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

‘Fuck, no! He wanted to meet up for some reason.’

‘Did you meet up?’

‘Not yet … Probably some stage this week.’

Billy is poised between sets on the reverse climber, blatantly eavesdropping. Jess glares at him until he resumes, his calf muscles flexing.

‘So, you commute by train?’

Jess turns her gaze back to the detective. ‘Yep, the station’s a five-minute walk from here.’

‘You say you got a lift on Thursday night. Who gave you a lift, Jessica?’

‘Alex, my boyfriend.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Sometime after eight …’

‘And where was Alex before he picked you up?’

This is starting to feel like a cross-examination. Maybe she should have listened to Billy. ‘At home … Look, where is this going?’

‘Thomas Malouf died on Thursday night.’

The shock is intense. ‘What?’

‘It was his body on the train tracks, Jessica.’

Blue-green eyes are raking her face for some indication that she already knew this. Suddenly, Jess sees herself, sitting on the cold metal bench outside the station, waiting for Alex. How could she have been so oblivious? Surely, she should have known, at some instinctual level, that he had been dangerously close to where she was sitting? Surely, she should have been able to tell, via some sort of physical reaction, that he was dead?

Detective Kennedy is asking a question. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that he died here, in Artarmon, at the very same station you pass through every day?’

It is odd. Extremely odd. Jess recalls the fleeting image of the man who could have been Thomas at Killara station earlier in the week. Maybe it was him. Maybe they’ve been sharing trains and part of their commute all along. Jess needs to sit down. She grips on to the ropes around the ring for support.

‘I was here, at work,’ she says in reply to the accusation embedded in the detective’s question. ‘Dozens of people can vouch for that. Same applies to the night William Newson died.’

Detective Kennedy isn’t finished. ‘And so odd that Megan Lowe was the paramedic who attended to William Newson.’

Jess takes a shallow breath. ‘Sometimes life is like that. Weird things happen.’

The detective’s expression is thoughtful. ‘Does Alex have a motorbike, Jessica?’

‘Not here. Back at the farm.’

‘And where’s this farm?’

‘The Hunter Valley … Look, I don’t know what you’re implying—’

‘I assume they have guns at the farm, too?’

The question sends Jess reeling.

Billy stops pretending that he hasn’t been listening and gets down from the reverse climber. He puts a supportive arm around Jess’s waist. How could he tell that she needs help standing up?

‘That’s enough,’ he commands, every inch the lawyer despite the sweatsuit and groin guard. ‘I’ll be recommending Jess gets legal advice before answering any further questions.’

28

BRIDGET

Bridget and Sasha debrief in the car. The young detective constable seems unperturbed about working the weekend. Bridget likes her dedication.

‘Right, so we need some background checks on the boyfriend, Alex, and a list of the vehicles and firearms licensed to the family farm. Can you run with that, Sasha?’

‘Sure thing.’

It’s a twenty-minute drive to Megan Lowe’s address, their next port of call. Another cloudless blue sky and a lazy Sunday-morning air. Sadly, Bridget has too much happening to enjoy the drive.

‘Let’s check in with Dylan, make sure he’s safe.’

Bridget spoke to Dylan last night and relayed her concerns for his safety without sharing too many specifics about the investigation – a very delicate balancing act. Dylan would be on her visiting list today if he weren’t away on the south coast for the weekend. Bridget considered driving down there until common sense – and her overwhelming workload – prevailed. A twenty-four-hour delay is tolerable, once she knows he’s not in harm’s way.

‘Dylan? This is Bridget Kennedy again. Just checking in.’

‘Everything’s f-fine.’

‘What time are you getting home tonight?’

‘Ah … Ah … ten … May-may-maybe later.’

Too late to arrive on the doorstep of the family home; Dylan still lives with his parents.

‘Look, can you send me a quick text when you get back? Just being cautious until we get to the bottom of what’s happening here … And I’d like us to talk at some stage tomorrow. Can you come in to see me?’

They agree a time and Bridget ends the call. She’s interested to see him face to face, this stammering man who was accused of sexual assault at the tender age of eighteen. What kind of impact did the case have on his life? I haven’t been able to sleep, he said in his statement at the time. I feel so guilty and embarrassed. I really liked Megan, and I thought she liked me. I was drunk, too. My judgement that night was pretty crap. I’m so sorry that I hurt Megan.

Now that Bridget has spoken to him a couple of times on the phone, she knows that the statement would have been delivered in a very faltering fashion, with none of the fluency of the written version.

William Newson and Thomas Malouf are dead. Is Dylan nervous that he’s next?

Megan Lowe’s house is on a tree-lined sleepy street, two kilometres outside Hornsby’s town centre. It’s a weatherboard, a small house on a large block like most of its neighbours. A ladder leans against the gutter; there’s a man standing three-quarters of the way up. A woman is painting the trims of the doorway, and another is engaged in vigorous sandpapering. Music is playing loud enough to be heard from a distance: Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’, one of Bridget’s favourites. Their arrival has been registered by the woman who’s doing the sandpapering, presumably Megan’s mother. She turns the music down abruptly.

‘Can I help you?’

Her tone is hostile, which is off-putting because her appearance is so cheerful: pink lipstick, dyed brown hair held back from her face with a floral bandana.

‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy, from the Homicide Squad. Just wanting a few words with Megan.’

Megan sets down her paintbrush. The hand she offers has spatters of light-grey paint on it. ‘This is my mum, Roslyn, and my brother, Seb. Do you want to