You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (best fiction novels .TXT) 📕

Fucking hell. Straight into it. Jess doesn’t feel strong enough today.

‘Look, Mum, I really, really don’t want to discuss William Newson … How’s Dad?’

Margaret blinks. She’s a bit like Jess: it’s hard for her to walk away from something when her mind is set on it.

‘Has he got theatre today?’ Jess prompts her along.

Margaret’s nod has more than a hint of reluctance. ‘A triple bypass. Very complex from the sounds of it. How’s work going for you?’

‘Fine. Good. The gym keeps getting busier and busier.’

‘You’re looking a bit pale. Are you feeling okay?’

Margaret knows. She might not understand Jess, but she has always had the uncanny ability to see right through her. What have you done, Jessica? Tell the whole truth. We can’t help you if you only give us half the story.

Jess adjusts her position on the stool. ‘Woke up with a bit of a headache. But it’s gone now.’

Margaret gives her a scrutinising stare. ‘I wish you wouldn’t—’

‘Don’t, Mum. Please don’t. I’m fine. And I’m happy.’

Margaret turns sharply. She’s rummaging in the freezer. A plastic container lands on the counter in front of Jess. Margaret extracts some frozen muffins.

‘Banana and vanilla. Have to freeze them these days, otherwise they go to waste.’

The microwave door pings open. Jess’s stomach constricts with hunger and memories. Sometimes she gives the wrong impression. It was a happy childhood. Yes, she was different from her siblings, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t warmth or love. Margaret made sure the pantry and fridge were well stocked, and there was always a cooked dinner that catered for a few hangers-on. Friends would come for a swim and stay for dinner, then reappear at the breakfast table the next morning. Banter and squabbles at mealtimes. Excitement from the dogs when they got home from wherever they were. The sound of Margaret’s students playing their scales on the piano. ‘C sharp,’ she would correct them, in the same exasperated tone she used for her own children.

Jessica, life would be so much easier for all of us if you just toed the line!

Jess was the rebellious child. Pushing the boundaries, at school and at home. Ditching classes. Lying about her whereabouts. Raiding her dad’s drinks cabinet (a predictable story that ends with vomiting on her bedroom carpet). Pretty normal teenage antics. Until that house party, until the rape, until the trial. That’s when Jess recognised the dangers of having too much money, and the illusion that money can actually protect you. As a result, she keeps a distance from this life, and from her parents; too easy to get sucked back in.

She made herself a promise after the trial: her mother and father would never have to pay another cent for her. Make her own way, pay her own way.

Next time Jess fucks up, it’s on her alone.

12

BRIDGET

Bridget is parked outside Suzanne Newson’s house, waiting for Dave to join her. She’s seeking a third opinion on William Newson’s ex-wife. Is Suzanne as congenial and harmless as first impressions suggested? She admitted that the divorce had been acrimonious, and Bridget and Katrina didn’t press for details. Her ex-husband’s life had been hanging by a thread; she was upset and in no fit state to be interrogated. Now, her ex-husband is dead, and after meeting with their son, Joshua, Bridget has a better handle on what questions to ask this woman. For a start, the specifics behind that gnarly word ‘acrimonious’. Was there a disagreement regarding assets or spousal maintenance? Or maybe bitterness generated by deceit or infidelity? Or perhaps it was years and years of ingrained resentment, leading to an inability to see eye to eye on anything at all, let alone the terms of a divorce. Or maybe, as Joshua alluded to, there were ideological differences.

All those girls can’t be lying.

Dave pulls up in a squad car. He gets out, straightening his tie. He and Bridget converge on the footpath. Because it’s just the two of them, they exchange a hug. He smells of coffee and sandalwood aftershave.

‘Bridget! We must stop meeting like this.’

It’s obvious that he’s pleased to be working with her on the investigation. Homicide don’t have to involve detectives from local area command but Bridget tries to whenever she can. If the shoe were on the other foot, she’d hate being frozen out. Besides, Dave has invaluable local knowledge: CCTV locations, hide-outs and rat runs, ex-cons and current criminals living nearby. He has also orchestrated the search of more than a thousand rubbish bins in the surrounding area. No evidence was found, but that doesn’t detract from the gigantic effort or Dave’s stoic approach to the task.

A bottle-green fence protects Suzanne’s colourful, well-tended garden from the road. It’s the tail end of winter, rainfall has been woefully scarce; someone has clearly put a lot of time and effort into this garden.

The front door is the same bottle-green as the fence. Bridget raps on it loudly. A growl resonates from somewhere inside, followed by loud barking.

‘That sounds like a big dog,’ Dave comments warily.

‘It’s the little ones you need to watch out for.’ Bridget met the dog – a Golden Retriever – last week. She can’t remember its name, only that it was one hundred per cent friendly.

The dog bounds outside as soon as the door is opened.

‘Come back here, Mabel … Mabel! Mabel!’

The dog pays no attention to its mistress, heading straight for Dave, jumping up on its hind legs.

‘Mabel! Mabel! Get down!’ Suzanne is wearing similar clothes to last week: tailored pants, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, sensible shoes. Her short grey hair is neatly combed, her face plump and exasperated.

She smiles apologetically at Dave. ‘Sorry about that. She’s nearly ten and still acts like a puppy.’

‘Don’t worry about it. People aren’t always so pleased to see me.’ He sticks out his hand. ‘Detective Sergeant David Nesbitt.’

The dog doubles back to Bridget. She gives its head a ruffle.

They follow Suzanne into the back of the