Chapter 4
Joan stared into the cell. Her bad hand throbbed all over again, as if the glass were melting beneath her palm. Behind her, in the shadows, Cynthia was laughing.
‘How about that, eh? Two ex-governors at once – gotta be some kind of record!’
‘Why is she here?’ Joan breathed. She pressed her forehead to the glass, straining to see more. Vera wore teal tracksuit bottoms and a white t-shirt, smaller versions of Joan’s own clothing. She slept curled up, her knees tucked into her stomach, her arms wrapped across her chest. She must have thrown the covers off, but Joan could see her shivering.
‘Well, I could hardly let her out in the yard, could I? Not after what happened to you, Joan.’
‘No, why is she in here at all?’ Joan’s voice was rising. The glass trembled against her fingertips.
‘No one told you?’ Cynthia said. ‘Didn’t your lawyer mention it?’
‘My lawyer? I haven’t seen her since…’ Joan realised she didn’t know. Her own helplessness appalled her. Why had she become like this? What had happened to Joan Ferguson?
‘I don’t know anything about this, Cynthia. Why is Vera in here?’
‘On remand awaiting trial,’ said Cynthia. ‘Bail application was knocked back. A little bird told me the Attorney-General was royally pissed off that there’d been another scandal at Wentworth, and in an election year too. Not great for his tough-on-crime image. Oh, not that he would dream of influencing a magistrate, of course….’
‘What – ’ Joan fought to keep her voice level ‘ – is Vera charged with?’
‘Oh.’ Cynthia snapped her fingers, as if embarrassed by her fading memory. ‘Of course. Conspiracy to murder Joan Ferguson.’
***
Slowly, Joan drew her hand back from the glass, lowered it, and turned to face her captor.
‘What?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cynthia’s second favourite thing, after screwing people over, was being the bearer of grim news. ‘Between the security tapes and the testimony of her own officers, it was clear that Vera was the one who arranged for Bea Smith to be let out of the prison.’ Cynthia whistled. ‘That’s a serious offence right there. But the Office of Public Prosecutions have taken it a step further. They’re arguing Ms Bennett engaged Smith to kill you.’
Joan didn’t move. Her voice, when she managed to summon it, came out hushed.
‘Why?’
Cynthia shrugged.
‘Pretty obvious, isn’t it? Smith was a double murderer. We all knew what she liked to do when she broke out of gaol, and how she felt about you, Joan. No way Ms Bennett couldn’t have realised what would happen when she let Smith go. And Vera had not one but two solid gold motives for wanting you dead. You’d announced to all and sundry that you were going to take her job off her – that precious governor’s job, Vera’s holy grail that she’d finally won after years of being passed over and humiliated. Plus everyone knew Vera blamed you for her Hep C infection.’ Cynthia scratched her scarred chin. ‘Shit, Joan, if you’d pulled that one on me, I’d’ve had you shivved too.’
‘But Bea Smith…’ Joan’s lip shook. Dread closed around her chest; she didn’t want to remember that day. The dust, the stillness, the raw white sunlight that had seemed to pull things out of shape. The obscenity of hearing Jianna’s name on that woman’s lips; the beast that had leaped inside Joan at that moment. How it had roared.
She forced herself to continue: ‘Before she died, Smith said nothing about Vera.’
‘So? What does that prove?’
‘Smith might have…’ Joan shook her head. ‘Smith was cunning. Manipulative. She could have deceived Ms Bennett with some story.’
‘Deceived her enough to open those gates? Are you fucken kidding me?’ Cynthia snorted. ‘That level of stupidity oughta be a crime in itself. But you don’t know the rest, Joan. Turns out ten grand in cash went missing from Ms Bennett’s bank account just a couple of days before. She claims she gave it to Mr Stewart for some “business venture”, but he denies all knowledge. Cops haven’t found the money yet, but they reckon Ms Bennett must have stashed it somewhere for Smith. As a deposit.’
‘I wouldn’t believe a word of Mr Stewart’s testimony,’ Joan heard herself point out. Why was she still arguing?
Cynthia leered.
‘Oh, young Jake? He’s good value, isn’t he? Just how I like my men: handsome, amoral, and thick as pig shit. Yeah, I’ve got lots of little jobs lined up for Mr Stewart.’ She shook her head. ‘But I’m getting sidetracked. The case against Vera was really clinched when a prisoner came forward to say she’d seen Ms Bennett give Smith that screwdriver.’
Cynthia paused, letting that sink in. ‘Poor Vera. She’s looking at fourteen years.’
A muscle jerked in Joan’s cheek. The cold night air drilled deep into her bones. Somewhere just beyond her line of vision, she could sense her father’s presence. ‘I warned you, Joan…’
Had Vera done this to her? Not just betrayed her, imprisoned her, hated her – but actually sat down and calmly planned her death?
Joan’s numb brain answered her: probably. It made sense. The evidence, the motives, everything. She should have known Vera was behind it as soon as she saw Smith standing outside the prison gate.
Perhaps that was why Joan’s mind and heart had shut down for so long. To avoid facing this last unbearable truth.
***
‘If Ms Bennett is charged with conspiring with Smith to murder me,’ she heard herself ask finally, her voice flat and strange, ‘why am I still in here?’
‘Oh, Joan.’ She could sense Cynthia rolling her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Inside Joan’s head the mist was clearing now, and anger was stirring again. It felt righteous. Cleansing. And it stopped her from thinking about Vera. ‘I have been locked in here for months like – ’ She realised she was shaking. ‘And all the time they believed I was innocent?’
Cynthia made a noise like a camel.
‘Fuck’s sake, Joan, no one believes that. These current charges are a bit wobbly, I grant you, but you know how the game is played. You embarrassed the police and the state government when you walked on that first lot of charges; you made the DPP and the Corrections Minister look like dickheads. They were always going to come after you for something else, even if it was just parking tickets.’ Cynthia yawned and picked at one fingernail. ‘As it is, I expect they’ll settle for manslaughter.’
‘Settle? I’ll settle for no such thing!’ Energy was coursing through Joan’s veins. ‘They think they can treat me like this?’
‘Well, they did, Joan.’ Cynthia seemed unfazed by Joan’s bunched fists and mad black eyes.
‘I’ll ruin them.’ Joan paced, her fingers clawing in vain for a suitable throat. ‘Every one of them. That detective inspector on my case; I heard things about him when I was inside. There are half a dozen trafficked Asian girls who could tell some stories…’
‘Oh yeah?’ Cynthia sounded politely interested.
‘The DPP’s a hopeless drunk and nasty with it. Might not take much to get his mistress to talk.’ Joan’s mind whirred; it felt unspeakably good to be doing this again. ‘And as for the Minister, there’s a story from his student days about a champagne bottle and a dead goat – ’
‘Well, it’s nice to hear you sounding like your old self again, Joan.’ Cynthia craned her neck. ‘But what about Vera? You haven’t mentioned her yet. Would’ve thought she’d be top of your revenge list.’
Joan stopped moving.
‘I daresay Ms Bennett is offering some kind of defence?’ She tried with all her might not to sound hopeful.
‘Oh, yeah!’ Cynthia hooted. ‘I think that was what convinced the cops she was guilty. Get this: she reckoned she’d sent Bea Smith out after you with a recorder, so Smith could trick you into admitting to all your evil crimes on tape. Then Smith promised to come straight back to prison and hand the evidence over to the police.’ Cynthia flopped back against the wall, guffawing. ‘Like the Famous fucken Five! Aw, you might have gotten away with it, Joan, if it hadn’t been for those pesky kids!’
‘I didn’t say anything incriminating to Smith,’ Joan murmured.
‘Well, of course you didn’t. Whole story was a load of bull. Mind you, I think the police did find a recorder, but Vera could have planted that. Seriously, did she think people would believe that was what she had planned with Smith? As if the governor of a prison was some desperate, wide-eyed, geeky little Nancy Drew!’
‘Well…’ Joan hesitated.
‘Jesus, Joan, you don’t believe it, do you?’ Cynthia’s voice rose to an astonished squawk. ‘I know you’ve been a bit doolally the last few months, but use your brain! The bitch was probably working against you from Day One.’
‘Yes.’ Joan’s shoulders dropped. A weight settled in her chest. ‘Probably.’
‘And now she’s deep in the sticky stuff.’ Cynthia gave a sigh of satisfaction. Then she frowned. ‘Joan, I know things have been tough, but I’d’ve thought this news would make you a little bit happy.’
‘Ecstatic. Thank you, Cynthia.’
Joan turned away.
***
She couldn’t stop her gaze from sliding back to that window in the cell door. Peering in there while Cynthia watched her felt distasteful, indecent. But it might be the last chance she would get to look at Vera.
Vera’s small chest rose and fell, her limbs quivering in sleep. What was she dreaming of? How long had she been in there, on the other side of the wall?
Joan’s breath misted the glass. There’d been a time when she’d fantasised about watching Vera sleep. Back home, in her own bed, in those hazy moments between consciousness and slumber, she’d often imagined the warm shape of the younger woman lying beside her. Imagined rolling over to pull Vera’s drowsy form into her arms, stroking her tanned skin and burying her nose in those soft curls.
How Joan had loathed herself for those tender fantasies later on, when she discovered what Vera was really up to. How she had loathed Vera for them, too.
How was Vera coping with captivity? Joan wondered. Had it broken her yet? Was she still veering between rage and hope – did she still count the days, pace the perimeter, kick the door, scream into the indifferent silence? Did anyone come to see her?
At last, Joan asked ‘Who was the prisoner? The one who said she saw Vera give Smith the weapon?’
‘Hm.’ Cynthia screwed up her nose. ‘Yeah, there is that. Truth be told, the slag in question is not someone I would trust to tell me the time. She’s a right nuisance; my marshals have had to give her a good talking-to several times already. But getting punished for breaking the rules has only made the bloody woman more determined to grab whatever power she’s got left. And I suspect she might have a teensy grudge against Ms Bennett.’ Cynthia shrugged. ‘Anyway, she’s sticking like glue to her story and the cops have accepted it. Who am I to tell them how to do their job?’
‘Who is it?’ Joan demanded. Cynthia watched her for a moment, before replying.
‘Gambaro.’
Joan’s breath caught. Her stomach clenched. But her face stayed remarkably still; there was no fear, no nausea, no residual pain.
Just a clarity that made her whisper ‘It wasn’t Vera.’
‘What’s that?’ But Joan didn’t need Cynthia’s interruptions now. She swung around and shut her eyes, the better to argue her case against the one person whose guidance and provocations she did want.
Ivan never showed himself in here. Maybe the doctors had banished him with their drugs, or maybe he’d abandoned Joan of his own accord, disgusted by her failure. But now she could feel his presence, lingering just out of sight.
‘Vera’s been set up,’ Joan murmured. ‘Maybe she did let Smith out the gate, but she never gave her that weapon. I always guessed it was Vera who pushed Gambaro down those stairs. Now that creature wants payback.’
‘Even if Gambaro’s lying,’ Cynthia was talking again, much to Joan’s frustration, ‘it’s still likely that Vera did send Smith to kill you.’
‘No.’ Joan shook her head, grabbing wildly at the jigsaw pieces in her mind before they could blow away. ‘No, Vera was bitter. She wanted me to notice her – maybe that was all she’d ever wanted. Even when I was a prisoner and she hated me, she couldn’t stay away. If she’d set out to kill me, she wouldn’t have got Smith to do it behind her back. When Vera had struck before – her mother, Gambaro – it was face to face. She was sick of being dismissed all her life; it had driven her mad. If she’d had me killed, Vera would have wanted – needed – to be there. To speak to me, to make sure I saw her, to force me to acknowledge that she’d won. It would have been … intimate.’
In the distance, Cynthia was speaking again, but Joan was no longer listening. It was her father’s cynicism, his ruthless facts and logic she wanted to hear now. To hear and reject.
Yes, I know how it looks! she told him silently, furiously. I know which way the evidence points, but I also know Vera! She wouldn’t have done it like this, and – and I don’t think she would have done it at all.
At Ivan’s interjection, Joan shook her head and ran her hands through her dishevelled hair.
All right, all right, I don’t FEEL Vera would have done it – there you are! Disown me, Dad; I’m being led by emotions! In her head she was laughing now, doubled over, verging on hysteria. But I know I’m right. That wretched dinner – I asked her there because I felt something was wrong, and I was correct, wasn’t I? And maybe – maybe my mistake with Vera wasn’t getting emotional; maybe my mistake was drawing away. If I hadn’t choked, if I’d had any idea how to – how to tell her what I felt, then maybe none of this would have happened!
Joan pulled up short, her chest aching. Maybe neither of us would be here.
She turned around to find Cynthia watching her.
Joan hadn’t said any of that out loud. Had she? After months of unreality which the drugs only made worse, she could no longer be certain.
But perhaps Joan didn’t need to say anything. Cynthia Leach had always been able to read another person’s shameful secrets just by looking at her face.
Cynthia’s eyes grew wider and wider. Then her face cracked with glee as she realised the truth, her scarred lips pulling back in silent laughter, her teeth bared, her shoulders shaking. She leaned in closer to Joan, and in the shadows she looked like a crouching gargoyle.
It was the same look – salacious, triumphant, cruel – that Joan had seen on Cynthia’s face that night at Blackmoor, when Cynthia had caught Joan coming out of Jianna’s cell.
‘Well, well, Ferguson,’ Cynthia drawled, glancing back and forth between Vera’s cell door and her old adversary. ‘What have we here?’