By Her Side

Chapter 1

There were things Rory Sutton Whitfield resented about belonging to a wealthy family. Being picked up from the airport in her grandfather’s chauffeur-driven limousine after the twenty-two hour flight from London to Sydney wasn’t one of them.

Despite having flown first class, she was looking forward to arriving at the family’s harbourfront mansion in Kirribilli and collapsing into bed. But as they were heading north across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, her grandfather, Edward Sutton, turned to her. ‘You don’t mind if we stop in at the office on the way home, do you, darling? I’ve freed up the rest of the day, but there’s a small matter I have to attend to first.’

‘Of course not, Pa.’ She squeezed the seventy-eight-year-old’s hand, his fingers gnarled and knotted beneath hers. ‘I can sleep when I’m dead,’ she added with a smile, echoing one of his favourite sayings that had been a personal joke between them for years.

Instead of hearing the expected chuckle, she saw the colour drain from his face. ‘So long as I get there first,’ he said, his rejoinder a fraction late. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver, directing him to stop off at Milson’s Point, the exclusive harbourside hub tucked beneath the northwest pylon of the bridge.

Unease flickered through Rory. Pa had aged in the ten months since she’d seen him at Christmas. His frame was shrunken, his white hair thinner, as if some of his legendary energy was seeping away. Although he was still the head of Suttons, the family-run financial firm, she wondered if he was ready for retirement now. She was glad to be home for good this time. Three years travelling and working in London had been long enough to establish her independence, and soon he might need her support. She owed him that, and more, for all he’d done for her since her dad’s death.

‘How’s Jamie?’ she asked after her half-brother. ‘He hasn’t been returning my calls. Does he even know I’m coming home?’

Seven years her senior, her half-brother had joined their grandfather’s firm straight out of university and was now a senior partner, set to take the helm.

‘To tell you the truth, Aurora, Jamie and I had words.’

‘Oh?’ That wasn’t unusual. Her grandfather liked to exert his authority and Jamie bucked at being controlled. Not exactly the easiest work combination.

‘He’s taken a few days off. More than a few, actually. In fact, I may have given him the impression never to darken Suttons’ doors again.’

‘Pa!’ That explained the unreturned calls.

‘It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ he went on. ‘He’s too fond of money to disappear for long.’

‘Disappear?’ she cried. ‘What do you mean, disappear?’

‘Just a figure of speech. He’s only been gone a couple of weeks. He’s probably climbing a mountain somewhere, getting it out of his system. He’ll be back before we know it, you’ll see.’

That sounded like Jamie. If there was anyone who took the idea of ‘work-life balance’ seriously, it was her half-brother. Not for him the daily grind that had characterised the lives of her father and grandfather. He was much more like their mother in that respect, though he was a lot more reliable than she’d ever been.

As the limousine slowed in front of Suttons’ flagship building, she looked up at the elegant art deco façade, its blonde brick glinting in the sun. Apart from Pa, Suttons had been the one constant in her life, changeless and dependable. The ten floors looked tiny between the sleek glass and concrete of the high-rise buildings that had grown up on either side. At the end of the sloping street, the harbour gleamed. The Harbour Bridge threw the foreshore into shadow, contrasting with the brilliant blue spring sky. So welcoming after the muggy, cloudy autumn she’d left behind.

Home. Sometimes in the long, grey days of the European winter she’d yearned to be here so much it had hurt. But she’d had to stay away long enough to prove she could cope on her own, not just to her grandfather but to herself. Now that she was back, she couldn’t wait to share her ideas for setting up a business, a way to combine her love of travel and the arts, and make a living. She hoped her grandfather would approve.

Her attention was caught by a powerfully built man emerging from an alleyway between the buildings. Tall, broad-shouldered with dark hair, he wore a black t-shirt, faded jeans and biker boots, his stride purposeful as he hit the pavement, pocketing a set of keys.

Aussie men. Rory smiled to herself as a wave of excitement fizzed through her. She had almost forgotten how compelling they were. Strong, determined, sexy. Heartbreakers. That was something else she’d missed. Not the broken heart—she could have done without that—but she’d missed that sheer animal attraction.

Once the limousine had manoeuvred into a reserved parking bay, she jumped out and opened the door for her grandfather. The chauffeur remained sitting at the wheel, evidently knowing better than to offer help.

‘Don’t fuss,’ Edward Sutton said, waving her away.

She stepped back. Above the din of traffic she heard the roar of a powerful engine and screech of tyres. She turned to see a white hatchback accelerating down the street. She froze, her mouth dry. It was coming so fast she barely had time to register it was heading straight at her.

‘Watch out!’ The guy in the black t-shirt launched himself towards her.

Before she could react, his arm hooked around her waist and yanked her behind the limousine. Her shin slammed into the rear bumper, tripping her up. She fell onto the stranger, her momentum knocking him over. Behind her, metal crunched against metal. Safety glass exploded, pricking her skin. The hot stink of exhaust fumes filled her nostrils.

Shock and pain kept her still for a long second. Then she scrambled off the stranger. ‘Oh, my god. Pa!’

Rory limped around the crumpled vehicle. The back door had been sheared off, the front and back panels on the driver’s side scraped and dented. The white hatchback roared away. Her grandfather was sitting rigid in the back seat, hands clutching his chest. Eyes closed, pallor grey, forehead beaded with sweat. No sign of blood. No injury. He hadn’t been hit, but …

‘How’s his heart?’ the stranger asked, easing her aside.

‘It’s fine. I think.’ Was it? ‘I don’t know.’

He leaned through the doorway, his ear to her grandfather’s mouth, then backed off and took a phone from his jeans pocket. Rory stared at the stranger’s neck. Blood was trickling from a gash behind his ear.

‘This man is having a heart attack,’ he was saying, already stabbing numbers. His voice sounded hollow. She could barely make sense of the words. ‘The sooner we get him out of there and begin compressions, the better his chances will be.’

Heart attack? He was calling for an ambulance. Her knees buckled. ‘Pa!’

***

Dusting off the safety glass, Detective Sergeant Vince Maroney felt a throb at the base of his neck where his skull had connected with the gutter. He finished giving their location to Emergency Services and turned back to the girl he had saved. She was leaning against the crumpled back panel, her face as pale as her blonde hair, pupils wide and dark. Stunning looking. He registered that even while the adrenaline was pumping.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he told her. ‘Can you help me shift him?’

She gave him a blank look. Shock.

He turned to the group of bystanders who had gathered on the pavement, and pointed to a young guy in paint-spattered overalls and work boots. ‘You. See if you can get in the other side and help me lift him, will you?’

The workman gave a nod, pushed his way to the front of the crowd and opened the curbside door.

‘Is that safe?’ The girl had found her voice. ‘Don’t they say it’s best to leave—’

‘I’m a cop,’ Vince said. ‘Believe me, moving him is the best thing we can do for him right now.’ He nodded to the workman who had climbed into the vehicle. ‘On my count, we’ll lift him over to your side, okay? Gently. One, two, three.’

Gripping the old guy under the armpits, Vince helped to manoeuvre him out of the limo. He was a dead weight, grey and sweaty.

‘That’s it. Easy,’ Vince said, hefting the man’s weight before swinging him free of the car and onto the pavement. Vince eased him down, lying him flat on his back, checked his airways to make sure he hadn’t swallowed his tongue and pressed an ear to his mouth. Not breathing.

‘Sir? Can you hear me?’ He began the usual routine. ‘What’s your name? Open your eyes. Are you okay?’

His fingers felt for a pulse on the old man’s neck. Nothing. The blonde girl—the old bloke’s granddaughter, he assumed—had come around onto the curb and was crouching beside him. She was talking to the old guy, murmuring, ‘Pa! Wake up. Please, Pa.’

‘He needs CPR,’ Vince told her. Where were the bloody ambos? He folded his hands over the man’s breastbone and began compressions—one, two, three, four—a third the height of the chest cavity, hoping the old guy’s ribs didn’t crack. Stopping at thirty, he cupped his hands and blew air into the man’s mouth. More compressions. One, two … Twenty-nine, thirty. And again, blow. One, two …

‘Breathe, Pa! God damn you, breathe.’ He heard the building hysteria in her voice. God! Who could blame her? What the fuck had that hatchback been doing?

Ten, eleven, twelve …

Vince began piecing things together. The limousine. The old guy’s designer suit. This wasn’t some nobody. And the babe … ?

His muscles protested as a white heat entered his veins. He kept on with the compressions. What he wanted was to hear that gasp of breath, the cough and splutter that signalled the heart restarting. He wanted to be able to turn to the granddaughter and tell her everything was going to be okay. But the old guy wasn’t responding.

‘Come on!’ he muttered.

The distant sounds of a jackhammer and car horns gave way to a siren, its whirring beat growing closer. He sensed the crowd part and a paramedic rushed up beside him, putting a defibrillator unit on the ground.

‘Still no pulse,’ Vince told him. The girl gasped.

‘I’ll take over,’ the medic said, pushing him aside. Vince leaned back on his heels, his arms aching, watching as the medic ripped open the old bloke’s shirt and applied the defibrillator pads.

‘Stand clear,’ the paramedic shouted before applying a charge. Nothing. Another shout, ‘Clear.’

‘Breathe, Pa,’ the girl was crying. ‘Don’t give up on me.’

Vince glanced at her sideways. She was older than he’d first guessed. Probably mid-twenties. Blonde hair clipped back, on the tall side and slim. Violet-blue eyes, dark smudges beneath. Wearing a thigh-hugging mauve skirt, the matching jacket glinting with safety glass.

She flashed him a look that was pure ‘little-girl-lost’. ‘He’ll be okay, won’t he?’

He hesitated. He wanted to reassure her, but—

‘Pulse,’ the paramedic cried.

‘Thank god!’ She leaped forward, but the paramedic’s arm barred her way. He turned his patient onto his side in recovery position. Another ambo wheeled a stretcher alongside and lowered it. Together the two lifted the old guy onto the stretcher and trundled him to the awaiting ambulance.

The granddaughter followed without a backward glance.

Vince felt a pull towards her, wanting to connect, to make sure she was okay, but the crowd obscured his view of her.

More sirens. A second ambulance and rescue vehicle. Shouts about removing the driver’s door. Vince had forgotten about the chauffeur.

Another paramedic came up to him. ‘How are you doing, mate?’

‘I’m okay,’ Vince said, a deep throb pulsing through his skull. He touched his ear. His hand came away sticky with blood. ‘How’s the driver?’

‘He’ll live. Let me take a look at that.’ The paramedic cleaned the wound, and applied a stinging disinfectant, butterfly bandage and gauze pad. ‘Put pressure on the pad here,’ he said, guiding Vince’s hand, ‘and keep it up. You might need to get it checked out, if it doesn’t stop bleeding. Any sign of blurred vision?’

Vince went to shake his head, thought better of it. ‘No.’

‘Watch for signs of vomiting. Concussion,’ the paramedic said before picking up his kit and moving on.

Vince removed the pad and took a look. Blood. Lots of it. Dizziness swamped him and his knees buckled. He sat heavily on the gutter, dropped his head between his knees, his vision swimming.

‘You right there, mate?’ A familiar voice.

He looked up. Regulation navy trousers and blue shirt, holstered gun. Constable Danny El Mazri stood on the pavement. They’d met while Vince was doing a stint of instructing at the police academy in Goulburn. Another kid from the western suburbs.

‘You took your time, Mazza.’

‘Bloody hell, Sarge!’ The constable hooked his thumbs into his belt. ‘Didn’t realise it was you. Don’t suppose you clocked the registration, did you?’

He tried to visualise the plates of the white hatchback.

‘AJQ-7-something. White, Subaru WRX. Probably hot.’ Stealing WRXs—or ‘Wrexies’, as they were commonly called—was almost a rite of passage among some teenagers. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if they’d done a job round here.’ He launched himself off the gutter, fighting another wave of dizziness.

‘You sure you’re all right, Sarge? Scraped a bit of bark off there.’

‘I’ll live.’ He leaned back against a nearby parked car. No sign of skid marks on the road. The Wrexie hadn’t applied the brakes.

The constable said, ‘Not your average hit-and-run, eh?’

‘You reckon?’ He tried to rub the fogginess from his temples.

‘With this lot? I doubt it.’ Mazza tossed his head, as if the rest were self-evident. ‘You’ve heard of the Suttons, as in Suttons Investments Corp?’

‘I’ve been undercover, Mazza. Not on another planet.’

‘That was the old man. Edward Sutton. They’re taking him to Royal North Shore.’

That figured. They were right outside Suttons’ offices.

‘The babe was his granddaughter, Rory Whitfield,’ Mazza added.

Rory. A Sutton, eh? So much for that buzz of attraction. The Suttons had done him enough damage. Not that he could entirely blame them for the breakdown of his marriage; he’d played his part. But Gina’s values had certainly changed once she started working for them.

‘Hey! Didn’t your wife work for the grandson? Jamie Sutton?’ Mazza said.

‘You’ve got a good memory. I was just going up to collect her things.’

The constable swore. ‘Of course. Sorry. Bloody mountain roads.’

‘Yeah, well …’ Vince disliked sympathy at the best of times. But especially when he didn’t deserve it. ‘I’d better let you get on with it. Let me know when you have a result, will you?’

‘Sure, Sarge. Will do.’

Vince pushed his way through the crowd towards the building’s entrance.

Funny. His plan for the day hadn’t included playing hero. All he’d wanted was to collect Gina’s effects and get back to the safe, dark hole his life had become.

The 1920s-style foyer set the tone he’d long ago begun to resent. He didn’t need to look at the gold-plated names beside the ancient lift to know where to go. Tenth floor. Not that he’d ever been up there. Gina hadn’t wanted him to. Impression management, that’s what she called it. And having a working-class cop for a husband wasn’t her idea of the right impression.

The lift opened onto Suttons’ reception area. Two receptionists, one male, one female, were fielding phone calls. Business-suited men and women were hurrying past with anxious, shocked faces. News of the accident had obviously spread. Ignoring a third request to take a seat, Vince headed back to the lift. There was nothing about picking up Gina’s things that couldn’t wait. Why her parents had left the task to him, he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if they’d wanted him to make the funeral arrangements. Maybe because, technically, he was still Gina’s next of kin?

Two men in suits approached the lifts.

‘What if he doesn’t pull through?’ one said.

‘With Jamie away? All hell will break loose. What about the bloke who saved him? Risked his life, they reckon.’

Vince spun round and took the stairs. He was no hero. He’d acted on impulse when the vehicle slewed out of control.

Outside, he ducked down the alley where he’d parked his motorbike and pulled his helmet from the locked compartment at the back, his damned sense of duty niggling. The hospital was only a few kilometres away. Not much of a detour. Wouldn’t hurt to drop by and see if the old guy had pulled through.

Especially if it hadn’t been an accident.

He slammed the thought. He was meant to be on leave, taking stock of his life. Not looking to get involved in another case. If that’s what it was.

Straddling the bike, he fired the engine and made a decision. Winding through the back streets of North Sydney, he turned onto the Pacific Highway, then took the hospital exit. He wasn’t into playing it safe. Not now, not ever. Except where his heart was concerned, and that had been safely iced over for years. Which suited him fine. It made living on the edge that much easier.

Chapter 2

‘Leave the press to me, Rory.’ Kaye Bradshaw, her grandfather’s personal assistant, took Rory’s hand as they approached the hospital waiting room. ‘If there’s anything more I can do …’

Rory was grateful for the support. ‘What more can we do?’ she said, a tremor in her voice. ‘I’ve called Jamie. He’s still not answering. You’ve let staff at the office know. I guess all we can do now is wait.’

The older woman squeezed her hand. In her plain blouse and skirt and flat-heeled shoes, Kaye usually exuded a calm that balanced out Pa’s quickness and intensity, but Rory could see the concern and worry in her eyes.

If even Kaye Bradshaw was worried …

Rory refused to complete the thought. In the waiting room, she headed for the window seat beside a table stacked with magazines. Along the row, a mum was struggling to hold onto a toddler. On the bench opposite, an old man sat with a cane between his knees, looking down at his polished brown shoes. Both looked drained, their faces lined with care and fear. Did they have relatives in intensive care, too? Were hospital resources stretched trying to save the lives of more than just her grandfather? She sat down on the flattened green vinyl cushion, her muscles bruised and aching from having fallen. Yet it could have been so much worse. She could’ve … her grandfather might’ve …

Her mind flashed back to the ambulance ride: Pa, grey-faced with raspy breathing; her own heartbeat loud out of all proportion. When the siren stopped and the doors swung open, he had been whisked out into the emergency bay and through a set of swinging doors. That was the last she’d seen of him.

Rocking forward, she pressed her weight down onto her feet to stop her legs from trembling. Her stomach felt hollow, the same feeling she’d had fifteen years before, the night her father was swept overboard by a freak wave during the now-infamous Sydney to Hobart yacht race. For long, deadening hours, she had waited to hear. Waited alone, while her mother was off partying, getting herself photographed for the celebrity pages at some charity function. Hours that had stretched into days, then weeks without news of him. Rory had hoped her dad would be one of the lucky ones, that somehow he would survive. In the end, his body had never been recovered.

A nurse came through the swing door; Rory jumped up when she saw the look of understanding in the woman’s eyes. But the news wasn’t for her. The nurse turned to the old man instead and murmured in a low voice.

Rory watched as he stood, his ancient frame trembling. She saw the shock descend, his muscles rigid, his eyes staring, then a visible wilting, as if the strength that had kept his back straight for a lifetime had finally failed him. He staggered and the nurse grabbed his elbow in support, speaking as he brushed moisture from his bleary eyes.

Rory could hear her words now, but didn’t want to take them in, the news that the old man’s wife hadn’t made it, that she was gone and he was alone. Such words could have no relevance to her. Her case was different. Pa was the strongest, most wilful, most stubborn person she knew. And also the kindest and most loving. She wouldn’t lose him. Not like this. He wouldn’t give up without a fight.

***

It’d been years since Vince got over his phobia about hospitals, but the sight of them still churned his gut. The gift shop with its teddy bears, colourful balloons and bright flowers. The distraught faces and hunched shoulders of visitors. The chapel with its silent anguish hanging in the air. None of it compared to the horror of the Burns Unit at Westmead Children’s Hospital. No force on earth could ever make him go back there.

He flashed his police ID at the woman on reception.

‘Ms Whitfield is in the waiting room,’ she told him, indicating a set of swinging doors. ‘Through there and down the corridor on the right.’

‘And her grandfather? How’s he doing?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t give out that information.’

‘Hey, Detective!’ A man’s voice.

He turned and a camera flashed.

‘Thanks, Maroney.