his hands dirty once in a while, or had to work up a sweat, he would be better equipped for pitching in with Lucy. That said, Jess is sure there are plenty of stockbrokers who make great hands-on dads.

  Alex passes by the window again. He still hasn’t asked Margaret for an instalment payment. They argued about it again last night, and Jess came here today with the intention of dropping a hint. Maybe when her mum’s lesson is finished. The student is still labouring through chromatic scales. Margaret is a stickler, maintaining that scales, albeit tedious, are essential for strength and agility. She and Vince have that in common: the belief that technique enables excellence.

  Jess and Natasha chat about Lucy as Alex goes back and forth, back and forth. His T-shirt hitches up, exposing his lower back as he tips the wheelbarrow forward, and yet another load of dark soil is dumped into one of the brand-new garden beds. Plenty of loads to come, going by the enormous mound of earth out the front. Margaret has been haphazardly adding to the scope of the job. If Alex had known at the outset it was going to be this big, he would’ve hired some help.

  Natasha cocks her head to one side. ‘Christ, what is Mum up to with this massive garden project? Is she trying to bury a body out there?’

  42

  BRIDGET

  Hayley Webster lives in a high-rise block of apartments in Redfern, the same place she lived when she met Thomas Malouf at a nightclub two years ago. The apartment block is modern, well-maintained, and located within a few hundred metres of a noto
rious public-housing block. The last time Bridget was in this area, she was investigating the death of a thirty-seven-year-old woman who was pushed from a balcony by her partner, who’d hallucinated that she was attacking him. The scene was a shocking one: the woman’s broken body on the pavement, her partner – an ice-addict – too far gone to understand the finality of what he’d done. He got fourteen years.

  Sasha rings the bell and they wait. It’s 6 p.m. on Saturday night. There’s a strong possibility that Hayley is at work. Nurses work their fair share of weekends, like detectives.

  ‘Hello?’ A youngish female voice crackles from the intercom.

  ‘Is that Hayley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy. We want to have a chat about Thomas Malouf. It shouldn’t take long. Can we come up?’

  ‘Do you have identification?’ the voice asks warily.

  ‘Of course.’ Bridget flashes her ID in the direction of the security camera positioned above the doorway. ‘Can you see that?’

  ‘Yeah. Come in.’

  Hayley’s apartment is on the fifth floor. She is waiting by the door when they emerge from the lift: petite, shoulder-length dark hair, guarded expression. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweater; she doesn’t look like she’s on her way out tonight.

  The apartment is small and feminine. Faux-fur cushions, glittery picture frames, a discarded lip-gloss on the coffee table. Two aubergine-coloured sofas. Bridget and Sasha occupy one, and Hayley Webster sits on the other.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Bridget begins. ‘We’re investigating the murder of William Newson and the death of Thomas Malouf. Both men were known to you. Were you aware that they’ve died?’

  She nods. ‘William Newson was on my newsfeed. It’s not every day that you read about someone you know being murdered. There was less about Thomas Malouf – I almost missed it.’