Killing Me Softly (35 page)

Keith had seen her too. ‘Laura! You bitch! Get back in here and say you’re sorry!’

She rounded on the house. ‘Yeah, that’s bloody likely, you psycho!’ A plate soared through the window and nearly clipped her. Wild with fury, she picked up the golf club nearest her and hurled it back through the window with a scream.

Jordan and Murray stared, their mouths agape. It took a moment, but they finally regained their composure and darted out from behind the safety of the battered police car. Murray seized Laura’s shoulders, turned her towards the cars and shoved her forward. ‘Stay by the car, all right?’ She stumbled down the driveway as the men approached the front door. Murray narrowly missed getting hit in the face with a wine glass. Out of range on the porch, Jordan tried the handle but found it locked.

‘So where’re you going?’ Murray panted, positioning himself on the opposite side of the door to Jordan. He wiped his brow and reached for the baton secured to his belt.

‘You’re looking at Olinda’s Leading Senior Constable.’

‘Christ, you’re going home?’

‘Beginning of next year.’ Which couldn’t come soon enough. Olinda was in Jordan’s blood. Not just because he’d grown up there, shed blood there, made mistakes and a name for himself – but because he’d loved and lost in that little mountain town. Questions had dogged his footsteps for close to two decades. One traumatic night had changed him, shaped him. And no amount of distraction or distance had quietened the ache for answers. So he was giving up. Giving in. He was going home. Not for a weekend or an extended stay – he was moving back until he’d turned every stone, questioned every source. If all it took was a change in postcode to quieten the incessant theories in his head, then he’d do it.

Closure was overdue.

Jordan and Murray aligned their shoulders and used their combined strength to burst through the door.

Keith, startled by their entry, retreated hastily to the kitchen. Within moments he was pitching cutlery into the hallway. Jordan chanced a look around the corner and got hit in the face with a cookbook. It toppled to the floor, a mess of pages and blood. He cursed savagely and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Murray’s lips twitched.

A wooden mixing bowl clattered to the floor between them.

‘Keith, haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough?’ Murray called out. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’

Keith darted into the adjoining room, throwing tongs, chopsticks and a rolling pin over his shoulder. Murray stumbled on something and knocked a picture frame to the floor. Jordan glanced down at the family portrait: man, woman and child. His frustration made room for a moment of sympathy.

They found Keith cornered in the dining room. His face was flushed and shining with sweat. Small veins contoured his temples. He was mostly dressed for work: trousers, socks, business shirt and tie. Half of his face was smeared with white foam. It seemed his wife had broken the news mid-shave. He was in his early thirties, Jordan guessed, reasonably fit and surprisingly clear-eyed. He carried nothing, and his hands flexed.

Jordan almost groaned when Keith seized the ornate table lamp beneath the window. The distressed man pitched it with a scream at Murray.

It was his undoing.

The lamp snapped back, its cord still plugged in at the wall. The ceramic base shattered against Keith’s upper body and reduced him to his knees.

Jordan and Murray wrestled him to the ground. With Jordan’s knee between the man’s shoulders, Murray snapped a pair of handcuffs around Keith’s wrists. The man swore and protested, then, for just a moment, emotion overcame him and he gasped brokenly. But by the time they hauled him to his feet, he’d found the crazy again.

Minutes of struggle ensued before Keith finally went slack. It was clear from the wheeze in his breath that he was exhausted, but it still took both Jordan and Murray to steer him out of the house.

His wife waited by the cars, trembling with what was doubtlessly rage and humiliation. Jordan and Murray stopped before her, holding Keith securely. Before anyone could speak, she punched her husband in the face with such force his head snapped back. It clearly hurt her, for she clutched her hand quickly. Jordan hurriedly dragged Keith out of range as Murray stepped between them.

‘That was a cheap shot,’ Murray scolded her.

‘Do I look like I want to play fair any more?’ she cried. She wiped shaving cream off her knuckles then pointed at Keith’s face. ‘We’re through! And you’re dangerous – I’ll see that you can’t get within a suburb of Paige!’

Fearing that mention of the kid would re-energise Keith, Jordan moved to get a better grip. But he wasn’t fast enough. The man took him by surprise by turning on the spot – swivelling, loosening Jordan’s hold – and then his hands were reaching for the holster strapped securely to Murray’s leg.

Jordan knew he shouted – his mind registered the sound of his own voice – but he had no idea what he’d said. Keith’s fingers scraped Murray’s sidearm free. Another twist and he was facing his wife.

Murray threw all of his weight against the man, rolling to drag him down.

And Jordan found himself standing between spouses.

Amidst the shouts of the men and the screams of the wife, there was an all-too-familiar click. Two bodies crashed onto the footpath as Jordan reached back to push Laura behind him. The gun was turned, lifted and fired. And then Jordan fell, joining his partner on the ground.