This I Would Kill For Read online

  ‘Getting older,’ Natalie said.

  The weather was mild for September so the beer garden was open and there was a good turnout of students. By the time the Styx had warmed them up with some covers, the beer was flowing, the crowd raucous and Natalie and the band were enjoying themselves.

  She’d just finished Pink’s ‘Fucking Perfect’ when she caught sight of Damian McBride at the back, sitting by himself watching her. Last time she’d spoken to him it had been purely professional. A case they’d both been involved in. She wondered at the coincidence of the song—she had chosen to sing it for Damian once before. Then told herself to get a grip. She’d sung it lots of times.

  When the band took a break, she weaved through the crowd to find him. His dark brown hair was a little longer, probably because he hadn’t had time for the barber rather than a deliberate move to look less like a cop. Solid, square jaw, and the sort of good looks you take home to meet Mum. Beneath the veneer was a dogged determination and a surprising ability to read people.

  He nodded. Noted her drink choice.

  ‘You look good, Damian.’

  ‘So do you.’

  Natalie smiled, wiped the sweat off her brow. ‘Feeling pretty good too. How’s work?’

  ‘Busy enough.’ Damian hesitated, looked at his beer.

  ‘I’m still having it—the baby—if that’s what you’re here to find out. It’s too early for a test.’

  Damian nodded again. ‘You with O’Shea?’ His tone left no doubt about his opinion of Liam.

  ‘No.’

  Damian cleared his throat. ‘We were good together, you know.’

  Natalie took a breath. They had been good for each other as recovery sex. But as partners? He would be a steadying influence and that might be what she needed, but it wasn’t necessarily what she wanted.

  And for him? He didn’t know her well enough to decide if she was what he wanted. He was hardly likely to trust her now, anyway.

  ‘If it turns out to be yours, you mean?’

  ‘You know the odds I was given.’

  ‘One in a million? Doctors can be wrong.’

  ‘I’d be there.’

  ‘What does “there” mean exactly?’

  Damian shrugged. ‘Half the care, I guess, at least out of work hours. I’d get paternity leave. Support you through the pregnancy. Help with the finances, whatever we decide is fair.’

  Natalie glared at him. Support. Meaning he’d done his homework. Knew that, unmedicated, Natalie was likely to relapse and be needy. ‘And we’d be what to each other?’

  He was still looking at her. Natalie had managed to keep her voice neutral. If someone had designed a special purgatory with her in mind, she’d just found herself there. Vulnerable not to just one man, but two. Declan would have a year’s worth of interpretations out of this. What deep-seated insecurity and self-hatred had led her to this point?

  Damian seemed to be considering his answer.

  ‘Forget it Damian, it’s not yours.’

  Damian shrugged. ‘Up to you and O’Shea what you do then, I guess.’

  Nice and clear. The kind of guy he was. The suburban-house-and-car sort of guy that made a good cop and would look after his own mistake but not someone else’s. ‘Thanks Damian. I’ll let you know when the daddy lineage is confirmed.’

  ‘You’re okay?’

  Natalie felt that moment of vulnerability again; hated him for it. Hated him for caring. ‘I can look after myself, okay? I don’t need a nursemaid.’

  Damian looked her up and down and smiled. ‘No, don’t suppose you do.’ He stood up. ‘Take care, Nat.’ He kissed her on the cheek and walked away, taking her suburban family fantasy with him.

  5

  It was late when Natalie got back to her Collingwood warehouse apartment, along the lane with its bluestone gutters and graffiti-decorated roller doors. The globe in her garage needed replacing and she tripped over a cardboard carton just inside the door.

  ‘Shit.’

  She used her phone torch to navigate through the mess of boxes she had forgotten were there.

  Bob, her cockatoo, screeched loudly from his perch on top of one. In the torchlight she could make out the handwritten English labels that had been pasted over the printed Chinese: Lego, yoyos, Bratz dolls…what the hell were Bratz dolls?

  Blake’s latest business venture. Only need somewhere to store them for a week or two, Nat. Four weeks ago. Natalie would have bet money that nothing was what the label said it was.

  ‘Would this be a good time to be seeing you?’

  The adrenaline shot through her. It might have been her PTSD—she’d been attacked twice. But who was she kidding? This was Liam’s voice, complete with the ramped-up accent. The brogue that never failed to reduce her to a quivering mess. She wondered if he’d been at the bar. And bided his time, waiting to see if Damian had come home with her.

  ‘Good a time as any,’ she said.

  Liam stepped into the doorway and turned on his own phone torch.

  ‘What the…?’

  His light had caught Barbie Dolls on the side of one of Blake’s boxes.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ she said. ‘They’re my brother’s.’

  ‘Let him go!’ Bob announced, landing on her shoulder as he eyed Liam. The bird didn’t like the prosecutor, and had saved his one non-Dylan misquote for him. She took the bird upstairs to his stand in the living space and fed him as Liam watched. When she had run out of things to distract herself, she took a deep breath and turned to him. She wanted to say a million things—you don’t have to have anything to do with me or this kid…I’m sorry, I just can’t have a termination for a whole lot of fucked-up selfish reasons but I really, really don’t want to fuck your life up as well—but nothing came out.

  ‘So, you’re set on having this baby?’ Liam had found a spot to sit among her paperwork. His voice was serious now, and the accent back to regular strength.

  ‘Yes. But I can do it on my own.’ With maybe her mother, a paid nanny, whatever was needed. How hard could it be? She was smart and she had more financial options than most of her patients. She sat across the table from him.

  ‘And you think it’s mine. Why?’ His smile held little warmth.

  Good to know where she stood. He didn’t trust her—she had, after all, withheld information and bluffed that she’d tell his wife about their affair. Lauren had discovered his infidelity anyway and thrown Liam out, so that had been an empty threat in the end. But the fact remained that she had played dirty. She felt at the time that she had had a good reason—to protect her patient—and would do it again if she had to. But Liam had the moral high ground.

  ‘You’ve got proven fertility: two kids. Damian…he and his ex-wife had tried to have a baby. He’d been tested. Results suggested I didn’t need protection.’

  ‘So, who else is in the running?’ Liam’s voice was steely. Natalie curbed her natural retort; he had the right to know.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘We had sex once, Natalie.’

  ‘Last time I did biology classes that was all it took.’

  ‘It’s impossible that it could be McBride’s?’

  Liam sounded as enthusiastic about Damian’s involvement as Damian had been about Liam’s. Natalie supposed she should be happy that duelling had gone out of fashion. She was too familiar with the consequences that messes like this could generate. But these two men were well educated, rational, no history of violence. Hopefully that counted for something.

  ‘No, just millions of healthy sperm versus the occasional one. Tilts the probability heavily in your direction.’

  ‘I’ll want a DNA test.’

  Natalie shrugged. ‘Sure. Then we’ll all know one way or another.’

  ‘And you want what from me?’

  ‘Not a thing. Just whatever they need for the DNA match.’ Natalie’s patience was exhausted. ‘Look, it’s my decision. I get that it’s unfair, but shit happens—and you weren’t wearing a c
ondom.’

  Liam leaned forward, and appeared to choose his words carefully. As the Public Prosecutor, words were his tool of trade.

  ‘If the DNA says the child is mine, I won’t walk away.’

  His fathering would probably entail a monthly cheque.

  ‘If you need support now or later,’ he continued, ‘then I am happy to be there for that.’

  She’d deck the next person that said they wanted to support her. ‘I can organise my own support.’

  Liam paused. ‘If it’s over between you and McBride,’ he added, ‘and you’re interested in…’ He shrugged. Words for casual sex with a pregnant woman appeared to be failing even him.

  ‘I’ll add you to the list of who to call if I’m horny.’

  Liam stood up. ‘I’ll be leaving you to it then.’

  She stood too, careful to keep her face impassive, refusing to acknowledge her pain to herself, let alone to him. Then he surprised her. There was a flash of vulnerability, a warm smile, and as he left he kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘What I was trying to say…’

  He stopped; shook his head. ‘Stay in touch, okay?’

  6

  The Children’s Court was tucked away just off William Street, where the other courts were located. When Natalie arrived, there was a line of people snaking up the hill: barristers and solicitors with briefcases, police officers, witnesses—experts and lay—all mixed up with the punters: women with prams and screaming children, tattooed men snatching a final smoke before going in.

  ‘Renewal day for intervention orders,’ explained the security officer as she dropped Natalie’s backpack in the tray.

  No sign of media; the court dealt with criminal cases against minors relatively infrequently and supressed names when they did. Also, unlike the Family Court, the Children’s Court adjudicated over cases of families against the State, represented by Protective Services, and not primarily parents against each other. This case was going to be complicated—parents against each other and the State.

  Li Yang, Jenna’s lawyer, was waiting. Natalie could have picked her without the introduction: stick thin, short hair, knee-length charcoal skirt with matching jacket. Killer heels. She was evaluating Natalie in return, and her impression was apparent: You’ll do, but you’d have been better without the blue streaks in your hair and the row of metal in your ear.

  ‘We’ll be getting started again soon,’ she said looking at her watch. ‘Doubt the Protective Services lawyer will give you much trouble. Bit of a soft cock, and he’s basically on our side anyway.’ Our side meant Jenna’s. If Natalie was on any side it would have been the children’s—but she was impartial. At least trying to be.

  Li Yang continued, ‘Don’t know Pam Warren, Malik’s lawyer.’ Not knowing her didn’t stop Li offering her evaluation: ‘Part-time Pam from the ’burbs. And we’ve scored Louise Perkins, who takes zero shit. Don’t give her any absolutes. Say “I believe” and she’ll believe you.’

  Perkins? Maybe the magistrate was related to Tania, Liam’s assistant prosecutor. Melbourne had its share of legal dynasties.

  ‘Paediatrician gave his findings this morning,’ Li added. ‘No signs of abuse.’

  Natalie was distracted by a black woman of about thirty, stunning in a bright yellow dress with hair clipped close to her skull. She was standing at the courtroom door glaring at a smartly suited man in his thirties who was on the phone. She looked vaguely familiar.

  Li leaned in. ‘Katlego Okeke. This could be interesting.’

  Now Natalie recognised her—left-wing journalist. Wrote a column called Not OK for one of the dailies. What was she doing at the Children’s Court?

  ‘She’s checking out Soft Cock,’ said Li. ‘The Protective Services lawyer. The guy on the phone.’

  Li Yang disappeared before Natalie could ask for details about the abuse claims.

  Natalie watched as the Protective Services lawyer caught sight of Okeke. He put his phone into his pocket. Early thirties, blue pinstriped suit, a little overweight. He mopped his brow and walked over to a middle-aged woman—a social worker Natalie had worked with before. Wanda? Wilma? No, Winona.

  Winona spotted Natalie and introduced the lawyer—Harvey Alcock. Natalie barely suppressed a snort. ‘We’re here representing Chelsea and Chris,’ she added.

  ‘Do you think the child’s been abused?’ Alcock asked.

  ‘I’ve only seen the mother. She didn’t mention abuse. But…’

  Winona crossed her arms. ‘The guy’s a sleaze.’

  Alcock looked at Okeke who was moving into the courtroom. ‘He won’t get the kids.’

  Winona leaned towards Natalie. ‘He wants access to a child—a little girl—that isn’t even his. What does that say to you?’

  ‘I haven’t met Malik,’ said Natalie. Natalie knew better than to assume that the decision would be so straightforward—but a whiff of child abuse would have everyone playing it safe. In that sense, Mark La Brooy’s line on hard-done-by dads was right.

  The overhead speaker called them in.

  The courtroom was small—and crowded. Natalie’s eyes went to a man in an open-necked white shirt and loose trousers who had to be Malik. Olive skinned and black eyed, stubble on his chin, he looked like a movie star. He’d have been perfect in a white robe staring across windswept sand dunes…Natalie winced mentally as she caught herself. Could she blame her hormones for her mind going to mush?

  Malik was sitting behind a generously proportioned woman in her fifties, in a skirt that was a fraction too tight, with bare legs and flat shoes. Pam Warren, his lawyer. Seated beside Malik was a well-dressed woman wearing a ton of jewellery with dark glossy hair under a loose head scarf. An older sister? If she was his mother, she was carrying her age well.

  Natalie sat close to the door, next to Winona. Further down, Okeke was taking notes.

  Jenna smiled tentatively at Natalie from the front row where she sat with a couple in their late fifties or early sixties—they had to be her parents. The father, Stephen Radford, was a big man who sat very upright. Hair a little long, thinning on top and greying at the temples; in comparison his wife seemed tiny, her long brown hair tied in a knot and her face strained.

  ‘All rise,’ called the bailiff, as the magistrate entered from behind the desk that sat above the rest of the room. Don’t sit in a chair higher than your patients: it makes a power statement. In the court, it served exactly that purpose. Louise Perkins would not have been much taller than 150 centimetres. Silver through her brunette bob, probably mid-fifties. But she didn’t need any help to look authoritative.

  Natalie was called to the stand and sworn in. She stated her qualifications: medical degree and fellowship of the College of Psychiatrists. Twelve years of study. Plus nearly four years’ experience as a consultant.

  ‘You saw my client last week?’ Li Yang began.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Natalie, adding the date.

  ‘And you don’t believe she has a current psychiatric disorder.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘What impressions did you have of her as a mother?’

  ‘She clearly cares for her children. I think they are challenging at times, and she has difficulties putting up boundaries with Chris; but there are often behaviour problems after a breakup.’

  ‘Or if they are being abused.’

  ‘Objection, your Honour.’ Part-time Pam, Malik’s lawyer, was on her feet. ‘There is no evidence of abuse and the witness hasn’t seen the children.’

  Li smiled. ‘I won’t pursue it.’ She had made her point better than if Natalie had answered. Difficult behaviour was not uncommon when parents separated, but the specifics tended to be different if abuse was occurring. Natalie wasn’t going to get a chance to explain that.

  ‘If my client’s daughter was being abused, what would be the risk to Christopher, her younger brother?’

  ‘It would depend on who was doing the abuse,’ said Natalie evenly. ‘If it was someone w
ho had access to both of them, there would be a risk of him also being abused, even though he’s male—and in any case, there would be the problem of his exposure to what was happening to his sister and the culture that allowed it.’

  Okeke started writing furiously. Was it the word ‘culture’? Natalie had used the word in a general sense, to embrace whatever setting the abuse had taken place in—family, church, school camp.

  ‘No further questions. Thank you, Doctor King.’

  Part-time Pam knocked a folder as she stood up and spent a minute collecting the papers. Her clumsiness had done nothing to calm her client; Malik’s edginess was palpable.

  ‘Ahh…Did my client’s wife say he hurt her in any way?’ asked Pam.

  ‘Physically, no.’

  ‘Okay.’ Pam sorted through her notes. Li rolled her eyes. Pam eventually found what she was looking for. ‘Did she say anything that suggested Christopher or Chelsea was at risk from him?’

  Natalie paused. ‘No.’

  Pam was fiddling with her notes again. Maybe they had fallen out of order when she dropped them. The delay gave everyone time to take in Natalie’s answer.

  ‘So somewhere in the few days between seeing you and making the report to police something must have happened, is that right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Pam squinted at the paper she was looking at, then rustled around for some reading glasses. ‘If I told you that my client did not see the children in that time period—what would you say to that?’

  ‘Sexual abuse is often not detected or reported immediately,’ said Natalie. She was on firm ground now. ‘Of all the types of abuse, it is the one that most often doesn’t come to light until the victim is an adult. The victim may be threatened; they often know, or rather sense, the taboo surrounding the abuse. They blame themselves, collude to keep the secret. It’s further complicated by the victim—and remember we are talking about children—being confused, often wanting to keep the love of the abuser. So it’s possible that Jenna—Ms Radford—suspected something was going on but didn’t tell me because she had no proof. There may not be physical signs—sexual abuse can take many forms.’