Already Dead (12 page)

‘What's harder?'

‘The decisions you have to make get complicated.'

‘When did you realise you knew me yesterday?'

‘After your rego information came back.'

‘Did it complicate your decision to follow me?'

He hesitated. ‘It made it more important to get it right.'

‘What about the gun thing?'

‘What about it?'

‘Would it have been complicated deciding to shoot me or is that training?'

He didn't answer until her focus had stilled on the blue-grey of his irises. ‘I was never going to shoot you, Jax.'

A pulse thumped through her as she remembered the unwavering barrel of his gun. ‘It didn't feel like that.'

‘It wasn't meant to.'

She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or uneasy about his acting ability. She was grateful, though, that he'd answered her questions without assuming she doubted his capabilities. Not like the other cops. Not yet. She sipped her wine, watched the surf, watched him as his gaze moved around the room.

‘Have you been working in Newcastle since you finished uni?' she asked.

Amusement turned up one side of his mouth. ‘I've seen a little more of life than that. I did uniform duty down on the south coast first, then out west, started in the detectives in Penrith then moved to Serious Crime in Sydney for a few years before here.'

No surprise he had a raft of experience. She'd seen him in action on the motorway and the officers who'd moved at his command. But he'd left a Sydney crime squad to work in a regional city. He was unmarried, no kids – it
had to be a sideways step. Then again, a couple of years in Serious Crime dealing with the uglier, nastier, bloodier side of life, and perhaps he was doing well not to walk away from the job. ‘How long have you been back?'

‘Two weeks.'

And he'd walked right into her drama. ‘Well, damn, I was hoping for some inside knowledge but you're as local as I am.'

‘You can learn a lot in two weeks.'

‘Such as?'

‘Where to get a decent takeaway. Late-night supermarket. Good places to run.'

‘Oh, right, all the stuff I need.' She held her glass aloft again. ‘Welcome to Newcastle back at you, then.'

Tilda had been right. The wine and the view and a couple of toasts felt okay. Like time out. A lot better than anything the last twenty-four hours had thrown up. Maybe anything she'd managed in the last … long while.

‘Jax.' He said it as though he was trying it out. ‘Can I call you Jax?'

‘I think you should.' She leaned in, lowered her voice. ‘I've got to tell you, only the cops call me Miranda.' His lips tightened and she felt a buzz of victory – she'd made the serious cop try not to laugh.

‘Okay,
Jax
.' He paused, centred his glass on his coaster as if waiting for the humour to disperse before he started again. ‘I wanted to let you know I spoke to Anita Lyneham at Homicide in Sydney today.'

Oh Christ, there was no humour in that. Jax's heart thumped and heat rushed up the back of her neck. Sadness, anger – familiar emotions made sharper by the edginess
and paranoia floating in her bloodstream. And she saw Brendan again – not running into the road, not shouting or crying, but his hand around the gun as he waved it in her face. Was it about Nick?

‘I've passed the details of the carjacking on to her,' Aiden said.

Details ran quickly, jarringly through Jax's head – Brendan had a gun, knew how to handle it, said he was prepared to use it.
I've got no problem with that
. He'd seen Aiden watching them leave the car park, said he
should've fucking stopped him then
. The aggression hadn't seemed an invention. Neither had the way he held the pistol. He'd had a break with reality but how far was it from his real self? Had he ‘stopped' people before?

Jax had felt sorry for him because of his wife and child, as though loving people made you good. But bad people had families too. Was he a bad guy with a family? Had a man with a wife and child had something to do with Nick's death?

She folded her arms as a different kind of uneasiness worked its way down her spine. ‘Oh Christ.'

‘Jax, I'm just letting you know.'

It was what she'd wanted, a hook into the investigation.
Don't let him think you can't handle it
, she warned herself. ‘Yes, of course.'

‘I don't know how often you're in contact with Anita but I thought you might appreciate knowing she's aware of what happened yesterday.'

‘So you think it's got something to do with Nick's case.'

‘It's procedure.' He said it slowly, as though making sure she understood. ‘Your name came up in an ongoing investigation and it makes sense to check out all the references. I thought you might be worried you'd have to contact Homicide yourself. Some people find it difficult to touch base again.'

She took a sip of wine. Not a hook, just behind-the-scenes cop talk. He was right, though, it was always stressful ringing Homicide, but it was more than likely Anita Lyneham was the one who'd told him to pass on the message. The lead investigator hadn't ever been amused by Jax's array of questions. Which meant it would be easier to ask Aiden here and now.

‘What happens to the information – will it just go in a file somewhere? A “by-the-way, the widow had a run-in with police”. Or do you expect her to follow it up?'

He paused, seemed to weigh up the irritation in her tone. ‘I imagine she'll run the details across her own files, see if anything rings bells. Names, fingerprints, something he said, that kind of thing.'

‘Can I get access to the results?'

‘It depends on the results.'

‘Will she pass them on to you?' Maybe Jax could go to him for an update.

‘Only if it's relevant to my inquiries.'

A tick of frustration made her turn her face away.

‘They're separate investigations,' Aiden explained.
‘She's Homicide, I'm a detective in Newcastle. There's no point trying to cover each other's cases.'

She nodded, told herself not to press. ‘Did Anita warn you about me?'

He dipped his head to one side. ‘I was told there was some friction.'

She huffed with cynicism. ‘That's diplomatic of you. I'm impressed you joined me for a drink after that conversation.'

‘Long, unproductive investigations are frustrating for everyone.'

‘That sounds like an excuse for a colleague.'

‘Maybe it is, but I've been there. I know what it's like to want to close a case – for everyone's sake. And I prefer to make decisions for myself about who I drink with.'

He'd staked her out a long time ago, read her mind over the roof of a car, held a gun on her – he had plenty to go on. And perhaps she should leave it there. ‘Well, thanks. I'm glad you came.' She drained the last of her wine. ‘I think it's time I got going.'

The sun was glaringly low and the air sticky with humidity when they stepped outside. She'd parked in a side street a few blocks away, and when he suggested walking with her, she assumed his cop-like earnestness stretched all the way to chivalry – and her reflex was to tell him she was thirty-five and had never needed an escort. But in the encroaching dark and sudden quiet of the beachside suburb, Brendan Walsh's paranoia pricked at Jax's neck, and she had a sudden urge to run to the Jag, jump in and lock the doors. Aiden's offer was just fine, thanks.

Pulling car keys from her bag as they walked, she held them in an open palm for a moment and wondered if her friendly drink with Aiden was enough to get a few more answers. ‘Did Brendan have a car?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Where was it?'

‘It hasn't been located yet.'

‘It wasn't near the motorway on-ramp?'

‘No.'

She stopped beside the Jag. ‘Did you look where he was living?'

Aiden pulled up next to her, raised an eyebrow.

‘Okay, not there either.'

‘Nice wheels.' He bent to check out the interior. ‘What is it? A 1975?'

‘No idea. It's my aunt's. She bought it new – it must've been some time around then.'

‘You should be able to pick up yours from the police compound tomorrow, by the way.'

Jax opened the door and eyed the other cars parked in the street. ‘I'd assumed Brendan had ditched his so it couldn't be followed. I figured he'd left it somewhere near the motorway entry and, I don't know, jogged down the road, crossed near the lights and got in the first car with a driver he figured he could scare into taking him where he wanted to go. Me. But if it's not there …' She focused back on Aiden. ‘Where did he come from?'

‘We're still following that up.'

‘He said he'd been holding it off for two days. I thought he meant he'd been trying not to kill himself but maybe it was something else. Do you know where he was for those two days?'

‘That hasn't been established yet.'

‘I thought his panic was because he'd just realised someone was following him. But maybe he spent two days thinking he was being followed.'

‘Jax.'

‘What?'

‘The car will turn up. Give it some time.' It sounded like the voice of experience. It still ticked her off.

‘Some time? Where's the urgency?'

‘There's no reason for urgency. Brendan Walsh isn't alive to answer charges. No-one is under threat and there are other cases that need immediate attention. It'll be followed through, just give it a couple of days.'

He'd used the same phrase back at the station. ‘A couple of days. Is that your fallback timeframe?'

‘Something like that.'

‘How long is “a couple of days” exactly?'

‘It's police work, Jax. You need patience.'

She squeezed her eyes closed, clenched her teeth. Time hadn't helped with Nick. Time had only made it harder. ‘I had some of that once.'

 

Jax stopped at a supermarket to pick up Zoe's cereal, a few basics for the kitchen and something easy for dinner, frustration and agitation brewing like storm clouds as she wound her way around unfamiliar aisles. Aiden hadn't told her to keep out of it: there were just no answers yet. But she'd been here before and a few days had turned into a year and she still had no answers. And the cops still held all the cards and she was still in the same place she'd been twelve months, one week and four days ago.

It should have helped that Tilda had a meal waiting when Jax got back, but it made guilt join the brew inside her – the third meal in a day, when she'd wanted to set boundaries. Wanted to do better, achieve more; get a few answers, not find more questions. She did her best to be part of the family moment, forcing smiles and small talk, irritated she wasn't unpacked, fed up with the wad of anxiety stuck in her gut, angry at … herself. At the police. At Brendan: for holding a gun to her head, for sitting at her shoulder, for loving his family and making Jax care about them.

She cleared the table, let Zoe watch TV and ground her teeth in silence as she helped Tilda rinse plates.

‘I can do that,' her aunt said. ‘Why don't you sit down and relax?'

Jax hauled open the dishwasher. ‘I don't feel like relaxing. I want to
do
something.' A bowl slipped in her wet fingers and clattered among the other crockery.

‘You could try not to break anything,' Tilda said, slotting it into place.

‘Sorry.' Jax grabbed a handtowel, realised her hands were shaking and folded her arms.

‘Jax, honey, what is it?'

‘I just … I can't stop thinking about it.'

‘About what in particular?'

She'd been carjacked yesterday, it should have been obvious, but after the last year of obsessive thinking, it was a reasonable question. ‘About Brendan. About all of it. It's a bad song stuck in my head.' She screwed a knuckle against her temple, remembered Brendan doing the same and snapped her hand away.

‘Why don't you ring that victim support group? There's an after-hours number.'

‘I can't bear talking about it again,' Jax said. ‘I feel as though I haven't
stopped
talking about it. I've answered everyone else's questions and I just want some of my own answered.'

‘Isn't Russell checking the man's military record?'

‘
He
is, yes. I'm not. I'm hanging around achieving very little.' Feeling frustrated, agitated, irritated.

Tilda patted Jax's arm as she reached for another plate. ‘It's only been a day. You need to give yourself time.'

‘Yeah, I know. A couple of days.'

‘Mummy?' Zoe was standing at the kitchen bar. ‘Can I have a drink of water?'

‘Sure you can.' Jax poured her a glass, walked around the counter and gave her a kiss on the forehead as she handed it over, guilty again that she hadn't been more interested in her chatter at dinner. ‘Be careful not to spill.'

‘Aunty Tilda said not to worry because she has tiles and spilling won't hurt them.'

Jax guessed there must have already been an accident and glanced an apology at her aunt. They all needed boundaries so they didn't get sick of one another. ‘Okay, but it's good practice to be careful anyway,' she told Zoe, watching as she carried the glass across the room and arranged herself in front of the TV. ‘I keep thinking about Brendan's wife and son,' Jax said quietly to Tilda. ‘It was Zoe and me a year ago.'

‘It must be awful for them. It's all over the news too, like you had it.'

Jax thought of the newspaper coverage this morning: the photos, the stories, the timeline. Kate Walsh was probably wondering what the hell had happened. Not the
how
– that was clear enough from the news. The media
wasn't going to tell her the
why
, though. The reporters and cameras weren't there until it was over, so anything they offered would be police information or speculation. Kate Walsh was probably wondering what Miranda Jack had to do with it. Why the wife of a dead journalist had been holding a gun while her husband died on the motorway.

Jax would want to know. She'd want to know everything.

‘I should talk to her,' Jax said.

‘Brendan's wife? Are you sure that's a good idea? It's over now.'

‘It's not what you're thinking, Tilda. Talking to her wouldn't make it worse. It'd be climbing out of a hole before it gets too deep. And maybe helping someone else out of theirs.'

Tilda closed the dishwasher, wound fingers through her strand of beads as she watched Jax from across the kitchen, a mixture of sympathy and concern in her face.

‘I always thought if I knew what happened to Nick, I could let it go,' Jax explained. ‘Maybe it wouldn't matter if no-one was charged, if I just knew what happened. Even some of it. But I don't know why he was running there that morning, why his laptop and files were in the car, who he tried to call. I want to know those things.' She swiped at the tear that tumbled onto her cheek. ‘If someone said they knew what Nick was thinking in those last moments, I'd want that too. Anything. Something.'

Tilda moved along the counter, stood close enough for her perfume to enfold them both. ‘When the police came and told me Bill had driven off the road, I knew he was drunk even before the results came back. And I knew what he was like – he wouldn't have been thinking
anything in his last moment. Not Archie, though. He was conscious right up until the last hour. He'd said everything he wanted to say and I could see what he was thinking. He was ready to go.'

Jax wiped away another tear. ‘Brendan Walsh loved his wife and son. The police won't tell her that.'

‘No, they won't.'

‘He wanted to protect them. He was going about it the wrong way and the reasons why might have been all in his mind but he was trying to get to them. It would make a difference to me if I knew that about Nick.'

Tilda's gold bracelets tinkled softly as she lifted a hand and slid it through Jax's elbow.

‘I can tell Kate Walsh those things,' Jax said.

‘Yes, you can.'

‘I think she should know.'

‘Then I think you should tell her.'

‘Aiden Hawke wouldn't give me her number.'

‘Then you've got some homework to do.'