Cold Justice (18 page)

Georgie stopped in the doorway, thinking she’d heard wrong. ‘Sorry?’

‘That sort-of boyfriend she had. The one who was her first and everything. She told me he’d died but didn’t say it was murder.’

Georgie couldn’t think straight. ‘Freya was going out with a boy named Tim from our school who died?’

‘Weren’t they just sleeping together? She was pretty vague about it, then when I asked what he died of she got all self-conscious and clammed up. Though by then, of course, I’d already told her every detail of my first time, embarrassing fumbles and all.’ He suddenly seemed to really look at Georgie. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Oh God,’ James said. ‘Don’t tell her, she’ll kill me.’

Georgie gripped the doorframe, trying to get this new fact into her mind.

‘You okay?’ Matt said softly.

‘I don’t know.’

She went inside and sat down. What had been going on with Freya that she’d not only kept the relationship to herself but then didn’t mention it after Tim died? Georgie thought of the Monday after his death, when she’d met Freya in rollcall. The whole school had heard by then, and kids whispered as she passed them in the corridors. Freya had hugged her and asked if she was okay. She hadn’t pried, hadn’t wanted to know what he’d looked like, had just sat with her and been her friend. She was calm and contained and, unlike a lot of girls in their year, some of whom, Georgie thought, would’ve been hard-pressed to pick Tim out of a crowd, she hadn’t shed a tear. And even now, after Georgie had talked about him and the case and the detective yesterday – not a word.

What did it mean?

‘You can come if you want,’ Ella said.

Wayne wiped sweat from his cheek. He hadn’t said a word since she’d made contact with Callum and agreed to meet him. Now she was showered and dressed and standing by the pile of weeds with her car keys in her hand and her bag over her shoulder. She wished he would at least look at her.

‘You know that you don’t have to keep on with it,’ she said. ‘It’s your weekend too. Do nothing for a while.’

Wayne dug with ferocity. She heard the blade cut into the soil. She didn’t know what to say. Would he be happy if she cancelled the meeting and got back into her gardening clothes and scrabbled there in the dirt with him? Probably. Would she? No way.

‘I have to go,’ she said.

He flung a weed onto the pile. Dirt spattered her shoe.

‘I’ll see you later.’

He didn’t glance around. She waited a moment longer, she wasn’t sure for what, then walked out to her car.

Callum was already there. He looked different from the last time she’d seen him, smart and straight in his suit at the school sports-centre opening. Now he wore jeans and a blue shirt, along with a somewhat nervous expression. He jumped to his feet when he saw her walk in.

‘Thanks so much for coming. What can I get you?’

The café smelled of expensive coffee and Ella sank into the chair breathing in deeply. ‘Long black,’ she said. ‘Double shot.’

Callum paid and brought the coffees over. He sat opposite her and fiddled with a sugar sachet before pouring it in.

Ella took a sip and the coffee hit her stomach like a bomb going off.
Perfect.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back sooner,’ she said.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I know you’re busy. I hope I haven’t called you away from something important today.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ She put her cup down. ‘I read your statement. It’s awful that it happened, but even more so that it happened on your birthday.’

He nodded.

1990

His new bike shone red in the sun, and when Callum smoothed the damp cloth across the paintwork it got even redder. Looking at it, putting his hands on the nubby grips, getting on and resting his weight on the seat, made him feel like his heart was too big for his chest and something was wrong with his knees.

A bike like this needed a name. Such a thing would require thought, however. Careful consideration, as his dad liked to say. Callum felt that after the first real test this afternoon at the track he would know the bike’s ways and its soul, and then would be able to choose the perfect private name.

He looked at the watch Nanna Olive had given him. It wasn’t a bad one – a Casio digital thing – but he would’ve preferred the chunky sporty type with the extra dials. It was 10:37. Dad had said they would go at one. ‘Too bloody far away,’ Callum said softly, trying out the swear.

He could ride around the yard, or he could go out onto the street. But there was something about just sitting next to it, getting on and off it, picking at the string-like tags of extra rubber on the tyres and polishing off the non-existent dust, that made him thrill. Maybe he would just sit there for a while, then it would be lunchtime, and soon after that they would go. Dad already had the bike rack on the car. Callum decided to get another rag from the bag in the laundry to wrap around the bar to make sure the lovely red paint didn’t get scratched.

His mum screamed.

He dropped the bike.

‘Gen?’ his dad shouted from somewhere in the house.

Callum was on his feet and shaking as his mum screamed again.

His dad ran past the sliding doors towards the kitchen and Callum followed.

His mum was clutching the bench beside the microwave with both hands, her fingers white on the edge, the phone swinging free on its cord from the wall. Her face was so wet Callum thought she must have spilt water.

‘What is it? What is it?’ his dad was saying.

‘Tim’s dead.’

Callum felt the world shift under his feet. His dad stared at his mum in disbelief. The toilet flushed down the hall and Nanna came into the room.

‘What was that noise?’ she asked.

‘Tim is dead. Killed.’ His mother sobbed. ‘Murdered.’

‘Oh God, no.’ Nanna stumbled and his dad caught her and helped her to a chair.

His mum leaned across the bench and wept into her hands. Callum didn’t know what to do or where to look. He went back outside to where the bike lay on its side, the handlebar dug into the grass. He didn’t know anyone who’d died. He couldn’t see how it was possible that Tim wasn’t here any more. He picked the bike up and brushed the dirt from the end of the grip and remembered how Tim had called him fuck-knuckle and hit him on the head with the fork, then something burst in his heart and he dropped the bike again and cried.

His dad packed his mum and Nanna into the car. Callum wheeled the bike into the garage and propped it against the wall. His dad felt his back jeans pocket and frowned.

‘It’s on the bench,’ Callum said. It felt strange to be talking about normal things like wallets when everything was different.

His dad started back into the house. As he passed the back of the car, his shoulder knocked into the bike rack. ‘Fuck. Fuck!’ His dad bunched his fist and hit the stem of the rack so hard his knuckles split and the car rocked on its tyres. ‘Fuck!’ He covered his face with his hands. Blood ran down his wrist and dropped from his elbow in fat red beads which burst on the concrete, and Callum suddenly saw Tim in his head, dead like a cat he’d seen on the road once, and fell to the floor stone-cold unconscious.

He blinked. Ella was across the table, listening. His coffee was going cold. He took a gulp and added another sugar. ‘I guess I’m rambling.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘What happened then?’

He stirred the coffee, round and round. ‘We drove to their house. The adults were in the living room and we kids stood about not knowing what to say, what to do. To see your parents like that is . . . I mean, we were grief-stricken too, but it felt like our grief was something we could cope with seeing and sharing. Theirs was something else altogether.’

Ella nodded.

‘We kind of gravitated outside and sat together on the patio. Haydee was sobbing in waves. She’d stare off into space for a while then lose it, calm down a bit, stare off then lose it. Josh was all over the place. Sometimes it was like he didn’t get it, like everything was completely normal, and then he’d say something like, “Did the bad man get Tim, did the bad man do it?” He kept asking and asking, and finally we said, “Yes, the bad man did it.” But even then, you know, every so often he’d ask us again.’

Ella listened.

‘I had this image in my head of Tim like a dead animal on a road,’ Callum said. ‘But I’d never seen a dead person and just couldn’t comprehend that he was gone. I’m sitting there thinking that, and looking at Haydee and Josh, and I didn’t know what to say. The words “I’m sorry” just don’t cut it. You know?’

‘I know.’

He glanced up, then back at his cup. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to me that you’re looking after Tim now.’

She shifted a little on her chair. ‘How do you get on with your aunt and uncle these days?’

‘Pretty well,’ he said. ‘I mean, we always have done.’

‘How do they get on with each other? How long has she lived in that granny flat?’

‘Maybe four months. Sometimes I think they might split up, except for Josh. He doesn’t do well with change.’

‘Tamara doesn’t seem to agree with John’s ideas about Tim’s death and the investigation,’ Ella said.

‘I think maybe she blames him for Tim’s death,’ Callum said, then immediately regretted it when he saw Ella’s eyebrows go up. ‘I once heard her saying to Mum that he was too strict and Tim had needed a bit more gentleness.’

‘You think there’s resentment there.’ She wasn’t asking.

‘I don’t think anyone can tell what’s really going on inside a marriage,’ he said. ‘Even the people involved can’t always be sure, because they each have their own point of view on everything and who’s to say which is right?’ He flushed. ‘At least, that’s how I felt when my own broke down four years ago.’

‘But,’ she prompted.

‘But yes,’ he said, ‘I think Aunt Tamara holds a lot of anger and resentment towards Uncle John.’

When Ella got home, Wayne was mulching a row of five rose bushes. ‘I know you don’t like thorns but I’ll deal with them for you,’ he said.

She wrapped her arms around him.

‘I’m filthy,’ he said.

‘I don’t care.’

She felt his hands slide down her body.

Georgie was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling when the phone finally rang. Matt brought it in.

‘Sorry,’ Adam said.

‘Sfine.’ She looked at the clock radio: 4:50 pm. James had gone home hours ago, after asking her again not to mention Tim to Freya. She’d lain there stewing ever since, wondering how she could
not
say something. And there was a legal question involved now too, because the detective would surely want to know.

Matt sat by her feet and rubbed her leg.

‘I talked to the sergeant,’ Adam said. ‘I mean, he overheard me asking about the McCrows and wanted to talk to me.’

Georgie sat up.

‘He’d had a call from that Detective Marconi about the letter, asking whether he thought they might’ve written it.’

‘What’d he tell her?’

‘That they could’ve done it in a heartbeat,’ he said. ‘I told him what might be going on with you and we went for a drive around their usual haunts. Took us a while but we eventually spotted every last one of them.’

‘Oh.’

‘I hope that helps.’

‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Anytime.’

She put the phone down and lay back on the pillow. ‘He saw him today.’

‘So that’s good,’ Matt said. ‘Between him and Kaspar, we know it wasn’t Barnaby you saw.’

Georgie shook her head. ‘Unless somebody is certain they saw him out there on the same day and at the same time that I thought I saw him here, we don’t know anything.’

Matt sighed.

‘I know it sounds stupid.’ She felt frustrated and angry. Besieged.

‘It’s all these things happening at once, that’s all.’ He squeezed her foot. ‘You’re stressed. You saw somebody who looked a little bit like him and it got in your head.’

‘I’m not having a relapse.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

She looked at him.

‘I said you’re stressed, that’s all.’

She pulled her foot from under his hand. ‘I think I’m going to have a sleep.’

He sat there for a moment, then kissed her forehead and got up. She rolled away from him.

I am not losing it.

EIGHT

O
n Monday morning, Ella stopped at the café next door to the police building and bought a coffee in case the heater upstairs was still broken. It made her scalp tighten to think of her encounter with Frank Shakespeare and she hoped she wasn’t destined to always put her foot in her mouth around him. No, she thought, what she really hoped was that she would never see him again.

She took the lift up, walked into the Unsolved office and stopped dead.

‘Hi.’ Murray smiled from the previously vacant desk.

You have to be kidding.

‘Guess what I’ve got?’ he said.

Herpes?
she wanted to say.
The plague? Early-onset familial Alzheimer’s, which might mean both you and your dad will be out of my life soon?

She put down her bag and her coffee. ‘Are you here because of what I said to your father?’

‘Last week, or the first time?’

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Last week.’

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I was already assigned.’

So it was just an ordinary case of nepotism rather than revenge. It was good to know where she stood.

‘You haven’t guessed.’ He waved a lumpy manila envelope.

‘What if instead I bring you up to speed, as per normal procedure?’

‘No.’

No?
This was going to make for some interesting teamwork.

He pulled a tape from the envelope and held it up. ‘Follow me and listen.’

He played it in one of the interview rooms. Ella stood with her teeth gritted.

The triple 0 operator came on the line. ‘Police, fireor ambulance?’

A woman said, ‘Ask the police why they haven’t talked to the girl.’

‘You want the police?’

‘They need to talk to the girl who found that boy’s body in Pennant Hills. I sent them a letter.’