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

means to free up money to pay a debt to a contract killer? Maybe Roslyn decided that her revenge would be every bit as elaborate as the Maloufs’.

Bridget closes her eyes, imagining herself in Roslyn’s shoes, the mother of Girl A. Hot rage courses through her. Revenge is a natural extension of rage. The timing is important, though. Why now? Years of resentment and hatred hurtling to a climax that coincided with the sale of her beloved family home? Or some other trigger: William Newson in the newspapers yet again; Laura Dundas, shivering and defiant in her bikini, holding up her placard. Roslyn’s internet history had links to the articles. Not again, she must have thought.

Bridget’s head hurts from the effort of piecing it together. She’s getting nowhere. It’s possible that sympathy for Roslyn is getting in the way of her objectivity.

‘The Maloufs destroyed Megan’s father,’ she says, turning to Dave for inspiration, ideas, anything. ‘What kind of family would do such a thing?’

‘The kind of family that closes ranks to defend their interests,’ he says simply. ‘The kind of family that you shouldn’t cross.’

Bridget remembers Thomas Malouf’s funeral, his relatives spinning their own story on the cause of his death. And the party they threw after the ‘not guilty’ verdict: treating his acquittal as a victory, a celebration. It was wrong, so wrong. How did they justify themselves? How could their view of things be so skewed?

‘That family has a thirst for revenge. They think they’re above the law. They’re dangerous, Dave … Let’s bring Leo Malouf in for questioning.’

‘I’ll ring him as soon as we’re done here,’ Dave promises, ‘set something up for tomorrow.’

The dog and his handler are finished with the pool area: nothing untoward has been detected. Louis is praised and put back on his lead. No dead bodies, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something to be found – a murder weapon? clothing? – under all that fresh earth in the garden beds. Bridget orders the specialist officers to commence digging. Animosity reeks through the glass pane of the kitchen window. Just Alex and Jess standing there now.

Maybe Bridget should ask Katrina to take her off the case. She is struggling to maintain impartiality, not just in relation to Roslyn. It’s easy to sympathise with Megan and Jess as well, to take their side. Cara is the exact age they were when they went to that fateful house party. Such a tender age, such a pivotal age. All Bridget can see is what they lost as a result of that night – their virginity, their sense of security, their belief in the justice system and good prevailing over bad. The damage extended into their families, their friendships and relationships today.

Jessica’s pale face stares from the window: Girl B, a term that’s far too narrow and clinical to apply to her.

Margaret reappears, miming something to Jessica and Alex, her hand gesticulating to make her point. Then Bridget has a left-field, crazy thought. What if she has been focusing on the wrong mother?

It’s 4 p.m. when Bridget calls it a day, the specialist officers no longer requiring her presence. Nothing has been found other than an old T-shirt, caked in dirt, once a light colour, perhaps pale blue. Alex claimed the T-shirt was his, a rag used to wipe his hands. Forensic examination might tell another story.

Bridget is tired to the point of being delirious. She calls Shane from the car, and leaves a voicemail when he doesn’t pick up.

‘It’s me. Just popping into the office for half an hour then I’m done, promise. I’ll pick up dinner on my way home. Pizza? Thai? Ask the kids and let me know. Bye-ee.’

The office is deserted, except for Sasha, who is beavering away at her desk. No sign of Katrina, thank God. Bridget couldn’t face her boss right now. Another wasted warrant. Another avenue closed. No answers forthcoming.

‘What a hellish day,’ Bridget says, dumping her handbag on her desk. ‘So much for no more overtime or weekends. Ha!’

Sasha stands up and comes over to Bridget’s cubicle. ‘I was just about to call you, actually.’

‘You were?’

The young woman’s eyes are flashing. ‘I’ve been tying up loose ends, one of which was confirming Hayley Webster’s alibi for the night Newson was shot.’

Hayley Webster. The ex-nurse. Thomas Malouf’s second victim. His second time being charged, at least.

Bridget has all but forgotten about Hayley. Now here she is, popping up again. That’s precisely the problem with this case: it’s been impossible to fully exclude any of the suspects.

‘And?’ Bridget prompts, curiosity triumphing over her weariness.

‘Well, she was at work, as she said she was. At a call centre, just like she said … But not any old call centre.’

Bridget narrows her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Hayley Webster is an emergency medical dispatcher. She works in the ambulance control centre. She decides which ambulances go where.’

Bridget realises two things at once: it wasn’t a coincidence after all that Megan Lowe was the attending paramedic at the shooting; and she won’t be going home in the near future, or picking up dinner for her family.

54

MEGAN

Megan and her brother have made countless trips to the local charity shops and as a result the garage is virtually empty, like the rest of the house. The stylist will install metal storage units and a workbench when she comes on Monday, to appeal to DIY enthusiasts.

Seb runs a hand through his long hair, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead. ‘Even the bloody garage is getting styled. What’s wrong with having it messy and dingy, like a normal garage?’

‘It’s all about first impressions and potential lifestyle.’ Megan wipes dust from the knees of her jeans. ‘That’s it for today. Good job.’

They high-five each other. It’s been a productive afternoon, although it took a while to find their rhythm after the dramatic start to the day. Megan cried a bit as she told the detectives what had happened to her father, and she detected compassion in