by Chris Taylor
“I have no idea how those images came to be there. That laptop never leaves my apartment. Most of the time, it’s not even charged. There’s nothing else I can say, other than to tell you again: I am not a pedophile and I did not download pictures of child pornography: not then, not now, not ever.”
Chloe eyeballed him, but remained silent, digesting his clipped words.
Declan’s expression turned grim with emotion. His eyes narrowed. “Investigator Sabattini, have you ever been accused of doing something you haven’t done?”
She held his gaze and tried not to flinch. “No,” she lied.
“You’re lucky. It’s not a nice place to be. I don’t know what else you want me to say. I’m being set up. Someone is trying to bring me down. Why? I have no fucking idea, but I will find out who’s behind it. While you’re hell-bent on putting me behind bars, I’m going to be looking for the asshole who started this because there’s one thing I’m certain of: It sure as hell wasn’t me.”
He pushed back his chair and prepared to leave. “You know,” he added. “It’s so easy for someone to ruin a man’s life over shit like this. Pedophilia is an ugly topic and one we’re all rightly sensitive about. It’s the reason I joined the CPU—to put as many of them behind bars as possible.
“But, it’s so easy for a mother, or anyone for that matter, to play the child molester card to destroy someone they want to punish. When it comes to something like this, it’s their word over mine. In Meg Harvey’s case, all I had is the knowledge of my own innocence, plus the fact that I was pulling a twelve-hour nightshift with more than five police witnesses to verify my whereabouts on at least one of the occasions I was supposed to be fondling her four-year-old. With respect to the images found on my hard drives, I’m not so lucky. All I have is my word that I didn’t do it and right now, that seems to be worth shit.”
Chloe closed the file and folded her hands on top of it. His explanation about Meg Harvey’s complaint supported the fact that her State counterparts had taken the matter no further. He’d answered her questions with forthrightness and what appeared to be honesty and she couldn’t help but feel he told the truth. But the fact was, pornographic images of children had been found on his hard drive, on both of his hard drives. It was evidence that simply couldn’t be ignored. He’d admitted he’d never given anyone his login information. He’d admitted the laptop never left his apartment. At this point, she had no choice but to accept it was him who’d downloaded the images, for whatever reason.
Swallowing a sigh, Chloe forced herself to meet his gaze. “Thank you for coming in today, Agent Munro. I appreciate your candidness. Unfortunately, this matter will continue to proceed through the courts.”
A tiny frown marred the smooth skin of Declan’s forehead and then deepened to a groove as her words sank in.
Tearing her gaze away from the anger and desolation on his face, she turned to the barrister. “You’ll have the Brief of Evidence on your desk by tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 8
The mid-afternoon sun shone brightly off the aluminium garden furniture that graced the balcony of Declan’s apartment. The air was filled with the scent of perfume that drifted from the flower-laden Murraya hedge that grew directly below. Despite the beauty of the day, Declan remained indoors, pacing from one side of his living room to the other as he waited for a phone call.
As if on cue, the phone in his hand vibrated. When he recognized the number on the screen, his belly somersaulted with nerves. With fingers that weren’t quite steady, he answered the call.
“Roger?”
“Declan, I told you I’d call as soon as I’d had a chance to look at the brief and I’m as good as my word.”
Declan’s stomach clenched tight. “Hit me with it.”
“Well, it looks like our star witness finally has a name. Federal Agent Charles Stanford. I take it you know him?”
Declan bent over, gasping. Charlie? It couldn’t be. He felt like he’d been hit in the gut with a baseball that had been headed out of the park.
“Declan, are you all right?”
He could hear the concern in his lawyer’s voice, but it was all he could do to force air into his constricted lungs.
“Declan, can you hear me? Say something.”
“They’ve made a mistake. It can’t be Charlie,” he wheezed.
“I’m afraid so. I’ve read through his statement. He says he works with you. Is that right?”
Declan let out a humorless laugh, shock making him dizzy. He collapsed onto the couch and attempted to slow his frantic thoughts.
“Yeah, he works with me. He’s also a good mate.”
Roger swore loudly on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, Declan. I truly am. I can’t imagine what a shock this must be for you.”
Declan shook his head, still unable to accept it. “I have to see it. I have to see that statement. Can you fax it to me? I have to see it right away.”
“Of course. I’ll get someone to do it now. After you’ve had a chance to read it, we need to talk. Call me, okay?”
Declan ended the call, his mind in a spin. The thought of Charlie being the one behind the allegations was incomprehensible, and yet, according to Declan’s barrister, it was true. Was Charlie the man who’d set him up? And if so, why?
The sound of the fax machine whirring to life in the next room pulled him out of his seat. Striding into the spare bedroom where he’d set up a desk and computer and other basic office equipment, he snatched at the papers that were streaming onto the tray.
His gaze was drawn to the bottom of the page. Charlie’s signature, with all its extravagant loops and curls, was scrawled across each one with the date printed neatly next to it.
Nausea billowed in his gut. He dashed into the toilet and leaned over the bowl just as hot, acidic vomit burned a path through his esophagus and into his throat.
* * *
Declan didn’t know how long he sat slumped on the hard tiles of his bathroom floor with his arms wrapped around the cold porcelain, but the sun had made a beeline for the horizon when he eventually found the strength to stand and make his way into the living room. He bent and picked up his phone from where it had fallen onto the carpet and noticed the list of missed calls. Most of them were from Roger.
With limbs weighed down with shock and disbelief, he dialed Charlie’s number.
* * *
Charlie Stanford looked at the number on his screen and his hand trembled. Anxiety knotted his belly and he wondered again whether he’d done the right thing.
Ignoring the call, he let it go through to voice mail and then dialed the number he knew off by heart. The Master answered it on the second ring with his customary brusque greeting.
Charlie drew in a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. “It’s…it’s me. I-I think it might be time for that transfer.”
CHAPTER 9
Chloe woke to the sounds of early morning traffic passing outside the window of her one-bedroom condominium. Nestled in a quiet corner of Belconnen, a northern suburb of Canberra, she escaped most of the noise from the highway nearby and was once again grateful for the sacrifices she’d made to afford it. The monthly mortgage payments still made her cringe, but it was the place she loved to call home, even if it did make her mother scowl.
Chloe had been born in Canberra Hospital and had lived in and around the city her entire life. Apart from the occasional jaunt north to Sydney to spend the weekend with friends or the even more infrequent trip to the coast at Batemans Bay, she spent the majority of her time either behind her desk on the fifth floor of the AFP Headquarters or pottering in the postage stamp-sized backyard she loved to call her garden.
As the scent of star jasmine and petunias wafted through her open window on the light breeze, she already longed to put the day behind her and escape into the haven of her garden.
If only it was that easy.
Knowing that the dread that had already settled in the pit of her sto
mach at the thought of what the day would bring wouldn’t subside until she faced it, with a heartfelt groan she pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed.
Stepping into the shower, she turned the water on full force and enjoyed the feeling of the warm spray on her body. Reaching for the shampoo, she squeezed a generous dollop into her hand and lathered it through her hair. She wasn’t prepared to face this day without clean, controllable hair.
Declan’s committal hearing was due to commence that morning. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since their last meeting, more than three weeks ago. Sometimes it could take months to obtain a date for a committal hearing, but due to the sensitive nature of the case, the matter had been expedited. It was thought best for all concerned.
Nerves jangled in her belly at the thought of seeing Declan again. Not only seeing him again, but confronting him inside the close confines of the courtroom.
He probably hated her.
She grimaced and wished things could be different, but they weren’t. She was only doing her job. Surely, he understood that? From the little she knew of him, he seemed to be a man who took his work responsibilities seriously. She hoped he’d understand she felt the same way. It was nothing personal. It was just the way it was.
She squeezed the water out of her hair and turned off the faucets. Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around her and padded into her bedroom. She stared at the row of navy and black and charcoal-gray suits in her closet and felt like Groundhog Day. Though tempted to tug out the hot-pink silk T-shirt that skulked in the back of her closet, she shrugged off the momentary insanity and dressed in her usual sensible garb.
Her thoughts strayed to the family dinner she’d finally made time to attend over the weekend. All but one of her three siblings had been there and she’d been smothered in sticky hugs and wet kisses from their myriad offspring.
Not that she minded. She loved having her family around her and most of the time, a stint with her nieces and nephews was enough to satisfy the occasional urge she had to have a child of her own.
Not that she’d ever admit to such fantasies aloud. Her mother and sisters would have a field day. Even at the weekend barbeque, her mother had managed to pull her aside and give her the “your clock is ticking, bambina” lecture in between serving the tiramisu and the coffee.
Chloe suppressed a sigh. She knew her mother meant well—and to some extent, she had a point. Chloe was already thirty. Her body wouldn’t wait around forever.
Thoughts of Declan in his impeccably pressed suit and bright lime-green tie surfaced. He’d said he loved kids. He’d said he wanted to be a husband and a father. Images of him running around with a football tucked under his arm and a swag of curly, brown-haired children running behind him crystallized in her mind and her face flamed.
She frowned. What the hell was she doing? He was the defendant in a criminal matter she’d instigated. While she still very much believed in the presumption of innocence, the fact was, she’d found there was enough evidence to prosecute.
But there was something about Declan Munro that resonated with her and she could only put it down to the fact that they had something in common. Despite what she’d told him, she knew what it was like to be accused of doing something she hadn’t.
Before she could stop them, the memories washed over her. She remembered it as if it was yesterday and yet a decade and a half had passed since that awful day.
She was fifteen and a plump, gawky teenager. She may have been spared the humiliation of braces and requiring acne cream, but her body had been reshaping itself and forming into the curvaceous woman she’d become.
At thirty, she was proud of her rounded hips and D-cup bras, but at fifteen, it had been a nightmare. Although her best friend, Mandy, had stood by her, Chloe’s life was never the same after Juliette Garbutt, the most popular girl in school, accused her of stealing Juliette’s underwear.
Chloe had been a day pupil at an all-girls boarding school and even though there hadn’t been any boys around to witness her degradation, she was humiliated just the same.
Nobody seemed to care that Juliette Garbutt’s bras were two sizes too small for Chloe. The fact was, they’d been found in her locker. The locker was secured with a combination lock and only Chloe knew the code. Despite her protestations of innocence, the evidence was there for all to see.
Even now, years later, she didn’t know how Juliette had managed to discover the code, but obviously she had. There was no way Chloe had stolen the bra. It took years for the scandal to die down. Even then, there were still people who didn’t believe her. She’d left high school, to be forever known by some as the “bra snatcher.”
Okay, her plea of innocence wasn’t up there on the scale of what Declan Munro claimed, but she knew how agonizing it was to know you were innocent and be unable to prove it. She was also sure it was the reason Declan Munro kept intruding upon her thoughts and why she continued to rest uneasy, even though the evidence pointed overwhelmingly toward his guilt.
Then there were the rare glimpses of his charm and sense of humor. They’d thrown her off balance, being so at odds with the black-and-white facts she’d accumulated on the pages in his file.
The fact was, she wanted to believe him. She’d been in the system long enough to know if there had been any real substance to the complaint made by Meg Harvey, he would not only have been charged in New South Wales, he would have been thrown out of their police service and he would not have made it through the rigorous screening carried out by the AFP.
As to the images found on the computer hard drives, Declan had told her his laptop wasn’t password protected. In theory, it could have been open to anyone to download the pictures. Even his work computer wasn’t used solely by him.
Her thoughts shifted to Charlie Stanford. What kind of person jumped to such horrific conclusions about a friend without first talking to them about it? Surely, it wasn’t beyond reality to expect that if you had cause for concern about a friend’s behavior, you’d approach them for an explanation instead of reporting it to IA where you knew they were obligated to investigate?
The doubts and misgivings she’d endured for weeks stirred in her belly, but she had no further time to dwell on them. In less than two hours, she was due to meet the lawyer representing the Crown to go over her statement—and here she was still wrapped in a towel.
With an impatient groan, Chloe strode back into the bathroom. Reaching for a comb, she went to work on the thick strands of her hair. Declan Munro would be tried before the courts. It was the right course of action. Let the evidence she’d collected be tested in a court of law and let the judicial system she believed in do its job. There was nothing more she could do and it was probably for the best, despite the fact she sensed there was so much more to him and this case than what was written on paper.
* * *
Declan paced inside the cramped confines of the interview room that had been allocated to the defense team inside the courthouse and did his best to keep his nerves in check. He still couldn’t believe matters had gone so far. It was like he was weighted down under water, screaming for help, with nobody able to hear.
He looked over at his family huddled together in the corner of the room. His parents and his brother Riley had flown down from the country—the dark scowl on his father’s face testament to the way all of them felt. Two other brothers, Brandon and Tom, and their wives, had driven down from Sydney. Clayton stood near the door.
Declan appreciated their show of support and took comfort from their presence, but it also brought home the stark reality: He was in a serious position. Family did not gather en masse like this unless the situation was more than grave.
“How are you holding up?” Clayton murmured.
Declan tried to smile, but failed.
“It’s going to be all right, bro. We’re all here for you. We’re not going to let this happen to you.”
Declan pressed his lips together and blinked b
ack the sting of tears. The love he felt in the closed room strengthened him, even though his family was powerless to call a halt to the proceedings. Duncan Munro was a recently retired District Court Judge and yet everyone in the room knew justice would take its own course here. Declan could only pray for a magistrate that saw reason.
The door to the interview room opened and Roger strode inside, his shock of white hair streaming behind him. His confident demeanor lifted Declan’s spirits and he shook his barrister’s hand with relief and gratitude.
After warmly shaking his father’s hand and greeting the rest of the Munro family, Roger turned to him.
“I’m not going to bullshit you, Declan. We’re in a bit of a tight spot here. We’ve elected to have a committal hearing rather than a paper committal. It means we’ll at least get to hear the evidence they have against you and test the balls of your friend. He must know that you know he’s lying. Let’s see how he holds up under pressure.”
Declan’s mother stepped forward, wringing her hands. Marguerite Munro looked a decade older. Declan was overcome with guilt, knowing he was the cause of her concern.
“Is it possible the magistrate might throw the matter out today?” she asked.
Roger turned to face her. “It’s always possible, Mrs Munro. That’s what I’m here for. The committal hearing gives us a chance to test the Crown’s evidence. They have the burden of proof in these matters and it’s set high—beyond reasonable doubt. It’s one of the tenets of our criminal justice system.”
He took her hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “If their evidence doesn’t stack up, we’re entitled to make an application for dismissal. I’ll be doing that anyway, regardless. We have nothing to lose.”
“And if they satisfy the burden of proof?” The quiet words from former Judge Munro fell into the tense silence.
Roger nodded gravely. “You know as well as I do what will happen after that.”