You Had It Coming Page 24

  ‘Let’s go,’ says Dave, springing out of the car with an enthusiasm that belies the fact that they were both in the office until almost eleven last night. Bridget’s exit is hesitant: she’s questioning what she’s doing here. Every time she thinks she is getting a handle on the case, it takes another turn, pirouetting out of reach. Alex’s ute is currently undergoing forensic examination, with traces of blood already detected on one of the spades. It’s evident that Bridget is going to need another warrant, for the place he presumably last used the spade: Jessica’s family home. Yet, with all that going on, Bridget is here, outside this other more ordinary house that will soon – conveniently? – have brand-new owners. Last night she felt quite convinced that Jessica’s boyfriend was implicated; this morning it’s Megan’s mother who is setting off alarm bells. A mother’s love is a force of nature. A mother’s wrath has no boundaries. Bridget has no clue how either Alex or Roslyn align with the motorbike and gun being found in Thomas Malouf’s storage facility. It’s making her head spin. What is she missing? A small crucial piece of information that ties everything together, or something bigger and more fundamental?

  Megan answers the door. She’s dressed in pyjamas, her dark-brown hair mussed from sleep. She looks vulnerable, embarrassed, startled, annoyed: the range of emotions Bridget herself would experience if she opened her front door to two detectives while still in her nightwear.

  ‘Good morning. Sorry for the early call. Is your mum at home?’

  ‘She’s working today,’ Megan says, then adds, ‘to make up for having yesterday off.’

  A choice: leave now and phone Roslyn later to arrange a formal interview; or see if anything can be gleaned from her daughter. Dave used the word ‘hostile’ when describing Roslyn’s reaction to last night’s search. A chat with Megan might be more productive.

  ‘Do you mind if we come in?’

  A blink of chocolate-coloured eyes. ‘Sure. But it’s not going to be comfortable. There’s literally nowhere to sit!’

  She’s not lying. The living room, which is the first room off the hallway, is entirely empty except for a TV screen on the wall. A door opens further down the hallway. Tattooed arms, unkempt hair and flashing eyes. It’s the brother: Sebastian. What’s he doing here again? Doesn’t he live in Melbourne?

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demands, looking at everyone in turn, his eyes stopping on his sister.

  ‘They just want to talk,’ Megan answers, a quiver detectable in her voice.

  ‘You don’t have to talk, Megan. You don’t have to do anything. Mum’s right. This is harassment.’

  Hostility can be born from fear, or a loss of control, or entrenched anger. Providing detail can dispel some of the first two at least.

  Bridget takes a breath. ‘Look, it’s just a quick chat about your mum’s laptop and some of the stuff she’s been looking at. But you’re right. You’re under no obligation to speak to us.’

  Megan sighs. Her brother scowls. Bridget is suspicious that they’re both well aware of their mother’s online activity.

  ‘Let’s get out of the hall,’ Megan says in a calm voice.

  They follow her into the kitchen, converging around the L-shaped countertop.

  Bridget is forthright. ‘Can either of you explain why there are hundreds of searches relating to two deceased men and another missing man on your mum’s laptop?’

  Silence. Megan and Seb exchange a long meaningful look. She wants to explain; he is loath. Bridget waits it out.

  ‘It’s not how it looks,’ Megan says eventually, breaking eye contact with her brother.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Bridget locks her into a stare.

  ‘Mum is a bit obsessed. She lost a lot because of the trial. But she would never hurt anyone …’

  Bridget recalls the victim impact statement that Megan wrote as part of her therapy. She said that she’d woken up to a nightmare, that her trust in people, and in the world, had been shattered. Roslyn forwarded the impact statement to the investigating detectives, insisting it be placed on file, because Roslyn had found herself living a nightmare, too: no mother in the world wants to hear their daughter referred to as Girl A.

  ‘Your mum’s workplace is directly across the road from the Motorcycle Accessories Café. Does she have associations with any of its clientele?’

  Another – alarmed – look between brother and sister.

  ‘Of course not!’ Megan’s denial is underscored with uncertainty.

  ‘I hear they do good coffee,’ Bridget continues, transferring her stare to Megan’s brother. ‘Some interesting personalities hanging around that café. You can buy more than coffee and motorcycle parts, if you know what I mean.’

  Seb’s face darkens; her meaning is not lost on him. Megan’s brother never made it on to Katrina’s white-board because he lives in Melbourne. Yet here he is. And he was here last time, too. Melbourne is a mere flight away.

  Megan’s dark eyes are pleading. ‘I promise this is not as bad as it looks. Listen …’

  51

  MEGAN

  The first sign of trouble came nine months after the trial. Her dad, Peter, had taken on a contract to repair a common property driveway. It was a large, complex job. A few weeks after completion, he received a letter of complaint from the owner, stating that cracks and bubbles were starting to form along the edges of the retaining walls. Megan was in Cambodia at the time, and heard about it from Roslyn over the phone.

  ‘Your father rectified the work, but he doesn’t understand what went wrong. It looks like the waterproof membrane failed to bond, but he’s used it many times before without any problems.’

  Megan remembers the conversation quite clearly, because a driveway dispute seemed like such a first-world problem. Phnom Penh had swarms of children, orphaned and barefoot, who pulled at her clothes and begged for money, food or, their ultimate dream, to be adopted.

  Megan and Roslyn spoke again about a week later. ‘The owner is still not happy. He’s taking your father to the New South Wales Fair Trading Tribunal. He wants compensation.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Four hundred thousand.’

  ‘What?’ Megan laughed because it sounded so ludicrous, because she had faith in her father’s workmanship, and because it still seemed unimportant in comparison to what she’d seen that day at Stung Meanchey, the garbage dump outside Phnom Penh: children scavenging through garbage, looking for plastic, glass and metal to sell to the small local recycling businesses. They not only ‘worked’ at the dump, they lived there, their makeshift houses perched on mounds of rubbish, a few of them killed each year, rolled over by garbage trucks.

  Roslyn sent an email following the tribunal hearing: Your father has been ordered to pay the compensation. The Tribunal Member said he failed to properly investigate the condition of the concrete slab, the moisture content, and traffic usage. The insurance company are resisting because they weren’t informed of the dispute soon enough. This is a disaster.

  Megan started to pay attention: $400,000 was a life-changing sum of money. Had her dad been careless or distracted when undertaking the work? Why didn’t he inform the insurance company straight away? Was this ‘disaster’, indirectly, all her fault?

  That doesn’t sound like Dad. What happens now?

  Now it goes to the NSW Civil and Administrative Tribunal.

  Does Dad need a lawyer?

  Not at this stage. You’re meant to represent yourself. But it’s really taking its toll. He’s been very stressed and not himself at all. I’m worried about him.

  Her dad lost the second hearing and went to see a lawyer about appealing. He was told it would be extremely costly, and there was no guarantee he would win. The dispute was not a clear-cut one and the owner had obtained expert opinions that would hold weight unless Peter could produce some experts of his own.

  We’ve got no money to take this further, Roslyn emailed. We’re already out of pocket from the rectification work. Losing would mean we’re u
p for the other side’s legal costs, too. The insurance company isn’t budging.

  Peter remortgaged the house to pay the $400,000. His reputation and financial stability were shattered. He sank into depression. The world was a bad place. People couldn’t be trusted. What was the point in working hard all your life? His mental health deteriorated until he was unable to summon the confidence to work. In Roslyn’s opinion, his depression led to the cancer. Probably not true, but it definitely affected his capacity to fight the disease, and made him resist getting proper treatment. Nothing was worthwhile. Everything was a conspiracy against him; even the doctors and nurses who were doing their very best.

  Megan stayed in Cambodia for four weeks. She went on another ‘tour’ of the garbage dump and this time was struck by the children’s happy smiles. Living like this – the putrid smell, the mud and dirt, managing to exist from what other people threw away – they still smiled. There was a pretty girl in a long clean dress and Megan slipped her some money. The girl symbolised hope and inventiveness, despite dire circumstances.

  Roslyn called on the day she was due to leave for Vietnam. The other girls in the dormitory growled on being woken up by the loud ring tone. Megan turned off the volume, and scuttled outside to the corridor.

  ‘It was the Maloufs,’ Roslyn cried. ‘The owner of the building is a relative of theirs. They set your father up.’

  ‘What?’ Megan asked groggily, leaning against the wall to prop herself up. She’d had a late night and felt queasy from an impromptu farewell party, which involved shots of vodka in the hostel’s common room.

  ‘The Maloufs were behind the whole thing,’ Roslyn screeched in her ear, doing her headache no favours.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked in disbelief.

  ‘I did some investigation of my own because I needed your father to feel better about himself. I found out that the site was well-known for its water problems, which meant any kind of construction on that driveway would’ve had issues. And I found out that the owner is married to one of Thomas Malouf’s aunts.’

  Megan’s stomach plummeted. This was no coincidence. It couldn’t be.

  ‘I confronted him, the owner.’ Roslyn sounded deranged. ‘I told him that I knew who he really was, and the terrible effect the dispute had on Peter. Do you know what he said to me, Megan? Do you know what he actually said?’

  ‘What?’ she whispered, closing her eyes with dread.

  ‘He said “Reputations are easy to fuck with, aren’t they?”’

  Bile rose in her throat. ‘What did he mean?’

  ‘I asked him! Apparently, Thomas missed out on a cadetship with one of the banks. He was all set to start but the bank suddenly changed its mind. Another job offer was retracted after a background check. Thomas’s reputation was damaged, so they thought your father was fair game.’

  The Maloufs wanted revenge. Winning the trial evidently wasn’t enough.

  Megan’s thoughts leapt to the girl in the dump who had been wearing that impossibly clean dress. How did she do it? How did she stay clean when she had all that filth around her?

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. This is all my fault.’

  Then, before she could help it, her stomach heaved and she threw up all over the corridor.

  52

  JESS

  The Maloufs tried to sabotage Jess’s father, too. They searched their extensive network until they unearthed someone whom Richard Foster had operated on; as one of the top surgeons in the city it wasn’t that hard. A lawsuit was manufactured, and an online smear campaign launched. But malpractice in heart surgery is harder to pull off than malpractice in the building industry. Richard knew his way around the pitfalls of professional indemnity insurance and immediately informed his broker. He’d been sued before, and had an experienced lawyer he could afford to engage. The patient claimed that she didn’t receive appropriate post-op care, a flaky assertion given her good health and the fact that her pacemaker was working faultlessly. After some argy-bargy between the lawyers, the complainant had no choice but to withdraw or risk significant legal costs when she inevitably lost in court.

  The possibility of the complainant being related to Thomas Malouf didn’t cross their minds. She was just a cantankerous old woman, who had cost Richard in legal fees and annoyance.

  Until Megan sent an email from Vietnam: You know that money my dad had to pay? Just discovered it was a set-up by the Maloufs to get back at us. The owner of the property is married to Thomas’s aunt! Feel sick to my stomach. Mum and Dad had to remortgage and it’s all my fault!

  Jess showed the email to her father and he asked his lawyer to investigate further. The cantankerous old woman was, in fact, a cousin of Thomas Malouf’s grandfather.

  Jess was aghast when her dad confirmed the connection. ‘Oh my God, how far will these people go?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘The lawyers had dealt with it anyway.’

  Jess did worry about it. The differences between Megan’s family and hers had never been more stark: her family possessing the money and resources to fight off the attack by the Maloufs; Megan’s family left ruined.

  This is what led to Roslyn going crazy at her husband’s funeral all those years later.

  ‘How dare you show your face … This is all your fault,’ she shrieked, when Jess tried to pay her respects. ‘What kind of friend are you, anyway? You should have gone home with Megan. If you’d been a good friend, my husband would still be alive today.’

  Every word of which was true.

  It’s midday, Saturday. They’re closing the gym for the afternoon and meeting at the community hall later in the evening. Everyone is jumpy with anticipation, even Vince, who has been through this more times than he can remember. Billy is here, flouting their advice to conserve energy and stay at home. He is doing hip stretches, one knee on the mat, an arm curved over his head in an oddly graceful pose. Jess vacuums around him.

  ‘One minute I think I’m going to get thrashed, and the next I’m imagining victory …’ He turns his upper body towards her. ‘Can’t decide if I’m scared shitless or beside myself with excitement.’

  She knows that feeling all too well. The combination of fear and excitement, fuelling a surge of adrenalin on stepping into the ring. She is nervous for him, and more than a little jealous. He’s starting off, while her career is over. He won’t reach professional level – he doesn’t have the talent, and besides he already has a career in law – but at least he can fight at an amateur level, a massive achievement in itself.

  You’re still in the game, she tells herself. Even if you’re no longer the centre player. You’re giving back to the sport.

  ‘Get out of here, for God’s sake! You’re in my way. You can feel scared shitless at home.’

  They laugh, with only the tiniest hint of hysteria. How well he does tonight is testament to Jess and Vince, and everything they’ve taught him. Jess is less worried about Jordy and Lachlan, who are fighting too. They’re more experienced, know what to expect.

  The phone rings at the desk and Vince picks it up, saying a gruff hello.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he says, holding out the receiver to Jess.

  Probably Alex. He was rattled this morning when they kissed goodbye. Jess was rattled, too. That stupid puffer jacket. Why did he lie about it? What was the point? Her name was on the warrant, but it was obvious that the detectives were only interested in Alex, taking him in for questioning and towing the ute away. It was hard this morning to find the focus to go into work. But they’re both dogged like that, won’t let themselves be beaten.

  She frowns and turns off the vacuum.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jess, it’s Natasha.’ Her sister’s voice has a tell-tale quiver. Something is clearly wrong. ‘I’ve been trying to call you on your mobile. I’m at Mum and Dad’s. You need to come over here.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Detectives are outside in the garden,
talking to Alex. I think they have a warrant. They’re going to dig the place up.’

  53

  BRIDGET

  The garden has been sectioned off and a cadaver dog, trained to smell human decomposition, is being led around by its handler.

  Bridget’s eyes track the dog, a German Shepherd called Louis, his ears pricked and nose to the ground. He is trained to sit down if he detects anything. Louis makes short work of the expansive lawn and garden beds, disappearing behind trees and shrubs only to reappear again. He comes to a stop by the pool gate, waiting for his handler to allow him entry.

  Dave voices Bridget’s thoughts. ‘Nothing in those new garden beds, then. Maybe Louis will have more luck around the pool.’

  The Foster family are watching proceedings from the kitchen window. The well-off mother and father, Margaret and Richard. Jess, who arrived a few minutes ago, and her sister, with a young baby propped on her shoulder. Alex, arms folded, face smouldering. Bridget can imagine the complaints that will make their way to Katrina. She sighs. Her mind is torn between what’s going on here – the dog, the team of specialist officers, all present at her instigation – and what she learned this morning at Megan’s house. This is not as bad as it looks …

  Megan’s intention was to explain her mother’s interest in the three men – William, Thomas and Dylan – but what she revealed lent Roslyn more motive than anything. Roslyn’s daughter had been violated. Her husband had lost his business and his will to live. Devastating financial consequences are still being paid today. Roslyn has every right to be mad. Is selling the house a means to free up money to pay a debt to a contract killer? Maybe Roslyn decided that her revenge would be every bit as elaborate as the Maloufs’.

  Bridget closes her eyes, imagining herself in Roslyn’s shoes, the mother of Girl A. Hot rage courses through her. Revenge is a natural extension of rage. The timing is important, though. Why now? Years of resentment and hatred hurtling to a climax that coincided with the sale of her beloved family home? Or some other trigger: William Newson in the newspapers yet again; Laura Dundas, shivering and defiant in her bikini, holding up her placard. Roslyn’s internet history had links to the articles. Not again, she must have thought.