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

says, only half joking. ‘Megan’s opinion of your profession is just as bad as mine.’

Jess’s shift finishes at lunchtime and she heads over to her parents’ house. Alex’s ute is parked in the driveway, Natasha’s Audi directly behind it. There’s a huge mound of soil on the front lawn, along with a tangle of half-assembled irrigation pipes and driplines. What started as a relatively small job has been getting bigger and bigger. Extra garden beds. More paving. A new irrigation system, which seems pointless given the current water restrictions.

Jess is surveying the chaos when Alex appears from around the side of the house with a wheelbarrow. ‘Hey, babe.’

He’s filthy, streaks of dirt on his face and a worrying twinkle in his eye.

‘Don’t you dare come anywhere near me,’ she warns him, edging away.

He lunges. She shrieks and runs for it. Reaching the safety of the front door, she turns to blow him a kiss.

Her dad, Natasha and Lucy are in the kitchen. They seem startled by her breathless arrival.

‘Alex chased me,’ she explains, because the three of them share the same uncomprehending frown. ‘Sometimes he’s just an oversized kid.’

Lucy is nestled in her granddad’s arms, and seems happy despite the tiny frown. Natasha is nursing a cup of tea and looks white-faced with exhaustion. In the background, Jess can hear a two-handed scale being played on the piano; Margaret must have a student.

‘Nice to see you, sweetheart,’ Richard says. ‘Have you come from work?’

‘Yep.’ She switches on the kettle. ‘What are you three up to?’

‘Shooting the breeze,’ Richard replies, sounding more like a surfer than a heart surgeon. ‘I was just about to take Lucy for a walk. Hopefully get her off to sleep.’

The family is starting to understand that Lucy and sleep are a tricky combination. Walks in the pram, drives in the car, Granddad lending a hand, whatever it takes.

Richard deposits Lucy in her pram, and familiarises himself with the brakes before setting off at what promises to be a jaunty pace.

‘I’m starving,’ Jess says, opening the fridge. ‘Want something to eat?’

Natasha shakes her head, and watches while Jess assembles a ham and cheese sandwich.

‘It’s real work, isn’t it?’ Natasha says, gazing out the window. Jess looks out. Alex is depositing a barrow-load into one of the new garden beds by the pool.

‘Sure is. Real and very dirty.’

‘He’ll make a good dad. He knows how to get stuck in.’

Jess rolls her eyes. ‘Listen to you! Suddenly, every male is being judged on their potential as a father.’

Her sister grins ruefully. ‘It’s like I have this whole new lens on life. It’s okay to tell me to shut up. I know I’m being annoying.’

Jess knows what she’s getting at, though. Oliver deals with numbers, share prices and stock markets every day. Maybe if he got his hands dirty once in a while, or had to work up a sweat, he would be better equipped for pitching in with Lucy. That said, Jess is sure there are plenty of stockbrokers who make great hands-on dads.

Alex passes by the window again. He still hasn’t asked Margaret for an instalment payment. They argued about it again last night, and Jess came here today with the intention of dropping a hint. Maybe when her mum’s lesson is finished. The student is still labouring through chromatic scales. Margaret is a stickler, maintaining that scales, albeit tedious, are essential for strength and agility. She and Vince have that in common: the belief that technique enables excellence.

Jess and Natasha chat about Lucy as Alex goes back and forth, back and forth. His T-shirt hitches up, exposing his lower back as he tips the wheelbarrow forward, and yet another load of dark soil is dumped into one of the brand-new garden beds. Plenty of loads to come, going by the enormous mound of earth out the front. Margaret has been haphazardly adding to the scope of the job. If Alex had known at the outset it was going to be this big, he would’ve hired some help.

Natasha cocks her head to one side. ‘Christ, what is Mum up to with this massive garden project? Is she trying to bury a body out there?’

42

BRIDGET

Hayley Webster lives in a high-rise block of apartments in Redfern, the same place she lived when she met Thomas Malouf at a nightclub two years ago. The apartment block is modern, well-maintained, and located within a few hundred metres of a notorious public-housing block. The last time Bridget was in this area, she was investigating the death of a thirty-seven-year-old woman who was pushed from a balcony by her partner, who’d hallucinated that she was attacking him. The scene was a shocking one: the woman’s broken body on the pavement, her partner – an ice-addict – too far gone to understand the finality of what he’d done. He got fourteen years.

Sasha rings the bell and they wait. It’s 6 p.m. on Saturday night. There’s a strong possibility that Hayley is at work. Nurses work their fair share of weekends, like detectives.

‘Hello?’ A youngish female voice crackles from the intercom.

‘Is that Hayley?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy. We want to have a chat about Thomas Malouf. It shouldn’t take long. Can we come up?’

‘Do you have identification?’ the voice asks warily.

‘Of course.’ Bridget flashes her ID in the direction of the security camera positioned above the doorway. ‘Can you see that?’

‘Yeah. Come in.’

Hayley’s apartment is on the fifth floor. She is waiting by the door when they emerge from the lift: petite, shoulder-length dark hair, guarded expression. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweater; she doesn’t look like she’s on her way out tonight.

The apartment is small and feminine. Faux-fur cushions, glittery picture frames, a discarded lip-gloss on the coffee table. Two aubergine-coloured sofas. Bridget and Sasha occupy one, and Hayley Webster sits on the other.

‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Bridget begins. ‘We’re investigating the murder of William Newson and the death of Thomas Malouf. Both men were known