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

‘Yes. That’s what I-I-I …’

She doesn’t owe him anything, not even the politeness of waiting for him to finish what he’s trying to say. ‘Okay, I’ll meet you, but just so you know, the truth isn’t complicated – it’s simple, actually, so how about you keep that in mind when we have this talk.’

‘Is t-tomorrow good?’

Tomorrow is far too soon. Next week, maybe. She needs time to prepare. ‘I’ll text you when and where. Don’t call me again. Is that clear?’

No more halting voice messages. No more calls out of the blue. This is on her terms.

‘Thank you … S-Sorry about your train …’

She has hung up before she realises what he said about her train. What the fuck? She swings her head from side to side, her heart banging with fear and adrenalin. A small crowd has gathered by the bus-stop, waiting for the next relief bus. Some cars are parked by the kerbside; they look unoccupied, but it’s hard to tell for certain. The rest of the street is fairly deserted, apart from a few customers in the fast-food restaurants across the road. How the fuck does Dylan O’Shea know that her train didn’t come? Is he watching her? Or is it an educated guess, intended to send her off balance? The fact that the train line is closed is likely to be all over the media. Typical Dylan. Always looking for a way to get his foot in the door. A disarming smile. A drink to offer. Condolences about the delay in public transport.

Another white ute materialises from one of the side streets, an older more battered model, driving too fast. Definitely Alex. Moments later she is inside, garden debris under her feet, and the safe smell of earth and hard work filling her with relief.

‘All right, babe?’ he asks, the engine growling as he accelerates away.

His hair is damp and he’s wearing a checked shirt she’s never seen before; Alex rarely buys new clothes. She can’t tell him about Dylan O’Shea. He’ll be so mad at her. Why didn’t you hang up on the dickhead? No fucking way are you meeting him! They’ll have a massive fight. She’s too weary to fight, or to explain about Dylan. Even too weary to compliment him on his new shirt.

‘Yep, fine.’ The migraine tablets are starting to work; they make her dazed before they make her feel better. She closes her eyes, visualising her bed and the soft warmth of her pillow pressing against the side of her face. ‘Thanks for rescuing me.’

24

BRIDGET

I want people to see my face and my body. I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.

A quote from Laura Dundas, the bikini-clad protester. Bridget scours the accompanying photograph for clues. Laura’s chin with its proud tilt, her eyes, unblinking and defiant. The placard – I’M NOT A LIAR! – shielding most of her body. Lawyers and other people passing in the background wearing overcoats; definitely not bikini weather. The journalist proclaimed her as admirable and courageous yet all Bridget can see is vulnerability and bravado. Laura’s defiance is underscored with strain. This is taking an enormous toll. She is not a natural show-woman: she has been driven to these lengths.

Bridget emails the article to Patrick, along with a list of questions: Did Laura finish her arts degree? Where is she living now? Has she staged any other protests? Links between Laura’s family and criminal networks? Check social media for whereabouts and posts during the past few weeks.

Experience tells Bridget that a twenty-two-year-old female is unlikely to have either the resources or the know-how to procure a gun, or the mettle to point-blank shoot her adversary. Bridget is not being ageist or sexist, just realistic. Besides, Laura made her point, very publicly and effectively. She doesn’t seem like the type to operate in the dark of night.

Fergus Herrmann is another matter. Mid-fifties, more likely to have knowledge about guns, target surveillance and how something like this could be pulled off. A man who has already been physically violent to William Newson. A father. According to Emily Wickham, it’s the fathers who take it the hardest.

Fergus Herrmann lives in Mount Colah, a suburb that Bridget is not familiar with. Sasha, one of the dedicated young detective constables, is her partner today. They’re parked outside a single-storey red-brick house. Weeds grow between the concrete slabs on the driveway and the lawn is equally neglected. The garage door is askew, lending the impression that it can’t be opened. No evidence of a car or, more pertinently, a motorbike.

On approaching the house, the detectives hear the muted sounds of a television. There’s no doorbell; Bridget knocks loudly. The sheer curtains on the glass panel are pulled to one side to reveal dark eyes and a bushy beard. The door is opened.

‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy,’ she says, offering her hand. ‘This is my colleague Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy.’

‘Come in. This way.’

They follow Fergus Herrmann into the front room. Matching sofas, nice cushions and pictures on the walls; the inside of the house appears to receive more attention than the outside. He turns off the television and gestures for them to sit. Taller than average height, black T-shirt and jeans, faded tattoos on his muscled arms, one of which looks like angel wings. An intimidating man. Bridget has no difficulty visualising him attacking William Newson outside the courthouse.

‘Thanks for seeing us, Mr Herrmann. As I mentioned on the phone, we’re investigating the death of William Newson. Can you tell us where you were between seven and eight p.m. on Tuesday August twentieth?’

Blunt fingers scratch his grey-black beard as he casts his mind back. ‘Tuesday nights I’m at work. I do night deliveries for a supermarket. Start at six p.m., finish at midnight.’

Bridget is surprised by his answer. He has an air of unemployment, of long empty hours spent in front of a television and getting up to no good once darkness has fallen. The bikie beard has strong connotations;