Shattered (20 page)

‘How do you know the weapon?’ asked Gemma.

‘I saw the shells that night. I heard the cops talking about the probability of the murder weapon being an Anschutz or a Ruger.’

Then Findlay vanished. Spooked, Gemma switched on the ignition, taking some comfort in the dashboard lights and the beam of the headlights illuminating the dank street with its tall trees and dense hedges and shrubs.

She swivelled around to see if Findlay was coming up behind her car and nearly jumped out of her skin when his voice sounded almost in her ear. He was leaning into her window.

‘Ask Natalie about her shooting skills,’ he said. ‘She’s a crack shot, you know. They were made for each other, those two. You ask her. Bryson wasn’t the only marksman in the family.’

Gemma drove home as fast as she legally could, relieved to be away from that house, and the strange man who inhabited it. As the distance between her and Findlay Finn widened, her indecision about the baby and her sadness about Steve increased. Grief can be solid, she realised, a physical thing. She could feel it in her car like the presence of ghosts.

As she made her way down the steps from the road, she saw the forlorn figure of the Ratbag sitting between the two lions of Delos.

Pleased to have his company after the unsettling behaviour of Findlay Finn, Gemma unlocked the front door.

‘Wotcha been doing?’ he asked as he followed her inside, then dropped into one of her blue leather armchairs. Taxi stalked in, eyeing them and swishing his tail, reminding her that it was past his dinner time.

‘I could ask the same of you,’ she said, going to the fridge for Taxi’s mince. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Back at Dad’s. He wanted me to do some jobs for him. He paid me. You look shit,’ he said, following her. ‘Are you sick or something?’

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

‘Crazy,’ he said, and his usually stern expression brightened with a smile. ‘What does Steve think?’

‘Steve doesn’t come into it,’ she said. ‘Steve doesn’t even know about it.’

‘Why? Why don’t you tell him?’

‘He wouldn’t be interested now.’

‘How do you know unless you tell him?’

‘Hugo, it’s complicated.’

‘No, it’s not. You just tell him and then he knows.’

She felt her mouth trembling then, and, despite her best attempts, her eyes filled.

Hugo’s expression was puzzled. ‘I didn’t mean to say something that would make you sad,’ he said, looking dejected.

She went back to the lounge, leaving Taxi hunched over his bowl.

‘It’s okay, Hugo. It wasn’t anything you said. Male–female business,’ she said. ‘You’ll find out about it one day. And I’m worried about how I’d cope with a baby. Doing this job, I mean.’

‘I could help you, you know,’ he said. ‘I could come with you and do things. Like drug busts and search warrants and stuff.’

‘Hugo, I don’t do drug busts or search warrants.’

Suddenly exhausted, she made some Vegemite toast then went to bed early, leaving him watching cable television with the sound turned down low, spread out on the lounge with Taxi on his chest.

•

Next morning, Gemma’s mobile woke her. She glanced at the bedside clock.

Ten past seven. ‘Hello?’ she said groggily.

‘Gemster? How’re you feeling?’

Gemma crashed back onto the pillows. ‘I wasn’t feeling anything till this phone call, Angie. I was unconscious.’

Her bedroom seemed a long way away, whereas the awful moments from yesterday had a pristine immediacy in her mind as scenes from the surprise meeting with Steve and Julie Cooper assailed her. She closed her eyes again. ‘I keep getting these action replays. I had nightmares last night.’

‘Poor baby. I’m coming over to cheer you up. But a quick question first. That voodoo police doll Jaki got,’ said Angie. ‘What’s it saying to you?’

Gemma considered. ‘It feels like a curse and a threat all rolled up in one. Like someone’s saying, “Look out, this could happen to you, if .
 
.
 
.” I’m not sure what comes next.’

‘I’m thinking along those lines too,’ said Angie.

‘But why on earth would anyone do something like that?’ Gemma asked. ‘It’s the sort of thing you read about in 1930s’ Agatha Christie stories. It just doesn’t happen.’

‘It just has, girlfriend.’

‘We’ve only got Jaki’s word for it coming through the mail,’ said Gemma after a pause.

‘What are you saying? That she did it herself?’ Angie asked. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘I can’t answer that right now,’ said Gemma, turning the question over in her mind. ‘But there is something important I can tell you,’ she added, thinking of her thirty-minute drive from Seaforth to Killara.

‘Great,’ said Angie. ‘Because I’ll be at your place really soon. Tell me then.’

Angie arrived half an hour later with croissants, bagels and an evil-looking pink-iced object from the hot bread shop near where she lived. Hugo and Taxi were lying entangled on the sofa, half-covered by a blanket, and Gemma had showered and pulled on a pale grey tracksuit.

‘I see you’ve got the homing pigeon back,’ Angie said, inclining her gleaming head in Hugo’s direction.

‘Remind me to buy in some provisions,’ said Gemma, twisting a scrunchie around her thick hair, making a short pigtail. ‘Massive amounts of provisions,’ she added.

‘I’ve brought some health food for breakfast,’ Angie joked, neat in her navy trouser suit and pale pink shirt, following Gemma into the kitchen and putting the food on the bench. ‘The croissants there are always good, but I can’t vouch for the pink thing.’

Taxi appeared and jumped up on the bench to see what was worth eating. Angie pushed him down again and he stood a moment, lashing his tail with his back to them, before stalking out of the room.

Angie studied her. ‘You look like I feel,’ she said. ‘We had to work back really late last night. Being harangued by the super. When something like this happens, the brass gets scared and picky. Hayden David from ballistics got hauled over the coals for leaving the security door to the exhibits stores propped open instead of swiping it open and closed every time he went up the corridor to another section. No wonder Northern Beaches were happy to get rid of him.’

‘I don’t think what happened yesterday has really sunk in yet,’ said Gemma, blinking to clear her head. ‘It still seems like a dream. A nightmare, rather.’

‘Try some of this,’ said Angie, pulling a gold lipstick case out of her briefcase. ‘I only bought it yesterday. Therapeutic red lipstick.’

Gemma took the lipstick to the mirror that hung above the hall table, over the tiny portrait of her mother. She picked up the framed photo, studying the sweet, heart-shaped face. She replaced it, then pulled out the drawer under the table, glimpsing the photograph of her handsome father, the square jaw she and her sister Grace shared. She pushed the drawer home again and brought the brilliant scarlet lipstick to her lips, thinking as she applied it that, like her mother before her, she hadn’t done a very good line in men.

‘What do you think?’ Gemma asked, bringing her mind back to the present and rubbing her lips together, handing the lipstick over.

‘Mmmm,’ said Angie, stepping back to get a better perspective. ‘Not so good on you after all. Makes you look a bit green.’

‘I feel a bit green. I’ve been feeling green for a couple of months now.’

‘Maybe if you’d told Steve earlier,’ Angie said as Gemma organised the percolator. ‘If you’d done that when you first knew that you were –’

‘I didn’t do it earlier,’ said Gemma shortly. ‘And then it was too late.’

‘Hell, Gemma. Are you going to let Steve Brannigan get you pregnant and then just walk away with Shirley Temple Curls Cooper, leaving you stranded like this? Where’s your fighting spirit?’

Angie, after a glance at the expression on Gemma’s face, raised an eyebrow and dropped the lipstick back into her briefcase.

‘Natalie Finn’s been lying to us,’ Gemma said, switching the topic. She picked up the croissants, the pink cake, butter and a jar of boutique jam, placed them all on a tray and took them to the timber deck as Angie went ahead and opened the sliding door.

‘We’ve got a witness,’ Gemma continued as they sat at the outdoor table, ‘who saw her leaving the office at around seven-thirty – not eight-thirty as she claims.’

‘Naughty fibber,’ said Angie, digging a pen out of her briefcase and pulling out her notebook. ‘Let’s see what she said exactly.’ She found the relevant statement draft while Gemma described her visit to Mr Yeo and the fact that Natalie hadn’t known about his presence.

Angie scanned her notes a moment longer. ‘The emergency call she made from the premises is logged at nine minutes past nine. Allowing for the shock of coming onto the scene, trying to stop her son’s bleeding –’

‘Angie,’ Gemma interrupted. ‘Remember we only have Natalie’s word for any of that. How do we know she tried to stop the bleeding? How do we know that she isn’t the killer?’

‘Her clothing was covered in blood consistent with her kneeling beside Donovan and trying to stop the bleeding,’ said Angie. ‘But she’s not ruled out as a suspect. Not by a long shot.’

‘It’s too horrible to think about,’ said Gemma, instinctively putting a hand on her heart. ‘But I keep thinking how often has it turned out that the person who’s the first to contact the police in a family murder like this –’

‘Eventually turns out to be the killer?’ Angie finished. ‘I haven’t taken statistics on this, but my gut feeling is that they would be in the highly positive range.’

‘Mine too,’ said Gemma. ‘She could be telling us part of the truth. Just leaving out the fact that she shot the two adult victims and then somehow accidentally shot Donovan.’

‘But she knew he’d be there. She was on her way to pick him up.’

‘That’s what she’s telling us,’ said Gemma. ‘Maybe his shooting was some sort of terrible mistake.’

‘Let’s say that’s the case,’ suggested Angie. ‘She puts the gun down, runs to her son’s side, tries to stop the bleeding, manages to make that emergency call. At the very most, only minutes would have elapsed between Donny’s shooting and the emergency call.’

‘Or she stood there, waiting until she was sure he would no longer be in a position to identify her,’ said Gemma in a whisper, ‘before making the call.’

‘Whatever way we look at it,’ Angie said, breaking her croissant into bite-sized pieces, ‘Natalie has to tell me what she was doing in that hour and nine minutes.’

‘I’m not looking forward to telling her about what I’ve discovered,’ Gemma said.

‘Hell, girl, she’s employing you! The worst she can do is sack you!’

‘You know what I mean.’

She took a croissant and buttered and jammed it, took a bite. ‘I had a drink with Findlay Finn yesterday evening.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s even weirder than I’d thought. Guess what Bryson’s favourite weapon was?’

‘Could it be an Anschutz?’

‘Spot on, girlfriend.’

‘And did the killer know that?’ Angie mused. ‘And is that why it was used instead of a shottie?’

‘Possibly,’ said Gemma. ‘There was a very long duffel bag in Findlay’s car. It would transport a rifle, no problem. I’m still thinking how easy it would have been for him to come home early along the bush path, carry out the shootings and escape in the same way. It’s bad luck about the rain.’

‘We couldn’t get the dog squad to attend on the night. They were all out on some terrorist operation. Because it rained heavily that night they couldn’t pick up anything when the dog finally did arrive next day. We’re still searching for the weapon.’

Angie made a note on her small pad. ‘We’re looking through the speed camera records now to see if we can find his car on the roads at the times he’s given us.’

‘That’s if he killed his wife and his brother,’ said Gemma. ‘And if they were lovers again. Some big ifs.’

‘But if it was him, would he shoot his nephew?’ Angie asked.

‘I think Findlay Finn is autistic,’ said Gemma, her head finally beginning to clear. ‘You know those little kids you see in documentaries, completely shut into their own world? Findlay’s like that. The only things he talks about are the things that he finds interesting or curious. I know grief can do odd things to someone but he didn’t make conversation about anything except for those things relating to himself, his painting, his brother and the desire to paint his wife’s dead body. And he’s scary. He behaved very strangely last night, disappearing in the dark and then materialising at my car window and almost frightening the life out of me. It’s as if other people don’t exist for him.’

‘But surely to murder someone, you have to care,’ Angie said. ‘The victim must have had some effect on the murderer – a big effect. An effect so overwhelming that the perpetrator believes he or she has to take lethal action.’ She paused before adding, ‘Someone who doesn’t care, doesn’t kill.’

‘Then maybe they were in the way of something,’ said Gemma. ‘And Findlay doesn’t care what action he takes to get to his desired goal.’ She wondered for a moment what that might be. ‘What’s the news on Lottie Lander? When I asked Findlay about her, he laughed in my face.’

‘No luck so far,’ Angie replied. ‘Ms Lander seems to be out of town. Her neighbours are a couple of old alcoholics and couldn’t shed much light on her movements. We’ll keep trying.’

‘According to Findlay, Natalie is also a champion shot. See what I mean about strange? He practically accused Natalie of the murders.’

‘You don’t have to be a marksman with a semi-automatic rifle at close range,’ said Angie drily. She stared out at the sea. Cumulus clouds piled up in snowy curds on the horizon. ‘Dan Galleone would know what Bryson’s favourite weapon was,’ she mused. ‘Boys and their guns.’

Gemma tried to answer but a wave of nausea ambushed her, rolling up from her stomach. She just had time to race into the bathroom before her mouthful of croissant and coffee came up in a fit of violent retching. She cleaned her teeth and washed her face and was drying herself with a towel when a loud crash made her hurry out of the bathroom.

Puzzled, she looked around. Hugo was still snuggled sleepily on the sofa, but Taxi was on full alert, perched on the Ratbag’s shoulder, jet ears swept back. Angie was standing near the sliding doors to the timber deck, her face pale with anger and her briefcase lying against the cedar credenza, contents scattered. A small blue and white vase that normally stood next to Gemma’s heirloom decanters lay in pieces on the floor.

‘Sorry about the vase,’ said Angie.

‘What happened?’ Gemma asked, dropping the towel.

‘That bloody phone call. I was so pissed off I had to kick something! I’ll buy you a new one.’

She stooped and started picking up the pieces of broken vase. Gemma went into the kitchen. ‘Must have been some phone call!’ she said, returning with the dustpan and brush. ‘What’s the story?’