Authors: Anne Buist
‘Here’s the list,’ Shaun said. He looked terribly dull tonight. Maybe she could find
him a cravat.
‘Make sure you stick to it,’ Tom added.
The band played all the favourites from the seventies and eighties—minus ‘I Will
Survive’. The crowd of five hundred or so started to warm up. She was sure that her
challenges to them to flap their arses off helped, though every time she introduced
some light patter Tom kept hitting the drums. He seemed unusually agitated. In the
break after the first set she felt like he was glued to her. But she really did have
to go back and talk to Boris, whose glitter halo was now red. It seemed ominous.
She ducked away from her minder the first moment she could. On the way back to Boris’s
table, Natalie caught sight of a familiar figure two tables away and not looking
in her direction. Liam. Didn’t he belong somewhere else? In a James Bond movie?
She stopped still and was unaware of anything else until Tom bowled straight into
her. Only quick manoeuvring on her part prevented her falling into Boris’s lap. Then
she threw herself there anyway. It was worth it for the look from his wife.
‘Who is this function for?’ Natalie said, as Tom apologised to Boris. Liam was looking
good but it was his partner she was focusing on. She knew her from somewhere. Pussy
Galore?
‘Some law association function,’ Tom said as he yanked her back towards the stage.
Of course. Natalie sat down and started giggling. ‘I believe I shall sing “I Will
Survive” after all,’ she announced to the band. Shaun shrugged but he was looking
at Tom.
Wow. She suddenly worked it out. She had picked Liam’s wife completely wrong. It
unsettled her. Fuck, she knew this woman. Did Liam know that? He must have wondered.
Natalie hadn’t thought about his wife much at all. If anyone had asked she’d have
given a glib answer. Blonde airhead from Toorak money, devoted herself to their children.
School committees, maybe charity.
Natalie laughed out loud. Shaun and Tom looked at each other again.
Lauren Oldham might be blonde, but that was where Natalie’s imagination and Liam’s
reality diverged. A bimbo she was not. Her blonde hair wasn’t styled into soft waves,
but spiked, like the wig Natalie wore when she fronted The Styx. Not gorgeous, but
tall—surely as tall as her husband and maybe taller in heels—and striking. Unlike
the other female guests, she was in neither ball gown nor flapper outfit. She was
in a suit, probably on call, because she was one of the city’s, if not the country’s,
most eminent infectious diseases specialists. With a towering reputation as a ball-breaker.
About as far removed from the picture of airhead social climber as you could imagine.
She was probably out of the country most of the time juggling WHO meetings and Ebola
outbreaks. No wonder Liam could get away. Assuming they had live-in help, which they
would.
They started the next set with ‘I Will Survive’. She wished she could see Liam’s
eyes on her. She wondered what he had been thinking when he saw her, if he had planned
to ignore her all evening. She had no intention of ignoring him.
She got the first couple of lines out through gritted teeth. Afraid? Petrified? Not
fucking likely; but then Liam would get that. She started getting into it as the
song went on, surprised the band with a few of her own variations to the lyrics.
A girl had to have some fun.
She had even more fun with the next song, Melissa Etheridge’s ‘Similar Features’.
About imagining a woman
other than the one you’re with. Lauren might have been taller
than her and blonde, but their facial features weren’t so different, and the fact
they were both doctors was too delicious to overlook. As the song ended she caught
Lauren’s eyes and for a moment thought she must know. Everything.
Tom dragged her out of the ballroom before the final bracket so she didn’t get a
chance to introduce herself to Lauren. Later perhaps, before she left.
‘Never quite heard the song done like that,’ Maureen Hoffman sniffed as she sailed
past.
Natalie ended the night unenlightened as to Liam’s reaction, or whether he’d heard
the subtle lyric change that identified her and Lauren. As soon as they finished,
Tom insisted it was time to go home.
‘Tom, you’re being a spoilsport. I’m just warming up.’
Tom didn’t seem to care. He frog-marched her out without a word.
‘The green filaments will eat your brain,’ said Natalie. Tom might have a different
colour. She liked Tom: maybe it was only the wardens that had green brains and Boris
the red halo. Them and her stalker, hopefully.
‘Do you think he’ll be there?’ she asked suddenly.
Tom took her inside. There were no more notes. He stayed until she took her medication:
in front of him.
‘Enough green and gold filaments for one night,’ he said.
Natalie was awake an hour later. The silence seemed to have a colour. A red, ominous
presence sitting on her bedhead. She lay still. Somewhere downstairs there was a
noise. Not the noise of the red that now was singing in her bones, electrifying them,
making her buzz so loudly surely it would be heard, but a scratching.
At first she thought it was outside on her balcony, but then it seemed to move. An
attack would be the obvious next step in the stalker’s campaign. All her thoughts
led her in circles. Frozen and powerless, she remained in her bed, listening and
waiting.
How much time passed? Still the scratching. Had she dropped off? Had it gone? She
willed herself to focus. Rolled off the bed, grabbed the cricket bat from beneath
it.
She crept over to the door, watching the shadows, sure they were full of red noise.
She was certain now; there was an outline in the corner of the patio. She opened
the door cautiously then raced forward. Half aware that if the bat connected she
might kill him, she felt unable to judge her strength. Fear and exhilaration mingled
into red and green and gold.
She took one stride and swung hard, screaming as she did. The bat sliced through
the air, swinging her around with its momentum and sending her flying back into the
roof tiles of the factory next door. The tiles cracked and crumbled as she hit them,
and they cascaded down with her onto her porch.
Fuck.
She pulled herself up and heard
the scratching again.
Fuck.
It came from downstairs. Screaming she hurtled down the
stairs, brandishing the bat.
Bob, who she’d forgotten to clip to his stand, had been digging up her dead pot plant.
He flew to the rails screeching in alarm.
Natalie watched him as she caught her breath. Watched green and gold and red in the
soil she had heard him scratching in, and shakily made her way to the phone.
Declan doubled her dose and had her come to see him on Sunday night. She was fortunate
it was the weekend.
‘How many doses had you missed?’ He wasn’t critical, more concerned.
‘A few.’
‘You’ve been bordering on hypomania for a couple of weeks. The over-involvement with
patients, the increased libido—they’re warning signs, Natalie.’
‘Okay, maybe irregular,’ Natalie said. ‘I know, I know. I can’t afford to not take
them. I just got caught up in things and lost sight of the balance.’
‘If you insist on taking on a large caseload, you can’t afford to slip up with your
meds.’
Natalie nodded, eyes averted.
‘It would be in your best interest to cut your work back.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You mean won’t.’
‘Okay, won’t. At least not at the moment.’
‘Did you do any damage?’
Natalie thought about the prison and cringed. Every time she got those wardens again
her life would be hell. She’d kept it together more or less with Amber and Hannah.
The ball? Shit, she didn’t want to think about it.
‘Natalie,’ said Declan, patting her hand. ‘I’m not the enemy.’
She met with Jacqueline Barrett for breakfast in a small cafe full of wigged and
cloaked barristers at the court end of Lonsdale Street. Early had suited them both
when she made the appointment. Now with a double dose of quetiapine in her system
she felt as if her head was in a jar of treacle.
Ms Barrett was just as she would have predicted. In her late thirties, slim with
a pencil-line navy skirt and tailored jacket, discreet makeup and the perfect coiffure—a
sleek dark bob. She was easy to identify and not just because she was the only woman
in the café. They had met before: Boris’s wife. The one she had suggested was looking
to trade up.
Shit.
‘Ms Barrett?’
Natalie watched the recognition briefly rob the lawyer of her perfect smile. ‘I’m
Natalie King and I would like to apologise for Friday night.’
Ms Barrett, who had started to rise, sat down with a thud. ‘You certainly know how
to create an impression.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
They sat in silence while Natalie waved down a waitress and ordered a coffee.
‘So then,’ said Jacqueline. ‘What do you think of my client?’
‘Complex.’
‘I would have to agree with you there. This is one of my more interesting cases.’
‘From a psychiatric perspective not straightforward either.’
‘If you think it’s out of your range…’
‘Not at all. Not much in psychiatry is straightforward.’
Jacqueline—she was definitely not a Jackie—let out a long breath. ‘Do you know why
we got another bail hearing?’
‘Initially she was thought to be a risk to her unborn baby, and that risk no longer
pertains. And the possibility of a Dissociative Identity Disorder diagnosis was brought
up.’
‘Yes, but unless it’s very clear, it won’t be enough at her trial to sustain an insanity
defence. And by “clear” I mean distinct personalities. A number of people need to
have observed, and preferably videoed, them. Even then, it is unlikely to be enough
for an insanity defence.’ Jacqueline looked at her. ‘Your thoughts?’
‘I’m still keeping my mind open.’ Natalie wondered how much of what she reported
to the lawyer made it back to her client. She didn’t want to admit that Wadhwa might
be right; not yet anyway. ‘There was something else?’
Counsel looked like she’d have preferred to visit the dentist than sit and chat cordially
with Natalie. ‘Have you heard of Meadow’s Law?’
Natalie forced herself to think through the fog. ‘Lady Bracknell’s Law. “To lose
one parent is unfortunate; to lose two is careless.” A child in this case.’
Jacqueline managed a polite laugh. ‘One is a tragedy, two is suspicious and three
is murder unless proven to the contrary.’
‘If you know nothing about medicine or statistics. Meadow didn’t factor in the possibility
that multiple deaths
might have a common underlying cause—genetic in the case of
the same family.’
Barrett nodded. ‘The British cases convicted on Meadow’s principle have now largely
been overturned.’
‘So why would it even be raised in a current case?’
‘You’d be surprised what a prosecutor can slip into the jurors’ minds before the
objection is heard. And let’s face it, it probably makes sense to most people. In
a lot of the UK cases there was nothing to suggest an underlying cause—the autopsy
results were inconclusive.’ She shrugged. ‘Same with Georgia Latimer’s children.’
‘Really?’ Natalie’s mind still felt like someone had a finger on the slow-motion
button. ‘I haven’t seen the autopsy documents.’
Jacqueline slowly pushed over a file. ‘Genevieve was thought to be SIDS. They were
holidaying way up north at the time, so the autopsy was done locally. The prosecution
are going to argue that the coroner was not experienced in forensics.’
‘Olivia?’
‘Asphyxiation secondary to asthma. There’s a problem though.’ She put on reading
glasses and shuffled through the pages. ‘See there.’
‘
A small bruise on the bridge of her nose, almost certainly occurring close to the
time of death,
’ Natalie read aloud.
‘The prosecutor will try to get the pathologist and experts to say that it occurred
when she was smothered. She was getting too old for SIDS and while she had asthma
and a current infection…well, there is doubt.’
‘Enough to convict Georgia?’
‘It shouldn’t be, not by itself. But it adds to the prosecution case. Obviously.’
Natalie let it go. ‘And Jonah?’
‘It was deemed SIDS. But of course there’s no specific pathology finding that identifies
SIDS. It’s a finding of exclusion—when nothing else turns up on autopsy. So it’s
open slather. Who knows what some quack doctor will get up and say?’
Natalie flicked through Jonah’s autopsy. Petechial haemorrhages—tiny capillary bleeds—suggestive
of trauma were present. They could be found in SIDS; but they were also found in
asphyxiation.
‘So do you think the prosecution is going for her being essentially psychopathic?’
‘D.I.D. or not, I’m hoping they might get interested in an alternative.’
Natalie felt the coffee hit her system but she still had no idea what the lawyer
was hinting at. For one awful moment she thought Jacqueline was asking her to engage
in pillow talk with Liam. She took another sip of coffee. ‘Munchausen’s by proxy
maybe?’
Jacqueline frowned. ‘You think?’
‘As I said, I’m keeping my mind open.’
‘Good, because I’d be interested in your thoughts as you see more of her. Particularly…any
role her husband might have had.’
Natalie felt her skin prickle with déjà vu. Amber and Travis all over again?
‘Such as?’
‘Influence. Coercion.’
‘Surely that wouldn’t be enough to fight a murder charge?’
Jacqueline patted the froth off her lip with a napkin, being careful with her lipstick.
‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but it might knock it down to infanticide. Then even if she’s
convicted she probably won’t do time.’
‘Olivia was two,’ said Natalie. Genevieve and Jonah had been younger. Infanticide
laws varied, but twelve months was the accepted cut-off age.