by Anne Buist
It is understandable. How could they not wonder, even if the methods and cause of death were different? But in the look is also the bewilderment. What could my motive possibly be? This in the end will save me from anything other than irritating scrutiny in the next weeks. I am a wealthy man in my own right. Divorce is simple and without risks. No cause need be provided. Reeva and Alison had money of their own, and while they would have had some claim to my income, the estate is in a trust. And I am a generous man. Why would I not want to support my child?
I didn’t view the child. Couldn’t bring myself to do so. I knew I needed to look ahead, not back.
As I walked down the aisle after the service I looked up and caught Natalie’s eyes; locked for a moment before she looked away. The policeman was watching us both. Interesting. Even more interesting was what I saw in Natalie’s glance. She doesn’t know yet, but she is the one person who might be able to understand. And I want to be understood.
23
Natalie needed every minute of the two-hour ride to de-stress. The mindfulness techniques were useless; she needed more practice. Instead she replayed the conversation with Liam over and over in her mind, hating herself for the accompanying physical longing. She thought about putting the dose of her antidepressants up again. But this felt like grief, not the black falling through space that had engulfed her when she was in the grip of her depressive swing. She hoped.
She reached the Great Ocean Road and stopped the bike. Gave herself five minutes to regroup, take deep breaths and remind herself of all the ways Liam was bad for her. Ahead of her the road hugged the coast, to its right, set back a short way from the sea, the Otway Ranges were shrouded in mist. Though she’d never been to Britain, she imagined this was what the Lake District or Scottish highlands looked like in parts. She went back to mindfulness, concentrated on this moment and these surrounds, far from Melbourne.
Still feeling flat, but less like taking her bike over the edge of the road where it gave way to rocky cliffs, she kick-started the bike, waited for a line of cars to pass and pulled in behind them. A slow drive back was probably wise. She was soon lost in thought, watching the cars disappear ahead.
Natalie didn’t notice the car behind her until it was square in her rear-vision mirror. A hotted-up silver Commodore V8. Its lights went on and she took that to mean he thought she was holding him up. Natalie briefly considered flooring it so the driver behind her could see real power—on the corners the Ducati would have it for breakfast—but instead slowed and pulled as close to the edge as was safe. She didn’t trust her reaction times with the medications she was on.
The car maintained its position, a little too close for comfort. Irritated, Natalie waved it past. No response. Great—a V8 driver too frightened to pass because the stretches of straight were too short. She pulled over into a rest stop. The silver Commodore pulled in after her. One foot on the ground, Natalie looked back, all senses now on alert. The windows were tinted and she could only make out a sole driver in Ray-Bans. He revved the engine and edged a little closer. No one she knew. Just a local having fun?
Plan B. She opened the throttle so fast the bike jerked forward and nearly lost her. The Ducati flew down the straight section and she barely eased back at the corner, leaning into it so low she thought she wouldn’t be able to correct. She saved it—just—but lost valuable time and the Commodore was now back right behind her. Far too close for safety, and she was the one at risk, not him.
Two more corners in a similar fashion but this time she gained time, only to see him in her mirror bearing down along the straight, lights on high beam.
On the third corner her line took her to the centre of the road, narrowly missing a car on the other side—the blasting of the horn was as much for her as for the V8 driver who also came dangerously close to collecting it.
Catching her breath, heart racing, Natalie slowed. If she was going to come off the bike she’d rather it was at lower speed. The V8 was now so close its lights filled her mirrors entirely. If it hit her, she wondered if she would be able to think fast enough to roll. Doubted it.
A sheer drop loomed on her left. The car now edged level with her as the signpost indicating the town perimeter flew past. The driver edged over again and his passenger window wound down. She looked over. Saw the driver draw one hand in a cutting motion across his throat. The car moved even closer, this time leaving her no choice but to move over. Half a metre and she could make out rocks at the bottom of the twenty-metre drop.
Ahead the road widened and another rest stop appeared to the left. One car was parked there; she prayed they didn’t open their door. Without warning she accelerated and swung left, hoping the car driver would pull in too. He did. But with less room to manoeuvre he slowed to avoid the parked vehicle while Natalie passed it with only a few millimetres to spare and jerked sharply back to the road.
It only gave her a few seconds, but she flew into town ahead of him, hit the brakes hard at the first intersection and spun her bike to the right, straight up the side street. She started to slide, but by this time her speed was slow enough and her leathers tough enough that it looked more like a spectacularly staged arrival than a stack, the bike landing first and Natalie shortly after.
Just as two constables, one of them Constable Red Hair from the night at Mount Malosevic, were stepping out of the police station.
___________________
‘You what?’
‘I’ll explain later,’ said Natalie. ‘Could you just tell these police officers that I’m normally a safe driver and that they don’t need to arrest me?’
The phone conversation between Damian and the Lorne police wasn’t as short as she had hoped. In fact the constables were still looking as unimpressed as when they had jumped back inside thinking the bike might take them out. A sergeant who had joined them was no happier. Didn’t the imprimatur of a homicide DSS count for anything? Seemed not.
After much discussion they reached a compromise. They wouldn’t charge her if Damian personally came to pick her up. That meant she would have to cool her heels in their company for an hour. At least he was already heading this way, coming from Melbourne following the funeral.
Damian barely looked at her when he arrived, showing his colleagues his badge and disappearing behind closed doors. After fifteen minutes he returned, picked up her helmet and threw it at her. ‘Let’s go.’ His expression softened a little when he saw the state of her leathers. They’d done their job but she’d be needing a new pair. The bike was still on its side where she’d dropped it. About to get in his car, Damian turned and saw she hadn’t moved. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t pick it up?’
‘Not a hope in hell.’
Damian shook his head, muttering something that sounded very like a sexist insult as he walked over and heaved on the Ducati. It was hard enough even for him. The bike possibly hadn’t been her smartest purchase. She’d certainly overestimated her capabilities: mania had its obvious up, but also its down, sides.
She hit the starter, revved the engine and jumped out of the standing position possibly a little faster than was wise. Right now she was feeling pleased to be alive. She was still in one piece when they got back to her stilt house and she let herself in, leaving the door open for Damian to follow.
‘Start explaining.’ The speed she’d just been travelling at probably hadn’t improved Damian’s mood. ‘And don’t imagine for a moment that because I’m in homicide I don’t think dangerous driving is a problem.’
Natalie had pondered this all the way back. She thought of her pursuer’s cut-throat action. Who was he? Did he know her? She’d been too busy trying to survive to get a plate number, and the cops had clearly thought she’d overreacted. Had she?
‘I’ve got some PTSD. The motorbike accident years ago, the assault last year…This guy was seriously tailgating me and I overreacted.’
‘Not a great defence against trying to kill two cops.’
‘I wasn’t trying to kil
l them. I just took the corner too quickly, because…’
Damian looked like he couldn’t decide whether to get himself a beer or get the hell out of her life. The latter might have been wiser. Natalie pulled a Little Creatures out of the fridge with one hand and grabbed a bottle of red with the other. She jiggled them.
He went for the beer and took a seat in the armchair watching her.
‘Call the cops!’ Bob announced, watching them from the veranda. Natalie opened the door, braving the elements to fill his seed container. Several other cockatoos joined him and she poured more seed into a bowl at the other end of the deck.
‘Better get it fast Bob.’ Natalie doubted the local crew would stick to their end for long.
‘Now tell me what really happened Natalie.’
‘I wasn’t kidding.’
‘Just PTSD?’ He watched her, seemed to be debating whether to tell her something.
‘I’ve got bipolar disorder.’ The words surprised her. She never told anyone about her illness. ‘I’ve been on antidepressants and I’m going a little high.’ Not exactly true, but she was feeling mostly better, until Alison died and she met up with Liam, anyway. She was already dismissing the Liam encounter. Maybe she was going high. The Commodore incident hadn’t upset her, and now she was feeling like finding the arsehole and bawling him out.
Now Damian surprised her. ‘I know.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I knew you were depressed. When I checked the band out—months ago, I mean—your drummer told me you were in a downer and that was why you wouldn’t respond to my messages. I was referring to what happened today.’
Natalie stared. She wasn’t quite sure what she was most stunned about; that he didn’t seem to care about her mental illness, or that he thought she wasn’t telling him the whole truth.
‘The cops were heading out on a call about a drag race when you nearly collected them,’ said Damian. The car they’d narrowly avoided must have called it in.
‘Look, it was no biggy, okay?’
Natalie stood up and waved at the more adventurous cockies that were narrowing in on an assault on Bob’s food container. With the glass between them they ignored her. She put her wine down and lit the potbelly stove. The assault had just made her hypervigilant, that was all. There was no reason for anyone to be after her now. It was just a jerk thinking he was tough. She didn’t want Damian worrying about her—or worse, Declan. Last thing she wanted was more medication. She just needed to forget it.
‘It isn’t anything, really. I was overreacting.’
His look suggested he still didn’t entirely believe her.
Since it looked like he’d be staying, she pulled some meat out of the fridge and threw him a barbeque spatula which he caught in the hand not holding the beer. ‘Can you use one of these?’
‘I’ll manage.’
They’d been cautious with each other since the encounter at the crime scene. One brief phone call, and they hadn’t spoken at the funeral, just nodded over the rows of heads. And this episode hadn’t endeared her to him. But by the time they’d both changed into comfortable clothes and had a couple of drinks on the balcony, Natalie was reminded of the ease she felt in his presence. He was looking more surfer than cop having changed into a windcheater and the long shorts some men wore even in the winter chill.
‘Can we talk some shop before we drink too much?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s happening with the investigation into Alison’s death?’
‘Your professor is well qualified and well connected. No one wants him arrested unless we have a clear case.’
‘What do you have?’
Over steak and salad and another beer, Damian outlined the evidence. As suspected, the cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. The gas heater was old and hadn’t been serviced. Frank’s and Alison’s fingerprints were the only ones on it.
‘The pilot system wasn’t working, hadn’t been used for years,’ said Damian. ‘Hence why Frank said he got it going for her when she couldn’t.’
‘So it blew out?’
Damian shook his head. ‘It was windy, but not indoors. It does heat the place up quickly; one possibility is that she turned it off because it was too hot and didn’t do it properly, or tried to turn it back on later and couldn’t, and mixed up the position of the switch and let it run. The windows were sealed so there was very little ventilation. And there was a lot of soot in the heater, which meant there was more carbon monoxide circulating than there should have been.’
Natalie tried to picture this. It was feasible that the Alison she had last seen had been tired enough to make a mistake. Or that it was just bad luck with an outdated heater.
‘The Malosevic place is pretty amazing, I have to say,’ Damian said. ‘Huge. Have you ever been in the grounds?’
Natalie shook her head.
‘They do charity events in summer. String quartets on the lawn; opera in the park. I’ve never seen a tree house that big, stables that don’t look like they’ve ever had a horse in them, a maze…There’s even a pet cemetery.’ Damian shook his head as if mystified about why anyone would waste their money like that.
Alison had spent her last day there, indoors, apart from meeting Frank at the Wye River pub. Where Natalie had been with him—something Damian didn’t seem to know. Natalie was concentrating on what he was telling her, and it was only much later she realised she hadn’t given him this information. Damian seemed to think Frank and Alison had had dinner there. Frank hadn’t mentioned he was expecting Alison: hadn’t he said he would eat at home? She was fairly sure she hadn’t seen Alison in the car park. She’d had probably been in the shadows checking them out. She wouldn’t have seen anything to worry her. Natalie tensed. Except the goodbye kiss; but she’d turned her cheek quickly. Nothing in that, was there?
Damian had Alison’s phone and her electronic diary. The team were going through all her recent contacts to get an assessment of her mental state. Suicide was obviously being considered as a possibility, as it had been with Reeva. Could Frank have driven both his wives to the same end? Natalie felt her own black hole at the edge of her consciousness and dismissed it.
Six people other than Alison had access to the heater and boathouse. The first, Frank, admitted he was there trying to convince her to come back to the house.
‘Did he say why she was there?’ Just like Reeva, sleeping separately.
‘He said they had fought.’
‘Over what?’
‘He indicated that he felt her pregnancy was getting her down, that she was irritable because she wasn’t sleeping. He had wanted her to stay with her mother because she hated the isolation and it would be closer to the private hospital where she wanted to deliver.’
‘What did the others say about the argument?’
‘The three staff are dumb, deaf and blind. Drago and his wife Gordana the chef, anyway. She smelled like a brewery so she probably didn’t notice anything useful. Drago has been with the family since he was a child; his father worked for Frank’s grandfather. He wouldn’t tell us what they had for breakfast. A strong case of Serbian amnesia.’
‘The girl’s their daughter, right?’
‘Yes. Senka. She works there too. She knows something, we just haven’t got to it yet. I’m questioning her tomorrow down at the local station.’
‘And Vesna and Mala?’
Damian finished the last of his steak, and pushed the plate away. ‘Was it the first time you’d met them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Impressions?’
Lots. Some ephemeral, like a trace of memory long since buried. Others were clearer, and it was only these she was prepared to share. For the moment.
‘People handle shock in different ways. This family is educated and upper class. I say that deliberately, because that’s how they see themselves. They aren’t Australian in that sense. Frank has a trace of a British accent and according to his LinkedIn profile that was
where he went to primary school. Mala’s profile says she went to Oxford, but she’d arrived here as a baby. I couldn’t find anything about their father but I’m thinking he was probably a Brit. Their grandfather was some sort of minor Serbian royalty. They’re privileged.’
‘Why’s that relevant?’
‘They called a lawyer because that is what they would do. Not necessarily because they’re guilty.’ There were other things she’d observed in her long wait in their living room that informed her observations. Their clothes, certainly, but more their demeanour. She had thought Mala’s poise, like her mother’s, was part of how they saw themselves. Just a little above everyone else.
‘There is something else, which may or may not have a bearing on what happened.’
Damian waited.
‘Vesna’s not well,’ said Natalie, closing her eyes to picture Frank’s mother. ‘And my guess is it’s psychiatric, possibly with a physical component.’ There was a waif-like aspect to Vesna she had seen in some cancer patients. ‘In any event, she’s taking sedatives.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, and quite high doses if it’s benzos. But I’m thinking anti-psychotics. She was spacey. Couldn’t quite focus, might even have been a little thought-disordered. Without knowing more I can’t be certain.’
‘Thoughts on Mala?’
‘Smart, but…’ Natalie tried to make sense of the pigtails versus the taking control. ‘I’d say somewhat innocent. Like she’s been shielded from anything difficult. By Frank, by the Malosevic millions, I guess.’
‘And Frank?’
Her impressions of Frank? ‘Complicated.’
Damian raised an eyebrow. ‘Because of your personal relationship? If that’s an issue I want to know now. I don’t want this case compromised.’ Meaning he didn’t care about what she did? Or was he just trying to be cool?