Kill your husbands, p.1
Kill Your Husbands, page 1
‘Kill Your Husbands is a twisted and devious ride, where the lights keep going on and off. We’re holding our breath, stumbling around in the dark while Jack Heath watches on gleefully. I loved it!’
HAYLEY SCRIVENOR, author of Dirt Town
‘Buckle up! This unputdownable thriller takes you on an intense roller-coaster ride with twist after twist. Don’t expect to go to sleep until you reach the final page.’
RAE CAIRNS, author of Dying to Know
‘This book will grab you by the throat with its title and then drag you breathlessly through its pages until you reach its heart-stopping end. Utterly mischievous and endlessly entertaining, Kill Your Husbands is an absolute roller-coaster of a read.’
VERONICA LANDO, author of The Whispering
‘Jack Heath is a must-buy author for me and, with twist after twist, Kill Your Husbands kept me guessing right till the end.’
RACHAEL JOHNS, author of The Work Wives
‘Brilliantly crafted and thoroughly enjoyable. This book got under my skin.’
KATE SOLLY, author of Tuesday Evenings with the Copeton Craft Resistance
‘A deviously clever locked-room mystery that had me nailed to the page till the very end. I dare you to stop reading once you begin.’
DINUKA McKENZIE, author of The Torrent and Taken
‘I loved Kill Your Husbands. Mixing complex and compelling relationship dynamics with shocking twists and turns and a lurking dread that kept me turning the pages. Another great read from Jack Heath!’
REBECCA HEATH, author of The Summer Party
‘Jack Heath ticks all the boxes with this page-turning, twisty, spine-chilling thriller. Read it with the lights on!’
FIONA TAYLOR, host of Reading by Candlelight
‘Very entertaining. Great pacing, quick and robust characterisation … The world is familiar, yet horrific, unnerving and dangerous. The only thing more twisted than Jack’s characters is their author. He cracks the patina of the everyday and lets it bleed.’
DAMON YOUNG, author of Philosophy in the Garden
‘Wow, this book puts the twist in twisted! I didn’t know who to trust or what to expect, but the one thing I did know was that I had to get to the end.’
JESS KITCHING, author of How to Destroy Your Husband
Praise for Kill Your Brother
‘Kill Your Brother brings Jack Heath’s unique sense of twisted fun home to Australia for what could be his best thriller yet. It’s brilliant from start to finish, boasting an irresistible premise and shocking twists all the way through. It’s fiendish in its cleverness and startling in its originality. Don’t miss it.’
GABRIEL BERGMOSER, author of The Hunted
‘Forget the plot twist, Jack Heath’s books are pure twist from start to finish.’
SARAH BAILEY, author of The Housemate
‘Jack Heath’s latest thriller is like Survivor on steroids . . . but with real intelligence and a ton of heart. Kill Your Brother is rural noir at its hottest, grittiest and most claustrophobic . . . and its most exciting.’
GREG WOODLAND, author of The Night Whistler
‘Keep Kill Your Brother with your passport and children, because if the house catches fire, you’ll fight to take it with you.’
PAUL CLEAVE, author of The Cleaner
‘Jack Heath’s new novel, Kill Your Brother, is compelling from its chilling title to the gripping finish. Evil flies out from where you least expect.’
JOHN M. GREEN, author of Nowhere Man
‘Kill Your Brother is a pacy, tense thriller with memorable characters and an unpredictable mystery at its core. I gulped the entire thing down in a single sitting and you’ll want to do the same!’
SAM HAWKE, author of City of Lies
‘A complex and claustrophobic thriller with a hell of a conundrum at its core, and a truly twisted series of developments along the way.’
ALAN BAXTER, author of Bound
‘Heath’s characters grab you by the throat and drag you with them—every fight, every defeat, every hope.’
SULARI GENTILL, author of Shanghai Secrets
Jack Heath is the award-winning author of forty books, which have been translated into nine languages and adapted for the screen. He lives on the land of the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people. This story takes place on Wiradjuri country.
Kill Your Husbands contains scenes readers may find disturbing. It is unsuitable for children and some adults.
Kill Your Husbands is an Audible Original.
Published in print by Allen & Unwin.
First published in 2023
Copyright © Jack Heath 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
Cammeraygal Country
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100
Email:info@allenandunwin.com
Web:www.allenandunwin.com
Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.
ISBN 978 76106 758 7
eISBN 978 76118 815 2
Author photograph by Mel Hill, 2023
Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Cover design and illustrations: Luke Causby/Blue Cork
For my wife, Venetia
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
KIARA
ONE MONTH LATER
KIARA
KIARA
ELISE
KIARA
LAST FRIDAY
OSCAR
FELICITY
COLE
NOW
KIARA
ELISE
KIARA
LAST FRIDAY
ISLA
DOM
CLEMENTINE
NOW
KIARA
LAST SATURDAY
OSCAR
FELICITY
ISLA
CLEMENTINE
ISLA
NOW
KIARA
LAST SATURDAY
DOM
ISLA
COLE
CLEMENTINE
NOW
ELISE
LAST SATURDAY
ISLA
FELICITY
OSCAR
NOW
ELISE
LAST SUNDAY
CLEMENTINE
ISLA
COLE
OSCAR
FELICITY
CLEMENTINE
COLE
OSCAR
NOW
ELISE
KIARA
ELISE
LAST SATURDAY
SEB
LAST SUNDAY
CLEMENTINE
COLE
OSCAR
NOW
ELISE
LAST SUNDAY
OSCAR
ISLA
OSCAR
CLEMENTINE
NOW
KIARA
ELISE
TWO HOURS EARLIER
FELICITY
NOW
KIARA
LAST SUNDAY
ISLA
OSCAR
NOW
KIARA
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Dear Isla,
I’m leaving—don’t pretend to be surprised. I’ll be seeking full custody of Noah. Please don’t fight me for him. You know full well that any magistrate would side with me if they found out the truth.
Oscar
Evidence item #438. Description: letter, bloodstained
—FELICITY, stand-up comic, married to Dominic (trophy wife?)
—DOMINIC (Dom), finance bro, gave $10K to Cole (gift or loan?)
—COLE, gym owner, married to Clementine (but attracted to Isla?)
—CLEMENTINE, fitness model, Isla’s best friend (find someone who’s done IVF, see if story is credible)
—ISLA, full-time mum, married to Oscar (what ‘truth’ was he referring to?)
—OSCAR, real estate agent (but didn’t rent the house?)
From the notebook of Detective Sergeant Kiara Lui
PROLOGUE
She stumbles downhill through the bush in the pouring rain, dressing-gown flapping, puddles splashing under her slippers. The beam of the torch is thin—she can point it at the trail before her feet or the branches in front of her face, but not both. The terrain is dangerous, sharp sticks and slippery rocks hidden just under the mud. She should have snatched up her walking shoes before she fled, but she hadn’t wanted to stay in that house a second longer. Another mistake to add to the list.
The cold scorches her lungs. Her cheeks are numb. Her toes ache; she can already picture them turning black and popping off. The mountain is 130 kilometres from Warrigal, and most of the journey is dense bushland. If the weather stays this bad, she’ll soon join the dead she’s left be hind. The voice in her head, which started as a whisper, has become a scream: What if you’re going around in circles? At any moment, she could break into a clearing and find herself facing the house: those two big windows like glowing eyes, the twin chimneys like horns.
Her thoughts no longer make sense—probably a bad sign. She’s been running downhill this whole time, so she can’t be back at the top of the mountain. Unless you’re in hell already. Running for eternity, ending where you began. She’s never been very religious, but in her delirium, anything seems possible. The house on the mountaintop had felt safe when she was one of six. Then there had been five, and then four, then three. Now it’s just her and God, out here in the dark.
She hears a creak behind her and whirls around. The trees watch her, as silent as jurors.
Has she been followed? She’s left behind a trail of muddy footprints and blood-smeared leaves, but that wouldn’t be obvious in the dark.
She chews her chapped lips. If she moves, she might be spotted; if she doesn’t, she might be caught—
A sound like a gunshot rings out from above. She looks up. A bough has broken off one of the gum trees and is tumbling towards her, crashing through other branches on the way down. She throws herself aside, leaving a slipper behind, as the slab of wood hits the ground with a mighty crash.
That limb probably held on to the trunk for fifty years or more. Was she unlucky to be underneath when it finally snapped, or lucky that it didn’t pulverise her? Is she being punished, or conspicuously forgiven?
Suddenly she feels wet tarmac under her feet. She looks around. The trees are gone. She’s reached the road, flanked by paddocks. It’s not midnight anymore—dawn is spreading from the horizon. Shivering, she tries to remember how she got to the bottom of the mountain, but her mind is quicksand, the memories already submerged.
Her phone chimes in her pocket—a sound she hasn’t heard in three days. It keeps chiming as the backlog of messages comes through. She struggles to get her frozen hand into her pocket. When she pulls out the phone, it slips from her fingers, hitting the road with a metallic splink. ‘No!’ She scoops it up, frantically prodding the fractured glass. The lock screen glows, but she can’t type in her pin. When she tries to swipe up, the image—her husband, smiling crookedly, his arms around her—keeps bouncing back.
Headlights wash over her. She whirls around, holding up a palm against the glare. Tyres squeal against the wet asphalt, drowning out her scream.
KIARA
The body lies in the middle of Victoria Street, knees folded backwards, arms splayed. At first it looks like the victim’s jaw has fallen off, but as Senior Constable Kiara Lui leaps out of the car and sprints over, she sees the jaw has actually been smashed upward, flattened against the palate.
Kiara reaches for her radio, but she’s off-duty, dressed in a denim jacket over a flower-patterned dress: no equipment belt.
The man lying on the road makes eye contact with her.
‘Stay in the car,’ she shouts over her shoulder, not wanting Elise to see.
Undeterred, Elise unfolds her long legs from the passenger seat and jogs over, carrying the first-aid kit from the glove box. Brushing her fringe out of her eyes, she stares down at the dying man. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘we can’t exactly give him mouth-to-mouth.’
It’s the sort of joke Elise has been making a lot. Gallows humour is common among paramedics, but after the trauma Elise endured last year, Kiara is worried the nihilism runs deeper.
Kiara looks around. No pedestrians. No sign of the car that ran this man over. Just a flickering streetlight and a row of shuttered shops—a cafe, a real estate agency, a jeweller’s. Only the King George pub on the corner is still open. The chalkboard out the front says, GET SCHNITFACED! CHICKEN SCHNITZEL AND BEER $10.
‘Call an ambulance,’ Kiara says.
Elise is crouched over the man, feeling for a pulse. ‘You better do it.’
Kiara grabs her phone and dials Rafa.
The dying man is in his fifties, white, beanpole thin, with a sharp widow’s peak and sad grey eyes. Elise starts chest compressions. Blood squirts from the gaping neck onto her silk skirt. She clamps one hand over the wound.
As the phone rings in her ear, Kiara looks down at the ruined fabric. Elise hardly ever gets dressed up. Tonight was supposed to be special—a chance to hit the reset button. Kiara can’t afford to take her partner to a decent restaurant, but she thought a picnic dinner next to the Murrumbidgee River would be nice: a secluded spot where no one would be around to stare at them; a small bottle of sparkling, a tube of mozzie repellent, cheese and salad sandwiches with mud cake for dessert. Kiara imagined kissing Elise on the picnic rug, rolling around like teenagers. She’d hoped Elise might finally tell her what’s been going on these past few weeks.
As usual, things haven’t gone to plan.
Kiara scans the empty street. She can see the whole thing in her mind’s eye: someone walks out the back door of the pub, spinning a car key on one finger, telling themselves they have no choice but to drive. It’s too far to walk, they can’t afford a cab, and anyway, how would they retrieve their car tomorrow? So they get behind the wheel and zoom around the corner, just as this unlucky guy happens to be crossing the road, camouflaged in his grey jumper and black jeans. The driver hits the brakes, but the alcohol has dulled their reaction time. The pedestrian disappears under the vehicle. The driver looks at the body and pronounces him dead, or as good as. Now they ask themselves, what’s the point of sticking around? If they go to jail, their kids will starve, their business will go under, whatever—there’s always some excuse. So they drive home, wipe the blood off the bull bar, and go to bed. Maybe they feel guilty, like that counts for something.
Kiara will do her job. She’ll photograph the tyre tracks. She’ll see if the security camera in front of the pub has finally been fixed, and request the footage if so. She’ll ask the owner who was in tonight, and check if they saw the accident. She’ll tell Bill at the local garage to report any suspicious damage to the front of a vehicle. But in all likelihood, she’ll never find out who did this. Even if she does, and can prove it, a sympathetic magistrate will let the driver out in a year or two—and in the meantime, the bodies will keep piling up. Around here, drink-driving is the rule, not the exception.
Once, Kiara spent all weekend in a patrol car on this very corner, breath-testing people. Some of them said she was ‘cheating’ by doing it so close to the pub.
Rafa finally answers the phone. ‘G’day, Detective.’
‘Got a hit-and-run on the corner of Victoria and Phillip streets,’ Kiara says, without preamble. ‘By the time you get here, I think you’ll be picking up a body.’
In the background of the call, she can hear several shouted conversations, clinking glasses and the tootling of poker machines. She realises he’s in the pub just behind her. It would have been quicker to walk in and grab him.
‘Be right out,’ Rafa says, and the line goes dead.
Elise is still doing the chest compressions. But the man’s skin has gone grey. His eyes are no longer focused; the pupils dilated. Soon the cloudy film will form over them. He’s gone.
While Elise works, Kiara goes to the other side of the body to search his pockets. Phone, keys and a receipt from the pub: chicken Caesar salad and a Cascade Premium Light, order number thirty-nine. When she flips open the leather phone case, she finds a pair of twenties and a selection of cards: driver’s licence, Medicare, a couple of bank cards. Anton Rabbek, born 3 February 1971, lives at 15/3 Barton Street, banks with Macquarie. Apparently he wears glasses; Kiara spots them a few metres away, an arm bent and a lens cracked. The photo on the driver’s licence is a good match for the corpse, at least from the nose up.
She pushes a button on his car key: no reaction from any of the vehicles nearby. Barton Street is about a kilometre away and perhaps the only area of Warrigal you could describe as ‘upmarket’—a lot of fancy townhouses. The guy was probably doing the right thing and walking home from the pub after his light beer. Another good bloke killed by a bad one who Kiara will try and fail to catch, while the rest of the town keeps drinking itself to death.
She has long since resigned herself to care for this place, however little it cares for her. Her family has been here for tens of thousands of years. She endures the violence, the racism and the homophobia. But Elise has been through so much already. Doesn’t she deserve better?
