You Had It Coming Read online

  ‘No, we seem to be fine for everything.’

  Mother and daughter have regimented roles. Roslyn does the cooking and gardening, Megan takes care of shopping and cleaning. Tomorrow Megan will call into their local real estate agent, to see if they can get out of this rut. The longer it goes on the more strangulated she feels.

  Roslyn hangs up and the music comes back on. Megan likes the song, it’s new and catchy.

  The phone rings again.

  ‘Yes, Mum? Forget something we needed?’

  ‘Megan, it’s … it’s … Dylan O’Shea.’

  The shock is intense. Her chest tightens. It’s hard to draw air. A red light looms out of nowhere. She slams on the brakes at the very last moment.

  ‘Megan, I’d like … I’d like … Can we … can we meet …? I just want to talk.’

  Speak. Answer him. Tell him what you think. Speak, for God’s sake.

  ‘No.’ An explosion from her mouth. Her hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white and protruding.

  ‘No,’ she repeats, because she wants him to hear loud and clear, because she wants him to know that she has learned to speak up for herself.

  ‘I do not want to meet you. I do not want to talk to you. Not now or ever. I’ve told you this before. Do not call this number again.’

  Megan ends the call. Then the shaking starts.

  14

  JESS

  Thomas Malouf and Dylan O’Shea: their names are like invisible scar tissue. Year-twelve students at Barwood College, a school for rich and privileged boys (Jess’s school was for rich and privileged girls, so she can’t exactly criticise). She met Thomas through friends of friends. Floppy hair, dimples when he smiled. The kind of boy who wore shirts instead of T-shirts. The kind of boy who sauntered rather than walked.

  The party was in Thomas’s house, in September. Those last few weeks of school, when assignments and trial exams were behind them and study leave for the real exams hadn’t yet begun. They were stir-crazy from a year of hard work combined with very little play. Freedom had never felt so close or so far away.

  ‘Sixty?’ Jess gasped when he told her how many people were going to the party. Her group of school friends were hanging out with his group at the local shopping centre. ‘Your parents okay with that?’

  Jess’s parents had an open house when it came to friends calling round or sleeping over, but any requests for parties had been met with a flat refusal.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Thomas smirked. ‘My parents are in Melbourne for the weekend. As far as they’re concerned, I’m studying and looking after Leo.’

  Thomas’s younger brother was fifteen, but Jess didn’t know that at the time. She was imagining a much younger boy; little did she know what a pivotal role Leo would play in the whole debacle.

  ‘What if your brother tells your parents?’

  Thomas’s laugh was the nasty kind. ‘He wouldn’t dare. He learned a long time ago what happens to squealers.’

  A warning sign she should have heeded. Questions she should have asked: what happens to squealers? Do they get hurt? How far do you go to get revenge, Thomas? Is your brother afraid of you?

  At this point, Jess and Thomas hadn’t kissed, but there was an expectation that something would happen at the party.

  ‘Can my friend Megan come? She’s from another school.’

  How Jess wishes she could go back in time and retract that question.

  ‘Only if she’s good-looking.’

  He laughed when he said this, but Jess should have seen it for what it was: another warning sign. Girls were commodities to Thomas Malouf.

  ‘Hey, O’Shea,’ Thomas called to one of his friends. ‘Might have a girl for you. From another school, so she won’t know you’re such a dumbo.’

  Jess knew Dylan vaguely. Pale-skinned, an extremely nervous speaker. She was pretty sure Megan wouldn’t find him attractive. Megan didn’t have much experience with boys. Neither did Jess, beyond a few casual hook-ups, but she was ready to step things up a notch with Thomas.

  ‘Saturday night, then,’ she said, adopting some of his swagger. ‘See ya there.’

  It’s excruciating to look back on it. Jess wants to shake that girl, scream some sense into her.

  Open your eyes. Can’t you see he only wants one thing? Choose some other boy. Choose someone who’s not as cruel or vindictive. Choose someone who’s not going to ruin your life.

  There’s no going back, though.

  Jess smiled at Thomas and her fate was decided. Megan’s, too.

  Youth classes run from 4 p.m. to 5 p.m., Monday to Thursday. It’s an eclectic group of kids. Eight boys and two girls, aged between twelve and sixteen. A few of the kids are agile, strong and show real potential. One kid, Andy, is overweight and being bullied about it; he’s here to gain some respect at school. Another kid, Tyler, is as uncoordinated as he is unenthusiastic; he’s here because his parents want him here. As per usual, some of them have forgotten their mouthguards. As per usual, Jess and Vince take a tough stance: no mouthguard means no sparring. Discipline, discipline, discipline.

  ‘Okay, we’re going to punch off now. Up top, fast … Underneath, slower … I want to hear those bags being hit.’

  Fifteen minutes later everyone is thoroughly warmed up. They split the class, one group heading towards the ring with Vince and the others – the ones without mouthguards – staying with Jess to do activities on the mat.

  ‘Tyler, take off your school shoes, mate.’ Tyler is a repeat offender when it comes to forgetting his mouth-guard. It’s obvious that he forgets on purpose.

  The first activity involves bouncing tennis balls, and is particularly challenging for the uncoordinated kids. Balls rebound out of reach. Hands and legs quickly go out of sync. It’s hard not to laugh. Vince’s voice carries over from the ring, where the first pair have started to spar.

  ‘Throw hard, Andy. Like you mean it. Stop waving it at him. Up on your toes. That’s good. Long arm … Hands back to your head afterwards. Good boy.’

  Sounds like Andy is landing a few good ones. Jess has a soft spot for that kid. He’s very overweight, lacking in natural athleticism as well as confidence. He puts in the hard work, though. Listens carefully to everything they say. Never forgets his mouthguard.

  The beeper goes off and another pair of kids jump into the ring.

  ‘Sit in a line, feet balanced off the ground,’ Jess says to her own group. ‘This is a concentration and reflexes game. When I throw the ball at you, you’ve got to catch it and throw it back.’

  This time it’s a soccer ball. She gives each of them an easy throw to start off with, moving in order up the line. Then she throws harder and more randomly, tricking them with dummy throws before firing it at another person.

  ‘Pay attention, Tyler. If you don’t pay attention in the ring, you’re going to get hit!’

  Every class finishes with core work, with the two groups reunited on the mat. Andy finds the core work really difficult. Sweating and panting, he’s giving it his best. In the meantime, Tyler is doing everything he can to cheat the system, not coming the full way down for push-ups, or maintaining position for the entire duration of the planks. Tyler reminds Jess of Thomas Malouf’s younger brother, Leo. Similar in both looks and manner. Sometimes it’s hard to get past the similarity. It can be easy to get caught up feeling sorry for boys like that, even easier to mistake their true motivations and loyalties.

  Tyler’s mother has arrived to pick him up. She’s hovering by the roller door, in her trendy jacket and gym wear. Vince ambles over to speak to her, probably to let her know that Tyler’s forgetfulness meant he was limited to activities on the mat again. Tyler hurriedly unwraps his hands, a stream of red bandaging spiralling downwards. He shoves the wrapping into his school bag without stopping to rezip it; it’s obvious he can’t wait to get out of here.

  ‘Hey, mate, hold on a minute.’ Jess touches his arm to get his attention.

  ‘Yeah?’ He eyes his
mother, who is still talking to Vince, an earnest expression on her face.

  ‘If you don’t like sparring, just come out and say it, okay? It’s not compulsory. And if you don’t like coming here, even to do the activities, you should tell your mother. The worst thing you can do is go along with things.’

  That’s what Leo Malouf did. Went along with things. Went along with his brother’s lies.

  15

  BRIDGET

  The weather is far too beautiful for a funeral; it’s the kind of day when things are begun, rather than ended. Bridget feels a trickle of sweat running down her back: her jacket is too heavy. Who knew that the cold morning would transform into this glorious day? Her face will be pink, never a good look with red hair. Mourners are making their way from the car park to the church, men in black suits and women in dark dresses and heels. She’s waiting for Dave, which is becoming something of a pattern. Organ music drifts from the church. Was William Newson a religious man? Did he speak about his wishes with his sons, or with Suzanne while they were married? Some people can’t bear to talk about death and their relatives have to resort to guesswork. Bridget knows what she wants: a cremation and a non-religious service. Her husband, Shane, is planning to donate his body to science.

  ‘Ugh! Does that mean we’d only get some parts back for the funeral?’ Cara asked, when the topic came up during a family meal. Cara looked disgusted. Ethan looked bored. Bridget felt mildly turned off her food.

  ‘When the science faculty are finished dissecting me, they’ll return what’s left for burial or cremation. It could be months or years later. None of you will really care by then.’

  A squad car swings into the car park, driving slightly too fast. Dave’s face is flushed. Another hug to greet each other: his squishy stomach and the scent of coffee mingled with aftershave.

  ‘Come on,’ Bridget says. ‘We’re late.’

  The church, old and sandstone, is dark and restful inside. It’s less than half full. Bridget and Dave slide into one of the pews towards the back.

  The Reverend is bespectacled and surprisingly young. ‘We are gathered here to say farewell to William Newson and commit him into the hands of God.’

  Some of Bridget’s colleagues don’t attend funerals, fearful that their presence would be intrusive to the family, or might jeopardise the investigation in some unforeseen way. Bridget attends primarily out of respect. Over the coming weeks and months, from investigation to – hopefully – court proceedings, she will come to know this family quite intimately. This is the start of a journey they will take together. She also attends because it gives her a unique opportunity to observe all the players. The immediate family are seated in the front row: an elderly man and woman sitting alongside the boys, presumably their paternal grandparents. Extended family – aunts, uncles and cousins – are pressed close together in the seats directly behind. Friends are identifiable by the fact that they’re sitting further back, the gaps between bodies noticeably wider. A few lawyer types here and there: arms folded and heads bowed, probably lamenting the fact that this isn’t billable hours.

  The Reverend says a prayer, followed by a short reading from the Bible. Then Quentin, the oldest boy, is called on to deliver the eulogy. He stands rigidly at the pulpit. Silence: it’s obvious he’s trying to control his breathing. Bridget’s protective instincts are stirred. Ethan, her fifteen-year-old, was an emotional young boy. Any sign of tears equated to relentless teasing by his classmates, which only made him more upset.

  Walk away, Bridget used to advise him. Walk away until your emotions are back under control.

  I can’t walk out of class, Mum.

  Say rats. Say it over and over, under your breath. You won’t be able to cry while you’re saying it. It’s something to do with how you have to use your mouth to form the words.

  Now, Bridget can’t remember the last time Ethan cried, or sought her advice.

  Quentin composes himself. He begins to speak, haltingly. ‘Dad was a man of conviction and loyalty … When he loved something, he loved it wholeheartedly … He loved cricket, and instilled that love in us, his sons. He could always be found scoring our Saturday games. In fact, he was so good at scoring, all the other parents made up excuses when it was their turn.’ Laughter from the congregation. ‘Dad paid an exorbitant amount for his membership at the Sydney Cricket Ground, and rotated which one of us went with him. I have vivid memories of those days. Sunburn and sweltering heat. Ice cream and hot chips. Dad’s undivided attention … during the tea breaks, at least.’ Another round of laughter. Quentin is warming up. ‘Dad loved his job. He was disappointed that Joshua was the only one of us who followed him into law. He didn’t have much time for accountants. “How’s the number bashing going?” he would ask me. “Come across an honest politician yet?” he would tease Riley. To him, nothing was purer or more worthy than law.

  ‘And Dad loved family. He loved Mum …’ Bridget feels Dave stiffen by her side. Did William really love Suzanne or is Quentin saying it out of politeness? If he did, his feelings certainly weren’t reciprocated. His ex-wife made a statement by deciding not to come here today. She used the word ‘repulsive’.

  ‘He loved his parents, Virginia and Ron. And he loved us, his sons – me, Joshua and Riley. “You’re all that matter,” he would say. “You three are all that matter.” Dad, I hope you know how much you mattered to us …’

  *

  Joshua and his brothers are standing outside the church, shaking hands with people as they leave.

  ‘Detective Kennedy,’ he says, looking both surprised and displeased to see Bridget.

  ‘Hello, Joshua.’ His hand is clammy, like last time. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Nesbitt.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Dave murmurs. He has a natural way with people. Slightly gruff voice that suggests depth of feeling. Cuddly physique that implies approachability. ‘These are very difficult circumstances.’

  ‘This isn’t a good time if you need to talk to us.’

  ‘We’re just here to pay our respects,’ Bridget assures him, offering her hand to Quentin, who’s next in line.

  Quentin smiles tremulously. His handshake is warmer than Joshua’s.

  Riley, the youngest boy, doesn’t make eye contact as she shakes his hand. His eyes are trained downwards, on his black leather shoes. Considerably younger than his brothers: the age gap must be at least ten years. Was he a much desired third child or an ‘accident’? What was the state of the marriage by the time he was born?

  Bridget shrugs off her jacket as soon as she and Dave are a respectable distance from the church. ‘How about a sandwich and a debrief?’

  He jerks his head towards the shopping precinct. ‘Let’s leave the car and walk. Funerals make me think too much.’

  Bridget knows what he means. It’s hard not to apply ‘what ifs’ to your own family. What if Bridget or Shane died unexpectedly? What if Cara and Ethan had to sit in that desolate first pew, their grief and vulnerability on tragic display? What if one of them had to deliver the eulogy? God, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Bridget will subject them to an extra-tight hug when she gets home tonight, even though they’ll hate it.

  Bridget updates Dave as they walk. ‘The forensic autopsy report didn’t turn up anything new. First bullet entered the abdomen and travelled in a parallel direction to his back. He was beginning to fall as the second bullet was fired. It entered the chest cavity and, again, travelled to his back. Thirty-two-calibre Federal bullet casings.’

  Despite strict gun control and border security, there are thousands of untraced weapons on the black market in Sydney, many stolen from licensed gun dealers or owners.

  ‘Forensics have checked his laptop. No suspicious files or internet activity. Nothing to report in terms of his phone calls or texts. House and car have been extensively searched. No large sums of cash or anything else suspicious. There’s no evidence that William Newson was engaged in any kind of illegal activity.’ />
  ‘Do you have a firm timeline?’ Dave asks, slightly out of breath.

  ‘He spent most of the day in court, returning to the office at four, then working till six thirty. Commute home took about fifty minutes. CCTV along the route indicates he was alone in the car. He parked in the garage on arriving home, went to take out the bins before going inside. We think we’ve identified the motorbike on a camera at the 7-Eleven in Lindfield. Yamaha, very common. No registration plates, of course, and the rider wasn’t wearing anything we can use for identification purposes. Can’t even tell if it’s a he or a she. I’m getting the images enhanced.’

  ‘Send them to me and I’ll post them on our Facebook page,’ Dave says. ‘We get a great response rate from the public, even when the images are blurry … Here we are. This should do the job.’

  He opens the door and steps aside so Bridget can enter the café ahead of him. Pale green walls, white wrought-iron tables, and the combined smell of toasted sandwiches and coffee beans. Their order is taken by a girl who’s a similar age to Cara. Wide smile, friendly demeanour. Maybe not so like Cara after all.

  ‘So that’s where we’re at. No alarm bells ringing from Newson’s bank transactions, internet activity or physical movements. We’re also formulating a timeline for Joshua and Suzanne and checking their bank and phone records. Sasha, one of our junior detectives, is looking at Newson’s will and life insurance policies.’

  ‘Sounds like you have things well in hand.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it … Another would be to say we have bugger all to go on.’

  Their order is delivered by the smiley waitress, two flat-white coffees and overfilled sandwiches held together with toothpicks.

  ‘How about your end of things?’ Bridget asks. ‘Anything to report?’

  She tasked Dave with going back around the neighbour-hood, attempting to jog memories in relation to unusual occurrences in the days leading up to the shooting.

  ‘I’ve talked to the next-door neighbour, Mrs Simon, who wasn’t at home that night. She and her daughter were at the theatre, came back about eleven. Mrs Simon is close friends with Suzanne Newson. She described her relationship with William as “civil”, which leads me to believe there wasn’t a lot of love lost between them.’