After another ten minutes, Paula heard Santino’s breathing grow rougher, rasping slowly in and out of his lungs. A few more minutes on, and she was listening to his Cheyne-Stokes breathing—that laboured breathing pattern, crunchy on the inhalation, with a wet mucosal sound on the exhalation. She’d heard such breathing many times, when elderly patients were in their final days. Many of those deaths had been peaceful in their way, family gathered around, and the final breaths could have a solemn, dignified quality. This wasn’t like that.

For a moment, Paula indulged the idea that she wasn’t murdering this man. He had willingly taken the drug from her—in fact, he’d assaulted her to get his hands on it—and he had injected it voluntarily. But she couldn’t delude herself. She had deliberately tricked him into taking a fatal dose. This was a murder.

John Santino inhaled, weakly, hoarsely, and there was a long silence. Was that the last breath? But a moment later, there was a snuffling sound and another breath. Then finally, the silence extended and he stopped breathing forever.

Paula hoisted herself to her feet, about to turn the doorhandle using the silk scarf. But then she remembered the bourbon glass she’d drunk from. There was very little—nothing, really—to connect her to this crime, to this man. But still, she didn’t want to leave any of her DNA lying about.

She found herself creeping back into the main living area—creeping as if the dead man might suddenly wake up and catch her. There he was, sprawled on one of the white sofas, a bright red latex exercise band tied around his upper arm as a tourniquet and the empty syringe fallen from his hand, lying next to his thigh. He was cyanotic, eyes closed, lips blue, with a purple tinge across his clammy face. Even though Paula knew he was dead, she still stopped to watch his chest for a few moments to assure herself there was no movement, no air going into those lungs.

She gulped the last of the bourbon he’d poured for her, shoved the glass in her bag and walked out of that place.

At home, she wiped off the handbag to remove any traces of her blood and his fingerprints. At work the next day, she whacked the bourbon glass against the edge of the sink and dropped the shards of broken glass into the medical sharps bin.

EIGHTEEN

THE MINUTE ANITA WALKED INTO THE DOWNING STREET court building on Tuesday morning, she heard the buzz of talk through the foyer. There was a particular timbre to the gossiping voices—a sign something juicy had happened.

She raised her eyebrows to one of the TV guys, Brad, as he was gunning it back outside.

‘John Santino found dead. Yesterday arvo. In his apartment,’ said Brad, then he dashed through the doors to join his camera crew.