Already Dead (27 page)

Hanging up, she took a restless, agitated tour of the room, a thought repeating in her head:
Nina Torrence, Brendan Walsh and Miranda Jack, linked in death and circumstance
.

Jax was the only one of them still alive.

She needed to sleep but she couldn't sit still, let alone lie down and drift off. Tilda must have gone to bed – the courtyard was black and the clusters of lights from ships off the coast floated in a mass of darkness. Jax checked the locks and the alarm, peered in at Zoe and took her mini laptop to bed. She'd told Russell she wasn't opening new files, but fuck it. He didn't have to know. No-one did – unless she came up with more than conjecture.

She started with Brendan, collecting everything she had on him. Newspaper articles, the story from the airbase, the photo Russell had sent. Then she typed in the lists from her notebook, updating, adding, making notes in the margins with the same program she'd used for Nick's files.

Then she started a file covering her own account of the carjacking. It didn't take long to write: she just closed her eyes, saw it in her mind and hammered on the keyboard. No emotion or narration this time, just each chronological step of Brendan's unravelling, simplified to bullet points:

 

– Order to drive

– Lashing out at the radio

– Confused by the phone

– Surveillance, head back and forth

 

On and on until she got to:

 

– Runs into traffic

 

Starting more files, Jax included newspaper articles and web links for Nina Torrence, as well as information she'd gleaned from her conversations with Kate and Hugh. While she was at it, she Googled Hugh, finding little more than references to genealogy sites listing Hugh Talbot, son of various old-English ancestors.

It was 1.27 am when she shut down the last file. If nothing else, the process had taken the edge off her agitation. Stretching, yawning, she slid under the sheet, propped an elbow on the pillow and pulled the laptop closer for one last search.

Two weeks after Nick's death, when the channels of communication with the Homicide unit showed signs of trauma, Jax began documenting meetings, conversations and phone calls. She also searched the internet for references to Anita Lyneham, finding articles on investigations, court appearances, police media releases, and her Facebook page. At first, it was to understand who Jax was dealing with, an attempt to find some common ground. Eventually she used it as a weapon when she wanted the cop to appreciate Jax wasn't sitting on her hands waiting for a detective to tell her when to breathe.

For the same reasons, and a few others, Jax now typed:
Aiden Hawke
.

He wasn't the only Aiden Hawke – real or simulated – but the one she was interested in had no Twitter account or Facebook page. Which meant nothing except that he hadn't been updating his status on his phone as she left him tonight.

There were plenty of photos and stories mentioning him and the dramatic, gun-wielding end to the carjacking. Jax skipped past them, looking for anything pre-Brendan Walsh.

Ten search pages in and she found Detective Aiden Hawke, of Serious Crime, Sydney, quoted in a four-month-old story about a series of stabbings. A year earlier, he was talking about an arrest in a long-running and particularly nasty arson case. Before that, a vicious assault on a train. He was also mentioned twice in stories around an investigation into the disappearance of a three-year-old girl that made headlines for its outpouring of neighbourhood emotion. And again two years later after the little girl's body was found in bushland and her stepfather charged.

Snippets of conversations with Aiden came back as Jax read. Crying loved ones and bloodied bodies; how long, unproductive cases were frustrating for everyone; Bethany, the young girl who'd tried to kill herself. Jax wondered whether the end of an investigation ever felt like a victory.

Thinking again about Bethany, Jax started a new search for a report on that attack. What she found was a story about an assault – not the one she'd been aiming for, but two names within a single paragraph jumped out at her. It was a court report: Detective Sergeant Aiden Hawke was a prosecution witness; the solicitor for the defendant was Nina Torrence.

Aiden knew her too?

Jax rolled onto her back, pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, her head thumping. Was it weird that Aiden knew Nina?

Or was it understandable, predictable even? Aiden had arrested people for serious crimes, would have interviewed them in the presence of a solicitor, followed them all the way to court. Nina was a criminal lawyer, and Jax knew from her days as a reporter that both sides of the courtroom could share a drink. Some ate together; sometimes they slept together. She'd known a cop whose public prosecutor wife had become a better-paid criminal defender.

It was 2.13. She should sleep, she told herself. She should. She tried one more search:
Aiden Hawke + Nina Torrence
. Three court cases. The last one concluded two weeks ago, something about a fraud and a restaurateur. Jax couldn't hold on to the details, couldn't get her fingers to hit the right keys, too exhausted to do anything but let it all float in her brain.

Nina Torrence, Brendan Walsh, Aiden Hawke and Miranda Jack – connections, crossed paths, violence. Jax had no idea what it meant. Maybe it didn't mean anything. But it was definitely weird.

 

Sleep felt like something she'd experienced once after a strong dose of hay fever medication mixed with a stiff drink. Heavy and black, restless and confused. She thought she was being chased, running for her life over broken glass, slowed by the weight of her own exhaustion. Then she was driving and shouting into the airstream that was pouring through the open window, bellowing until her throat was dry.

In the moment before she woke, Aiden held a gun on her while Brendan smashed a fist into the car radio, trying to stab the newsreader. When Jax opened her eyes, her mouth was parched, her face ached as though she'd been frowning for hours and a deep, hollow sense of dread filled her chest. Either the Brendan of her dreams had reinfected her with a new level of paranoia or her nightmares had woven themselves into her late-night research – but she now had more questions
about
Aiden than
for
him.

She sat up, woke her laptop, opened the file she'd started on Aiden and wrote some more. Not theories, not even conjecture. Just ideas that she'd taken at face value and that now, from a different angle – one that involved connections with Nina and Brendan – might mean something else.

Brendan had thought people were after him. It wasn't a vague concept. He thought they were going to find him on the motorway. Aiden
did
.

Aiden told Jax he'd started following her after she'd swerved into another lane. She'd assumed it was diligence and was grateful. But was he already searching the motorway?

She remembered her indecisive fear when she'd seen him that first time in the car park. And later, when his gun was pointed at her, and when she'd sat in the back of his car watching the massive police operation fall into place.
Overkill for bad driving.

Since then, Aiden had taken every opportunity to dissuade her from asking questions. Had only begun answering after seeing the mountain of information she'd collected on Nick and it was clear she wasn't easily put off. Last night, he'd suggested it was to protect her from the horror of the details, his finger sliding across her wrist
in a demonstration of where it could lead. She'd liked him better for it, thought it made him a better cop, perhaps a better person. But was it all bullshit? An act like when he'd held a gun on her?

What else was an act? The unwavering gazes. The long silences. Had Aiden been trying to read her or just deciding how much she knew?

The stuff about watching her at uni – was that bullshit too? She took her hands from the keyboard, closed them into fists. No, that had to be for real. If he was involved –
if
– those details, her partying and sadness, weren't on any record. But he could have added some spin, right? Murder Week, the crush, the
irresistible combination
. If he thought it might make her trust him, convince her to let him do the investigating. Maybe he figured kissing her would seal it. She'd been embarrassed, upset – and he'd been on his phone before she was out of the street.

And then there were his accusations that she was researching a story and leaving details out of her statement. He'd said her behaviour could make people nervous. Was it Aiden who was nervous?

About what?

Aiden knew Nina. Nina knew bad people. Nina was dead. And …?

Jax tried it from another angle. Brendan was with Nina just hours before she was murdered. Brendan thought someone was looking for him. Aiden found him on the motorway. And …?

She shook her head. Brendan got in her car while she was waiting at traffic lights. She spent time alone with Brendan before he died. And … Aiden was managing her. He'd thought Brendan got in her car by prior arrangement.
Was
he
worried about what was said – or did he know someone who was?

She leaned against the pillows, pushed hands through her hair. Was this nuts? Aiden had come to her rescue when she'd been chased under the house. His well-sprung readiness going into action. Or was it? It took only minutes for him to find her. Maybe he'd already been looking. Maybe someone had told him she'd run – Guy Number Two, the one who'd disappeared when the chasing started.

Across the hall, the toilet flushed. Three seconds later, a tap ran in the bathroom. Zoe was awake.

Jax closed her laptop, asked herself if she was a complete fucking idiot. She'd trusted Aiden when she knew about cops. She'd thought he was different. And maybe he
was
– in a way that was a whole lot worse than shutting her out of an investigation.

‘Morning, Mummy,' Zoe sang as she flung herself at the bed.

Jax winced as the mattress bounced. Two days after running four hundred metres and second-day muscle soreness made her feel like an old toy that needed its joints oiled. ‘Morning, baby.'

‘Are we going to the beach today?'

If she could find an ounce of Zoe's morning energy. ‘We'll see.' Jax bit back a groan as the grazes on her feet touched the floor. She held out a hand to her daughter. ‘Do me a favour and pull me up.'

Zoe dragged on her arms as though her mother was a dead weight. Maybe she was. Maybe she'd researched and written through most of the night because she was paranoid. Because she was embarrassed she'd kissed a man. Because she was stuck in a hole and needed professional help to get out.

In the kitchen, she fixed two bowls of cereal then sat at the table in the courtyard with Zoe, in pyjamas and sunglasses, squinting into the morning glare like she was in the throes of a hangover.

‘Fifteen boats,' Zoe said, pointing at the horizon.

‘Ships.'

‘Can you swim to them?'

‘I don't think anyone would bother.'

‘What if they did?'

Jax watched her daughter for a moment. Spoon in her hand, chewing as she bounced, freckles and sleep-messy hair and soft brown eyes sparkling with curiosity. Were the questions a habit she'd learned from Jax or was it in her DNA? Did they both have it fixed into their double helix? And were the questions Jax woke with going in the same pointless circles?

‘They'd probably get eaten by a shark before they got there,' Jax told her.

‘Do sharks have breakfast?'

The ringing of Jax's mobile drifted out from the kitchen. ‘Will Zoe stop asking questions long enough to eat her breakfast?' Jax stood slowly, her feet smarting. ‘You finish your cereal while I answer the phone.'

The name on the screen made her stomach lurch:
Kate Walsh
.

Since talking to her, Jax had discovered ugly things about Kate's husband, thought it was possible he'd stabbed a woman and heaved her body over a cliff. Yesterday she'd wanted to tell Kate that Brendan loved her. Now she had other information she didn't want to be responsible for hiding or providing. Jax held the phone in her palm, tempted to let it ring out, worried her voice would reveal the disgust and suspicion that had burrowed inside her.

Only tempted, though. If Jax had new details, maybe Kate did too. ‘Hello?'

‘Miranda, it's Kate. Kate Walsh. I hope you don't mind me ringing early again.'

There was no urgency or tears in her voice this morning. But it was hesitant, strained, weary.

‘No. I was already up.'

‘I was wondering if you'd have a coffee with me.'

Well, that was unexpected. When she last left the Walsh house, Kate looked as though she never wanted to see Miranda Jack again. Jax rubbed at the ache of tiredness in the centre of her forehead. Did she want to? She wasn't sure she had the energy to tiptoe around Kate's emotions. Did she want another chance to ask a few more questions? ‘When would you like me to come around?'

‘I don't. Can we meet somewhere?'

Wariness crept across Jax's mind. Nina, Brendan, Aiden – and Kate? ‘You don't want me at your house?'

‘Sorry, it's not that. I've got to get out and … pick up a few things and …' Her voice trailed off, the silence filled with the hiss of a long breath in, a long breath out. ‘Actually, I just need to get out of the house, you know?'

Jax closed her eyes, reminded herself that Kate had just lost her husband – she hadn't chased Jax down a street or broken into Tilda's house. And that grief could be suffocating. ‘Yes, I do know. Where would you like to go?'

‘There's a little cafe on the beachfront at Merewether. The coffee's good and the view is – well, it's a lot better than my four walls.'

Jax had bought a bottle of water there two days ago before she was chased down the street. She was in no hurry to revisit that particular spot, but Kate could walk there from her house. Maybe she needed the exercise as well as new scenery. ‘Sure. I know where it is. What time?'

‘In an hour?'

Jax glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 8.05. Maybe Kate's claustrophobia was bad this morning. ‘See you then.'

She held on to the phone after disconnecting, wondering if she was a cold-hearted bitch for wanting to ply Kate with more questions.

 

It wasn't a cafe in the normal sense of the word, just a kitchen tucked into the underside of an old surf club and a stainless steel counter that opened on to the path above the beach wall. The tables were all in the open, battered from sitting in the weather and scattered haphazardly like remnants from a garage sale. This was Newcastle, a city that loved its surfing lifestyle, and the ambience was appreciated. Half the customers were wet and sandy; there were walkers and cyclists, yoga students from a nearby studio, and collections of mums with kids enjoying the cool of the morning. Not trendy or visible enough for schoolkids to hang out, even in the holidays. No men in business shirts and ties.

The sky was a clear, high, pale blue – the forerunner to another scorcher but still kind enough this early that Jax didn't automatically search the shade beside the building for Kate.

She saw Scotty first. He was on his knees, pushing a dismembered toy truck across the bumpy sandstone top of the beach wall. Kate was sitting at a table behind him, its umbrella teased by a sweet offshore breeze. Her chair was angled towards the vastness of the Pacific Ocean but her face was turned away, her attention focused on something
further along the path. It made Jax slow as she neared, pulling Zoe in closer, checking over her shoulder to where she'd left her car.

How much did Kate know? Maybe Zoe should have stayed at home with Tilda.

Jax stopped beside Brendan's wife, a hint of reproach in her tone. ‘Kate?'

‘Miranda.' As she swung around, a single fast-moving tear ran from under one lens of her sunglasses.

Kate wasn't watching for bad guys, Jax told herself, she was out of the house for the first time and crying. Her swift, unselfconscious swipe at the droplet reminded Jax of herself, of when tears had been a daily event. Not an outpouring but simply toppling from her lashes in silent, unabashed sadness whenever and wherever the moment struck. They'd blurred her vision as she'd sat at the lights in the seconds before Brendan opened her car door.

Kate shuffled her chair back, stood, made a move towards Jax then stopped, as though she wasn't sure of the appropriate greeting. Jax wondered the same – handshake, hug? There was no protocol for widows with their connections. Kate eventually flapped a hand at the view. ‘I needed this.'

‘Better here than a supermarket.'

Kate's smile was tired and fragile but there was a hint of the metal that had got her this far today. She lowered her eyes to Zoe. ‘Hey there. I told Scotty you might come. He was looking forward to seeing you again. I hope you like playing with trucks. He brought some extras for you.'

Zoe shrugged, a six-year-old's
whatever
, and sauntered over to where he was playing.

‘I'm glad you brought her,' Kate said. ‘Most of Scott's friends are away for the school holidays.'

‘Zoe doesn't know anyone else in Newcastle. They're doing each other a favour. Have you ordered?'

‘Not yet. And I'll get this.'

‘You don't need to …'

Kate put a hand on Jax's arm, stopping her from pulling the wallet from her bag. ‘Please, Miranda. You didn't have to come. What will the two of you have?'

Jax sensed it was more than generosity, intrigue and uneasiness prickling at her scalp, but she understood the protocol this time. Kate had her purse out already – it wasn't good form to make a fuss when someone else was resolved to pay. ‘Thanks. A skinny cap and an orange juice then. And please, call me Jax. Friends call me Jax.'

A small smile. ‘Jax, okay.'

Jax sat with her back to the ocean where she could see her car and the path in both directions. Behind her, the tide was out and the wide strip of soft sand still wore the tracks of the early morning graders. She watched Kate in the queue at the service counter taking a swipe at another tear on her cheek – and felt anger spark for everything Brendan may or may not have done.

‘Thanks for coming,' Kate said, returning to the table to wait for the order. ‘I know it's a little weird, the two of us meeting like this. After everything.'

‘I can handle a little weirdness. How are you?'

Kate was brave about it for maybe three seconds before her lips trembled. ‘Not great. Shit, I told myself I was going to hold it together.'

‘It takes time.' And it got worse before it started to get better, Jax thought.

‘I want to be strong for Scotty,' Kate said. ‘I thought it would be harder to lose it out in public but now I'm here, I feel like I can barely keep it in.'

‘There's no rule that says you have to. I brought tissues, if it helps.'

Kate did a small laugh-cry, pulled a wad of white from the top of her bag. ‘Me, too.' She wiped under her sunglasses, scrunched the tissue in the palm of her hand. ‘My best friend here went to Wales with her husband for Christmas. I've spoken to her on the phone but … I know other people, of course, and they've been kind, but they didn't really know Brendan. You seem to want to talk about him and you're new here and I thought we could …' She broke off, folded her arms, battling tears again. ‘I'm sorry, it was a stupid idea. You probably don't want to deal with me like this after everything you've gone through. It's just, I thought … oh fuck, I don't know what I thought.' She glanced at the kids. ‘Sorry for swearing.'

‘Oh fuck, don't mind me.' Jax said it gently, wishing there was something she could say to get Kate past it, knowing it wasn't words that would get her there.

‘
Kate!
' A voice called from the counter. Their order was ready.

‘And about fucking time.' Jax grinned as she stood. ‘I'll grab a tray, you stay here with the kids.'

She headed to the counter, trapped between a desire to help Kate and a pressing need to find out more about Brendan. Kate wanted to talk about him; she'd offered the same for Jax – their own little support group. And yeah, Jax wanted that, perhaps needed it, but maybe Kate should have someone who'd listen without motive. Who wouldn't possibly turn out to be her husband's accuser.

‘Hey, kids. Orange juice is up,' she called.

‘Your phone went off while you were over there,' Kate told her.

Jax off-loaded the drinks and checked her mobile. A text from Aiden:
Sorry about last night. Can we talk?

Wariness made her glance around. Conjecture, assumptions, unfounded leaps of logic, she told herself – and yet suspicion felt like a lump in her throat.

‘Everything okay?' Kate asked.

‘Yes.' Jax killed the screen, Aiden's text unanswered. ‘And it's not a stupid idea for us to be here. I'm glad you rang.' She didn't want to tell Kate to find someone else to have coffee with. She wanted to know what the hell was going on – for both their sakes.