Dangerous to Know Page 4

  The coroner had left the verdict open because there was inadequate information to decide whether it was accident, suicide or a post-mortem artefact.

  But Reeva had been a brilliant physician. Surely an accidental overdose was out of the question?

  ‘It’s hard to describe how I felt.’ Frank was halfway through a glass of red wine before he even tried. Natalie waited. At her insistence, they were at the Wye River pub so she could walk home. It would be a twenty-five-minute drive home for Frank, but that was shorter than his commute to Geelong. She’d also insisted he tell Alison they were meeting. She wasn’t sure he had.

  ‘I just knew. It was like her life force simply wasn’t there, and it made no sense to me. None whatsoever.’

  ‘You were in shock.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I was. But I also…’ He shook his head.

  ‘Also what?’ She saw a flicker pass over his features before the well-worked smile returned.

  ‘I think I stayed in shock for at least a week, until after the funeral anyway. Longer really, because it wasn’t as if the house was empty and there was any need for me to do anything. My mother and sister live there, we have staff…’ He looked briefly apologetic about his lifestyle, misreading what had caught her interest. It was what he hadn’t said, what he was carefully covering up, that made her pleased she was on low-alcohol beer. This might not officially be psychotherapy, but if she was going to help him resolve his issues—and thereby help Alison live happily ever after—then she needed to be aware of his defences.

  She couldn’t afford to be pulled in too deeply. Which might not be as easy as she had thought. He was a compelling mixture of needy little boy and arrogant game player. She often enjoyed the latter—Liam had been a stimulating adversary. But the neediness disarmed her. Patients were often needy, of course, but she knew when to back off, when to put up the boundaries. How did it work with a supervisor who, theoretically, was the one holding the power?

  ‘It was back at work where I missed her most,’ he continued. ‘My team was wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but…’

  ‘Reeva was exceptional.’ Natalie caught herself. Luckily Frank hadn’t noticed her tone. Where did poor Alison fit, Natalie wondered? Second best? Rebound? For the first time she thought how much Frank really did need to see someone. Perhaps she could convince Alison to get him to go to a therapist, alone or together. Maybe he subconsciously thought the after-work drinks could go on indefinitely. Her discomfort increased. The bored part of her looked forward to these meetings; they made her feel useful. And if she was honest with herself, it was flattering that a professor had chosen her to confide in. Part of her knew he thought she was as clever as Reeva…and smarter than Alison.

  She needed to talk to Declan, though he would only tell her that Frank needed a therapist. Just until Alison has the baby. She could hold him together that long, surely?

  ‘She could light up a room just by walking into it. Everyone always knew she was there.’ Frank’s fingers were white from his grip on the glass. ‘I had to pack her photos away. Alison thought I was being morbid.’

  ‘Did your family like her? I can’t imagine it was easy for her living with her in-laws.’

  ‘Everyone liked Reeva. She was…’

  ‘Exceptional, yes.’ Natalie took a breath and went for the jugular. ‘So that must make it almost impossible to express how angry at her you are.’

  Frank’s expression didn’t change but his stillness gave him away. Stillness and a very slight twitch in the corner of his eye. ‘You aren’t trying to analyse me are you Dr King?’ He smiled, but was there warning there too. Natalie felt nervous suddenly. What the hell was she doing?

  ‘I’m not suggesting it’s logical.’ Natalie looked at Frank. ‘But unexpected deaths are hard to deal with in patients. It must be worse…if it’s your wife. And you weren’t able to help.’

  ‘It’s been some time.’

  Meaning don’t go there. Because…he could deal with it…or because his rage was dangerous? Natalie wished her head felt clearer. She hated that she wasn’t as crisp, able to pinpoint what was going on as she normally could. Would she ever get back to normal? She didn’t dare think about changing her meds. Too soon.

  If Frank hadn’t dealt with his grief, Alison was under enormous pressure. Perhaps she felt she had to make up for all that he’d lost with Reeva: maybe she felt the anger Natalie was certain was there under Frank’s surface charm. Did she think it was directed to her? And what if Frank’s anger was about more than just the loss of Reeva?

  8

  When Reeva died I was furious. Natalie got that right; but then she’s quite an astute psychiatrist. I wouldn’t have selected her otherwise. I wonder if she will guess the rest of it; there is something terrier-like about her. If she sees herself as a rival to Reeva she isn’t likely to roll over and let a ghost win. Unlike Alison.

  Reeva shouldn’t have died, and she really shouldn’t have killed my son in doing so. I was surprised at the extent of my reaction. I had apparently made a connection to this unborn being, this foetus with half my genes. I had felt him move, watched him on the ultrasound, made out facial features; we had joked, before those last weeks when things changed, that he was going to take after her grandfather. Neither of us had met him, but in photos he looked like Yoda from Star Wars. I didn’t mind; with Reeva’s genes and mine, my son would have had a formidable mind. I resented that loss of potential and possibility. I don’t like waste. And when I saw him cold and pale in the forensic morgue, he didn’t look like Yoda. He looked just like me.

  I stood there looking at him until one of the attendants told me they were closing. I felt a flash of intense rage. The attendant went scurrying away and I saw security staff milling as I exited.

  I was told my father was prone to rages and that as a child, I too could be rendered frozen with fury. Once I refused to speak or move until my mother returned the toy she had confiscated. She tried waiting me out. For two hours I didn’t move. When she returned the toy I thanked her, politely, and we have never mentioned the incident since. I had just turned four. She never took a toy from me again.

  I doubt if any of my colleagues see that in me now. The benefits of reflection, of understanding what makes us who we are. It ensures our feelings are more manageable. I was a good student of the intricacies of human emotions long before any formal study; I had to be. From the time Wendell died when I was ten, I was the man in the family. Or I was at least until Antonije arrived in England to bring his daughter and grandchildren back to Australia.

  In fact I haven’t lost my temper once since I was ten. Natalie’s suggestion of current anger was as much an educated guess as anything she detected in my demeanour. My early years taught me to be British: stiff upper lip. From Vesna, my mother, I learned not to trust. But after that there were other lessons, lessons of privilege and responsibility.

  ‘With money,’ Antonije told me, ‘comes power.’

  He might have added responsibility. Those with power need to make decisions. Even if they are difficult ones.

  9

  It was still dark on Monday morning when Natalie set out on the long haul back to Melbourne. Too early for even Bob to bother commenting. By the time she reached the Westgate Bridge the peak-hour traffic was lined up, but the bike cut through it and she parked easily at the legal end of Lonsdale Street.

  Jacqueline Barrett was already in her office, black bob sleek and perfect, coffee brewing in the dripolator. Not the pristine lawyer’s office Natalie would have imagined for her: there were files over the desk and floor and the only print on the wall was her degree. Hanging crooked.

  ‘Milk?’ Barrett said, adding it before Natalie could respond. ‘I hope the coffee hasn’t been on the warmer all night.’ Her killer heels lay beside the desk and she padded across the room in stockinged feet to deliver what looked like a cereal bowl of pond water—‘European breakfast cups,’ she explained—before sitting on the other side of the desk. S
he rummaged among the files there, frowning, looking up when a harassed-looking young woman entered.

  ‘Photocopier wasn’t working. Had to use the one downstairs.’ The girl gave them each a sheaf of paper and scurried out. Natalie recognised her own court report on Georgia Latimer.

  Jacqueline threw her copy down on the desk. ‘This isn’t exactly helpful.’

  Natalie didn’t bother saying helpful wasn’t her brief. Understanding her patient was. She had laboured over every word, reread it before she left her stilt house. Murder charges, three. Georgia’s children Genevieve, Olivia and Jonah.

  ‘Georgia says she’s pleading not guilty,’ said Natalie.

  ‘Correct.’ Jacqueline sounded matter of fact about it, but there was an edge to the upbeat tone. ‘I asked her to consider a guilty plea. I might have persuaded her, if we’d been able to change the charges to infanticide.’

  ‘The judge wouldn’t buy it?’

  ‘Not in light of the vociferous opposition from the Office of the Public Prosecutor.’

  Natalie looked again at her summary. Her view was that if Georgia had indeed killed the children a legal defence of insanity was not viable: Georgia knew the difference between right and wrong.

  But that didn’t mean she had a squeaky clean bill of mental health. She definitely dissociated—Natalie had seen it herself. There were indications of a personality disorder. Then there was the early childhood abuse, which had made her vulnerable to manipulation, specifically by her husband Paul.

  If Barrett was stuck with a not-guilty plea, Natalie thought, her worst nightmare was expert testimony suggesting Georgia was mad enough to kill but sane enough to be convicted. Which was pretty much the thrust of Natalie’s report.

  ‘You know one expert witness is saying she had dissociative identity disorder and if she did do it, is not guilty due to insanity.’

  ‘Wadhwa? Yes.’ Natalie and Associate Professor Wadhwa had disagreed about Georgia’s diagnosis, but that wasn’t the only reason she thought he was an idiot. He also had no idea about the law in this area. ‘My understanding is that’s highly unlikely to be accepted by a jury.’

  Jacqueline looked irritated. ‘I know. We aren’t calling him. The prosecution is.’

  This was news, but it made sense: if Barrett was running the tragic-accident line, Wadhwa’s testimony about Georgia’s problematic mental health would be much more useful to the other side.

  As would Natalie’s.

  ‘I’d rather just not call you either.’ Barrett seemed to echo her thought.

  ‘Then don’t. Fine with me.’

  ‘But the prosecutor seems to know you’ve been seeing her.’ Liam O’Shea. Yes, he did.

  ‘And if I don’t call you, he will.’ Jacqueline crossed her arms. ‘I’d rather have you in my tent. Try and minimise the damage.’

  ‘Could I decline because I’m her treating doctor?’

  ‘No,’ said the lawyer. ‘You might get away with refusing to produce your private files…?’

  Natalie pictured the expression on Liam’s face if she did that. ‘No,’ she said finally.

  ‘All right. Well, what I need to know,’ said the lawyer, ‘is what you’ll say if you’re asked about the husband’s influence. Is O’Shea going to be able to float a scenario where Georgia kills the babies because of something in the relationship with Paul?’

  ‘It will depend on the specific question,’ said Natalie. She’d thought a lot about this. ‘Georgia’s sexual abuse was when she was very young, she has no memory of it. The abuse that left its mark was the lack of emotional nurture. She needed Paul for that: which meant she was likely to be jealous of the children receiving it instead of her.’

  ‘So what? She wouldn’t be the first mother envious of her daughter.’

  ‘Her daughter wasn’t even two. What you’re talking about is a different form of maternal envy: adolescent child, menopausal mother, and the loss of vitality and potency as the new generation takes over. In Georgia’s case the children were seen more as immediate threats—rivals for Paul’s attention.’

  Jacqueline’s face said this wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. ‘Look, we’re all influenced by one thing or another.’ She drummed her fingers impatiently. ‘What about this for an idea? All this is nonsense. She had a bad start in life, I get that. But you and Wadhwa are trying to make that out to be the cause. So she’s narcissistic. So what? We all are, a bit, but we don’t go around killing our kids. How about the poor cow was just plain unlucky?’

  ‘She dissociates.’ Natalie was firm. ‘You can’t get away from that. The question is, to what degree. And whether, as another personality, she could have committed murder. I don’t believe she has other personalities. But a murderer working on Paul’s behalf? Paul definitely influenced her, but she’s still culpable.’

  ‘Our expert has some excellent statistics about how many women there are with abuse histories worse than Georgia’s, and with the sort of personality disorder you describe. And they don’t have a high rate of murdering their children.’

  Natalie nodded. ‘I’m not saying she did,’ she repeated. Thinking statistics could say whatever you wanted them to in a murky area like this.

  ‘He cried?’

  ‘Like a baby.’ Natalie had had a week to work through Frank’s reaction before coming to Declan for advice. But at the time, she hadn’t known quite what to do.

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was therapeutic though. He’d pulled himself together by the time I packed him off home.’ After a long hug. The discomfort she felt then had been mingled with something else. Subdued desire? A small boost to her ego, which had taken a hit since Liam left? Now the memory of Frank’s brief outburst of affection just left her feeling guilty.

  ‘He needs real therapy Natalie. There’s too much opportunity for games with you.’ Declan didn’t miss much. If possible he was paying even closer attention than usual.

  She bristled. ‘You don’t think I can handle him.’

  Declan measured his words carefully. ‘It’s not an issue of what you can handle.’ Pause. ‘Because it isn’t formal therapy, you won’t be able to call him on things, not in the same way.’ Another pause. ‘And it puts you in an awkward position.’

  ‘But it also gives me some power,’ said Natalie. ‘Which might be advantageous, who knows? I might have a job for life.’ In research, not as his counsellor. ‘I made him promise to talk to Alison about it.’ But there was something else. Something in the midst of his tears that had been guilt or anger, something she couldn’t place.

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘I doubt it. Alison needs a hero. Not that she isn’t tough. Just that, well, she is thirty-eight weeks now and she has a real baby to think about. I suspect at this point she’d just tell Frank to man up.’

  ‘I think I’ll just be grateful they aren’t having a girl.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘In a moment of profound gratitude Frank might want to name her after you.’

  Natalie felt her mouth drop open. In all the time she had known Declan this was the first joke he had ever made. But on reflection she thought that maybe he hadn’t meant it as one.

  She looked at the text from Frank, unsure what to make of it. Bring an extra helmet? She hadn’t even known he knew about the bike. Wei must have said something.

  Bob’s new friends were eyeing her in frustration. One cocked his head, raised his crest and let out a shriek. Bob being fed indoors was not making him happy. Bob on the other hand appeared content as he announced, ‘You’re an unknown,’ and his head disappeared into the seed container.

  Was she excessively indignant at Declan’s inferences? Perhaps the lady was protesting too much? She shook her head. Frank didn’t have the attractive edginess of Liam, nor the prosecutor’s passion. He wasn’t her type, and the sea change had yet to alter her that much.

  More critically, she just didn’t get the vibe from him. Which, given her state of sexual frustration, had to surely mean
he either had the wrong pheromone mix for her or he really was happily married, despite being simultaneously grief-stricken, and not looking to stray.

  Or her antenna was faulty; she felt uncomfortable that the latter might be closer to the mark. Her mood hovered around four out of ten, neither depressed nor manic. But her trademark sharpness, the essence of self; she had almost forgotten what that was like.

  She thought again about Declan’s comment, and felt he was trying to get her to see something without telling her. The comment suggested he thought Frank might be idealising her. Which didn’t quite fit with her take—that Frank thought he could manipulate her.

  Frank made no reference to the text when he stuck his head into the researcher’s room and issued a blanket ‘Hello, everything okay?’ She just nodded, leaving Wei to pull an ear plug out, squint and shrug.

  Natalie had already logged on and found a long email from the ethics committee with a series of inane questions about her project that had to be answered before the cut off for submissions at 5 p.m. She was going to be battling to make it. One of the recurring complaints was use of the modified absolute. Really? What even was that?

  Wei had warned her. ‘They like to feel useful. And to impart their ideas.’

  Great. She was back at school with a bunch of power-tripping pedants. She had just finished the last of the changes with five minutes left to run copies over the road to the main section of the hospital when Frank turned up at her door.

  ‘Are you still all right to give me a lift?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up for it?’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind me looking like Danny Zuko.’

  Natalie frowned.

  ‘John Travolta? In Grease? Alison dusted the leather jacket but it looks sadly dated.’