You Had It Coming Read online

  The pasta is bubbling when her phone pings from somewhere. She looks around for it before remembering it’s still in her backpack. A plummeting sensation when she sees Megan’s name again.

  He’s dead …

  The question has been at the front of her mind since she woke up, and here, finally, is the answer.

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

  Alex chooses this precise moment to appear and she drops the phone guiltily.

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  He’s wearing an old pair of work shorts, possibly yesterday’s, and his chest is bare and tanned, defiant of the fact that it’s still winter. Alex is a horticulturist and spends his days outdoors in the sun, often without his shirt. He should be at work right now, mowing someone’s lawn or yanking weeds from neglected garden beds. His clients rarely make use of his consulting skills or expansive horticultural knowledge. He says it doesn’t really bother him: ‘Money is money, babe. Don’t care if I’m the most expensive lawn boy in the city.’

  He sits down on one of the kitchen chairs with an elongated groan. ‘Bloody hell. Big night. Hope I didn’t wake you.’

  ‘Think of a giraffe trying to move quietly and you’ll get the picture.’

  ‘Sorry, babe. Got stuck with Ramsey. He’s having a hard time at work.’

  Alex is the friend who gets called when someone needs to drown their sorrows. Jess is not sure about the quality of his advice, but he can be counted on to listen and stay until they’re ready to go home; his loyalty can’t be faulted.

  ‘Nothing on today?’ she asks, tipping the pasta out of the pot and into the waiting colander.

  ‘Nothing urgent. You know how it is, they always seem a bit surprised when I come at the agreed time anyway.’

  Alex, like other tradesmen, has to battle against a blanket reputation for unreliability. He’s usually good for turning up on time or at least phoning if he’s been delayed. Today excepted.

  Jess plonks a bowl of pasta down in front of him. ‘Here, this should help some.’

  ‘Thanks, babe. You’re so good to me. I’m a lucky bastard.’

  In fairness, she’s lucky, too. She can be herself around him, she can be honest: one glance or touch can replace a thousand words. They’re different, though. Jess is ambitious, intense, introverted, and obsessed about fitness. Alex is none of the above; he just wants a good time. But they fit well together. Jess doesn’t know how, they just do.

  She sits down opposite him and prongs her pasta with her fork. She needs to tell him about William Newson.

  He’s dead … He’s actually dead …

  William Newson has always had the effect of making her boyfriend – the most laidback person she knows – extremely angry. She decides to wait a couple of hours, until his hangover subsides.

  It’s a pretty bad hangover. Alex declares himself unable to do even a few hours’ work and makes a sheepish phone call to his client. Jess prescribes fresh air and some gentle exercise. The closest national park is a fifteen-minute drive; they often go there on weekends.

  Alex’s ute looks incongruous next to the luxury vehicles parked along the street. Its paintwork is riddled with rusty scratches and dings, mostly from encounters with letterboxes as a result of driving too fast up and down driveways.

  ‘I’m driving,’ Jess states in a tone he knows not to argue with. It’s late afternoon now, but she’s still not confident that his blood-alcohol is below the legal limit. Last thing he needs is to lose his licence.

  She hoists herself behind the wheel, before adjusting the seat and mirrors: his legs are a lot longer than hers. Take-off is jerky: it always takes a while to get used to the manual gearbox. The sun is starting to drop behind the trees by the time they reach Bobbin Head Road.

  ‘Park closes at five thirty,’ the ranger says gruffly when they stop at the entrance to pay the fee.

  ‘Just going for a short one, mate,’ she assures him.

  She swings the ute into one of the marked spaces; there’s nobody else around. They jump out. The air is clean and pure, the only noise the sound of wind in the trees and a few chirps from native birds: this is why they come here. A number of walks, of varying lengths, begin from the car park. They decide on one that’s an estimated hour’s round trip, according to the mounted noticeboard and map.

  It’s a narrow path, winding through gum trees and bush. Jess leads and Alex brings up the rear. It works better like that, otherwise his long stride would leave her behind. The first section is fairly level and she sets an easy pace, a nod to his fragile state. They don’t speak, other than a warning she issues when they come to a slippery bit. Her thoughts are far away from the bush.

  He’s dead … He’s actually dead …

  The urge to see Megan has been building all day. They were such unlikely friends. Megan went to public co-ed in Hornsby while Jess went to a private ladies’ college in Pymble. They met at karate, weekly classes in Turramurra, forced there by their fathers, who knew Sensei through different channels. Jess’s dad wanted her to learn self-discipline, Megan’s dad wanted to build her confidence. They were often paired together, being the same age and gender, and Megan used to giggle whenever she stuffed up the moves in the katas (there were so many bloody katas to learn). They were prone to chatting, which got them into perpetual trouble with Sensei. After class, they used to walk together to the train station, before going to their different platforms, Jess’s southbound, Megan’s northbound. If there weren’t any trains blocking the view, they would wave across at each other. Megan was sweet, uncomplicated, and quite naïve in comparison to Jess’s other friends. Her house was a ramshackle weatherboard on a sad block of land, while Jess’s family home had a tennis court, an enormous pool and extensive gardens. Jess liked their differences. She liked Megan and started to invite her to things. A sleepover for her sixteenth birthday. A weekend away for her seventeenth. For her eighteenth they were both in a courtroom, on the receiving end of William Newson’s insinuations and outrageous lies.

  The path reaches an incline, with uneven steps hewn from rock and sleepers. Up and up and up. Jess’s breath is ragged, her thighs burning. She knows she’s alive; Alex probably wants to die.

  After ten minutes of climbing they come to the top. A stunning vista of bush, water and sky.

  ‘Let’s stop here a minute,’ she says, sinking down on to one of the sandstone boulders.

  Alex immediately looks suspicious. They don’t usually stop: they’re both dogged like that.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘William Newson is dead.’ Something releases in Jess when she hears those words out loud.

  ‘What?’

  ‘William Newson. The barrister. He was shot dead last night. It’s been on the news.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’ Alex runs a hand through his hair, which is especially unkempt today. Jess’s mother comes to mind: she is constantly suggesting he get a haircut, or at least run a comb through it.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ His hands are hanging by his sides now, clenching and unclenching with emotion. ‘Pity they didn’t put a few bullets in those other two bastards while they were at it.’

  6

  BRIDGET

  Jesus, teenagers! Bridget’s children are pressing her buttons. They don’t go to bed at night therefore don’t want to get up in the mornings. She’s had to call Cara three times this morning. Three! They’re deaf to her voice, her refrains that they wash up after themselves, keep their rooms clean, do their homework, not spend too long on Netflix. Seventeen and fifteen years old, incompetent in many respects, but brimming with opinions and contrariness. Who knew that life would be ten times more difficult now than when they were toddlers?

  ‘Homicide is way easier than this,’ is Bridget’s parting shot as she leaves the house. The only person who hears is her husband, Shane, not the person to whom the remark is directed but he is used to getting caught in the line of fire.

  Homicide is obviously not easier
. Bridget has been given the Newson case, which she was hoping for the minute she got called out on Tuesday night but didn’t dare take for granted. This is a big, high-profile case: many of her colleagues had their hand up too. Bridget’s team consists of Patrick, an experienced detective senior constable, and Sasha, a hardworking junior. Dave and the other local detectives at Chatswood are helping on the ground.

  Bridget opens the car window to let in some air. The traffic is making her agitated. Megan Lowe’s shift started at 8 a.m., and Bridget’s plan was to get to the ambulance base ten minutes before. Time enough for a quick chat to establish if Megan and her colleague have anything to add to the narrative of the shooting. But the traffic is not complying. Her phone rings. It’s a welcome distraction from the fact that only two cars have progressed through the intersection and now the lights are red again.

  ‘Hey, Bridge. It’s Dave.’

  ‘I was just thinking about you. How are you getting on with the bins?’

  He groans. ‘Still at it. Not popular with the neighbours or the council or the poor sods rifling through the rubbish.’

  ‘Popularity is overrated,’ Bridget says.

  ‘Any more news on the wife?’ he asks after a small pause. It’s clear that he’s itching to be involved in the case at a deeper level.

  ‘You mean ex-wife,’ she corrects tetchily.

  The ex-wife of a barrister comes with certain preconceptions: someone with innate poise and confidence; someone immaculately groomed and dressed; someone ‘well-to-do’, to borrow a term her mother would use. Suzanne Newson was none of the above. A plump woman in her mid-fifties, eyes gritty from crying, a tremor in the hand that shook Bridget’s and Katrina’s (the detective inspector paired up with her for the late-night visit). Suzanne’s hair was grey, short and practical. Her house, a modest bungalow, smelled of dogs. Most surprising was her honesty.

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Her eyes darted between Bridget and Katrina. ‘Should I go to the hospital, or stay here and wait for news? Our split was acrimonious, you see, so it doesn’t feel authentic to rush to his deathbed. Joshua, my middle son, is there, talking to the doctors. He said it isn’t looking good. The oldest works as an accountant in London and the youngest is studying politics in Canberra. They’re booking flights home. Oh, I’m so devastated for the boys.’

  They asked Suzanne if she had been out that evening: she said she hadn’t. They asked if William had any known enemies: she said that his cases were often ‘controversial’, but she couldn’t really comment on the recent ones. They asked if William had any money problems: she shook her head emphatically.

  The traffic lights change to green and Bridget puts her foot to the pedal, not caring if she gets caught in the middle of the intersection: the fine is worth her sanity any day of the week, plus there’s a good chance she’ll get off.

  ‘We’re checking Suzanne’s phone records and financial situation but first instincts are that she isn’t involved. Three sons, though, so lots of potential there. I’m particularly interested in the middle one, Joshua, who is a junior barrister in the same chambers as his father.’

  Bridget and Patrick visited the chambers yesterday. Joshua wasn’t at work, obviously, and they were told that William Newson’s assistant was away on her honeymoon. They came away empty-handed.

  ‘Patrick is doing some background checks on Joshua Newson. Seeing if he has any questionable friends, or if there was known friction with his father. And Emily, the executive assistant, phoned me from Fiji. She’s going to email details of the cases he was working on.’

  ‘That’s dedicated.’

  ‘I know! I like her already. I’m on my way to talk to the paramedics. Don’t expect to hear anything new but always good to speak to those first on the scene.’

  Bridget reaches the ambulance base at 8.25 a.m. Three ambulances are parked in the bays. A slow morning for emergencies? Normally she’d be with a colleague, but this is a tick-the-box exercise and a small detour on her way to work (if the traffic had complied). Before getting out of the car, Bridget uses the rear-view mirror to fix her hair and apply a slash of red lipstick.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy,’ she says to a good-looking man who is holding a clipboard and pen and checking the tyres of one of the ambulances. ‘I’m looking to speak to Megan Lowe and Lucas Halliday.’

  ‘I’m Lucas.’ He smiles and she’s immediately conscious of her thrown-together appearance. Is her lipstick even on straight? She sighs at the unfairness.

  ‘Hey, Megs,’ he yells. ‘Out here.’

  A woman – thirtyish, dark-brown hair tied in an up-knot – emerges from the ambulance. She’s also holding a clipboard. The pair appear to be doing some sort of inventory, checking the vehicle and equipment.

  ‘Good morning.’ Megan Lowe has watchful brown eyes and a quiet capability. ‘I just need a few minutes to finish off in here. Do you mind waiting in the kitchen?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Lucas points her in the general direction with another smile. He has the dark good looks that Bridget has always been susceptible to. Shane, like her, is a redhead, as are their children; providing them with yet another reason to resent their parents.

  The kitchen has a rectangular table and six chairs. A large glass window looks into an adjacent room, which contains several paramedics watching television.

  ‘Feel free to put on the kettle,’ one of them calls out.

  Bridget is dying for a coffee – she only managed a few sips of the one Shane made for her this morning. She fills the kettle and lines up three mugs.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asks Megan and Lucas when they appear about five minutes later.

  Looking surprised and pleased, they both request tea with milk, one sugar. Bridget can’t help wondering what other things this pair have in common. Their hair, eyes and skin come from the same palette of browns. Even their physiques seem to match: strong, muscular. Something about them fits together.

  ‘I just wanted to have a chat about Tuesday night,’ Bridget says, setting the mugs on the laminate table before sitting down. ‘Thought it was a good idea to cross-check my facts and see how you’re both doing.’

  Megan cups her hands around her mug. Her finger-nails are short and unpolished. Bridget notices a small tattoo – some sort of symbol – on her inside wrist. ‘We did everything we could – we’ve nearly ten years’ clinical experience between the two of us – but it was obvious at the outset that his injuries were extensive. Normally we’d have the back-up of an intensive care paramedic, but even if an ICP had been available, I don’t think it would have made any difference.’

  Bridget writes down the fact that an ICP was unavailable in her notebook.

  ‘The patient was unresponsive when we arrived,’ Lucas adds, folding his arms across his navy short-sleeved shirt. ‘There were two neighbours assisting. Sarah and Darren, from memory.’

  Bridget flicks back through the pages of her notebook, cross-checking the names. ‘Yes, we’ve spoken to those witnesses. Neither was acquainted with Mr Newson. Can you tell me what you observed about his injuries?’

  Bridget expects to receive the results of the forensic autopsy later today, confirming the number of bullets, the order in which they were fired, and their trajectory within Newson’s body. A personal account from the paramedics will complement the scientific details in the report.

  ‘Two close-range gunshot wounds,’ Megan says in her softly spoken voice. ‘Entry wounds in the chest and abdomen, exit wounds in the back. One bullet was located in the skin of Mr Newson’s back, the other was located between the skin and clothing.’

  A call comes through on the ambulance station’s radio system.

  Car 410, says a disembodied voice. 1A cardiac arrest in Gordon.

  Bridget sees activity through the glass window: two male paramedics leaving the room, a fleeting picture of authority and controlled calm. What scenario awaits them? No matter how much you condition yourself to expe
ct the worst, some situations defy the imagination. Policing and paramedical practice are similar in that regard: you have no idea what you’re about to walk in to.

  ‘How long have you two been working together?’ she enquires out of casual interest.

  Lucas answers. ‘Almost three years, on and off. We change partners every couple of months but we work in the same region, so we get stuck with each other fairly often.’ He pulls a face and Megan rolls her eyes at him.

  A siren sounds as the departing ambulance begins its wrangle with the rush-hour traffic. Bridget gets back on track. ‘So, Mr Newson didn’t regain consciousness at any point?’

  ‘He became restless on the way to the hospital,’ Lucas supplies. ‘Not exactly conscious but not that far from it. It can happen when the patient’s blood pressure goes back up. I sedated him. The last thing I needed was for him to pull out the IV.’

  Bridget writes down the word sedated before snapping her notebook shut. ‘Well, thanks for the chat and corroborating my information. I’ll be in touch if we need to know anything else.’

  ‘Wait!’ Megan Lowe commands just as Bridget is on the verge of standing up. ‘There is one more thing.’

  Her tone is quiet and firm. Both Lucas and Bridget look at her questioningly.

  ‘You should probably know that Mr Newson and I were acquainted.’

  Bridget’s hackles rise. She reopens her notebook. ‘In what capacity, exactly?’

  A pause. Megan shifts in her seat. The subject is obviously difficult for her. ‘William Newson was the defence barrister in a case where I was the complainant.’

  ‘What was the case regarding?’

  Megan’s gaze flits from Bridget to Lucas before drifting downwards, to her hands, clasped together. Her discomfort is painfully evident.

  ‘It was a rape trial.’ The kitchen is deathly quiet. Lucas seems as shocked as Bridget is. How well does he know his colleague? There’s an obvious rapport between the two, but at the same time Bridget can understand how this subject matter was never discussed. The stigma. The embarrassment. Bridget dealt with a few rape cases before she transferred to homicide. Categorically the most frustrating cases of her career; six offences, not a single conviction.