This I Would Kill For Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Natalie King has been hired to do a psychiatric evaluation for the children’s court. A custody dispute. Not her usual territory, but now that she’s pregnant she’s happy to do a simple consult.

  Turns out Jenna and Malik’s break-up is anything but simple. He claims she’s crazy and compulsive; she claims he’s been abusing their daughter Chelsea.

  But what if all the claims are true? Or none? How can Natalie protect the child? And how does she work out where her concerns for Chelsea slide into her growing obsession with her own lost father?

  More urgently: with both parents saying they’re desperate to keep their daughter safe—what if one of them is desperate enough to kill?

  For Dominique and Daniel, now on their own life journeys, and Graeme, who shared parenting them with me—hopefully we were ‘good enough’

  And the king said, Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other.

  1 KING S 3: 2 5

  1

  ‘He wants to take my kids off me.’

  Jenna hadn’t even sat down. The urgency of the statement, the hint of fear, were at odds with the cool, firm handshake. When she did sit down, she ignored the chair opposite Natalie’s desk in favour of the armchair by the coffee table.

  The request for a psychiatric evaluation had come from Jenna’s lawyer. Merely pre-emptive. A legal report, and an attractive fee; Natalie did not expect she would have to appear in court. A welcome supplement to her pay cheque from the forensic psychiatry ward at Yarra Bend, particularly as she’d been ill and hadn’t worked for much of the last few months.

  ‘Why?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘He blames me,’ said Jenna. ‘For the breakup.’

  She looked briefly unsettled; Natalie watched her regain control. There was a sense of strength, the lioness-protecting-her-young kind, but the lines around her mouth were deeper than they should have been at thirty-four; the puffy grey under her green eyes and the unkempt mousey hair suggested she wasn’t getting enough sleep. Young kids.

  Her style was inner-city greenie: bright coloured top, vaguely Peruvian looking, and baggy red corduroy jeans tucked into heavy boots undone at the top. She probably volunteered to help slow learners at the local primary school. Her marriage might once have looked magazine-perfect. Walks along the beach hand in hand, Sunday sleep-ins interrupted only by a boisterous rescue dog, helping the kids decorate cupcakes with Disney characters.

  Except somewhere between packing the lunch box and Saturday morning sex she had ended up with two children, a mortgage she couldn’t pay and an ex-husband who thought she was nuts.

  Natalie waited—but Jenna had pursed her lips. She was not about to make things easy.

  ‘He wants to punish you?’ Natalie prompted.

  ‘He feels entitled.’

  ‘Entitled to what?’ Was Jenna’s ex-husband narcissistic? Antisocial? Did he think he could dictate the terms of a parenting order?

  ‘He still fantasises about us getting back together.’ Jenna stretched her legs out in front of her. ‘Malik is used to getting what he wants—that’s how his family are. He says jump and his mother asks how high.’

  ‘Malik?’ Natalie looked at Jenna’s paperwork. Her surname was Anglo: Radford. The husband’s name was Malik Essa.

  ‘We hadn’t exactly planned a family,’ Jenna added.

  The eldest child was eight.

  ‘So this was all, what, back nine years ago, when you got together?’

  ‘I meant my pregnancy with Chris. He’s three and a half now. Chelsea isn’t Malik’s child. Her dad didn’t want anything to do with us after I found I was pregnant. Never seen her, doesn’t pay maintenance.’

  ‘Where did you meet Malik?’

  ‘Paris.’ Jenna caught the flicker of response from Natalie and added, ‘I got a scholarship. Three months. My parents looked after Chelsea. It was pretty amazing.’

  ‘So, the separation—your idea?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘No. But even after six months he can’t get it into his head that I’m not coming back. He’s…’ Jenna paused, chose her words carefully. ‘He’s possessive. Thinks he owns me and the kids, Chelsea included. It all went wrong when I went back to work.’ She reflected for a moment. ‘Our life was fine while I played housewife and he knew where I was. The moment I was independent he didn’t like it. Monitored my fricking…’ Jenna pulled herself up. ‘Checked my phone calls, even followed me to work.’

  ‘Physically threatening?’

  Jenna hesitated. ‘No. Well…I think he threw paint over a guy at work’s car but I can’t prove it.’

  ‘How about with the children? Any concerns?’

  The hesitation again. ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing? Pushed you? Twisted your arm?’

  Jenna shook her head.

  ‘So,’ said Natalie slowly. ‘Tell me why you’re worried he might get custody.’

  Jenna moved in her chair. ‘My lawyer said there are two types of judges. Women-friendly—the old-school types that think it’s the woman’s job to bring up the children. And the ones who think they’re playing it fair.’ Jenna grimaced. ‘Turns out there’s a third type.’ She handed Natalie a newspaper clipping dated a few weeks earlier, headed False Claims Leave Dads in the Cold. Crusading journalist Mark La Brooy was taking up a right-wing senator’s attack on the Family Court. Fathers were ‘taking their own lives and those of others out of sheer frustration at the unfairness of the system’. Natalie’s colleague and perennial pain-in-the-arse Associate Professor Jay Wadhwa had been quoted in support. As had a Family Court judge, from an earlier review of the Family Court: he felt dads were getting a rough deal.

  Jenna pointed to the photo of the judge. ‘That’s the guy we got.’

  This explained the need for a succinct, pertinent report from a strong advocate for women’s rights. Jenna’s lawyer, Ms Yang, was presumably aware of Natalie’s reputation. But there was still a large missing piece. ‘Why a psychiatrist?’ Rather than a psychologist, maybe even one assessing the effect of the separation on the children rather than the mother.

  Now Jenna gave the answer she’d been holding back. ‘Malik…he knew me at a time when I…wasn’t well, and I don’t want him to think he can use it against me.’ There was a nervous edge to Jenna’s tone, but her look was all don’t fuck with me.

  It wouldn’t be the first time an estranged partner had cited psychiatric illness as leverage to get custody—sometimes with justification. Natalie had minimal experience of the Family Court, but she imagined that, as with the other courts, a lot depended on how sympathetic and informed the judge was about mental illness. This one sounded pro-parent and perhaps had some catching up to do regarding the more recent move towards children’s rights. Natalie wondered whether his other views were similarly archaic.

  ‘Let’s go through your psychiatric history then,’ Natalie said. Familiar ground—doing the checklists, targeting the likely problem areas.

  Psychosis, mood and anxiety disorders? Jenna admitted to a few mood symptoms, in response to current circumstances.

  Eating disorders? Check: anorexia nervosa as a teenager.

  ‘Dieting, exercising, throwing up. Just the usual.’

  ‘Did you go to hospital?’

  Overly long pause. ‘No. And I’m over it. It was nearly twenty years ago.’

  Noted. With a question mark.

  Natalie leaned forward slightly. ‘Is there anything you’re not telling me? Better to tell me now than have my report thrown out of court because it doesn’t address something Malik thinks he can prove.’

  They’d both done drugs—dope and ice�
�in Paris. Not now.

  Another question mark.

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘I used to drink a bit.’ Not anymore, Jenna added, but Natalie put a question mark here too. Was this what she was concerned that Malik would bring up in court?

  Natalie combed through Jenna’s childhood, including her relationship with her mother and father. Parents not only provided a role model for parenting style—they also shaped personality and self-confidence.

  Jenna’s father, Stephen, was: ‘strict, very involved, loving, emotionally distant and always there’.

  Some contradictions—he can’t have been ‘always there’ as he had a job and often had to travel for work—but Jenna was light on detail. He seemed to be the classic father who connected with his children—Jenna more so than her brother or twin sisters—by taking them to out-of-school activities like Little Athletics and ballet.

  Talking about her mother, Mickie, Jenna took longer to come up with the five words Natalie routinely asked for. Eventually she said loving, anxious, tired—most of the time anyway—and overwhelmed. The fifth—drunk—explained the dominant theme of Jenna’s early childhood: acting as carer for her younger siblings while her mother self-medicated her anxiety.

  Jenna was matter-of-fact about it. ‘We were fed and clothed. I grew up faster than I should have, but it toughened me up.’ Rationalising a time she should have been cared for, rather than doing the caring.

  There were no surprises in the rest of her history. Jenna was just anxious to keep her children, and there was no evidence of her being a risk to them, though she found the little boy—‘his father’s son’—a handful. Chelsea was the model daughter. Mostly well behaved; until recently, loved school. Maybe Malik was an angry ex, but Jenna gave her nothing to suggest he was dangerous.

  Not quite as straightforward as the legal referral had suggested, but in the end not a difficult assessment. As long as she could get confirmation about the drugs and alcohol being confined to the past, there was nothing here that could be used to stop Jenna getting custody.

  After getting some corroborative history, the report could be finalised and filed in the Completed drawer.

  2

  After Jenna left, Natalie cycled into the city, missing her Ducati with every turn of the pedals. Two weeks earlier, after she’d lost the motorbike in a fire, her first impulse had been to buy another. Immediately. She had allowed herself to be talked out of it. Not good timing, Natalie, Liam had suggested in their brief phone call.

  Waiting to see Doctor Sandra Oldfield, Natalie avoided eye contact with the other three women. The two with enormous bellies moved in on the one with a baby capsule, making pre-verbal sounds while Natalie gritted her teeth. She tried the mindfulness mantra to calm herself—getting these women out of her moment and leaving them to theirs—until her name was called.

  ‘The ultrasound says nine to ten weeks,’ Doctor Oldfield said, looking at her file. ‘I gather you don’t recall the date of your last period?’

  ‘I wasn’t regular after I stopped the pill.’ Natalie had been ill. And who cared anyway?

  Doctor Oldfield waved the referral letter and frowned. ‘Your GP says you’d been taking lithium.’

  ‘I’d pretty much stopped it. I thought it was causing the nausea.’ Declan, her supervisor, had reluctantly agreed she could just take quetiapine. She was only on a low dose, which put her at risk of an episode of depression or mania but reduced the chance of problems with the baby’s development.

  Doctor Oldfield pulled off her reading glasses and sat back in her chair. Short brown hair, no jewellery apart from a wedding ring; maybe forty. Sensible clothes. Pictures of two young children behind her; a nanny was probably looking after them. Maybe two—alternating shifts.

  ‘You have bipolar disorder.’

  Natalie resisted the urge to bite back Thanks for letting me know. Now I get why I’ve been taking medication and nearly topped myself before I was given shock treatment. And want to be high again more than anything else in the world.

  ‘You know there’s a risk of defects?’

  ‘Really?’ Natalie didn’t bother holding back the sarcasm this time. ‘A risk of 0.05 per cent of Ebstein’s heart anomaly. If I’d been taking a full dose of lithium, which I wasn’t, and there are no known teratogenic links with quetiapine. I haven’t been drinking, don’t do drugs, am not overweight and don’t smoke. Odds are in the bean’s favour, I’d say.’

  Doctor Oldfield frowned. Natalie assumed it was at her nickname for the foetus. That was pretty much what it looked like: a broad bean. With appendages.

  ‘Bipolar disorder is hereditary. And you’re likely to relapse postpartum. And you’re single. Have you thought about the child?’

  In the silence that followed—it felt like five minutes but was probably thirty seconds—Natalie wasn’t sure she could reply. Then she said: ‘I know it’s hereditary. So is being a bitch. Though your kids will probably end up with your nanny’s defects.’ She stood up to leave.

  She didn’t pay on the way out; they could send the bill.

  This usually only happened when she was high. Exactly the right response delivered in exactly the right tone. Cutting but calm.

  It was only later she wondered if she’d overreacted.

  3

  Before finishing the court report, Natalie rang Jenna’s parents. Her mother, Mickie answered.

  ‘I think maybe…you should really talk to my husband. He’s at the pharmacy. Working.’

  ‘I was just wanting to get a little background. It won’t take long.’

  ‘I don’t think…’ Mickie trailed off.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to help,’ said Natalie. ‘I’m just after some background on Jenna and her children.’

  ‘Jenna’s a good mother.’ The automatic response. What followed, after Natalie didn’t answer, was more revealing. ‘She and Chelsea are about as close as a mother and daughter could be.’

  Close—or too close? Eight-year-olds didn’t need their mother to be their best friend.

  ‘Does she have problems setting limits? Being the grown-up?’

  Mickie hesitated. ‘Not with Chelsea. Chris can be a handful.’

  ‘Have you had any worries she might be drinking again?’

  ‘No.’

  The answer was too quick—more likely answering for herself.

  ‘How’s Malik with the children?’

  ‘He’s a good father. Looked after Jenna, too.’ A sigh. ‘You don’t think he’s likely to take the children to Egypt do you?’

  Natalie had no idea and didn’t imagine she’d find out unless it made the papers. Lawyers had better things to do with their (billable) time than keep people like her in the loop, unless they needed them for something.

  Which was exactly what Natalie assumed when Beverley put Jenna’s lawyer through to her only an hour after she’d emailed her report.

  Natalie wondered what Li Yang wanted her to add to the report. Maybe Beverley had just forgotten to send through her CV.

  ‘Doctor King? You’re difficult to get hold of.’ Li sounded like she was walking; Natalie could make out the click of heels on pavement. ‘I need you in court.’

  Natalie stifled her irritation. The assessment request had stated that it was unlikely that she would be needed to give evidence. There was a fee for court appearances but it barely covered her costs and, more often than not, she had to reschedule other patients. They must be really worried about this judge. She opened her diary, assuming the date would be a month or two out. ‘When?’

  ‘Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Monday? Come on—no way the Family Court hasn’t given you more notice than that.’

  ‘It’s not the Family Court. We’re in the Children’s Court.’

  ‘The Children’s Court?’ It was one of the few institutions in the legal system that reacted quickly.

  ‘Protective Services are involved. Jenna made a report to them and the police. Looks like our Egyp
tian friend has been abusing the eight-year-old girl. Sexually.’

  So much for a straightforward case.

  4

  Friday night she was fronting her band at the Halfpenny. Natalie liked the idea of singing with the Styx until the baby dropped, but figured they might feel differently. She hadn’t got around to telling them. She tried to picture what Vince’s expression would be if she was still singing up until the bean made an appearance. Every inch the old-school publican—in his early sixties, tattooed arms, hair thinning, pasta-lover’s waistline—Vince had an opinion on everything. Particularly what women should and shouldn’t do. She put up with it because he was the band’s biggest supporter. And, beneath it all, a decent guy.

  Maybe she could start an all-female band and make a statement: Preggers? Knocked Up? Maybe not. There wouldn’t be much future in it.

  She wished Liam would turn up, but knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t seem as convinced as her that the kid was his, and why should he be? It had only been the one time. Damian was the more obvious contender; except for the minor issue of him being infertile. Liam didn’t know that.

  ‘You need some certainty in your life,’ Declan had said to her. ‘If not for yourself, then for…’ The bean.

  Maybe after the DNA test had confirmed Liam was the father. If they were right for each other, it’d work out. If not—well, she’d sort her life out on her own.

  ‘You’re looking hot.’ Shaun, the keyboard player, kissed Natalie on the cheek and patted her butt.

  ‘You looking for trouble, boy?’

  Shaun pushed back his straw hat and looked at her over blue-framed glasses that Natalie was certain were purely for show. ‘Promises, promises.’

  Cute, but so not her type. He’d grown a hipster beard and looked more Robinson Crusoe than bad boy.

  Vince offered her a Corona, lime in situ. Natalie shook her head. ‘Just been for a run. Can you fish out the Vitamin C wedge and put it in a glass of water?’

  Vince raised an eyebrow. He handed the beer to Gil the bass player as he came past and added a fresh piece of lemon to a sparkling water for Natalie. ‘Going soft on me?’