You Had It Coming Page 7

  Mabel lies down at Suzanne’s feet. Her hand strokes the dog’s coat. ‘Go on,’ she says softly.

  ‘You mentioned last week that the split was acrimonious. Would you mind expanding on that? Was there a disagreement about money?’

  Suzanne presses her lips together. ‘You could say so, but not in the way you might think … William wasn’t an ungenerous man, but I didn’t want his money. I took only a fraction of what I was entitled to, just enough to buy this house and have a bit left over for a rainy day.’

  Dave is scribe, his notebook balanced on one knee. He’s a lefthander, his writing large but well-formed and legible, from what Bridget can see.

  ‘Can you explain why you didn’t want his money?’ Bridget asks in a light tone that doesn’t reflect how interested she is in the upcoming answer.

  ‘I didn’t like where it came from,’ Suzanne says plainly, her eyes darting from Bridget to Dave.

  All those girls can’t be lying.

  ‘You mean you didn’t like that he earned some of it from defending sexual assault cases?’

  Suzanne rubs her temples with the tips of her fingers. Bridget wonders if she has a headache coming on. ‘I read some of the files he brought home at night. Saw the photos, the statements, the medical reports … It bothered me and bothered me until eventually I found the whole situation – and him – repulsive.’

  Bridget and Dave exchange a glance.

  ‘Can you tell us if you went out anywhere last Tuesday night?’ Dave asks, knowing full well that Suzanne was asked this question previously. ‘Did you pop out to the shops, or go anywhere in the car?’

  She shakes her head, then gestures to the room around them. ‘I was here all evening. I was watching The Block when I got the phone call from Joshua. He was on his way to the hospital.’

  Bridget had been watching The Block too, before her phone rang. Everyone knows what time the show airs; this detail doesn’t offer any reassurance that Suzanne was really here.

  ‘When was the last time someone saw you on Tuesday?’ Dave continues.

  Suzanne takes a moment to consider this. ‘I was in the garden that afternoon, between four and five. I think I said hello to one of my neighbours as she walked past. But I’m not sure if I have the right day.’

  ‘Which neighbour? What number house?’

  Suzanne provides the information but reiterates that she isn’t sure. Now that Dave is asking the questions, Bridget can concentrate on reading Suzanne’s facial clues and body language. Her colouring is high. She seems slightly flustered. But she is being cooperative and appears to be genuine.

  ‘Did you use your phone to make any calls?’

  ‘Only after I heard the news. I called Quentin and Riley and other relatives to let them know.’

  Quentin is the son who works in the UK, Riley studies politics in Canberra. Back at headquarters, Patrick is examining Suzanne’s phone records, as well as signals from her handset to the local base station, which should help in providing her approximate location. He’s also doing some digging on her financial situation, although if Suzanne is to be believed she doesn’t want any of her ex-husband’s money.

  Bridget gives Dave a nod, indicating that she is ready to take over again.

  ‘How are your sons holding up, Suzanne?’

  Her face crumples. ‘It’s hard on them. They’ve never lost anyone close – both sets of grandparents are alive. Me being estranged from their father is difficult, too. The boys are organising the funeral. I’m helping as much as I can from the sidelines, giving advice about what kind of coffin they should buy, who should speak at the service, what to do afterwards … But the responsibility rests with them.’

  ‘Are Quentin and Riley staying here with you?’

  ‘No, they’re with Joshua. He’s in Blues Point Road. Much better location. Lots of good restaurants on the doorstep.’

  Bridget doesn’t comment. Surely, the availability of good restaurants should be irrelevant in circumstances such as these?

  ‘How do your sons feel about their father’s cases? Are they as repulsed as you?’

  Suzanne contemplates this for a moment. ‘Quentin and Riley are very removed from it. They live in different cities, have different professions … I don’t think they’ve ever stopped to think it through. Joshua isn’t repulsed, but he has got caught in the crossfire more than once.’

  ‘How?’ Bridget prompts.

  ‘Protesters outside the courthouse. Someone who spray-painted the reception area of the chambers. The Malouf–O’Shea case was the worst – Joshua was still at university then. A girl egged him while he was walking through the campus. Bloody underwear was taped to his locker. Turned out it was just fake blood, but Joshua was very upset. The stress made him overeat. He’s still carrying around the extra weight today.’

  Bridget’s eyes flick to Dave, writing as diligently as ever. There’s a lot to get down. Hopefully, he’s capturing it all. Of course, they could bring Suzanne in for a formal interview, hitting the record button and negating the need for taking notes, but in Bridget’s opinion one can never replicate the benefits of an informal chat in the home. People tend to let their guard down. It’s harder to sustain a lie in the place where they’re at their most honest.

  She looks around the room, granting Dave some time to catch up. Her eyes snag on a series of matching photo frames on the shelf above the TV. Suzanne and her sons, three dark-haired bulky men. Suzanne with another woman of a similar age, champagne glasses raised, a celebratory moment frozen in time. Suzanne shaking someone’s hand at some kind of official gathering.

  Bridget stands up to take a closer look. ‘Is that the NSW Premier?’

  ‘Yes. It was great meeting her. She’s extremely witty in person. Not at all what I expected.’

  ‘What was the occasion?’

  ‘Oh, I just received an award, that’s all.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Some work I do at the Rape Crisis Centre.’

  All those girls can’t be lying.

  Bridget sinks back down on the floral sofa. Dave indicates that he has caught up, which is good because this tangent seems like a rather important one.

  ‘What kind of work do you do at the centre?’

  ‘Mainly fundraising. I also facilitate one of the support groups.’

  ‘When did you become involved in the organisation?’

  ‘Two years ago. Around the time of the divorce.’

  ‘And what did William think about this?’

  Suzanne folds her arms in a blatantly defensive action. ‘Look, he wasn’t pleased, but it was my business, not his. I didn’t specifically want to make life difficult for him, and I tried to be discreet, using my maiden name so there was less chance of it having a negative impact on his practice.’

  While William Newson was defending sexual assault offenders, his ex-wife was actively supporting the victims. How did these two remain married for so long? How did they end up on opposing sides?

  ‘Can you tell me more about your divorce? Was there something specific that forced your hand, Suzanne?’

  ‘Just the build-up of becoming more and more disillusioned with the work he was engaging in. And, yes, there was a tipping point. You see, he had this repeat client … Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Suzanne pauses, to register her incredulity with her audience. ‘Suddenly it seemed inevitable that they would all reoffend at some point, because they had never been appropriately punished in the first place … thanks to my husband. The same offenders reappearing again and again, like a conveyor belt, labelling the victims as liars, never being held to account for their behaviour, my husband facilitating their violence. I couldn’t bear to be in the same house as him, so I packed my bags and went to stay with my sister. A few weeks later I offered my services to the Rape Crisis Centre and began divorce proceedings. Everything was handled through lawyers. William and I didn’t speak to each other again.’

  A whole new definition of ‘acrimonious’. Bri
dget is both appalled and impressed. Impartiality is one of the hardest things she’s had to learn in the police force. Hiding what she thinks and feels behind a mask of neutrality, striving to maintain an open mind, reminding herself that there are two sides to every story.

  ‘So the burial is Friday?’ she asks in what she hopes is a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘Yes, eleven a.m. at St Mary’s. The body was released yesterday afternoon. I’ve decided not to go.’

  Bridget is going. Dave doesn’t know it yet, but he is too. The funeral is an opportunity to gain a deeper understanding of the family dynamic. The pink-faced woman sitting before them, who was so repulsed by her ex-husband she supposedly didn’t even want her fair share of their assets. Joshua, the middle son, who was bullied as a direct result of his father’s courtroom victories and the only family member to see him on a regular basis. His fly-in brothers, who have chosen not to stay with their mother, which Bridget finds peculiar. Boys, even the grown-up ones, yearn to be spoiled by their mothers. Do they resent Suzanne for shattering the family unit? Would they have preferred that she suffer in silence, live the rest of her life with a man whose moral compass was pointing in the opposite direction to her own?

  ‘Thanks, Suzanne. We’ll be in touch if there is anything else.’

  13

  MEGAN

  ‘Ready to spend the day saving people from the jaws of death?’ Lucas says in greeting. It’s 5.30 a.m.; they’re on the early shift.

  ‘Buy me a coffee and we’ll see!’

  Megan is not a morning person. Winter mornings are particularly excruciating. Hauling herself out of bed in the dark, her bedroom an icebox. Like many houses in Sydney, they don’t have proper heating. Nine months of the year, it’s fine, but conditions are frigid from June to August. The fact that the house is a weatherboard and all the windows and doors are old and ill-fitting compounds the problem.

  The crew they’re taking over from are still in the process of cleaning the ambulance. Megan sticks her head inside the rear doors, the smell of disinfectant lodging in the back of her throat.

  ‘Hey, guys. How did your shift go?’

  A few car accidents and asthma attacks, a cardiac arrest and a suicide attempt: sounds like they had an eventful shift. The crew get to share their war stories, and at the same time help Megan establish what to pay attention to while completing the checklists. Medical kit, trauma kit and oxygen kit have all been restocked.

  Lucas does the vehicle checks – tyres, fuel, oil levels, sirens, cabin. Once handover is complete, he drives them to the closest McDonald’s. They sit in the deserted car park, sipping from their disposable coffee cups, watching dawn breaking across the sky, yellow and orange leaching into greyness.

  ‘Heard anything more from that detective?’ Lucas asks quietly.

  Oh God. She should have guessed this was coming. Steeled herself.

  ‘Not a thing.’ Megan stares straight ahead, not trusting herself to meet his eyes.

  To tell the truth, she thought she’d hear more from Bridget Kennedy. Maybe she and Jess are a long way down the list of people who had issues with William Newson. Maybe she has been worrying and casting aspersions on Alex for nothing.

  ‘You okay, Megs?’ She feels Lucas’s eyes raking over her face, hears the concern in his voice. She’s not okay. The reverberating shock of recognising William Newson’s face, that prickly dissatisfying meeting with Jess, speaking about the rape after so many years of silence: her façade is well and truly cracked. One look at Lucas and he’d know that she’s not okay. Then he would take her in his arms, like that night in the pub. It’s tempting.

  ‘Course I am. Tough as old boots!’ She takes a large glug from her cup. The caffeine courses through her bloodstream. ‘How’s Daniella?’

  Nothing as grounding as bringing up his girlfriend’s name.

  ‘Yeah, fine. She’s thinking of going back to university to study orthodontics.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Another three years.’

  Daniella works in a busy dental practice in Chatswood. Orthodontics would suit her; she’s very up-close and detail-oriented.

  ‘Maybe she’ll give me a discount. My dentist wants me to get braces. Too old, too expensive, I said.’

  Lucas turns her chin towards him. ‘Let’s see. Smile.’

  Their faces are so close Megan can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. She sticks out her tongue before baring her teeth at him.

  ‘Definite overbite,’ he declares. ‘I’ll ask her about the discount.’

  ‘Well, she can practise on your wonky teeth before touching mine.’

  They’re still laughing when the MDT lights up. The mood changes instantly.

  ‘Six-month-old baby with febrile convulsions,’ Megan reads out loud.

  Sirens and lights. Their coffee break is over.

  The mother is hysterical, the sick baby propped in her arms while a little girl pulls at her leg. Both children are red-faced and howling. Everyone is dressed in pyjamas.

  ‘He wasn’t well last night. I thought it was just a cold. Oh God, is he going to be okay?’

  Lucas is in the process of removing the baby’s one-piece pyjamas.

  ‘He’s very hot,’ Megan says, speaking slowly because fear makes it hard to listen. ‘Have you given him any medication in the last few hours?’

  ‘Baby Panadol, a few minutes before he started fitting.’

  ‘How long did the seizure last for?’

  ‘Six or seven minutes? I don’t know exactly. Oh God, I should have brought him to the doctor last night. I’m so sorry.’

  Her face is blotched from crying. Her hair hasn’t been combed. She looks like she needs a hug, a strong cup of tea, and being sent back to bed for the shock. Poor woman. It’s a scary thing, seeing a child having convulsions, even when you aren’t related to them. The toddler is still howling and adding to her stress levels.

  ‘No need to be sorry. You did the right thing, calling us. Have you got anyone who can come and help?’

  ‘My husband’s away on business. We’re new to the area. I don’t even know where the hospital is.’

  The pitch of her voice rises with each statement. The toddler’s volume rises in conjunction, feeding off her distress. The baby, down to its nappy, is kicking and screaming. Megan can barely hear herself speak.

  ‘No problem. We can take you all with us. Grab your bag and whatever you need.’ She gives the toddler a smile. ‘You want to come for a ride in the ambulance?’

  ‘No!’ she wails, not the response Megan was hoping for. ‘I don’t want am-blence. I don’t want am-blence.’

  ‘We have lollies in am-blence,’ Lucas says helpfully.

  ‘Lollies! Lollies!’ The transformation is instantaneous.

  Megan and Lucas share a smirk. If only adults were so easy to manipulate.

  The young mother reappears in record time, wearing jeans in place of her pyjama bottoms and sneakers instead of slippers. She wrestles the toddler into a pair of sparkly pink shoes.

  ‘Do you need a bottle for the baby?’ Megan prompts. ‘Nappies?’

  ‘Oh God, yes.’

  ‘Keys. Phone. And don’t forget jackets, it’s cold out there this morning.’

  Both kids have perked up by the time everyone’s loaded into the ambulance.

  The toddler is ecstatic with the lollipop Lucas presents to her. ‘We’re going to the hob-ital,’ she announces cheerfully.

  ‘Yep,’ Lucas says. ‘We’re going to the hob-ital in the am-blence.’

  The baby’s cheeks are less red and his eyes have regained some of their twinkle. Curious fingers reach out to touch Lucas’s nose.

  ‘Hey, little fella. Think you can just poke me in the face now that you’re feeling better?’

  ‘Do you have kids?’ the mother asks Lucas, smoothing tousled hair back from her tear-streaked face.

  ‘Nope. Just practising.’

  He’s going to make a great father
one day. This is why Megan finds it so hard to like Daniella: she is plain jealous of her. Daniella doesn’t appreciate how good he is with the kids, or how kind with the old people, or how caring to just about everyone. Megan feels the envy contorting her face; she bangs shut the ambulance doors before anyone notices.

  ‘That’s a wrap,’ Lucas declares, twelve hours later. They’ve completed the handover to the next crew and are walking back to their cars. It’s dark and chilly, like early this morning when they started their shift. He looks as tired as she feels.

  ‘Enough people saved from the jaws of death for one day.’ Megan smiles. ‘Four days off, though. What’re you going to do with yourself?’

  ‘Sleep. Call and see the folks. Take Daniella out for a nice meal.’

  Daniella. That ugly stab of jealousy again. Can he see it on her face? Oh God, she hopes not.

  ‘Well, enjoy the break,’ she says, disguising the jealousy with cheeriness. ‘See you next week.’

  Next week they’re rostered for 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Preferable to getting out of bed in the dark, but no chance of doing anything outside work. This job is hard on families as well as social lives. The long shifts, which can be day or night or straddling both. Home for either breakfast or dinner, but never both meals. When everything goes to plan, and there are no extra shifts to cover sicknesses or other absences, Megan is rewarded with four days off in a row. Her mum goes from not seeing her at all to falling over her at every turn. Does Daniella feel wrong-footed too?

  In the car, Megan turns the heating and the radio up high. Lucas is ahead of her as she exits on to the road but they turn in different directions at the first intersection. After a few minutes her phone rings, shutting off the music. It’s Roslyn.

  ‘Hi, love. Just checking where you’re at?’

  ‘Just left five minutes ago.’

  ‘I’ll put the dinner on, so. We’re having fish.’

  ‘Anything you want me to pick up on the way?’