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

house. The mid-morning sun illuminates the sparse furnishings: a floral sofa, a small table with two chairs, a TV perched on an old-fashioned wooden unit. The house and contents are in stark contrast to the multi-level architect dwelling of her ex-husband.

‘Have you lived here long?’ Bridget enquires, a question she didn’t ask last week.

‘I bought it two years ago, after the divorce. Still haven’t got around to properly furnishing it.’

Haven’t got around to, or not able to afford to? It doesn’t look like Suzanne came out of the divorce particularly well.

‘I was admiring your garden on the way in,’ Bridget says, sitting next to Dave on the sofa. ‘Mine’s parched. Not sure how much longer the plants will last with this drought.’

Suzanne smiles. ‘The water restrictions make it difficult. Most people don’t have the time to hand water … Can I get either of you anything to drink?’

‘No thanks, we’re fine,’ Bridget assures her without checking with Dave. ‘We don’t want to bother you for too long, Suzanne. It’s been a difficult week for you and the family. We just want to follow up on a few things. Sorry in advance about the personal nature of these questions …’

Mabel lies down at Suzanne’s feet. Her hand strokes the dog’s coat. ‘Go on,’ she says softly.

‘You mentioned last week that the split was acrimonious. Would you mind expanding on that? Was there a disagreement about money?’

Suzanne presses her lips together. ‘You could say so, but not in the way you might think … William wasn’t an ungenerous man, but I didn’t want his money. I took only a fraction of what I was entitled to, just enough to buy this house and have a bit left over for a rainy day.’

Dave is scribe, his notebook balanced on one knee. He’s a lefthander, his writing large but well-formed and legible, from what Bridget can see.

‘Can you explain why you didn’t want his money?’ Bridget asks in a light tone that doesn’t reflect how interested she is in the upcoming answer.

‘I didn’t like where it came from,’ Suzanne says plainly, her eyes darting from Bridget to Dave.

All those girls can’t be lying.

‘You mean you didn’t like that he earned some of it from defending sexual assault cases?’

Suzanne rubs her temples with the tips of her fingers. Bridget wonders if she has a headache coming on. ‘I read some of the files he brought home at night. Saw the photos, the statements, the medical reports … It bothered me and bothered me until eventually I found the whole situation – and him – repulsive.’

Bridget and Dave exchange a glance.

‘Can you tell us if you went out anywhere last Tuesday night?’ Dave asks, knowing full well that Suzanne was asked this question previously. ‘Did you pop out to the shops, or go anywhere in the car?’

She shakes her head, then gestures to the room around them. ‘I was here all evening. I was watching The Block when I got the phone call from Joshua. He was on his way to the hospital.’

Bridget had been watching The Block too, before her phone rang. Everyone knows what time the show airs; this detail doesn’t offer any reassurance that Suzanne was really here.

‘When was the last time someone saw you on Tuesday?’ Dave continues.

Suzanne takes a moment to consider this. ‘I was in the garden that afternoon, between four and five. I think I said hello to one of my neighbours as she walked past. But I’m not sure if I have the right day.’

‘Which neighbour? What number house?’

Suzanne provides the information but reiterates that she isn’t sure. Now that Dave is asking the questions, Bridget can concentrate on reading Suzanne’s facial clues and body language. Her colouring is high. She seems slightly flustered. But she is being cooperative and appears to be genuine.

‘Did you use your phone to make any calls?’

‘Only after I heard the news. I called Quentin and Riley and other relatives to let them know.’

Quentin is the son who works in the UK, Riley studies politics in Canberra. Back at headquarters, Patrick is examining Suzanne’s phone records, as well as signals from her handset to the local base station, which should help in providing her approximate location. He’s also doing some digging on her financial situation, although if Suzanne is to be believed she doesn’t want any of her ex-husband’s money.

Bridget gives Dave a nod, indicating that she is ready to take over again.

‘How are your sons holding up, Suzanne?’

Her face crumples. ‘It’s hard on them. They’ve never lost anyone close – both sets of grandparents are alive. Me being estranged from their father is difficult, too. The boys are organising the funeral. I’m helping as much as I can from the sidelines, giving advice about what kind of coffin they should buy, who should speak at the service, what to do afterwards … But the responsibility rests with them.’

‘Are Quentin and Riley staying here with you?’

‘No, they’re with Joshua. He’s in Blues Point Road. Much better location. Lots of good restaurants on the doorstep.’

Bridget doesn’t comment. Surely, the availability of good restaurants should be irrelevant in circumstances such as these?

‘How do your sons feel about their father’s cases? Are they as repulsed as you?’

Suzanne contemplates this for a moment. ‘Quentin and Riley are very removed from it. They live in different cities, have different professions … I don’t think they’ve ever stopped to think it through. Joshua isn’t repulsed, but he has got caught in the crossfire more than once.’

‘How?’ Bridget prompts.

‘Protesters outside the courthouse. Someone who spray-painted the reception area of the chambers. The Malouf–O’Shea case was the worst – Joshua was still at university then. A girl egged him while he was walking through the campus. Bloody underwear was taped to his locker. Turned out it was just fake blood, but Joshua was very upset. The stress made him overeat. He’s still carrying around the extra weight today.’

Bridget’s eyes flick to Dave, writing as diligently as ever. There’s a lot to