Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘So?’ Gemma frowned. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Angie straightened up.

  ‘You’ve heard about cases where the only profiles that show up from the crime scene samples are those belonging to the scientists who are doing the analysis? It’s like that, but this time it’s the attending police who’ve contaminated the exhibits!’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Gemma. ‘I thought these days everyone wore disposable overalls – and gloves.’

  ‘They do. But even then they sometimes leave traces and have to be eliminated. Skin cells get shed. People sneeze and cough all over the place. Our crime scene people aren’t supposed to eat on the job, but that happens too sometimes and odd chewed things end up in the exhibit list. The embarrassing thing is, once the Finn family’s, the scientific personnel’s and the crime scene team’s DNA was eliminated, that was it. A big fat zero! We’re back where we started.’

  ‘But you can’t eliminate the Finn family as suspects!’

  ‘I realise that. But Findlay lives there. And as for Natalie . . . That note found in Bryson’s pocket? That shows positive for Natalie Finn’s DNA.’

  ‘So she did write it?’

  Angie sighed. ‘Possibly. But given that she’s married to the man, there are other reasons why it might have her traces on it. Just like there are innocent reasons why her DNA would be found at the premises. And there could be any number of ways for Natalie’s genetic material to be transferred to the note. If Bryson carried it in his pocket, or in a briefcase that she’s handled over the years. What it means is that DNA evidence isn’t going to help us with this case. Not if the killer is one of the family. The defence only has to establish reasonable doubt –’

  ‘But I thought, with this particular case, with all the resources, they could be more sure of the difference between historical and recent DNA,’ Gemma said.

  ‘So did we,’ said Angie, pushing hair back from her face. ‘You wouldn’t believe the resources they’ve thrown at this case, and I thought with the ballistics left at the crime scene, not to mention all the deals that have been done with some of our leading criminal informants, we’d come up with something. The people at DAL over at Lidcombe have been great – they fast-tracked the DNA tests on our samples. Now I find we’ve got nothing!’

  ‘Send the samples somewhere else,’ Gemma suggested. ‘Funding wouldn’t be a problem, surely.’

  ‘There’s no need for further enhancement. The results are pathetically clear.’ Angie groaned. ‘I don’t need this now! It’s only a matter of time before the fact gets out that there was police contamination involved in this case. Only last year there was that scandal when the head of the laboratory’s DNA showed up in a very sensitive analysis.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Gemma. ‘The police were really pissed off when that hit the press.’

  ‘So imagine how pissed off they’re going to be when the press reports that police personnel were involved in stuffing up the DNA evidence. There’s a severe dressing-down planned for a couple of members of the crime scene team. And disciplinary action most likely.’

  ‘Who was it? Who stuffed up?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I’m waiting for the name and then I’ll kill whoever it is! Even the glass fragments are probably going to be useless,’ said Angie. ‘They’ve found traces on both Natalie’s and Findlay’s clothing. But they were both present at the crime scene that night. So that’s inconclusive as well.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m no scientist, but surely there’s a difference between glass fragments picked up by moving around the crime scene and fragments embedded at high velocity when the necklace was shattered by gunshot?’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Angie, ‘but it’s the sort of thing that reduces the value of the glass fragments as evidence. The defence can use it to muddy the waters.’

  Wearily, Angie forced her briefcase closed then went outside again to finish her coffee, Gemma following. This morning, the misty navy blue sea wrinkled under an onshore breeze, the powder blue sky hazy in the diffuse winter light. It was a blissful morning and any other time of her life, Gemma thought, she’d be peaceful and contented. Not today, with her shock and sorrow about Steve swimming around just under the surface of her conversation with Angie.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Angie was saying, ‘the insurance company where Findlay and Bettina had life insurance policies report that the premiums on Findlay’s policy haven’t been paid but Bettina’s was right up to date.’

  ‘Findlay said they kept their finances separate,’ said Gemma. ‘Could just be he’s slack, she was on the ball.’

  ‘That’s one way to interpret it,’ said Angie. She peered at Gemma, who was fiddling with a bit of croissant. ‘You okay, Gemster girl? You still look awful.’

  Gemma took a deep breath. ‘I feel back at square one, just like you do,’ she said after considering a moment. ‘I realise I was all set to go ahead with the pregnancy because, somewhere, I was hoping that by telling Steve about the baby, the impossible would happen and he’d come back and . . .’ She faltered.

  ‘It’d all be happy families?’ Angie said.

  ‘I was trying not to say that.’

  Angie put her hand on Gemma’s arm. ‘You’re cold,’ she said. ‘Put something warmer on.’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘It’s not that sort of cold.’

  The silence was filled with the murmur of unseen waves surging over the rocks at the bottom of the cliff and the distant keening of gulls.

  ‘Look,’ said Angie, ‘I know you love Steve. But undercover operatives are seriously weird people. They have to be to do that sort of work. It takes great wisdom, skill and discernment to do that job and keep yourself nice. And Steve’s been in it for too long. Gemster, I never thought I’d say this to you, but you’re better off without him. You don’t have to let the absence of Steve Brannigan change your mind about something as important as this.’

  ‘It’s not Steve who’s pregnant,’ said Gemma.

  They both turned as the Ratbag shuffled to the sliding doors, holding the blanket around him for modesty, Taxi draped over his shoulders.

  ‘What’s to eat?’ he asked, eyeing the pink cake.

  ‘Good morning, Hugo,’ said Angie. After a pause, she added, ‘I say “good morning” to you, and you say it back to me, that’s what is known as a greeting.’

  He frowned. ‘I know that,’ he said, looking keenly at the croissants. ‘What are those?’

  ‘They’re croissants. Have one,’ said Gemma, passing the plate towards him.

  ‘And some cake,’ said Angie, cutting him a wedge of the pink block. ‘Now run along and do whatever it is that boys do at this hour, because we’re in a meeting.’

  ‘I thought you were talking about men.’ He stopped chewing for a moment and checked out Angie’s suit jacket. ‘Are you carrying?’ he asked.

  Angie suppressed a smile at the American usage. ‘No, not right now as it happens. It’s locked away in the weapons safe at work.’

  ‘Do you carry in a shoulder holster or a fanny pack?’

  ‘Hugo, your interest in instruments of lethal force is unhealthy,’ Angie said. ‘You could have the makings of a criminal.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m going to work for her,’ he indicated Gemma. ‘I’m on the good guys’ side.’

  He retreated inside, and in a moment they heard the sound of the television.

  ‘Is that all they do?’ Angie asked. ‘Ask questions about firearms, eat and watch TV?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ said Gemma.

  After Angie had left to go to Bettina Finn’s funeral, Gemma called Natalie, leaving a message on her voice mail saying they needed to talk. She took a few moments to stand by the window near her desk, looking past the platter-sized leaves of the ginger plant outside the grill
e. To keep the grief and pain about Steve at bay, she seized on what Angie had just told her: the embarrassing police contamination of the DNA evidence and the fact that, despite the unusually generous resources afforded it, this high-profile investigation was bogging down. She knew that the first twenty-four hours of a crime were the hottest, most vital hours – and if they slipped by without result, it could be weeks, months, even years before resolution. And in some cases, there was never resolution.

  She was about to turn away when something caught her attention. From the top of a ginger plant leaf, a small spider was dropping on its thread, front legs raised and poised, ready to land on whatever surface they touched. It swayed in the breeze, its descent arrested while, connected to the top of the leaf by its fragile web, it waited for the right place to drop. Something about this poised yet interrupted action reminded her of herself, something connected to the baby and Steve. Something she was failing to understand. She watched the spider a moment longer, then went down the hall to the kitchen, where Hugo, now wearing his T-shirt and shorts, was pouncing around, opening cupboard doors, checking out the contents of the fridge and bench-top containers.

  ‘You’ve only got all this health crap,’ he said, disdaining packets of cereal and muesli. ‘And that pastry thing you gave me for breakfast didn’t have any filling in it either.’

  ‘They’re designed like that,’ said Gemma. ‘They don’t have a filling.’

  ‘Pretty crazy,’ he said.

  ‘What did you eat last time you were here?’ Gemma asked, intercepting his hand at the freezer door. ‘No, you can’t have ice-cream for breakfast.’

  ‘What about a hamburger?’ he said.

  ‘That’s probably no better, but you know how far the nearest fast food joint is? It’s down near the beach.’

  ‘You could drive me.’

  ‘You could walk.’

  ‘But the beach is ages away!’

  ‘Yep. Must be a good ten or fifteen minutes’ walk downhill. You could die. Exhaustion, thirst. Brigands.’

  ‘What are they?’ he asked as she checked the fridge again in case there was something he might consider edible.

  ‘It’s no use looking in there,’ he added. ‘I thought you had something new in there for a moment. But it’s just that the furry thing’s got bigger.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, taking out what had once been a piece of pumpkin and closing the fridge door. ‘It’s cereal, toast and Vegemite or a walk. Or the furry thing.’

  Hugo looked defeated.

  ‘I’m going out shortly to talk to someone,’ Gemma said, thinking of Natalie. ‘I can drop you near Bondi Junction,’ she offered. ‘There are plenty of take-away places there.’

  ‘Crazy,’ he said.

  On the drive towards Bondi Junction, Gemma thought of the spider, the way it hung suspended, front legs poised, until it found what it needed.

  ‘Can you lend me twenty dollars?’ Hugo asked, interrupting her ruminations.

  ‘Lend?’ she said, turning to him. ‘Don’t you mean “give”?’

  ‘No way. I can pay you back when I go out on a job with you.’

  Gemma remembered Martin Trimble’s missing ex-fiancée. The garage he wouldn’t let her see.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, pulling over so that Hugo could get out. ‘I’ll see you back home later in the day. But I’m going to want some work done to make up for this.’ She waggled the note at him.

  ‘I am fully your man,’ he said.

  Seventeen

  ‘I feel bad about causing you more stress, Natalie,’ Gemma said, thinking of Natalie’s missing hour from the night of the murders, ‘but as I said on the phone I need to ask you a few more questions. But first, can I have another look at Jade’s room?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Natalie. ‘I’ll get that phone.’

  She turned back at the door to her daughter’s bedroom, and Gemma stepped inside. She started with a quick search through a pile of magazines, and in among the adolescent glossies, something caught her eye – the blue and white checked border of Police Service Weekly. Curious, Gemma pulled the issue out from under its colourful companions. The magazine was opened and folded back halfway through its pages and Gemma immediately saw why. Bryson Finn, very handsome in full uniform, was photographed, flanked by two junior women officers. One of them, Gemma didn’t recognise, but the other was Jaki Hunter.

  Gemma scanned the copy under the photograph. It had been taken at a recent conference involving visiting FBI personnel; as Gemma studied the picture, a question arose in her mind. Hearing Natalie’s approaching steps, she slipped the magazine into her briefcase.

  ‘That Venetian glass necklace your husband bought for you,’ Gemma reminded Natalie, ‘you were going to show it to me?’

  ‘Now? You are joking!’ said Natalie. ‘I’m not digging around for it right now, if that’s what you’re wanting. That was the hospital ringing. Donny’s showing signs of coming out of the coma. I have to rush there straightaway.’ Tentative signs of hope showed on Natalie’s face.

  ‘I still need to discuss a couple of things with you,’ said Gemma. ‘Can we make a time later.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ said Natalie. ‘But there’s a condition attached. Give me a lift to the hospital? Parking there is a lucky dip. We can talk on the way.’

  •

  ‘I’m just so relieved and happy that Donny seems to be coming round,’ said Natalie, clutching a small overnight bag. ‘The nurses said he opened his eyes for a few seconds. He seemed to be trying to register his whereabouts. I want to be there as much as possible. I don’t want to miss him waking up.’

  She pulled the sun visor down, checking her face and hair in the little mirror. ‘What a mess!’ she said, tipping the visor back, but sounding happier than at any time since the shootings.

  Gemma let Natalie do most of the talking as she drove to the hospital. She sensed that Natalie was trying to keep the conversation light. As they neared the hospital parking area, Natalie fell silent. Gemma found a parking spot and quickly swung into it, switched off the engine and turned to Natalie.

  ‘You said you had some questions for me,’ said Natalie. ‘Please don’t take too long. I’m eager to see Donny.’

  Gemma pulled out the notes she’d jotted down after her meeting with Mr Yeo. ‘Natalie, you told us you left your office at Seaforth at about eight-twenty or eight-thirty at the latest on Monday evening?’

  Natalie Finn was suddenly very still, staring straight ahead at the hospital wall.

  ‘Do you want to make any change to that statement?’ Gemma asked, throwing her companion a glance.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Why should I?’ Natalie finally said, turning to encounter Gemma’s eyes.

  Gemma took a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel. ‘Because,’ she began, ‘I’ve since discovered you weren’t, in fact, the last person to leave the office.’

  ‘Indeed I was,’ Natalie snapped. ‘I’ve already told you about this.’

  ‘Actually, Natalie, that’s not so. The senior partner, Mr Yeo, was in the men’s toilet, changing into his walking clothes, when you left. He came out in time to glimpse you walking out the front entrance. He says that was seven-thirty, not eight-thirty as you told us.’

  Natalie turned away, looking out the window. ‘Shit!’ she finally said.

  ‘And,’ Gemma said, ‘it took me thirty minutes to drive from your office to the house at Killara. So what I want to know – or rather, what Angie and the police want to know – is: what were you doing for that missing hour and nine minutes?’

  Natalie remained turned away. ‘I need to go up to my son,’ she said.

  ‘You need to be straight with me,’ said Gemma. ‘You’re going to have to change your story.’

  Slowly, Nata
lie turned back to face Gemma. ‘I was having dinner with a friend,’ she said.

  ‘So why did you lie about the time and your actions?’

  Natalie was suddenly furious. ‘I’m the one who asked you to find out who murdered my husband, my sister-in-law and almost murdered my son! I’m part of the investigation, for Chrissake, not some suspect!’

  ‘Natalie,’ Gemma continued with her best professional detachment, ‘why did you lie?’

  ‘I know it looks bad,’ Natalie whispered.

  ‘Then make it look good,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. But if we don’t get the truth about everyone’s movements on Monday night, we can’t do the job.’

  ‘I don’t need to be treated like this! Not after what I’ve gone through!’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gemma, deciding to be blunt. ‘The problem for the investigation is that this missing hour and a bit gives you time to do the killings, get away, get cleaned up, dispose of the weapon and then come back and ring emergency.’

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’ Natalie blazed. ‘My son was bleeding to death! Do you think I’d leave him like that? What a crazy suggestion!’

  Gemma remained silent, although her heart beat faster. Was this the normal outrage of the innocent? Or a piece of skilful dramatics?

  ‘The idea is preposterous!’ Natalie continued. ‘I feel like jumping out of the car right this minute!’

  ‘You can do that if you like,’ said Gemma, ‘but the police will ask the same questions. I’m not your enemy, Natalie. I’m simply doing what you asked me to do. Which is to find out who did this.’

  A long silence during which Gemma waited, listening to the traffic moving behind them down the highway.

  ‘Now, are you ready to tell me what you were doing?’ Gemma asked finally.

  Natalie opened her small red patchwork shoulder bag and pulled out a tin of travel sweets. She offered the opened tin to Gemma.

  ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you just then,’ she said.

  ‘I’m used to it,’ said Gemma, taking a sweet.