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

3

BRIDGET

Jesus. A shooting in Killara. A suburb associated with corporate executives, sky-high real estate prices and insidious wealth. Bridget pulls into the street, flashing blue and red lights heralding the precise location about two hundred metres ahead. Three squad cars flung at odd angles, offending her innate sense of order. She parks next to the kerb, cuts the engine and takes a steadying breath before getting out: you never know what you’re about to face. The wind lasers through her, a command to zip up her jacket.

‘Bridget.’ Detective Sergeant David Nesbitt is an old friend from her academy days in Goulburn. It seems incongruous that his party trick on drunken nights out was the Moonwalk. Bridget’s party trick was sculling a schooner in under ten seconds. Now Dave works out of police command in Chatswood and she’s with the Homicide Squad. His dancing would be limited to the jostle between family life and work demands. Her drinking constitutes a half-hearted glass of wine before falling asleep on the couch.

‘Hey, Dave.’ They shake hands, even though a hug would feel more natural. ‘Give me the run-down.’

He’s slightly breathless as he complies. ‘Male, late fifties, identified as William Newson. Apparently, he’s a barrister with a number of high-profile cases.’

A barrister? It’s usually the drug dealers or gang leaders who’re shot down outside their homes. Forensics have taped off the area. They’ve commenced swabbing, dusting and searching for holes and defects from projectiles that may have missed the target. She’s not sure they’ll find much, other than bullet casings, blood spatters and perhaps footprints and tyre marks. A police photographer is present too, crouched down as she photographs the bloodstains on the driveway.

‘Two gunshot wounds?’ Bridget says, repeating what was relayed over the phone: it’s amazing how many inaccuracies infiltrate that first swathe of information. People find it hard to be factual when confronted with traumatic situations.

Dave nods. ‘Alive on arrival to Royal North Shore but in a critical condition. Mr Newson lives alone. There’s an ex-wife and three grown-up children. The family are being informed.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Two neighbours who came to his aid. We’ve taken statements and sent them home. They heard shots, saw the motorbike speed away, and could offer nothing more than the fact that the driver was wearing dark clothes and a black helmet. We’re door-knocking every house. Someone might have seen something in the lead-up.’

She glances at her watch: 8.45 p.m. Twenty minutes ago, Bridget was in her fleecy pyjamas watching ‘bathroom week’ on The Block. Regardless of the inconvenience, and the jarring change from cosy living room to this hastily constructed quadrangle of police tape, her heart rate has increased and her mind has started flying off in different directions. There is nothing quite as invigorating as a new case. Technically not homicide, but it will be by morning: the victim is not expected to make it through the night.

‘Make sure that counselling is offered to the witnesses. Hard to get over something like this. So close to home, too.’

She steps back from Dave to look up and down the length of the street. Jesus, that wind feels like it’s from the Antarctic. Occasionally, Sydney produces a genuinely freezing winter’s night, as though to say, Don’t ever get complacent. A group of neighbours are watching from outside the tape perimeter. There’s not much to see; she has a strong urge to tell them to get in from the cold. It’s the mother in her. Hard to quell, even when she’s acting in a professional capacity.

The street is located within a maze of similarly quiet streets. No traffic lights or shops in the immediate area, which essentially means no CCTV. The main road is nearly three kilometres away. How many motorbikes zoomed past during the period in question? How many intersections will need to be reviewed? How long did the perpetrator lie in wait? Did he – or she – come to anyone’s notice? It sounds like the witnesses didn’t have much detail to offer; the door-knock might be more successful.

Dave takes her arm and guides her to a spot where there is a clearer view of the front garden. ‘Looks like he hid behind that gum tree, waiting for his moment. Bang, bang, then back on the bike and away.’

In Dave’s mind, it’s already a ‘he’. A dangerous assumption.

The gum tree is one of those huge ones that give you vertigo just from looking up at it. Its trunk is substantial, and that area of the front garden is dark and murky: perfect for stealing up on someone.

Bridget turns her attention to the victim’s house. A steep driveway leading to what appears to be an architect-built home. Three levels. Two balconies.

‘Big place for just one person,’ she says, a little enviously. ‘Have we had a look inside?’

‘A quick squiz to make sure it was secure. Nothing untoward. No sign of a struggle or forced entry. The garage door was open. He must have come out that way to access the bins.’

‘We’ll send forensics up when they’re done here. Seize his laptop and any other devices. I’ll go to his workplace first thing in the morning.’

She assumes that his chambers are located in the city centre, close to the courts: she deals with her fair share of lawyers. He’ll have an assistant, probably a pretty young thing, but now she’s guilty of making assumptions. Regardless, Bridget knows exactly what she wants from the assistant. Details of the cases that William Newson has been working on, the clients he’s been meeting with, and if he’s done anything to upset anyone.

‘Random or personal?’ she asks Dave.

He blinks. ‘Doesn’t look very random to me.’ ‘Me neither. Let’s hit the ground running. Let’s talk to colleagues, friends, family, neighbours, lovers, doctors, anyone who can vouch for Newson’s state of mind and if he was worried about anything or anyone in particular. But first things first – the bins. Contact the council and