Cold Justice (16 page)

‘Okay.’

He took her hand. ‘Not so clammy any more.’

Only because she’d been wiping it on her trousers, but she nodded anyway.

James smiled at Freya in the mirror. ‘You look incredible.’

She was putting on lipliner and couldn’t smile back. She winked instead and he seemed happy enough with that and went back into the bedroom. Freya capped the liner and put it down, then did her lipstick, focusing on that, avoiding her eyes. James might not see the worry and doubt in them but she sure as hell could.

She dropped the lipstick into her bag and turned away from herself. ‘Kids ready?’

‘Rob?’ James called, doing up his tie. ‘Ready, mate?’

‘Yeeees.’

‘Ains?’

There was no answer. James sighed.

Freya sat on the bed and slipped on her shoes. ‘I’ll go.’

Ainsley’s room was at the end of the hall. She’d wanted to paint the door black, and when James refused she’d painted A4 sheets of paper instead and Blu-Tacked them on. It had been a month and the hall still stank of paint. One sheet was coming loose and Freya pressed the corner down, then knocked.

‘What?’

‘You ready?’

Mutter, mutter.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m not going.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Freya said.
If I have to, you have to.

Ainsley opened the door. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘It’s just a few hours.’

‘I’m talking about the whole thing.’ Ainsley lifted her chin and Freya saw the child she’d been at three. ‘It’s not right that you can make me change schools.’

‘Your dad and I talked about it for a long time and decided this was best.’

Ainsley shook her head. Her black bob swung around her ears. ‘It’s not right.’

‘I’m not going to argue with you. It’s been decided. Now get your boots on and let’s go.’

Ainsley sat on the floor to do so and again Freya saw the child she’d been, this time at eight, struggling to lace rollerskates.

‘I love you,’ she said.

Ainsley scowled at the floor.

In the car, Robbie chattered away about what Barney said to Philip at recess and how much longer Lucas would have his cast on for and who got put on the wall for playing brandings.

‘Who gives a toss,’ Ainsley said.

‘Hey.’ James looked at her sharply in the rear-view.

She rolled her eyes.

‘Why do you wear those stupid boots?’ Robbie said.

She punched him in the arm and Robbie howled.

‘Enough!’ James barked.

Freya looked out the windscreen. It was twenty minutes to Macquarie and she had to prepare herself to see Dion again. He was forty-two now. He might be losing his hair, wear his trousers belted high over his paunch, have liver spots on his hands. She wondered if he was still married to Andrea. Chelsea would be twenty now. It was strange to think about it all again, when for so many years she’d kept it safely tucked away in a place in her head where she never, ever went. Add to all that the news of the letter somebody had sent the police and it was no wonder she felt sick.

‘You okay?’ James said.

‘Huh?’

‘You were frowning.’

‘A bit tired, that’s all.’

He squeezed her knee. ‘Thanks for coming.’

She smiled at him.

In the back Robbie whined about his arm and Ainsley sighed like Freya remembered sighing so often at her age, feeling suffocated by all this domesticity and everydayness. She turned to look at her daughter, who looked pointedly out the window at the night. Freya thought of what she’d been up to at her age. Despite James’s opinion of Ainsley’s behaviour, she wasn’t doing too badly at all.

The closer they got to Macquarie, the tighter her gut clenched. She tried to tell herself that he wouldn’t remember her; nineteen years was a long time and people changed a lot between the ages of sixteen and thirty-five. Her surname was different too. She tried to see herself being introduced by James, shaking Dion’s hand, smiling politely, and walking away with him none the wiser. Tried, and failed.

James squeezed into a spot on the street and they crossed the lawn towards the hall in a motley group, Robbie running ahead, James and Freya in the middle, Ainsley dragging behind as far as possible. James frowned back at her but Freya kept going.

‘She’ll catch up,’ she told him.

Light streamed from the doorway and Robbie jumped inside. Freya took a deep breath and followed.

The hall was crowded, the student orchestra warming up, people talking and laughing and finding their seats. Kids ran everywhere.

James took her hand. ‘I’ll introduce you to the principal.’

Freya could feel herself breathing fast as she was led through the mass, bracing herself.
He won’t know you. He won’t.

Suddenly there he was. He was neither balding nor paunchy. He was tall and fit and looked thirty-five. He smiled at them and came striding over, his legs long and strong in dark khaki trousers. ‘James, how are you?’ They shook hands.

‘This is my wife, Freya.’

‘Nice to meet you.’

Dion put out his hand and Freya took it, unsure what to expect from touching him. His palm was firm and warm and his fingers were strong around hers. She looked into his eyes. Either he was extremely adept at hiding his thoughts or he didn’t recognise her.

‘Nice to meet you too,’ she said, and let his hand go.

‘This is our son, Robert, and our daughter, Ainsley,’ James said.

Dion shook hands with both of them. ‘I hear you’re starting with us here soon,’ he said to Ainsley.

She looked at the floor and shrugged.

‘Say yes, Ains,’ James said. ‘She is.’

Dion smiled. ‘You’re in Year Nine?’

Ainsley muttered, ‘Yes.’

‘So’s my daughter Alice,’ Dion said. ‘She’s by the door there. Would you like me to introduce you?’

Ainsley glanced at the bored-looking girl in the black jeans and T-shirt and sloped off towards her without another word.

‘Thank you,’ James said. ‘Is your wife here?’

‘She is.’ Dion waved across the hall and a sturdy blonde made her way over.

Freya recognised her immediately, though she’d only seen her a few times at the drama group many years ago. Some people didn’t change that much at all, she realised. But she herself had.
Right?

‘My wife, Andrea,’ Dion said. ‘This is James and Freya Craig.’

They shook hands. Freya glanced at Dion. He wasn’t looking at her.

‘Let’s take a seat, shall we?’ he said. ‘It’s about to start.’

He shepherded them towards the third row and Freya sank weakly into her chair as Dion and Andrea headed off to their seats.

‘Nice people,’ James said as the lights went down. ‘Might have some new friends there.’

Freya felt sick.

There was lots of singing and dancing, illustrating some story that Freya couldn’t concentrate on, then an intermission. ‘I have to get some air,’ she said to James, and pushed her way outside. Students served tea, coffee and cordial from trestle tables in the quadrangle, and she went up to the nearest. ‘Any chance of a cup of ice?’

He frowned. ‘I’ll go and find out.’

Freya pressed her back against a stone column. People milled about, all happy and cheerful, none of them with any problems at all.

‘Is yours an emo too?’ Dion said beside her. ‘Your daughter?’

Freya held herself together. It was still possible that he hadn’t recognised her. ‘Actually, she rejects all labels imposed by our patriarchal society.’

‘Fair enough.’ Dion surveyed the crowd. ‘Decent turnout.’

She nodded.

He lowered his voice. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘Don’t.’ Goose bumps rose on her neck.

‘I just needed to say that.’

‘Don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not . . . The police have reopened the case.’

‘I saw it on the news.’ He raised his coffee cup to hide his mouth. ‘They can’t know anything.’

‘They got a letter about the girl who found the body.’

He stared at her.

‘Your cup of ice,’ the student said behind her.

‘Thank you,’ Freya managed.

‘Dion! Don’t just stand there gawping, come and talk.’

A heavily made-up woman laid her blood-red nails upon his jacket sleeve and dragged him off. He looked back at Freya once and she suddenly felt like she didn’t know how to arrange her face, what secrets she was giving away to everyone there.

James came up. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Not really.’

Freya gripped the plastic cup so tightly its sides started to split. She tipped it up and chewed a mouthful of ice, needing the freeze to calm her blood more than ever, needing the surge of cold water down her throat to stop the tightening grip that fear had on her neck. She wanted to be at home, well away from here, away from Dion and the past he represented, away from thoughts of dogged police detectives and the truths they might uncover.

The morning sun warm on her shoulders, Ella stood up and stretched her back. Wayne was right into this, on his hands and knees in the grass, humming as he uprooted things with the new fork.

‘This is onion weed,’ he said. ‘It’s got no place in a decent garden. You have to dig down and get the little bulb. If you just rip off the top the bulb sends out more shoots and it goes everywhere.’

Ella nodded though he wasn’t looking at her to see it. Which was good, otherwise he might have seen in her eyes that she didn’t really care. The onion weed flowers were kinda nice, and so long as there was something green growing in the garden beds she didn’t mind what it was. And wasn’t the difference between a weed and a proper plant a mere technicality?

She’d thought she would like this new domesticity. That morning they’d gone to Bunnings and Wayne had spent a happy hour wandering through the Saturday morning crowds, filling a plastic basket with things they apparently needed. Ella had trailed behind, thinking about Tim. And Murray.

‘This one on your fence is another weed. Japanese honey-suckle. Again you have to be careful because if it gets away from you it just runs wild.’

‘Okay.’ She liked that one too.

‘This is good soil,’ Wayne said. ‘We could really do something here.’

She should get back down there with him but she hated the feel of the dry dirt on her skin.

‘How’s your case?’ she asked.

‘It’s the weekend, sweetheart,’ he said.

‘We didn’t get time last night to talk about it.’

‘It will still exist on Monday.’

She noodled with the new rake in the grass. ‘Speaking of Monday, I wonder if Murray will be there when I walk in.’

He looked up at her. ‘Honey.’

She guessed he wouldn’t be overjoyed if she wanted to talk about the letter again either.

‘Do you like roses?’ he said. ‘We could plant some along here. They’d look really good.’

‘Aren’t they a lot of work?’

‘Not really. A little bit of regular maintenance and you’re laughing.’

Ella twisted the rake in the grass. ‘I don’t like thorns.’

‘You can get them without thorns now.’

‘I prefer things like palms.’

‘Palms would grow well here too.’

She didn’t want to think about it. If they decided on plant types he would want to go to the nursery. She should get down there next to him. She looked back at the house, thinking of the case notes in her bag.

‘Want a glass of water?’ she asked.

‘I’m fine. Here, let me show you something.’

Her mobile rang in her pocket.

‘Didn’t you turn that off?’

She couldn’t place the number on the screen.

‘If it’s not somebody you know, you shouldn’t answer.’

‘It might be important.’

‘It’s your day off.’

The phone rang and rang. Wayne went to take it out of her hands and she pulled away.

‘Ella,’ he said. ‘It’s the weekend.’

‘The job doesn’t end because of that.’

‘You need your own time.’

The ringing stopped. After a moment the voicemail alert sounded.

‘You didn’t want water, right?’ she said.

‘Leave the phone here.’

She almost laughed.

‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘Give me the phone. I’ll turn it off.’

‘No way.’

The sun shone down on them standing there. The rake handle was hard in her hands.
This is our first fight
, she thought.

‘The job is just that. It isn’t life,’ he said. ‘And you know I’m only trying to help you.’

‘Do me a favour and don’t.’

He knelt and rammed the fork into the earth.

Inside the house she put the phone on the bench and got herself a glass of water. She drank looking out the window at the back of Wayne’s head. He didn’t glance around.
Don’t try to control me
, she thought at him.
I don’t do it to you.

She called voicemail.

‘It’s Callum McLennan here. I’m sorry to ring you on the weekend, but if you have time, I mean if you’re working today and you have time, could you call me back, please? Thanks.’

She remembered his message of yesterday. She should’ve called him back. She owed him, really. She went into missed calls and dialled his number.

‘The mobile you have called is turned off or not answering. Please try again later.’

Murphy’s bloody law. Not even voicemail. She put the phone down and got another drink of water.

‘Enough for me in the tap?’ Wayne said behind her.

She got a clean glass and filled it for him.

He smiled. ‘Thanks.’

She watched him drink.

‘Call them back?’

‘No answer,’ she said.

‘That’s the universe pointing out it’s your day off.’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘I’m joking,’ he said. ‘I know how important it is to you, but working every day isn’t good.’

‘The case has just started. I want to build some momentum.’

‘It’s been stalled for nineteen years,’ he said gently.

‘Even more reason.’

He put his glass in the sink. He was standing close to her and she could smell the dirt and grass and sweat on him. He placed one hand against the side of her neck. ‘You’re so warm.’

She looked into his eyes. ‘You shouldn’t try to control me.’

‘I don’t want to control you.’

He leaned forward and kissed her. She felt his stubble against her chin and his hand slid further round the back of her neck.