3
As she waited for Linda to call Wentworth, Maxine felt buoyed by hope. Allie had regained consciousness, if ever so briefly. Yes, she had a long road to go, but she’d get better. She’d be with Bea.
Maxine grinned. It all felt so right.
There was an additional thought playing in the back of her mind. If Allie could pull through this, maybe, just maybe, Maxine could, too.
She watched Linda talk to the Wentworth operator. She straightened the scarf on her head.
Yes. Everything was going to be okay.
***
The four of them remained standing above Bea’s body.
“It’s simple,” Joan informed them. “You bring the body back inside Wentworth. You delete the CCTV recording and make it appear to be a system-wide camera failure. You position Smith’s body to make it look like she was stabbed by another inmate. Smith had many enemies—no one would question it. And when the ambulance arrives, they’ll simply find a prisoner who was obviously killed by another prisoner. The police will investigate, but it will come to nothing—that’s hardly a new story, as you should know, Mr. Jackson.”
Will glared murderously.
“And no one will have any inkling that you had anything to do with it,” Joan finished. She glanced down at Bea. “Oh, and park the brawler over the blood stain,” she added. “They police won’t think to look outside. You can scrub it away later.”
They stared at her.
“You’re insane,” Will informed her.
“I’m right,” Joan retorted.
Vera turned away, staring up the road.
Lawson bent over, lifting Bea’s legs. “She’s still bendable,” he stated.
Vera grimaced.
Will fell to his knees beside Bea. “It can’t be like that,” he cried miserably, gently lifting Bea’s hand. “She deserves better than this. She deserves the truth of her death to be known!”
“The truth?” Joan asked. “Do you mean suicide? Because that’s what it was. You were watching—you saw it. She impaled herself.”
“I saw you pointing a weapon at her,” Will countered. “That’s what I saw! And I watched you plunging it into her, again and again… like the cold, psychotic monster that you are!”
Joan smiled. “Sticks and stones, Mr. Jackson. Sticks and stones.” She raised her eyebrows, looking closely at each guard. “Well? The clock is ticking.”
“And what about you?” Will asked belligerently. “What are you going to do, just walk away from it all?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Joan replied, turning.
“You fucking—”
“Will!” Vera shouted, “Leave it! We have to make a decision!”
Joan gazed into the bright sky. Behind her, she could hear the others arguing. Jackson kept repeating that “it wasn’t right—it wasn’t fair.”
She shook her head. All this talk of rightness and fairness. As if things were fair in this world. And rightness…
Rightness was whatever served the greater good. She knew this, deep within herself. She had been taught this. Rightness required vision. Rightness required discipline.
The three behind her would never understand that.
But Smith had. Joan turned again, staring down at Smith, continuing to listen to the argument around her. Smith had understood the value of dedication and planning. She had understood that it was sometimes necessary to sacrifice things—other people, even aspects of one’s self—to see the plan through to its completion.
Yes, Smith had been a worthy opponent. In her own way, Joan would genuinely mourn Smith.
She turned back to the squabbling children. “Well?” she asked. “Are you finished bickering? May I suggest that you move the body before the ambulance arrives…?” she added dryly.
All four stared at Bea, lying broken on the ground.
“Vera…” Will pleaded.
Vera refused to look at him. “It’s the only way to save ourselves. Like it or not, Bea Smith played us.” She sighed. “We should have realized what she was planning to do, but we didn’t—no,” she said, stopping Will from interrupting, “no, we didn’t see it. We stupidly thought she was going to have a conversation, to let the justice system handle it. But Bea only ever relied on herself.” She placed her hand on Will’s arm. “She tricked us—both of us—and now we have to deal with the consequences.”
Will shook his head, brushing her hand from his arm. “You’re talking about all of this as if she’s the murderer! She’s the victim, Vera—the victim!”
“No, Will,” Vera replied tiredly. “We’re the victims.”
Lawson knelt to pick up Bea’s legs.
***
Maxine watched as Linda’s brow furrowed. She gave Linda a questioning look.
“I’m on hold,” Linda replied. “They can’t seem to locate Smith.”
Maxine craned her head to stare at the clock above them. “She should be on work duty right now,” she informed her helpfully.
Linda nodded, still holding the phone to her ear. “She should be,” she replied, “but she’s not.”
Maxine frowned, her feeling of hopeful optimism suddenly dissolving.
***
Holding Bea’s torso, Will carefully cradled her head against his shoulder. Her body was still warm.
It was taking all of his self-control not to kill Joan Ferguson.
Lawson shifted Bea’s legs. “Where should we put her?” He turned to Joan.
“Perhaps you could make some of your own arrangements,” Joan replied condescendingly. “Or did you want me to hold your hands?”
“Get her within the prison confines, but make sure that no one sees you,” Vera ordered. “There shouldn’t be anyone near this door,” she gestured to the exit, “so you can pause there to cover her with something.”
“Cover her with what?”
“A tarp, a blanket—I don’t care!” Vera exclaimed in exasperation. “I’ll call a lockdown to get the inmates out of the way. Just…” she paused, breathing in deeply, “just leave the body in a place where she was likely to have been attacked. And remember your route—we’ll need to double-check that we wipe those cameras.”
Lawson turned to move away, holding Bea’s legs, but Will held his position. “You know this is wrong, Vera,” he warned one last time. “You know that no good will come of this.”
“And you know that you’d never make it in Walford,” Vera replied coldly. “Just get it done.”
Frustrated, Will followed Lawson. The two men walked away, Bea’s body held gently between them.
Vera crossed her arms, watching as they entered the building. Joan stood beside her. Both women were silent.
“I never want to see you again,” she eventually informed Joan, refusing to look at her. She straightened her bun. “This is the end for us. You’ve got your freedom. Never come back.”
Joan idly gazed down at the smaller woman. She remained silent for a long moment. “Gambaro,” she said at last.
“What?” Vera asked, craning her neck to look up at her. “What does Gambaro have to do with anything?”
“Lucy Gambaro is a known enemy of Bea Smith.”
“Yes, but—ah. Of course.” Vera rolled her eyes. “You want me to pin this murder on Gambaro. To make sure that you’re never suspected.”
“What I want you to do, Vera,” Joan stated slowly, positioning her body directly in front of Vera, looking down into her eyes, “is to pick up this screwdriver, wipe off the handle, and hide it in Gambaro’s cell. And then I want you to find said screwdriver in the cell, and have Gambaro charged with first-degree murder.”
Vera refused to be cowed. She shook her head. “And why would I do that? I could leave this murder unsolved. The police wouldn’t be able to find the evidence either way. Why would I want to pin it on her? What would I get from that?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Joan asked in reply, lightly placing her index finger on the side of Vera’s neck. “Vengeance.”
Vera’s heart beat faster. She jerked away from Joan’s touch.
“Vengeance,” Joan repeated, her finger still held aloft, a sadistic smile spreading across her face, “against the woman who infected you with Hepatitis C.”