Already Dead (11 page)

Jax rolled her lips together, found a neutral face. ‘Why?'

‘There are processes that have to take place before that can happen.' Aiden pulled her statement from his folder, already moving on. He hadn't closed the door, though, just asked her to wait on the threshold. ‘Can you read your statement through?' he said. ‘Let me know if there's anything you'd like to add?'

The official version wasn't like anything she'd ever written – no attempt to make sense of the moment or to convey the high emotions that had saturated the events. It was just the facts: times, places, actions, and as much of Brendan's rambling as she'd been able to recall. Reading the document made her hands clammy.

‘Is this all you need?' she asked when she'd finished.

‘I'd like as much as you can remember.'

‘Do you need direct quotes?'

He paused, watched her through half a second of thought. ‘Do you have more?'

‘The entire drama is on a reel in my head.'

‘Then I'd like all of it.'

Her heart thumped as she forced the images and sounds
into slow-mo, picking out the detail, putting them into words for him. Aiden asked twice if there was anything else, as though she might be picking and choosing. Half an hour later, she signed the statement with a trembling hand and Aiden explained the rest of the process.

It wasn't a criminal investigation. She'd been cleared of any intent and Brendan wasn't alive to answer charges. It was now a matter for the coroner. Aiden's job was to detail the chain of events that led to Brendan's death; hers was to give evidence at the inquest. Something to look forward to – another tearful and public event.

As he returned the pages to his file, signalling the end of the process, she figured now was the time to try slipping a toe over his threshold. ‘Was Brendan at work yesterday? Did something happen that might have upset him?'

He closed the folder. ‘No, he had a day off.'

When she'd done shift work and had weekends in the middle of the week, she'd done housework, shopped, met friends in their lunchbreaks and skited about days off. She wondered what private security people did – maybe they went to the gym. Did they meet colleagues or avoid them? ‘He said he'd been trying not to kill himself for two days. Did something happen two days before, on Saturday?'

He slid his pen into a shirt pocket. ‘I can't answer that yet.'

‘Do you know what happened to him in Afghanistan? He talked about a helicopter crash. Was he in one?' She waited while Aiden folded his forearms on the table, not sure if he was pausing for dramatic effect or thinking about what to say.

‘I'm sorry, Miranda. I haven't got all the information yet. It's going to take time and there'll be some details I won't be able to share with you. My suggestion is to get some rest, spend some time with your daughter, go to the beach, and if you still want to talk about it in a couple of days, give me a call.'

He clearly had no idea what it was like to be left on the outside after being trapped in the middle. She knew sarcasm wouldn't help but it found its own way to her voice. ‘Is that what other people do? Have a surf and forget about it?'

‘Some of them.'

‘What about the rest?'

He held his hands out, no answer for that. Or perhaps he didn't want her to think there was an option.

‘Do they call you back?' she pressed.

‘Some of them.'

‘Do you answer their questions?'

‘It depends on the questions.'

And she'd thought a dress and nice hair would work in her favour. ‘Do you ever give a clear answer?'

He hesitated. ‘Do you ever run out of questions?'

Familiar hackles started to rise on her neck. ‘Not usually.'

One side of his mouth turned up the tiniest bit. She clenched her teeth, told herself amusement was better than the response she'd had from other detectives.

‘I'm not telling you to forget it,' he said. ‘I'm just suggesting you give it some time.' He pushed his chair back. ‘And if you decide to call, maybe you can email ahead with a list of questions so I can have a few answers for you.' He raised an eyebrow, more cheeky than patronising.

Okay. Take a breath
. She found a smile. ‘Thank you.'

He picked up the folder as he stood, making it clear he wasn't fielding any more questions today. And that was it, apparently, until she called him back. Not a whole lot put into perspective, but she'd signed the statement. It was closure, of sorts. She could go and buy herself that drink. Sit on her own and tell herself she'd made the right decision selling up and bringing Zoe here. That a shitty start didn't mean the rest of it would turn out that way. That she'd find work, make friends, put her life back together.

That she couldn't let this thing linger on inside her.

Hitching her bag to her shoulder, watching as Aiden turned to leave, she wondered if goodbye was the best way to go. If she could get a foot through Aiden's door, he might tell her when he had the answers, instead of waiting until she rang. And, well, if nothing else, he was the only person she knew in Newcastle who was within twenty-five years of her own age.

‘Can I buy you a drink?' she asked.

He looked back at her, surprise in the rise of his brows. ‘You don't need to do that.'

Great, Jax
. That door was just swinging to the jamb. ‘Sorry, I probably should've explained what I meant.'

Aiden tucked his folder under his arm as though he was ready for her to make a report. Heat touched her cheeks like two warm hands and she wished it was as easy as she told Zoe:
Hi, my name's Miranda, do you want to play in the sandpit?

She cleared her throat. ‘Nothing attached, no victim–cop thing, not a date. My aunt told me to treat myself to a chilled glass of chardonnay when I'm finished here and if I go home without wine on my breath, she'll be worried
about me.' She laughed, like it was funny her aunt was encouraging her to take comfort in alcohol. ‘Actually, I could do with the drink, but sitting on my own isn't all that appealing today and I'm new in town, I don't know anyone else. So I figured, if we're done here, we could just, you know, have a drink.'

His expression didn't change; he just glanced briefly through the glass into the room behind him.

Now it was embarrassing. ‘Sorry,' she said again. ‘I didn't ask if you … you've probably got a wife and kids to go home to. It's fine. Don't worry about it.'

‘No. No wife or kids.'

‘Right.'

Maybe there were regulations about socialising with victims you'd disarmed. Maybe he didn't want to because she was a victim he'd had to disarm. Understandable. But as she waited for the polite rejection, he flicked a look at his watch, ran a hand down his tie and said, ‘Yeah, why not? I'll need about ten minutes to finish up here. Why don't I meet you somewhere?'

 

Jax waited on the deck of The Beach House, away from the other drinkers, the surf at her back and her arms folded. Uneasiness had returned to her stomach and she was wishing she'd suggested coffee somewhere quiet when Aiden walked out through the glass doors. She almost didn't recognise him – he'd found his black-framed sunglasses, lost the tie and looked less like the serious detective she'd been talking to twenty minutes ago and more like an FBI G-man on a drinks break.
Yes, Tilda, well within the realm of handsome
.

It was too hot to sit outside so Jax bought the wine and a beer while he went in search of a table in the air-conditioning. The Beach House was an old-style hotel, for years left in disrepair and only, recently renovated with lots of glass that showed off the original timberwork inside and out. Jax figured she could probably see Tilda's house if she wandered out to the southern stretch of the deck. She found Aiden facing east, in front of a huge window that overlooked sand littered with towels and umbrellas and bathers – and a swell beyond it that had brought out enough surfers to fill a small suburb. It was Newcastle, city by the beach.

‘Do you surf?' Jax asked as she arranged herself on a stool opposite him.

‘Not in years. How about you?'

‘I'm a country girl. Never felt comfortable out of my depth.'

‘Well,' he lifted his beer, ‘welcome to Newcastle.'

‘Thanks.' She tapped her wineglass against it and took a sip, hoping she didn't look as uncomfortable as she felt. It was a long time since she'd sat in a bar with a man. A year since she'd sat in a bar without friends whose main game was to cheer her up and avoid the subject of Nick. Across the table, Aiden had pushed his sunglasses onto his head, and if he noticed her discomfort, he didn't show it.

‘Can I ask a question?' she said.

‘Just one?'

‘I can't promise there won't be a follow-up.'

‘Wait a sec.' He took a mouthful of beer. ‘Right, go.'

Okay, that was a little cute. Maybe he wouldn't be like the other cops. And maybe she shouldn't push it. ‘Last night on the motorway, you called me Jax. I figure a cop
can get basic information from a person's registration plates, but a nickname? Is it on a police file somewhere?'

‘As in Miranda Jack “a.k.a. Jax”?'

‘Does it say that?'

‘No.' He chuckled as he glanced out the window, something self-conscious about the way he ducked her gaze. ‘I knew who you were. I didn't tell you before because you didn't seem to remember me, but now …' He did a brief sideways nod. ‘We were at Newcastle Uni together about a hundred years ago.'

Well, that was a surprise. She searched his face, trying to imagine him fifteen years younger. Probably studious and sensible, not one of the ra-ras. ‘Were we in the same course?'

He gave a quick, quiet laugh. It was uni, there'd been partying and drinking and …

Oh geez, had she forgotten the cop who'd rescued her? ‘Did we …?' She winced instead of finishing.

He chuckled again. ‘No. I was second-year Psych when you were there. We were both at Evatt House.'

The university on-campus accommodation. ‘God, I haven't thought of that place in ages.' Back when she was there, it was known as the country kids' college. Technically she hadn't been a country kid after living with Tilda for two years but her aunt had encouraged her to try it – moving out but close enough to go home if she needed to.

After her parents' deaths, Jax had buried herself in schoolwork for two years, blitzed her final-year exams, then had a breakdown. She spent the four months of the Christmas summer holidays suffering crying jags that could last for days, feeling numb and fatigued. A psychologist
gave her pills and told her, among other things, to get some fresh air, exercise and write a journal – and she'd started to transcribe her way out of the fog. By the time the academic year began, Jax had been accepted for Law degrees at universities in Sydney and Melbourne, but opted to stay in Newcastle, close to the only family and home she had left. She studied Arts for a year, lived at Evatt House on weekdays and went to Tilda's on weekends, sometimes taking friends and making it a house party, other times retreating to the solitude of her room. She had weird memories of that time – highs and lows, laughter and black days. There hadn't been a lot of studying, she'd been marking time until she graduated from something more personal.

‘There were what, two hundred kids at Evatt House?' Jax said. ‘Did you pinch the student lists for future policing needs?'

‘Actually …' He did a side-to-side with his head, a little sheepish. ‘I got you for Murder Week.'

Jax's shot of laughter seemed to bounce off the window. ‘Bloody hell, Murder Week!'

Among the many and varied social events at Evatt House was the annual, week-long game of Murder. Residents were given the name of another student to kill – not for real, obviously, but a hand on the shoulder and the words, ‘You're dead,' got you a body plus anyone your victim had taken out. The one with the highest body count won.

‘Not a good indicator for your career that you didn't kill me.'

‘Well …' He took a sip of beer. It looked like stalling.

‘Well what? I finished the week alive and kicking. You didn't get me.'

‘I was studying Psych, right? And I knew I wanted to go into the cops, so I staked you out.'

‘What? You staked me or
stalked
me?'

‘It was surveillance. And only for a week.'

‘Uh-huh. So why didn't you just murder me?'

‘What would be the fun in that?'

‘Uh-huh. Are you seeing someone about that?'

‘No, I became a detective instead.'

It was pretty amusing – except for the thought that her chaotic double life had been under surveillance. After two years at school being the new kid with the dead parents and the flamboyant, rich aunt, the virtual anonymity of uni party life had been brilliant – she'd stayed up nights, laughed too loud, drunk a lot, discovered sex and avoided lectures. She'd also taken time out from it all, retreating to quiet corners around the campus to be alone, reading or writing for hours, sometimes sobbing. Had Aiden seen that? Did he assume she was still that girl? There'd been times in the past year when she'd wished she was.

She raised her wineglass. ‘And here's to you becoming a detective. My life saved twice by your vigilance.'

He tapped his beer against it, joined her in the toast as though it was all a bit of banter, but as he drank, his serious eyes stayed on her face. Maybe thinking about the surveillance that had saved her yesterday.

‘Is it worse when it's someone you know?' she asked.

‘The job?'

‘Yes.'

‘No. I like my job – knowing someone doesn't change that. But it does make it harder when you have a history with a victim. Even a perpetrator.'