You Had It Coming Read online

  ‘She probably took sides during the divorce,’ Bridget surmises. ‘Did Mrs Simon notice any unusual visitors or activity next door?’

  ‘Apparently, the only regular visitor was Joshua. He dropped in the Sunday before and had a brief chat with Mrs Simon, who was out in her garden when he arrived. She said he seemed a bit distracted. He looked over his shoulder once or twice while they were speaking, as if he were expecting someone else to turn up.’

  Bridget is immediately suspicious of such extraordinary detail. ‘Is there a Mr Simon in the house?’

  ‘He died four years ago.’

  ‘How about neighbours on the other side?’

  ‘A young couple who moved in a few months ago.’ Dave dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘They never got around to meeting Newson.’

  ‘Any insights on whether there was a girlfriend or partner on the scene?’

  ‘Mrs Simon doesn’t believe so. If there was, it doesn’t look like she came to the house very often. Then again, if Mrs Simon is Suzanne’s friend, Newson might have been extra discreet.’

  The waitress is back, brimming with enthusiasm. ‘How’s your sandwich? Can I get you anything else?’

  She must be barely out of school. Perhaps this is a part-time job to supplement her first year of university. She looks like an arts student, History or English or something like that. Bridget’s thoughts automatically jump to Cara. Her daughter went to a party last weekend. Her outfit – an indecently short denim skirt with a lace crop top – made Bridget blush and Shane immediately avert his eyes to a far-distant spot over her shoulder.

  ‘Are you going to allow her to go out like that?’ he demanded of Bridget when Cara left the room to get her jacket.

  ‘She should be able to wear whatever she wants to wear,’ Bridget retorted, even though she was inwardly aghast. Her daughter’s breasts were spilling out. The skirt barely covered her knickers.

  ‘I know that … But I’m her father and I can’t find anywhere safe to put my eyes. What hope do other blokes have?’

  Bridget turned on him furiously. ‘Why is it always about the blokes? It’s nothing to do with them. It’s Cara’s business what she wears. It’s her body, her choice, her way of expressing herself.’

  Now the argument is niggling at her. Because the way Cara was dressed screamed vulnerability as much as sultriness. The young waitress is wearing a short skirt too; not quite as skimpy as Cara’s, but short nevertheless. Her midriff is exposed, showing a piercing in her navel. She exudes sweetness rather than sexuality. Yet, if anything untoward were to happen, her choice of clothing would be dissected and questioned. She could even be accused of smiling too much, or being flirtatious rather than plain friendly. Sexy or sweet, the girls should be able to wear whatever they want. Sexy or sweet, the girls should be safe from unwanted attention. More than anything, they should be safe from blame.

  ‘Time for another coffee?’ she asks Dave.

  He looks at his watch. He’s hesitant. Other work awaiting his attention back at the station? Bridget knows the feeling; she has been neglecting her other cases. Unsolved homicides invariably reach a point where they stall. Once stalled, they’re in danger of being usurped by new cases coming in. It’s a constant battle to keep the older cases ticking over while giving the new ones the oomph required in these critical early days.

  ‘I want to tell you about the Malouf–O’Shea trial. It had a big impact on Newson’s career, twelve years ago.’

  Dave nods and Bridget smiles at the young girl. ‘Two more coffees, please.’

  The waitress – oblivious to the fact that one of her customers has cast her as a potential rape victim – bounces away.

  16

  MEGAN

  Megan has blocked the number Dylan used last night, but she is still on edge, eyeing her phone warily in case it produces another nasty shock. It’s not the first time he has tried to make contact. Maybe half a dozen phone calls over the years? Not enough for her to change her number. Not enough to accuse him of stalking her. Not enough to expect it when it happens, so there’s always a profound shock, a sense of violation and powerlessness. He uses a different number each time, so blocking him won’t prevent it from happening again, but she has to do something. She knows what he wants: to clear his name, to rewrite history. Too damn late for that.

  Her phone stays silent. At noon, Megan slips it into the back pocket of her jeans, and walks to the real estate agents. The walk puts her in a better frame of mind: the healing powers of fresh air and a cloudless blue sky.

  The agent is called Paula Mason. Middle-aged, sharply dressed, heavy on make-up and jewellery. A framed certificate on the wall declares her as the highest-selling local agent last year.

  ‘Megan, so nice to see you again,’ she says, standing up from behind her desk, her rings squeezing Megan’s fingers as they shake hands.

  ‘Hello, Paula.’ Megan pops in every few months, to chat about the market and the saleability of their house.

  ‘Got the day off work?’ Paula is the kind of woman who remembers not only your name, but where you live (is it a good street or bad street? How many beds, baths, etc.?) and what you do for work (full time or part time? Professional or trade? Cashed-up or a potential credit risk?). This level of retention is exactly why she’s ranked as the highest-selling agent in the area.

  ‘Four days off, actually. Almost makes up for the six a.m. shifts this week.’

  ‘Hats off to you. Couldn’t do what you do. Nearly fainted when my grandson cut his knee the other day … I assume you’re after a market assessment?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Megan smiles and sighs simultaneously. ‘Just wondering if there’s any improvement since we last spoke.’

  ‘Clearance rates were up last weekend. It’s the tail end of winter and buyers are coming out of hibernation. Not a lot of supply yet, so that would work in your favour. I think September and October will be quite strong.’

  ‘How strong?’

  ‘Better than six months ago. Maybe even better than twelve months ago.’

  They should have sold after her dad died, when the market was at its peak, but they weren’t emotionally ready to say goodbye to the house and were unaware that prices were about to plummet. Even so, they wouldn’t have come out with much money. Her dad had been out of work, her mum caring for him full time. They’d been paying mortgage interest but not any capital. Megan should have insisted on taking financial stewardship earlier. After all, it was her fault that they’d ended up owing so much.

  ‘Look, it’s a weatherboard and crying out for renovation, if not knocking down.’ Paula is especially blunt. This is why Megan likes her, trusts her. ‘You’re not going to get a premium price, but who knows what will happen if two buyers are genuinely interested in the property!’

  ‘I’ll talk to Mum.’

  Roslyn will be conflicted, too. They love the house. They hate the house. It’s seen them through the best of times and the worst of times. It’s where everything fell apart for Megan, and then for her dad, but it’s also the place where she and Roslyn recalibrated and got back on track. The bottom line is that it’s bigger than they need and costing more than they can afford.

  It’s time to move on. Megan is just hoping her mum won’t fight it.

  ‘How much did Paula say?’

  ‘She didn’t … But I’m hoping we’ll clear the million. Otherwise, it isn’t worth doing.’

  Roslyn has showered and is wearing a pink towelling robe and slippers. Her laptop is resting on her knees, her fingers clicking on the plastic keys; she’s searching for recent sales of three-bedroom houses in Hornsby.

  ‘It says here the average price is one-point-two.’

  ‘Most of those houses are brick, Mum. And renovated.’

  The bathroom and kitchen are in original condition, the roof needs replacing and there’s asbestos in the wall cavities. As Paula pointed out, there’s a strong argument for knocking down and rebuilding, which means they s
hould be seeking land value only.

  ‘We have a big block. That’s something, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, that’s something.’

  Maybe someone will fall in love with the garden. Megan and Seb used to have a swing-set, a cubby-house and plenty of room left over for ball games and hide-and-seek. It’s nice to think of other children filling the garden with their noise, toys and games.

  This is the right thing to do.

  ‘Where would we go if we sell?’

  Her mum looks so vulnerable with her shiny face and baby-pink towelling robe. Megan hates hurting her. At work they’re taught to inflict pain quickly. Don’t dither sticking in the needle or applying antiseptic. The more protracted it is, the worse for the patient.

  ‘I might move closer to the city.’ Megan’s voice is raspy with guilt. ‘And you might stay around here or try somewhere new?’

  Realisation dawns on Roslyn’s face. She’s shocked and upset, then understanding and resigned; she has one of those faces that shows every thought and feeling. During the trial, Megan had to avoid looking in her mother’s direction. Roslyn’s face would crumple when something hurtful was said about her daughter. It flared up with anger and indignation when the defence went on the attack. And filled with despair when it became evident that the verdict returned would be ‘not guilty’. Looking at her mum was too much like looking inside herself. Megan used to look at Jess’s mum instead: Margaret. Stony faced, chin resting on her hand, her long bony fingers concealing one side of her face. Megan used to imagine those fingers slapping her. She deserved a slap for being so stupid and reckless.

  ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ Roslyn says now, putting down her laptop on the couch. She stands up with an exaggerated yawn. ‘Goodnight, love.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  She’s definitely hurt. It’s not even 8.30 p.m.; she’s not going to bed, she’s going to lick her wounds, perhaps cry a tear or two. The bathroom door opens and closes. The sound of running water; she’s brushing her teeth. Megan sends Seb a text.

  Mum and I talking about selling again. I think we’re actually going to do it.

  Seb lives in Melbourne with his wife Cassie and baby daughter, Tia. He’s been encouraging them to sell for years. The fact that the sale price needs to be enough to cover the loan and selling costs is lost on him. He’s a musician, hopeless with numbers and money.

  Do it! You’re far too old to be living at home.

  Megan smiles. There’s nobody like her brother for issuing an insult in the same breath as his undying support. Seb has been gone from Sydney fifteen years and can only see positives from selling the house. Megan’s more realistic. Selling is a big deal: a lot of preparation, hard work and uncertainty lies ahead. Assuming they’re successful, she’ll miss her mum terribly: Roslyn’s her best friend. Megan will have to cook for herself every day, and do all the chores (not just the half she prefers). She’s not even sure what she’ll be able to afford to rent. Freedom has a price. She is willing to pay it, though.

  Roslyn has left her laptop open on the couch. Megan picks it up, and clicks on some of the recent sales in the area, looking for houses like theirs. The few she finds seem to be in much better condition, freshly painted and well presented. Megan will start work tomorrow, cleaning out cupboards and choosing paint colours. Something stirs in her. Excitement with an underlay of treachery.

  Stop feeling guilty. This is the right thing to do!

  Roslyn’s laptop is slow and clunky: she has too many tabs open on the internet. Megan closes some down. Recipe websites. Medical websites. Nine news.

  Neighbours shocked and frightened after well-respected barrister gunned down outside his home.

  Police still looking for leads in the shooting of defence barrister, William Newson.

  CCTV images released to media in appeal to find person of interest.

  Roslyn knows. Oh God, she knows.

  Megan should have brought it up the day after her birthday. Or that weekend, when they had breakfast together. ‘Mum, you’ll never guess what happened …’ But she couldn’t get the words to form and now it looks like Roslyn didn’t need her to break the news. A quick check of her history confirms that she has been following every single development.

  Family, friends and colleagues gather for the funeral of William Newson. Oldest son, Quentin, says that his dad loved his family, his job and cricket.

  Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy appeals to the public for help. ‘Someone somewhere has seen something. You might think it’s too small to matter, but I can assure you nothing is too small. Anyone with information is urged to contact Chatswood Police Station or Crime Stoppers.’

  It’s suddenly difficult to breathe. Roslyn doesn’t just know about it: she’s all over it.

  There’s a reason Megan couldn’t bring herself to mention William Newson; it’s the same reason she failed to mention Dylan’s phone call. It’s because these men have the ability to transform Roslyn – an ordinary, softly spoken suburban mum – into an explosive, unpredictable stranger.

  17

  JESS

  Jess makes her first coffee of the day and takes it out to the balcony. Leaning over the railing, she observes the Sunday-morning bustle of the neighbourhood. Lawnmowers droning, hand-held hoses hissing water on to parched lawns, neighbours chatting over fences, probably discussing the weather forecast. The week ahead is meant to be sunny, cool and dry. Dire predictions are being made about future water supplies in New South Wales. Some large country towns are facing the prospect of running out of water within the next couple of months. If it doesn’t rain, soon and significantly, Sydney will be upgraded from Level 2 water restrictions to Level 3. This will be bad news for Alex’s business, because who wants to put in a new garden or plants in conditions such as these?

  Fortunately, Alex is not the type to worry about it.

  ‘Can’t control the weather, babe,’ he shrugs.

  He’s sleeping off last night’s hangover while Jess attempts to banish hers with coffee and fresh air. They were at a thirtieth birthday party and stumbled home in the early hours of the morning, Jess trying to steer Alex into bed.

  ‘Shush. You’re going to wake up the neighbours again.’

  ‘You care more about the neighbours than me,’ he grinned and slurred.

  ‘That’s because they’re fragile and sweet and you’re just a big drunken oaf.’

  Alcohol makes Alex sleep like the dead while Jess invariably wakes up early, feeling seedy and annoyingly alert. The coffee is starting to take effect, though, and the fresh air, which she breathes in deeply. This afternoon there’s another birthday party, her niece’s, and a full family gathering at her brother’s house. Jess and Alex need to be one hundred per cent hangover free. Her mother will be watching as closely as ever.

  She turns around from the railing. A half-full watering can is next to the vertical garden in a deliberately prominent spot. Alex built the garden; it’s Jess’s job to keep it alive. She lifts the can just as she hears the sound of a door sliding open. Then the shuffle of feet. There’s someone on the balcony next door.

  ‘Is that you, Helen?’

  A disembodied voice answers her question. ‘Yes, dear. Another lovely morning. Not a cloud in the sky. Such a shame.’

  The desire for rain is reaching manic level. At this rate there will be celebrations when it eventually happens, street parties in the deluge.

  ‘Sorry if we were noisy last night.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, dear. Enjoy your youth.’

  Helen’s such a sweetheart. Always smiling. Nothing seems to perturb her. Then again, Jess has done nothing to really test her patience. Maybe she’s tougher on her grown-up children. Jess’s thoughts are dragged back to her mother. She’s too hungover to pass Margaret’s scrutiny today; she’s really not looking forward to this birthday party.

  ‘Our parsley and rosemary are thriving, if you need any?’

  ‘That would be lovely, dear.’
/>   ‘I’ll drop some over.’

  Jess finds it easier to face the woman next door than her own mother. She doesn’t know what that says about herself, or her mum.

  Alex drives with one hand resting on Jess’s thigh, and the other draped casually over the steering wheel.

  ‘Did you give Ramsey back his jacket?’ Jess asks, noting its absence from where she left it on the middle console.

  Alex shoots her a confused look. ‘What jacket?’

  ‘The one he left behind last week.’

  ‘Oh that … yeah.’

  Her boyfriend’s tone is decidedly unconvincing. Something tells Jess that the jacket didn’t make its way back to its owner. Probably rolled up in a ball somewhere else. Typical.

  They’re last to arrive at her brother’s house. The kids adore Alex. He’s totally unlike the other adults; he doesn’t try too hard or get in their faces. They respond to his slight air of unavailability by climbing all over him.

  ‘Why is your hair so long?’ Tilly, the birthday girl, promptly begins to plait it.

  ‘My daddy doesn’t have any earrings in his ears.’ Charlie, her cousin, touches the gold stud with stubby fingers.

  ‘Are you a real-life giant?’ Noah asks guilelessly.

  Jess has two nephews and two nieces, ranging between two months and five years old. The baby, Lucy, is the only one oblivious to Alex; she is ensconced in her grandmother’s arms. Margaret soothes Lucy in that brisk way of hers, all the while keeping an eye on things. What stage is the barbecue at? Are all the condiments ready on the table? Are her grown-up children on their best behaviour? Jess’s dad has a glass of red wine in his hand and a satisfied smile on his face. Richard loves his brood of children and grandchildren.

  ‘Big night out?’ Natasha, mother of baby Lucy, sits down next to Jess.