Killing Me Softly, page 33
Leisl lives in the leafy suburbs of Melbourne with her two beautiful boys, lovely hubby, overly spunky dog, Buffy, and likes to spend time with family and friends. She sometimes sings in a choir and works as a swim teacher in her day-to-day job.
Killing me Softly is Leisl’s first published book.
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Copyright © Leisl Leighton, 2013
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ISBN: 978-0-85797-484-6
One
Melbourne, Australia
Nineteen years later
Screams rent the air. The red and blue lights crowning the two police cars spiralled and turned in silence. Two officers crouched beside the vehicles, watching the house.
From his position beside the hood of the car, Senior Constable Jordan Hill saw the lace curtains on the front bay window part a fraction then fall back into place. He quickly covered the distance between the two police vehicles and threw himself to the tarmac when glass shattered and something fractured. ‘What the hell was that?’ he said, hauling himself up against the side of the second car.
‘He just threw a speaker out the window,’ Senior Constable Murray Walker answered.
‘Jesus Christ, Murray. You called this in as a domestic disturbance?’
The heavy-set blond cop turned from the house with a thin smile. ‘You don’t think this is disturbing?’
‘I guess the situation escalated.’ Jordan pulled himself to his knees. ‘Spoken to him yet?’
‘No. I got here about five minutes before you did. Although he didn’t start throwing stuff until you arrived. Reckon he likes you. I almost feel left out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
The head of a golf club crashed through the front window. It was withdrawn and swung again. Glass spilled onto the porch, some snagging in the curtains. The club sailed out of the window, over the porch and into a rhododendron bush top-heavy with flowers.
Jordan smiled. ‘We can look forward to about twelve more of those.’ A second club landed on the recently mown grass between the porch and footpath. The driving iron struck the ground at an odd angle, shot skywards, then fell with a hollow ring on the empty driveway. ‘Fore!’
Murray Walker arched a brow. ‘You’re in a good mood.’
Jordan turned from the house and grinned at his best friend. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Did you get some last night?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘None of your business always means no.’ Murray shifted his weight from one knee to the other. It was unseasonably hot for this early in October and his collar was damp with sweat. He looked, Jordan thought, like a married man. He had that neat, ironed air about him and was carrying a bit of weight around his middle, care of three good meals a day and the love of a woman who thought the gym was a waste of time.
‘This idiot’s looking to spoil my day.’
‘He should have called first,’ Murray said. ‘Checked to see if this morning worked for you.’
‘Thursday would have been better.’
Murray snickered.
Jordan became serious again. ‘Hostages?’
‘Kid’s not in the house. Wife’s locked herself in the bathroom, reckons he can’t get in.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘Wife says not, but I’m saying he’s got a kitchen full of knives. And clearly a set of golf clubs.’
‘Back-up?’
‘I called for back-up. You’re it.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Some would say. How do you want to do this?’
‘I’m thinking.’
Despite the men being equal rank within Victoria Police, Murray often followed Jordan’s lead. It was a situation Jordan was comfortable with, and given the choice, one he preferred. At twenty-seven years of age he was one of the youngest senior constables in the Melbourne precinct, having joined the day he’d become eligible.
All was quiet within the house. For the moment nothing was shattering or otherwise, but that only put Jordan on guard. Noisy people rarely concerned him. Quiet people could be anywhere, doing anything.
Jordan thought of the heat again and rubbed at the exposed skin of his neck. The reflection off his vest made him wish for sunglasses and the pretty front yard made him think of something wholly unrelated to the moment. It wasn’t the time or the place, but his news burned within him. So he said it quickly. ‘I got promoted.’
Murray half-turned, taken off-guard. ‘Congratulations. There was never any doubt.’
‘Then why are you so surprised?’
‘Well … ’ Murray narrowed his eyes. ‘Okay, there’s always a little doubt. I didn’t think there were any available positions above our rank. Who’s leaving?’
‘I am.’ Jordan lifted his head a fraction just as a toaster landed on the bonnet of the car. It was followed by a kettle and a dinner plate. The men scrambled further behind the car as the ceramic exploded against a headlight. Plates remained the weapon of choice for a few minutes, each flung like a Frisbee.
‘What’s the guy’s name?’ Jordan retrieved the loudspeaker tucked behind the front seat of Murray’s car and switched it on. A piercing electronic wheeze made him wince.
‘Keith Masters. Wife told him she wants a divorce. And did you say you’re leaving?’
Not leaving, Jordan thought as he chanced getting to his feet, but returning. A Betty Boop clock landed in the gutter to his right. He cleared his throat and spoke into the loudspeaker. ‘Hey, Keith. Mate, how’re you doing in there?’ He saw the curtains part and knew he had the man’s attention. ‘Keith, I’m Senior Constable Hill. I’m one of the guys you just flicked a bunch of void warranties at.’ A drinking glass smashed behind him, lobbed clear over the car. He arched a brow. ‘Okay. So I hear you’ve got yourself some company in there. Your ex-wife?’
‘Wife!’ the man bellowed, clearly hysterical. ‘My wife!’
‘Sorry, Keith, your wife. Is she hurt?’
‘I’m hurt! I’m hurt! No one leaves Keith Masters!’ He threw another glass to emphasise his point.
‘Your wife’s leaving you? Man, tough break.’ Jordan kept the unease out of his voice but it was there, pressing against his stomach.
‘She’s not leaving me. She’ll never leave this house again!’
Jordan took note of an upturned tricycle at the top of the driveway and tried to make his voice sound sympathetic. ‘So you’ll be doing the school run, then?’
There was a long silence, then a tentative question: ‘What?’
Crouched beside him, Murray hissed, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Jordan lowered the speaker and answered quietly. ‘Who cares? If his wife’s got any sense she’ll be making a break for it. By the time he figures out I’m talking crap she’ll be out of the house.’
Movement out of the corner of his eye put him on alert. A harried-looking woman had slipped through the side gate and was creeping down the driveway. She waved at the two police officers, her face aflame with embarrassment. ‘Bingo,’ Jordan murmured.
Keith had seen her too. ‘Laura! You bitch! Get back in here and say you’re sorry!’
She rounded on the house. ‘Yeah, that’s bloody likely, you psycho!’ A plate soared through the window and nearly clipped her. Wild with fury, she picked up the golf club nearest her and hurled it back through the window with a scream.
Jordan and Murray stared, their mouths agape. It took a moment, but they finally regained their composure and darted out from behind the safety of the battered police car. Murray seized Laura’s shoulders, turned her towards the cars and shoved her forward. ‘Stay by the car, all right?’ She stumbled down the driveway as the men approached the front door. Murray narrowly missed getting hit in the face with a wine glass. Out of range on the porch, Jordan tried the handle but found it locked.
‘So where’re you going?’ Murray panted, positioning himself on the opposite side of the door to Jordan. He wiped his brow and reached for the baton secured to his belt.
‘You’re looking at Olinda’s Leading Senior Constable.’
‘Christ, you’re going home?’
‘Beginning of next year.’ Which couldn’t come soon enough. Olinda was in Jordan’s blood. Not just because he’d grown up there, shed blood there, made mistakes and a name for himself – but because he’d loved and lost in that little mountain town. Questions had dogged his footsteps for close to two decades. One traumatic night had changed him, shaped him. And no amount of distraction or distance had quietened the ache for answers. So he was giving up. Giving in. He was going home. Not for a weekend or an extended stay – he was moving back until he’d turned every stone, questioned every source. If all it took was a change in postcode to quieten the incessant theories in his head, then he’d do it.
Closure was overdue.
Jordan and Murray aligned their shoulders and used their combined strength to burst through the door.
Keith, startled by their entry, retreated hastily to the kitchen. Within moments he was pitching cutlery into the hallway. Jordan chanced a look around the corner and got hit in the face with a cookbook. It toppled to the floor, a mess of pages and blood. He cursed savagely and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Murray’s lips twitched.
A wooden mixing bowl clattered to the floor between them.
‘Keith, haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough?’ Murray called out. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’
Keith darted into the adjoining room, throwing tongs, chopsticks and a rolling pin over his shoulder. Murray stumbled on something and knocked a picture frame to the floor. Jordan glanced down at the family portrait: man, woman and child. His frustration made room for a moment of sympathy.
They found Keith cornered in the dining room. His face was flushed and shining with sweat. Small veins contoured his temples. He was mostly dressed for work: trousers, socks, business shirt and tie. Half of his face was smeared with white foam. It seemed his wife had broken the news mid-shave. He was in his early thirties, Jordan guessed, reasonably fit and surprisingly clear-eyed. He carried nothing, and his hands flexed.
Jordan almost groaned when Keith seized the ornate table lamp beneath the window. The distressed man pitched it with a scream at Murray.
It was his undoing.
The lamp snapped back, its cord still plugged in at the wall. The ceramic base shattered against Keith’s upper body and reduced him to his knees.
Jordan and Murray wrestled him to the ground. With Jordan’s knee between the man’s shoulders, Murray snapped a pair of handcuffs around Keith’s wrists. The man swore and protested, then, for just a moment, emotion overcame him and he gasped brokenly. But by the time they hauled him to his feet, he’d found the crazy again.
Minutes of struggle ensued before Keith finally went slack. It was clear from the wheeze in his breath that he was exhausted, but it still took both Jordan and Murray to steer him out of the house.
His wife waited by the cars, trembling with what was doubtlessly rage and humiliation. Jordan and Murray stopped before her, holding Keith securely. Before anyone could speak, she punched her husband in the face with such force his head snapped back. It clearly hurt her, for she clutched her hand quickly. Jordan hurriedly dragged Keith out of range as Murray stepped between them.
‘That was a cheap shot,’ Murray scolded her.
‘Do I look like I want to play fair any more?’ she cried. She wiped shaving cream off her knuckles then pointed at Keith’s face. ‘We’re through! And you’re dangerous – I’ll see that you can’t get within a suburb of Paige!’
Fearing that mention of the kid would re-energise Keith, Jordan moved to get a better grip. But he wasn’t fast enough. The man took him by surprise by turning on the spot – swivelling, loosening Jordan’s hold – and then his hands were reaching for the holster strapped securely to Murray’s leg.
Jordan knew he shouted – his mind registered the sound of his own voice – but he had no idea what he’d said. Keith’s fingers scraped Murray’s sidearm free. Another twist and he was facing his wife.
Murray threw all of his weight against the man, rolling to drag him down.
And Jordan found himself standing between spouses.
Amidst the shouts of the men and the screams of the wife, there was an all-too-familiar click. Two bodies crashed onto the footpath as Jordan reached back to push Laura behind him. The gun was turned, lifted and fired. And then Jordan fell, joining his partner on the ground.
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