Chapter Thirty-six

Sunday, 10th November

‘Fuck it,’ said Jack, as he pounded his phone into silence at two the next morning. His irritation wasn’t due to the alarm itself, but to the wakeful hours of tossing and turning in anticipation of being woken so early.

After a brief detour to the kitchen for coffee, Jack stood and stared at the red shiny monster. The Ferrari. His car of last resort. The drive to Newcastle was six hours and he didn’t trust the death rattle of The Beacon’s old Toyota. Besides, it was motorway all the way and the Ferrari would eat the miles. For Jack, still somewhat pissed at his father for sending him to Byron Bay and swapping his stepbrother into his role at head office, there was an added bonus – the car was in showroom condition and the trip would add a shitload of kilometres to his father’s odometer. Bad Jack, he thought, and smiled in anticipation.

He wasn’t smiling four hours later when he pulled into a service centre to refuel both the car and himself. The Ferrari’s impossibly low-slung roof line meant an almost semi-recumbent driving position, and his body was stiff with protest as he climbed out. Although the car effortlessly drank almost ninety litres of fuel, Jack struggled to drink the acrid coffee, only managing to do so by convincing himself it was medicinal, to keep him awake. He took one bite of his ham and cheese sandwich before binning it, his tastebuds overruling his hunger.

Jack shoehorned himself back into the beast, then, as the car growled towards motorway speed, he wondered what the hell he was doing. The closest forensic pathologist was in Newcastle, some six hundred kilometres to the south of Byron. Patrick’s body would have been taken there, but Jack had no appointment, didn’t know the name of the pathologist who performed the autopsy and didn’t even know if they would be working on the weekend. But he figured if they weren’t, at least if it was the hospital switchboard that connected him through, the pathologist might agree to talk to him on the phone. Begley had said the pathologist confirmed a shark attack as the cause of death, but Jack wanted to hear it directly from them, and to determine if there had been any doubt, because Jack was certain there was no shark.

A few hours later, Jack pulled into one of the last spaces in the carpark. Being only three stories high, but stretching almost half a kilometre long, John Hunter Hospital looked like a colossal builder’s fuck-up. Jack wondered whether the architect had accidentally printed the construction drawings in landscape format instead of portrait. Whatever the cause, a cardiac arrest patient would have rigor mortis by the time the crash team arrived breathless from the other end of the hospital.

Inside the main entrance, Jack searched the signage for the mortuary. A lift took him to the floor below, where he picked up an internal wall phone, found the number he wanted on a card, and dialled.

It took forever for the operator to answer, ‘Switch.’

‘Hi,’ said Jack, ‘I’m one of the cardiology interns. I’m trying to track down the forensic pathologist who called me this morning about a post-mortem, but I didn’t catch their name.’

‘That will be Dr Fox. Would you like me to put you through?’

‘Thanks.’ He heard the ringtone. An internal phone directory hung from the wall and Jack frantically scanned it before the call answered.

‘Nicola Fox.’

‘Hi, Nicola. This is Dr Alex Andrews.’ Jack checked back to the phone directory. ‘One of the rheumatology consultants. I wonder if I can come and chat to you about one of the post-mortems you did?’ There was a long pause at the other end. This was bad, thought Jack. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I know you’re really busy, it will only take a few minutes. I’ll bring coffee.’

Again, the silence stretched interminably before she finally answered, ‘Okay, but give me twenty minutes. C1 courtyard. A double-shot flat white.’

With a coffee in each hand, Jack found his way to ward C1, ignored the ‘Staff Only’ sign on the glass door, and entered the courtyard. The large open-air atrium was planted out with small trees and ferns, providing a peaceful retreat from the disinfectant smell permeating the hospital.

Jack waited anxiously on a bench, watching the door. So far, so good he thought. He’d dressed neatly, and none of the stethoscope-draped doctors he’d passed had been wearing white coats.

It was thirty minutes before a woman pushed through the glass door and approached him. Her oversize glasses had thin blue rims that matched the colour of her eyes and her scrubs. She exuded weariness and was unsmiling, and unwelcoming.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Jack, offering her the coffee.

She hesitated before asking, ‘Is it safe to drink?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The coffee. You’re not a stalker? Or trying to poison me?’

The glass door opened. A burly security guard entered and took a position by the door, directing an intimidating stare at Jack.

Dr Fox said, ‘Dr Alex Andrews happens to be a good friend of mine. She also happens to be female.’

Jack couldn’t help but let out a laugh as his hastily formed plan crashed around him.

‘I only came because I was intrigued.’ She nodded towards the security guard. ‘But if you’re a journalist, I’ll unleash the hounds.’

‘I’m not trying to poison you. We can swap cups if you prefer?’

She shook her head and gave a tired smile.

‘My real name is Jack Harris. But before you throw coffee over me, you don’t have to say anything at all, just listen.’

She looked curious and gave a slight nod.

‘Did you do the post-mortem on Patrick O’Shaughnessy?’

Dr Fox didn’t answer. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the security guard take a few steps towards them.

‘He was supposedly taken by a shark at Byron Bay.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Supposedly?’

‘I’m a friend of Caitlin O’Shaughnessy, Patrick’s daughter. Before he went missing, Patrick was in fear of his life. He was a journalist and it seems he wandered into some dangerous territory. He’d recently upgraded the security in his house and taken out a life insurance policy. On the night he died, his laptop and phone were stolen.’

The pathologist stared at him impassively. The security guard took a few more steps.

‘But the thing that really concerns me is that Patrick’s leg-rope hadn’t snapped off as you’d expect with a shark attack. It had been removed from his ankle, and the velcro strap closed up again.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I figured that if you knew there were suspicious circumstances you would be less likely to overlook something, well, suspicious. That you might arrive at a different conclusion.’

She looked at him for some time before she spoke. ‘So you doubt my professional ability? You think I’m incompetent?’

‘No, of course not. But I drove six hundred kilometres to see you because Inspector Begley told me you’d given him a verbal opinion that it was definitely a shark attack. I just wanted to be sure. I want to be sure for Patrick. And for Caitlin.’

The pathologist stood up without a word and walked over to the security guard. They spoke briefly and the guard left, but not before aiming another frosty glare at Jack.

Dr Fox returned to the seat. ‘Ultimately, it is the coroner who decides the cause of death. All I can do is report my findings to them.’ She sipped her coffee then looked at Jack. ‘I’m prepared to say a few things off the record on the condition you don’t quote me and, given you are a journalist, you promise to protect your source.’

‘I never said I was a journalist.’

‘Oh, c’mon. You knew Mr O’Shaughnessy, so the chances are … And you have journalist’s balls waltzing in here pretending to be a doctor.’ She took another sip of coffee, her eyes not leaving Jack’s. ‘Besides, my brother’s a journalist; I can smell them a mile away. As a matter of fact, if my brother wasn’t a journalist I would have told you to get lost.’

Jack laughed. ‘It’s a deal. I’ve never spoken with you. In fact, I have no recollection of ever meeting you.’

She leaned forward and spoke quietly, even though they were alone in the courtyard. ‘There were some unusual findings. His lungs were full of water. Victims of shark attacks usually bleed to death, they’re not dragged under and drowned. And although sharks will sometimes bite right through the bone, that’s unusual. Typically, they just tear off some flesh, decide they don’t like the taste and leave. But none of that definitively rules out a shark.’

Jack felt sick. This wasn’t just someone you read about in the paper, it was Caitlin’s father.

Dr Fox must have seen the pallor in his face, and asked, ‘Are you okay?’

Jack nodded.

She said, ‘In the circumstances, it still seems most likely to be a shark attack; all I can do is raise some doubt. I told as much to Inspector Begley, but I don’t think he wanted to listen.’ She stood up and extended her hand.

Jack shook it. ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Fox.’

She nodded. As she walked away, she said, ‘Next time, don’t buy me a hospital coffee. It tastes like poison.’