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

Sasha clears her throat, seeking permission to speak. Bridget nods.

‘Can you tell us who the repeat offenders were?’ the young woman asks tentatively.

Suzanne wouldn’t know names. Any discussion would have been in general terms due to client confidentiality.

Suzanne looks from Sasha to Bridget and back to Sasha again, her eyes pinpricks in her cushiony face. ‘Thomas Malouf, for one.’

Well, so much for client confidentiality!

Suzanne is perceptive enough to know exactly what Bridget’s thinking. ‘William wasn’t indiscreet … I know it was wrong of me, but I used to read some of the files he brought home.’

Bridget takes a moment to marshal her thoughts. Forget confidentiality and Suzanne’s means of obtaining the information. This is a significant revelation. Just as Bridget was at the point of separating the deaths of William Newson and Thomas Malouf, here is something linking them together again.

‘Thomas Malouf?’ she double checks, to buy some time. ‘From the Malouf–O’Shea trial in 2007?’

Suzanne’s nod is definitive. ‘I couldn’t believe it when his name popped up again. I was so cross with William. The second case didn’t even go to trial. My husband got Thomas off on a technicality and, of course, his previous sexual history bore no relevance. My husband was enabling a monster.’

A monster indeed. Thomas Malouf clearly didn’t feel remorse about what happened with Megan and Jess all those years ago. He didn’t see the ‘not guilty’ verdict as a warning to keep on the straight and narrow. He saw it as a green light to do whatever he wanted.

‘Thomas Malouf was buried yesterday,’ Bridget says, sitting down on the floral sofa. ‘Tell us everything you know about this other case.’

38

JESS

‘Tyler, don’t tell me you forgot your mouthguard again. Come on, mate. We’ve had this discussion. Just tell us if you don’t want to spar, and tell us if you don’t want to be here at all, for heaven’s sake … I can talk to your mum for you.’

Tyler mutters something indecipherable in response. What is it with this kid? Is he scared of his mother? Or maybe it’s the father who is exerting pressure. Parents send their kids to youth boxing for different reasons: to toughen them up, to calm them down, to provide an outlet for aggression, frustration or genuine athletic ability. Boxing helps with all of the above, but more than anything it instils discipline. There are clear rules and protocol. The coach is the boss. No back-answering, no messing around, no half measures. Most kids, even the unruly ones, conform. What is the problem with Tyler?

On the other end of the spectrum there’s Andy: over-weight and lacking in natural ability, but here of his own volition and giving it everything he has. Andy arrived fifteen minutes early, and is already warming up with the skipping rope. Andy has ambition, a goal to gain cred with the kids at school; Tyler can’t seem to summon enough ambition to tie his shoelaces.

‘I’m going to bring a spare mouthguard to the next class.’ Jess tries to look the kid in the eye but it’s easier said than done. His gaze bounces away before she manages to hold it down. ‘So, there’ll be no more excuses, mate. You’ll either have to spar or tell me what’s going on.’

It’s obvious that he’ll never become a boxer, not even at a social level, but it might be possible to teach him a different skill: to be honest with himself.

‘Some days I’m more like a life coach than a bloody boxing coach,’ Jess joked to Natasha when she turned up unexpectedly.

‘What would you say to someone like me?’ her sister countered, clasping her hands around her coffee mug. ‘I could do with some life coaching at the moment.’

Jess glanced at Lucy, so angelic in her pram … now that she had succumbed to a badly needed nap. Apparently, Jess had been a difficult baby too, doggedly fighting sleep. Apparently, she became happier once she was able to crawl around, the movement reducing her frustration and wearing her out for longer sleeps. This is what her mum told Natasha in an attempt at consoling her: Lucy might be just like Jessica; things will get easier once she starts moving.

‘Someone like you … Mmm …’ She assessed her sister in the same way she’d assess a prospective gym member. Translucent skin, gritty eyes, leftover baby weight. If Natasha came into the gym, she’d be torn between devising a gentle routine to ease her in or sending her straight home for a long sleep. ‘Well, it all depends on what’s driving you through the door. It wouldn’t be a need to prove yourself, because you’re the most accomplished person I know. And it wouldn’t be fitness or strength, because running is more your thing … No, you’d be there because you feel frustrated and want to hit something.’

Natasha sucked in her breath, displaying her surprise.

‘Don’t be surprised.’ Jess smiled. ‘Even an idiot can see what’s going on. You’re a super-organised person and have excelled at everything … until the unpredictability of being a mum. When did you last get out for a run, Nat?’

Her sister scrunched her face. ‘Not since before Lucy.’

‘You need to get back to it.’ Jess smiled again, to show that she understood it wouldn’t be easy. ‘Try to run a couple of times a week, but don’t go too hard. Your body is still recovering. You need to be kind to it.’

Natasha’s sigh was full of weariness. ‘Oliver gets home so late and I’m bone tired by then.’

Bloody Oliver. Carrying on like nothing has changed. ‘Oliver can come home on time once or twice a week. He must make some sacrifices, too. I think the stock market will survive.’

Exhibit A: the hard-learned maturity and diplomacy of Jessica Foster. The old Jess would have said something scathing about Natasha’s husband, which – no matter how true – would have put her sister instantly offside.

‘You’re a good agony aunt,’ Natasha