The Witness, page 1
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9781460766927
Dedication
To my true north
Contents
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Molly
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Molly
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Molly
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Fleur McDonald
Copyright
PROLOGUE
‘Do you know how to keep a secret?’
That was the second to last thing my mother said to me before there were three knocks at the door. Not knocks like the rap, rap, rap kind. These were slow. Bang. Bang. Bang. Like the bells from a church.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
You know something bad is about to happen.
Mum’s head shot around so quickly I thought she was going to get whiplash. Then she whimpered. My mother never whimpered.
Without warning she yanked open the door of the pantry and pushed me in, making me think in hindsight that she must have known who was waiting outside. Which made sense because she’d been talking on the phone a while before, while I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, eating my chocolate cupcake and drinking Milo. I’d heard her yelling at someone. Well, she wasn’t yelling but it was louder than talking. I don’t remember what she said exactly, but it was something like: ‘Don’t you dare come here.’
Inside the pantry, I banged my elbow on the doorframe and opened my mouth to cry, but she clamped her hand over my mouth and whispered, ‘Shh. Don’t say a word. They can’t know you’re here.’
That was the last thing she ever said to me.
The door closed with a click.
My eyes got hot. The doorframe had hit my funny bone and it was throbbing and tingling.
I remember peering out between the wooden slats. You probably know the type I’m talking about, those doors with slats that are fixed on an angle. It’s a bit hard to see through the gaps unless you can find the right position. But when you do, you can see everything.
And that was what I saw. Everything.
The person who burst in, without waiting for Mum to open the door fully.
The person who motioned for Mum to get on her knees.
The person who killed my mother.
CHAPTER 1
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ newly promoted Inspector Martin Rogers said as Detective Jack Higgins bent forward as if he’d been punched in the gut.
Through the hum of horror and adrenalin that was running through Jack’s body, he vaguely realised Martin had clapped a hand on his shoulder. Such a cop thing to do for comfort. When there were no words, only a good hard clap on the shoulder or back would do.
The thing he had feared the most had come true.
The usual hubbub of noise in the police station – phones ringing, people yelling and computers whirring – was still audible behind the closed door to Martin’s office. But they were nothing for Jack, because all he heard was the blast of his Glock as he squeezed the trigger. He once more felt his hands jerk upwards as the bullet left the chamber. His ears rang with yells and gunshots as he and the rest of the team took down the bikie gang at that outback camp. Then he noticed the warmth of Zara’s blood on his hands.
‘I asked them to double-, triple-check the ballistics results,’ Martin continued.
Jack realised he should say something, but he couldn’t make his mouth work.
‘That’s why it’s taken so bloody long to get the results. They shelved the second and third testing until they weren’t snowed under. And that’s never these days.’
Jack heard his boss’s deep intake of breath.
‘I had to be sure before I spoke to you. There’s no doubt. The bullet that struck Zara was from your gun.’
The carpet swam in front of Jack’s eyes; he squeezed them shut, so he wouldn’t vomit.
There had been so many guns that day. Bikies shooting at each other and at the police officers. Police officers returning fire. Zara’s new friend Ted had been hurt in the battle and then there had been Hayley, the daughter of the bikie president, who had run out of bullets but not accusations and filthy words as they’d handcuffed her and dragged her to the paddy wagon.
And Zara. The woman he loved. The one who had brought the whole gold-stealing ring tumbling down. She had been lying on the ground, blood seeping through her clothes.
He remembered the chaos and fear as the crime scene had been secured and ambulance officers arrived. The paramedics stabilising Zara, loading her into the Royal Flying Doctor plane and taking her to Perth.
The countless hours they’d both spent in the hospital: Zara in recovery and him pacing the halls.
‘You don’t have to worry, Jack, there aren’t any charges coming your way, but I think Zara . . .’ Martin’s voice trailed off and Jack heard the unspoken words. Zara needs to know.
She was well and truly on the mend; although the nerves in her back and leg had been damaged when one of the bikies had jammed her into the ground. Somehow, he must have stomped on her back, but Zara couldn’t remember it. Neither could Jack.
All this trauma for the sake of gold.
Zara was healing, physically, but she still had nightmares.
Again, all for the sake of gold.
How many times had those words – for the sake of gold – been lamented across the years? This wouldn’t have been the first time, nor would it be the last.
For someone’s greed.
For someone’s secrets.
Three weeks ago, when Jack had been back in Adelaide, he’d lain awake next to her in her bedroom at her mum’s house and listened to her toss and turn, moan and cry out in her sleep. Yet he hadn’t been able to reach out and comfort her and she hadn’t turned to him for support when she’d finally woken. The gap between them wasn’t a crack, it was a bloody wide canyon.
And that was before he knew the bullet had come from his gun. What would it be like between them now?
He wished they’d talked before he’d left – made a decision on their future – because they both knew things had changed between them.
Zara’s stepfather had given it to him with both barrels, only yesterday.
‘What are you, man or mouse, Jack?’ James had spoken so quietly on the phone, Jack had pressed his mobile closer to his ear to hear his words. But the disappointment and fury in his voice was loud and clear. ‘Zara has been through so much. Why haven’t you left that godforsaken town over there and come home for good yet? You should be here. With her.’
Jack had stayed silent. He couldn’t refute what James had said. He wondered whether James was going to have a similar conversation with Zara. Of course he wouldn’t. And he would bet a whole week’s worth of pay that Zara hadn’t told her mother and stepfather that she hadn’t asked Jack to stay.
‘Jack?’
Jack shook his head to clear away the memories and looked into Martin’s face.
His boss’s forehead was creased in concern. ‘I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you,’ Martin said. ‘And I’m really sorry this has happened, mate.’
‘Are you sure it was my bullet?’ Stupid question. Jack waved his hand in apology. ‘Don’t answer that.’ Martin wouldn’t have told him if he wasn’t sure.
Martin grabbed a folder from his desk and held it out to Jack. ‘It’s all in here. As you know, we had specialist forensic officers from Perth go through the scene. They recovered the projectiles, bullet casings, all of it. I’m sure you remember walking through the scene with one of them. Every gun in that siege was seized. Forensics did what they always do: they fired them all and compared the bullets to the one they took from Zara, as they would in any incident.’ Martin paused. ‘The striations on a bullet are as unique as a fingerprint, as you know.’
Jack nodded. He did know. Every copper did.
He didn’t pick up the file.
‘Okay,’ he said woodenly. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here for a moment. Get your thoughts together.’
‘Look, I’m fine.’ Jack suddenly needed to be out of the station. Away from everything and everyone. ‘I’ll be right.’ He stood up, his eyes taking in a framed photo of a class of graduating police officers. All those new cops, young and fresh-faced, without any idea of what was to come their way. Jack had been like that once. ‘I guess we all knew this was a possibility. Thanks again, Martin.’ For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he put his hand out and shook his boss’s before backing out through the door.
Blindly he made his way towards the front doors of the station. He knocked into another officer on his way.
‘You right, mate?’ the officer asked as he reached out to stop Jack from bumping into the wall.
‘Yeah,’ Jack answered automatically. ‘Sorry.’ He walked on until he was outside in the warmth of the sunshine. It was one thing to live with the fear it was you who had accidentally shot the woman you loved but another thing entirely to have it confirmed.
He raised his face skyward and took in the vivid blue. He searched for a cloud. Even just one.
Nothing. Only the endless May sky touching the tops of the buildings and the super pit wall.
A few officers were milling around the entrance of the police station and a plane was on final approach into the airport over the other side of town. Everything looked the same as it had when he arrived at work this morning. How was that possible? Everything he knew about himself had just been tipped sideways.
Jack had always been so careful when drawing his gun. Never once before had he fired it in a siege. Oh, he’d taken it out of its holster, for sure. He’d even aimed the Glock at someone. But that was as far as he’d ever gone.
Guns were a last resort only.
Three white utes drove by, each bearing multiple aerials, orange flashing lights and fluoro yellow stripes down each side. One of the drivers stuck an arm out of the window and waved at Jack. He waved back automatically. Then he realised the bloke was giving him the finger.
Typical. The police weren’t exactly favourites in this lawless town. And perhaps that’s why he loved it here so much. The challenges Kalgoorlie and its surrounding areas gave him couldn’t be found anywhere else.
Deep down he was aware that’s why he hadn’t put in for that transfer back to South Australia yet.
Zara was particularly perceptive. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t asked him to come back for good.
How ironic, he thought. He hadn’t wanted to come to Kal in the first place and now he didn’t want to leave.
He started to jog along the street. He wasn’t wearing his sneakers, or his running gear, but it didn’t matter. He would still run. Run from the guilt and shame and remorse, until he couldn’t run any further.
CHAPTER 2
‘Now when I tell you to, Amy, I want you to push hard,’ midwife Molly Walker said to the woman who was leaning over the bed with her legs spread wide. ‘One more time and that little baby is going to pop out.’
‘I can’t, I . . .’ Amy puffed. Her face contorted as another contraction grabbed hold and she moaned, her hands clutching at the sheets.
Molly placed her hand gently on Amy’s forehead. ‘Of course you can, sweetie. I know it’s hard and it hurts, but that bub is going to be in your arms before you know it. Now breathe through this. One . . . two . . .’ Changing position, Molly checked the monitors and felt Amy relax as the contraction passed. She put her hand on Amy’s stomach, knowing it would only be seconds before the next one started. ‘Okay, when you feel that next contraction, push, push, push! Ready?’
Amy’s stomach tightened again and she screwed her eyes up in concentration.
‘Push, Amy, come on, you can do this. Use the pain.’
Molly squatted down and concentrated on cradling the baby’s head as it emerged, hardly hearing the grunts and groans from Amy. ‘That’s right, nearly, keep going. You’re nearly . . .’
The baby slipped easily into Molly’s hands, taking its first breath and then letting out a long, loud scream.
‘There we are. Oh, what a beautiful baby.’
‘Is it . . . What . . .?’ Amy tried to bend down to see.
Molly carefully placed the baby on the bed in front of her.
The exhausted woman wrapped one arm around the precious bundle and kissed her head. ‘Oh,’ she breathed.
‘Congratulations, you have a little girl. And she’s beautiful. You’ve both done so well.’
She gathered up the bloodied sheets and turned away so she didn’t have to see the love in Amy’s eyes. As much as she adored her job catching babies, bringing new lives into the world, her heart hurt every time a woman came into the birthing suite without anyone to help her.
‘We need to do a few tests on her,’ Molly said after a few minutes, ‘and then let’s get her onto the breast. I’ll help you onto the bed.’
Bridget, another of the midwives, gently took the baby from Amy’s arms, explaining her heel was going to have a little prick so Amy would hear bub cry for a few moments. Then she’d get her checked over and brought straight back to mum. ‘Bub won’t even have to leave the room,’ Bridget said.
On the bed, Amy groaned, loudly. ‘What . . .?’
‘Ah, there we are, darlin’, that will be the afterbirth. You knew this was coming,’ Molly told her. ‘Just breathe the way you would with a contraction and once that’s done, this will all be over.’
Once the placenta was delivered, Molly handed the baby back to Amy. She smiled as the newborn bobbed her head towards Amy’s nipple and latched on. ‘Looks like she’s got it all under control. What a clever little thing. What’s this beauty’s name going to be?’
‘Amanda – Mandy,’ Amy said. ‘It was my mum’s name.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely. And where’s your mum?’
Amy didn’t answer for a moment, only stroked the baby’s head. ‘She’s dead. She died a couple of years ago. In an accident.’
‘Ah, love, I’m so sorry.’ Molly wanted to hug her. She knew the devastation of losing a mum. She’d lost her own when she was five. Even with so many people in her life who loved her, that aching hole had never been filled.
Amy’s chart said she was twenty-four, so she wasn’t young, not like some of the teenagers who came through, but young enough that having a bub all by herself would be scary and overwhelming. Molly knew better than to ask after the baby’s father. She’d have to keep an eye on this one when it came to the postnatal checks. Maybe she’d continue the visits longer than normal. She did that with a lot of her single mums or ones without help or family in the town.
‘Now, Bridget is going to take you to your ward,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you can stay on the bed; you won’t have to walk yet.’
Amy looked frightened. ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I’ll see you later on,’ Molly promised, ‘and I’ll come and visit you in your home after you are discharged. It’s time to settle back and get to know your Mandy. That’s the only thing you have to worry about right now.’ She smiled gently at Amy and smoothed her sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead. ‘You’ve done so well. I know your mum would be very proud of you.’
Molly saw tears appear in Amy’s eyes and she squeezed her hand before leaving the room.
The feeling of stepping out of the bubble of raw pain and high emotion of the labour ward still took Molly by surprise, even after three years as a midwife. It was like finishing a book that no one else was reading and realising there was a real world outside of the pages. Nurses walked by calmly, and visitors came and went looking both lost and awestruck. From behind one closed door, the sound of crying reached her, and from another came laughter.
Hospitals were like airports, pulsating with every different emotion there was.
‘Molly!’ A nurse walked quickly towards her, holding a file. ‘Labour ward five is seven centimetres dilated. All obs are fine, while room six is taking her time.’ She handed over the file. ‘Dad-to-be has been getting a bit worked up, demanding to see a doctor, but I think I’ve calmed him for now.’
Molly took the file and checked the information. ‘I might take a few minutes to have my lunch,’ she said, handing back the chart. ‘You can ring if you need me.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Good time for a break, while it’s relatively quiet.’
Molly went to leave then twirled back around. ‘Oh, and ward fourteen, the young mum who came in yesterday? She’s right to go home. Doctor Halliday assessed her and bub this morning. I think her husband is coming later this afternoon. I meant to make a note of it, but I got called into the labour ward.’
