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I stepped into a dimly lit hallway, closed the door as quietly as possible, and stood in a small alcove with hooks and a shoe rack on the right-hand wall. I carefully stepped across the polished wooden floorboards and came out into an open plan living and dining room.
Paul stood in the landing between the kitchen and the living room. He held the Glock to his wife’s head. Blood trailed down the side of his face from a deep cut above his right eyebrow. Dirt stained his glasses.
‘I’ll kill her, Matt,’ he said.
Vicki cried. Her matted hair stuck to parts of her face. She still wore her work stockings. Her eyes wavered between stoic and scared.
I froze, my mind whirring with a thousand options—all of them bad.
Paul put the gun against Vicki’s head and she moaned.
‘Very slowly,’ he said. ‘Put the crowbar on the floor.’
Groaning inwardly, I lowered the bar and let it go. It clanked with a heavy finality. I raised my hands and stood still. ‘Paul, don’t do this.’
Vicki yelped and really started to cry. She shut her eyes tight and her entire body shook.
Paul moved his free hand from her neck to her shoulder. The gun moved away from her head, but only slightly. ‘Vicki,’ he muttered. ‘Vicki, please....’
She was trying to control her sobs but she made choking sounds. She stood rigid, cheeks wet with tears, mouth open.
I’d never negotiated with anyone before, and had no idea what to say. Useless cliché’s and slogans ran through my head as Vicki fell to her knees and doubled over, her face to the floor.
Paul lifted her arm but it hung limp in his grip. ‘Vicki, please... don’t do this now.’ He dropped his arms to his sides, and his shoulders slumped.
‘Paul,’ I said. ‘You know I’m not armed. I’m not going to try anything, okay? I think we should take Vicki over to the couch. I think she needs to rest, just for a minute. Okay?’
He stared at the crumpled form of his wife at his feet, then looked up at me. He appeared confused, but after a moment, he nodded. He tucked the gun into the back of his pants and put his hands under Vicki’s armpits.
I took her feet, and together we carried her into the living room, placed her on one of the two-seaters, and sat her upright.
She’d stopped crying, and now stared into the distance.
Paul stood over her and fixed her with a confused stare. He reached out to her, as if to say, ‘Are you okay?’, but drew his hand back. He reminded me of an automaton imitating human action.
Vicki remained frozen in place and wide-eyed. She occasionally glanced up at her husband, despite her best intentions to try to ignore his impending threat.
He stayed there for what seemed like minutes, until he turned on his heel, strode to a single-seat recliner, pulled the gun out, and slumped down into the chair. He moved forward and rested his arms on his knees, the gun dangling from his hand as he stared down at the carpet at his feet.
I let out a breath I’d been holding since I came in through the front door. I glanced at a liquor cabinet by the hall entrance, stocked with wine bottles, a half-full bottle of scotch, and some whiskey glass tumblers.
‘I think I need something,’ I said. ‘Paul, I need a whiskey. Is that okay? Can I get up and pour a drink?’
I thought, given the situation, it was prudent not to draw attention to the state the three of us had found ourselves. I wanted to take another approach, endeavour to steer his thoughts to a better place—for a better outcome. Maybe I could establish a sense of trust and manoeuvre myself into a position to diffuse things.
With his eyes still downcast, Paul nodded once, almost imperceptibly.
‘Vicki,’ I said. ‘Do you need anything? A bottle of water?’
Vicki snapped her eyes in my direction. ‘I’m sorry?’ she whispered.
‘Would you like some water?’
She shook her head as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.
I got up slowly and kept a wary eye on the gun. When Paul didn’t react, I walked over to the cabinet, poured two generous servings of Johnny Walker black label, steeled myself, and returned to Paul. I placed his glass on the table beside him, and sat down too.
Paul didn’t acknowledge his glass.
I drank a solid belt and prayed it would take away some of the pain that wracked my shoulders and face.
Vicki turned to her husband. ‘Paul?’
He continued to stare at the carpet. A fresh drop of blood oozed from the wound on his forehead.
‘We need to talk about Rob and George,’ I said.
‘Nothin’ to say,’ Paul mumbled.
‘What happened at the construction site? Did the talk get out of hand? Is that why Rob wasn’t shot, because you didn’t go out there to kill him?’
Paul remained silent.
‘Maybe you had to work your nerve up to do it, to actually pick up the concrete brick, to actually smash it against a human skull. It’s not easy.’
‘You don’t know anything, so be quiet. I’m trying to think.’
‘I know about Rory,’ I said. ‘And I know Vicki’s divorcing you.’
‘Shut up!’
It felt good to get some sort of reaction out of him.
To blot out the silence, and my thoughts, I said, ‘What about McCaskill? You got something over him?’
Paul remained silent.
‘Michael’s not going to be charged for the murder. I’ve convinced a very good friend of mine to draw up some solid affidavits, and I’ve arranged a surveillance detail for Amanda Hotchkiss—so don’t think of targeting her.’
Paul scoffed. ‘Jesus, I’m not a psychopath.’
‘Turn yourself in, Paul. It’s only a matter of time. They’ll match the wound in George’s head to your police-issue pistol.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’
‘I need to use the bathroom,’ Vicki said.
Paul’s eyes narrowed.
‘Paul,’ she said. ‘Is that okay?’
‘You don’t understand,’ Paul said.
Vicki watched him carefully.
Paul looked at her. ‘Why are you doing this? You’re everything to me, Vicki. You don’t understand.’
Vicki had calmed a little, and the tears had stopped, but she still looked ashen. ‘We can’t keep going on like we are, Paul.’
‘Like what? We’re together. We’ve got each other. It’s all we have.’
‘Paul—’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Paul, I have to use the bathroom.’ Vicki stood and manoeuvred around the coffee table, and then she bolted for the front door.
Paul got up and stumbled after her.
I got up and loped after Paul, the glasses clattering from the coffee table.
She reached the front door, but Paul caught her by her shirt and dragged her back. Vicki screamed, and he put the gun to her head.
I stopped a metre away and shouted, ‘Don’t!’
He paused for a moment, and the phone rang.
Vicki made a noise, and Paul looked at me as the ringing continued, his breath laboured. He looked flushed, and blood dripped onto his shirt.
The answering machine came on and, after the message, Sue Hunter’s voice came on.
‘Sorry to call you at home, Sergeant. I’ve tried to call your mobile but it must be turned off. I’ve arrested Michael Le Mat and he’s in custody at Shoalhaven LAC.’
Paul put his hands to his temple and moaned.
I lashed out and pushed him hard in the chest, and he fell against the wall and tripped over some shoes.
I grabbed Vicki’s shirt with both hands and reefed her away. ‘Run! Come on!’
I managed to get her out in front of me, running down the hall past the kitchen, and pushed her enough to keep her moving. I followed her, not knowing which direction to go.
We half stumbled into the laundry. I stopped and looked back down the hall—no sign of Paul. I could still hear Sue’s voice on the answering machine, but couldn’t make out the words.
Vicki unlocked the back door and ran out into the night.
The answering machine beeped. I heard Vicki’s retreating footfalls on the grass, and then the house fell into silence.
I edged my way back down the hall to the living room, and rounded the corner to the alcove.
Paul sat with his back against the wall, legs splayed, shoes spread out around him... crying.
I picked up my crowbar and held it to my side.
His natural stoicism had evaporated, and in front of me sat only a damaged man, wallowing in hopelessness. He slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘There’s nothing left.’
‘That’s not true, Paul. Put the gun away.’
He blinked and rubbed his forehead with his gun hand, as if exorcising demons from his mind.
My heart raced and I felt giddy, adrenaline coursing through me, and everything gained an almost supernatural clarity.
He put the gun to the side of his temple. ‘I’m going to count backwards from thirty, and when I reach one, I’m going to pull the trigger.’ He sniffed, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. ‘Thirty... twenty-nine... twenty-eight....’
I had to say something, but I didn’t know what. ‘Paul, you don’t have to do this.’
‘...twenty-six... twenty-five....’
‘It doesn’t have to end like this.’ I didn’t know what in hell to say.
‘...twenty-two... twenty-one....’
‘I don’t know what I need to say to stop you from doing this.’
‘...sixteen... fifteen... fourteen....’
Paul’s face fell blank as his eyes stared at something beyond sadness.
‘Jesus Christ, Paul, do you think Rory would have wanted his dad to kill himself?’
‘...nine... eight....’
‘Fuck! Stop, Paul! Put the fucking gun down!’
‘...four... three... two... one.’
