You Had It Coming B.M. Carroll (best ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📖

a tennis court, an enormous pool and extensive gardens. Jess liked their differences. She liked Megan and started to invite her to things. A sleepover for her sixteenth birthday. A weekend away for her seventeenth. For her eighteenth they were both in a courtroom, on the receiving end of William Newson’s insinuations and outrageous lies.

The path reaches an incline, with uneven steps hewn from rock and sleepers. Up and up and up. Jess’s breath is ragged, her thighs burning. She knows she’s alive; Alex probably wants to die.

After ten minutes of climbing they come to the top. A stunning vista of bush, water and sky.

‘Let’s stop here a minute,’ she says, sinking down on to one of the sandstone boulders.

Alex immediately looks suspicious. They don’t usually stop: they’re both dogged like that.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘William Newson is dead.’ Something releases in Jess when she hears those words out loud.

‘What?’

‘William Newson. The barrister. He was shot dead last night. It’s been on the news.’

‘Fucking hell.’ Alex runs a hand through his hair, which is especially unkempt today. Jess’s mother comes to mind: she is constantly suggesting he get a haircut, or at least run a comb through it.

‘Fucking hell.’ His hands are hanging by his sides now, clenching and unclenching with emotion. ‘Pity they didn’t put a few bullets in those other two bastards while they were at it.’

6

BRIDGET

Jesus, teenagers! Bridget’s children are pressing her buttons. They don’t go to bed at night therefore don’t want to get up in the mornings. She’s had to call Cara three times this morning. Three! They’re deaf to her voice, her refrains that they wash up after themselves, keep their rooms clean, do their homework, not spend too long on Netflix. Seventeen and fifteen years old, incompetent in many respects, but brimming with opinions and contrariness. Who knew that life would be ten times more difficult now than when they were toddlers?

‘Homicide is way easier than this,’ is Bridget’s parting shot as she leaves the house. The only person who hears is her husband, Shane, not the person to whom the remark is directed but he is used to getting caught in the line of fire.

Homicide is obviously not easier. Bridget has been given the Newson case, which she was hoping for the minute she got called out on Tuesday night but didn’t dare take for granted. This is a big, high-profile case: many of her colleagues had their hand up too. Bridget’s team consists of Patrick, an experienced detective senior constable, and Sasha, a hardworking junior. Dave and the other local detectives at Chatswood are helping on the ground.

Bridget opens the car window to let in some air. The traffic is making her agitated. Megan Lowe’s shift started at 8 a.m., and Bridget’s plan was to get to the ambulance base ten minutes before. Time enough for a quick chat to establish if Megan and her colleague have anything to add to the narrative of the shooting. But the traffic is not complying. Her phone rings. It’s a welcome distraction from the fact that only two cars have progressed through the intersection and now the lights are red again.

‘Hey, Bridge. It’s Dave.’

‘I was just thinking about you. How are you getting on with the bins?’

He groans. ‘Still at it. Not popular with the neighbours or the council or the poor sods rifling through the rubbish.’

‘Popularity is overrated,’ Bridget says.

‘Any more news on the wife?’ he asks after a small pause. It’s clear that he’s itching to be involved in the case at a deeper level.

‘You mean ex-wife,’ she corrects tetchily.

The ex-wife of a barrister comes with certain preconceptions: someone with innate poise and confidence; someone immaculately groomed and dressed; someone ‘well-to-do’, to borrow a term her mother would use. Suzanne Newson was none of the above. A plump woman in her mid-fifties, eyes gritty from crying, a tremor in the hand that shook Bridget’s and Katrina’s (the detective inspector paired up with her for the late-night visit). Suzanne’s hair was grey, short and practical. Her house, a modest bungalow, smelled of dogs. Most surprising was her honesty.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ Her eyes darted between Bridget and Katrina. ‘Should I go to the hospital, or stay here and wait for news? Our split was acrimonious, you see, so it doesn’t feel authentic to rush to his deathbed. Joshua, my middle son, is there, talking to the doctors. He said it isn’t looking good. The oldest works as an accountant in London and the youngest is studying politics in Canberra. They’re booking flights home. Oh, I’m so devastated for the boys.’

They asked Suzanne if she had been out that evening: she said she hadn’t. They asked if William had any known enemies: she said that his cases were often ‘controversial’, but she couldn’t really comment on the recent ones. They asked if William had any money problems: she shook her head emphatically.

The traffic lights change to green and Bridget puts her foot to the pedal, not caring if she gets caught in the middle of the intersection: the fine is worth her sanity any day of the week, plus there’s a good chance she’ll get off.

‘We’re checking Suzanne’s phone records and financial situation but first instincts are that she isn’t involved. Three sons, though, so lots of potential there. I’m particularly interested in the middle one, Joshua, who is a junior barrister in the same chambers as his father.’

Bridget and Patrick visited the chambers yesterday. Joshua wasn’t at work, obviously, and they were told that William Newson’s assistant was away on her honeymoon. They came away empty-handed.

‘Patrick is doing some background checks on Joshua Newson. Seeing if he has any questionable friends, or if there was known friction with his father. And Emily, the executive assistant, phoned me from Fiji. She’s going to email details of the cases he was working on.’

‘That’s dedicated.’

‘I know! I like her already. I’m on my way to talk to the paramedics. Don’t expect to hear anything new