You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

asking the same thing, trying to catch her out for inconsistencies. Detectives sending her for a medical examination, which was excruciatingly intrusive and embarrassing, until she learned that a courtroom can be more intrusive than any medical procedure. All at her own instigation. Megan wanted to keep it between themselves, to get on with their lives and not make the same mistake again. But Jess wanted her day in court. She wanted justice. And because she was the stronger personality, that’s what happened. A full-scale brawl. Detectives, lawyers, journalists, the public, a judge and jury. She got her fight, her day in court (three weeks, actually). And they lost. A unanimous verdict. A knock-out, to use a boxing analogy.

‘Her name is Bridget Kennedy,’ Megan says, bringing Jess back to the here and now. ‘She asked pretty standard questions. We often have to talk to police, especially if we’re first responders … But—’

‘But what?’ Jess is not usually this abrupt. Megan’s putting her on edge. She’s going somewhere with this, taking her oh-so-careful time about it.

‘I had to tell her that William Newson was known to me.’ Megan is gently spoken in contrast to Jess’s terseness. ‘Then I had to leave before I could fully explain the circumstances. And I knew, just by looking at her face, that she was going to rush off and request the court transcripts.’

The waitress chooses that moment to arrive with their drinks: tea for Megan and a latte for Jess. The mugs are ridiculously oversized: the caffeine will have Jess buzzing for the rest of the afternoon. She takes a cautious sip, scrambles to gather her thoughts. The court transcripts! She can actually remember the court reporter’s face, sitting next to the judge’s assistant at their own special table, lips pursed as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Jess would spend hours looking at her, but she never so much as glanced in her direction. She had an air of disapproval; it was probably just that she had to concentrate on what was being said.

‘So, I should expect a visit from the detective too?’

Megan’s response is loaded. ‘Maybe … Are you ready for that?’

Jess bristles. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

Her gaze is scrutinising. ‘I’m just remembering some of the things you said …’

Jess’s mug clatters against the metal surface of the table when she puts it down too forcibly. ‘Just because I said I wanted to kill him doesn’t mean I’d actually fucking do it.’

9

BRIDGET

William Newson’s chambers are located in Elizabeth Street, opposite the Downing Centre Court. It’s the usual fare: sombre atmosphere, plush carpets, statement pieces of art in the foyer. Bridget is accompanied by Patrick, one of the homicide detectives on her team. Patrick is the nice guy of the department: nothing’s too much trouble.

‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Senior Constable Patrick Yandle to see Joshua Newson.’

‘Take a seat,’ the receptionist says in an efficient tone. ‘I’ll let him know you’re waiting.’

Bridget rang ahead to make sure that Joshua was due in the office today. His father has been dead less than a week, the body not yet released to the family. Unfortunately, the legal world cannot press a pause button to allow for grief. Joshua’s clients still need to meet with him, or see him across at the court. A lot is at stake: their futures, their families, their financial stability. In Bridget’s view their worthiness is up for debate: according to the website, Joshua Newson specialises in drug offences.

Bridget and Patrick sit down in the waiting area. Patrick scrolls through his phone while Bridget gazes at the enormous artwork on the far wall. It’s an abstract piece, vivid splashes of colour in the background, white chevron-type slashes in the foreground. Are the chevrons meant to be stick figures? Is the artist trying to depict people dancing? She uses her phone to take a photo. Cara, her eldest, is hoping to get a place in a visual arts degree next year. This is something they can talk about when Bridget gets home. She is constantly on the lookout for ways to prise herself into the closed worlds of her teenagers.

Bridget and Patrick are shown to Joshua’s office ten minutes later. He stands up to greet them. Early thirties, glasses with dark frames, distinctly overweight. He sticks out his hand; it feels clammy in Bridget’s grasp.

‘Sorry you had to wait. This is my first morning back.’

They all sit down. Patrick takes out his notebook. Another impressive piece of art is hung on the wall directly behind Joshua. A portrait of some description. Bridget can make out eyes, a distorted mouth and the swish of hair.

‘Thanks for seeing us,’ she says, realigning her gaze to William Newson’s middle son. ‘It must be difficult, returning to work so soon. Did you and your father work closely together?’

He blinks. Bites on his lip. Takes a few moments to get his emotions in check.

‘No. Different areas of speciality. Dad’s office is on the other side of the floor. Some days we didn’t even set eyes on each other. But we caught up for lunch at least once a week.’

‘Did your father mention anything of concern to you? Something or someone he was worried about? Or anything difficult or controversial?’

‘Nothing he mentioned. Dad dealt with a lot of sexual assault cases, which are controversial by nature. His assistant – Emily – would know the details.’

Bridget spoke on the phone to Emily Wickham last week. She was in Fiji, on honeymoon, but that didn’t stop her from being startlingly efficient. Within a few hours, Bridget received an email, summarising William Newson’s open cases as well as recently closed ones, including all the relevant names and phone numbers.

‘Yes, we’ve been in touch with Emily. Poor girl, having something like this happen while she is on her honeymoon.’

Bridget honeymooned in Fiji, too. Elaborate breakfast banquets before languishing by the pool. Cocktails at sunset followed by three-course dinners. She came home with four extra kilos and a life-long