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  Megan’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though she were calculating.

  Dana tried to ease her back to the moment. ‘Moving out here from the city. Was it a success?’

  Megan shook her head and a small tear escaped. ‘No, not really. Lou and I were running.’ She stopped to wipe her nose. ‘From each other, from ourselves. This was supposed to turn it all around.’ She squeezed her handkerchief tight. Her voice faded to a whisper. ‘Jesus.’

  Dana didn’t know what to say. She tilted her head slightly, hoping that would imply a thousand words of sympathetic consolation. ‘You said your husband thought someone was stealing?’ she resumed.

  Megan had stopped moving, looking, feeling – breathing.

  ‘Mrs Cassavette? Stealing from the store?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yeah. Well, after he’d pocketed the cash from the sale, the old owner said he thought someone was stealing. Little bits of stock kept going missing, but he couldn’t work out how. We thought maybe shoplifters, or more likely some of the staff.’ Megan stopped long enough to draw the back of her hand across her eyes; the make-up smeared a little. ‘The old guy was a soft touch, employed stoners and losers. Lou put a couple of cameras in and changed some of the staff. There was nothing wrong at first. He thought the last guy didn’t manage the place properly.’

  Talking about something peripheral had helped Megan get some control. Her voice quivered less. ‘But then, about three months in, stuff definitely went. Stupid stuff – low grade, nothing, really. But it annoyed Lou. He hates – hated – things like that. It was the principle, not the money. So every few nights he was sleeping in there. Christ knows what he thought he’d do if he . . .’ She glanced up. ‘That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

  Dana felt skewered by the look, and by the obvious but reasonable question. ‘We don’t know many details yet, Mrs Cassavette.’

  ‘For God’s sake, will you call me Megan? Mrs Cassavette is a stupid mouthful. Stop being so polite.’

  But, Dana wanted to say, polite is my default. I need it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Megan. All we know at the moment is that your husband died in the store, possibly from a single stab wound. Do you know of anyone who’d wish him harm?’

  ‘Lou? Christ, no.’ Megan snorted and stood up. She smoothed down her blouse – Dana had noticed it was creased – and re-tucked a stray hair. ‘We hadn’t been here long enough to annoy anyone but each other.’ Megan examined her hands: flawless but unpainted nails. ‘He’d had a couple of arguments with suppliers, but nothing that would explain . . . no.’ She walked over to a sideboard and straightened a pile of magazines, talking to the wall. ‘He was getting fed up with the old “That’s how we do things out this way” mentality. Like the internet never happened, you know?’

  She turned back, as though Dana were some retail consultant. ‘Like Lou couldn’t get his stock trucked in overnight from all over. He was trying to be nice. He was trying to bring some locals along with him. That Earlville mentality – they warned us, but we didn’t realise. They wouldn’t play ball.’ She looked to the window and the grey sky. ‘But that was nonsense. No one would do this . . . for that.’

  She regathered. ‘I can’t think of anyone else here who’d hurt him. No.’

  ‘What about from your old life in the city? Any grudges, enemies made – things like that?’

  Megan sniffed and looked away, like she’d heard a shot in a forest. ‘Coffee?’ She was already on the move, with the bustling style Dana had predicted. Sudden switchbacks weren’t unusual after this kind of news – Dana rode it. ‘Thanks. Flat white with one, please.’

  Megan waved an arm in acknowledgement but didn’t turn around. She began to navigate the process in a series of accurate, snappy movements. Dana left her to it, glancing over occasionally for signs of heaving shoulders or a clutch of the countertop. Between sidelong looks, she examined the happy snaps above a collection of paperbacks. Photos of the loving couple; judging by Megan’s hair, all taken in the last few years. Only three of the photos showed them wearing rings. Dana reckoned they had been together for three or four years, married for perhaps two; the initial romance a little whirlwindy. Megan maybe settling because Lou seemed rock solid and established: a man, when she’d dated tall adolescents for too long.

  ‘I’m old-fashioned enough to have them printed out and framed.’ Megan’s voice was unexpectedly close. ‘Just having them on your phone, it’s like it doesn’t really count. Like you don’t want them enough.’

  Dana took the coffee. Both mugs had the same company logo. ‘Thanks. I can’t even operate the camera on mine. I guess it has one.’ She nodded at the mug. ‘You work for City Mutual?’

  ‘Yeah, claims adjuster, in Earlville.’ She eye-rolled. ‘It’s as riveting as you imagine it would be. Spent part of yesterday checking the price of table lamps.’ She drifted for a moment. ‘We needed a solid income while the store got on its feet.’

  They sat again. ‘Tough times, huh?’

  Megan took a sip. Making coffee had given her time to gather herself a little. ‘Retail’s always tough. Lou had big plans for the place, but it was going to take a while. He turned one corner of it into a little café. We’re a nation that can’t do anything without sipping a latte first, he reckoned. Wanted to add an antiques place on the side. Make it a “destination”.’ She air-quoted, then spoke to the ceiling. ‘Dreams outside his reach, every time.’

  Except, thought Dana, for you. Lou married up: he got that one right.

  Megan shook her head, suddenly wearied. Shock like this didn’t come through consistently; it bit in nasty little spasms, asymmetric steps down to despair. ‘We used to run a little supermarket. Updated milk bar, really, in the ’burbs. You know the kind of thing – you forgot something basic, couldn’t be bothered to cook? Overpriced, but you paid it, coz it was just around the corner? That was us.’

  And, suspected Dana, Megan had been pretty happy with it. Probably kept her friends from college, had enough money. In retrospect, that life had been sweet, even if they’d both talked at the time about trying for something better. Maybe only Lou actually believed the vision, and Megan didn’t hate it enough to draw a line in the sand.

  Dana was conscious that Megan’s coffee-making had dodged a previous question.

  ‘From your former life in the city, Megan: any grudges, enemies, problems that might have followed you here?’

  There was a short pause. Possibly, thought Dana, Megan was reaching back to past events and scanning them. Or maybe she was judging what should be revealed and what should be left for the police to discover themselves. Dana tended to veer towards the latter in such situations, unless she had good reason not to do so.

  ‘No, I . . . no. Just an ordinary couple. We ran a corner shop, not a crime syndicate, Detective. We sold milk, pre-cooked chook, cigarettes in large cartons, DVDs for the terminally bored.’

  Dana nodded, but it slid into her mind to ask Mike to be exact with the follow-up. Megan was quick to paint a certain type of picture, and Dana felt it was a little too quick.

  ‘Megan, one of the things we have to do is establish exactly where everyone was within a certain timeframe.’ Dana glanced at her face for signs of opposition, but Megan was semi-zoned out. Her coffee was tilting forward. Dana reached out silently and carefully nudged it back to level: Megan didn’t notice.

  ‘Megan?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Just a couple of questions. Can you tell me where you were from midnight last night until I arrived at the door?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I was here. All night. Uh, watched the end of the footy, texted Lou goodnight – he texted back – and then bed.’ She put down the coffee and puffed her cheeks. ‘Got up usual time for work. I was about to brush my teeth and head out when you arrived.’

  Dana nodded. Most people don’t put their jacket on before they clean their teeth, she thought. ‘I have to ask: is there anything to verify that? Beyond texts, I mean. Wave to any neighbours? Go onli
ne at all?’

  ‘I’d had a couple of glasses, so I hit the pillow. I wasn’t expecting Lou back before I went off today. When he does these little vigils he normally pops back after the store’s opened, for a shower and clean clothes. We don’t usually see each other till dinnertime.’

  In the modern world most alibis came from devices. Mobile phones could be cross-referenced with triangulation of transmission masts to give a location and time; cars sometimes had black boxes and satnav.

  ‘Did you use any technology last night? That sometimes helps us to place people.’

  Megan frowned. It seemed to cross her mind to be indignant about having to disprove a negative, in the midst of grief. Then, she thought for a second.

  ‘No, I don’t believe I . . . uh, Big Brother.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We have an electric meter that logs each socket, apparently. Lou used to call it Big Brother whenever he was railing against government generally. I usually tuned him out when he did that. But maybe it can tell you when I was home, at least?’

  Dana nodded, unconvinced. ‘We’ll look into it.’ Lucy would do that.

  Alongside alibi was motive.

  ‘Final question for now, I promise. Does anyone stand to gain if something happens to Lou? That you know of?’

  Megan opened her mouth, closed it, then smirked. She drew back slightly. ‘You can’t seriously . . . oh, wait, you’d have to check stuff like that.’ She rested her elbows on her knees and leaned in close: confidential girl-talk as she rubbed her wedding band absent-mindedly. ‘Detective, this house is rented. All the money’s in the store, which has debts the size of Brazil. So I’ll probably end up with nothing but bills. Assuming I can sell that damn store to anyone.’

  Megan eased back. ‘Anyone else? Nah. We’re not big enough competition for the big guys; there’s no one itching to see the back of us. We were just small fry trying to swim, that’s all.’

  Dana nodded warily. Something in her back-of-mind radar went ping, but she wasn’t sure what. ‘Does your mother live nearby?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Ten minutes. Can I ring her now?’ Megan was up and pecking at the phone before Dana could answer. Dana stood and mouthed, ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’ Megan nodded distractedly as her mother picked up.

  It seemed strange to Dana for someone to immediately reach for their mother at a time of crisis; to see her as a sanctuary, an emotional harbour. Logically, Dana understood it: but it was the difference between comprehension and empathy. Just like she could comprehend the adrenaline rush of a parachute jump but would never set foot on the runway.

  Dana made some phone calls: summoning a search team for the Cassavette house and letting Dennis the Tech know that Lou’s computer, and Megan’s laptop, would be coming his way shortly. He reminded her about the potential for memory sticks and external drives – his pet hate when cops thought providing the computer was all there was to it. Dana wanted to see Megan’s mother and Megan’s reaction to her, to see what that kind of intimate support looked like. She rationalised it to herself by imagining she was ‘sort of with’ Megan until family help arrived. Besides, she needed islands of solitude when she dealt with people, especially when they were emotional.

  She asked Megan for a copy of the will and life insurance. Megan, as Dana had expected, knew where they were and had an efficient filing system. She handed them over wordlessly and padded away to the fireplace.

  Dana looked closely at the calendar on the kitchen wall in case there was something useful – medical appointments, that sort of thing. Nothing but birthdays and anniversaries. She speed-dialled Mike.

  Mike Francis picked up on the second ring. ‘Ahoyhoy.’

  ‘I’ve said before, Mikey, it’ll never catch on.’ There was a smile in her voice. ‘That’s why Edison invented “hello”.’

  ‘If it’s good enough for the man who invented the telephone, it’s good enough to use on the telephone . . . Sorry you caught a live one on your day off.’

  ‘Maybe better to be busy today, anyway.’ Dana paused. ‘You’re first assist, is that right?’

  She could hear Mike trying to move a mint around in his mouth. ‘Uh-huh. What do you need?’

  ‘Okay, several random things, no particular order.’ Dana poked her head around the corner: Megan was staring expectantly at the driveway and clutching her elbows. ‘Please check the ages and marriage certificate on the Cassavettes – I want a read on their relationship and I only have her to go on. Find out what day and when the rubbish is emptied around here – she doesn’t have an alibi except herself and she kind of ducked the question. We’ll need reliable uniforms to do some door-to-door with her neighbours. Just background – the usual bull about “Someone might have noticed strangers,” etcetera. I imagine someone will be a right old gossip. I have the will and life insurance here, but check the Cassavettes’ financials and phone records. Thank you.’

  There was a short pause as Mike finished noting the instructions – it would be small, round, formidably neat good-boy-at-school handwriting. ‘. . . financials . . . phones. Got it. Not happy with the burglar we got?’

  ‘Covering all the bases is all. Oh, and any intelligence from the Cassavettes’ past in the city. I know you’re already on it, but her answers on that were a little pat for my liking. Thanks, Mikey.’

  As she finished speaking a burgundy Honda squealed to a halt outside. A salt-and-pepper, post-hip-operation version of Megan got out and hustled across the lawn. Her obvious anxiety for her daughter made Dana’s eyes prickle. Megan opened the door and, as it tilted shut, Dana saw her fall against her mother’s shoulder and convulse.

  Chapter 4

  Carlton was the police headquarters for the region, but this was an accident of history rather than by intent. Earlville had the busiest facilities and most officers, but the regional politicians lived in Carlton and wanted senior officers available for a conspicuous chat.

  The town’s founding fathers had envisaged a grandiose civic plaza, with the impressive facades of state grouped around an open square to imply democracy and accountability. But behind the Grecian columns of city hall and the court, thick walnut doors shielded the elected from the gaze of the plebs and all the actual work went on out the back. It was the equivalent of a conjuring trick: the visible architecture was the shiny baubles and slick chatter; the prosaic buildings beyond were the flaps, trapdoors and false walls that made it work.

  The police station was literally an adjunct to the court: there was a Corridor of Doom to take prisoners straight from the custody suite into Courtroom One. The building itself was a shallow-roofed, three-storey affair, draped in an awful butterscotch render that was constantly ‘too expensive’ to replace. It sat across from a small open green, below which was a staff car park that stretched under the station itself. The station’s official entrance was artfully hidden at the moment, behind a Mobile Incident Room that was parked there near-permanently. Carlton’s police station was a building for police to work in, not a public building.

  The public remit ran only to a reception with two tiny interview rooms off it. Hard-working vinyl floors and wipe-down emulsion spoke of the attitude towards visitors: they would be careless, annoying, intrusive and require effort. Bill Meeks was trying to coax some pot plants and piped music into the scene, but the Police Board had scoffed at it. In their view, the type of people who were required to come to a police station didn’t deserve the niceties: either they were a victim and simply needed help, or they were a suspect and deserved stony-faced indifference.

  Whenever Dana stepped through the reception door into the main part of the building a little piece of her felt like she was home. Only at Carlton for eighteen months all told, she was familiar now with the carpet-cleaner smell, the staleness of the air, the background hum of air conditioning and sub-par typing. Dana liked order, and the place had a hierarchy for everything – rank, of course, but also furniture and location. Bill was upstairs in a corner office with a
leafy view and a conference table. The best chairs went to the operations room, which operated 24/7 in a twilight, non-glare world of headsets, weary routine and occasional adrenaline. Detectives were downstairs in a corner with few windows, but they got a slightly better form of elderly desk: a little less tape holding it together and marginally more chance that the drawers were lockable. Uniform were the ultimate hand-me-down youngest child: partially in the basement, watching the oldest computers in the building whirr and wheel to a halt.

  Dana emailed the recording of her discussion with Megan so that Lucy could type it up and précis for the briefing later. The investigation already had its place on the station’s shared drive: all documents would be simultaneously available to the whole team, with Lucy compiling the log and tracking file updates. They’d started this system only months ago, and they still had to chase many to add their contribution online. Forensics were always late to the party, and the autopsy was still typed and couriered over. Normally, Dana was relentlessly old-school and would have relished a pile of folders to neaten. But in a murder investigation she recognised the time saved by being able to search individual words and cross-reference data quickly.

  Interview preparation was one of Dana’s favourite tasks. While it held urgency and importance, it couldn’t be rushed. She was allowed to take her time – delve, think, plan. She got a magic pass from the hurly-burly of instantaneous decisions, by-the-kettle socialising and reflex thinking.

  There was footage from the custody suite as Nathan Whittler was brought in: her first look at his body language, and the first time she heard his voice. He stared at his feet, shuffling forward as if he were on a chain gang. It was unusual, but not unexpected – people often had little idea of the correct behaviour. Dana noted the officers’ mild shove in the back when Nathan was too far from the custody bench: he accepted it without acknowledgement, as if it were his due.