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

and Shane manage to muddle along. The garden seems to have fallen through the cracks.

The news announcer’s voice infiltrates her thoughts. ‘The body of the man killed on the T1 train line on Thursday has been formally identified.’

Bridget looks up from scrubbing one of the pots. A female reporter is standing outside a train station, commuters swirling in the background.

‘Thomas Malouf joined commuters waiting at the far end of platform one at about eight p.m. Witnesses say Thomas lurched forward as the train arrived, giving the driver no chance to stop.’

Bridget freezes. Thomas Malouf: she knows that name.

‘Turn it up.’ She abandons the washing-up and hurries across to the lounge area. Her hands are dripping wet.

‘Police are reviewing CCTV footage and talking to witnesses. It’s believed Mr Malouf may have conversed with someone on the northbound platform before changing to the southbound one. Anyone with information is urged to come forward.’

‘One of yours?’ Shane asks, his voice sounding far away.

Thomas Malouf. Thomas Malouf and Dylan O’Shea. Bridget has placed him.

‘He is now!’

She rushes to find her phone. Two main players in the Malouf–O’Shea case are dead. Now that Bridget has finally found what direction to point herself in, she’s frantic that Dylan O’Shea is next to be targeted.

27

JESS

Billy is warming up on the tear-drop bag, doing under-cuts, hooks and rips. He’s wearing a black sweatsuit, along with headgear and a groin guard, which he needs to get used to before his fight. It’s Sunday morning. The gym is deserted except for the two of them. Vince took some persuading to open up this morning.

‘Billy can’t come a few nights this week,’ Jess wheedled. ‘He has to go interstate with work. If he doesn’t get enough training, we’ll have to cancel the fight. No point if we’re not fully prepared.’

Vince gave in after a visible internal wrestle: his long-held belief that Sundays are a day of rest versus all the preparation that has gone into this debut. ‘Two hours max. But we’re not making a habit of it.’

‘It’s a one-off. Promise.’

Billy moves from the tear-drop bag to the uppercut machine. His face glistens with sweat, even though the gym is chilly enough to see your breath. Jess begins her own warm-up, skipping and some practice on the bag. After about twenty minutes they’re ready to spar. Slipping through the ropes into the ring is always a good feeling.

She presses the timer on the wall, which starts the countdown.

‘What’re you waiting for, Billy? Don’t be put off by the fact that I’m a girl. If you hesitate, I’m just going to hit you … Too late, mate. You’ve got to get in those right hands all the time.’

Sparring and coaching at the same time is challenging. Jess has to keep her wits about her, defend and attack, as well as pinpoint areas where Billy can improve.

‘Last thirty seconds … You know where to go … I want left hooks … You’re coming up too late … Time!’

They glug some water, catch their breath. Then she starts the timer again.

‘That’s good, Billy. But you didn’t finish! Don’t reach for me. In and out. That’s it. Find your aggression. Pretend I’m someone you hate. That’s better.’

Sometimes the person you’re fighting isn’t your enemy, but it helps to pretend that they are. Jess used to visualise William Newson and Thomas Malouf. Picturing their faces never failed to produce a fresh surge of hatred and aggression.

They’re reaching the end of the third round when there’s a loud banging on the roller door, which is at half-mast to let in some natural light.

‘Come under,’ she yells, without taking her eyes off Billy. ‘Go right, Billy. Don’t let me off the hook like that … faster hands … good pressure … One, two … That’s it! … Time!’

Jess and Billy touch gloves before pulling off their headgear. A woman with shoulder-length red hair is observing them. She’s accompanied by another, younger, woman, but it’s clear which of the two is in charge.

‘Jessica Foster?’

‘Yes. What can I do for you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy.’ She’s wearing a dark trouser suit. Up close there are fine lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Sasha McEvoy. I was wondering if we could have a word.’

Sweat is dripping from Jess’s forehead into her eyes. ‘Just a minute, please.’

Billy follows her over to the locker area. ‘Why does a detective need to speak to you?’ he asks in a low, serious tone.

‘I guess I’m about to find out.’

‘You don’t need to talk to her. You have a right to remain silent.’

‘I know my rights.’ Jess buries her face in a towel before using it to wipe around her neck and chest. ‘Do ten minutes on the reverse climber. Get your heart rate up even more. Then start your core work.’

‘I’m a lawyer. I don’t think you should—’

‘I know you’re a lawyer. That’s why I enjoyed beating the crap out of you just now.’

Bridget Kennedy is watching their exchange from her position next to the ring. Her fresh-faced colleague is looking around the gym, cataloguing the layout and equipment.

‘Reverse climber,’ Jess reminds Billy before sauntering towards them. She can do this. She’s strong enough to deal with whatever they want to dredge up.

‘We’re not usually open Sunday mornings,’ she says; they’re probably wondering where everyone is. ‘How can I help?’

Blue-green eyes bore through her. ‘William Newson and Thomas Malouf. I believe both these men are known to you?’

‘Yep. From long ago.’

‘Have you seen either man recently?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me when you last had contact with them?’

That’s easy to answer. ‘The trial, twelve years ago.’

‘How about Dylan O’Shea? When did you last have contact with him?’

‘A few days ago, actually,’ Jess admits with a frown. ‘He called out of the blue.’

‘What day, precisely?’

‘Thursday, I think. Yeah, the trains weren’t running. I was waiting for a lift when he called.’

The detective narrows her eyes, as though Jess has revealed something vital. ‘And you’re not in