Cold Justice (27 page)

There was no vase. She got a bucket from the laundry, half-filled it with water, cut the plastic from around the stems and sat them in it. Then she pulled the envelope from the top, opened it and took out the card.

You fucking bitch.

She dropped it and backed away.

The flowers were silent in their bucket. The card lay face down on the floor.

That couldn’t be right. She was half-asleep still. She’d misread.

She crouched down and looked at the blank back of the card. There was no clue there, no hint of what was written on the other side. No raised lines where the writer had pressed down hard.

She got a fork from the drawer and lifted the card by one corner, flipping it over.

You fucking bitch.

‘Matt Riley, Finance.’

‘It’s me.’ Her voice shook.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Somebody sent me flowers,’ she said, her voice starting to crack. ‘The card says “You fucking bitch”.’

‘Call that detective,’ he said. ‘Hang up and call her. No, stay on the line, call from your mobile. Stay on the line with me.’

‘She’s on Tim’s case.’

‘Call her.’

‘Okay.’ She put the handset down and turned the volume up. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘I can.’ His voice was tinny and small. ‘Is the door locked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who brought them? How did he get into the building?’

‘Some florist guy. I guess somebody held the door open.’ She scrolled through the call register on her mobile. ‘Hang on, I’m calling her now.’

‘Marconi.’

‘Hi, it’s Georgie Riley.’ Her voice was tight and she took a big breath. ‘I’m sorry about this –’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Matt called.

‘– but I just got an abusive card attached to some flowers.’

‘From?’

‘I’m guessing the people who sent the letter,’ Georgie said. ‘I told you they hate me.’

Ella was silent for a moment.

‘I don’t know what I should do,’ Georgie said.

‘Ask her to come over,’ Matt called.

‘I mean,’ Georgie said, ‘should I –’

‘Ask her,’ Matt shouted.

‘Sit tight,’ Ella said. ‘You’re in the city?’

‘North Sydney. Milsons Point, I mean. Upper Pitt Street.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Thanks,’ Georgie said. When Ella was gone she picked up the handset and said to Matt, ‘She’s coming.’

‘So am I.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a cab and I’ll see you soon. And listen, you have to tell her the rest too.’

No.

‘It’s for the best.’

She shook her head though he couldn’t see it.

‘You know I’m right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

She hung up and sat on the end of the bed with tears starting down her face. She didn’t understand why her life had to be so hard, with Ross and his bullying reaching her even here, and Freya and her manipulative speeches and behaviour at work. She’d told Matt about it last night and his advice was to work hard, try to forget it and just get through the next six weeks. She would try, she’d said, but oh God, she just didn’t know if she could.

And now she might have to talk about the rest too.

‘She’s not exactly part of the investigation,’ Murray said.

‘Following up on it might lead us to whoever sent the letter and made the call.’

‘But you don’t know it was the same people.’

‘This will help us find out,’ Ella said. ‘It’s not going to take long. You go and talk to Steven Franklin and I’ll meet you in the city afterwards to talk to Chris Patrick.’

‘I’ll be done with Franklin before you even hit the bridge.’

‘Go see that aunt from yesterday as well then,’ she said. ‘Where that boy with the Commodore was supposedly eating pizza.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Georgie watched Ella pull on gloves and pick up the card from the kitchen floor. She slipped it into an evidence bag and turned it over to read the front, then collected the envelope and put that into a bag too.

‘Thanks so much for coming over,’ Matt said, his arm tight around Georgie.

‘No problem,’ Ella said. ‘What did the delivery guy look like?’

Georgie tried to recall. ‘Young, maybe twenty. Short, brown hair. Big smile. He wore a green shirt with the florist’s emblem thing on the chest. I don’t know what florist it was though.’

‘It’s okay, I’ve got it.’ Ella held up the bagged envelope. ‘What time was it, roughly?’

‘Forty minutes ago, I guess. I was trying to sleep before nightshift tonight so I’m not really certain.’

Ella inspected the bouquet itself.

‘You’re going to get those guys now, I hope,’ Matt said. Georgie could hear the anger in his voice and feel the tension in his body.

‘First step is to work out where this came from,’ Ella said. ‘I’ll talk to the florist, see if we can get any prints, that sort of thing.’

‘It has to be them.’

‘One step at a time,’ she said.

‘Because that’s not all that’s happened,’ Matt said.

Georgie’s heart sank. She dug her fingers into Matt’s side.
Not now. Not yet.

He looked at her. ‘You tell her or I will.’

‘What’s been going on?’ Ella said.

Georgie felt weak. ‘We’d better sit down.’

In the lounge room she sat close to Matt while Ella took the centre of the other lounge.

Georgie resisted the urge to cover her face with her hands. ‘I told you about the death of that man on the road, and what his family and my boss did.’

Ella nodded.

‘I thought I saw his brother in the city last week,’ Georgie said.

‘More than once,’ Matt put in.

‘I thought he was following me. The most recent time was a couple of days ago when I was walking home across the bridge.’

Ella said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

Georgie looked at the coffee table between them.

Matt took her hands in his. ‘After the road accident, Georgie was involved in another bad case. There was a flood and a girl was swept away. Georgie was part of the rescue attempt but the waters were too strong and the girl couldn’t be saved.’

‘I almost had her,’ Georgie said. ‘If I had held on for longer she would have lived.’

Matt squeezed her hands tight. ‘You don’t know that.’

Georgie’s vision blurred with tears.

‘It all combined to have a big effect,’ Matt went on softly. ‘She thought she saw the dead girl following her.’

After a moment’s silence Georgie glanced up at Ella. The detective was nodding, and didn’t look surprised, or shocked, or horrified. ‘That’s tough,’ she said.

‘It was.’ Georgie wiped her eyes. ‘I had psych treatment. I was on medication and spent time in hospital. I’m better now. Thing is though, the guy who died in the road accident and his brother Barnaby look just the same.’

‘So you weren’t sure what you were seeing, and didn’t want to call in case.’

‘Exactly,’ Georgie said. ‘We know you talked to the sergeant out there, and Matt’s brother is a cop there too, and he checked for us, and we know that Barnaby was in town on some particular days, but that there was still time enough for him to be coming and going.’

Matt put his hand on her back. ‘But the way I see it is that it doesn’t matter who she saw on the streets and the bridge. These flowers and that shitty little note are something else entirely. They’re concrete. Somebody sent them and for that they need to be pulled into line.’

‘Absolutely,’ Ella said. ‘Couldn’t agree more. That’s why I came over.’

Georgie felt something loosen inside her chest. She didn’t feel like a nut, like Ella saw only a crazy person when she looked at her. She was still frightened, but she was being taken seriously and that mattered so much. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re more than welcome,’ Ella said. ‘Listen, it might be an idea not to tell anyone about this, okay? And call me again whenever you need to.’

Georgie nodded, and tried to appear braver and calmer than she felt.

Freya lay wide awake in bed. James and the kids had gone to school an hour ago, and she couldn’t even doze. She’d hardly slept overnight and now nightshift was coming up and everything was crap.

Her mobile rang.

‘Look at the paper.’ Dion’s voice was high and tight.

‘Why?’

‘Just look.’

She got out of bed. James had left their home-delivered copy of the
Herald
in a mess on the kitchen bench. ‘What page?’

‘Six.’

She flipped through.

‘See it?’

She couldn’t breathe. There were two photos – one of Tim in his school uniform, the other a CCTV still of a dark-haired woman who, according to the accompanying story, had contacted police with information about the discovery of the body.

‘Do you know her?’

‘Why would I know her?’ she said, trying to keep her voice firm. ‘She’s part of the thing against Georgie. They’re making it up.’

‘How can we be sure?’

‘Because nobody could know anything,’ she said.

‘But what if there was somebody?’

‘Who? Where?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘It’s just those people,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. It won’t lead the cops anywhere near us.’ In the background she heard an announcement. ‘Sounds like you’re at the airport.’

‘I’ve got meetings in Melbourne all day,’ he said. ‘Uh . . .’

‘What?’

‘Nosebleed.’

‘You still get those?’

‘Not for years,’ he said. ‘Listen, I have to go.’

‘Remember,’ she said, ‘it’s nothing.’

‘Okay.’ But he sounded about as certain as Freya felt.

She hung up, grabbed the paper and shoved it into the bin. The cops would get calls about this woman, she’d turn out to be some pal of Ross Oakes’s, she’d get a kick in the arse for making nuisance calls and that would be that.

Because nobody could know anything.

She went back to bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Callum pushed open the door to his father’s surgery. The waiting room was mostly empty. An old couple sat on one side, the man gaunt and nodding off – cancer patient, on morphine. Opposite them was a younger woman, alone, flipping through a magazine without seeing any of it.

His mother, Genevieve, smiled at him from behind the desk. ‘Cuppa?’

‘Thanks.’ He followed her into the staffroom.

‘You look tired.’

‘Busy day. I’ve become the poster boy for cold cases.’ All morning his electoral office had been full of sad people clutching photos, yellowing newspaper articles and copies of their police statements, wanting him to do for them what he’d been able to do for Tim. ‘It’s really hard hearing their stories.’

‘Can you help them?’

‘I write down the details and promise them I’ll speak to the Minister for Police, but whether it’ll go on from there, I don’t know.’ He rubbed his face. ‘I know so well what they’re feeling, and I feel terrible that their cases might not get looked at again.’

‘You’re doing what you can.’ She handed him a mug of tea. ‘That’s all anybody can ask.’

He sipped and put the mug down. ‘It’s still –’

‘Barry!’ The cry came from the waiting room. ‘Doctor!’

Genevieve slammed down her cup and rushed out. Callum trod on her heel following. The old man was unconscious and deathly pale, slipping sideways off his chair, and his wife and the other woman were trying to hold him up.

‘Let me,’ Callum said.

He grasped the man under the arms and heaved him onto the floor. He was skin and bone but heavy still, an awkward dead weight. Callum was careful to lower him gently onto the tiles without bumping his head. There he pressed his fingers to the man’s carotid. Alistair was suddenly by his side and he heard Genevieve calling an ambulance. ‘Arrest,’ he said.

Alistair locked his elbows and his fingers and started compressions. ‘The Laerdal bag’s in my office.’

Callum scrambled to his feet. In his father’s office a man sat on the examination bed, his shirt off.

‘He might be a while,’ Callum said.

‘Can my wife come in?’

Genevieve was already bringing the lone woman through.

Callum grabbed Alistair’s doctor’s bag as well as the Laerdal bag. He hadn’t worked an arrest for more than a year. Drug doses and joules per shock rushed through his mind, but he knew his father didn’t have a defibrillator here and wasn’t sure about his drug stocks.

Back in the waiting room, he dropped to his knees at the old man’s head as Genevieve helped the weeping wife into the staff-room. The man’s eyes were open, their surfaces drying already. Callum eased them closed as he fitted the mask to his emaciated face.

Alistair pumped up and down. Callum counted. Alistair paused after the fifth.

‘The rates have changed,’ Callum said in a low voice. ‘Thirty compressions to two breaths.’

Alistair grunted and started compressions again.

‘We should be going faster too.’
And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’.

Alistair increased his pace a little. His stethoscope swung back and forth. Callum watched it and counted in his head. All his life he’d seen a stethoscope around his father’s neck. It was as much a part of him as the smell of antiseptic soap on his hands. When Callum had become a doctor too he’d realised the appeal of wearing the stethoscope, understood how for his father it was a badge of knowledge and learning and dedication. He shied away from it himself, however, because others saw it as a symbol of the same thing, something that set him – all doctors – apart, and he didn’t want to be that way.

‘Thirty,’ he said, and Alistair paused for a second to let him inflate the old man’s lungs. Genevieve’s calm murmur to the wife crept under the staffroom door.

Down Alistair went again.

‘A little faster,’ Callum said.

‘Rate’s ridiculous.’

‘What drugs have you got?’

‘I don’t know.’

Callum said, ‘Thirty’, gave the man another two breaths, then pulled Alistair’s bag close. There were vials of morphine loose in the bottom.

‘Jesus, Dad, this is Schedule 8 stuff. You should have this locked up.’

Alistair wiped sweat from his chin onto his shirt.

Callum scratched around in the bag, finding Valium and more morphine. ‘Where’s your adrenaline?’

‘Probably expired,’ Alistair puffed. ‘Probably tossed it.’