Authors: Vicki Tyley
“Fen?” He glanced sideways at her and then back at the road.
“Tanya’s friend, right?”
“Her best friend. I had lunch with her today.”
“Twice in two days – you obviously like her.”
“I do. She was a bit standoffish at first, but I think I’m starting
to see the real Fen now.”
“So what did she say that’s got you so preoccupied?”
Jemma hesitated.
“Just making conversation. Tell me to mind my own business if you
want.”
“It’s not that. It’s more about getting it straight in my own head
first. What can you tell me about Kerry Mullins, Sean’s ex?” She paused and
added, “Of course, you can tell me to mind my own business.”
He laughed on cue. “Quid pro quo?”
“Deal. You first.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you drive a hard bargain, Ms Dalton?
Okay then, the ex Mrs Mullins. Let me think.” His fingers drummed the steering
wheel. “Not bad looking, short blonde hair, athletic physique – personal
trainer if my memory serves me right.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
And he knows it
, she
thought.
Chris flicked on the indicator, checking his rear-view mirror before
swapping lanes. “Even if I could remember, you know I’m not in a position to
divulge information. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
“What about information on public record?”
“Such as?”
“Such as the restraining orders Sean took out against her on more
than one occasion.”
“If you already know about them, what is there to tell? And they’re
called intervention orders in Victoria.”
“Intervention orders then. I was hoping you would be able to tell me
a bit more about the whys and wherefores.”
“I can’t give you any specifics off the top of my head, but I would
have to assume the ex was threatening him in some way or at the very least
harassing him.”
“Was Kerry questioned over Sean’s death?”
He frowned, but kept his gaze on the road. “Where are you going with
all this?”
“My sister is dead. Her fiancé is dead. I’m trying to make sense of
why two young people with their whole lives ahead of them would take their own
lives.”
Chris sighed. “It’s not as uncommon as you think, Jemma. I can’t
count the number of suicides I’ve attended over the years. What you’re feeling
is natural, part of the grieving process.”
“I understand that,” she said, fighting to keep the frustration from
her voice, “but you can’t tell me that two related suicides happening so close
together occur that often.”
“No, but the coroner ruled Sean’s death an accident.”
“How do I go about getting details of the coronial inquest?”
“You don’t.” Chris pulled up in front of an older-style red brick
bungalow and turned the ignition off.
“But aren’t inquests public hearings? Anyone can attend?”
“Correct. Except in Sean’s case there were no suspicious
circumstances, so there was no inquest.” He unbuckled his seatbelt.
“What about the autopsy report?” She felt the strap across her chest
slacken as Chris released her seatbelt buckle.
“You know that only a member of the person's family – or their
doctor or their lawyer – can request a copy of the autopsy report.” He opened
his door. “How about we forget about death for now and go and enjoy ourselves?”
Jemma gathered up her shoulder bag and the bottle of Chardonnay from
the footwell and joined Chris and his six-pack of VB on the footpath.
“It’s the cream place,” he said, pointing out a two-storey
weatherboard house three properties further up the street.
She followed half a step behind, no longer sure she felt up to socializing.
Especially with people she had never met.
At the door, his finger poised over the doorbell, Chris turned to
her. “Just say the word and we’ll go.”
Was she that transparent? She rallied up a smile. “No, I would like
to meet your friends. Really,” she added when he didn’t look convinced.
He pressed the doorbell. Footsteps soon followed.
Chris introduced the stocky, square-jawed man who answered the door
as their host, Paul Hester. Following him down the high-ceilinged hall, through
to the back, they emerged outside onto a wooden deck the width of the house and
almost as deep. Congregated beneath the large sailcloth shading half of it were
about twenty or so men and women, all with drinks in hand. Jemma didn’t hear
the punchline, but they all laughed. One of the party, a wiry middle-aged man,
caught sight of the new arrivals and waved them over.
Jemma felt herself drawn into the group, a wineglass thrust into her
hand. Chris made the introductions, but by the time she had shaken the last
hand, she had lost track of who was who. The only person she had encountered
before was Chris’s sidekick, the untalkative DC Lee Tait. How many of Chris’s
friends were cops?
Most of them as she soon discovered, shoptalk dominating not only
the conversation but also their jokes.
“…found the ice cream man lying on the floor of his van covered with
hundreds and thousands. Seems he topped himself.”
As a collective groan rose, she turned to ask Chris for directions
to the toilet, only to find he had disappeared. Instead, a swarthy-skinned man
with dark, deep-set eyes grinned back at her. She racked her brain for a name.
Myles? Myron?
He leered at her, his face coming within pore-viewing range of hers.
“Jenny, isn’t it?”
“Jemma.” His closeness and beery breath too much to handle, she
backed away. He kept coming. She looked past him, searching for Chris. Where
the hell was he?
“Jemma. Sexy name.”
Something hard hit her in the back, bringing her up sharp. A wall.
“You and the DS an item or what?” he asked, now so close, she could
see the black hairs inside his nostrils. He had her trapped, his hands either
side of her head.
She had two choices. One: try to talk her way out of it. Two: knee
him in the balls. She knew which one she preferred, but these were Chris’s
friends and colleagues. Humiliating one of them would not be a good look.
“Yes,” she lied. “Yes, we are.”
“How about a little kiss for cousin Milo?” He puckered his lips.
Her knee tensed. The next second he was flying backwards through the
air.
“Keep your dirty, fuckin’ hands to yourself!” Chris had Milo by the
scruff of his neck, his feet dangling in midair. His arms and legs jerked like
a marionette’s. “Do you hear me?” The marionette, whose face was getting redder
by the second, clawed at Chris’s wrists. “You better.” An audience gathering,
he dumped Milo on the deck.
“Shit, man, I didn’t know yous were together. Not like that, I
mean.”
Chris scowled down at him, his fists clenching and unclenching.
Milo stumbled to his feet and out of Chris’s reach. “Sorry, man. I
mean it.”
Their host arrived on the scene, aproned and armed with salad tongs.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry about, Paul,” Chris said. “It’s sorted.”
Paul pointed his tongs at Milo. “You, kitchen.”
Jemma waited until Paul and Milo had gone inside. “Good to see chivalry
isn’t dead, but don’t you think that was just a tad over the top?”
“He’s a slow learner. Someone has to teach him that not all women
are fair game.”
“Makes a habit of it, does he?”
“Only when he’s had one or ten too many beers. Come on, get your bag.
I don’t think this was such a good idea after all. I’ll let Paul know we’re
off.”
She started to protest and then thought better of it. Making polite
conversation with a bunch of people she might never meet again was probably the
last thing she felt like doing. She was only there at Chris’s behest and if he
didn’t want to stay, nor did she.
Instead of returning the same way they came in, Chris ushered her
down a narrow crushed quartz path between the boundary fence and the side of
the house, through a steel gate and out onto the street.
“Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have left you on your own.” He
grunted. “Sometimes you learn the hard way who your friends are. How about I
make it up to you with dinner?”
She climbed into the four-wheel-drive. “To be honest, Chris, I would
rather be back at the apartment putting my feet up—”
“Fine,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ll take you home then.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that if you had
nothing better to do, you were welcome to join me. We can order dinner in.”
He started the engine and released the handbrake. “No offence, but I
think I’ll pass. Early shift tomorrow.”
Touché
, she thought. “Another time
then?”
He didn’t respond, more intent on squeezing the vehicle into the
traffic.
Leaning back against the headrest, she closed her eyes. She had
tried. She had neither the energy nor the want to persevere. Her day had been
long enough as it was. Truth be told, the only company she was up to was her
own, anyway.
A knock to the side of her head woke her. Blinking, she massaged the
crick in her neck and pushed herself upright. She let out an involuntary gasp,
recoiling as a backpacker brushed past the passenger window, almost taking the
side mirror with him. More pedestrians. Only then did she realize Chris had
driven up over the curb and onto the footpath, parking right outside the
apartment building’s entrance. “Talk about door to door service,” she said,
voicing the first thought that popped into her head.
“I aim to please. Now get some rest. You obviously need it.”
She thanked him and, ignoring the glare from the grey-bearded man
forced to walk out of his way, scrambled out of the four-wheel-drive and
crossed the short distance to the glass swing doors. Solitude beckoned.
Except when she felt for her keys, she couldn’t find them.
Expletives flew. Grateful that no one was around to witness her hissy fit, she
emptied her bag’s contents onto the marble tiles. She was sure she had picked
them up off the kitchen counter. Damned sure.
Sighing, she sat back on her haunches and started piling it all back
into the bag one item at a time. Wallet. Mobile phone. Cosmetics’ purse. Tissue
pack. Breath mints. Everything bar the keys was there. So much for a restful
evening.
She weighed up her options. A: request duplicate keys and security
card from the property managers, though she doubted they would still be open at
that hour on a Saturday. B: ring Chris and ask if he could come back and pick
her up, but then what? That left plan C: a visit to the security office in the
hope she could convince them to give her access to the apartment. An unenviable
task at the best of times, but her only real alternative.
Psyching herself up, she shouldered through the glass doors back out
onto the street. Soft golds and dusty pinks washed the sky, the temperature
beginning to dip with the setting sun. High-pitched laughter from her right cut
through the thrum of the passing traffic. A swarm of giggling girls dressed in
the tightest, skimpiest outfits imaginable filled the footpath. She waited
until they had passed and then headed off in the opposite direction.
It only took a couple of minutes to reach the security office and
another to take stock. Taking a deep breath, she mustered up a smile and went
in.
A thickset man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut glanced up from his
newspaper and smirked at her. “Well, well, look who we have here.”
Her expression froze. Though she had only ever seen him in
half-light from a distance, she knew instinctively who he was. For some reason,
she had assumed Gerry Hobson only ever worked the graveyard shift. He
definitely recognized her.
She forced herself to walk toward the counter, hoping that by the
time she got there, her brain and mouth would be in sync.
He dropped his feet from the desk and stood up. Only then did she
fully appreciate how large he was. He advanced, his bulky gait reminding her of
a rugby player – a front row forward – she had once known. “So what con are you
trying to pull today?” He folded his burly arms.
She stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated, but still unable
to speak. What could she say without it coming out as a plea for help?
“Pussy got your tongue?” He laughed at his own joke.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Whatever you want it to be, darlin’. Whatever you want it to be.”
Resisting the urge to claw his eyes out, she drew herself up to her
full height and fixed him with her best don’t-mess-with-me stare. “Would you
rather I talk to your supervisor?”
“Nobody here but you and me, darlin’.”
A night on the streets was looking more preferable by the second.
She swallowed. Hard. “In that case, could you please let me into my apartment.
I seem to have locked myself out.”