by Jaye Ford
‘God, Tilda, I haven’t thought that far.’ Jax picked up an olive, glanced across the room to where Zoe was laying out playing cards, lowered her voice so her daughter wouldn’t hear. ‘I know Nick’s dead. I know he’s not coming back. I’ve accepted that. But he still takes up space inside me. I don’t want to lose that.’
Tilda’s hand closed around Jax’s. ‘You won’t. It’ll never leave you. It won’t always be right in the centre of you, but you’ll always be able to find it.’
Tears filled Jax’s eyes with a suddenness that made her gasp. ‘Shit. I was meant to be pulling myself together up here.’ A faint ping sounded from inside her handbag.
‘You can’t do it with dry eyes,’ Tilda said.
Jax wiped hers with one hand, reached for her phone with the other. A text message: Finished work. Need a drink. You buying tonight?
‘Aiden Hawke,’ Jax explained. ‘He wants to have a drink tonight.’
‘And just when we’re done with the sex education.’
‘A drink, Tilda. I offered to buy. I didn’t expect it to be tonight.’
‘You should go. It’ll do you good. And if you’re going to worry about sex, it may as well be while you’re with a handsome man.’
Jax rolled her eyes. ‘Zoe’s had a long day and I haven’t done anything about dinner yet.’
‘Well, I never cook on my art class day.’ Tilda waved her glass at the kitchen as though it was a masterpiece. ‘I stopped on the way home and bought a quiche. Does she like quiche?’
Jax pushed a hand through limp hair. She’d been in and out of the heat all day, panicking and crying. She needed a shower, a hairdresser, a quiet night. And she wanted to hear what Aiden had to say. ‘If you tell her it’s egg-and-bacon pie, she does. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
Tilda took the remaining gin and tonic from Jax’s hand. ‘You can have another one with Detective Hawke.’
Jax texted: And questions?
And questions. Same place?
Give me half an hour.
37
Jax managed the shower and a quick spray of perfume; the best she could do with her hair at short notice was a ponytail. Aiden was waiting for her on the deck of The Beach House – same clothes as before plus his black-framed sunnies. FBI G-man. Something not entirely unpleasant rippled through her stomach.
Making a show of looking him over, she said, ‘So your other crime scene didn’t involve wading thigh-deep through mud?’
‘Not this one.’
‘So you’ve done that?’
One eyebrow rose above the frame of his sunglasses. ‘Have we started already?’
‘Started?’
‘With the questions.’
She grinned. ‘You want to wait until the drink is in your hand?’
He made a face, like she had a point. ‘Have I waded through mud? Absolutely. Mud, stormwater drains, garbage. Sewage once. Whatever it takes.’
She watched him leaning against the railing, surf at his back, and remembered his words from the other night in his car. I’m good at my job, Jax. I will work it out. More often than not, she imagined. ‘In or out?’ She hooked a thumb at the door to the bar.
‘Out. I need the fresh air. Not all houses are as clean as yours.’ He nodded to somewhere behind her. ‘There’s a table down there.’
She saw the spot, set off on a winding path through the throng of late-week patrons. The press of other drinkers kept him close at her back, his hand brushing her hip as they walked, breath fluttering on her neck when she stopped. ‘What are you having?’ she asked.
There was space behind him but he didn’t step back. ‘A beer, thanks.’
Waiting in the queue at the bar, glancing around the busy hotel, Jax felt the apprehension slide back into place in the pit of her stomach. There were no familiar faces but after the media coverage this week, it wouldn’t be difficult to find her in a crowd – if someone decided breaking into her home wasn’t enough. Her gaze caught on Aiden at the table, his attention moving from group to group around the deck. Not the quick flick around she’d done. It was slow and casual, as though he was marking time. Except she saw there was more to it: roaming, pausing, focusing, restarting. Cop habit, she wondered, or was he watching for someone too? His eyes found her as she returned through the doors. Stayed there until she sat opposite.
That wasn’t cop habit. That was something else.
She tapped her gin and tonic against his beer. ‘Cheers.’
He watched her some more over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. ‘How are you, Jax?’
Was the long, lingering thing concern? She didn’t want to go there again. ‘Well, I’m over the heat.’
‘You’ve had a rough few days.’
‘You call that rough?’ She waved a dismissive hand.
He ignored it. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right after the break-in.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You okay with everything we discussed?’
Possibly she should be grateful, considering the other cops she’d dealt with, but really? ‘I have more questions, obviously. Hence your drink. Don’t gulp it down, I’ve got a few.’
He smiled a little, nodded. ‘I wouldn’t normally encourage someone who’s been through what you just have to focus on the details, but when I saw your files today, I realised you were going to anyway. I wanted to make sure it hadn’t upset you.’
She pushed irritation away, smiled as she held her arms wide. ‘Do I look upset?’
‘No, you look great.’
Okay, she hadn’t expected that.
‘You didn’t seem upset at uni, either. Not in public.’
Or that. Anger put spice in her tone. ‘That’s right. I was your stakeout.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you figure you know something about who I am fifteen years later?’
‘I know that fifteen years ago, when you weren’t being the cool party girl, you were grieving alone.’
‘And what, you think I’m being all chatty with you, then taking myself off to cry?’
‘Are you?’
She swung her face to the window, tears threatening to return. ‘It’s none of your damn business.’
He didn’t speak for a moment, which she was more than happy about. She blinked hard, sipped at her drink. She’d come here for answers, not psychoanalysis. Was she going to have to do the tell-me-what’s-going-on dance all over again?
‘Jax?’
She turned, steeled herself for whatever misplaced, psychologist-cop piece of advice he was about to give her. But he didn’t offer any, just settled his gaze on hers. There didn’t seem to be a message in it, only a tight focus. As though he was examining her irises for the evidence to prove his case.
‘I still have questions,’ she said.
‘The girl I told you about,’ he said. ‘Bethany, the one whose mother was assaulted. She thought that knowing everything would make it better, that somehow seeing it for what it was would ease what she was feeling.’ He reached across the table, turned her palm up and, with an index finger, drew a line across her wrist. ‘She has scars here from trying to understand why a person would do that to someone she loved.’
Jax tried to tug her hand away, horrified at what a young girl had done, at the feel of it on her skin. But he kept hold of her fingers, her wrist exposed, his eyes on hers, the message in them now unmistakable. This wasn’t about Jax, it was about him. He wasn’t doubting she could handle the information – he was making sure she could.
Was that what he’d been worried about all along? Why he’d told her to keep away from Kate, to not get involved?
‘Fifteen years ago I was learning to live again,’ she said. ‘I’m not that person now. I have lived. I’ve been happy. I have a daughter.’
He released her hand. ‘I don’t want to be sorry we talked.’
Did he feel responsible for what Bethany had done? Did they discuss her case before she’d hurt herself? Jax had thought
of him as a cop – law enforcer, investigator, gun-toting action guy. Not someone who could be hurt by his own investigations, who felt responsible for someone else’s victim. Jax wanted answers – she didn’t want Aiden waking in the night, wondering if she’d found a knife or pills or a cliff to jump from.
Searching for a way to tell him he wasn’t responsible for her, she realised it wasn’t words he needed. So she lifted her chin, kept still under his scrutiny and tried to fill her eyes with determination, hoping he didn’t see the fear and anxiety her questions were keeping at bay.
Finally, he raised his glass to his lips and took a long draught of beer. ‘Shall we make a start, then?’
For half a second, Jax wondered if there was anything else he’d seen in her eyes, decided there were other things she wanted to know first. She fired questions as they came to mind, not bothering to put them into any kind of order. Aiden answered with the facts.
CCTV had placed Brendan’s car at various points around Sydney in the time he was unaccounted for. Most pictures didn’t confirm he was the driver, although cameras on the Harbour Bridge showed him behind the wheel on four crossings – once on Saturday evening heading south towards the city, and three times on Sunday: going north around 2 am, presumably on a return trip, then south early Sunday afternoon and back again two hours later. Which meant his vehicle was set alight sometime after that.
‘Any indication yet of whether there was a phone in his car?’ Jax asked.
‘It’ll be a couple of days, at least, before I hear back on that.’
‘Can you tell from the CCTV footage if he was being followed?’
‘There’s nothing obvious.’
‘Are you looking?’
‘It’s a coroner’s investigation, Jax. I need to work out the chain of events that led to Brendan Walsh’s death. He wasn’t speeding or driving erratically and there’s no indication from the CCTV vision that what he was doing in his car on Sunday led to him getting in yours on Monday.’
‘Except he thought he was being followed. He talked about trying to hold something off for two days.’
Aiden drained his beer. ‘At this point, the information provided by his doctor explains that better than the footage.’
She rolled her lips together, pointed at his empty glass. ‘Another?’
‘You said two.’
She stood at the bar again, glad to have a moment to think without Aiden’s eyes on her. Food was being served at the other end of the counter. Pub grub that smelt great and reminded her of how little she’d eaten today. She bought beer and a mineral water, ordered a serve of potato wedges and thought about Hugh Talbotson while she waited.
He’d wanted to know everything, had offered up plenty about Brendan in return – more tit-for-tat than anything Aiden had given. The senior sergeant was sticking to his policy and answering only what was asked. It was like trying to prise open a vault with her fingernails and the challenge was … making her brain buzz with energy.
‘I was hungry,’ she said when she got back to the table, off-loading the drinks and food. ‘I thought we could share.’
‘We could have had dinner.’
‘I didn’t think you could handle that many questions.’
‘Well, yes, we would’ve had to find something else to talk about.’
She chewed on a potato wedge and thought about dinner and conversation. ‘You do that kind of thing sometimes? Eat and talk?’
‘Sometimes. How about you?’
‘Not in a long time.’ Not without Nick.
‘What do you like to do, then?’
Oh dear, did he think she was asking him on a date? ‘I don’t know. I’m newly widowed. I haven’t figured out the role yet.’
‘I think it works the same way. You go somewhere, eat some food, talk a bit, pay.’
‘You think?’
He grinned. Not smart-arsy. Not like he’d put a big cross through the idea, either. Just his standard, steady, I-see-you gaze. Then he lifted his full glass between them. ‘You’ve got this much time for more questions.’
It was a smooth change of subject, back to where she felt comfortable, even if he didn’t. ‘I talked to Brendan’s friend Hugh Talbotson today,’ she started.
Aiden frowned. ‘You know him?’
‘I met him at Kate Walsh’s house this morning, asked if he wouldn’t mind talking to me about Brendan.’
‘You didn’t think I was going to answer your questions?’
‘I had different ones for him.’
‘What did you want to know?’
‘How Brendan was when he was in Sydney, what happened in Afghanistan.’
A pause. ‘Go on.’
‘Hugh said Brendan didn’t always make good choices about who he got friendly with. Said he’d been spending time with some guys in a gym and suggested they weren’t a good choice.’
Aiden didn’t respond.
Back to prising open the vault. ‘Is it possible Brendan was involved in something with them?’ she asked.
‘Like what?’
She wondered if Aiden was checking what she knew before disclosing information. ‘I don’t know. Have you spoken to Hugh?’
‘He’s one of a number of Walsh’s associates that were scheduled for interview.’
Was that yes or no? ‘Are some of the associates inappropriate choices for Brendan to be spending time with?’
‘I’m not in a position to make a judgement about people Brendan Walsh should have spent time with.’
A slow smile curled her lips. ‘Nice answers, Detective Senior Sergeant. You must do well in court.’
He cocked an eyebrow, took a sip of beer.
‘Okay, how about this? Should I be worried about his poor choices chasing me and breaking into my house?’
‘Jax, I don’t know what choices Talbotson was referring to. As far as I’ve confirmed, Walsh was going to work, spending time at a gym, making contact with a handful of former military colleagues, seeing his psychologist and not much else. And there’s no evidence he was being followed.’
She frowned. ‘Hugh suggested Brendan was involved in more than that.’
‘Okay.’
It wasn’t a request for details. What wasn’t she asking? ‘He suggested Brendan had been … socialising regularly.’
‘Okay.’
Man, she was over his evasions. ‘Have you got a problem with Hugh’s information?’
There was the briefest hesitation before he answered. ‘No. I have a problem with you talking to him.’
‘You agreed to answer some questions. That doesn’t mean you get to be my sole source of information.’
‘This is a police investigation.’
‘I’m not tampering with evidence.’
‘A reporter on the prowl makes people nervous.’
‘I’m not a reporter and I’m not prowling.’
‘You’re visiting Walsh’s wife, talking to his mate and asking people to dig through newspaper archives for you. If you’re right and someone thinks you had a relationship with Walsh and the relationship was because you’re a reporter, your behaviour could make people nervous.’
It was a twist on her own theory. She’d thought the chase and the break-in were an attempt to find out what she knew, not as a result of what she’d done since the carjacking. She took a second to consider Aiden’s version. Who would know she’d asked Russell to pull an old story? Had he explained at the office how she’d asked him to dig out the old story? ‘Someone would have to be watching me to know I’d visited Kate Walsh. Or watching Kate.’
‘Yes.’
She straightened, eyes flicking to the group of drinkers at the next table. ‘You think that’s a possibility?’
‘I haven’t ruled anything out.’
Apprehension snagged across her shoulders, made her scan the deck.
‘No-one’s watching you here,’ Aiden said, ‘other than me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve ch
ecked. Look, Jax, it’s possible there are less complicated reasons for the break-in and the chase. You need to keep that in mind. But it’s also possible Brendan Walsh dragged you into something. You don’t have to investigate it yourself, though. I don’t settle for throwaways. I’m on it. I want you to believe that.’
‘Except you want to know what happened. I want to know why.’
‘Sometimes the “what” explains the rest. Give it a while, Jax.’
‘A couple of days?’
‘Let me do my job then decide if you need more answers.’ He raised his glass, downed the dregs of his beer. ‘Okay, we’re done. I survived, where do I get the T-shirt?’
She smiled a little.
He stood. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.’
38
It felt like déjà vu outside: just past dusk, hot and humid, Jax’s car on the same street and her mood jittery and wary. A lot had happened since the last time they’d walked this path – not much had changed.
‘How are your feet?’ he asked.
‘Not too bad.’ If she walked carefully. Right now, she was ready for a distraction. ‘At uni, did you ever try to talk to me?’
‘No, I had a girlfriend.’
‘You weren’t allowed to talk to other girls?’
‘She thought I had a crush on you.’
‘Well, you were stalking me.’
‘And I had a crush on you.’
She turned to look at him.
‘You were cool and secretive and sad. An irresistible combination for a serious Psych student.’
‘Oh, so not because I was hot.’
‘Okay, that too.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Hot was not a description she’d ever applied to herself – and back then? She still remembered what it was like to be that girl. Reckless, spontaneous, a little wild. Cool only in the sense that she’d kept her distance, wanting to find herself before she let anyone close. But she’d joined in, had a ball, laughed a lot. And yes, she’d kept her sadness in a box, only lifting the lid and allowing it to breathe when she thought she was alone. ‘I’m not her anymore.’
‘No-one’s the same after fifteen years.’