You Had It Coming Page 23

  Bridget is caught between dread and anticipation. ‘Who?’

  ‘Dylan O’Shea … The report was made by his parents.’

  Bridget’s mouth opens and closes without any words coming out. Dylan O’Shea. Of course. She knew he was at risk, and yet somehow lost sight of the fact over the last few days. Oh, Jesus! She should have insisted on Dylan being more careful. Case not closed. Case not remotely closed.

  Katrina is still speaking. ‘As you probably know, Dylan still lives at home with his parents. He ate breakfast and chatted with his father before leaving for work yesterday – he catches a bus to the closest train station. But he never made it to work, and neither did he return home in the evening. His phone appears to be switched off and he’s not been returning concerned calls and texts. His parents and colleagues have said this is very unlike him. Foul play is suspected.’

  Foul play is not just suspected, it’s almost a given. Newson, Malouf and now O’Shea: a trifecta. Have they another dead body on their hands? Will it turn up in the vicinity of Megan or Jessica, like the other two? Is there time to intervene, to save Dylan?

  Bridget finds her voice. ‘I feel responsible. I should have done more. I allowed myself to get sidetracked.’

  ‘If you’re responsible, then I am too,’ Katrina says, looking rattled. ‘This swings the pendulum back to the Lowe and Foster families.’

  The list is still on the whiteboard, with that small gap before Megan and Jessica’s names. A twelve-year-old case. What happened to make it relevant enough to cause two, possibly three, deaths?

  The fact is that Megan and Jessica have alibis, which means the answer must lie with those closest to them. Bridget mentally compiles her to-do list.

  Roslyn Lowe, the angry mum: get access to her house before all those boxes and potential evidence disappear.

  Alex Leary, the boyfriend: contact Hunter police to drop into the family farm and verify that the motorcycles and guns on the property match what’s registered to the address.

  The Maloufs: what does Dylan mean to them, if anything? Maybe it’s time to ask Leo to come in for a ‘voluntary’ chat? Although, Leo didn’t give the impression of being very chatty at the funeral: You’re not welcome here.

  ‘I need warrants,’ Bridget says to her boss. ‘For the homes of Megan Lowe and Jessica Foster, for a start.’

  ‘We already have the weapon and the vehicle,’ Katrina protests. ‘We need reasonable grounds to believe that further evidence will be found before we can apply for a warrant. You know that.’

  ‘Everything points back to these two women and their families,’ Bridget argues. ‘Plus, I know for a fact that Jessica had plans to meet up with Dylan.’

  Katrina folds her arms. ‘I’ll support the one for Jessica but you need to get more on Megan.’

  More on Megan. Bridget gives the task to Sasha – clever, dogged Sasha – who works off the assumption that if Dylan phoned Jess to arrange a meeting, it’s likely he phoned Megan, too. Sasha immediately logs an urgent request with the telecommunications provider and a response comes through within a couple of hours. More on Megan. Her number is listed in Dylan’s phone records; in fact, he contacted Megan first.

  ‘A phone call is hardly a valid basis for a search warrant,’ Katrina says cuttingly, when Bridget returns to her office.

  ‘True. But as far as I know, Megan and Dylan haven’t had contact for years, so it is suspicious. It’s crucial we get into that house for a look around, Katrina. They’re putting it up for sale soon.’

  The detective inspector – begrudgingly – signs her name and then the rush is on to find an approving magistrate late on a Friday afternoon.

  48

  JESS

  Still no word from Dylan. Jess texts him, suggesting Sunday, same place and time. Now all she has to do is convince Alex; she is not prepared to go behind his back a second time. As expected, he doesn’t take it very well.

  ‘You’ve been in contact with him? You want to fucking see him? Are you mental?’

  ‘I just want some blanks filled in, that’s all … Is that such a bad thing?’

  They’re in the kitchen, not the best location. Too confined; Alex seems even larger when he’s angry.

  ‘He raped your friend and got away with it,’ he yells, his face a dangerous shade of purple. ‘That’s what fucking happened, the small details don’t matter.’

  ‘They do matter!’ she shouts back. ‘Everything about that night is blurry. I don’t know if it was because of the alcohol or whether I was drugged. I don’t know if I had a valid excuse for letting Megan down, or whether I was just a bad friend. It torments me. I. Need. To. Know.’

  ‘So you’re going to ask him? He lied in court. You really expect him to tell you what happened?’

  ‘I think he’s sorry. Maybe sorry enough to admit the truth.’

  ‘You’re fucking deluded!’ he roars in her face. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘I’m not asking you, Alex. I’m telling you. As a courtesy.’

  ‘I’m your partner, not a courtesy. You should value my opinion. You should listen to me.’

  ‘You don’t understand. You have no fucking idea what it’s like for me.’

  Jess swings around on her heel and stalks to the bedroom, where she slams the door so hard the entire apartment reverberates. She sits on the bed, breathing heavily, listening to Alex banging around the kitchen. A pot crashing down on the stove. Some cutlery clattering into the sink. She is shaking all over.

  It’s her decision, not his.

  She wants him to know, but she doesn’t need his approval.

  He doesn’t understand, he can’t begin to.

  She closes her eyes, summons her seventeen-year-old self. There she is, wearing tight jeans and a skimpy top that she’d ‘borrowed’ from Natasha’s wardrobe without asking. There she is, wriggling her way free from Thomas Malouf’s proprietary arm, deciding that she’d had enough of his wandering eye. There she is again, flirting with another group of boys, dancing with uncharacteristic abandon, arms in the air. She’s floating above the room. She can see Thomas and he’s kissing someone else, and she really doesn’t care. Now someone is kissing her – one of the boys she’s dancing with – and she kisses him back with the same abandon. Fast-forward and she’s staggering up the stairs, woozy, lips swollen. She suspects that she kissed more than one boy in the end but she’s on her own now. She could swear that she’s on her own. She has finally remembered her responsibilities to Megan. God, she hopes so. What happens once she finds Megan in the bedroom? Either she can’t rouse her or she doesn’t even try, deciding to have a nap herself. Thomas and Dylan aren’t with her. She’s alone. She is almost positive of that fact.

  Jess couldn’t live with herself if she’d led them to Megan. But she has doubts, grave doubts, and a thousand questions. Where had all her inhibitions gone, for a start? What was going on with all the dancing (she is not an arms-in-the-air kind of girl) and pashing more than one boy? How about that weird out-of-body sensation she remembers? As for the sex, there are disjointed memories of a body pressing heavily on hers, of grunting and breath pungent with alcohol, and feeling leaden and unable to stop it from happening. Jess knows Dylan O’Shea has some of the answers, and she hopes they’ll help her understand what led to what, and forgive herself with regards to Megan.

  Someone is knocking rather loudly. Probably Helen next door, checking that Jess and Alex haven’t killed each other. Jess will have to apologise, reassure her. She rises from the bed with a sigh, opens the bedroom door. Alex has beaten her to it. He glances over his shoulder before lifting the security chain, and they exchange a look of mutual embarrassment. Upsetting elderly neighbours isn’t their thing. Neither is screaming and slamming doors.

  ‘Hello. Alex, isn’t it? Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy. Is Jessica home?’

  Oh God. What now? Could the timing possibly be any worse? It’s 5 p.m. on Friday n
ight; shouldn’t the detective be finished for the week? Shouldn’t they all?

  ‘I’m here.’ Jess comes forward to position herself next to Alex. His arm snakes around her waist: his way of saying sorry for losing his rag.

  The detective is holding out a piece of paper. ‘Jessica Foster, this is an occupier’s notice to search and enter 31/165 Stanton Street. The warrant was applied for on the basis of having reasonable grounds to believe that we’ll find evidence relating to the disappearance of Dylan O’Shea.’

  Shock roots her to the spot. A warrant! Evidence! Dylan O’Shea! What do they think they’re going to find here? Dylan can’t have disappeared; Jess has questions she needs fucking answered.

  ‘Move, Jess.’ Alex manoeuvres her out of the way. ‘You’ve got to let them in.’

  49

  BRIDGET

  Jessica and her boyfriend, Alex, stand mutely in the living room. His hand rests on her shoulder; they both seem shell-shocked. The apartment is well-proportioned and thoughtfully furnished. Bridget already knows that the deeds are in Jessica’s name.

  Sasha starts on the bedroom, while Bridget stays with the couple.

  ‘We need to seize your phone,’ she informs the young woman, not unsympathetically; she understands that it’s a major inconvenience. ‘The texts between you and Dylan could be important evidence.’

  ‘We never even met in the end.’ Jessica’s eyes flick upwards to her boyfriend, who is considerably taller than her. There’s a strange dynamic between them. An unfinished argument? ‘I didn’t turn up the first time – my sister called around unexpectedly – and he didn’t respond when I tried to reschedule.’

  ‘We shouldn’t need to keep your phone for very long, then,’ Bridget states matter-of-factly.

  Jessica could be lying. If they did meet up, she could have been the last person to see Dylan O’Shea. Alternatively, her boyfriend might have taken a dim view of the proposed meeting.

  Sasha finds a small amount of cannabis in a bedroom drawer, which Alex admits to owning. Bridget advises him that he’ll be issued with a caution; he doesn’t seem overly perturbed. On closer scrutiny, it’s hard to tell if his blank expression is shock, as she first thought, or extreme nonchalance. He’s hard to read.

  ‘What do you do for work, Alex?’

  ‘I’m a landscaper.’

  ‘And there’s a family farm in the Hunter Valley, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He looks surprised that she knows this fact.

  ‘Been back there recently?’

  ‘Not for a few months. Work’s been busy.’

  ‘Got some motorbikes on the farm?’

  ‘Yeah, a few.’

  ‘Yamahas?’

  ‘Suzukis. And a Honda.’

  The search of Megan Lowe’s property is being conducted concurrently by Dave and Patrick. Everyone’s Friday-night plans have gone by the wayside. Hopefully, they’ll have something to show for it.

  Sasha emerges from the bedroom again, holding a black puffer jacket aloft. ‘Which of you owns this?’

  Jess glares at her boyfriend. ‘For God’s sake, Alex, you told me you’d given that back to Ramsey.’

  He blushes; it’s obvious he’s been caught out in a lie. ‘Ramsey said it isn’t his. Thought I better hang on to it till someone claims it.’

  ‘These stains look quite like blood.’ Sasha’s soft voice contains a thread of steel.

  Alex’s blush deepens. His nonchalance – if it was that! – has worn off. ‘Could be. I work with contractors all the time. They leave stuff behind – tools, clothes, whatever. Cutting yourself is common. Stupid but common.’

  Sasha places the jacket in an evidence bag and moves into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s kept in here?’ Bridget taps the top of a metal filing cabinet, tucked away in a corner of the living room.

  ‘Just paperwork for the business. Invoices and receipts and stuff.’

  Bridget opens the first drawer, takes out a handful of grimy invoices. The first few documents contain a delivery address in Pymble.

  ‘Is this where you’re working at the moment, Alex?’ ‘Yeah,’ he says after a noticeable pause.

  She turns around so she can see his face. ‘Is this a long-term client or a new job?’

  Another pause. ‘It’s Jess’s parents’ place. I’ve been working there the last few weeks.’

  His face says it all. He knows this complicates things. He knows that she’s likely to attach significance to it.

  ‘Do you know where Dylan O’Shea is, Alex?’

  Jessica takes a sharp breath.

  Alex’s bushy eyebrows knit together. ‘No fuckin’ idea.’

  Bridget holds his stare, her neck straining uncomfortably. He’s intimidatingly tall: a strapping country boy. Bridget had a six-month relationship with a country boy while she was at the academy. One of her abiding memories was that he loved animals but detested human beings, including her in the end. Country boys nurture their grudges as much as their crops. Some have a tendency to take justice into their own roughened hands.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Don’t even know what he looks like.’

  Country boys can lie, too. Their open faces can trick you.

  ‘Is there a garage or storage unit downstairs?’

  ‘No, street parking only.’

  Bridget is already aware that there is only one vehicle – a Toyota Hilux ute – registered to the address. ‘I’d like a quick look at your work vehicle, please.’

  A flicker of something on his face – annoyance? defiance? – before his hand plunges into his jeans pocket to retrieve his keys.

  The ute is parked a few doors down, sandwiched between two Mercedes. Dusk is creeping in but there is still enough light for Bridget to do an inventory of the contents in the tray of the vehicle. Everyday gardening equipment such as shovels, rakes and pruning shears. An electric hedge trimmer, pressure hose and chainsaw. A few bags of cement and – of most concern – a large container of bleach.

  Bridget concludes two things: it’s time for Alex Leary to be formally questioned, and his vehicle needs to be taken in for forensic examination.

  50

  BRIDGET

  The interview begins at 8 p.m., with Bridget announcing the time for the benefit of the recording. Alex declines his right to legal representation and dismisses her warning about anything he says being potentially used as evidence against him.

  ‘I just want to get home. Let’s get this fuckin’ over with.’

  Bridget can sympathise; she wants to get home too. Sasha, by contrast, is fresh faced and eager. Bridget tries to channel her young colleague’s energy.

  ‘Alex, can you tell us if you’ve had any recent contact with Dylan O’Shea?’

  ‘No. None.’

  ‘Can you describe your movements yesterday and today?’

  ‘Went to work at Jess’s parents’ place. Started at seven thirty, got home four thirtyish, had dinner, a few beers, went to bed.’

  ‘Did you speak to either of Jess’s parents? Can they confirm that you were at the property?’

  ‘Yeah. Margaret, Jess’s mum, made me a few cups of coffee during the day. We spoke about the job and she added on some extras, which is becoming a habit. Her money, I guess.’

  ‘Did you leave the property at any stage during the day?’

  ‘Popped out to the hardware store and to get some lunch. That’s about it.’

  ‘Can you tell me the purpose of the container of bleach you keep in your ute?’

  Alex jerks back in his seat. ‘It’s used to clean moss and mould from bricks and pavers … Fuckin’ hell, do you think I used it to clean up evidence or something?’

  That’s precisely Bridget’s line of thought. She deflects his question with another of her own. ‘Jessica said that you picked her up from Artarmon train station on Thursday September fifth. Can you confirm that this is correct?’

  ‘Look, I’ve no idea of specific dates but, yeah, I
picked her up from the station a couple of weeks ago. The trains weren’t running.’

  ‘Did you go inside the station at any point?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you recall what you were wearing that night?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ He glares at her. ‘I don’t keep a fuckin’ record of what I wear.’

  ‘Is it possible you were wearing a black puffer jacket similar to the one found in your home tonight?’

  His response is emphatic. ‘Not possible. I don’t have a jacket like that.’

  The interview concludes just after 9 p.m. Bridget thanks him for his cooperation and informs him that he’s free to go; there’s not enough evidence to detain him any longer. He scowls as he stands up, his height all the more pronounced in the small interview room. Sasha escorts him out.

  Back at her desk, Bridget is getting her thoughts in order when she receives a phone call from Anna, one of the forensics team.

  ‘Hi, Bridget. Sorry, know it’s late, but I thought you’d want to know straight away. The stains on that jacket are blood spatters.’

  ‘Thanks. How long before we can tell if the blood is Newson’s, Malouf’s or O’Shea’s?’

  ‘Couple of days.’

  According to Alex, the blood could be from any random contractor who cut himself on the job, and the bleach is used in the course of his work. But in Bridget’s world, the concurrent presence of blood and bleach never fail to set off alarm bells.

  Cold hard fact: a landscaper would have more opportunity than anyone else to bury a body.

  *

  Early on Saturday morning, Bridget receives a preliminary report from the tech department regarding a laptop seized from Megan Lowe’s house.

  Search history contains news articles about William Newson’s death and a map of his neighbourhood in Killara. In addition, there’s Facebook activity relating to Thomas Malouf and Dylan O’Shea. The activity is not just recent: it dates back years.

  The laptop belongs to Roslyn Lowe.

  Now Bridget and Dave are parked outside the property in Hornsby. It’s 8 a.m. A jogger is running along the grass verge, and the neighbour across the road is making arcs with his garden hose. Bridget experiences a fleeting rush of guilt regarding her neglected fitness levels and her arid, thirsty garden at home.