Dangerous to Know Page 5

  At least he had told Alison. She looked forward to telling Declan this piece of information.

  ‘She dropped me here on her way into Melbourne to see her mother,’ said Frank. ‘She’ll pick me up at Wye River on her way home. If we’re still on?’

  Natalie rarely took passengers; Liam had been her last. She tried not to think about this as she handed her spare helmet to Frank.

  He was a lousy pillion. No instinct. There was a sense on every corner she was going to lose him. She slowed down; better to arrive late than to deliver him back to Alison with chunks missing.

  When they arrived at the pub he was blowing on his hands, his face several shades paler than normal. Scarfed and gloved, Natalie felt guilty she hadn’t told him to rug up. The little-boy-lost routine made her feel more motherly than anything else. Maybe she’d run that past Declan too. Or maybe it was better buried, along with the question of why she was continually comparing him to Liam.

  Natalie found a table by the window while Frank bought drinks. It was dark outside but the night was clear enough for her to see the water in the bay, stretching out towards Separation Creek like a shimmering blanket.

  ‘Corona for you.’ Frank placed the beer down in front of her, then a bottle of red wine with two glasses next to it.

  ‘You planning a long night?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘I’ll stay for dinner and Alison might have a half glass. You can always have some and come back for your bike tomorrow.’

  Natalie planned to stick to the one beer, then go home to meditate and learn how to cook curry. Could you call it cooking if the can said just add chicken?

  She watched Frank sink the first glass. Waited. There was plenty of time to elicit the information he’d been keeping to himself.

  ‘I thought about what you said last week.’

  Natalie nodded encouragement.

  ‘And you were right.’

  So far, he was just trying to please; she wasn’t going to give him anything to show she was pleased. Not yet.

  ‘I mean how can you be angry at someone who’s dead, right?’

  ‘So why are you, Frank?’ Anger, they both knew, was a normal part of the grieving process. Sometimes projected at the doctors or paramedics who had been unable to save a loved one, occasionally for good reason. But ultimately the anger was at having been left. So the pain and anger were all the worse if the loss happened in the middle of an unresolved argument or if there was a suggestion that it could have been avoided by something either of them could have done. In Frank and Reeva’s case all these seemed possibilities.

  ‘It just shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Frank? You’ve done enough medicine to know the world isn’t like that.’

  ‘But…’ He looked miserable. He sighed, swilled some red wine in his glass, sculled it and refilled. ‘She was fit and healthy, there was no reason for her to die. Okay, she was an elderly primigravida, but everything had been going fine.’ ‘No complications at all?’

  ‘Not unless you count the diabetes. She enjoyed being pregnant. It was only in those last few weeks…’

  When he didn’t continue Natalie prompted him, asking what had happened near the end of Reeva’s third trimester.

  ‘She wasn’t sleeping well. Irritable. But that was to be expected.’

  ‘What did they say was the cause of death?’ She asked offhandedly but was watching for his response. He winced.

  ‘Hypoglycaemia most likely, though post-mortem blood levels are…unreliable. She developed gestational diabetes but it had been fine. She was a physician for Christ sake, she knew what she was doing.’ There was anger in his voice now; she was getting closer.

  ‘They think she mixed up the units?’

  ‘She must have, but for the life of me…’ He shook his head. ‘This is a woman who could account for every milligram of her lab materials. Balanced books for her grants that would put an accountant to shame.’

  ‘You said she wasn’t sleeping,’ said Natalie. ‘Could that have affected her judgment?’

  ‘I suppose. The temazepam.’

  An explanation, but barely credible. He wanted more: the sedation theory wasn’t enough to assuage his guilt. And Natalie still felt she didn’t know enough. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

  ‘Why weren’t you sleeping together that night? As in sharing a bed, I mean.’

  There was the tiniest tightening of his lips, his eyes refused to meet hers. ‘As I said, she wasn’t sleeping. She didn’t like keeping me awake so she insisted on using the spare bedroom.’

  It sounded reasonable. But Natalie knew he was lying. Why? And about what?

  10

  ‘Alison has been having sleeping problems for some time too,’ I said to Natalie. We hadn’t been having sex for months either, but I was hardly going to tell Natalie that. Not yet, anyway.

  Alison was a mistake. I’m not often guilty of such misjudgments but as she approached the end of the pregnancy I knew it wasn’t going to work. Everyone turns a blind eye at times to the obvious and if I had I been pushed on the point, I could have articulated my knowledge of our innate incompatibility. It wasn’t buried so deep that it was driving me subconsciously in directions that I wouldn’t choose to take.

  I knew I was miserable. Knew that Alison, while prettier in a girlish way than Reeva, was no match for either of us intellectually; and that no matter how and when I looked into that mirror with her at my side, the picture was never going to be perfect. But I also knew I was, for the time at least, stuck. My family has never been conventional but I was not going to leave a pregnant wife.

  There was also the small matter of our child, another boy. Would he look like me? More crucially, would he have my mind? Would he have the kind of potential I would want to shape? I needed to extinguish the ghosts in my own past so I could find a way to be the sort of father I wanted to be. I had some hope, on the better days. When she wasn’t haranguing me about moving to Melbourne (or any city for that matter! You have a US grant. Why can’t we live in New York or Boston?).

  I understood it was hard for her living with my family, separated from her own; she was less understanding of the pressures I was under, but I was prepared to overlook that, in the short term at least. I didn’t love her as I loved Reeva; would never love her in that way. But I felt guilty about my first wife and I was unable to make it up to her. Alison became a substitute.

  ‘Don’t lose patience with me,’ she said, faking a smile. ‘All pregnant women get hormonal.’

  I didn’t bother replying.

  ‘Even Reeva I bet.’ Her voice had risen an octave.

  ‘You don’t need to make a scene, Alison.’

  She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. I sighed, and hugged her.

  ‘I’ll be a good wife, honestly,’ she said. I hoped she wasn’t dripping mascara on my shirt. ‘And a wonderful mother!’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  Alison looked up at me, uncertainty in her eyes, unable to tell if I was serious. Mostly I was bored with the conversation. ‘Maybe you should stay with your parents for a while.’

  She looked stricken. ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll look after you, make you feel…I’m at work a lot, and I know it’s hard for you here.’

  ‘It’s my home, now.’

  I didn’t think our marriage would last. But I did not want to be heartless; I thought perhaps once the child was born there would be a solution we could come to. I had been considering options.

  I was dreaming a lot more, and possibly because of Alison’s disturbed sleep patterns, I was waking and recalling the nocturnal imaginings. I had lots of dreams when I was young. The artistry of my genes played out in the rich colourful imagination of my nights.

  According to my mother, as a child I would sometimes wet myself with my nocturnal terror. I rarely remembered the dreams and nightmares in the morning, just the fear. It is still there, hovering at the edges of my subconscious; but I h
ave no intention of exploring what it is in my past that my wives and their pregnancies have stirred up.

  Instead I said to Natalie, ‘Pregnant women don’t sleep well.’

  She has an empathetic smile. I am sure she uses it with her patients to good effect. But it was the warmth of her skin as my hand covered hers that gave me more comfort.

  11

  When Alison arrived at the pub, Natalie was still toying with a half-drunk Corona, no closer to solving the mystery of what Frank was feeling guilty about. He retracted the hand that had patted hers and then lingered, and beckoned to his wife to join them. Natalie looked up. Fuck: Alison’s expression made it clear that Frank hadn’t told her who was giving him the lift. Or why, presumably. Alison had seen the guilty withdrawal of the hand. What the fuck was he playing at? Bolstering his fragile ego? Afraid of being usurped in Alison’s affections by the baby, and showing his wife he had alternatives? If murder had been legal Natalie would have considered it.

  ‘Natalie…’Alison started to speak, then stopped herself, re-grouped and tried to pretend that she had known all along Natalie would be there.

  ‘Hello, Alison.’ Natalie waved her beer. ‘I’m just finishing. I’ll leave you two to your dinner.’

  Alison looked hard at Frank, before turning to Natalie. ‘You live near here?’

  Natalie nodded. ‘Just up the road.’ She watched Alison carefully. She looked tired and pale. Probably a five-hour round trip to Melbourne this late in pregnancy wasn’t a good idea.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Frank asked, and disappeared to get water.

  ‘You always meet here?’ Alison said pointedly. Here, close to your house, was what she meant. And do the two of you ever go back to your house was the question they might get to. Alison was not one of those women who was prepared to turn a blind eye.

  ‘Just a couple of times,’ said Natalie. She looked for Frank who seemed to have vanished. ‘He’s anxious about you. Just needs to talk about it.’

  ‘And he chose you?’

  You, for Alison, held memories of a scantily dressed boyfriend-stealer.

  ‘I’m the only psychiatrist working for him. I understand…’ She was about to say grief. Stopped herself. ‘New parents.’

  ‘You have children?’ If Alison was having difficulties picturing it she could get in line. Natalie didn’t add that generally the new parents she saw had murdered or abused their children before she ever met them.

  ‘I think we’re capable of dealing with parenthood together,’ Alison went on. Without your help implied.

  Natalie stood, leaving her beer unfinished. ‘I know you will. Frank will be fine. He’s just anxious because of Reeva.’

  As she left, she thought she heard Alison mutter bloody Dr Perfect and thought of the millions of ways she so was not. It was only later she realised Alison was not referring to her.

  Friday night Damian was drinking a Crown Lager at a corner table in the Lorne pub, watching her. When she turned to him he raised his beer in salute but remained seated.

  Damian was looking good; good enough to remind her how long it had been since she’d let her libido loose. Her meds clearly hadn’t taken her desire away entirely. She still hadn’t dropped her antidepressants, as suggested by Declan, who was worried they would send her into a high. She’d been more worried about the despair that lingered at the edge of her thoughts. But tonight she felt a lifting of spirits. She watched Damian for a moment, wondering if she’d make him come to her. She didn’t want to rush it, realising she felt nervous. It was not a feeling she was familiar with in this context. She was used to having men like Damian for breakfast. Was this the depression, the ECT after-effects or…Frank?

  Natalie turned away, her grip tight on the beer bottle. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, willing her nervousness to dissipate. Pictured herself on stage singing. She’d been preparing herself for it all week: she wanted that part of herself back. It was the same part that would help her manage whatever happened with Damian.

  His legs stretched out under the table in faded blue jeans. On top he wore an open-neck shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. Brown hair, short enough for the forces, but well barbered with a little extra on top. A solid one-eighty-five centimetres, muscle and only a hint of good living. When he smiled under her scrutiny she weakened. He watched her all the way as she sauntered over. It had taken her two hours to dress; something that normally would have been a routine fifteen minutes. She had never quite got used to herself in a blonde wig, but the tight black partly sheer top showing her navel ring and the short black leather skirt that barely covered her butt embodied the wild part of herself. The rock chick that Natalie wanted to embrace. A silver band on her arm covered the tattoo that had been a result of a previous hypomanic episode. But it was the over-the-knee fuck-me boots that Damian seemed to be currently enjoying.

  ‘So it’s DSS McBride now, I believe?’

  ‘Off duty for the weekend.’

  She sat down beside him, aware how much a stranger he was. ‘Are you missing the wonderful windy Welbury?’

  ‘Now living in the bustling burrow of Brunswick,’ he replied after a pause.

  ‘Enjoying homicide?’

  ‘Enjoying isn’t the first word that comes to mind.’ He smiled. ‘But it’s what I always wanted to do.’

  ‘Too much TV as a kid?’

  ‘No, too much DV.’

  Natalie took a sip of her beer. ‘Father?’

  ‘Yeah. My mother baited him. He was fine with my stepmother.’

  ‘Very un-PC.’

  Damian shrugged. ‘He shouldn’t have hit her. Just seemed like half the time she wanted him to. Confusing for a kid. Guess I had to go into the police to save women. Or end up a psychologist like you, trying to understand them.’

  ‘Psychiatrist.’ Natalie took another sip. ‘How did you know about O’Shea and me? Or did you just guess?’

  ‘I’m a cop, remember.’ Natalie raised an eyebrow and he added: ‘I know the guest house owner in Welbury.’

  Natalie looked away. Liam and she had clocked up quite a damage bill there. ‘Shit.’

  He looked intently at her. Her voice had betrayed her. ‘It didn’t end well,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Still recovering?’

  Was she? Maybe. ‘How about you? How long?’

  Damian involuntarily rubbed his empty ring finger. ‘Five years married, a year apart. Divorce just came through.’

  She looked at his mouth, wondered what he’d taste like. Definitely in need of recovery sex. Both of them. Perfect.

  It took her a couple of songs to warm up. Shaun, the keyboard player, was kind to her, picked the easy ones, letting her get a feel for the stage again. By the first break she was starting to feel alive again, in a way she hadn’t in months. Damian brought her a beer backstage, told her the audience, though small, were loving her. It felt good to be attractive, however guarded they both were. He let an arm slip loosely over her shoulder at one point and there was a rush of warmth in the feeling. Part of it was a remedy for loneliness, she knew. Being independent didn’t mean she didn’t want a partner. She just couldn’t picture anyone in the role who wouldn’t stifle her.

  She let loose in the last bracket, the loud raunchy songs she did so well. But with the applause she became acutely aware of being watched. Not just by Damian at the back, trying not to look like a cop and failing badly. It was the gaze of the men on the front table that had her wondering. What was Frank doing there, and who was the dark intense young man in the shadows sitting next to him?

  Damian picked her reaction. He asked about it later but she kept it vague. Something stopped her identifying Frank, whose first wife’s autopsy and coroner’s report Damian had provided. The questions he would inevitably ask were unanswerable. She was still wondering why Frank was there and who his companion was. And where was Alison?

  She was most likely reading too much into it. Frank lived locally after all. He could eat
there every Friday night for all she knew. He would be bound to know a lot of the locals. Something about the other man nagged at her, but she hadn’t got a good enough look. Just an impression.

  It was conceivable that Frank hadn’t recognised her, but her instinct said otherwise. Would he mention it if she didn’t? She thought of him sitting behind her on the bike, of the hug. If he was checking her out, as a woman rather than a colleague, that would require some thought.

  Maybe it was her preoccupation that made Damian hesitate. Earlier she might have grabbed him, put a bit of tongue into her kiss and left no doubt of her intentions. Now she let him peck her chastely on the cheek and say he’d catch her soon. She watched him leave without looking back. It left her feeling restless, aware of the despair hovering at the edge of her thoughts. Maybe he was the type of guy who didn’t have sex on first dates. If a date was what it had been.

  12

  Natalie’s stage persona was quite a surprise. Perhaps not to Alison, but as my wife was no longer interested in evenings out I was spared her reaction. I had already heard at length about Natalie’s role in the hospital revue; Alison seemed to think it cast Natalie in a bad light.

  Alison does not understand men.

  I am not usually attracted to women who are so overtly sexual. If this had this been our first meeting, I might have categorised the singer as someone to fuck, should the opportunity arise, and move on from. But I knew Natalie had interesting depths, so I continued to put her in a category all of her own: to be determined.

  It was annoying to run into Jasper. Predictable, perhaps. Being unemployed he seems to have nothing better to do with his time than hang around in pubs. He has it in his head that he can use his very tenuous links to me whenever it suits. I will keep my thoughts about that to myself for the moment.

  But his head has been filled with nonsense by his mother and, while I was willing to buy him a drink, I decided to leave without speaking to Natalie. Better that Jasper didn’t know the link to her. Better that he stayed away from me and my family.