by B M Carroll
Bridget’s head hurts from the effort of piecing it together. She’s getting nowhere. It’s possible that sympathy for Roslyn is getting in the way of her objectivity.
‘The Maloufs destroyed Megan’s father,’ she says, turning to Dave for inspiration, ideas, anything. ‘What kind of family would do such a thing?’
‘The kind of family that closes ranks to defend their interests,’ he says simply. ‘The kind of family that you shouldn’t cross.’
Bridget remembers Thomas Malouf’s funeral, his relatives spinning their own story on the cause of his death. And the party they threw after the ‘not guilty’ verdict: treating his acquittal as a victory, a celebration. It was wrong, so wrong. How did they justify themselves? How could their view of things be so skewed?
‘That family has a thirst for revenge. They think they’re above the law. They’re dangerous, Dave … Let’s bring Leo Malouf in for questioning.’
‘I’ll ring him as soon as we’re done here,’ Dave promises, ‘set something up for tomorrow.’
The dog and his handler are finished with the pool area: nothing untoward has been detected. Louis is praised and put back on his lead. No dead bodies, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something to be found – a murder weapon? clothing? – under all that fresh earth in the garden beds. Bridget orders the specialist officers to commence digging. Animosity reeks through the glass pane of the kitchen window. Just Alex and Jess standing there now.
Maybe Bridget should ask Katrina to take her off the case. She is struggling to maintain impartiality, not just in relation to Roslyn. It’s easy to sympathise with Megan and Jess as well, to take their side. Cara is the exact age they were when they went to that fateful house party. Such a tender age, such a pivotal age. All Bridget can see is what they lost as a result of that night – their virginity, their sense of security, their belief in the justice system and good prevailing over bad. The damage extended into their families, their friendships and relationships today.
Jessica’s pale face stares from the window: Girl B, a term that’s far too narrow and clinical to apply to her.
Margaret reappears, miming something to Jessica and Alex, her hand gesticulating to make her point. Then Bridget has a left-field, crazy thought. What if she has been focusing on the wrong mother?
It’s 4 p.m. when Bridget calls it a day, the specialist officers no longer requiring her presence. Nothing has been found other than an old T-shirt, caked in dirt, once a light colour, perhaps pale blue. Alex claimed the T-shirt was his, a rag used to wipe his hands. Forensic examination might tell another story.
Bridget is tired to the point of being delirious. She calls Shane from the car, and leaves a voicemail when he doesn’t pick up.
‘It’s me. Just popping into the office for half an hour then I’m done, promise. I’ll pick up dinner on my way home. Pizza? Thai? Ask the kids and let me know. Bye-ee.’
The office is deserted, except for Sasha, who is beavering away at her desk. No sign of Katrina, thank God. Bridget couldn’t face her boss right now. Another wasted warrant. Another avenue closed. No answers forthcoming.
‘What a hellish day,’ Bridget says, dumping her handbag on her desk. ‘So much for no more overtime or weekends. Ha!’
Sasha stands up and comes over to Bridget’s cubicle. ‘I was just about to call you, actually.’
‘You were?’
The young woman’s eyes are flashing. ‘I’ve been tying up loose ends, one of which was confirming Hayley Webster’s alibi for the night Newson was shot.’
Hayley Webster. The ex-nurse. Thomas Malouf’s second victim. His second time being charged, at least.
Bridget has all but forgotten about Hayley. Now here she is, popping up again. That’s precisely the problem with this case: it’s been impossible to fully exclude any of the suspects.
‘And?’ Bridget prompts, curiosity triumphing over her weariness.
‘Well, she was at work, as she said she was. At a call centre, just like she said … But not any old call centre.’
Bridget narrows her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Hayley Webster is an emergency medical dispatcher. She works in the ambulance control centre. She decides which ambulances go where.’
Bridget realises two things at once: it wasn’t a coincidence after all that Megan Lowe was the attending paramedic at the shooting; and she won’t be going home in the near future, or picking up dinner for her family.
54
MEGAN
Megan and her brother have made countless trips to the local charity shops and as a result the garage is virtually empty, like the rest of the house. The stylist will install metal storage units and a workbench when she comes on Monday, to appeal to DIY enthusiasts.
Seb runs a hand through his long hair, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead. ‘Even the bloody garage is getting styled. What’s wrong with having it messy and dingy, like a normal garage?’
‘It’s all about first impressions and potential lifestyle.’ Megan wipes dust from the knees of her jeans. ‘That’s it for today. Good job.’
They high-five each other. It’s been a productive afternoon, although it took a while to find their rhythm after the dramatic start to the day. Megan cried a bit as she told the detectives what had happened to her father, and she detected compassion in their eyes. They would not be permitted to openly sympathise. Megan knows – from her own job – how hard it can be to maintain that veneer of professionalism.
‘I’m starving,’ her brother says, his long arms raised in the air as he yawns. ‘What are we doing about food?’
Eating at home is out of the question: no tables or chairs, an almost empty fridge. Roslyn is going to a friend’s sixtieth tonight, so they’re on their own. The friend is a close one and Roslyn couldn’t pull out, despite being distressed to learn that they’d had yet another visit from police.
‘They came again? I’m their suspect? Me? Oh my God, they’re hopeless.’
Roslyn was wearing her work uniform: white blouse, navy trousers, wild eyes.
Megan asked her about the motorcycle café.
‘Never set foot in the place,’ Roslyn declared. ‘Don’t tell me they think I paid one of those bikies to knock off William Newson? Hopeless! No idea what they’re doing. Then or now!’
Megan has to agree. The idea of her mum consorting with bikies is preposterous. The suggestion that she paid for a contract killing is beyond preposterous; it’s impossible.
‘There’s no money,’ she explained this morning. ‘Our financial situation is dire.’
‘It can be surprisingly cheap to hire these people,’ Bridget Kennedy countered.
‘There’s no money. For anything.’
Bridget and her colleague understood by the time Megan finished explaining. Sympathy was written on their faces; they didn’t need to express it with words.
‘You choose the restaurant,’ Megan replies now to her brother. ‘But there’s somewhere I want to go after we’ve eaten.’
Seb raises an eyebrow. ‘The pub? Sounds good to me.’
She laughs and shakes her head. ‘Not the pub. There’s a fight I want to see …’
It’s been on her mind since Vince mentioned it last weekend, with Jess chiming in. Something shifted in Megan. Everything had been dredged to the surface: her repressed shame, sadness, anger. The invitation felt like a new door opening up. The invitation felt like it was originating from Jess, not Vince.
‘It’s at the community hall in Artarmon. Just two amateurs, as far as I know, but it means something to Jess, and I wouldn’t mind going along …’
Seb holds her gaze in the murky light of the garage. He knows what this is. A step towards reconciliation. A show of solidarity. He always had time for Jess, and she would be stoked to see him, too.
‘I’m up for that,’ he says with a crooked smile. ‘Just need a shower before we head out.’
*
Megan is waiting for him when he comes
out of the shower, the pieces of paper – evidence – laid out on the kitchen countertop. She found them in the recycling bin, the distinctive font catching her eye: the AVO, in roughly torn pieces.
‘Seb, in here,’ she calls when she hears the bathroom door.
Her brother materialises, bare-chested, droplets of water on his shoulders and chest. She has the sudden sensation of not knowing who he is, what thoughts are in his head, what he is capable of doing. She feels stupid, for so readily dismissing the AVO, her actions belatedly approving the violence.
Megan indicates the jagged pieces of paper. ‘Why did you tear up the AVO? Were you trying to hide it from the police?’
He’s startled, caught off guard. His eyes jump around guiltily.
‘No. The cops would have it on their database, if they looked.’
‘Why then?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘I heard the knock on the door, the warrant being read out, and I knew the cops would find it pretty quickly – there’s not much here, is there? I didn’t care about them, I cared about Mum; I didn’t want her finding out like that. So, I hid it in my clothes, recycled it later on.’ He grins, more sure of himself now. ‘Great detective work, Megs. Maybe you should change career.’
55
JESS
Natasha gives Jess and Alex a lift home. The atmosphere in the car is horror-stricken. Nobody makes a sound, not even Lucy. Some situations can’t be adequately responded to with words. Waking up naked on bloodstained sheets. A sombre-faced doctor stating that you’ve suffered too many concussions to continue fighting. The sight of a sniffer dog wandering around your parents’ back garden, trying to detect the smell of a decaying body.
‘See you tonight,’ Natasha says, squeezing Jess’s arm before she gets out of the car.
Jess is confused, before remembering that her sister is coming to watch the fight. What seemed like an excellent idea yesterday is now bordering on absurd. Right now, Jess can’t even see herself at the fight. She can barely think straight, see-sawing between incredulity and horror.
Inside the apartment, she checks the time. Less than two hours to go. How can she coach Billy in this frame of mind? How can she remind him to keep his knees over his feet, and not get lazy with his hands? How can she assess the technical weaknesses of his opponent?
Alex is as shaken as her. He begins pacing around the living room. ‘Your mum and dad kept looking at me like I was some kind of fuckin’ murderer.’
This isn’t true. Jess knows because she was watching them carefully. Margaret behaved like she always does when she’s under threat: she goes cold. Richard was unnerved, yes, but his reaction was justified and not specifically directed towards Alex.
‘They weren’t, Alex, they really weren’t.’ Jess has collapsed on to the sofa; she doesn’t have the strength to stand. ‘Anyway, they’re under just as much suspicion as you are. In theory, any one of you could be out to avenge what happened to me.’
Alex is circling; she has never seen him so agitated. ‘I’m not denying I wouldn’t smash O’Shea in the face if I ever met him, but murdering and burying him …’ He shudders at the thought. ‘Fuck’s sake, I can’t even handle it when I stumble across a dead animal.’
Alex has upended the grave of many a deceased pet during the course of his work. He’s a lot softer than his appearance would suggest.
Jess checks her watch again. Time is ticking on. ‘What am I going to do? Should I ring Vince? He’ll understand, won’t he? Billy will be on the back foot, though. Typical lawyer – he’ll baulk at any change in plans.’
Alex stops moving and stares at her as though she’s mad. ‘This fight means the world to you, Jess. You’ve been training that dude for months. Are you going to let O’Shea ruin this as well?’
He’s right. Not going tonight means that she is the one losing out. But how can she coach Billy like this? She’ll be a liability to him, unless she can get her shit together.
‘Will you come with me?’ she whispers, looking up at him beseechingly. ‘Please, Alex?’
‘Aw, babe, I just want to stay home and get pissed. It’s been a crap day. Last night too, getting grilled by the fuckin’ cops.’
Their eyes lock. He sighs and yields.
‘All right, all right, but we’re going out afterwards and getting drunk.’
He disappears to shower and get changed. Jess stays on the sofa, hands clasped tightly together. She admits it: she wanted to kill William Newson when he said all those derogatory things, when he obscured the truth with his lies and innuendo. She was furious, and she wanted to hurt him, really badly. But once the trial was over, those feelings didn’t linger beyond a couple of months. Who killed him? Why? Where is Dylan O’Shea?
Jess shakes her head violently. She can’t solve this now. Billy is her priority for the next few hours. He has worked hard for this fight; he deserves her best.
Alex reappears; it never takes him long to get ready. But seeing him in his fresh shirt and jeans sends her into another spin. The shirt is the same one he was wearing the night he picked her up from the train station, the night Thomas Malouf died. She noticed then because she’d never seen it before.
‘Is that a new shirt?’ she asks tremulously.
He glances down at it, as though he has only just noticed it himself. ‘Got it a few weeks ago.’
He lied about the puffer jacket. Is he lying about this, too? Where did it come from? Alex doesn’t shop for clothes very frequently.
It strikes Jess that her boyfriend could have known all along about her plans to meet Dylan, because he knows the passcode for her phone. His anger last night: was it because he was genuinely concerned about her meeting Dylan, or a front for something far more disturbing? He’d been out with Ramsey – supposedly – on the night William Newson was shot, that bloodstained jacket turning up soon afterwards. And why had he been wearing a brand-new shirt on the night Thomas Malouf died? Had he needed to change clothes urgently?
Fuck! Enough! She is not going there. This is Alex. He has her back. To the extent of going to Billy’s fight tonight after having the twenty-four hours from hell.
She stands up, and hugs him hard. He smells of shower gel and safety.
56
BRIDGET
The clock on the dash turns over to 5 p.m. just as Bridget cuts the engine on the car. It’s still bright: the days are starting to lengthen. Bridget and Sasha attract furtive glances from a dodgy-looking group gathered across the street. Bridget blanks out what they might be up to – drug taking or dealing, most likely – and the two women walk quickly towards the entrance of the Redfern high-rise where Hayley Webster lives.
‘What are the chances she’s home?’ Sasha asks, as the lift whizzes them upwards. Another resident – clearly not very security conscious – held the front door open on his way out. Hayley has no idea they’re on their way.
‘Who knows?’ Bridget shrugs. ‘We’ll wait, if need be.’
Bridget’s weariness is forgotten. She’s buzzing with adrenalin; this is the breakthrough she’s been waiting for. The question that niggled since day one: how Megan Lowe found herself at the deathbed of William Newson. Bridget never believed it to be coincidence, or fate.
Bridget thumps the door with the ball of her hand. ‘Hayley, are you in there? Open up, please. It’s Detective Sergeant Kennedy.’
Movement can be heard on the other side. A rustle of clothes. Light footsteps. A pause, perhaps to look through the peephole. Then the security chain being unhooked.
Hayley Webster is in uniform. Blue short-sleeved shirt with a crest on the arm: Ambulance NSW, Control Centre.
‘I’m on my way out to work,’ she says feebly, unable to meet their eyes. ‘My shift starts at five thirty.’
‘Well, you’d better call and let them know you’re running late,’ Bridget retorts and steps inside.
The flat is compact and feminine, as she remembers it. Hayley’s handbag is perched on the arm of one of the matching sofa
s. The young woman picks it up, extracts her phone, and makes a call.
‘Robert, it’s Hayley. I’m going to be late.’ Bridget detects a tremor in her hand as she holds the phone to her ear. ‘Hopefully no longer than an hour. Sorry … I’m helping police with an investigation … I’ll explain when I get in.’
They sit down in the same positions as before, Bridget and Sasha on one of the sofas and Hayley on the other. The young woman’s composure is rapidly deteriorating. The game is up and she knows it.
‘Here we are again.’ Bridget adopts her sternest tone; she can afford no more time wasting. ‘You left some things out the last time we spoke, Hayley. No more skirting around the facts or I’ll have you charged with aiding and abetting a crime, at the very least … Did you receive a triple-zero call on the night of August twentieth relating to the shooting of William Newson?’
Hayley shakes her head. ‘I’m in dispatch, I don’t receive the calls.’
‘Did you dispatch the ambulance to the scene, then?’
‘The system dispatches the ambulance … But I used the override function.’
Bridget takes a moment to acknowledge the admission. ‘Why did you use the override function, Hayley? Did Megan request it?’
‘Not Megan, Dylan …’ Tears pool in her eyes, before dripping on to her flushed cheeks. ‘Oh God, I’m going to lose my job, aren’t I? I can’t believe I let him talk me into it …’
Bridget is blindsided. Dylan? How did Dylan talk Hayley into anything? How did he even know about Hayley’s existence? He maintained that he and Thomas were no longer in regular contact. Was that a lie?