Already Dead by Jaye Ford Page A

you all right?’ Tilda’s 61-year-old voice was tremulous with concern.
    â€˜I, I’m …’ She didn’t finish, couldn’t speak for the sobbing. ‘Christ, Tilda, sorry. I’m okay, I just …’
    â€˜No, Jax, don’t be sorry. Just so long as you’re all right.’
    She pulled in a loud, hitching breath, unable to answer, grateful just to hear her aunt’s voice, reminded of other times, years ago, and the tears and reassurances between them. Newcastle would be okay. Tonight, anyway.
    â€˜I haven’t told Zoe,’ Tilda said. ‘And I kept the news off the TV. Russell rang too, he knew it was you.’
    â€˜Yeah, I figured he would.’ He’d handled the media for her before and she was hoping he’d do it again.
    â€˜Where are you now?’
    Jax explained about the statement she had to make, said she didn’t know how long she’d be, asked would Tilda pick her up from the station when she was done. It could be hours and it meant bringing Zoe out late but she needed to hug both of them.
    At the station, she was given coffee, a chocolate bar from a vending machine and a seat in a glassed-in office that looked like a cross between a kitchenette and a meeting room. After the heat on the motorway, the air-conditioning was freezing, so the officer who’d been her driver found a blanket and then hung about like it was her job to keep an eye on Jax. Maybe it was. What would she watch for – signs of shock or criminal intent?
    Jax’s cheek was resting on the cool of the tabletop when Aiden Hawke walked in, crumpled shirt the only sign of a long day, his dark hair a foil to his pale irises. She followed him with her eyes until he’d pulled out the chair beside her, then she sat up and rubbed her face.
    â€˜Detective Hawke,’ she said.
    â€˜Why don’t you call me Aiden?’
    â€˜Aiden, then.’
    â€˜How are you going?’
    â€˜I’ve no idea. I’ve got nothing to compare it to.’
    He blinked – not the response he’d expected, perhaps.
    â€˜I’m too exhausted to move but I can’t close my eyes,’ she explained. ‘It feels really weird, a bit out-of-body, but maybe it’s normal. What do you think?’ Her mouth felt loose, the words a little slurry.
    â€˜It sounds like you’re doing okay but you should try to talk to someone in the next day or so, a counsellor or psychologist. If you can’t find one, I can give you the number for a victim support group.’
    A full-service cop. ‘Thanks.’ She wondered if he’d be seeing someone too – he’d pointed a gun at a frightened woman, it would have to do something to his head. Not that he seemed perturbed about it now.
    â€˜Before we start with your statement, I want to let you know that our preliminary inquiries are indicating the man in your car was Brendan Walsh. He was under treatment for mental health issues and had stopped taking prescribed medication.’
    No surprise there. ‘Was it post-traumatic stress disorder?’
    â€˜PTSD has been mentioned, among other things.’
    She nodded. He wasn’t the only soldier to be injured by the memory of what he’d seen and done. ‘What else?’
    â€˜Apparently there’d been some issues around …’ he held up a finger, took a notepad from his shirt pocket and read: ‘Anxiety, paranoia and fear of delusions.’
    â€˜Who feared the delusions? Brendan or the doctors?’
    He hesitated. ‘I can’t clarify that as yet.’
    Either way, nano spiders said the delusions had arrived. ‘Was he frightened about people coming after him?’
    â€˜That detail wasn’t discussed in the initial phone call but it’s possible, likely even, that none of it was real.’
    She nodded. It was possible. She could believe that – but she’d also believed Brendan, at least on some of it.