Death by Beauty
Author: Gabrielle Lord
Date: 2012-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Crime; Mystery & Detective; General; Australia
Description: A ‘vampire’ is stalking the streets, attacking beautiful young women; some are murdered days later, others aren’t touched again. Gemma Lincoln, PI, begins to see a pattern and predicts which woman will be targeted next. But can she convince the police to take action? Meanwhile, at the salubrious Sapphire Springs Spa, a cosmetic surgery clinic that boasts the latest breakthrough in the search for eternal youth, clients are experiencing sudden onset depression and worse. Is the exclusive clinic involved in a lethal cover-up? While dealing with this brutal case, Gemma finds that her ex, Steve Bra
Publisher: Hachette
Rights: Copyright © Gabrielle Lord 2012

Gabrielle Lord is widely acknowledged as one of Australia’s foremost crime fiction writers. She is the author of fourteen adult novels, and her stories and articles have appeared widely in the national press and anthologies. Her psychological thrillers are informed by a detailed knowledge of forensic procedures and are set in contemporary Australia. The twelve books of the award-winning ‘Conspiracy 365’ series for young adult readers, published by Scholastic Australia, have been sold into thirteen countries and have been made into a television series. Gabrielle Lord won a Ned Kelly award for Death Delights and shared a Davitt award for Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing.

The Gemma Lincoln novels

Feeding the Demons

Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

Spiking the Girl

Shattered

Death by Beauty

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published in Australia and New Zealand in 2012
by Hachette Australia

(an imprint of Hachette Australia Pty Limited)

Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000
www.hachette.com.au

Copyright © Gabrielle Lord 2012

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

978 0 7336 2730 9

978 0 7336 2785 9 (ebook edition)

Cover design by Design by Committee

To Borys

Contents

The Gemma Lincoln Novels

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Feeding the Demons

Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

Spiking the Girl

Shattered

PROLOGUE

By 1 am, the crowd at Midnight Mirage was thinning. The light reflecting from gloomy mirrors and polished black granite surfaces threw theatrical shadows and glimmers over the intimate arena.

In the furthest corner from the bar, a large-framed, well-dressed man was helping a young woman to her feet. Clearly, she’d drunk too much, which puzzled the barman because he remembered her orders as well as those of her date. Drugs, maybe. It happened, despite the watchful eye of security. Whatever. Not his business, really. As the pair made their way to the exit, the woman’s head lolled backwards off her attentive companion’s shoulder. Even upside down, her face was extraordinarily beautiful, the ivory pallor of her skin contrasting with the deep red of her lipstick and long dark-gold hair glinting in thick waves down her back. Midnight Mirage attracted, if not the A crowd, then the very cream of the B double plus – up-and-coming models, racing identities, newspaper people, even some quite well-known actors. This girl could have challenged any of the celebrity beauties, thought the barman.

The pair disappeared through the door, stepping into the cold night air.

Outside, the young woman leaned heavily against the man, who had tightened his arm around her waist, half lifting her as she walked, her feet slipping in their stilettos, sometimes dragging like a doll’s. A couple of times her head jerked up as if she were trying desperately to pull herself together. Once she swung around to take a puzzled look at the face of the big man beside her, but her head seemed too heavy for her slender neck.

They didn’t have far to go. He’d already booked a room at a nearby boutique hotel. He helped her up the few low steps, through the bevelled glass doors and across the foyer, nodding at the night clerk, towards the old-fashioned cage lift.

On the first floor, he half carried her out of the lift and into the softly lit corridor.

Another hotel guest, leaving his room, noticed the situation and commented with a smile, ‘Too much celebration?’

The big man nodded, holding up the drunken woman. ‘She’ll sleep it off. Goodnight.’

He found the room, slipped the key card in with one hand while supporting her with the other, and then in a honeymoon gesture swept her up in his arms over the threshold, covering the distance between the door and the king-size bed in two large strides. He sat her on the bed, where she lolled for a few seconds before keeling sideways. In one strong movement he gathered up her long legs from the floor and lightly swung them onto the bed, so that now she lay on the dark rose damask quilt, legs bent to one side, long hair streaming around her perfect face and across the brocade cushions on top of the pillows.

He stood and looked down on her, her beautiful body in its slinky gold and silver dress, a mauve and white silk flower attached to one shoulder by a tiny golden arrow pin, the strappy stilettos at awkward angles at the end of her shapely legs. She opened her eyes and blinked up at him, a frown lightly compressing her face. She briefly struggled to sit up but got no further than slightly raising her upper body and an awkward movement with her left elbow before she collapsed.

The man removed two small objects from inside his jacket. The first he placed on the quilt near the woman’s legs and her eyes blinked open for a moment as she strove vainly to see what it was. As he fitted the second object into his mouth he smiled, further distorting his lower face.

The woman made a superhuman effort and pushed through into consciousness – confused seconds of startled clarity piercing through billowing distortion. Vanished now was the large friendly man who had been chatting to her at the club, convincing her he could help her career with his contacts in the fashion industry, showing her his business card, impressing her with his knowledge of the latest designers, delighting her with his respectful manners and European accent.

Towering over her was a monstrous, impossible nightmare.

Grimacing with horror, she saw what he was flicking with his fingers. She tried to move, to scream. A strangled sound escaped her throat, her mouth gaping in her frozen body, immobilised, as his face loomed closer.

Then he opened his mouth and the strangled sound in her throat began to choke her.

He swooped lower.

The scream stuck in her throat.

CHAPTER 1

Gemma’s eyes snapped open. Rafi, a warm caterpillar in his sleeping bag, stirred beside her. But in that split-second of waking she wasn’t thinking of her beautiful son. Something else had woken her; an unpleasant sound, high pitched, shrieking. Still and focused, she listened for it again. Now, all she was aware of was Rafi’s tiny murmuring, a prequel to his hungry cry, yet she felt uneasy. She was almost certain that it hadn’t been Rafi’s pre-dawn wake-up sounds that had roused her from a deep sleep.

She raised herself on an elbow, blinking in the early light, pulling him towards her, slipping him out of his sleeping bag and holding him close. Tense, she listened.

Convinced it must have been a bad dream that woke her, Gemma relaxed. Her heart, with her baby’s warm body nestled against her, throbbed and fluttered with movements that, in the days following his birth, had alarmed her – until she had recognised the feelings as love.

All the sounds around her now were unremarkable. And yet something had woken her to full alert: an alien noise, piercing through the soft morning sounds.

Her partner, Mike Moody, slept silently beside her. Formerly Federal police, and until last year Gemma’s employee, Mike had been out for most of the night on a surveillance job, coming in at around 3 am. Gemma looked away from his peaceful face and felt guilty. Up until a minute ago she’d been dreaming of another man, Steve Brannigan, her ex-lover and Rafi’s absent father; the question she was about to ask him slipping away into the depths of the dream world.

Rafi held her tight as she carried him into the kitchen and warmed his bottle of formula. When it was ready she eased them both back into bed, careful not to disturb Mike as Rafi grabbed greedily at the bottle. Gemma pressed her mouth against his soft head. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the fierce, protective love she felt for this little being in her arms. She sank deeper into the pillows, trying to remember the question she’d been asking Steve in the dream, but soon gave up. Mike, strong and comforting lying beside her, Rafi snuggling into the covers on the other side, surrounded her with peace. She looked fondly at Mike, soft brown hair falling over his forehead, his wide chest rising and falling rhythmically, as she remembered the astonishing moment when he had changed from colleague to lover last year. He’d realised she was pregnant even before she had. His generous spirit had embraced both her and Rafi, another man’s child.

Gemma’s memory strayed to the night of Rafi’s birth: the car accident as Mike raced to get her to the birthing centre, the last part of the trip accompanied by a police car; the young police officer who’d assisted with Rafi’s birth on the back seat of the police car later admitting her only birthing experiences had been with foals; Steve’s surprise visit to the ward later, his shocked and dawning comprehension that the baby in her arms was his; the awkward moments as Mike returned with coffees; Steve leaving in distress and then finally, Mike recounting the three shooting stars he’d seen in the sky on his way back to the hospital.

Lucky stars, he’d called them. Even then, eleven months ago, Gemma hadn’t been convinced. The shooting stars had always troubled her. She pulled herself back from the past. No point in delving into old catastrophes. She’d survived. She was here still.

As Rafi gulped the last of the formula, the morning’s business rushed into Gemma’s mind. This was the day she’d chosen to officially start back at work. Over the past week she had been easing Rafi into a routine at the local daycare centre and he seemed to be doing well, despite the tear-filled goodbye to his mother each day. For the last eleven months Mike had kept Gemma’s security business going, picking up the jobs that had come in for Phoenix Business Services and Gemma was immensely grateful. But it was time for her to take control again.

She was already worrying that the pile of bills mounting on her desk would continue to grow. And she wanted to bring in enough work to be able to pay Spinner, her ace surveillance operative, to join her again.

First day back on the job, and she had booked only one client, Mrs Delphine Tolmacheff. She’d contacted Gemma, mentioning a problem too sensitive to be spoken of on the phone. Man trouble, Gemma guessed.

Rafi pushed his bottle away and smiled up at his mother, a beam of pure love.

‘Ooh, you gorgeous moozle,’ Gemma whispered, completely smitten.

She swore as her mobile rang, startling Rafi and making her jump.

‘Gemma Lincoln,’ she answered as graciously as she could at 5.42 am, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Mike.

‘Me, honey. I knew you’d be awake,’ puffed Angie.

Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald had been a steadfast friend to Gemma for fifteen years, especially during the bitter end of Gemma’s police career. She’d been set up to take the blame for a leak during an investigation into race-fixing and Angie, a country girl of strong loyalties and high intelligence, had stood by Gemma, and their friendship had grown stronger over the years. Somehow steering her way through the brotherhood and its built-in misogyny, Angie had flourished by outrunning, outgunning and outdrinking the boys.

‘Who’s chasing you, Ange?’

‘Just the speedo on the treadmill at the police gym. Gotta go faster.’

‘At this hour?’

‘I’ve been up all night.’

‘Oh no, not Trevor?’

‘You’ve got to be joking. He still hasn’t recovered from the handcuffs and the stockwhip.’

Gemma grinned, remembering Angie’s revenge on an unfaithful lover.

‘I can’t wait to see that little boy of ours again,’ Angie said. ‘It’s been too long since I cuddled him.’

‘Four days, actually.’

‘Like I said, too long.’ Angie laughed. Then she suddenly grew serious. ‘I need your help, Gems. There’s a girl I want to bring over to see you. We can’t really do anything for her but I’m hoping you can help. Discreetly.’

Gemma frowned. ‘What’s the story?’

‘It’s a freaky one. It starts out classic drug-assisted date rape and ends up seriously Gothic. There was no sexual assault, though, which is strange. We’ve had a few weird ones lately, but this has to take the cake. Can I bring her over to your place later this morning?’

‘I can’t do this morning, Ange. I have an appointment at ten and some other things I need to do. What about some time in the afternoon?’

‘Can’t do that, Gems.’

‘Then how about tomorrow?’

Angie’s heavy breathing eased and Gemma could hear her friend jump off the treadmill. ‘Okay, tomorrow then. Mischa has a wild tale to tell. She reckons she was attacked by—’ Angie paused. ‘No, on second thoughts I’ll let her tell you.’

‘Mischa,’ said Gemma. ‘Cute name.’

‘Mischa Bloomfield. Cute girl. Wait till you see her. And now I’ve gotta fly. The senior pathologist’s coming by later to talk to the Homicide team about a murder last week – it’s the second murder of a young woman in the past couple of weeks. I want to be looking my best for him.’

‘Ange, relax. You don’t even have to try. The last woman he looked at was dead and drained on his slab. And anyway, you’re the best looking cop in the team.’

‘Mmm. That’s a low base we’re talking about. Obviously you haven’t seen the others. Specially the boss.’

Gemma groaned. ‘Bruno Gross?’

‘The aptly named Gross himself. Make time for me tomorrow? In the meantime, get yourself nice and rested up.’

As Gemma put her mobile down, she felt she could sleep for twenty-four hours. Having a baby had changed everything, including sleeping patterns. His cot was in her bedroom, which meant every tiny sound he made woke her and she would lie there listening, until he either started to cry, or slipped back to sleep. He’d increased her alertness to her surroundings and although Gemma realised this could be a good thing, she wondered if she’d ever feel ‘nice and rested’ again.

She changed Rafi and left him drowsy and secured under the tucked-in doona beside Mike. Then she gazed fondly for a few moments on the two males in her life before going back out to the kitchen to put the coffee on to brew while she showered.

She dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and her old cashmere cardigan with the holes in the elbows, which she couldn’t bring herself to throw out, and quietly padded into the living room with her coffee, glancing at herself in the hallway mirror. Her shoulder-length hair could do with a wash, she thought as she pulled its tawny thickness back from her neck. The square-jawed face that looked back at her appeared strained and in need of a night’s uninterrupted sleep. Lipstick, she decided. That’s what I need. Bright red lipstick.

She pulled the heavy curtains away from the sliding doors that opened out on to a deck overlooking her straggly cliff-top garden and then the wide sky and the waters of Phoenix Bay. Gemma shivered, remembering a night when an intruder with homicide on his mind had burst through the glass, coming straight at her like something from a horror movie. She dismissed the memory and turned to see Taxi cat, a tight ginger ball wedged warmly in the corner of the blue leather sofa. Taxi didn’t deign to look up at her.

Dawn was breaking along the eastern horizon, the sky lightening above the still dark sea. She took it all in for a few moments, and, feeling optimistic about the new day, she headed down the hall to her office, but first she stepped into the deserted room once used by her staff.

Spinner and Mike had both worked in here, and some years ago she’d even had enough jobs on to employ an office assistant. Now Mike used the room as an office and storeroom for his gear. Unpacked boxes were piled high in one corner and he’d set up a clothes rack where his suits, shirts and trousers hung in neat rows. She noticed how dusty the room was. Having a child sure plays hell with the housework, Gemma thought.

She shivered. It was cold in here on the southern side of the flat, one of four that had originally formed an old colonial mansion, subdivided in the 1960s.

Mike had left a stack of files and his notebook from yesterday’s jobs on his desk. He’d been doing routine surveillance for one of the big insurance companies during the day, checking up on claimants, while keeping an eye during the night and early hours of the morning on a couple of long-haul drivers who worked for a petroleum company and were suspected of diverting some of the fuel.

Between the jobs, he wasn’t getting much sleep either and he was away overnight two or three times a week. ‘It’s okay, Gemma,’ he’d said. ‘We need the money, and I can do this until you’re back full time. Or at least part time.’

She picked up his notebook and glanced through a couple of pages, thinking how good he’d been to her and Rafi. She still couldn’t quite believe that he loved her and wanted to be with her and her baby. That he seemed happy to work and live here with her and Rafi, with whom he had bonded in a way that surprised them both.

In her own office, she turned on the computer and checked her diary. She knew she was a good investigator and had built up a successful practice over twelve years, but contracts for private investigators were becoming increasingly difficult to secure as insurance companies had found cheaper ways to chase many of their cases. Briefs from some of her friends in the law were also pretty thin on the ground of late.

On the mantelpiece over what had once been an open fireplace, a tiny toy kitten stood crookedly. Once, when the red button on his collar was pressed the kitten would trundle along, invariably falling over after the first few steps, to continue waving his stiff little legs in the air. Gemma’s hand closed over the toy’s furry rigidity. Steve had given it to her, back when they were a couple. She jumped in shock, almost dropping it as a final surge from the dying batteries made it squirm in her hand as if it were alive.

She hadn’t heard from Steve since shortly after Rafi’s birth. He’d taken long service leave from the New South Wales Police and she had no idea where he was. All she knew was that his child-support payments for Rafi automatically arrived, adding over a thousand dollars a month to her bank account. That, at least, she could count on.

Where are you, Stevie? The question flew unbidden from her heart.

CHAPTER 2

After dropping Rafi at daycare and resisting the urge to snatch him back when he turned his reproachful, tear-filled eyes on her, Gemma drove home and settled down to work, drawing up a list of calls she’d make later in the day, reminding contacts in the insurance industry that she was working again. When that was done, she made breakfast and coffee, then gathered the last few days’ newspapers and took them into her office where she sat in a comfortable chair under the window to read through them as she ate.

‘Blitzkrieg killer – again!’ screamed a headline from the previous week. She read on. The article gave a few unclassified details about the two murders Angie and the rest of the Homicide team were investigating.

‘Police say they have no leads in the murders of two young Sydney women. The body of Rachel Starr, 21, was found in a car at the scene of a motor vehicle accident. Later investigation determined that Ms Starr was dead prior to the accident. Ms Starr, an Arts student who worked as a part-time model for several Sydney art schools, was last seen by her partner on the evening of 9 June when she set off for a job.

Last week, the body of 23-year-old Marie-Louise Palier, a risk analyst with Beckie & Griffin Associates, was found washed up on Maroubra Beach, south of the notorious suicide spot at The Gap. Police have confirmed similarities linking it to the earlier death of Rachel Starr and are treating both deaths as suspicious. Police are continuing their enquiries.’

Gemma wondered what new information Angie might be able to share after the pathologist had spoken to the team. No doubt she’d hear all about it tomorrow.

With the report was the photograph of a scholarly looking man with a beard and glasses. Gemma read the caption.

‘“The type of obliteration of the person’s identity seen on these victims,” forensic psychiatrist Dr Jeremy Hungerford said, “can suggest at least two explanations. First, the blitzkrieg type of attack suggests that the perpetrator is inexperienced in what it takes to kill someone, so that overkill takes place, resulting in far too many violent blows to ensure death. The other possibility is that the victim was known to the killer.”’

She picked up the phone to call her sister Kit, who lived two beaches south of Phoenix Bay. Gemma hoped that Kit’s expertise as a bioenergetic psychotherapist might help her prepare for the meeting with Angie. From her small cottage beside the coastal walk, walled off from the southerly wind, Kit worked at freeing up people’s constricted bodies as well as their minds.

‘Morning, Kittycat,’ Gemma greeted her sister when she answered. ‘Have you got a minute?’

‘Hi, Gems. How are you? And how is my divine nephew?’

‘We’re both really good. Your divine nephew is settling into daycare and I’m wishing that I could sleep about twenty hours straight!’ She paused before adding, ‘Can you put your psychology hat on for a moment? What can you tell me about violent attacks on women where the face is totally destroyed?’ Gemma read out the lines from the psychiatrist’s brief comments.

‘Hatred,’ her sister said, after a moment’s reflection. ‘Hatred and rage and the desire to wipe someone off the face of the earth – like in the Stalinist era, where images of “non persons” were removed from records and photographs. That’s self-evident. But more than that, just as the psychiatrist said, it can often indicate that the victim and killer knew each other, possibly they were romantically involved at one stage. Do you remember that case where two women sleeping in a double bunk in a caravan were murdered by a man who leaned through the window with a tomahawk? One girl sustained a fatal hit across the forehead, and the other girl’s face was pretty much obliterated. It turned out that the killer was a vengeful ex-lover of the second girl. He had no axe to grind – pardon the pun – with the first girl, he just wanted her out of the way while he went to town on his ex.’

‘That’s right,’ said Gemma, slowly nodding. ‘It’s coming back to me. That was about ten, twelve years ago? Bathurst, Orange or somewhere?’

‘Yes, that’s right. So I’d be looking through the past boyfriends. I guess the police will be checking out past connections?’ Kit asked as Gemma heard the buzzer outside her security grille.

‘Gotta go. My ten o’clock appointment has arrived. I’ll pass on your thoughts to Angie – they confirm what the shrink was saying. Come over and see us this week? I’ll ask Angie too. No doubt she’ll want to talk with you.’

The buzzer sounded again. Delphine Tolmacheff, right on time.

Gemma opened the front door. ‘Please come in, Mrs Tolmacheff. Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said, stepping back to allow the tall, elegantly dressed woman to come inside. Gemma glimpsed a sporty red Audi parked on the road above.

As Gemma ushered her into the office, Delphine Tolmacheff hesitated then walked in, looked around and sat on the small armchair Gemma indicated. A gaunt, once beautiful woman whose fine bones, sleek hairstyle, designer suit and crocodile-skin briefcase all spoke of class and money, Delphine sat anxiously on the edge of the chair, clutching the briefcase to her breast. Gemma sat in another armchair beside rather than behind the desk.

Delphine Tolmacheff hunched over with downcast eyes, raising her head only when Gemma started asking for her details – address, more contact numbers. Gemma put down her pen. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Tolmacheff?’

There was a pause. ‘It’s my husband. I think—’ Delphine started to say. Then she compressed her lips until they disappeared, holding back the tears. And something else. Gemma sensed a concentrated anger, an internal pressure.

A case for her Mandate service, Gemma wondered? Mandate offered clients the chance to gather evidence about suspected infidelity on the part of their spouse or lover, and occasionally the whereabouts of runaway children. The work was hard and boring, demanding long hours of surveillance – following targets, sitting in her car watching cafes, motels, workplaces and houses, gathering evidence, getting it on video, compiling a dossier of infidelity or misbehaviour, until her clients had everything they needed to prove their case. Sometimes they would deny her findings, refuse to believe the evidence, and construct elaborate defences and rationalisations instead, to explain away the compromising situation.

Gemma remained silent, waiting for the woman to speak again.

‘I married – fairly recently – about ten months ago,’ she said finally. ‘I met my husband on a dating website eighteen months ago. We had a long electronic courtship – emails and chat lines – before we physically met. During that time I spent a lot of money on a new wardrobe and even a facelift—’ she indicated her face ‘—at the most expensive cosmetic surgery hospital in town – Sapphire Springs Spa … total luxury – except for the mosquitoes!’

Gemma raised an eyebrow in surprise at Delphine’s mention of the well-known resort. A journalist she knew, Janet Chancy, was staying at the spa right now, researching and writing a piece on the services offered there, but mostly she was trying to get a story about the revolutionary therapy the clinic was using on its facelift clients, DNA Accelerated Healing or DiNAH. It was rumoured to have dramatically improved the treatment of post-operative patients, with greatly reduced bruising, infection rates and other potential hazards.

‘You know the place?’ asked Delphine, noticing Gemma’s expression of recognition.

‘I’ve heard about their new DiNAH therapy.’

‘I didn’t have DiNAH,’ replied Delphine quickly. ‘It was too expensive. I heard a lot about it there, though. It’s part of the new wave of personalised therapies, tailored to each individual. No more one-size-fits-all. They use the clients’ own DNA to speed up recovery times. There’s also some hugely expensive growth factor serum developed by a Russian from embryonic tissue. Did you know that embryos don’t scar? They heal perfectly. Anyway, I bumped into an old friend, Magda Simmonds, who’d had DiNAH and she looked marvellous. She didn’t have that facelift look at all. I had a dreadful time with bruising and scarring. But she’d sailed through the whole process, she said, although it cost her as much as a house in Sydney.’

Gemma focused on the woman’s face. The skin on Mrs Tolmacheff’s neck and arms was that of a woman in her late fifties whereas her face looked twenty years younger.

‘This was my husband’s profile on the dating site,’ Delphine said, pulling a print-out from her briefcase. ‘This is what hooked me. Read it and you’ll see why.’

Gemma took it and started to read: ‘Fit, active, financially independent and sophisticated European gent, well travelled and educated, seeking soul mate. Could it be you? Are you someone who understands the importance of tenderness and fidelity? Here’s what I love: romantic dinners by candlelight, champagne, quality lovemaking (no one-night stands, thanks), intimate soul-searching conversations, great music, reading and discussing literature. (I’m a frustrated novelist!) The woman I’m seeking is someone I wish I’d met twenty years ago, someone who has made her own way in the world and is now looking for a mature and loving relationship, someone with the capacity to inspire me, be my muse – maybe I’ll finally get to write my novel. If you’re this woman, and don’t have any objections to marriage – if that’s how it turns out – with a stable, loving and discerning man, I urge you to contact me.’

Gemma scanned it once more. He sure ticked every box, she thought. Very clever.

‘Go on,’ she encouraged gently.

‘It took me some time to realise that my new husband’s lavish lifestyle was funded by huge debts. At first, I believed him when he told me he had a problem with liquidity – that he was waiting for a couple of very valuable properties to be sold and that was taking time because of the slowdown in the property market …’

She looked away. She’s ashamed, Gemma realised.

‘I offered him a loan – quite a large one; I was happy to – just to tide him over until the properties were sold.’ Turning back, her liquid eyes pleaded from her strained face. ‘After all, he was my husband. And eventually the properties would be sold, or so I thought. Months later I found out there wouldn’t be any money coming from the properties. They both sold at a loss with huge unpaid mortgages, leaving even more debt.’ Delphine looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

‘It wasn’t too long before I realised that he’d married me for my money,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll never see the money I loaned him again.’

‘There are legal avenues you could pursue,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m not sure I’m the one to advise you on this. You should talk to a solicitor. Or the police.’

Delphine Tolmacheff shook her head. ‘I’ve already written off the money. I don’t have the energy for a court case over it. The thing is, Miss Lincoln—’

‘Gemma – please.’

‘Gemma. I still can’t believe it. That I’ve been taken in by a crook. I’ve built up and managed a successful business; I’ve worked in very responsible and highly paid corporate positions; I thought I was astute and discriminating … I can’t believe what’s happened to me. I now discover he’s been married twice before. He lied to me. He told me he’d never been married.’

She made a small, choking sound, clearly biting back grief, tears, pain and anger.

‘Take your time,’ Gemma said, gently pushing a box of tissues on the desk towards Delphine, who leaned forward to take one, seemingly grateful for the small distraction.

‘And now, on top of everything, he’s having an affair,’ she blurted.

Gemma frowned. If Delphine knew that already, what did she want with Mandate? She strained to hear as Delphine’s voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Miss Lincoln. Gemma. It’s not just the money and the affair. It’s much worse than that. Much, much worse.’

She gathered herself, flipped the briefcase open and drew out a large manila folder. Placing the briefcase on the floor, she opened the folder and pulled out two documents, which she placed on the desk.

‘Please take a look at these.’

Gemma picked up the first one. It was a photocopy of an insurance policy for Angelo Tolmacheff dated two months ago. ‘Your husband?’ she asked.

Delphine nodded.

Gemma quickly flicked through the pages, noticing that the policy guaranteed a two million dollar payout in the event of Angelo Tolmacheff’s death.

‘Angelo insisted on taking out insurance cover just after we married,’ Delphine explained, her voice bitter, ‘so that I would be cared for in the event of his death. It was another of his grand gestures. I was very touched at the time. But look at it. The name of the beneficiary. The money goes to some other woman!’

Gemma read the name on the policy: Adel Milani.

Before she could ask anything more, Delphine spoke. ‘The last time I saw this policy, my name was there. Now I find it’s been changed to this other woman!’ She almost choked on the last two words. ‘And still it gets worse. Look at the second policy.’

Gemma studied the other document, her eyes widening at the name of the beneficiary. In the event of the accidental death of his wife, Angelo Tolmacheff would receive three million dollars.

‘It’s an accident-only policy,’ said Delphine. ‘No need for me to be medically examined – that way, he could keep it all under wraps. And look at the name of the insurance company. It’s not one of the usual companies. These people specialise in big payouts but the downside is the atrociously large premiums the policies demand. That’s what he must have done with the money I loaned him – made the first of the premiums on this policy. Knowing that there wouldn’t be too many more falling due before he … before I …’ Her voice trailed off.

Gemma looked up at the woman opposite her. ‘How did you get hold of these?’ she asked.

‘Angelo left his briefcase on the dining table one morning while he was involved in a long phone conversation in the kitchen. I looked through it, trying to find out more about the two properties he had up for sale. I came upon these – he’d had them posted to his office at Edgecliff, which is why I hadn’t seen them come to the house – and I raced into the study and photocopied them, all the time listening to his voice in the kitchen, terrified he’d come in and find me doing it. I almost got caught but I put them back into his briefcase just in time.’

‘And he doesn’t know you’ve seen them?’ Gemma asked, tapping the papers.

Delphine shook her head.

‘Do you know anything about this Adel Milani?’

Again, Delphine shook her head, this time more vehemently. ‘It came as a terrible shock to see that name where mine used to be. First he replaces me with her on his insurance policy. Then he takes out a new policy on me.’ She clutched the tissue in her hand, knuckles whitening. ‘I’m worth three million dollars to him when I’m dead. Gemma, I can’t help but think the worst. That’s why I’m here.’ She took a deep breath and sat up straight. ‘My husband is planning to kill me.’

Gemma thought for a moment as she noted down the name of the insurance company. ‘Apart from these documents,’ she said, ‘has anything else happened to make you believe that? Has he said anything? Done anything?’

‘He wants to take me hiking in the high country,’ she said. ‘He’s never shown the slightest interest in hiking or camping. Now suddenly, he’s keen for us to go. He hasn’t wanted to spend any time with me since our honeymoon, and even then he was always wandering off, discussing business on the phone with his partners.’

‘Partners?’

Delphine shrugged. ‘That’s what he calls them. Some kind of businessmen. They often call him. From what I can gather, they’re involved in running medical centres. He doesn’t discuss his business matters with me.’ Delphine dabbed her eyes, straightened her shoulders and drew herself together. ‘I think they’re all crooks,’ she added.

Gemma put the documents back on her desk and looked closely at Delphine.

‘Gemma, I don’t know what to do. I have no proof. No crime has been committed. How can I convince the police that I’m not just suspicious? My solicitor has suggested that I leave a detailed note with him and also with a trusted friend. He also wants me to check Angelo’s diary to see if I can find out if he’ll be away for a day or more so that I can organise some removalists to put everything valuable into storage. And he thinks I should be using some sort of bug on his phone. But my husband has no need to discuss my murder with anybody. That is something he can do all by himself. I’m sure—’ Her voice faltered. ‘I’m sure his plan is for me to have an accident while we’re hiking. He’s a very strong man, my husband. And the high country that he’s chosen is full of cliffs and fast-flowing rivers. I’m not young. I’m not particularly strong. I would be no match for him. Gemma, can you help me? I’m supposed to be going away with him in two weeks’ time.’

Gemma stood up and walked to the window, standing with her back against it, arms folded, regarding the woman sitting in front of her. Her case was like witch-ducking: if Delphine fell to her death, she would be proved right about her husband’s criminal intent.

‘You should move out right now,’ Gemma said decisively. ‘And make sure he doesn’t know where you’re going.’

‘But my husband is a very dangerous man. I’m scared that if I do anything to cause him to suspect that I know what he’s planning, things could become extremely dangerous. If he suspects that I suspect …’

‘You must do everything you can to ensure your safety. No hiking, no trips away with him. And you must find out how you can have that insurance policy cancelled. If your instincts tell you he’s planning to murder you, you need to protect yourself.

‘I’d like to help you,’ continued Gemma, ‘but there’s not much I can do except advise you to move out – fast. And try to get access to his computer, to read his emails.’

Delphine shook her head. ‘I didn’t come here for advice. I’m here because as I said, I think he’s working with crooks and I believe he is involved in criminal activities.’

‘What exactly?’

‘That I can’t say. But someone like him, who can lie and cheat so smoothly at the personal level, and present himself as someone he is not, and is planning to make money out of me by murdering …’

Gemma realised where Delphine was going. ‘You’re thinking such a person would be equally ruthless and criminal in his business life?’

Delphine nodded. ‘Exactly.’

‘So you want me to watch him. To catch him out in something criminal?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Delphine said with gratitude. ‘I’ve already talked to the police about it, and although they were very sympathetic there’s not really anything they can do until there’s a crime. Which won’t help me when I’m dead. The detective I spoke with suggested I should warn my husband that I’d left letters with my solicitor and the insurer to the effect that if anything happened to me, he should be regarded as my killer.’

Gemma nodded. ‘Yes, I’d suggest that too.’

‘But that means confronting my husband, and my fear is if I do that, he’ll simply bring his plans forward. It wouldn’t be hard for me to drown in the swimming pool, for instance … or break my neck on the staircase at my house. Marble floors are very unyielding.’

She paused, her large eyes now dry and fierce, and drew a long envelope out of her briefcase.

‘I’ve written a statutory declaration about my situation. Please keep it for me in case I’m not successful … In the meantime, find out what you can about this Adel Milani. And any of my husband’s associates. Find out how this man I’ve married has been living so high – what his source of income was before I started paying for his lifestyle. I want to know where he got his money in the past – there’s no evidence of arrangements with banks or building societies. Believe me, I’ve been through everything. Including his office when he was away on a business trip recently. Here’s a copy of the key to that office,’ she said, taking out another, smaller envelope and passing it to Gemma, ‘with the address. Please find out what’s been going on with him.’ She stopped, her face was pale.

‘When I’ve got something on him, I can go back to the police. Surely he’ll be arrested and sent to jail? Then I’ll start to feel safe again. I just have to get him out of the picture. Out of my life. You’ve no idea what it’s been like for me, pretending I haven’t noticed anything. Fortunately, his ego is so huge that for the moment he has no reason to suspect that the rich fool he married …’

‘I’d like to talk about your case with a friend,’ said Gemma. ‘She’s a detective. And possibly also with my sister, who’s an experienced psychotherapist. Is that okay?’

Delphine nodded.

‘I’ll need his details – good recent photographs, date of birth, the places he goes to, the make, model and registration of his car. And any other contacts or addresses that you know about where he might visit.’

‘I brought these along,’ said Delphine, fishing out four photographs and handing them to Gemma.

They showed a middle-aged, darkly handsome man; with frown lines and narrowed eyes, Angelo Tolmacheff presented an intriguing face to the world. In all four photographs, despite the different surroundings – swimming pool, leaning on the railings of a yacht, sitting at a desk or standing near a building under construction – Tolmacheff’s expression remained the same: unsmiling, vigilant. Gemma filed the photos together with the written information Delphine had just given her in a folder and handed over a list of her fees. Delphine studied it for a few moments.

‘I’ll write a cheque right now,’ she said. ‘Please start on this job as soon as possible.’

Delphine’s life could well depend on this, thought Gemma, as she took the cheque. And she must also be careful, a little voice in her mind warned. This man is dangerous.

After Delphine Tolmacheff left, Gemma typed up her notes, underlining the points she would discuss with Angie.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her mobile.

‘Gemma?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Janet – Janet Chancy.’

‘Janet! I was just thinking about you—’

But Janet’s urgent voice cut her off. ‘Listen. I’m calling from Sapphire Springs Spa. But I might not be able to talk very long. My phone battery’s about to die and I don’t want to use a line from here. I’ve stumbled on something enormous here – something so huge, so unbelieveable, so, so—’

‘About DiNAH therapy?’

‘You know about that? Good, then I don’t have to waste time explaining—’ Janet’s voice faded then came back. ‘I know how it’s done,’ she said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’ve got to see you. I can’t talk now. Too many people around. You have no idea what’s going on here. It’s the scoop of a lifetime. DiNAH – it’s not what people think. I managed to get into the medical supercentre and – oh, it’s unbelievable! Look, I have to go but I’m coming straight to your place when I leave here. Then we can plan what to do next.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes, yes. You’ll understand why when I tell you.’ Her voice dropped. ‘It’s just too shocking—’ The phone cut out.

Gemma leaned back in her chair, puzzled. Why had Janet rung her? They weren’t close friends. Why not her newspaper, a classic hold-the-front-page phone call? Why would she want to talk about her discovery with a private investigator? What were she and Janet supposed to do? Gemma wondered. Raise some kind of philosophical debate?

She knew that many researchers were questioning the ethical position of the scientific team that had perfected the DiNAH therapy because they were in the process of patenting the revolutionary breakthrough so that they would receive all the royalties. Most in the local scientific community argued that this treatment should be made available around the world, where its use, especially in developing countries, could reduce post-operative infection rates and cut down the duration of hospital stays. There was already talk of legal action and demands for peer review before DiNAH could be patented. If Janet had new information about this therapy, it should be published immediately. So why did she call me? Gemma asked herself again.

She reached for her phone and called Lance at Paradigm Laboratories, whose services she used whenever she needed to fast-track scientific assays or DNA profiling.

‘Good to hear from you, Gemma. What’s up?’

‘What do you know about this DiNAH therapy – the accelerated healing process?’

‘Funny you should mention it. I was talking to a colleague about it the other day. It uses the patient’s own DNA to formulate their medication. And this powerful new growth factor. A Russian, Dr Benjamin Popowitz, is the name in the area of enhanced growth factors. Did you know that a foetus that has been subjected to injury or surgery in utero heals without scarring?’

‘Only because a client told me a little while ago. But that’s all I know. How come?’

‘Developing embryos have enhanced levels of something called transforming growth factors – TGFs. And some of our organs have something called immune privilege. They’re protected from attack by the immune system. Popowitz has been working on that too. But that’s more relevant in organ transplants.’

‘And that’s what they’re using with DiNAH therapy? Dr Popowitz’s enhanced TGFs?’

‘That plus the client’s own DNA, which apparently creates a powerful healing response. It hasn’t been peer reviewed yet. Very much under wraps.’

‘I can imagine what sort of money fast, scarless healing might be worth,’ Gemma said. ‘It would be a huge advancement in medicine.’

‘That’s right,’ Lance said. ‘Healing is an immensely complex issue with lots of different proteins involved – for instance, there are eight different types of growth factors, for a start. I can send you a paper on it if you like.’

‘Thanks, Lance. Maybe some other time.’ She smiled, ringing off. She turned to her laptop and Googled socialite Magda Simmonds, searching for images. There were plenty. Most showed an elegant, handsome woman in her sixties posing with politicians and charity workers. The photograph accompanying a piece written by Janet Chancy, ‘Sydney Socialite: Advanced Therapy Breakthrough in Facelift Secret: Wedding date revealed!’ from almost a year ago, showed a completely transformed Simmonds. Radiant and rejuvenated, her face shone from the photograph, looking like a woman in her mid thirties, glossy hair piled around her unlined face, her jawline firm and youthful. If this was what Dr Popowitz’s growth factors could do with a facelift, Gemma thought, no wonder there was such excitement about it.

The final paragraph reported that actress Harlow Hadley, a big name in the 1960s and now aged in her seventies, was rumoured to be the next well-known personality to use the therapy.

Mike was sitting at the dining table eating his breakfast of scrambled eggs when Gemma walked into the living room.

‘So, what’s been going on this morning?’ he asked.

She told him of Janet Chancy’s unexpected phone call and about Delphine Tolmacheff’s predicament.

Mike frowned. ‘That’s bad,’ he said. ‘If you want my help with this, I can always spend a couple of hours watching him. Or trying to get a lead on his fancy woman. I’m taking my car over for registration first up,’ he said, pushing his chair out. ‘Then I’ve got a couple of insurance people to check on. I’ll see what I can dig up on Mr Tolmacheff. It sounds like he’s the kind of guy who might already have a record. I’ve got a few favours I can call in.’

‘Thanks, but I really think I should do this one myself. I promise I’ll pace myself, just take on simple jobs. That’s the theory, anyway.’

Mike’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Simple jobs, eh?’

‘That’s right, I have to keep things simple. No jobs that are going to get me into trouble. Just checking people out, that’s all. Thrashing ideas around with Angie. But nothing dangerous.’

‘Are you sure you can handle all this right now, Gemma? Running a business? Caring for Rafi? Making time for us?’

Gemma looked into Mike’s eyes, noting the slight frown as he stood up.

‘Of course,’ she said, putting her arms around him. ‘Multitasking. It’s my forte.’ She kissed him and then headed back to her office, where she started to work on the Tolmacheff case, half listening for Janet Chancy’s arrival.

It was well after two o’clock and Janet still hadn’t turned up. Gemma finally called the newspaper, thinking that perhaps she had changed her mind and gone straight to work. No, she wasn’t at her desk, said a colleague. She could be having a day off?

Gemma left a message for Janet to contact her urgently.

CHAPTER 3

With Delphine Tolmacheff’s details about her dubious husband packed in her briefcase, Gemma headed for Edgecliff. She aimed to spend a little time checking out the building where Angelo Tolmacheff worked. She’d already made several phone calls trying to find out more about him, without any tangible results. Gemma hoped to pick him up as he left his office, or get lucky and observe a meeting with his colleagues.

She used her car’s two-way radio for the first time in months to call up Spinner. She decided it was still more secure than calling on a mobile. He answered on the second ring. ‘Hey, boss! Good to hear from you.’

Gemma smiled. ‘What’s with the “boss” word, Spinner? The days when I could afford to pay you are long gone. How’s it going?’

‘I’m managing okay. And you know it’s just a matter of time before I’m back on your payroll again,’ he said, and Gemma imagined his wizened little ex-jockey’s face, with its earnest expression. Spinner was a natural surveillance operative; with an agile mind and body, he was always fully aware of his surroundings and noticed even the smallest changes that took place around him. All the qualities that had made him a great jockey before he got too heavy for the gallopers. ‘Things’ll pick up for you,’ Spinner was saying, ‘once you start working again. How’s my little godson?’ Spinner had talked her into attending a christening celebration in the hall of his rather strange church when Rafi was a couple of months old. There’d been a lot of splashing around in a warm water tub for Rafi, plus hymns and sandwiches.

In New South Head Road, Gemma changed lanes to turn into the Edgecliff Centre.

‘He’s perfect. Listen, Spinner, does the name Angelo Tolmacheff mean anything to you?’

‘Some sort of vodka? Can’t say it does, boss. Should I know him?’

‘No, but I’m about to make his acquaintance – for a new client. Gotta go,’ she said, ‘I’m almost there.’

‘Where is “there”?’ he asked.

‘The Edgecliff Centre. I’m trying to pick up a lead on the vodka guy.’

‘Give me the details,’ said Spinner. ‘I’ve got a job nearby, around Double Bay. You never know what I might see in passing.’

As she drove into the parking station, Gemma told him what she knew about Tolmacheff.

‘Send me his picture,’ said Spinner. ‘If I notice anything interesting, I’ll let you know.’ She was about to end the call when Spinner added, ‘I’m not sure if I should tell you this, but what the hell. I saw Steve recently. He didn’t look too good.’

Gemma’s heart twinged. ‘Oh?’ she said, trying to sound noncommittal. ‘Where was he?’

‘In a cafe at Phoenix Bay. With some chick. They weren’t getting on. Steve didn’t look happy at all.’

Some chick. ‘What did she look like?’ Gemma couldn’t help asking, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

‘Brown hair with streaks. High-heeled boots, tight red jumper. A real glamour. Could’ve been a working girl in working gear. You know Steve has to keep some colourful company sometimes.’

‘Very colourful,’ said Gemma. ‘Bye, Spinner.’

What if she wasn’t a working girl and part of Steve’s undercover life? The last Gemma had heard, he was on sick leave. What if this was Steve’s new girl?

Her heart ached. But it didn’t last long. As she parked the car she reminded herself that she now lived in a whole new world – a whole new life. Her life was with Mike and Rafi, Steve’s son.

She hurried to the lifts and stepped out on the first floor where she easily found the small office she was looking for – Satellite Imports & Promotions Pty Ltd. Pretending she was just passing by, Gemma peered through the lettering on the window and into the office but had to walk on quickly when the door suddenly opened. Risking a backwards glance, she saw a heavily built man striding away. Tolmacheff. She kept her distance as he walked into the lift and then she hurried to the stairs, listening for the lift as she raced to the ground floor. It didn’t stop, so she kept clattering down to the basement parking level just in time to see him. No doubt about it. It was Angelo and he was heading towards a dark blue Mercedes. Gemma hurried to her car, jumped in and activated the video camera mounted on her dashboard before she took off to follow the Mercedes up the ramp and onto the street.

She found him waiting at the traffic lights heading towards the city, and followed, leaving a couple of cars between them until they got to Broadway, along Parramatta Road then Ashfield and into the turning lane for the Liverpool highway.

The blue Mercedes turned, followed by the two cars between them, but the second car had already run the red light and Gemma was stuck, forced to watch as the Mercedes disappeared.

She spent fifteen minutes driving south-west, overtaking and straining to see distant cars, but Angelo and his Mercedes had vanished.

Gemma swore.

Despite having the key, it would be too risky to snoop around Tolmacheff’s office. There must be a way, she thought, to get close to him that wouldn’t make him suspicious. Maybe she could try for a ‘spontaneous’ conversation at one of the Centre’s cafes? She had a number of lines she’d used in the past when she was working on Mandate surveillance jobs. It shouldn’t be too hard.

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, Mike had been gone for an hour and Rafi safely delivered to daycare when Gemma tried Janet Chancy’s mobile number again, but could only leave another message. A call to the newspaper and a brief conversation with a worried colleague confirmed that Janet was still not home and had not contacted the office. ‘Maybe she met some hunk and stayed out all night,’ joked her colleague, but his laugh was uneasy. ‘At least I hope so,’ he added. ‘I’ve never known Janet not to call in.’

Gemma rang off, also feeling worried. Maybe she has met some hunk, Gemma thought. Some bad hunk. Before she could allow too many frightening scenarios to play out in her mind, however, she heard Angie’s voice calling outside. ‘Gem? Gemma! We’re here!’

When Gemma opened the front door she saw Angie – scrubbed and polished in her smart navy suit, briefcase in hand, auburn hair gleaming in a knot, looking every bit of her thirty-eight years – and a stunning beauty standing behind her: luminous eyes, perfectly shaped glossy lips, a straight nose, thick ash blonde hair like a mane and a slender figure. But most striking was her pallor, pale skin translucent against the ruby lip gloss.

‘This is Mischa,’ Angie said, ushering the young woman through the doorway. ‘Mischa Bloomfield. Mischa, this is Gemma Lincoln.’

‘Mischa, Angie, please come in,’ said Gemma. ‘No, not the office, come right through,’ she continued as she led them down the hallway, past the heavy door that connected her professional and private lives and into her living room. ‘I’ll put on some coffee. Make yourselves comfortable.’

When Gemma returned, Angie was perched on the edge of the sofa, her laptop on her knees, while Mischa sat awkwardly on the seat opposite, her long legs at an angle, adjusting the purple silk scarf around her neck, fiddling with the gold brooch shaped like a tiny arrow that fixed it at her shoulder.

‘It was my great-grandmother’s,’ said Mischa softly, noticing Gemma’s admiring glance.

‘It’s charming.’

Gemma set down a tray holding three steaming mugs, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, and there was a silence while they helped themselves. Gemma sat on the other large lounge chair, balancing her mug on its arm. On the other she placed her notebook and pen.

‘Mischa,’ said Angie, ‘let me reassure you. As I’ve mentioned to you, Gemma is my oldest and most trusted friend. We served together in the police years ago. Now Gemma runs a successful private security business and she is completely trustworthy.’

Angie sipped her coffee and then put it down, turning to Mischa again. ‘Can you tell Gemma exactly what you told me?’

Mischa shifted uncomfortably on her seat, seemingly unwilling to speak.

‘It sounds unbelievable,’ she finally whispered, fiddling nervously with the brooch.

‘Go on,’ said Angie gently. ‘Gemma will listen to you. It’s okay.’

‘I was at the club – Midnight Mirage – and I met this really well-dressed guy, Italian or foreign or something. Here’s his card,’ she said, passing it to Gemma.

‘I didn’t know you had that,’ said Angie. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Jacob Titov,’ Gemma read. ‘Managing Director, Satellite Imports & Promotions.’

She blinked at the name of the business and stood up. ‘Just excuse me for a minute. There’s a photograph I’d like Mischa to see.’

She returned with the photo of Angelo Tolmacheff and handed it to her. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

Mischa studied it for a second before shaking her head. ‘No. Who is he?’

Disappointed, Gemma took back the photo. ‘Someone who appears to work from the same office,’ she said, turning to Angie. ‘I met with a new client yesterday – a surveillance job. I saw the client’s husband come out of an office with this same company name.’

On the business card was a mobile phone number, which Gemma noted before handing the card over to Angie, who dialled it immediately. After a few moments, she shook her head. ‘Nothing doing here. It’s not working. Could be a dud number. I’ll get it checked later. We want to get hold of this Jacob Titov.’

‘You were saying,’ Gemma prompted, ‘about your experience with this fellow …’

‘He seemed really nice. He said he was scouting to find girls with a special look to launch a new Australian wine label at the spring racing carnival. And he said he had connections with the leading fashion houses and could get me introductions to the agencies. But it wasn’t just that – he knew a lot about the fashion business, and I didn’t get the feeling that he was trying to hit on me.’

Gemma didn’t look over at Angie, knowing what her expression would be – her ginger-coloured eyes trying not to roll heavenwards.

‘We talked for ages. He practically promised me the job. I told him that I’d have to organise some time off work – I work at a hotel in the city,’ she added, ‘as a hostess. I’m looking for another job, though. I don’t like the hours and I don’t like some of the regular customers there.’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Then,’ she continued, ‘he must have put something in my drinks – I only had two over a couple of hours. I felt myself fading in and out. I was really sleepy – I tried to keep my eyes open but it was impossible. I tried to get up but my legs wouldn’t hold me. And that’s when he – he kind of hauled me out of the place and took me somewhere, somewhere where there was one of those funny old-fashioned cage lifts. Like you see in European movies and in some really old city buildings. I think we were in a hotel.’

Gemma could see a slight tremor in the girl’s hands as she stared blankly ahead, reliving the experience.

‘Okay,’ said Gemma, thinking she could see where this was going – something in the drinks, dragged to a hotel room … waking up disoriented, in disarray, bruised and terrified. At least this girl had been left in the hotel; not a derelict squat or out in the open in a suburban park like some poor women.

‘Like I said, I was fading in and out. But I know what I saw,’ she said defiantly, looking from Angie to Gemma. ‘No matter how crazy it sounds. I was attacked by a—’

‘It’s okay, honey,’ Angie said.

‘I was attacked by a—’ She stopped again, glancing at Gemma. ‘At least that’s what I saw. The big guy had changed into this – this – vampire.’ She whispered the last word, closing her eyes and shuddering in horror at the memory.

The tremor in her body increased until she was shaking visibly and her face grew even paler. She’s back there, Gemma thought, reliving it. Forget about the vampire bit. Something happened. Something really bad.

‘I know it sounds crazy and impossible, but that’s what happened.’ With shaking hands, she pulled the scarf down from her neck and moved closer to Gemma. ‘He came at me with these frightening teeth – just like you see in the vampire movies. I was frozen; I couldn’t move my body, couldn’t turn my head away, couldn’t even scream. It was like a nightmare. But don’t tell me it was some dream or hallucination because of the drug he’d given me. It was real. And I’ve got this to show for it. Look.’

Mischa moved even closer, baring the side of her long white neck. Gemma could see a bruise surrounding a tiny blue-black puncture mark.

‘Nasty,’ she said, thinking the girl must have been reading too much of the Twilight series.

Mischa pulled the scarf back up to hide the ugly blemish.

‘I saw something else in his hand but I couldn’t make out what it was. I thought it was a knife – something thin and shiny. I was terrified. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream.’

She shuddered, briefly covering her face with her hands. ‘And later I saw this—’ she indicated the wound on her neck ‘—and now I feel infected. Diseased,’ she whispered, taking her hands away.

‘Mischa, could the object you saw in his hand have been a syringe?’ Gemma asked. ‘That injury looks to me like a needlestick.’

‘It could have been. I tried to tell the people at the hotel when I woke up what had happened. They told me to call the police. I did and the first cop I spoke to just laughed at me.’ She started crying, sobbing into the tissue that Angie passed to her. Clever move, Gemma thought, wearing vampire teeth. Of course the cops would laugh. Just another bad trip.

‘Honey,’ said Angie, ‘I’m sorry about that, but don’t let the boofheads get you down. Hell, I have to work with them every day. I know how dumb they can be. It’s just such an outrageous assault – so different. They know how to deal with a run-of-the-mill, spiked-drink date-rape story. Anything different, well, it taxes them. And you’ve got to admit, a vampire attack is somewhat different.’

‘What if he’s injected me with something – like HIV or some other awful thing?’ Mischa’s face was a mask of terror. ‘My neck is aching. I’m so scared.’

Her fingers pressed against the scarf covering the puncture mark and tears welled again in her eyes, spilling over onto her long lashes.

‘The doctor will get back to you on that,’ said Angie, placing a hand on her arm and turning to Gemma. ‘There were traces of Clonazepam in the urine test. It’s an anti-convulsant, and it’s been implicated in other DFSAs.’

‘Other whats?’ Gemma asked.

‘Oh, sorry. Drug-facilitated sexual assaults. Rohypnol used to be the date rapist’s drug of choice, but it now has an additive that turns drinks a weird colour if it’s used as a spiking drug. So Clonazepam is starting to show up. It doesn’t alter the appearance of the drink and is virtually tasteless. It’s a powerful sedative, and mixed with alcohol its effects become even stronger. It has a lot of nasty effects like depression, memory loss and extreme drowsiness.’

‘Any chance you could have run into this man before?’ asked Gemma. ‘Maybe he was a customer at the hotel where you work?’

Mischa shook her head. ‘I’d never seen him before in my life. But I’ll never forget him. He has a strange, dark birthmark like a smeared mole just beneath his left eye. My mum says it’s where the devil touched him,’ she whispered.

Then she sat wide-eyed and vigilant, listening intently as Angie told Gemma what the police had discovered so far. ‘We know he used a credit card at the hotel to the account of Access Media Promotions. The signature was illegible. We had a look at this and it turns out Access Media Promotions is a small company in a complicated mess of companies whose principals we’re currently tracking to find out who might really be in charge. There hasn’t been any action on the credit card for a while apart from the hotel, according to the card centre. So, I’m not sure how helpful that line of investigation is going to be.’ Angie turned her attention back to Mischa, patting her arm. ‘The doctor will contact you again soon, Mischa, but in the meantime, try not to worry too much.’

The young woman looked at her in disbelief.

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ she asked. ‘I can’t think of anything else! I can still see him – that horrible face – the fangs. It’s disgusting.’

‘Can you recall any other details about the assault?’ Gemma asked after a judicious pause. ‘Anything at all – it doesn’t matter how small or insignificant it might seem.’

‘There is something else. It feels really creepy now. It didn’t when he was talking to me. But he kept going on about my colouring, how good it was, how perfect it was for the photography session he wanted to do for the wine label. He had some kind of photographers’ colour chart, because the models he wanted to use had to represent different skin tones from really dark to very fair – I wasn’t too sure what he meant by that. I hate to think about it. I go back over it now and think he was just looking at me like some object; like the champagne label.’

The three sat in silence for a few moments.

‘Gemma has lots of useful contacts,’ said Angie finally. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind asking around to find out if anyone knows anything about this man.’

‘I’m happy to chase down any information about him, Mischa,’ said Gemma, ‘and I’ll pass it on to Angie. I’ll check out Satellite Imports too, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Mischa whispered.

‘One more thing, Mischa,’ said Angie. ‘I’d like to run a piece in the press about the attack on you. This clown showed a lot of ease and practice in his manner of approach. I feel sure there have been other similar attacks, but I can understand why someone wouldn’t want to talk about them. If we organised for a story in the press – no names, of course – it might make other women more willing to come forward. I know a journalist who’d be happy to help out with a piece like that.’

‘Janet Chancy?’ Gemma asked.

Angie nodded.

‘Then you’ll have to find her first. I’ve been trying to contact her. No luck.’

‘I’ll see if I can do any better,’ said Angie, standing up. ‘Let’s run you home now, Mischa.’ As Mischa stood and self-consciously adjusted the scarf covering her neck, Angie turned to Gemma and spoke quietly. ‘I’ll come back. Any chance Kit might come over? There are a couple of things I’d like to talk over with you girls.’

‘I’ll ask her.’

As Gemma opened the front door, Mischa paused and turned to her, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Thank you for believing me. Something terrible happened and I want to know what it was. I want to know why it happened. And I want to know who did this.’

CHAPTER 5

Later that day, Angie returned alone and they settled on the couch.

‘So, what did you make of Mischa’s story, Gemster?’

‘I’m not sure, except that she was attacked by someone who for some reason likes to wear vampire teeth. To make it easy not to believe the victim, I suppose. What do you make of it?’

‘I’m not sure either. I’ve never come across anything quite like this. There’s only one puncture mark.’

‘And … a real vampire should leave two?’ joked Gemma.

‘Just thinking out loud, smartypants. She is a gorgeous looking girl, isn’t she?’

‘Sure is.’

‘You know she’s already had plastic surgery? She told me all about it in the car. She said everybody’s doing it now.’

‘But, Angie, she only looks about seventeen!’

‘It’s true. She spent a few days out at Sapphire Springs, “touching up” she told me. She thought her nose wasn’t quite perfect.’

Gemma heard Kit at the door and let her in, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. With her dark hair swept back from her oval face and her pale skin she looked like their mother; the opposite of Gemma’s tawniness. She greeted Angie and made herself comfortable in an armchair while Gemma made coffee for the three of them and brought it in with a plate of biscuits.

As Angie briefed her about Mischa, Kit listened without interruption, frowning in concentration.

‘Vampire teeth? Puncture marks?’

‘Puncture mark,’ said Angie. ‘Only one. What do you think might have been going on, Kit?’

‘Something injected?’ Gemma suggested. ‘Or taken out?’

Kit thought for a while. ‘It’s a big production. And I’m not just talking about the teeth. This girl is really groomed. Lots of bait put out about champagne labels and racing carnivals. The photographic colour chart, hours of chatting, a hotel room booked, the vampire-teeth routine. It’s not just some random assault in a dark alley. This is a full production, smooth and polished. He’s done it before.’

She put her coffee mug down and reached for a biscuit.

‘I think he’s a humorist,’ said Kit after a thoughtful pause. ‘A jokester. He’s doing a job of some sort … but he likes to dress it up a lot. He likes to use props.’

‘There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Kit,’ said Angie. ‘Yesterday we had a briefing from the senior pathologist Ted Ackland and I’ve copied the crime-scene footage onto my laptop. I need your assessment. But before we look at it, I’ll give you the run-down on the cases.’

Gemma grabbed her notebook as Angie continued. ‘Rachel Starr, the first victim, was studying for an Arts degree at Sydney Uni and working as a part-time artist’s model. According to her friends, she was a diligent student and popular in her circle. She had a reputation as a very good life model, punctual and reliable. She worked hard and earned enough money to pay for most of her university expenses.’

‘I read that she was killed in a car crash,’ said Kit, ‘but the suggestion was that she was dead prior to that.’

‘Ted Ackland called me after he’d done the post-mortem. He said there’d been no vital reactions to the injuries caused by the car crash and she’d been dead for some time prior to the crash. Within minutes of an injury to a living body, there are changes as enzymes and proteins rally to start the healing process. No such changes were found at autopsy.’

‘So, someone killed her,’ Gemma said, ‘then went to the trouble of putting her in a car and then crashing it. Why?’

‘Good question. I was hoping you could help me out with that, Kit?’

‘I don’t have any quick answers, Angie,’ said Kit, shrugging. ‘Your instincts are usually sound. Do you think someone in the life-drawing classes might have targeted her? And then set up the car crash to cover their tracks?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ said Angie. ‘We’ll be talking to the teachers at the art schools – she worked at three different places – and chasing up anyone they might have noticed taking more interest in the model than is strictly necessary for drawing purposes. The car she was found in had been stolen a couple of days prior to the incident.’

‘Boyfriend?’ Gemma asked.

‘Girlfriend,’ said Angie. ‘At this stage, she’s not a suspect. She dropped Rachel off at the inner-city art school where her first job was, and then went on to her own job – night shift at a nursing home. She was at work all night and her alibi is tight. She became worried when she got home at about half-past seven in the morning to find that Rachel wasn’t there. We contacted the art school, and they confirmed that Rachel worked there from seven-thirty to nine o’clock. After that she was supposed to walk to her next job – only a few blocks down from Oxford Street. She never arrived. The local residents have been interviewed and nobody heard or saw anything. There’s a Seven-Eleven on the corner just before the place she was heading for, and their CCTV security video shows Rachel walking confidently east down the street towards the art school, which was about 175 metres away. And that’s the last time she was seen alive. Then she’s found smashed up in a head-on collision with the stone walls of a quarry fifty kilometres from the CBD.’

‘What sort of trace evidence did you get from the car?’ asked Gemma, scribbling in her notebook.

‘Julie Cooper did that job. The report from the analysis was a big fat zero.’

Gemma stiffened at Julie Cooper’s name. The young police officer had been briefly engaged to Steve after he and Gemma broke up last year. The sound of her name still stung. If Julie hadn’t lied about being pregnant, Gemma thought, there’d have been no engagement. And maybe …

Angie continued, ‘I think “forensically stripped” was the term the analyst used.’

These words brought Gemma’s mind back to the job. ‘Forensically stripped?’

‘That’s right. It was as if the body and the clothing had been put through a washing machine. The only DNA they got was Rachel Starr’s.’

‘So, he really cleans up after himself,’ Gemma said.

‘Ted says he hasn’t released all the information from his report yet. But he’ll tell me more when I go and see him.’

After a pause, Gemma added, ‘We’ll have to talk to Rachel’s family and friends too.’

Angie leaned forward, grinning. ‘Gemster, I love it when you talk about “we”. I can feel my workload easing already. Family and friends have been interviewed. I can tell you now that we didn’t uncover anything that throws any light on Rachel’s murder. So, I was thinking along the lines of a jealous student discovering that the object of their artistic infatuation would never be interested in them. That was until Marie-Louise Palier was found washed up on a beach with similar pelvis and head injuries. Her handbag and shoes were found at the top of the cliff nearby and it was presumed she’d jumped. Again, Ted Ackland came to the conclusion that she’d been dead before she jumped …’ Angie cleared her throat before continuing. ‘Sorry, that was a joke going round the Forensic Services team. Of course, it could be someone doing a copycat – killing first, then setting up a theatrical death scene – hoping that the first murderer will also pick up the tab for the second one.’

‘Or the same person, hoping to cover the original cause of death,’ Kit said.

‘And because of the time in the water,’ Gemma asked, ‘I guess there’s not much in the way of forensic information?’

‘Correct,’ said Angie, as Gemma added these details to her notes.

‘And the original cause of death in these two cases?’ Gemma continued, looking up again.

Angie referred to her laptop, perched on her knees. ‘Catastrophic head injuries,’ she said, ‘as well as massive damage to the lumbar areas. So, back to the story on the second murder. Marie-Louise left her office in George Street in the city at six-thirty. She met up with her boyfriend in a cafe at Bondi, had a coffee with him and then headed towards her apartment at North Bondi on foot about an hour later. That was about eight-thirty.’

‘And the boyfriend?’ asked Kit.

‘He went to the gym not far from the cafe and then home. He says he offered Marie-Louise a lift but she said she liked the walk. She disappeared somewhere between the cafe and her apartment about two kilometres away. There’s no evidence that she arrived home that night. The mail was still in the letterbox and the breakfast things were still in the sink. Like Rachel Starr, she just vanished off the street. Her bag and shoes were found hidden under some bushes near the cliff edge at The Gap. Nothing was missing. We did a re-enactment with a police woman wearing similar clothes, and several locals contacted us saying they’d seen Marie-Louise walking along Campbell Parade, but then she seems to have become invisible. Nobody saw her with anyone or getting into a cab or a car or onto a bus. The CCTV coverage doesn’t quite extend all the way to the turn-off to her street, so it’s no help in this instance.’

‘What about the boyfriend?’ asked Gemma. ‘He was the last person to see her alive.’

‘Mmm. I’m not sure about him. One of the reasons I’m telling you all this, Gemma, is because I’m hoping you’ll give me a hand with some of the follow-up. Unofficially, of course. Like a second informal interview with him. He might be more relaxed with you. He says he went to the gym, and a couple of people say they remember him being there but they’re not sure of the time.’

‘Okay. I wonder if he’ll talk to me,’ said Gemma, giving up all hope of easing slowly back into work.

‘Thanks, Gemma,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll send you his details and a copy of his statement when I get back to the office. I found him a difficult character. He was evasive and unhelpful. Maybe you’ll get something useful out of him.’

Angie turned her laptop around so Kit and Gemma could see it and brought up the crime-scene footage.

‘This is the first crime scene. Rachel Starr.’

She fast-forwarded through the establishing shots of the bushland near the quarry, long since overgrown and disused, finally pausing the screen on a stony cliff wall.

‘The quarry hasn’t been used for over twenty years. There’s still a road up there that’s passable. We’re looking at people who would know about its existence – forestry workers, anyone once employed at the quarry who might have had a connection to Rachel. The killer must have driven up there with her body in the car, then transferred her to the driver’s seat, wedged the accelerator and jumped out before it crashed into the stone walls.’

‘Dangerous way to set something up. What if he hadn’t got out in time?’ asked Gemma.

‘And that could be the reason why the killer – if it is the same killer – dropped the second body into the sea,’ said Angie, nodding. ‘A safer option. It also saved him the trouble of washing down everything.’

The camera panned closer to what looked like a pile of car parts and tyres in a corner of the quarry. Slowly, the pile revealed itself to be a crumpled car body, distorted out of all shape, one door hanging open. As the camera moved to the driver’s side, Gemma could not stop her gasp of horror at the state of what had once been a human head, now inextricably embedded in twisted wreckage, the upper body partly impaled on the steering column, the lower body invisibly wedged under the dashboard. Angie froze the screen. ‘Now I want you to have a look at Rachel Starr as she was.’

Gemma was pleased to avert her eyes from the horrible mess on the laptop screen to the photograph Angie passed her. Rachel Starr had been a delicately beautiful young woman, with refined features, a patrician nose, rosy skin and fine, fair hair. Gemma made herself look at the mashed-up flesh and bone on the screen again and then back at the photograph. The word that came to mind was ‘desecration’.

‘Sacrilege,’ said Kit, voicing her sister’s feelings. ‘The destruction of the temple. Whoever did this is destroying the female – her face, her beauty.’

‘The other one was horribly similar,’ said Angie, turning off the footage and opening another file. ‘Okay. Crime scene two. Marie-Louise Palier. I’ve got a few stills from that one. First, this was Marie-Louise before she washed up on the beach.’

Another beautiful girl gazed out serenely from her portrait. She was wearing her mortar board tilted at an impish angle, and holding the scroll of her degree, her evening dress glittering under the dark graduate robe; glossy chestnut-brown hair framed her face and her steady grey eyes shone through dark lashes.

‘Now take a look at these.’

Angie passed three photographs to Gemma, who studied them and then handed them to Kit. The first one showed an object lying at an angle at the water’s edge; the second photograph was closer and showed a woman’s body, dressed except for shoes; her head, oddly shaped, was turned away from the viewer.

Gemma stared unblinking at the third photograph and then silently passed it to Kit. This time it was Kit who gasped. ‘He’s done it again. Totally destroyed her. This guy is very, very dangerous.’

‘Until I saw these and realised they were almost identical,’ said Gemma, indicating the photographs on the screen, ‘I was playing with the idea that it was a copycat, but … these photographs have never been released, have they?’

‘No, nor have we said anything about the massive damage to the lower bodies of both these women.’

‘So no one could have known how to copy the first one,’ said Gemma, ‘except whoever did it.’

‘What exactly are the other injuries to the lower bodies?’ Kit asked, as Gemma lay the three photographs down on the coffee table. ‘You’d think that if he was destroying the woman he’d also attack other uniquely female parts, like breasts and the genital area? Is that what’s happened here?’

‘That’s the odd thing,’ said Angie. ‘And that’s what the pathologist and a lot of the senior police were saying: that when you get this sort of facial destruction, there’s often violence inflicted on other parts of the body. But in both cases, the women were fully dressed. We believe the killer had put the clothes back on the bodies, after cleaning them to remove all traces of foreign genetic material. Rachel even had one shoe still on. The pelvic injuries involve the hips rather than the genitals. In Marie-Louise’s case, there’d been some damage caused by fish, but not enough to account for the destruction of the head and the hip bones. And no signs of sexual interference.’

‘What are the chances that this was done by a woman?’ asked Gemma. ‘Who tried to make it look like sexual assaults?’

‘There’s always the chance,’ said Kit, ‘but statistically it’s unusual and I wouldn’t be backing it. But I suppose it’s possible – destroying the beauty of a hated rival as well as eliminating them from the competition.’

‘Any other leads?’ asked Gemma.

‘The fact I want to stress,’ said Angie, putting the photographs into an envelope and back in her briefcase, ‘is that in Rachel Starr’s case the massive injuries were inflicted sometime after death. Likewise, the medical evidence indicates that Marie-Louise’s head and pelvic injuries – not counting the post-mortem damage by fish – occurred hours after her death too. Because of the injuries to Rachel’s head and throat the actual cause of death hasn’t been properly determined – bludgeoning, strangulation. We just don’t know the finer points at this stage. Same thing with Marie-Louise.’

‘Do you think it was done to hide their identity?’ Kit asked.

Angie shook her head. ‘No. Rachel’s bag was in the wreckage near her body. Marie-Louise’s stuff was left at The Gap.’

‘Maybe he kills them first and then he gets scared so tries to destroy their identity,’ Gemma ventured. ‘If that’s the case, it certainly points to a personal relationship with the women.’

‘I’ve got a somewhat different take,’ said Kit. ‘Could it be that this killer is so passive when it comes to women that he can only attack them – I mean really attack them – when they’re dead?’

‘A bit like necrophilia – except in this case, he’s substituting homicide for … how can I put it … romance?’ Angie suggested in her driest manner, green eyes narrowed.

‘Something along those lines, yes. My guess is that he kills them in a really passive way – something toxic, some kind of poison, drugs them. Then when they’re dead, the raging attack takes place.’

Angie nodded slowly. ‘We’re still waiting for the toxicologist’s report for Marie-Louise Palier,’ she finally said, ‘but Rachel Starr’s autopsy didn’t turn up anything like poison. I’d better get out of here,’ she continued, stowing her laptop in her briefcase. ‘I’ve got so much work on my desk at the moment – I might as well stay there all night. Except I can’t.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got the sex workers meeting in a couple of hours.’

‘Angie is liaison officer with the sex-workers outreach group,’ Gemma explained to Kit, adding, ‘I’ll talk to Naomi, too. She’s running Baroque Occasions now, the brothel my old mate Shelley bought. Naomi always knows what’s going on in town, and if she doesn’t she has the network to find out.’

‘I’ve got loads of people to interview about the two dead women,’ said Angie, ‘second interviews with their families, friends and acquaintances, just in case they’ve remembered something. I’ll be calling on you for help, Gemster. What do you say? How about helping me with getting witness statements? They’d all have to be done officially by me or someone else on the team later, but you could help the interviewees get their facts marshalled?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s so long since I exercised my mind with a complicated case like this.’

‘I can pay you by doing a lot of overtime and quietly slipping something extra your way.’

‘Deal,’ said Gemma.

‘Good,’ said Angie, handing Gemma a list of contacts for Marie-Louise Palier. ‘So, what’s the grim smile all about?’

‘I thought I was going to work part time for a while. You know, start back slowly. Let Rafi and I both get used to the idea of leaving him at daycare. Then you come and tempt me.’

‘Crime never sleeps, Gems,’ Angie quoted, with her cheeky smile. ‘And it doesn’t work part time. Rachel Starr’s murder doesn’t strike me as a first attempt. With this sort of violence, the killer has to have committed previous serious assaults. Maybe he’s even responsible for earlier, unsolved murders. If we can find any physical evidence, I feel sure we’ll get a match from the Crimtrak database. This is not the behaviour of a newbie. Sonia at DAL suggested calling in the palynologist to see if he can get anything botanical from the clothes. So I’m doing that.’

Gemma walked with Kit and Angie to the door, then watched as they walked up the stone stairs that led to the road above. Just as she took the first step, Kit called back: ‘There’s always a reason for an obliterating attack. There’s always a logic to it. Find the reason and you’re over halfway to finding the killer.’

CHAPTER 6

Gemma collected Rafi from daycare and fed him a sandwich, then played with him on the rug in the living room. He giggled with pleasure, his plump starfish hands reaching out for her, grabbing strands of hair and yanking them. ‘Ouch!’ she cried, wincing and untangling the strands from his strong little fingers, while he shrieked with joy and bounced his fat, nappy-covered bottom on the rug before rolling over and breaking into a high-speed escape. He was recovering from his heartbreak at being left in the mornings at the daycare centre. Gemma wondered whether the wrench to him was as bad as the ache in her heart, as she turned her back on him and hurried away those first few mornings, to the sound of his distressed crying, ignoring the powerful, hard-wired impulse to run back and pick him up. His carer reassured her that he was settling in well.

With Rafi playing around her, she put on a load of washing and cleaned up in the kitchen, setting the table in the living room to be ready when Mike came home.

When she finally put Rafi to bed, he grizzled for a while, but the sounds became quieter and then finally there was silence. She sneaked in and looked at him lying on his back with his head turned a little towards the door, one hand near his face, the other stretched out. She kissed him softly.

She tiptoed out and walked onto the deck, breathing in the evening air, then jumped in fright as Taxi collided with her legs before racing inside. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’ she called after him.

Gemma peered into the darkness, uneasy. In the south-east the sky brooded, the line of the horizon and ocean indistinguishable. She shivered and went inside.

‘What’s wrong, Taxi?’

The cat was standing on the coffee table, fur erect, doubling his body size and tripling the girth of his tail into a furry bottlebrush. She hoped it was only a stray tom invading his territory and she looked out, restless and on edge.

Half an hour later she heard Mike come through the front door, and she felt relieved and pleased. When he walked into the living room she threw her arms around his neck in welcome.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said, kissing her. ‘I bought some takeaway from the Thai place you like.’

‘Thanks, Mike,’ she said. ‘After dinner I need to go out for a while. Would you listen for Rafi? He should be right for a few hours. There are a couple of things I’d like to do. I want to cruise past the Tolmacheff household; get a sense of the place, some SA.’

‘Situational awareness is a good idea, but a better one is spending the evening at home with me.’

Gemma looked contrite. ‘Tomorrow night? I need to catch up with Naomi at Baroque Occasions – see if any of the girls have heard anything about vampires in the city. The Tolmacheff house is on the way.’

‘Okay,’ said Mike, but she could see his disappointment. She knew he liked to have her company. Now he’d be spending most of the night on his own.

‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ she said, putting her arms around his neck again, kissing him again.

‘Hey! Come back here!’ He grinned as she disengaged, pulling her back to embrace her. ‘I’ll hold you to that promise,’ he said quietly.

After dinner Gemma jumped into her car, and with AC/DC thumping out she headed for the address that Delphine Tolmacheff had given her. Despite her intense love for Rafi, she felt refreshingly free driving alone in her car. She sang along with the band at full throttle, elated at once again being Gemma Lincoln, PI.

It took less than twenty minutes to reach Delphine Tolmacheff’s address in Bellevue Hill. The marital home stood well back from the road in one of the grand boulevards, a two-storey Tuscan-style villa, angled north-east, complete with a vine-covered colonnade wreathed with twinkling fairy lights that ran the length of the front terrace. The pergola continued at a right angle along the fence line.

Gemma parked across the road, switched the lights off, turned down Acka Dacka and settled back to watch. She got lucky almost immediately: headlights approached and one of the double garage doors at the end of the driveway next to the house started to open.

A few moments later, the same dark blue Mercedes she’d lost on the Liverpool highway swung in from the road and drove up the driveway, briefly illuminating Delphine’s Audi parked on the left-hand side of the garage.

Gemma got out and crossed the road. She was too far away to see or hear anything going on in the house, but noticed the lights going on downstairs.

She looked at her watch: 8.20 pm; time to head into the city to Naomi’s place before it got too busy.

Her mobile rang and she answered it, still watching the house.

When she heard his voice, a tremor went through her body and she leaned against the stone retaining wall of the Tolmacheff property. ‘Steve! What’s happened?’

‘I’ve got to see you. Where are you?’

‘What is it?’ At the sound of his urgent voice, she pushed herself away from the wall, alert.

‘Can you meet me?’

‘Yes. Of course. When?’

‘Now. The cafe at Phoenix Bay?’

Gemma didn’t hesitate. ‘Give me twenty minutes.’

As she drove off, she was overwhelmed by her memories of meeting Steve at the deserted, wintering cafe last year, with him pacing like a leopard, desperately remorseful about getting Julie Cooper pregnant, wishing things were otherwise. Julie hadn’t been pregnant, but by the time they found out, the damage was done. Gemma’s heart beat fast with agitation. I shouldn’t be feeling this, she told herself. Steve is in the past. Mike has stood by me and Rafi; I’m making our future with him. Steve let me down. She repeated the four words in her head like a mantra, but they couldn’t dispel the rush of memories of their six years together; the passionate love-making, the crazy jokes, the quarrels, the quiet, contented times just being together, their deep heart connection.

Steve had sounded scared, perhaps even desperate, and her thoughts were a confused mix of anxiety about his safety and concern about how she was going to feel, seeing him again after all this time.

She drove down the hill towards Phoenix Bay. It was that moment in the evening when the last of the squealing black cockatoos flying to roost intersect with the first of the bats winging silently in for a night’s work among the city’s palm trees and new figs. The night-shift handover.

A few moments later, she parked near the path that ran down to the bay and the boat shed that had been converted into a cafe. She saw Steve’s figure in the distance and her heart began to race foolishly. She had to take deep breaths to steady herself before getting out of the car. A soft, chill wind had risen from the sea, and Gemma wrapped her coat around herself more closely.

She could see Steve in his familiar stance, leaning back against the pier railing near the entrance of the cafe, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, wearing jeans and a windcheater. She hurried down to join him, trying to control the surging emotions and the smile that wanted to break out. Steve swung himself forward off the fence and came across to greet her. For a few seconds they looked at each other, both unsure about what to do next. Somehow, Gemma found herself in his arms, and she held him close, her lips against his neck, swamped by his familiar scent. Without even thinking about it, and feeling completely at home, she kissed him, then drew back in dismay. This was not appropriate behaviour, she thought, no matter how familiar and easy it seemed. She collected herself, asking, ‘Steve, what is it? What’s happening?’

His arms stayed locked around her and she looked at him, searching his face for the answer. He seemed tired, his boyish good looks strained under the street light.

‘Gems, it’s so good to see you. How are you? How’s Rafi?’

‘We’re both fine,’ she said, swallowing. ‘And thanks for your financial contribution. I mean, you’re always on time.’

He shrugged as if to dismiss her words. ‘The bank does that, Gems.’

‘But what’s this about? And how are you?’

‘Pretty ordinary. And I’m feeling lousier because of what I’ve got to tell you.’

‘You’re frightening me. Are you ill or something?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing like that.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s about Lorraine.’

Gemma felt her heart clench in fear and remembered pain. Lorraine Litchfield, the glamorous widow of crime boss Terry Litchfield, had been jailed some time back. Steve had worked with her in an undercover operation, adopting the role of her new boyfriend with Lorraine’s complicity, together setting up a drug sting that had netted several big criminals and later, Lorraine herself.

‘If you only knew how often I’ve kicked myself for having crossed the line with that woman. I must have been crazy. Every time I think of her, I want to rewrite history.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ Gemma said softly as the deep regret bit. ‘At least you didn’t get her pregnant.’

It was supposed to be a joke but it fell over dead. ‘I’m the one who was crazy, not letting up about it, going on and on with my stupid jealousy,’ she continued.

Her regret sharpened. Was the break-up my fault? she wondered. Or do I just tell myself that so that I can feel some sort of perverse control over it all?

They looked at each other and a rueful smile played on Steve’s lips. ‘We both misbehaved, Gems.’

‘We had something good, Steve.’

‘I didn’t help any. But I’m not here to rake over that.’ In the silence between them, the sea surged in long luminous breakers, a low surf sweeping up the beach in scalloped wavelets beyond the pier.

‘Lorraine Litchfield. She’s wangled an early release,’ Steve said in a low voice. ‘I now have a fair idea how she did it. Conspiracy to murder is a serious charge, but she’s out already, which means—’

‘—she’s cut a deal,’ Gemma finished. ‘She’s traded something.’

‘Yeah. And I’m pretty sure that what she’s traded is me. A mate called me earlier. He’d been in on a conversation with a guy who works with the Police Integrity Commission. Lorraine’s been talking to them; she’s made a sworn statement and she’s given up a couple of the big crims. She used to hang round her husband’s meetings with the big boys, serving drinks and flirting, and all the time she was keeping records of what was going on – concealed camera and mike.’

Insurance, Gemma thought as Steve continued.

‘My mate overheard the Police Integrity guys describing someone they’re about to charge – an undercover cop who worked with Lorraine in a drug-bust operation two years ago. That’s got be me. I’m the guy he was describing.’

‘But Steve, that was a legitimate operation. You were meant to work with Lorraine.’

‘That’s not the problem. There’s supposed to be a video of me taking bribes from George Fayed’s cousin, Raimon. He and Lorraine are a very hot item now. She left her last boyfriend and attached herself to Raimon.’

‘Raimon Fayed?’ Gemma said, shocked. ‘He’s the charmer who threw acid in his ex-wife’s face!’

‘Lorraine probably supplied the acid,’ Steve said bitterly. ‘They’re made for each other, those two. His ex-wife was a decent woman.’

‘How come Fayed isn’t in prison? He should be serving fifteen years.’

‘One of his bodyguards took the rap for him and confessed to the acid throwing. Fayed had discovered he was an informant for the Feds, so it was take the rap and be looked after in prison or he would publish this information and the guy wouldn’t have lasted twenty-four hours.’

‘Steve, we need to get them both off the streets.’

‘Lorraine lost all her money when her late husband’s property was confiscated as being the proceeds of crime. So she made a beeline for a rich and powerful benefactor, and Raimon Fayed is crazy about her. Totally smitten. For the moment, at least. He provides the cash. She provides the – well, what women like Litchfield provide: sex and a lot of expenses. How often does a fat, balding ex-jailbird get to flaunt a gorgeous blonde on his arm?’

‘More often than you’d think,’ Gemma said. ‘Steve, this is bad. You’re about to be charged with corruption. If it sticks …’

‘If it sticks, it’s the end of my career. And the beginning of a jail sentence. It already looks like I’m at the end of the road.’

‘But you can’t let that happen! It might be just talk, Steve. You know how cops gossip and how rumours spread.’

Steve shook his head. ‘This isn’t just a rumour. She hates my guts. She threatened me and she’d like to see me dead.’

Gemma took a deep breath. ‘Did you take bribes from Raimon Fayed?’

Steve shuffled impatiently. ‘Hell, no. But I used to meet him and we’d trade information. He sometimes gave me things – photographs of people, addresses. Often the information was in envelopes. So it’s possible there is video footage of me taking something from him. Lorraine’s statement says she saw me count out thousands of dollars after a meeting with Fayed. Which is total bullshit.’

Gemma swore. ‘What are you going to do? How can you fight this thing? You’re going to have to find out what sort of a case they’ve got. Who’s going to believe Lorraine Litchfield, even if she did give a sworn statement?’

‘Fayed’s backing up her story. He’s besotted with her, plus he doesn’t have anything to lose. If he can help bring down a corrupt cop he’s got everything to gain. Like a lighter sentence next time. It’s in his interest to perjure himself about me.’

‘But he’s a career criminal! Who’s going to believe him?’

‘Better men than me have gone down because of this sort of situation. Gems, I’m in deep shit.’

‘I’ll do everything I can,’ said Gemma.

Steve shook his head. ‘I didn’t come here for that, Gemma. I’m here to warn you. I’m worried now that she’s going to come after you as well – again. She didn’t get you last time, but now she’s out and boiling for revenge.’

He stepped forward and took her hands. ‘I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me.’

‘Don’t worry, Steve. I know how to look after myself.’

As Gemma’s mind raced ahead of itself, trying to find solutions to a situation that hadn’t even happened yet, ugly memories surfaced … Steve acting undercover to trap a powerful criminal, taking on the role of Lorraine’s boyfriend … Lorraine becoming infatuated with him … The humiliating confrontation between the two women: Lorraine with her flawless skin and big blue eyes, big blonde hair, her perfect figure hugged by her powder-blue angora suit, balancing on impossible silver high heels, wielding a Colt M1911; Gemma dishevelled, face streaked with dirt, bloodless lips, still pale with shock from the way she’d been abducted by Lorraine’s bodyguards, forced to stand unsteadily in Lorraine’s mother-of-pearl encrusted living room while Lorraine aimed the gun and shrieked at Steve to choose between them … Steve’s response as he desperately tried to save Gemma’s life and his own: ‘Baby, look in the mirror. Look at her. Then look at you. There’s no contest. She means nothing to me.’ Lorraine lowering the M1911 and Gemma’s heart almost stopping.

Gemma looked at Steve on the pier and remembered Lorraine’s later words, after realising the depth of Steve’s relationship with Gemma: ‘You’re dead, bitch!’

Her later attempt on Gemma’s life had been thwarted, but now she was back, with vengeance on her mind.

‘She’s trying to destroy me,’ said Steve, ‘and it’s a dead certainty she’ll be coming after you too.’ He looked away out to sea and then back to Gemma. ‘This could be bad, Gems. Really bad.’

His mobile rang. He answered it, grunted, and rang off. ‘I’ve got to go. There’s a legal guy I’ve finally tracked down and he has time to meet me tonight. I’ll grab a cab near the shops.’

‘Let me give you a lift. I’m heading to Kings Cross.’

‘But Rafi—’ Steve began.

‘Mike’s there and I’ll be home in an hour or so. Rafi will be fine.’

‘Mike’s a good man,’ said Steve quietly. ‘You’re better off without me.’

She almost objected, but caught herself in time.

CHAPTER 7

Gemma and Steve were silent during the drive to the Cross. Steve’s familiar bulk beside her in the passenger seat aroused all sorts of memories as AC/DC belted out another song. She turned the music up to try to force these memories from her mind.

Steve’s hand shot forward to turn it down and he faced her, his features soft with tender regret. ‘Gemma, oh Gems, I wish—’

‘Don’t,’ she said, turning the music up again.

Baroque Occasions appeared no different from the other terrace houses in the quiet road below Victoria Street at Potts Point – apart from the red light over the front door.

Gemma reversed into a parking spot a few doors down.

‘Where do you need to go now? I can drop you somewhere if you want to wait.’

Steve shook his head. ‘This is fine. I can get a cab from here, no problem.’

As they were getting out of the car, the brothel’s owner, Naomi, turned the corner, her hands full of shopping bags. When she saw them her face lit up and she hurried across the road. ‘Guys! Gemma and Stevie! Great to see you again.’

‘You too, Naomi,’ said Gemma as Naomi leaned the bags against the fence and threw her arms around her, kissing her on both cheeks, then giving Steve a slightly more restrained kiss. She stepped back and collected her shopping, Steve taking the heaviest bag. ‘Come in. This is really good timing. Today’s been pretty quiet.’ As she unlocked the door, she turned back and smiled over her shoulder. ‘And it’s just great seeing you two together again. I knew you guys would work it out. I just knew it!’

‘I won’t come in,’ said Steve. ‘I’ve got to get a cab.’

‘Call for one from here,’ said Naomi, smiling. ‘The cabbies know this address well. Come on, Steve. Have a drink while you’re waiting.’

Steve hesitated then followed Gemma as Naomi led the way inside, past the comfortable reception area and the small bar, down the narrow hall to the kitchen at the back.

‘Naomi,’ Gemma began, as Naomi put the shopping on the table and started pulling out tins of soup. ‘It’s not quite like that. Actually, we’re – we’re not together. I’m living with Mike Moody. I’m just giving Steve a lift.’

‘Oh,’ said Naomi, pausing as she put a carton of milk in the fridge. ‘I knew about Mike, but I thought – you know – that eventually …’

‘Naomi,’ said Steve, ‘maybe you’ve heard something about Lorraine Litchfield. Where she’s living now?’

‘Last thing I heard, she and that brute Raimon Fayed were thick as thieves.’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘We were all very happy when Terry Litchfield died and Lorraine was jailed, but somehow she’s managed to get an early release. If I hear anything interesting I’ll tell you, Gemma, and you can pass it on to Steve. Okay?’

‘Good.’ Gemma nodded.

‘I’m having a chardy to celebrate your visit,’ said Naomi, opening the fridge and taking a wine glass from a cupboard. ‘Anyone else want one?’

‘I’d better not. I’m on the clock.’

‘And I’m going,’ said Steve. ‘But thanks, Naomi. I can find my own way out.’

Gemma watched him leave and heard the front door close.

‘Oh hell, Gemma,’ said Naomi. ‘I’m sorry about that. I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much! You just looked so – so right with each other.’

Gemma sighed. ‘There were always problems, Naomi. Steve just isn’t the type to make a commitment. He’s always said he couldn’t picture himself with a family.’

‘Has he seen the baby?’

‘He saw him at the hospital the night he was born. That’s when he found out he’s Rafi’s father.’

‘You mean you didn’t tell him?’

‘I was about to – once. I was just about to tell him when Julie Cooper interrupted me to show her engagement ring. That kind of took the wind out of my sails, so I shut up.’

‘Send him a photograph of his son. He’d like that.’

‘Yes, I think he would. So, how have you been? How is the fine arts course going?’

‘Not bad. I got two distinctions last term. I’m deferring this year. Uni life takes up a lot of time and this place needs a lot of work.’

‘Ever think of meeting a nice John and settling down?’

‘Like you?’ Naomi laughed. ‘Except you met a nice Mike. Nice Johns are thin on the ground in my line of work. Although there is one guy who’s pretty sweet on me. But you know my rules: if it’s friendship you want, then it’s no sex. And that means I lose a paying customer!’

Gemma laughed. ‘I think your mother had the same attitude.’

‘She did. And she saved enough money to buy this place.’

‘She was a smart woman,’ said Gemma, remembering Shelley and her spunky spirit. ‘Naomi, have you heard anything about some guy who targets girls?’ she asked. ‘Spikes their drinks and then takes them somewhere and attacks them. There’s no sexual interference, at least in the case we know about. He uses an instrument, could be some kind of syringe. Just leaves a puncture mark.’

‘Is he infecting them with something? HIV?’

‘We don’t know yet. The victim’s had the first blood test. We won’t know for sure until the second one. But get this: while he carries out the attack, he wears vampire teeth.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Dead serious. Angie McDonald brought a girl around to see me. She’d been assaulted by this man. I saw the mark and the bruising on her neck. What started out like a date-rape story ended up like Dracula. I was wondering if you’ve heard of any similar attacks.’

‘We’ve had our fair share of ugly mugs, but vampires …?’ Naomi’s voice trailed off, then she frowned, putting her glass down on the kitchen table. ‘Hang on, one of the kids did say something weird. Last week, something to do with a vampire. I just thought the ice was getting to her.’

‘When did it happen? Did she talk about an assault?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t take all that much notice about the details. It was after our precinct meeting – Angie was there, and the sex-workers outreach – and we were having coffee and biscuits.’

‘Can you remember anything more?’

‘I’d just started chatting to this kid when she told me the story. I presumed she’d been off her face at the time of the attack, and I kind of switched off.’

‘What’s her name? Where can I get hold of her? What did she say?’

‘I don’t know her real name, but her working name is Brie. She hangs out near the Forbes Street square. Gets around in thigh-high boots and shorts. She’s a nice kid. I remember her saying a vampire had attacked her. I just said, “Sure honey, can I get you another coffee and a Tim Tam?”’

‘Naomi, if you could track her down, I’d be really grateful. I’m not quite as mobile as I used to be – with Rafi, I mean. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll have a look for her now on my way home.’

‘Look out near Forbes Street or the corner where the Ferrari showroom used to be and the block around there,’ Naomi suggested. ‘That’s where she generally works.’

Gemma headed slowly down William Street, eyes scanning each side of the road, and drove up and around to the area near the Forbes Street steps. A couple of girls were standing there: one could have been a tranny, tall and broad shouldered, with muscular legs ending in high heels, and a thick blonde wig; the other a thin woman in a black halter, short skirt and thigh-high boots. She was lighting the tall blonde’s cigarette as Gemma pulled up and called out to them from the car window. ‘I’m looking for a girl called Brie. Either of you know where she is?’

‘You a cop?’ called the thin girl.

‘No. I just want to talk to her. About an attack on her last week.’

‘We haven’t seen her this week,’ said the blonde. ‘She said she was going to Melbourne. But yeah, she said she was spooked over some weirdo who attacked her. She wanted to get away from him.’

Gemma fished out two of her cards and handed them to the women. ‘Here you are. You can check out my bona fides with Angie McDonald. If you see Brie or hear from her, please ask her to contact me. I may be able to help her.’

‘You’re a private investigator,’ said the thin girl. ‘She’s not in trouble, is she?’

Working the streets and using ice might be considered trouble already in certain circles, Gemma thought. But she shook her head. ‘She could be. But not from the law. And not from me. I’m trying to get information about the man who attacked her.’

‘That’s good. If it means trouble for him,’ said the blonde woman.

‘It will,’ said Gemma. ‘I can promise that.’

It was nearly eleven o’clock when she arrived home. Her body was tired and her thoughts were confused. Seeing Steve, the old familiarity, the memories of the good times and the deep regret about the bad times stirred her at soul level. Her spirit felt restless and scratchy. She took a deep breath and looked up at the moon, steadying herself before unlocking the front door.

She walked into the living room, where Mike was stretched out on the leather lounge, Taxi curled up on his stomach. He looked up from his reading. ‘Hiya, Gems.’

Gemma leaned down to give him a kiss then sat beside him and dumped her bag on the floor.

‘Did Rafi wake while I was gone?’

Mike shook his head. ‘No, but I didn’t realise you were going to be out for so long. What kept you?’

She didn’t answer straight away. ‘Mike,’ she said at last, ‘Steve rang me earlier while I was in the car, and I miss him – I mean I met him—’ she laughed to cover her slip, ‘—down at Phoenix Bay. He’s worried. Lorraine Litchfield is out of prison—’

Mike swore and sat up, forgetting Taxi, who scrambled to the floor, tail waving in displeasure. ‘He has no right to involve you in his stuff-ups.’

‘He was warning me, Mike.’

‘He could have done it over the phone. There was no reason for you to go and meet him. Litchfield nearly got you killed.’

‘Don’t remind me. She’s done a deal of some sort, reckons she’s got evidence that Steve took bribes from Raimon Fayed.’

‘Who’d believe her?’ Mike said. ‘She’s a perjuring crim’s wife. But that doesn’t stop her from being a real menace to you, Gems. We’re going to have to be very, very careful.’ He stood up, agitated, and strode across the room to open the curtains and the sliding doors to the deck. A cold wind blew in, and the curtains billowed behind him, briefly concealing him as he stepped outside. Gemma realised he’d gone to check that no one was out there. Within moments he returned, locked the doors securely and pulled the curtains closed again.

‘If she’s still planning to eliminate me,’ she tried to reassure him, ‘she won’t come in by the deck again. She’ll try something different. Maybe by now she’s forgotten about me and is concentrating her vengeance on Steve.’ That thought worried Gemma almost as much.

Mike went to the kitchen and, stepping around Taxi, pulled down the scotch bottle from the shelf. ‘Drink?’ he asked, taking a tumbler from the cupboard, but she shook her head.

‘You go ahead, though. Have one for me.’

She crept into the bedroom to check on Rafi and was surprised to see in the gloom that his eyes were wide open and turned in the direction of the window.

‘Darling Rafi, what are you looking at?’ She went to the window and terror suddenly gripped her heart. What if Litchfield tried to hurt Rafi? She thought of the unexplained noise that had woken her the previous morning. She pulled the gauze curtain across, looked out the window and checked the grille. It was locked securely and only she and Mike had the keys. Beyond the glass, she could just see the climbing rose bush she’d planted beneath the window. Beyond it was the small front garden and courtyard area. It was dark and empty. The residents of the other three flats seemed to be in for the night. She dropped the curtain again and hurried back to Rafi. He mumbled something but now seemed to be half asleep. She picked him up and rocked him gently as she carried him to the living room, glancing up as she passed a little plaster cherub hanging on the wall. ‘Look after him, angel,’ she whispered.

Mike sipped his scotch and watched her as she sat with Rafi, now sleeping soundly, in the armchair opposite him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said quietly.

‘Rafi was awake when I went in. I had the sense that something had happened. He was looking across to the window. As if he’d seen something – someone.’

Mike made the connection and she loved him for it. ‘It’s okay, Gemma, darling,’ he said, leaning over and placing a hand on her arm. ‘One of the reasons I’m here is to make sure that no one ever harms you or Rafi.’

Gemma leaned to kiss him. ‘You’re a good man, Mike.’

He smiled and walked down the hallway to unlock the front door. For the next few minutes Gemma heard him checking the windows and doors. As she held Rafi she couldn’t quite get the fear out of her mind.

‘It’s brisk outside,’ Mike said as he came in. ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked as he saw her staring across the room.

‘I was thinking of Superman,’ she said.

‘It was nothing,’ Mike joked. ‘All I did was walk around the place.’

Gemma laughed, shaking her head. ‘The reason why Superman never married or had children,’ she explained, ‘was that he didn’t want to give the enemy any hostages. Now I understand that. Once there was only me to think about. Now there’s Rafi.’

Mike sat beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her and Rafi close. ‘I put the alarm on.’

She responded to his warmth and snuggled closer. ‘Thanks, Mike. I hope you don’t mind that I saw Steve tonight.’

‘He was warning you. I guess I’d do the same in his place. Might’ve been better to just call you, though.’

‘Not with something like that,’ she said defensively. ‘Face to face is better.’

Mike grunted, noncommittal. Then he continued, ‘Speaking of cops, Nick Cleary rang me today. He’s ex-Federal and very smart. And we get along well. He’s setting up a business in IT security and cybercrime, providing specialty services for law enforcement agencies. He asked if I’d be interested in working with him.’

‘But they have their own in-house experts,’ said Gemma, frowning.

‘Forensic testing’s been outsourced and mobile speed camera systems have recently moved out of police hands too. We both reckon there’s a niche market in this sort of specialised computer programming. He’s done his homework and I’m researching it, too.’

‘What do you think you’ll do? This would be a big change for you.’ And it would mean we couldn’t work together anymore, Gemma thought.

‘I don’t know yet. There’s a lot more I need to discuss with Nick before I make up my mind,’ said Mike. ‘In the meantime, let’s take this little man back to bed.’

CHAPTER 8

Mike had left before daybreak to track his suspect petrol-tanker driver. Before going out, he said, only half joking, ‘Don’t open the door to anyone while I’m gone, especially an old crone selling rosy apples, okay?’ Then he kissed her. ‘Be very careful, Gems.’

‘I promise.’

Over breakfast, with Rafi crawling around the legs of the furniture in the living room, Gemma opened up her laptop to check the news. Googling to see if there had been any updates on the murders of the young women, a familiar name jumped out at her. ‘Socialite’s suicide shocks family’ ran the headline. ‘The suicide yesterday of well-known charity worker and socialite Magda Simmonds has shocked her family and friends. “She had everything to live for,” said her son, Adrian. “My mother had just bought a new house in the Blue Mountains and was looking forward to spending time there. We had a big housewarming party planned for next weekend with all the grandchildren. There was a wedding on the horizon; she was going to marry the new man in her life. Instead, we have a funeral to arrange. We are all completely devastated.”’

Gemma looked at the photograph of Magda’s son, distress crumpling his face. Magda Simmonds was the woman who had looked so wonderful after her facelift, Gemma recalled. She’d spent all that money and then killed herself. The human heart has secrets that even the closest relatives can’t know.

Her ringing mobile interrupted her thoughts, and it took her a few moments to realise who was calling. Delphine Tolmacheff, her voice distorted with tears.

‘I saw him in the mirror this morning at breakfast. I was sitting in the dining room and I saw him,’ she sobbed. ‘I swear he was trying to creep up behind me – he had my scarf in his hands. I jumped up, pretending I’d just remembered something and he pretended he was bringing me my scarf because the morning was chilly. Gemma, I’m terrified. He’s not going to wait until we go hiking. He could kill me any time!’

Gemma felt her frustration rise. ‘For heaven’s sake, Delphine. Why are you still in the house? Pack up and leave now! Move into a hotel. Go and stay with friends. You can’t stay there. I thought we’d agreed that you’d move out immediately. Do it right now.’

‘Yes, yes. You’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t. I suppose there’s a part of me that still can’t believe that someone could be so wicked.’

‘You better believe it, Delphine. Get out now!’

The woman was hopeless, Gemma thought.

‘But he’ll track me down. He’s my husband. He has access to my affairs. He might even be having me watched, followed.’

‘I think you need a bodyguard. You’ve got the money for that sort of protection. I can’t do it but I can recommend someone who can. At least for the time being, until we get something on him. Delphine, I want you to move out of that house immediately, and when you’re safely settled in somewhere that he doesn’t know about, give me a call and we’ll organise what to do next. Okay?’

‘Please help me!’

‘I will, but you must leave this minute. And don’t let him know where you’re going.’

After ending the call, Gemma noted the conversation in her records and then rescued the picture of her mother that stood on the table in the hallway from Rafi, who was attempting to eat the silver frame.

‘How did you get that?’ she asked him. ‘Did you pull yourself up?’

Rafi roared with displeasure, his face wrinkled, tears of disappointment on his fat cheeks as she put the photograph back on the table.

‘Oh, you clever boy,’ she said, whisking him up, dancing around with him and snuggling into his neck, making silly farting noises against his soft skin. Within seconds he was laughing, his grumpiness forgotten.

After delivering Rafi to daycare, Gemma made a number of phone calls to people she knew in the business, trying to find a suitable candidate to protect Delphine Tolmacheff.

Mike had come home for a break, so she joined him for lunch then pulled on her running shoes, intending on a quick run up and back to the cemetery that covered a hillside near her home. She was almost at the door when her desk phone rang, and she doubled back and picked it up.

‘Gemma Lincoln?’

‘That’s right,’ she said to the man at the end of the line.

‘I was given your card by a friend of mine, Minkie Montreau,’ he continued. ‘She’s recommended you highly. My name is Ambrose Cobcroft. My fiancée, Magda Simmonds, took her own life yesterday.’

Minkie Montreau, Gemma remembered, was a wealthy client she’d helped some time ago.

‘Mr Cobcroft,’ said Gemma, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. I read about it this morning. How can I help you?’

‘I’m not quite sure yet. But I want to talk to you. Magda’s suicide just doesn’t make sense. The note she left didn’t make sense either. I can’t accept it. There’s got to be a reason. People don’t do things like that without a reason. She was looking forward to our wedding and our trip abroad. I’m calling to ask if you would look into her suicide. Just in case there is something that we’ve all missed.’

Gemma paused. ‘Are you suggesting the possibility of foul play?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. But I will never forgive myself if I don’t examine this tragedy from every angle. I love Magda and she loved me. She had everything to live for.’

‘I think I’d better make time to come and see you,’ said Gemma, ‘before I agree to this case.’

‘Of course.’ He gave her an address in Vaucluse and they made a time to meet.

Later in the afternoon after calling Mike to check he could still pick Rafi up, Gemma drove to the address in Bondi Beach where Julian Phillips, Marie-Louise Palier’s boyfriend, shared a flat with two other men in an old dark-brick block on one of the streets that ran at a right angle to the beach.

She took a short diversion down to Campbell Parade and found an impossibly lucky parking spot. She walked to the edge of the promenade and looked out over the creamy curve of the beach, the breakers rolling in on top of a gentle swell and a perfect line of fluffy clouds decorating the expansive blue sky.

The very sight of it opens my mind, she thought. The sight of this beach and the sky above it lifted her heart. ‘Sydney by the water,’ a friend had once said to her, ‘there’s nowhere else to be.’

There were only a few swimmers in the water and a scattering of sunbakers lay on their towels, soaking up the soft, late-winter warmth. She breathed in the salty air and felt her batteries recharging. What fun to bring Rafi here in summer to join the throng and to chase him through the edge of the foaming waves, she thought.

She went back to her car and continued on to Julian Phillips’ address. An enormous frangipani tree out the front was just showing the tiny curved claws that were the beginning of new leaves, and even though the beach was out of sight, she could hear the crashing surf. Beach towels hanging from the top floor balconies and the surfboards leaning against walls went some way to brighten the ugly 1930s block.

Gemma recognised the man who answered the door of flat two from the photographs Angie had emailed her.

‘Julian Phillips?’

‘Yes. What do you want?’ he answered, warily.

‘My name is Gemma Lincoln,’ she said, passing him one of her business cards. ‘Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald suggested I might talk to you concerning the death of your girlfriend Marie-Louise Palier. I’m very sorry to be meeting you in these circumstances. And of course you’re under no obligation to speak with me if you don’t want to.’

‘You’d better come in,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Angie McDonald has already interviewed me. I told her everything I know.’

‘I’m sure you did. This is just a follow-up – in case there’s anything you might have remembered since you spoke to the police. Sometimes things come up that people don’t think of at the initial interview. Little things. They might seem unimportant, but in a case like this, the police need all the help they can get.’

Gemma walked in, looking around the crowded flat. The three young men’s electronic equipment, surfboards, sporting gear and piles of unironed clothes took up most of the space. She’d interrupted Julian as he was washing up what looked like a week’s worth of plates, pots and pans. He returned to the sink and continued with his washing-up. Gemma picked up a tea towel and started drying, stacking the plates in the small amount of available space.

‘Did anything unusual occur in the weeks before Marie-Louise’s death?’

‘What you mean “unusual”?’

‘Did she mention any strangers calling her or following her? Anything out of the ordinary?’

Julian vigorously attacked a crusty pan. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It was the same as usual: she’d go to work, we’d get together afterwards, have a coffee or go somewhere for a drink and then we’d go out or go back to each other’s place. Sometimes she begged off, saying she wanted an early night – that sort of thing …’ His voice faltered. ‘That was our normal routine and had been for months, ever since we met at a party last year. We’d spend every weekend together as well, except for the times Marie-Louise goes – I mean went – to visit her mother at Heathcote. She used to take the train …’

He turned around, still holding the washing-up brush and frowned. ‘Hey, the train thing. Something weird did happen about a week before she disappeared. I totally forgot about it till I thought of the train.’

‘What was it?’

‘I don’t think it’s relevant, though.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Marie-Louise was hurt while she was getting onto a crowded train at Town Hall, to go to Heathcote. She reckoned someone had stuck something into her.’

‘Did she describe what happened?’

‘Only that she felt this sharp pain in her upper arm, as if someone was pinching her really hard. She said she yelled out, but no one took any notice. They just thought she was complaining about being squashed, I guess. Everyone was pushing and shoving, trying to get into the carriage – it’s like that on Fridays. She said she looked around but it could have been anybody. By the time she found a seat, she said blood was running down her arm. She wrapped her scarf around it like a bandage.’

‘Did she have any idea who did it?’

‘No. You know what it’s like when people push onto the trains. There might be ten or twelve people all trying to get in.’

‘How bad was the cut?’

Julian put the brush down. ‘It was bad. It was kind of deep. But it wasn’t a cut.’

‘What do you mean?’

But he pushed the question aside with an impatient wave of the brush.

‘You say you didn’t mention this to Angie McDonald?’

Julian shook his head again. ‘No, as I said, when your girlfriend’s been murdered, you forget about everything else. I’ve had other stuff to think about since then.’

‘I’ll pass this information on to Sergeant McDonald. It might be helpful. She’ll probably want to talk to you herself again.’

Julian turned away from her and leaned against the sink, clutching it with white-knuckled hands. ‘Marie-Louise was beautiful,’ he said quietly, simply. ‘I really liked her. It was terrible what happened. There’s no way she would have jumped off a cliff. I knew that even before the pathologist found that she was dead before—’ He paused before continuing. ‘I know I’m still a suspect but it wasn’t me. And that means that whoever did this is still out there.’

Beyond the silence in the kitchen, Gemma was aware of the busy sounds from Campbell Parade, the bars and shops. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the squabbling of seagulls.

‘Is there anything else you remember?’ she asked finally. Julian shook his head.

‘I’ll let you or Angie know if I do remember anything else. But I don’t have any more time now. I’ve got things to do this evening.’

‘Okay. I can see myself out.’

But Julian came with her, stepping quickly in front of her and opening the door. Gemma walked outside and down the front steps. Just as she reached the footpath, she heard Julian call after her. ‘There’s one thing.’

She paused and turned.

‘This might sound really weird,’ he said, ‘but you know what her injury looked like to me?’ He paused, his mouth turned in disgust as he continued. ‘It was a horrible little round wound. Someone had taken a piece out of her. It looked like someone had used a leather punch – on her skin.’

When she walked into her apartment twenty minutes later, she was still mulling over the unpleasant facts she’d heard from Julian Phillips. Mike called out from his office, ‘How did you go with the boyfriend?’

Gemma joined him, picked up Rafi who was playing with his toys, and told Mike about the interview.

‘A leather punch?’ he said when she had finished. ‘That’s nasty.’

‘It is. But there’s all sorts of nasty stuff going on out there. People hacking, bashing, slashing. It’s really depressing.’ She sat next to him and nursed Rafi on her knee. Rafi seemed more interested in a toy elephant than in his mother at that moment. ‘What have you been up to?’

She frowned when she saw the screen. ‘A dating site? Tired of me already, Mike?’

He reached out and corralled her with his arm. ‘Not quite. I’ve been having a look at your Mr Tolmacheff,’ he said. ‘He’s quite a lad. I ran a check on the name “Angelo Tolmacheff” and this is what I found. A lot of aliases – Adrian Tomlinson, alias Angelo Thomas, Allen Thoms. Then I was able to do a background check and get some details off his police record – no, don’t ask me how,’ he said with a grin, before Gemma could interrupt. ‘Tolmacheff’s got priors for fraud, passing dud cheques, obtaining money under false pretences, and he’s had a couple of AVOs taken out against him by a previous partner … I’ve got her name and details, too.’

‘Her name?’ Gemma asked.

‘It’s here somewhere. Hang on.’ Mike sorted through his notes. ‘Here is it. Penny Watson.’

Gemma wrote down the contact details. ‘She might be helpful if she’s willing to talk.’

‘Police records also show several complaints about him – women lending him large sums of money, which he failed to repay. He’s a bludger. Seems to have made a career for himself living off women. Anyway, then I ran a sweep through the most popular dating websites. That’s what you’re looking at now. Bingo. I sprung him on this one.’

Mike swung the laptop around so she could see the screen more clearly. The first thing she noticed was the beaming man in the photograph on the top left-hand corner. It was Tolmacheff, introducing himself.

‘Fit, active, financially independent and sophisticated European gent,’ Gemma read aloud, ‘well travelled and educated, seeking soul mate …’ She stopped. ‘Mike, this is unbelievable! This is identical to the profile Delphine showed me – the print-out from the site where she met him. He’s used exactly the same profile!’

‘This has only just been posted,’ said Mike.

‘He’s looking for another one,’ Gemma said, chilled. ‘He knows there’s a vacancy coming up.’

She handed Rafi to Mike and quickly found Delphine’s phone number in her mobile, then pressed ‘call’. When it went straight to voicemail, Gemma left a message asking her to phone her immediately.

She then tried phoning Janet Chancy. Again, only voicemail. She rang off, worried. Something was seriously wrong.

CHAPTER 9

Gemma couldn’t sleep. Her mind wouldn’t shut down. Flashing images of Delphine Tolmacheff and Janet Chancy were chased by the picture of Magda Simmonds, brilliantly beautiful after her facelift, followed by the photograph of her desolate son.

Agitated, she tiptoed out into the kitchen to get a glass of water. As she was turning on the tap, a sound from outside caused her to freeze. She listened intently, then cautiously crept to the front door.

Nothing. She headed to the living room, then noticed Taxi, sitting straight up on the back of the lounge, ears erect, eyes dilated, staring past Gemma, out the sliding doors to the deck.

‘What is it?’ she whispered, swinging around to see what the cat was staring at. Taxi jumped down, switching his interest to the front garden, and raced up the hall, where he proceeded to sniff under the door. Relieved, Gemma went back to bed. Another cat, she thought.

Mike got up early and brought her in a cup of tea.

‘I thought I heard something outside last night,’ Gemma said, propping herself up on her elbow, ‘but I think it was just another tomcat prowling around.’

Her thoughts soon returned to Delphine and she sat up suddenly as a bold plan presented itself to her.

Rafi’s half-closed eyes opened wide, startled, and he called out from his cot next to her.

Later that morning, Gemma pulled up Tolmacheff’s profile on the dating site Mike had discovered. Quickly, she typed into the Respond box.

‘Hi Angelo – loved your profile. I too am a frustrated artist. I’ve done some sculpting and would love to do more. Maybe you could sit for me. You have a fascinating face and I’d love to sculpt it. As for me, I’m 38,’ – not too far from the truth – ‘athletic, have dark blonde hair and a curvy figure.’ That at least was true right now. ‘I’m a professional woman of independent means who’s had enough of being alone. I have a passionate nature with an artist’s soul and need someone like you who understands what intimacy really means. You sound like a dream come true and someone who values what a woman can bring to a man.’

Gemma considered what she was writing. She wanted to sound vulnerable and sexy, but not pathetic. She also wanted to sound wealthy.

She continued typing: ‘I really hope you contact me. I feel sure we would be good for each other. I’m fortunate enough not to have to work, so I could devote all my time to making any relationship a very happy experience.’ She went through her picture gallery and uploaded a flattering photo that Mike had taken a month ago at Phoenix Bay.

Here we go, she thought, as she sent it off, signing herself ‘Geraldine – but call me Gerri.’

‘You did what?’ Mike asked, when she told him about it as they ate lunch. ‘Gemma, that’s crazy.’

‘Calm down, partner,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s happened yet. He probably won’t even contact me. A profile like that is bound to catch a lot of little female fishies. But I couldn’t let a great chance like that go by. It’s not often that a target actually invites surveillance into his life at such an intimate level.’

‘Too bloody intimate for my liking,’ said Mike. ‘What if this guy burns you? If we’re reading the signs right, he’s planning to murder his wife. How do you think he’d react to finding that you’re on his case – literally?’

‘Mike, you know how my finances are going down. Delphine Tolmacheff is a wealthy paying customer. If I can catch her husband doing something criminal, there’s two payoffs: first, I can send her a big bill, and secondly, there’s one less bad guy on the streets.’

Mike stood up and leaned over her, kissing her. ‘I know it’s useless trying to stop you doing anything you’ve decided on, but please, be careful. You’ve got a son now who needs you and a man who loves you and doesn’t want to see you in any danger.’ He sighed. ‘If I could stop you doing this, I would, you know. Sometimes I wish I was a Victorian husband and could say, “My dear Mrs Moody, I totally forbid this.”’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, looking up at his concerned face with a smile. ‘And I’m not Mrs Moody.’

Mike cleared his throat. ‘Would you like to be?’

Gemma blinked. ‘Is this a proposal?’

He pulled her close. ‘Yes, Gemma, it is,’ he whispered. ‘I love you. I think I loved you almost the moment I started working for you. Marry me.’

‘Mike – I – it’s just so sudden. I don’t know what to say.’

He drew back, frowning. ‘I know what you should say. But I guess I should have done it more formally – taken you out to dinner, pulled out a jeweller’s box …’

‘Hell no,’ she laughed. ‘I liked the way you did it.’

‘So, what do you say?’ Mike’s eyes looked deep into hers. ‘We could make a really good go of it, Gemma.’

She drew back to see him better, his familiar, kind face, his tender half smile.

‘Mike, just give me a little time to get used to the idea. Mrs Moody.’

They both laughed and hugged until she stepped away, unsure. ‘I need to think about this. Why now? Are you unhappy with the way we are?’

‘I’m not unhappy. But I feel like I’m marking time. That we’re marking time. I want to feel that we have a future together – you and me, and Rafi. I want to be with the woman I love into the future. I want to feel that our relationship is—’ he paused, looking for the word, ‘—developing. I want us to make a home together, a place that’s big enough for the three of us, maybe more if we get cracking. You know I love Rafi and want to be a father to him. Sometimes I feel like a lodger – with benefits.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not good at talking about this sort of thing.’

Gemma touched his face gently, then kissed him. ‘Oh Mike,’ she whispered.

When Mike had gone back to work, Gemma thought about his proposal. Why couldn’t she reply immediately? Did she love him enough to marry him? To live the rest of her life with him? She imagined her life with Mike continuing into the future. Maybe they’d buy a house together. She stared out the window of her office, while her mind played out scenes from a future with Mike, Rafi and herself. And maybe even another baby …

Finally she realised she should get back to work so she tried calling Delphine again. This time, the call was successful. ‘Delphine, it’s Gemma Lincoln. What’s your situation? Are you safe?’

‘I’m staying at the Beachside Resort at Coogee,’ said Delphine, giving Gemma the address. ‘I don’t think he knows—’

‘You don’t think he knows? Delphine, you have to be sure.’ Gemma wanted to shake the woman. ‘Please, make sure he has no idea where you are. I discovered today that your husband is already advertising online for another “soul mate”. He’s trawling for another wealthy woman.’

Delphine’s shocked gasp made Gemma flinch.

‘So, it’s essential that you get out of there if there’s the slightest possibility that he knows your whereabouts. Here are some names that might help you with security. Give them a ring and get some quotes. And let me know if you move again.’

Gemma rang off, fearful for Delphine Tolmacheff’s safety, her life.

Her phone rang. ‘Angie?’

‘Janet is now an officially listed missing person,’ said Angie. ‘Her car’s been found. Seems you were the last person she spoke to. I need to talk to you about that conversation.’

‘Come over.’

Half an hour later, Angie arrived just as the coffee brewed. Gemma poured out two mugs.

‘Mike proposed to me,’ Gemma said as soon as Angie perched on the edge of one of the armchairs.

Angie’s eyes widened as she swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘What did you say?’

‘That I needed to think about it.’

‘So, what do you think about it?’ Angie asked in her direct way. ‘More importantly, how do you feel about it?’ Without waiting for Gemma to reply, Angie continued, ‘It’s Steve, isn’t it? You’re still emotionally involved with him.’

‘I’m not sure, Angie. I was really touched by Mike’s offer, and I do love him …’

‘But not enough?’

Gemma sighed. ‘Let’s talk about this later,’ she said. ‘Janet is missing.’

‘Right,’ said Angie, getting the message and putting down her mug. ‘We’re moving to the “grave fears” stage. She’s just dropped off the planet. Her car turned up off the road near Stanwell Tops.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Gemma. ‘That’s not so far from the quarry where Rachel Starr was found.’

Angie nodded grimly. ‘Tell me about that phone conversation you had with her. Where was she calling from?’

‘She was at Sapphire Springs Spa. She was doing a story on the treatments used there.’

‘What exactly did she say?’

Gemma recounted the conversation about DiNAH therapy.

‘She sounded excited, and anxious. She said something odd. She said, “It’s not what people think.”’

‘What do you think she meant by that?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘No idea. Now I wish I’d pressed her for more details. But she was on her way here to tell me everything, and her phone was about to die.’

‘But why did she call you? Why not call her editor?’

‘That’s what I asked myself,’ said Gemma. ‘She said she was going to drive straight here. She said she couldn’t talk freely on the phone – and then her mobile died.’

‘I’m interested in what her message implied,’ said Angie slowly, ‘that the secrecy around DiNAH isn’t for the reason people think. If you had to have a guess at what she meant, what would it be?’

‘I’d say that all the secrecy isn’t just because of greed and the desire to keep the treatment under wraps until it’s patented – so that nobody else can cash in on it. It could be because of some ethical consideration, but I’d say it’s more likely there’s a problem with the treatment itself.’

‘Maybe they’re doing something they shouldn’t – like cloning human DNA or something?’ Angie sighed. ‘Hell, how would I know? I’m just a cop who was looking forward to taking some rostered days off. But now I’ll have to follow this up. So, where exactly is Sapphire Springs?’

CHAPTER 10

‘Okay,’ said Angie, switching on the ignition. ‘Let’s go. By the way, apparently that piece about the vampire attacks is in today’s paper. There’s a copy on the back seat.’

With Angie heading towards the southern freeway, Gemma scanned the paper until she found the article that Angie had helped produce. ‘Here it is,’ she announced, folding the paper back. ‘On page five.

‘Police are asking anyone who may have information regarding this type of attack to contact their local police station or call this number,’ Gemma read out, then folded the newspaper and flung it back onto the seat. ‘Let’s hope it gets some response.’

‘I’ve got Rodney going through the company listings to try to get some information about Satellite Imports, which probably doesn’t exist, and Access Media Promotions, which does exist but is simply an offshoot of a whole tangle of other companies. Poor Rod’s pulling his hair out. I told him I’d write a good report on him if he could find out who the principals are and what other holdings they might have.’

It took more than an hour and a half to get to the spa. It was a pleasant drive down the meandering coastal road and a steep descent to the very edge of the continent, through a narrow strip of rainforest with stately tree ferns growing on the slope.

A large billboard on the main highway advertised: ‘Sapphire Springs Spa – Fountain of Youth Luxury Spa Resort Only Seven Kilometres Away: Rest: Rejuvenate: ReCreate!’

Angie took the next right-hand turn as the sign indicated, and drove the seven kilometres through lush countryside. Several homesteads dotted the gentle slopes spreading away from the narrow road.

The turn-off to Sapphire Springs was dominated by huge dark trees and another colourful billboard. Angie swung into the driveway and drove past tall banana palms, over a narrow timber bridge that crossed a landscaped stream and up to the reception area. To the right of the main entrance was a large lake with a small island in the middle. Kayaks lay idle along the shore and two white swans glided in harmony across the surface.

The reception hall was built in the style of a Balinese garden pavilion, with retractable glass walls for the winter, supported by tall carved columns. French-style wrought-iron chairs and tables were placed around a paved terrace. Lorikeets squabbled over the pink and red blossoms of a tall tree that spread dark green leafy branches across the cathedral-style roof. On either side of the portals, magnificent tropical orchids, green and gold, cream and red, hung in wide baskets high up near the glass of the ceiling. Ferns and indoor palms bordered the entrance.

Gemma and Angie walked across the marble paved floor to the reception counter, behind which glass walls allowed wrap-around views of the garden, overflowing with flowers and plants.

Paradise, Gemma thought.

Angie flashed her warrant card to the pert desk clerk. ‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ she said.

‘Certainly. May I ask what this is about?’

‘Just some routine questions concerning a missing person.’

‘I won’t be a moment. Please wait here.’

A few minutes later, high heels clicked on the marble and Gemma and Angie turned to see an elegant woman, thick chestnut hair arranged in elaborate tresses over the shoulders of her tailored cream suit. A dazzling smile revealed perfect teeth but Gemma noted the small lines of tension in her face.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ She smiled, extending her right hand. ‘Dr April Evans, director of Sapphire Springs Spa. Please follow me.’

April Evans’ office was furnished in the whipped-cream style, thought Gemma. Everything from the long creamy marble desktop, plumped-up armchairs and a divan crammed with cushions, was in a shade of ivory. A tall stalk of cream and red orchids stood in a long glass cylinder on the desk, which was otherwise bare except for an elaborate pen and pencil set in cream and gold.

‘Please take a seat,’ said the director, waving them to the chairs while she perched on a tiny golden and cream chair behind the desk.

Angie again flashed her warrant card briefly. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald and this is Gemma Lincoln, who’s assisting me. I’m here to ask a few questions about a journalist, Janet Chancy, who I believe was here a few days ago.’

‘That’s right. Janet stayed with us for two nights. She was doing a piece on our wonderful Sapphire Springs Spa for her newspaper. But she left on Monday. Did you say a missing-person inquiry?’ Dr Evans frowned.

‘Dr Evans, no one has seen her since that time. We know she made a phone call on Monday morning at 10.57 stating that she was driving straight from here to a meeting in the eastern suburbs. But she never turned up to that meeting. She hasn’t been to work. She hasn’t been home. As this was the last place she was known to be, we’re starting our line of inquiry from here.’

‘Let me make a call,’ said Dr Evans, picking up her mobile in its jewelled case and involving herself in a short conversation before calling off. ‘I’ve just organised for us to meet the girl who was on reception on Monday. I’m sure she’ll be able to help. Please come with me.’

As they followed her down a wide corridor, Gemma glanced through the open doors on either side, catching glimpses of luxurious suites and more whipped-cream décor. At the end of the corridor a slim, brown-haired woman in a pale blue uniform waited for them.

‘This is Lizzie,’ Dr Evans said, introducing them quickly and explaining the situation. ‘She’s more than just a receptionist. She’s a housekeeper as well, and sometimes a shoulder to cry on. You were on the desk that day?’

‘That’s right, Dr Evans,’ Lizzie said. ‘Miss Chancy checked out around eleven o’clock on Monday morning. Why? Is there a problem?’

‘She was alone?’ asked Angie.

‘Yes. She made a phone call in the foyer, then came and finalised the paperwork – we’d given her a complimentary stay because she was doing a piece on the spa and how successful it’s been – she signed off, and then she went outside and a few moments later I saw her car driving away from the parking area behind the lake.’

‘Did she stay in one of the suites here?’ Gemma asked, glancing down the corridor.

Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, she stayed in a lakeside cabin. Number five. I helped her settle in.’

‘I’d like to see that cabin,’ said Angie.

The woman looked towards the director, who nodded. ‘Lizzie, take them and show them number five.’

‘No problem,’ said Lizzie.

A few minutes later, Angie and Gemma stood behind Lizzie as she unlocked the cabin, one of five dotted around the lawns, then followed her in. A mosquito whined around Gemma’s ear and she tried to smack it.

‘Sorry about the mozzies. They can be bad near the lake at times,’ said Lizzie, standing back to allow Angie to look around, ‘especially if guests leave the screen doors open.’ A wide picture window looked on to the lake and beside it were two armchairs in the same style as the director’s office. The cabin had a tiny bathroom and a small kitchenette discreetly hidden behind frosted glass doors. A king-size bed covered in cream brocade, between two bedside tables holding lamps that reminded Gemma of ice-cream confections in cones, took up a lot of the living space.

‘Pretty lamps,’ said Gemma.

‘Very nice,’ said Angie. ‘Janet Chancy was here Saturday and Sunday night?’

‘That’s right. Then she left late on Monday morning.’

‘Who normally stays in the cabins?’ asked Angie.

‘Some of our clients – those who aren’t having the DiNAH therapy – like to stay on here until the swelling and bruising’s gone down. Once they’re past the intensive-care stage they don’t need so much medical care. They can relax a little more and enjoy their recovery.’

Angie took a last sweeping look around the cabin. ‘I think we’re done here,’ she said, handing over her business card. ‘Thanks, Lizzie. If you hear anything from Ms Chancy, please contact me on that number.’

As they stepped outside, Gemma noticed another building set right back from the lake. ‘What’s that over there?’ she asked.

‘That’s the medical records centre,’ Lizzie explained. ‘And behind that is the medical supercentre – at least, that’s what we call it. It’s the area where they do the DiNAH procedures. Maintaining sterile conditions is of the utmost importance. The theatres over there are used for the most delicate procedures.’

‘Can you show us?’ asked Gemma. ‘Janet Chancy was very interested in the research going on there. She was writing a piece about the breakthrough therapy research that was done here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lizzie, looking rueful, ‘but the medical supercentre and the laboratories are completely off-limits. There are really strict protocols in place to protect the sterile area. And apart from that, it’s also top secret.’

‘Because of the DiNAH project?’ asked Angie.

‘I believe so. Even staff members are forbidden entry. Only Dr Evans and some of the medical team are permitted over there.’

As they headed back to reception, Gemma noticed Dr Evans waiting for them in the foyer.

Just as she was about to step down to join them, a woman loomed behind her. Shocked, Gemma thought the woman was wearing a mask, until she realised that she was terribly disfigured. Her face seemed to have melted, hanging in sagging pouches, her mouth hung open, her features crooked, as if some careless child had made them in plasticine and stuck them onto her face. April Evans turned quickly and Gemma was surprised to see that the elegant doctor’s face was dark with fury.

‘Mrs van Leyden,’ she said in a controlled voice, ‘how did you—? You must go back to your room. Lizzie? Please help Mrs van Leyden.’

The woman attempted to speak but her disfigurement made this impossible and Gemma’s heart wrenched to witness it.

‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Evans said, as if able to translate the woman’s moans, ‘I’ve already told you. Your operation is definitely down for tomorrow night. We’ve put you ahead of everyone else on the schedule. Now, you must not become agitated. It will not help your condition. Please return to your room and I’ll come by and give you a little something to relax you. Tomorrow, you’ll be on your way to being a new woman.’

Lizzie helped the tottering woman, who was still trying to talk, steering her back along the corridor. Was she trying to break away from Lizzie’s grip? Gemma wondered. And why was Dr Evans so angry?

‘Too many people,’ Dr Evans said quickly, adjusting a comb in her hair, and smoothing her expression back to its usual composure, ‘especially women, are judgemental about cosmetic surgery. They assume that the women who come here – and some men too – are simply vain. But that’s not really the case. Some of them are in despair. Especially women who have nothing else in their lives except their physical beauty. Someone like Mrs van Leyden, for instance, is surely entitled to a more presentable face.’

Dr Evans took Gemma and Angie into her office again, where she opened a large folder. ‘Take a look at these. Her husband threw acid over this woman’s face when he discovered she’d been unfaithful to him.’ In the ruined face, Gemma could just discern the features of Raimon Fayed’s ex-wife.

She flinched at the first of the photographs. Far, far worse than Mrs van Leyden’s disfigurement, this face had virtually disappeared. One staring eyeball glared out from a destroyed eyelid. Two flat holes in a mass of burned tissue formed the nose. Because the lips had largely gone, upper and lower teeth grinned out like a death’s-head.

‘There doesn’t seem punishment enough for doing that to another human being,’ said Gemma, thinking of Raimon Fayed walking free.

‘We were able to do some grafting from undamaged skin and create some improvement for both of these unfortunate women … and this one,’ Dr Evans continued. ‘Her boyfriend doused her in petrol and set her alight – here are the before and after shots.’

The ‘after’ photographs showed mask-like faces: swollen eyelids, lips that didn’t seem to belong to their owner’s face and restructured noses that stuck stiffly out from flattened cheeks. There was some improvement on the horrors of the first photographs.

‘These reconstructions were done before the DiNAH therapy was available. Now in the case of people who can afford DiNAH, we no longer have to carry out multiple operations over time. The first operation delivers the desired effect. But of course, it’s very, very costly. A team of surgeons is involved, and many hours of the most delicate microsurgery and then the DiNAH therapy with the transforming growth factors is also extremely expensive.’

‘Do you have photographs showing the effects of DiNAH on those clients?’ Angie asked.

‘Yes, here you are.’ Dr Evans picked up two framed photographs from her bookshelves. She handed the first one to Gemma: it showed Dr Evans standing with her arm around a woman’s waist. ‘That’s Maxine Wentworth,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous? If she said she was thirty-five nobody would disbelieve her; in fact, Mrs Wentworth is more than twice that age. She was one of our earliest successes from three years ago. She elected to be a kind of guinea pig for the new treatment.’

Gemma blinked and looked again. Maxine Wentworth did appear to be a svelte, beautiful woman in her middle thirties. ‘It’s almost impossible to believe in such a transformation,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘It’s truly extraordinary.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dr Evans graciously, as if she had personally carried out the astonishing renovation. ‘And here’s another one of our marvellous success stories,’ she said, passing Gemma the second photograph. ‘As you can see, Mrs Simmonds looks thirty years younger thanks to DiNAH. Our best advertising is the living proof. Magda Simmonds is yet another testimonial to the exciting results DiNAH therapy yields.’

‘Yes,’ said Gemma. ‘She certainly looks wonderful in this photo. I saw some pictures of her taken at various events lately on the net too. I presume you’ve heard the news of her suicide?’

‘Yes,’ said Dr Evans. ‘Very sad. But of course there was no connection …’

As they made their farewells, Dr Evans accompanied them to the orchid-festooned entrance, clicking along in her high heels.

‘Do please come back,’ she said. ‘We have some wonderful early spring deals going that you might be interested in. In fact, allow me to make you a gift of a spa day, normally priced at $450. I’m sure that one of you young women would like to take that up some time, preferably in the next twelve months?’ With that, Dr Evans summoned the receptionist who shortly returned with a beautifully engraved pink and gold complimentary gift voucher for ‘Heaven For a Day’.

On the way back to Angie’s car, Gemma, idly toying with the gift voucher, said, ‘Dr Evans seemed angry with Mrs van Leyden. She couldn’t get her back to her room quickly enough.’

‘I noticed that, too,’ said Angie. ‘And did you see how she made that comment about there being no connection between Magda Simmonds’ suicide and Sapphire Springs Spa?’

‘Sure did,’ said Gemma, ‘which would indicate that in her mind at least, there is such a connection.’

‘Mmm. I wondered what was going on between Dr Evans and Mrs van Leyden. She’ll sure present a challenge for the surgeons. Although now they’ve got DiNAH … Hello?’ Her voice swiftly changed as she answered a call. ‘Oh, hi Ted. I’m fine. I’m about an hour and a half away. In fact, I’m just about to drive back to the city.’

There was a pause while Angie listened. She nodded goodbye to Lizzie who was walking across the lawn, presumably after assisting Mrs van Leyden back to her room.

‘I can make time for that, Ted. Be there in about two hours. Will you still be there? Okay.’

She noticed Gemma’s inquiring glance.

‘That was Ted Ackland,’ Angie said as they reached her car. ‘He briefed our team the other day. Wants to talk to me on the quiet. He wouldn’t say what it was about over the phone.’

Angie unlocked the door and got in and Gemma swung herself into the passenger seat.

‘He has something to show me, too,’ said Angie. ‘So, Gems, how do you feel about a nice trip to the morgue?’

CHAPTER 11

Angie parked in a back street behind Parramatta Road and they made their way around to the foyer of the squat dark building that housed the morgue. Gemma had called Kit on the way, and she was happy to pick up Rafi and look after him until Gemma had finished.

‘Ted Ackland is expecting us,’ Angie told the receptionist. ‘Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald and Gemma Lincoln.’

The receptionist noted their names and called Dr Ackland. ‘He’ll be here in a minute or two,’ she said with a smile. ‘Take a seat.’

Ted Ackland came out through the security door behind the reception desk, hand outstretched to greet them.

‘Sure, I remember Gemma,’ he said to Angie’s question, shaking her hand, ‘from the old days when you were in the job. Come through.’

He led them along the corridors, through a small museum where organs hung in formaldehyde, until they came to his office – a generous space filled with a table, a couple of chairs and stacks of files.

‘I called your boss earlier today,’ said Ted as they sat around the small table. ‘And he said I should brief you, Angie. Inspector Gross is very busy with administration matters, apparently.’

‘That sounds like Inspector Gross,’ said Angie, with a tight smile. ‘Always busy with administration matters.’ She paused. ‘You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about the murders of Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier?’

Ted Ackland nodded. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this. But I’ve been uneasy about these two cases for some time now. Angie, you must understand that I have to be very careful in my work. Anything I write down in a report has to be based on scientific fact. But I wanted to tell you this in case it’s helpful to your investigations. As you already know,’ he said, pulling out several large glossy black-and-white photographs from a folder, ‘the facial and skull injuries of those two young women were catastrophic, as were the injuries to their pelvises, particularly the sacroiliac area. And someone had gone to a great deal of trouble in each case not only to mop up any possible trace evidence, but also to set up a scenario that would create confusion about the original cause of death as well as hide the original crime scene.’

Gemma looked at Angie, wondering what Ted was getting at.

‘I had to ask myself – as I’m sure you have, Angie – why would someone go to all that bother? Not only is it difficult, but it’s also dangerous – at any stage in the set-up of the “accident”, the perpetrator could have been interrupted. At the disused quarry and near The Gap.’

‘I get all that, Ted,’ said Angie. ‘What are you saying?’

He seemed reluctant to speak, but finally he began again. ‘With that sort of tissue damage, extreme trauma with tissue pulverisation, it’s hard to be sure of what I’m about to suggest. However, I’ve been in this game a long time and I’ve learned to trust my gut feelings. With this sort of catastrophic damage, it might be hard to prove but there are some things I just couldn’t find.’

He pushed the photographs towards them. Mercifully, in black and white it was not quite as confronting.

‘What sort of things?’ asked Gemma.

‘In both cases, certain tissue was missing – I couldn’t account for it. If that sounds vague, I’ll try to explain. Parts of the iliac crest appear to be missing in both women. And I couldn’t find any nasal tissue. That type of tissue has a different quality to, say, lip tissue, which, by the way, also seemed to be missing. You must understand that the facial epidermis was shockingly damaged. But even so, I would have expected to find some recognisable sections of it – even if not intact. And in the case of Marie-Louise Palier, I also found that part of the mandible was missing.’

‘Mandible?’ asked Angie. ‘The jawbone?’

Ted nodded.

Angie and Gemma looked at him and then at each other as the implications of his words sank in.

‘It’s possible that there was some post-mortem damage caused by animals,’ Ted continued, ‘but I really couldn’t say that there was any evidence of that. Rodents leave distinctive teeth marks. There had been quite a bit of insect damage. Some very early maggot stages of various flies, and Rachel Starr’s body had been exposed for some time, but even so …’

‘Things are missing? You think he takes body parts?’ said Gemma, feeling sick with disgust.

Ted’s heavy eyebrows came together in a troubled frown. He started to say something and then stopped.

‘Is that what you’re saying, Ted?’ Angie urged. ‘That he takes trophies? Souvenirs from the women’s features? Maybe even parts of bone?’

Ted compressed his lips and nodded again, but this time almost imperceptibly. ‘Possibly. But I believe he uses acid to destroy facial tissue.’

It took Gemma a second or two to process this information. ‘He really wants to rub them out,’ she said.

‘The sort of damage I’m seeing is the sort you get with strong acids, such as sulphuric or nitric. But I can’t say which one was used because the bodies have been thoroughly washed down. And I’m really reporting an absence. You know how cautious we tend to be with our findings. We can’t overstate them. There could be other explanations, but the most likely one is that the faces are completely destroyed before the bodies are dumped. I thought I should mention this because it might be helpful when you bring someone in.’

Angie’s face wrinkled in distaste. ‘This is one sick individual.’

Ted’s phone rang and he answered it.

‘Sorry, ladies,’ he said, standing up. ‘I was hoping we could have a cup of tea and talk further, but I’ve got a crime scene to attend.’

‘Acid,’ said Gemma as she and Angie walked to the car. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

Gemma shivered. What sort of human being prowls around, looking for bits of people to steal then throws acid onto what’s left?

CHAPTER 12

‘Right,’ said Angie when Gemma answered her phone the next morning. ‘We’ve already had some responses to that newspaper piece. Three women have rung in. Also, I’m interviewing Rachel Starr’s partner at ten o’clock. There’s something I need to check with her.’

Gemma glanced at her watch. She’d need enough time to pack up Rafi’s bag and take him to daycare once he had finished his breakfast. It is not easy, she thought, to run a security business and be a mother to Rafi, or to make time for Mike. ‘I can come along and take notes.’

‘Mmm. Maybe. Or you could chase up the women who’ve rung in. At least in the first instance.’

‘I will. But count me in on the Starr girlfriend interview. I might need to hear what she has to say.’

‘I’ll pick you up about nine-thirty. Be ready.’

Stacey Major opened the door of the small semi-detached house in the inner city and ushered Gemma and Angie along a narrow hall musty with incense smoke. It opened into a living room, which had been turned into a shrine for the late Rachel Starr. Photographs of the dead woman with flowers and candles shining in front of them stood on shelves and tables. Stacey, a short, sad-faced woman in her thirties, stood awkwardly as Gemma and Angie looked around at the pictures of the beautiful girl.

‘I miss her terribly,’ she said, slumping into a chair and indicating that the other two should sit down. Her brown eyes were congested with tears. ‘Sometimes I hear her – I swear it – I hear her calling me from another room. But of course there’s no one there.’ Her voice faltered and she pressed her lips in a firm line against the tears. ‘And I don’t understand why you’re here again. I’ve already told the police everything I know.’

‘Stacey,’ Angie started gently, ‘I know this must be painful for you. But sometimes when we feel we’re getting nowhere in a case, this is what we do. We go back to the beginning. We start all over again. We go over everything. We re-read witness statements, we talk to the people we’ve spoken to before, because we find that sometimes later memories come up, triggered by those first interviews. I have your statement here and I want to ask you a little more about something you’ve written.’

‘Okay, I guess,’ said Stacey, pulling out a pink handkerchief from the pocket of her jeans.

‘My assistant, Gemma, will be noting down any details you can add, no matter how unimportant you might think they are. Okay?’

Stacey nodded, screwing up the handkerchief and pressing it against her mouth. ‘You’ve got to find out who did this. You’ve got to get him.’

‘I promise we’ll do everything possible,’ Angie said. ‘But just to help me get more of an idea about the sort of person Rachel was, will you tell me a bit more about your life together? Your routines, the things you did. The places you went.’

‘Our life was pretty quiet, really. I do night shift at the nursing home, and Rachel – Rachel used to do three different life modelling jobs and sometimes waitressing over the weekends at the cafe on the corner. We’d go to the movies a couple of times a month. Have dinner with friends at their place or here. Sometimes we’d go out for a meal. But the mortgage here takes up a lot of our finances every month.’ She paused, lowering the handkerchief. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to manage alone, with the payments and everything.’

‘Did Rachel complain about anything going on at any of her jobs? Or the art students she posed for?’

‘The police asked me that earlier. No. There was never anything like that. Or if there was, Rachel never talked to me about it.’

‘You mention an incident in your statement,’ said Angie, flashing a look at Gemma. ‘You say here: “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt Rachel. The only time she’s ever been involved in anything violent was when some guy pushed her over near Bondi Beach a week before she was murdered.” Can you tell us more about what happened?’

‘It was an incident down near the beach in the week before she …’ Stacey’s voice petered out. ‘It was really unpleasant.’

‘Tell us about it, Stacey,’ Angie said gently.

‘We were walking along the promenade at Bondi one evening. Rachel was walking a bit behind me, dawdling, when I heard a scuffle and Rachel screaming. I turned round to see what had happened and there was poor Rachel, sprawled on the ground and someone – some guy – running away. The bastard had deliberately pushed her over! We tried to go after him, but we saw him jumping into a car and he drove off really fast. Rachel had grazed her hands badly in the fall and she’d also hurt her shoulder. When we got home, she was still complaining about her shoulder. I had a look at it and I could see a bruise starting to form. At first I thought the mongrel had punched her so hard in the back that he’d bruised her. Then I looked more closely. There was some kind of puncture mark in the middle of the bruised area – like he’d hit her with something sharp. It was very upsetting, but we didn’t report it. We just put it down to some random act of craziness.’

Gemma sat up straight, the buzz of adrenaline surging through her system. This was the third in a series of minor assaults all involving puncture of the skin.

‘Can you tell us anything – anything at all,’ asked Gemma, ‘about the guy who pushed Rachel over?’

‘Not really,’ said Stacey. ‘All I can say is that it was a man – I can’t even remember what he was wearing. I don’t know what sort of car he drove. I wasn’t taking things in very well at that stage.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ asked Angie.

Stacey shook her head. ‘That’s it,’ she said, after a moment.

‘We’ll be in touch again if we need to,’ said Angie, as she and Gemma stood. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Stacey. Thank you. We’ll see ourselves out.’

As they returned to the car, Angie said, ‘Are we just looking at some nasty coincidences, or am I starting to see a pattern here?’

Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘Three assaults on young women. And now two of those young women are dead.’

‘My thoughts exactly. Your place?’ Angie asked, starting up the car.

‘Let’s drop by Kit’s place first.’

Gemma and Angie came in via the rickety wooden gate that opened into the small garden and led to the back steps.

‘Something smells good,’ Gemma said as she walked into the kitchen.

‘I’m making scones,’ said Kit, pushing a tray with ten freshly baked scones towards her. ‘Want one? What have you been up to?’

‘We’ve had a busy morning so far,’ said Angie. ‘Gemma is helping me with some of the paperwork connected to the murders we spoke of earlier.’

Kit nodded, pulling off oven mitts and going to the fridge to get butter.

‘Ted Ackland gave us some disturbing information,’ Angie added. ‘Not only does this killer violently demolish their faces, he also uses acid to complete the job.’

‘Acid?’ Kit paused with the fridge door open. ‘If he doubly disfigures them,’ she said, ‘that could be the explanation. He’s ashamed of what he’s done. He sees what taking his souvenirs – if that’s what he’s after – does to the human face and body, and he can’t stand it, so he sets up a scene that he hopes will hide what he’s done. Acid, then a set-up car crash or falling on rocks from a great height. He’s trying to destroy what’s left after his mutilations so that no one ever knows what he’s done.’

‘You’re suggesting he goes ballistic,’ said Angie.

‘Kit, that could be it,’ said Gemma. ‘Or he could be quite methodical afterwards, going about setting up his false death scenes. He obviously has somewhere he can work undisturbed. Remember, he washes the bodies too.’

‘Okay,’ said Angie, reaching for a scone, ‘when we’ve got a suspect, we’d better make sure we search the freezer. And the meat tray.’

The half-swallowed scone in Gemma’s mouth suddenly became unpalatable.

CHAPTER 13

Angie parked outside Gemma’s home, turned to the back seat and lifted out her briefcase. ‘Here are the details of the three women who responded to that newspaper article. Can you get cracking on that as soon as possible? That’ll save me time,’ Angie said. ‘By the way, Steve called me earlier,’ she added.

‘Steve?’

‘He’s in big trouble.’

‘Yes, I know. He told me about the allegations. About Lorraine Litchfield’s early release.’

‘But I can’t help him, Gems. I’m not even supposed to know anything about it. Steve isn’t allowed to say anything to anybody, either. But he knows I’d never betray him. And I know you never would, no matter how things stand between you.’ She paused, looking across at Gemma. ‘I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘It’s not you,’ said Gemma, finding a tissue for her tears. ‘It’s everything. I’ll be okay once I get back into my old routine again.’

She blew her nose and pushed the tissue up her sleeve.

‘For him to contact me like that must mean he’s in a really bad way,’ said Angie.

‘What did he want?’

‘He didn’t say. I had the feeling he wanted to talk, then decided not to.’

‘I’ll call him,’ said Gemma. ‘No, better still, I’ll go round and see him.’

‘I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to cause problems for you – and Mike. But I had to pass this on. I knew you’d want me to even though Steve will probably hate me for doing it.’

‘Of course you had to tell me. Thanks.’

Gemma got out of the car, heavy with sadness, and more than that. A deep regret was added to the mix of feelings. She knew how fortunate she and Rafi were to have the love and support of Mike, and she did love him. But there was another man in her heart, and nothing seemed to change that.

Later in the evening, with Rafi sleeping sweetly, she and Mike sat on the lounge, with their usual Friday night bottle of wine, and half an eye on a David Attenborough animal documentary. Komodo dragons flicked their drooling tongues along the ground, lumbering around a large pool where muddy water buffaloes lazed, half submerged from the heat and flies.

Gemma turned away from the water buffaloes.

‘How was your day, Mike?’

‘A couple of insurance cheats. And the petrol tankers. What about yours?’

She shrugged. ‘Busy.’ She described what Ted Ackland had told them, and Kit’s interpretation.

On the screen, the Komodo dragon, having bitten the water buffalo with its filthy teeth dripping with toxic saliva, was hanging around waiting for the doomed animal to weaken from the effects of the toxins. Komodo dragons could wait for weeks. They had nothing much else to do in life, Gemma thought as her mind quickly filled with everything that she had to deal with.

The next morning, Rafi woke up grizzling. He had a high temperature and vomited after breakfast. He was restless and unhappy, and Gemma walked around and around the apartment with him, suffering with him. Nothing she did made him happy, so she rang her GP.

‘Make sure you keep him hydrated, and if it doesn’t clear up by Monday bring him over. Could be teething. Some little upset.’

She did her best to comfort him throughout the morning. Sometimes he looked at her and his mouth would turn down and his face would crumple with tears, as if she’d disappointed him deeply.

‘Poor, poor moozle,’ she whispered, rocking him.

He slept fitfully in the afternoon, on the couch where she put him with pillows and cushions to keep him safe from rolling off. With half an eye on him, she took out the list Angie had given her of the women who’d contacted the police after the newspaper article. She selected the first name and phone number: Annabel Carr.

‘Ms Carr?’ Gemma asked when a woman answered.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Gemma Lincoln, and I’m a private investigator working with the police. I believe you contacted the police after reading about the assaults in the newspaper?’

‘Yes, I did,’ she replied, then hesitated. ‘That’s right.’

‘Sergeant McDonald would like you to make a statement about what happened. Are you willing to do that?’

‘I’m not sure … I don’t know how to.’

‘It’s not hard. We just need to you state what happened.’

‘What happened was I met this guy in a bar. And he must have put something in my drink. Look, this is hard for me to talk about.’

‘Would it be easier if we did this in person? We could talk over what you’re going to say in your statement. Would that help?’

‘For sure. Are you working today?’

‘Yes, we’re trying to bring all the information about these cases together as soon as we can. Where would you like to meet?’

‘I’m at Bondi.’

‘I’m not far from there. We could meet at Le Penne at Bondi?’

‘Cool.’

‘I have a sick little boy at the moment. Can we make it later if he improves? Maybe early this evening? I’ll call again.’

Rafi was brighter after his sleep, so in the late afternoon Gemma drove to Bondi. With Rafi in his stroller she walked along Campbell Parade.

As soon as she turned into Le Penne, she picked Annabel Carr sitting in the corner, looking over the top of a magazine, scanning the entrance. Early twenties, Gemma thought, and one of those beautiful, golden Australian girls, lithe, slender, tanned; wearing jeans and, despite the coolness of the day, a halter-neck top. Annabel looked up with interest as Gemma parked the stroller by the door, picked up Rafi and wove her way through the crowded tables.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ she said. ‘What’s his name? How old is he?’

‘Raphael. And he’s almost one. He’s not feeling too good today.’

As if on cue, Rafi broke into a wail, crinkling up his face while Gemma tried to soothe him. A handsome waiter took their orders and soon Annabel was drinking her fresh apple juice while Gemma sipped a coffee and Rafi, his face red and grizzly, crossly waved a piece of bread from the roll Gemma had ordered. A small serve of ice-cream improved his mood and he banged his spoon around.

‘Just tell me what happened – in your own words, Annabel. When you’re ready. I’ll make notes of what you say and you can use them for your police statement, okay?’

‘Like I said on the phone,’ said Annabel, tossing her gleaming dark blonde hair behind her, ‘I met this guy in the city months ago, at a bar called Habeas – a lot of legal people go there. I’m trying to get work in the legal field. But I haven’t got any experience with legal work, only sales jobs so far. And I met this guy, he seemed really nice. Handsome, European—’

‘Accent?’

Annabel nodded. ‘He gave me his business card. Here you are.’

Gemma took the card. ‘The police will want to see it.’

‘It won’t do them any good. There’s no such number. And there’s no such firm. I checked.’

Gemma read the details thickly embossed on the card: Andrew Jarrod. Jarrod, Jarrod and Silberstein, Solicitors, The Terrace, Adelaide.

‘He said that he’d recommend me to a friend of his in Sydney, if I was thinking of leaving my job. He said this friend pays heaps more than the award for a legal secretary. But it was all crap. I remember suddenly becoming very sleepy and he seemed concerned and helped me out onto the footpath and hailed a cab. Then he said he’d better come with me to make sure I got home safely. The next thing I remember is waking up with a – a vampire about to attack my neck. It was horrible. I couldn’t move. I was so dazed by whatever he’d put into my drink, I just had to lie there. I must have passed out again because I found myself in a hotel room with this. After all this time you can still see it.’ She lifted her hair and turned her head slightly so Gemma could see her neck. ‘See that black spot there? Anyway, I went to my doctor to check it out. She couldn’t find any evidence of sexual interference, thank God. And I’ve just had the second of two blood tests and I’m in the clear, thank God again.’

‘When was this, Annabel?’

‘January.’

‘Did this man have any distinguishing marks?’

‘He had a kind of birthmark under his left eye. A bit like a smudge of Vegemite.’

Gotcha, Gemma thought. ‘Why didn’t you report this?’

Annabel considered. ‘I didn’t want to talk about it, I just wanted to forget about it. No one would have believed me anyway.’

They finished their drinks quickly as Rafi threw his spoon on the floor and wailed. Gemma smiled and said, ‘I’d better get this young man home. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me, especially on a Saturday. If you need any help with your statement, just call me.’ She passed her business card over. ‘Angie McDonald will look after you. Phone her when you’re ready.’

‘I think I’ll be okay now – now that I’ve talked it over with you.’

‘If you change your mind, I’m only a phone call away.’

The following morning, Rafi was his usual happy self. ‘Let’s go to Bronte Park for an hour or two,’ Gemma suggested as she made coffee. ‘Take a break from work and Rafi can ride on the little train.’

‘Good idea,’ Mike said. ‘It’s a beautiful morning. We should all be out in it.’

Gemma packed some snacks for Rafi, and his bear and the three of them headed up to Gemma’s car, Mike carrying Rafi and making silly noises that made Rafi giggle. It’s got to be the best sound in the world, Gemma thought, laughing at them.

When they got there, they found the little train in the park wasn’t running but Rafi didn’t care; he was very happy to play on the grass, crawling a little distance away, waving his biscuit, throwing his bear on the ground and squinting at the wheeling seagulls. Mike bought takeaway cappuccinos and Gemma relaxed back on the rug, watching the clouds yet all the time keeping an eye on Rafi.

‘It’s too long since we did something like this, Gemma,’ said Mike, rolling over on the rug and looking down at her. He pushed a strand of hair from her face.

‘You’re right. We work too hard. But Mike, I feel responsible for these people. Mischa, and Delphine – they’ve come to me asking for help.’

‘Maybe you take things too personally.’

‘Maybe I do.’

She climbed to her feet and hurried over to Rafi who was about to eat a piece of Norfolk pine, tempting him away from it with a banana.

An hour later, she reluctantly packed up, while Mike carried Rafi over to get a closer look at the breakers. Gemma watched them lovingly. My two men, she thought, smiling.

After she had settled Rafi down for the night, Gemma went into her office, turned on her laptop and typed in: ‘Rachel Starr – assault at Bondi Beach – pushed and punctured. Eight days later, dead.’ Then she typed: ‘Marie-Louise Palier – pushed and punctured getting onto train at Town Hall. Seven days later, dead.’ Then: ‘Mischa Bloomfield – assaulted …’ And finally: ‘Annabel Carr – drugged and punctured in January. Nine months later, fine.’

The list was frightening.

She then flicked over to her emails. Among the messages was one that turned her mind on to full alert.

‘Hi there, Gerri! You sure sound like an interesting woman. And you look good too! Let’s set up something uncomplicated first? Like a coffee, where we can talk about art and life and the whole damn thing. Can I suggest Indigo Ice cafe at the Cross? Let me know what time and day would suit you. I really look forward to connecting with you. Yours, Angelo.’

‘Perfect!’ Gemma emailed back. ‘How about 3 pm tomorrow? Looking forward to meeting you. Gerri.’

Angelo’s response came within the hour. ‘Till 3 pm tomorrow.’

CHAPTER 14

The next afternoon, Gemma drove to Kings Cross, parking in Bayswater Road and walking past the fountain in Macleay Street to Indigo Ice. She was fifteen minutes early, and she scanned the features of the people sitting at the outside tables to see if she could spot him. She did. Dressed in a dark suit he was standing talking to a young man not far from the entry to the cafe. Immediately, she discreetly aimed her mobile at them and took some shots. He was very tall and strongly built; next to him the young man, also in a dark suit, seemed slight and fragile. She was surprised to see Angelo lean over and kiss him, resting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, and she raised her phone slightly to get a good angle on them before the young man hurried away. Angelo turned, as if he’d sensed her presence behind him. When he saw her, his face registered surprise and, she hoped, pleasure. She’d taken great care to dress well, in a red satin shirt and dark skirt, cream coat and lipstick to match her shirt. She had borrowed the pearl-and-diamond earrings that had belonged to their mother from Kit and on her right hand she wore the large diamond that had been their mother’s engagement ring. She waved at him, smiling as she hurried over.

‘Gerri!’ he called, his hand outstretched to greet her.

Gemma shook it. ‘You’re taller than I imagined,’ she said, laughing.

‘All the better to—’ he started, his speech lightly accented, laughing along with her. ‘I’m not too sure how to finish that. Let’s take a seat and order something, shall we? My son wanted to have coffee with me,’ he said, ‘but I told him I had a better offer!’

So that’s who the young man is, Gemma thought. A son from one of Tolmacheff’s earlier, lied-about marriages.

Tolmacheff leaned back in his chair and signalled the waitress, who came over and took their orders. Gemma studied his face carefully. The photograph he’d used on the singles’ website must have been taken quite a few years ago, she decided. Since then, his face had become heavier, the shadows around his eyes more darkly stained, the sides of his mouth, when not smiling, turned down more bitterly.

‘Now tell me a little about yourself,’ he said, leaning in across the table, his dark eyes appraising her.

‘I’m thirty-eight,’ she started, remembering the script she’d written for herself. ‘I’m interested in art and music. I used to sculpt when I had a studio. I enjoy reading. I really understand what it’s like to be a frustrated artist.’ She flashed her sweetest smile at him. ‘You must write your novel, you know.’

‘Oh, I will,’ he replied, moving conspiratorially closer to her, ‘with the right woman as my muse. But please, go on.’

Gemma lowered her voice, as if embarrassed by what she was about to say. ‘I’m in the fortunate situation of not having to work, and I like to fill my days with things I think are worthwhile. I volunteer for some charities; one of my sisters has recently had a baby and I enjoy spending time with him.’ She hoped Rafi would forgive the lie.

She paused as their coffees arrived, stirring in some sugar before continuing. ‘Last year I came out of a long-term relationship—’ she couldn’t help but think of Steve, ‘—and now I’m ready to meet people – men,’ she added, ‘who might be thinking in terms of a long relationship. I feel very lonely a lot of the time. I feel I have so much to give and share. And you?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, ignoring his coffee and nodding slightly in her direction, as if in approval.

‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘Like I said on my profile, I’m a businessman – involved in several areas of property and consulting. I broke up with my last girlfriend – irreconcilable differences – and I’m mainly looking for a stable, loving relationship and someone to cherish. Someone I can totally trust. I have a good feeling about you already. I believe you are that kind of woman, Gerri, aren’t you?’ On the last few words he leaned forward, gazing into her eyes.

Gemma felt all her instincts and hackles rising at this pressure, but she managed a weak smile in return. She returned his gaze and noticed for the first time that there was some kind of barrier showing in his eyes, like a firewall coming up in front of her. She couldn’t get through. Gemma picked up her cup and took a sip. ‘That seems very positive,’ she said, trying to sound naïve and friendly at the same time. ‘Tell me a little about your life.’

He recounted his birth in an area near the Black Sea, his migration to Australia as a young man, the places he’d lived, work he’d done, his marriage, the birth of his son, of how he’d come home one day to find his wife in bed with his best friend.

‘Did you marry again?’ asked Gemma innocently.

‘That broke my heart,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘For years I couldn’t even think of another woman. It’s only now that I have really started to come out of my shell a little.’

Gemma waited but there was no mention of a second marriage. He’d lied to Delphine and now he was lying to her.

They chatted for a little while longer until Gemma felt she had gained his attention. ‘I have to go now, Angelo,’ she said. ‘I have another engagement. I enjoyed meeting you very much. If you like, we could do it again.’

He stood up with her. ‘If I like,’ he repeated her words ironically, smiling broadly, revealing a gold tooth. ‘Of course I like. Very much. In fact, I’d like to ask you out for dinner. What do you say?’

‘That would be nice,’ she said meekly.

‘May I have your phone number?’

She almost passed him her business card but recovered in time, and instead pulled out a pen and scribbled her mobile number on one of the drink coasters on the table. ‘There you are,’ she said, passing it to him. ‘Mornings are the best time to catch me.’ She left a five-dollar note on the table; she didn’t want to owe this man a cent. ‘It was nice to meet you, Angelo,’ she said.

Back in her car, she closed her eyes, remembering the narrow escape she’d had from passing him her business card.

She pulled out her mobile and called Delphine. ‘I’ve made contact with your husband,’ she said, deliberately vague. The way Delphine was, she might say something to him, accuse him or scream at him about his behaviour. She could destroy Gemma’s carefully contrived cover story.

‘Be careful of him,’ said Delphine. ‘He’s capable of anything. Especially if he gets suspicious.’

‘I will be,’ Gemma replied, knowing all too well that she was putting herself into a dangerous situation.

‘Gemma, I’ve done everything you’ve suggested. I’ve moved to another hotel and I’ve contacted someone from the list you gave me who might be suitable as a bodyguard.’

‘That’s good to hear. I’ll phone again to keep you up to date with any developments, Delphine.’

Gemma rang off, and checked her watch. She was tempted to follow Tolmacheff, to see where he went and if he met up with anyone, but she had to collect Rafi from daycare. A couple of years ago, she could have called Spinner and asked him to keep an eye on the darkly handsome foreigner. No harm in trying, she thought.

She called him up on the two-way.

No response.

She was driving down Bayswater Road when the radio suddenly crackled into life.

‘Tracker Three here, boss. Are you there? Copy.’

‘Spinner! How are you? It’s great to hear from you. Over.’

‘Glad you called, boss. I was talking to your old friend Shelley’s girl, Naomi, about another matter I’m working on for the insurance company. Naomi’s very helpful and sometimes we even have a chat about her immortal soul and the possibility of her finding another way to earn a living. She said to let you know she’s contacted a girl you wanted to see. Can’t remember her name – some kind of cheese. Cheddar? Extra Tasty? Over.’

‘That would be Brie, Spinner. Over.’

‘That’s right. It was Brie. Naomi said this girl is willing to talk to you. There’s a shooting gallery round the back of Al’s Chicken and Felafal Takeaway. Brie hangs out there a lot of the time.’

‘I know it,’ said Gemma, recalling a job she’d done at that place, trying to convince a runaway schoolgirl not to throw her life away. ‘I’ll check it out,’ she said, looking at her watch and making a quick calculation. ‘In fact, I can go there now.’

She turned around and drove back up to the Cross and found a parking spot not far from the chicken shop. She called Mike, who agreed to pick up Rafi from daycare. Locking the car, Gemma hurried towards the corner of the lane, noticing the metal door of the shooting gallery at the back of a tired-looking building. She banged on it but nothing happened. She banged again. This time the door was yanked open by a huge Polynesian man whose bleached hair contrasted sharply with his heavy black eyebrows and piercing dark eyes. ‘What do you want?’ he barked, the face changing into a terrifying scowl. ‘You a cop?’

‘No. I’m looking for someone who hangs around here. A girl by the name of Brie.’

‘She’s not here. I haven’t seen her for weeks.’

Gemma took out a business card. ‘Can you give her this if you see her? And ask her to call me?’

He looked at the card and then at Gemma.

‘Haven’t seen her,’ he said, leaving the card in her hand.

He stepped back inside and closed the door.

Pocketing the card, she walked back towards her car, but hearing the door open again she turned and saw a familiar figure step outside – the skinny girl in the black halter top and boots she had spoken to a few nights ago at the old Ferrari showroom corner. Gemma waved and called out, hurrying back. The girl was wearing tight black jeans, and her short-cropped hair looked stringy and in need of a wash.

‘Sorry I didn’t get your name the other night,’ Gemma said as she approached her. The girl stared blankly, then her expression changed as she recognised Gemma. ‘You’re the woman. I was telling Brie about you. I gave her your card. Has she called you yet?’

‘You’ve seen Brie? Where is she? Where can I find her?’

‘She’s really scared. She’s too scared to work the streets. She’s sharing a place with another girl, working open door.’

‘What’s frightened her?’

‘Some ugly mug. Same one who attacked her before. He tried to do it again last week but she recognised him before he could get her, and she got away. Now she’s a mess.’

‘Listen. It’s really important that I speak with her. Where does her friend live?’

‘Down the bottom of Stanley Street somewhere. A dark blue terrace. Could be number seven. Maybe thirty-seven. Or seventy. Not real sure.’

Gemma hurried back to the car and took off, heading back towards Stanley Street. She found parking near an old Lutheran church and set off on foot, checking out the buildings, looking for a blue terrace house that had seven in its address.

After a few false starts and doors slammed in her face, she found 127, a slate grey terrace house with blue trimmings. The door stood open and Gemma walked in. Open door, she remembered.

‘Hello?’ she called out, from halfway down the hall.

‘Yes?’ someone called from upstairs. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for Brie. I heard she was assaulted recently and I want to talk to her about it.’

Gemma came into the living room at the end of the hallway. It was small and neatly furnished with comfortable couches and in the corner, an Irish harp. Moments later, a young woman, dark hair pinned up, pale pink satin robe clutched around her body, came clattering down the wooden staircase.

‘Brie’s not here. Who are you?’ she asked, pulling the dressing gown tighter around her.

‘I’m a private investigator,’ said Gemma, passing out yet another one of her business cards. ‘I’m looking into a series of crimes involving assaults on women. I heard that Brie was attacked twice, by the same man. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Maybe. Have a seat,’ said the woman, taking the card and sinking onto one of the couches. ‘Business is really slow today so I have time to talk.’

Gemma perched on a small armchair, taking in the woman’s tired, pretty face, the tendrils of hair curling around her temples, the dark eyeliner and pale pink lipstick as she picked up a pack of cigarettes lying beside her on the couch and lit one. ‘I’m Nicole, by the way,’ she said, crossing her legs and exhaling a cloud of smoke.

‘Gemma,’ said Gemma, indicating her card. ‘Nicole, there has been a number of assaults on women, nasty ones, and I’m hoping that Brie can give us more information about the offender.’

‘She’s not here anymore,’ said Nicole. ‘She’s terrified. She worked here for a few days but she was so spooked by what happened …’

‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

‘Some guy attacked her about two weeks ago – she said he was a vampire, like he had these big vampire teeth. He grabbed her off the street and bit her. Look,’ Nicole added sternly, preempting Gemma’s assumed disbelief, ‘I’m just telling you what she said. Okay?’

‘Go on.’

‘That was bad enough, but she saw him just recently – not sure exactly, maybe a week ago. He pulled up in a car and grabbed her again, and this time he had someone else with him. They both tried to abduct her. But she’d recognised him and somehow managed to get free. She was a champion sprinter at school, she told me, and she knew she was running for her life. She ran into the safe house near Forbes Street and lost them.’

‘Where is she now?’ asked Gemma.

Nicole shrugged. ‘Interstate somewhere. She said something about friends in Melbourne. She packed up a few things and shot through.’

‘Have you got a photo of her?’

Nicole shook her head. ‘No photos. But I’ve got this.’

Shyly, Nicole pulled a large sheet of art paper out from a portfolio that was stashed behind a chair against the wall. ‘This is Brie. I managed to get her to sit still long enough for me to do this.’

‘You did this?’ said Gemma, taking the portrait and studying it. ‘It’s beautiful. You have a real gift.’ A charcoal and pastel-colour study; the misty face, neck and shoulders of an attractive young girl shone from the heavy parchment. Brie was an outstanding beauty.

‘You sound surprised,’ said Nicole sharply. ‘Didn’t you think a sex worker could draw something like that?’

‘I’m surprised that anyone can draw something like that,’ said Gemma, propping the portrait up on a chair.

‘I wanted to make a record of her, before the ice destroys her. She’s kind of a friend.’

‘I hope you do something with this talent,’ said Gemma. ‘There’s an art school not far from here,’ she added, thinking of Rachel Starr. ‘You might think of enrolling there.’

‘And starve in a garret? No thanks.’ Nicole made a face, then at the sound of footsteps she stood up, ditched the cigarette, fluffed up her hair and walked down the hallway to greet a man who was on his way in. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘Something I can do for you today?’

‘I’d better go,’ said Gemma, following her. ‘Thanks for your help, Nicole. If you see her or if she calls you, please give her my details. I understand she’s scared and running. But we can help her.’

Nicole nodded and turned back to the potential client.

As Gemma walked past the man, a casually dressed guy in his fifties, he gave her an appraising stare.

Gemma hurried out.

She sat in her car for a while, gathering her thoughts. This was the third case of an assault being followed up a week later – except in this case, the girl had got away.

That’s three that conform to this pattern, Gemma thought. And one that doesn’t. What is going on here? Why was the first assault on Annabel Carr not followed up by a second? What did the other three have that Annabel Carr didn’t have? Or was that the wrong question? Did Carr have something the other three didn’t? Something that kept the killer away? If she could find the answer to these questions, Gemma knew she would be on the way to solving these crimes.

She leaned back in the seat, oblivious to her surroundings. A warning voice from the back of her mind sounded. Mischa, she thought. I must check up on Mischa in case there’s a second attack on her.

She pulled out her phone and was relieved when Mischa answered. After talking briefly, Gemma drove to her Kensington address.

It was a quiet, suburban street and a solid house from the fifties set back from a small lawn at the front and a crazy-paved footpath curving around the side. The windows were standard up-and-down old sash types, and there were no security grilles.

Gemma parked out the front then walked around the side and knocked on the door, noticing how easily the two amber glass panels on either side of it could be kicked in. Mischa opened the door and invited Gemma in.

‘I was on my way home from work when you rang,’ she said. Gemma noticed the tiny gold arrow brooch now decorating the lapel of the navy jacket hanging from the door handle.

‘Has Angie McDonald called you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Just wondering. I don’t generally do this for all my clients, but I wanted to see how secure your place is. Ever thought about getting grilles on the windows?’

‘Not really. We’ve got locks on them.’

Mischa explained that she rented the house with two other women. One of the girls was away a lot for her job, the other worked as a registered nurse at the Prince of Wales Hospital doing shift work.

‘I’m often alone,’ she said, in answer to Gemma’s questions. ‘Until the – the incident – I didn’t mind. Now I’m really nervous. I’ve pretty much stopped going out at night. I’m still waiting to have that second test. I don’t even know if I’m HIV positive or not. It’s no way to live.’

Gemma nodded with sympathy as Mischa took her on a guided tour of the place. In every room they visited, Gemma became more concerned as she saw easy points of entry, from windows at waist level that anyone could just step through, to a dodgy looking addition at the back of the house for the laundry and a second toilet. It was built of light masonry and looked as if a few good kicks would bring the whole thing down. If the vampire decided to attack Mischa again, he’d have no difficulty getting inside.

‘Mischa,’ said Gemma, gently, ‘I don’t want to frighten you, but is there somewhere you could stay for a little while? This house isn’t secure at all. It’s realistic to be concerned,’ she said calmly, noticing the fear in the woman’s face. ‘Let’s do what’s necessary to keep you safe.’

‘You’re thinking he might come back again?’

‘It’s definitely a possibility,’ said Gemma. ‘The offender had plenty of time to go through your bag and find your address and phone number and where you work.’

‘I guess I could go home, to Mum’s place for a while, but …’

Gemma waited.

‘But she would want to know why I wanted to stay with her. And she’d be really worried if I told her.’

‘I’m sure you can think of a plausible reason. Like the lease running out. You don’t have to tell her what happened if you don’t want to.’ Gemma paused.

‘Even if you put grilles on the windows, the front and back doors can’t be secured properly. It would be best if you found another place to live. Just until we lock this guy up for a long, long time.’

‘What about my housemates?’ Mischa asked. ‘Are they in danger too?’

Gemma didn’t reply.

‘Of course, it’s me he’s after,’ said the frightened girl. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Go and stay with your mother. Or stay at a friend’s place.’

Is this the best I can do for these women? Gemma thought, as they finished viewing the house and returned to the front hall, tell them to run and hide?

‘Please think about staying somewhere else,’ she repeated, as she was leaving.

Back in her car she saw she’d missed two calls, both from Delphine Tolmacheff.

‘Everything okay?’ she asked, ringing back.

‘I hope so. Angelo wants to know why I’m away. I told him I’m on a mercy dash – visiting an old friend who’s had a bad diagnosis. I think he believes me. Have you found anything yet? I can’t come home until he’s been put away somewhere.’

‘As soon as I find something, you’ll be the first to know,’ Gemma promised.

As that call ended, another one came through from Mike. ‘Just letting you know I’ve picked up Rafi and we’re making spinach-and-ricotta pie for dinner. Rafi’s a great little cook.’

‘Thanks, Mike. I shouldn’t be much longer.’

She rang off, planning to drive straight home but intead she found herself dialling another number. He answered almost immediately.

‘Steve, it’s me. You at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want to come round. I need to talk to you.’

CHAPTER 15

When Steve let her in, his eyes darted left and right, barely glancing at her before pulling her inside and closing the door. Together in the narrow hallway of his flat, it seemed natural that they should hold each other. Gemma felt tears start and gritted her jaw to stop them. They stood like this for minutes before breaking apart to walk into his living room. A bottle of scotch and a half-drunk whisky-and-water stood on the table near the window. Gemma noticed that the indoor plants – most of which she’d given him – were dying from lack of water. Several photographs that Steve had taken years ago and enlarged, hung on the walls. One showed dolphins playing in the surf near Port Stephens; she remembered that blue-and-gold day clearly, the turquoise swell with the dolphins breaking through the glassy waves in a shower of diamond drops, and Steve’s excitement as he photographed them. Beside this enlargement was an elaborate black wrought-iron sconce with branching arms for candles, which Gemma had bought him from a trash-and-treasure sale years ago. Three dusty candles stood not quite straight in their holders.

She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, returning to water the dry pots. Steve watched her in silence until she placed the empty kettle on the coffee table near the bookcase.

‘Angie said you called her, Steve. What’s happening?’

‘I’m done for, Gemma,’ he said, not looking at her, instead staring ahead at the bookcase. ‘It’s the end of the line for me. I’ll end up in jail down at Mittagong, with all the corrupt cops, working in the vegie garden and watching my back.’ He spat out the last few words with contempt. ‘They’ve been talking to everyone who ever worked with me, and that includes people who hate my guts and who are remembering all sorts of things I’m supposed to have done – or failed to do. Whatever makes me look even worse.’ He turned around and she was shocked again at how exhausted and despairing he looked.

‘Steve, I—’

‘There’s nothing you can do, Gems. Nothing anyone can do. I’ve heard a whisper of what I’m up against – a whole lot of corrupt activities that make a pattern until the big one: taking fifteen thousand dollars from Fayed.’ He flung his arms out in anger. ‘Hell, I fucking wish I had! At least I might be able to make a down payment on some decent legal support!’

He slumped on the old brown leather lounge, head in hands, and Gemma crouched down by his side, putting her arms around him and rocking him like she would a distressed child.

‘Steve, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘There must be something we can do.’

‘There’s one thing I’m seriously considering.’

Gemma said nothing, just tightened her hold on him.

‘I’m not supposed to know anything about this – it’s been hell just going to work as if everything was normal, trying not to notice the looks on the faces of the people who have already been interviewed about me and sworn to secrecy about it; the way they look away from me, the way they avoid me in the meal room. I haven’t had any decent work for weeks. The stuff I’ve been given to do, you wouldn’t give to a sixteen-year-old work-experience kid. Every hour I’m waiting for the hand on my shoulder and the arrest warrant.’

‘You said there is something you’re considering …’ she asked, dreading his answer.

‘It’s not suicide, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although I know of enough poor bastards who’ve gone down that road. Gems, I’m thinking of getting out. Before my name goes on a watch list.’

‘Leaving the police?’

‘Leaving the country.’

‘But you can’t!’

‘Why not? My passport’s in order. I’ve got a credit card. I’m not on a watch list. Yet.’

‘But where would you go? What would you do?’

‘Do what a lot of other men have done. Go to Vietnam, or Bali. Maybe Java. I know a guy who runs a bar in Surabaya. I can always get work there.’

‘Surabaya? No way. You’ve got to stay and fight this. You can’t run away,’ she said, taking her arms away from around him and trying to read his face.

‘Gemma, if it was a fair fight, I would stay. But the fix is in. I’m already guilty. All the evidence points that way. There’s no way out.’

‘But Fayed has to withdraw the false allegations. And so does Litchfield. That’s all it would take to blow this away.’

‘Oh sure. As if,’ he spat bitterly. ‘This is their golden moment. God knows what Lorraine has told Fayed about me. No doubt I’m a woman-beater and a rock spider. There’s no way they’ll throw away this chance to get me.’

‘We’ve got to find a way of forcing them to withdraw the allegations – finding something they fear more than jail.’

Steve held his head in his hands, and then wearily straightened up to face her. ‘Gemma, I’ve made a total stuff-up of my life. Here I am; in another few years I’ll be fifty. What have I got to show for it? A ten-year-old Holden station wagon and a very small amount of equity in this lousy one-bedroom apartment full of dead plants. I stuffed things up with you and now there’s a little boy who doesn’t know me and who’ll grow up without knowing his real father. I’ve played up, I’ve lived the hard-working, hard-drinking party life. I devoted way too much energy to the job. And now, after a quarter of a century locking up bad guys, I’m about to join them for something I didn’t do. Like they always say, TJF.’

TJF, she thought. The job’s fucked.

‘And they’re right,’ Steve continued. ‘And I’m fucked too. I’ve made a mess of everything.’

‘Steve, I used to think that of my life. For a while. Then when I realised I was pregnant with Rafi, and before I found out about you and Julie Cooper, I used to hope that the three of us could become a family. It was that thought and Angie’s good advice that stopped me from having a termination. I was pretty low at that time, though, thinking how hard life as a single mum was going to be. I don’t feel like that anymore. Things have turned out well for me and Mike. Good things can still happen for you. Even if it’s not with me and Rafi as a family. You can have all the access to Rafi you want.’

‘I don’t want my son visiting me in prison,’ Steve spat.

‘Let’s find a way out of this,’ she begged. ‘Between all of us – me, Spinner and maybe even Mike – we can help you beat this. I’ve got these deep connections now with my son and my sister and my friends – and Mike,’ she added. ‘You’re so alone with all this unless you let us help you.’

After a silence he looked up and said, ‘Gemma, I’ve been doing a hell of a lot of thinking the last few days and if all this hadn’t blown up in my face, I could almost imagine myself asking you if there was a chance, if it wasn’t too late for the three of us … You, me and Rafi.’

She couldn’t answer, her eyes searching his haggard, despairing face.

Don’t do this, Steve. Don’t. It’s too late, too late, beat her heart.

‘That was a stupid thing to say,’ Steve said. ‘I already know the answer. Of course it’s too bloody late.’

Gemma didn’t know how it happened but seconds later she and Steve were in a tight embrace on the couch, gasping for breath after a long kiss. She jumped up, her head spinning. ‘I have to go,’ she said, panicked and elated. ‘Please don’t do anything crazy. Let me think about this. We can find a way through this. Steve, please don’t give up. Please. For your sake. For Rafi’s sake.’

On an impulse, she pulled out her wallet, slipping out the photograph of Rafi that she carried with her everywhere. It showed him looking surprised and alert, his huge eyes wide above his broad smile and his hair sticking up in soft punky peaks. ‘Here, take this.’

Steve took the photograph and stared at it, and suddenly his face fell and Gemma thought he was going to cry. Instead, he composed himself, and propped the photograph up against the bookcase. ‘What a great little guy,’ he whispered, looking at it. ‘He deserves a much better father than me.’

‘Please, Steve, don’t give up. We’ll think of something.’

He was silent. She stood up and took a last look at him, sitting on the couch, rubbing a hand over his thick untidy hair, his sad, tired eyes following her as she hurried out of the room, down the narrow hall to the front door, closing it firmly behind her, her heart still racing and an unvoiced howl starting to unwind deep within her breast.

Mike was busy in his office when she got home. ‘I put Rafi down to sleep, he was exhausted. But he’ll probably only be down for ten minutes,’ he said as she walked past the doorway. ‘And I’m nearly done in here.’

‘Okay, Mike. Thanks.’

She was grateful for some space to compose herself. She needed to be alone for a little while. She needed to get her pulse under control. She needed to get Steve’s situation out of her mind. She needed to get Steve out of her heart.

Sometime later, Mike walked into the room. ‘Have you been gardening lately?’ he asked.

‘No. Why?’

‘Come outside. There’s something I want to show you.’

She followed him out to the rose bush under the bedroom window, bare now except for tiny swellings along its length, ready for bud burst.

‘Take a look at that,’ Mike said.

One rose cane had been freshly snapped and was hanging from the bush. Gemma looked from it to the soil underneath. There were signs of disturbance, flattening, unevenness. She stepped back in alarm. ‘I haven’t been near that rose for weeks. Someone’s been here. Outside our window.’

‘We’ll set up a camera – catch whoever it is.’

‘Taxi heard something the other night. He was on full alert when I came out to the kitchen.’

Gemma turned to see that their neighbour Elaine Curtis, a fragile woman in her fifties, whose shiny hair always fell in a perfect bob, had come outside. ‘Elaine,’ she called, ‘this might sound a funny question but have you been over here in the garden?’

‘Me?’ Elaine looked puzzled. ‘No. Of course not. Why do you ask?’

‘Someone’s been here,’ said Mike.

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ she said, drawing closer. ‘A prowler?’

‘Could be,’ said Gemma, ‘but please don’t be worried. We’re going to set up a camera.’

‘Good idea. I don’t like the thought of someone creeping around. We don’t want that sort of thing.’

After Gemma had tucked Rafi in for the night, she helped Mike rig a security camera on the wall adjacent to their bedroom window, angled to cover it and the surrounding area. She tested it, then went into her office, sat down and took a deep breath. At least now she’d get to see whoever had been lurking around her home.

She pulled up her notes and focused her attention on the assault on Brie. If the girl hadn’t been able to slip out of her attacker’s grasp when he returned, would she now be lying somewhere with her head and pelvis destroyed? Under the names and comments about the other women, she added: ‘Brie – “vampire” attack. One week later he comes back but she gets away.’

What the hell was going on with this killer? I should have been more direct with Mischa, she thought. Should have told her what had happened to the others.

She picked up her phone and rang Mischa’s number, but it rang out. She left a message, hoping Mischa had moved to her mother’s place, uneasy with the uncertainty, haunted by the images of the two earlier victims.

CHAPTER 16

Throughout the next day Gemma’s mind kept turning to fearful thoughts about Mischa’s safety. She’d tried to contact her all morning without success. She was also unsettled by the complex and dangerous situation in which Steve was floundering. She couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding – increased by the evidence of the rose bush – that there was something else she should be doing but she couldn’t think what it might be. Added to all that she thought of Rafi, and worried about the prowler coming so close to where he sleeps at night.

Late in the afternoon her mobile rang.

It took her a few seconds to register what Angie was saying. ‘It’s Janet Chancy. Her body’s been found.’

Gemma braced. She realised she’d been expecting this. No longer just missing, Janet was dead. The finality of Angie’s announcement further darkened the day.

Gemma tried to ignore her racing heart and focus on what Angie was saying. This required her full attention.

‘Janet? Where?’

‘Near Kadogil Lagoon. Not far from where her car was found. The boss told me to get out there, so I’m going now. I want to have a bit of a look before the homicide detectives arrive later.’

‘Let me have the details?’ Gemma asked.

‘Only if you promise me you’ll stay in your car,’ said Angie. ‘No, better I come and get you. That way I can keep you on a leash. I’ll be at your place in twenty minutes.

‘Okay. I’ll see if Kit can pick up Rafi.’

Kadogil Lagoon was a new housing estate about fifteen kilometres south of Sapphire Springs Spa. Angie drove with intense concentration, answering Gemma’s questions as best she could. ‘They didn’t tell me much. A birdwatcher found her.’

‘Birdwatcher?’

‘There actually is a lagoon there. It used to be much bigger, but there’s still some wetlands around it. The birdwatcher’s in a state of shock, poor bloke. The uniforms from Kadogil are there, holding the fort and waiting for our guys to arrive with the forensics people.’

Gemma nodded, thinking hard. ‘You’ve got a directory somewhere?’ she asked.

‘GPS,’ said Angie. ‘Haven’t you noticed?’

‘Sure I have. But I want to see a map to work out how far Kadogil Lagoon is from the quarry where Rachel Starr was found.’

‘You’re thinking it’s the same guy?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

She flicked through the directory until she found what she wanted, then pinched the pages between her fingers so that she could look from one map to the other. She was aware that her hands were shaking a little. ‘It’s not all that far, Angie. About nine kilometres by the back roads.’

‘Are you okay?’ Angie asked. ‘I’m picking up distinct distress flares. It’s a while since you were so close to a crime scene.’

‘It’s not only that,’ Gemma admitted. ‘There are a couple of things. First of all, I knew Janet. We weren’t close friends but we met up occasionally. Also, someone’s been hanging round my place, standing in the bushes outside our bedroom window.’

‘Get them on camera.’

‘We will – if they come back. The other thing is … I went over to Steve’s place. He’s in a really bad way. He’s talking about leaving the country.’

‘Holy shit. It’s that bad?’

‘He reckons it’s just a matter of time before he’s arrested, Ange. It’s stacked against him. There’s got to be a way to make Litchfield and Fayed withdraw those allegations.’

‘And face fresh charges? Perjury and conspiring to pervert the course of justice? There’s no way they’re going to change their story now.’

‘We’ve got to find something they fear more than jail.’

‘That being?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m working on it.’

‘Who would be hanging round your place?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘Could be someone from the Litchfield team. But we’ve got it covered now.’

As they drove down the Kadogil Lagoon turn-off, Gemma saw a police vehicle parked just off the road, and Angie pulled in behind it. Gemma jumped out before Angie could protest and noticed that the land sloped away, allowing a distant view of the cityscape and a long sweep of horizon to the north-east. Straggly eucalypts grew along the roadside, and a small fenced lookout area with a fireplace and a table and benches had been built just beyond the road not far from where the police vehicle had parked. Gemma went to the lookout. At the bottom of the slope, a woman’s figure lay crumpled on the bare ground, a dark stain surrounding the upper body. Around her were the scattered contents of a large handbag.

Angie joined her. ‘I guess that’s what we’ve come to see,’ she said tersely before returning to the boot of her car and pulling out a Tyvek space suit and blue plastic booties. She stepped into the suit, zipped it up then pushed her feet into the booties. She took out a box of disposable gloves and wiggled her fingers into a pair, then grabbed her camera and headed off to join the two uniformed cops, calling back to Gemma: ‘I’m going to introduce myself and then try to get in to take a look before the crime-scene people get here and tape it all off. As for you, get back into the car and stay put, Gems. There are some binoculars in the back on the floor.’

Gemma watched while Angie introduced herself to the two uniformed officers, her auburn head gleaming above the white space-suit hood. They seemed in no hurry to leave after the conversation with Angie, despite the fact that someone more senior was on the spot now. But a radio call from their car had them reluctantly driving away, leaving her in charge.

Gemma found the binoculars and started up Angie’s car, nudging it as close as she could to the edge of the lookout, swearing at the bumps. She opened the door, stepped out and leaned against the bonnet. From here she could better see down into the large hollow beneath the lookout. She focused the binoculars on the broken figure lying on the ground some twenty metres away. To her surprise and relief, Gemma saw that Janet’s face, which was slightly turned towards her, seemed unmarked. She leaned forward, focusing on the lower body, which also seemed intact, Janet’s straight skirt curving across her undamaged hips. And there had been no attempt to stage a secondary crime scene, like setting up a car crash or a jump from a cliff.

Gemma lowered the binoculars, frowning. This was different. Was it a different killer? Or had he perhaps been interrupted before he could complete his grisly work?

As Angie slowly circled the scene, recording it with her video camera, Gemma raised the binoculars again to take in the area surrounding the body, noting the lipstick, pens and pencils that had spilled out from the handbag. There was something unreal about the body, the way it was lying there, surrounded by these intimate objects, with the pool of blood blackening as time went by and the light of the late afternoon turned to dusk. Gemma recalled Janet’s vivacity and tears stung her eyes as she thought of all that energy reduced to this. Her sadness quickly changed to anger. We’ll get you, she thought. You won’t get away with this.

A short while later, alerted by the sound of an approaching vehicle, Gemma turned to see the large Forensics Services Group van pull up.

She watched as Angie climbed back up to meet them, and was half listening to their conversation, unable to focus clearly on anything except Janet Chancy’s body. Had the killer been lurking at the lookout hoping for a victim? Had Janet stepped out of her car to enjoy the view and been set upon by the same person who was murdering women in the most violent manner? Was he brazen enough to carry out his attack in broad daylight?

Or had the killer murdered Janet somewhere else and then driven here to dump her body over the edge of the lookout? Gemma considered the distance from the road and the infrequent traffic that it carried. Because of the relative seclusion of the lookout, many metres off the main road, the odds were good that a person could get away with it unobserved. Gemma also had to keep her mind open to the possibility that Janet’s murder was not related to the others. She had to be ready to consider everything.

‘Better go down and take a look,’ she heard the woman from Forensics say. ‘Thanks for covering this, Angie. We’ve been run off our feet in the last twenty-four. See you.’ Moments later, fitted out in their space suits, holding their crime-scene kit bags and carrying the heavy generator to run powerful lighting through the night, the two Sydney detectives slowly made their way down the slope.

Angie stripped off her gloves and stepped out of her space suit, while Gemma opened the car door and stepped in.

‘I’m glad I could hand that one over,’ Angie said, getting in too. ‘Ray and Fiona can have all that with my pleasure. It looks like she’s been there a while. Her wallet was there with about fifty dollars in cash, plus her press card and driver’s licence. Everything had fallen out of her bag. I recorded it all so we can have a closer look.’

‘There didn’t appear to be any savage injuries,’ Gemma said. ‘I wonder if she was killed somewhere else and brought here. She was seen leaving Sapphire Springs a bit after eleven last Monday morning and she hasn’t got very far along the road back to the city.’

‘Ted Ackland will tell us more when he’s seen her and we get a more accurate time of death. This one feels different from the other killings.’

‘We’ll have to go back to Sapphire Springs,’ said Gemma, ‘and speak with everyone who met up with Janet. She must have talked to some of the medical people there to get her story. Maybe she got into the secret area somehow. Maybe that’s what she was so excited about.’

When Angie dropped Gemma home she passed her the camera. ‘Have a look at the footage I took. I won’t have a chance until I get into the office. I’m going home to have an early night. The crime-scene people will have the official footage, but you might pick up something helpful.’

‘Okay. And Angie, about the other case, the vampire attacks … I’ve found a third girl, a sex worker, who conforms to the pattern: a minor assault involving a puncture of the skin, and then a week later she was attacked again, except that she managed to get away from the second assault – and she recognised the guy. He was the one who’d carried out the first “vampire” attack. I reckon she’d have been the third murder victim if she hadn’t got away.’

‘Hell, Gems. We need to speak with her. She can ID this offender.’

‘She’s left town. She’s spooked. And who can blame her?’

There was a silence. ‘I’ll see if I can get more information about where she might have gone,’ said Gemma, making no attempt to get out of the car.

‘Okay,’ said Angie. ‘Spit it out. What’s going on with you? There’s something you haven’t told me. I can tell when you’re worried, Gemster.’

‘I told you how I went round to Steve’s place. Angie, I haven’t even begun to let go of him. It was just the same between us as it always was. The whole of the last year just slipped away.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘No, no,’ said Gemma, shaking her head. ‘We didn’t. Nothing like that.’

Angie gave her a hard look, then gazed out the window before speaking. ‘You have to let Steve go, Gemma. He’s made his choices. He’s a grown-up. He has to live with the consequences.’

‘Angie, that’s not fair. He’s been falsely accused.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Steve wouldn’t lie to me about this.’

‘Maybe not. You’ve got another life now.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Listen to me, lecturing you about an unsuitable man. Oh boy, what a joke.’

Suddenly she grew very serious. ‘Gems, you’ve moved on. Steve couldn’t come with you. You’ve got to let him go.’

Gemma drove to Kit’s, picked up Rafi and then took him home in time for his dinner and a bath. He looked up at her from the tub and splashed with pleasure, clearly thrilled to be back at home with her. Afterwards, she put him on the floor and he immediately took off for the kitchen, so she opened all the cupboards and he sat among pots and pans clashing saucepan lids. As his bedtime neared he was still bouncing with energy and wanted to play, so she put on the Mozart Concerto for Three Pianos. Mozart always seemed to have a calming effect on Rafi. She took him in her arms and rocked him gently. Within ten minutes he was dozing, and she sneaked him into their bedroom and placed him softly in his cot, making sure the blind was drawn down. She remembered the way he’d been staring at the window some days earlier, and she checked the outside image on the monitor that Mike had mounted on the wall. The front garden was clear and silent, with a soft sea breeze blowing the tops of the bushes. Gently, she closed the door. Not a sound.

After Mike called to say he was on his way home, Gemma dialled Mischa Bloomfield’s number again. When she answered, Gemma said, ‘I’m checking to see if everything is okay with you, Mischa. Are you at your mother’s place yet? I’ve been trying to contact you.’

‘Why is everyone after me? Detective McDonald called me earlier,’ said Mischa, her voice shaky, ‘asking me the same thing. Should I be worried? I mean, more worried than I already am? Is there something I don’t know?’

Gemma made a quick calculation. She decided that fear now was the only way to keep Mischa safe. ‘Mischa, please listen. I don’t want to panic you. But in two other cases like yours – I mean, where there was some kind of ugly assault—’

‘What?’ The girl’s voice was panic stricken. ‘What others? What happened to the others?’

Gemma flinched, unsure now about what was best for Mischa. She desperately searched around for a gentler way of framing what she had to say. ‘It seems that sometimes this offender comes back – not to everyone, but to someone he’s already attacked.’

‘What does he do?’ her voice tense with terror. ‘He kills them, doesn’t he? That’s what you’re going to tell me, isn’t it? That’s what happened to those other two women.’

‘You need to move out of your house and take some leave from work – just for a while.’

‘You’re telling me that he’s going to come back and kill me!’

‘Mischa, listen to me. Please go and stay with your mother. Until it’s safe. And take some holidays from work. Just drop off the radar for a while. Get a medical certificate if you need one,’ said Gemma. ‘Okay? Let me know where you are. Can you do that?’

But Mischa had already rung off.

Gemma called her again. This time the call went straight to voicemail. ‘Please call me,’ said Gemma.

Later that night, the only thing that could keep Steve and Mischa from taking turns in freewheeling through her mind was helping Mike prepare dinner while bringing him up to date with what she’d been doing that afternoon. After telling him about Janet Chancy, she went over the vampire cases, trying to figure out why Annabel Carr was only attacked once, nine months ago while the other victims had suffered a second – sometimes fatal – attack within a week.

‘Maybe he couldn’t find her again,’ said Mike, rinsing the lettuce for the salad he was making.

‘I doubt it. She still lives at the same address, works at the same job. He’d have had ample time to go through her belongings and find everything he needed to know about her.’

A couple of times Gemma almost told him about her visit to Steve, but pulled back. She didn’t want to deal with the turbulence this incident caused in her whenever she focused on it. She didn’t want to talk about Steve.

I’m keeping secrets from Mike, she thought, and the idea made her uneasy.

‘This vampire guy is a real monster. He selects his victims. He marks them. And then he comes back – like the Komodo dragon. Two of the women he punctured are now dead, and the third one—’

‘The girl Angie brought around to see you,’ said Mike, comprehension dawning in his face, ‘who was bitten by a vampire …’

‘Mischa Bloomfield. Her neck was punctured, Mike. He’d injured her.’

Mike stopped and looked at her. ‘If what you’re suggesting is right,’ he began, ‘that girl is in serious danger.’

Gemma nodded. ‘I rang to warn her. But I think I panicked her.’

‘Better to be panicked than to be dead, Gems. She has every right to be scared.’

‘And she’s not the only one. There’s a terrified sex worker in hiding somewhere. He marked her before and tried to get her again,’ she said. ‘Mike, I’ve thought of something. I have to call Angie.’

‘It’s me,’ Gemma said, on the phone to Angie. ‘He’s not a vampire. He’s a Komodo dragon. Mischa Bloomfield is in terrible danger. She must have some sort of protection or go into hiding.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Angie, ‘but I got lost around the Komodo dragon bit.’

‘Starr and Palier were both victims of an earlier assault. He selected them and marked them first, then he came back to get what he wanted – and then really do a job on them. That’s what Komodo dragons do. I saw this doco about how they bite their prey with their toxic fangs and then later they move in for the kill. Can you do something for her?’

Angie considered the options then said, ‘I could suggest to Gross that we put a twenty-four-hour watch on her.’

Bruno Gross, that bit of very bad judgement on my part, Gemma thought. A crazy alcohol-fuelled romp in a motel one night years ago, when she’d still been in the job. A night she now profoundly regretted.

‘And what are the chances of that happening?’

‘Nil.’

‘But Angie, you know what this means for Mischa. She needs protection.’

‘She’s not going to get it, Gems, not with our budget. We’ve already gone way over, according to the boss. The best she can expect is maybe a squad car driving by her place now and then.’

‘Can’t you squeeze out something more? There’s no security in her house; you can practically walk through the walls!’

‘You know Gross, Gems. All that matters is that the crime figures look good so he looks good. That, and going for the next promotion.’

‘You know, Angie,’ said Gemma, ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Bruno Gross would be the boss. How does this sort of thing happen?’

‘It’s the nature of the brotherhood,’ sighed Angie. ‘People like me get passed over and people like Bruno Gross get to the top. Actually, it’s probably bigger than the brotherhood. Seems to be the way of the world. I don’t know what he’d do if he knew you were helping me out, Gems.’ She paused, and then spoke firmly. ‘I’ll talk to Mischa.’

‘I’ve done that. Talk’s not good enough. He could be back for her in days. Lean on her hard, Ange. I told her to go to her mother’s place, or somewhere else. She needs to disappear.’

CHAPTER 17

The next morning, with Rafi at daycare, Gemma sat in her office and looked up the details for Angelo Tolmacheff’s former lover.

She called the number, waited, and was about to hang up when Penny Watson answered. ‘You’re under no obligation to do so, Ms Watson,’ Gemma said, after introducing herself, ‘but I hope you’ll agree to talk to me. I’m making some inquiries about an Apprehended Violence Order you took out against Angelo Tolmacheff some time back. Would you be willing to tell me something about that?’

‘That bastard! What’s he done now?’

More than willing, Gemma thought.

‘It’s an ongoing investigation, so I can’t really say very much,’ she said, ‘but we wanted to contact you in case you can shed more light on the character of this man.’

‘Angelo Tolmacheff is lower than a snake’s bum. He cheated me out of money, and when I tried to get it back, he stalked me and bashed me. I was terrified. He’s a nightmare. He comes on all European gentleman, but cross him and he’s all Balkans thug. He forged cheques in my name, somehow got my PIN and withdrew thousands of dollars from my bank account. I wish someone would lock him up and throw away the key!’

‘We’re working on that,’ Gemma said.

‘Funny you should call me about him. I actually saw him a few weeks ago. He didn’t see me, and I crossed the street to make sure he didn’t. He was walking along with another thuggy-looking guy. I can tell you, my blood pressure went through the roof.’

‘Any idea who the other man was?’ asked Gemma, alert.

‘I couldn’t tell you. They were coming out of Indigo Ice, a cafe in Macleay Street, at the Cross. Up to no good, for sure.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual about the other man’s face?’ Gemma asked, thinking of the vampire.

‘They were too far away for that. Sorry.’

Gemma thanked her and rang off. The same pattern, she thought, confirming the MO of Angelo Tolmacheff: charming women and then using them. Penny Watson was lucky. If she’d been as wealthy as Delphine, she might have ended up hiding in fear for her life.

Gemma made herself a coffee and settled on the lounge next to the tightly curled-up Taxi. Steadying her nerves, she watched the crime-scene DVD that Angie had loaned her, replaying the close-up scenes of Janet’s body amid the scattered belongings from her bag. Over and over Gemma studied the scene: the bag, lying on its side almost empty. Its contents had spilled out around it – the wallet, a couple of pens and a pencil, a make-up purse, lipstick, comb, address book, a mobile phone, keys on a ring with a large cream ‘J’ encrusted with diamantés, a half-finished pack of chewing gum and a favourite pen with a long red tassel on it lying next to the car keys. Something was missing, Gemma thought. But what was it? It was infuriating.

As she typed up her notes on the Watson interview, thoughts of the three dead women haunted her … and then she got it. Janet was an old-fashioned journalist, the sort who still took notes in shorthand – but there was no notebook in the scattered belongings.

She immediately picked up her phone. ‘Angie! Janet Chancy’s stenographer’s book, where is it? It should have been in her bag with everything else.’

Angie was silent for a moment. ‘Good question. If she was making notes at the spa for a piece for her paper, that’s where all that information should be. And you’re right, we didn’t find a notebook at the crime scene.’

‘The killer must have taken it,’ Gemma said, and thought for a moment. ‘What if Janet found out something that would discredit the medical team and ruin the spa?’

‘She sure discovered something,’ Angie agreed.

‘She might have talked to someone at the spa about getting that information. So there would be every reason for that person to take the notebook, especially if she had information they didn’t want anyone to know about.’ Gemma paused then went on: ‘Janet’s profile is different from the other victims. She’s older, for one thing; she’s – she was – a few years older than me. Starr, Palier and Brie are in their twenties. So’s Mischa.’

‘By the way, I talked to Gross, and there’s no chance of protection for her. He practically laughed at me. You know what his suggestion was? “Can’t she just go on a cruise?”’

Mike came home for a late lunch, joining Gemma in the kitchen as she heated up a quiche for them both.

‘I haven’t been able to get anywhere with that beneficiary on Tolmacheff’s insurance claim,’ he told her as they ate. ‘Adel Milani doesn’t show up online anywhere or on any records I could find. But I spent an hour tracking your Mr Tolmacheff. All I can report is that he had brunch with a young man.’

‘Probably his son,’ said Gemma. ‘I guess I’ll find out more about that relationship if Tolmacheff asks me out for dinner.’

‘I’ll be at another table, keeping you under surveillance.’

‘Don’t you dare, Mike! I’d feel really self-conscious. Promise me you won’t go along.’

‘Okay. But I’ll be close by.’

‘As far as he knows, I’m Gerri Westlake. Stop worrying. I know how to do this.’

‘I just hope you’re right.’

So do I, she thought.

She’d gone for a run, showered and washed her hair and was dressing for her appointment with Ambrose Cobcroft when Angelo Tolmacheff called.

‘I can’t seem to get you out of my mind,’ he said. ‘I think we need to do dinner.’

‘That would be nice,’ Gemma said, immediately alert.

‘And soon. How about tomorrow night?’

‘I’ll buy a new outfit for the occasion.’ She hoped the tone was right; coquettish and a bit silly.

‘Something low-cut,’ he said. ‘To show off your – charms. What time should I pick you up?’

‘How about seven? But I’ll be in the city tomorrow evening,’ she said, not wanting him to come anywhere near Phoenix Bay. ‘So we can meet at the restaurant.’

He gave her the address. ‘I look forward to it,’ he said, his accent a little stronger than usual.

She forced him from her mind as she selected a dark pink suit and cream satin camisole.

Then she checked her hair in the mirror, happy with the way it fell in a tawny bob to just above her shoulders, and put on deep pink lipstick.

She was aware of Mike’s warm presence behind her, looking past her into the mirror.

‘Very nice.’ Gently, he turned her around to face him. ‘I’m meeting up with Nick Cleary tomorrow, the ex-Federal cop that I mentioned to you,’ he said. ‘It will mean I won’t be around as much, but now that Rafi’s in daycare …’ He paused. ‘Have you thought any more about – about the Mrs Moody question?’ he asked.

‘A little.’ She smiled. ‘Just give me a bit more time?’

‘I love you, Gemma.’

She smiled and reached up to kiss him. ‘I’d better go.’

The drive north to Vaucluse was marred by heavy rain and the ocean, when she caught glimpses of it, was battleship grey with churning white tips. On the high ridges she looked across to the harbour and the bridge, the sea beneath it the same dull grey.

Ambrose Cobcroft lived in a block of four units, hidden from the road by tall hedges and a high stone wall. Gemma pressed the security buzzer and heard a man’s voice call, ‘Come in!’ and the gate unlocked.

As she made her way along the winding path lined with small cypress trees, she saw him waiting at the entrance to his garden apartment.

Gemma was surprised. Cobcroft was tall and athletic-looking with tanned skin and appeared to be in his forties – a generation younger than his fiancée Magda Simmonds.

‘Thank you for coming. I appreciate it,’ Cobcroft said as he led her into the living room, which was decorated with tribal art. Around the walls hung wooden masks studded with cowrie shells, some sporting what appeared to be human teeth set crookedly into gaping mouths. Large fibrous tapestries covered in geometrical patterns covered one wall.

He walked out to the patio, indicating she should sit with him at a glass-and-wrought-iron table.

‘Magda waited until I was out and then took an overdose of Xanax. I didn’t even know she had it in the house. Or where she got it. Here’s the note she left,’ Cobcroft said, pushing it across the table as if it were a dangerous object. ‘The police returned it to me. I wanted you to see it. Of course I haven’t read any other suicide notes in my life, but this one is different somehow from what I would have expected. That’s why I want your opinion.’

Gemma picked up the sheet of paper, pink stationery with a stylised rose in the top left-hand corner, noting that the writing looked weak, even shaky.

‘Please forgive me, everyone, for what I have to do. I thought I could make a new beginning with you, Ambrose, but I can’t. Something terrible is happening and I simply can’t cope with it. Maybe you can guess what it might be, Ambrose … What I’m doing is for the best.’

At the bottom of the page she’d signed, ‘With all my love. My heart will live on, Magda.’

Gemma read it again before raising her eyes to the man sitting opposite her. ‘I need to ask some questions. First of all, is that her usual handwriting?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Magda had a very firm, strong, flowing hand. This looks like an invalid’s writing.’

‘Was she ill?’

He shook his head. ‘She seemed in radiant health. She looked wonderful after her facelift. You see, there is quite an age gap between us and – I’ll be brutally frank about it, I didn’t want to be seen with someone who looked – well – old. I loved Magda, but—’ he spread his hands helplessly, ‘—we men love beautiful young women. Remember that old song from the twenties? “Keep young and beautiful”.’

‘I don’t know it,’ said Gemma. ‘But I guess Magda did.’

‘She did. That’s why she booked into Sapphire Springs Spa.’

‘What was the terrible thing that she was alluding to?’

‘I have no idea,’ he said, ‘and before you ask me about that line she wrote – “Maybe you can guess what it might be” – I don’t know what she meant with that, either.’

‘It’s a very pointed remark. You really have no idea?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Cobcroft answered quickly. Too quickly, Gemma thought. ‘I have to ask a few personal questions,’ she said, taking a new tack. ‘Your personal life was …?’

‘If by “personal” you mean our sex life, I’d have to say very good. We are – we were – both in excellent health. Add to that the fact that Magda was on top of the world. She was planning our wedding. I know it’s a cliché, but she really did have everything to live for. Her suicide just doesn’t make sense.’

‘What sort of business are you in?’ Gemma asked, looking from the patio into the well-appointed apartment and the expensive, if grotesque, masks on the wall.

‘I dabble in the art market. I’ve had a lucky run. I suppose you could call me an art dealer.’

‘Yes, you must be lucky. The art market’s been pretty wobbly over the last couple of years, I believe.’

‘Not in the middle market,’ he said, slight condescension in his smile. ‘I buy a lot of tribal art that people seem to like, and they are prepared to pay good prices for it. That’s how I met Magda: she bought a pair of masks. Although she is – was – much older, she was very good for me.’

But were you good for her? Gemma wondered. ‘I read in the paper that Magda was one of the first clients at Sapphire Springs to take advantage of their new post-operative therapy?’

Cobcroft nodded. ‘There was another well-known personality – I’ve forgotten her name – someone from the racing world.’

‘Maxine Wentworth?’

‘That’s right. That was the woman. I’ve got to say it’s a marvellous thing to produce such results. There was hardly any bruising or swelling and almost no scarring – just a little in front of her ears. There’s very little worry about post-operative complications, and it’s straightforward and simple enough. I hear that Harlow Hadley is having it done. She married a billionaire, that helps.’

‘Did Magda have to take any medication after the operation?’ Gemma asked.

‘Yes, she had to undergo the regime of the DiNAH components in capsule form.’

‘Are her capsules still here?’

‘No. Apparently they’re not letting anything off the premises until it’s been patented. Magda had to go back to Sapphire Springs twice weekly.’

‘Are you quite sure you have no idea what the “something terrible” was, that Magda couldn’t face?’ she asked. ‘You do understand the implication, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘Magda was facing something she believed was so terrible that death was a better alternative. Women have suicided over the loss of love.’

‘But I did love her. She wasn’t about to lose me.’ He paused, looking away into the distance, then said quietly, ‘Believe me. I don’t know why she did it.’

‘Do you think she might have been depressed? Something to do with the DiNAH therapy? Some kind of reaction to the drugs?’

‘I have no idea. No one mentioned any adverse reactions. The only thing they told her was to stay out of strong sunlight in the middle of the day.’

Like a vampire, Gemma couldn’t help thinking.

‘And she wasn’t depressed,’ Cobcroft continued. ‘I would have been the first one to have noticed something like that.’

Gemma recalled reports she’d read, parents saying: ‘But we had no idea! She never showed that side of herself to us …’ She spoke carefully. ‘Sometimes those closest to the person are unable to see clearly what’s going on.’

Then, after a pause, she asked, ‘What exactly do you want me to do, Mr Cobcroft? Do you want me to ask around among her friends and acquaintances? Isn’t that something you could do yourself? And far more cheaply.’

‘Actually, not quite so easily. Her son can’t stand me. He blames me for what happened. And a lot of her friends are very judgemental. They couldn’t handle the age gap between us. They saw it as something sinister. Some of them think I’m some sort of fortune hunter.’

‘I believe Magda was a very wealthy woman,’ Gemma said evenly.

‘She was. But her son will get everything. It’s not as if she was going to change her will and cut him out of his inheritance. And now the family are blaming me. They’re saying that I pressured Magda into having the DiNAH-therapy facelift.’

Gemma looked him straight in the eye and asked, ‘And did you?’

He turned away, seemingly suddenly interested in a plant growing nearby before turning back and replying. ‘I may have implied that things would be better between us if the age disparity wasn’t so obvious. I need to do a lot of socialising in my line of work and I didn’t want – an old woman on my arm.’

At least, Gemma thought, he was being frank.

‘I can give you the details of her closest friend, Yvonne Creswell. Magda may have told her something; Yvonne was her confidante. I really want to find out why she did this.’

He wrote out a name and phone number and handed it to Gemma.

‘I’ll do what I can, but it could take several thousand dollars of your money. What you’re asking me to do doesn’t come cheaply. And I’m not even sure that there’ll be a satisfactory outcome.’

‘Minkie Montreau was delighted with what you did for her. And I’ve had a good month,’ he said. ‘I’ll write a cheque for a thousand dollars for a deposit. Is that enough to be getting on with it?’

‘I can ask quite a few questions for a thousand dollars.’ She smiled.

They walked inside and Cobcroft invited Gemma to take a seat while he went to his desk to write out a cheque. She stood up when he handed it to her, and took a couple of steps towards the door, obviously in no hurry to leave. It was a technique that she often used: when people felt that an interview was at an end, they relaxed more and were often less guarded in what they said.

‘I’d like a copy of the suicide note,’ she said.

‘I’ll make one right now,’ said Cobcroft, after the barest hesitation and headed into a small office, leaving Gemma staring at another long-faced mask with mean, piggy eyes and a mouth that looked like a tapeworm’s. She heard the sounds of a photocopier and within minutes he returned with a copy for her.

‘One more thing. Could you give me the name of Magda’s doctor?’

‘But I’ve already talked to him. That was the first thing that went through my mind,’ he said, ‘that Magda had discovered some terrible threat to her health and thought suicide was a way out. Although that doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Perhaps she went to another doctor. One that you don’t know about,’ she suggested as they walked into the entry hall.

‘That’s possible. But what I am really hoping for is that someone – you – can give me an explanation as to how a woman can one minute be on top of the world—’ he lowered his voice as he added, ‘and then do something like this.’

Gemma was silent for a few moments. ‘I’ll do everything I can. I understand how difficult this must be for you.’

He opened the front door then looked into her eyes and said, ‘I must say, you’re not what I expected.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Who said anything about disappointment?’

Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll call you if I find out anything. Okay?’

She felt his eyes on her back as she walked away and she wondered about Cobcroft’s flirtatiousness. With some men, she thought, it’s almost unconscious – it’s their way of relating to women. But could it have driven a sensitive woman like Magda, already insecure over the quarter of a century that separated their ages, to suicide?

At home in her office she took the poignant suicide note out of her bag and read it again. ‘Please forgive me … Something terrible is happening …’ Gemma stared at it. The shaky writing troubled her. ‘Something terrible is happening and I simply can’t cope with it.’

Had Magda finally noticed her fiancé’s natural flirtatiousness and found that it was just too much to deal with? If so, would that lead to suicide? Surely she’d just call the whole gig off, not kill herself. Gemma turned back to the note and continued to read: ‘I thought I could make a new beginning with you, Ambrose, but I can’t … Maybe you can guess what it might be … What I’m doing is for the best.’

Had she discovered she was suffering from some fatal disease? All the facelifts in the world couldn’t change that. But then, if she already thought she was going to die, it didn’t make sense to be talking about making a new beginning. A new beginning from where? And what had been the matter with her old life?

Gemma had the feeling that Cobcroft wasn’t telling her everything he knew. Magda had thought she could make a new beginning with him, but something had happened, something terrible, and Magda believed that her lover knew what it was.

And whatever it was, she’d preferred death to facing it.

Gemma pulled out the piece of paper with the name of Magda’s best friend on it and dialled her number. ‘Is that Yvonne Creswell?’

‘Yes. Who’s speaking, please?’

‘My name is Gemma Lincoln. I’m an investigator working for Ambrose Cobcroft. This concerns the death of Magda Simmonds. I’d like to talk to you about this if possible.’

There was a long hesitation.

‘Ambrose Cobcroft hired you?’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘I can’t imagine what he thinks he’ll get out of it.’ There was a bitter edge to her voice. ‘It was a terrible shock to us all. I still don’t understand it. I feel terrible that I couldn’t help my friend.’

‘Maybe talking about it with me will help throw some light on it?’

‘I guess it won’t do any harm. I’m busy today but I could see you later in the week. I’ll need to check my diary.’

‘I’ll call again tomorrow and make a time.’

CHAPTER 18

‘Am I speaking to Gemma Lincoln?’ a gruff male voice asked at the other end of the line.

‘Who is this?’

‘Sergeant Bernie Adams from Maroubra police. We’ve got a young fellow here by the name of Hugo Sherry who claims you’re his guardian. Is this true?’

Gemma’s mind had to race for a moment before she recognised the Ratbag’s real name. ‘Hugo? What’s he doing in a police station?’ The Ratbag being a ratbag?

‘So, you do know him then?’

‘Yes. I do know Hugo. He’s a friend. I’ve known him for years. What’s the problem?’

‘Ms Lincoln, I think you should come and pick him up. He can tell you himself. I’m letting him off with a caution this time. But I’m not prepared to let him go unless it’s in the company of a responsible adult.’

That’s me, thought Gemma. The responsible adult. What on earth had Hugo been up to? She looked outside to see that the sprinkle she’d driven through earlier had turned into a downpour.

‘Okay. It’ll take me about thirty minutes, maybe longer in this rain. But I’ll come and pick him up.’

‘Good. Ask at the counter. Bernie Adams. I’ll be here till seven.’

During the drive she felt herself growing increasingly angry. What the hell was the Ratbag up to now? If he thought that a life of crime was glamorous and exciting, he’d better think again, she decided. Although she felt sorry for him – his father busy with his new love, and his mother’s time was taken up pursuing her career in Melbourne – he should have assumed some responsibility for his life by now. He’d be sixteen soon. Not long ago, he’d been acting as a part-time courier for a drug boss at Kings Cross. He’d claimed he was simply gathering intelligence, just as she did, because he was determined to work for her when he grew up. Her anger with Hugo collided with the sense of overload that had been building for a few days now. ‘It takes me a while,’ she’d said to Kit once, ‘to realise when I’m taking too much on. I don’t seem to pace myself very well.’ And now as she realised she had taken on too many investigations, part of the anger was directed at herself.

At the police station she asked for Sergeant Adams. The young constable disappeared for a moment and then came back saying, ‘He won’t be long. Just take a seat.’

Gemma sat down and looked around at the haunting posters for missing persons – children and adults – on the noticeboards. Her anger increased with every moment she was kept waiting. She glanced at her watch, worried about picking Rafi up from daycare.

Finally, a door opened and a heavily built uniformed officer walked across to her. ‘Ms Lincoln? Bernie Adams. Sorry to keep you.’

She followed him through a doorway and down a hall, past a sign indicating ‘Detectives’ and a number of interview rooms.

Adams opened the door to the last one and there he was, the Ratbag, looking sheepishly at her, hunched into his hoodie. Gemma’s first impulse was to run over and hug him but this was quickly replaced by the anger she’d experienced earlier. ‘Hugo! What the hell is going on? What’s this all about?’

‘Thanks heaps for getting me,’ he said, his face wide with relief. ‘I thought you might have forgotten me.’ He paused and looked away, blinking. ‘I didn’t think you were coming.’

At that, her anger evaporated. ‘Of course I came,’ she said, hugging him. ‘Let’s get you out of here and you can tell me what happened.’

She was aware of the bulk of Bernie Adams in the doorway, and she turned to him as he spoke. ‘I’m letting him off with a caution this time. I’ve got four kids myself and I know that at this stage boys can be a bit wild. He doesn’t seem to be a bad lad, but if he ever gets into trouble again, that’ll be it. There’ll be no more warnings.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Gemma. ‘I appreciate it. I’ve known Hugo for quite a few years now and he’s basically a good kid.’

‘He’d better be from now on.’

She hustled Hugo out of the room and down the hallway. As they emerged into the cool evening air, she was relieved that the rain had stopped.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m parked over there.’

Once he’d climbed into the car and was sitting beside her, she turned to him and said, ‘Okay. Let’s have it. Right from the beginning.’

He gave her a guilty look and then straightened up a little in the seat.

‘It kind of got out of hand.’

‘I don’t want to hear that crap. Just tell me what happened.’

‘I’m staying at Dad’s place for the school holidays and I met some guys from my old school.’

Gemma remembered the school, where for a long time two older bullies had been bashing Hugo and picking on him while his father and mother didn’t seem to notice – or care.

‘Anyway, these guys were cool. We decided to take revenge on Clifford and Mawby.’

‘Revenge? That’s not a good idea. They were expelled. And you’re at a new school. It’s over and done with. The new school – what’s it like, by the way?’

‘It’s pretty good,’ he said. ‘It’s just that because I’m kind of a new kid, I haven’t got any close friends there yet. So when Brand and Jason called me, I was really stoked. It was their idea, the revenge I mean.’

Gemma sighed. ‘So what was the revenge idea?’

‘Mawby’s father bought him this really cool sports car. We decided we’d take it for a spin and then call Mawby and give him a heart attack by telling him we were going to send it over a cliff into the sea. We set up a kind of diversion when he was getting into the car. That’s how we got the keys.’

‘What kind of a diversion?’

‘Jason crashed-tackled him, I grabbed the keys, Brand pushed him out of the way, and by the time he knew what was going on, we’d already piled into his car and taken off. He was screaming at us, swearing, but he couldn’t get us!’ A huge smile lit up the Ratbag’s face. ‘That was a fully mad moment!’

‘That was an assault. And car theft.’

‘But we weren’t going to do anything bad with the car.’

‘And?’

‘And then we drove out to Maroubra in his crazy car and called to tell him we were going to wedge the accelerator and send it over the cliff. He was crying like a baby and begging us not to. Then we made a huge noise with some empty old forty-four-gallon drums and told him that was the sound of his car hitting the rocks. Then we hung up on him.’

‘So, what did you do with the car?’

‘We just left it there. We locked it and hid the keys on the front tyre. We planned to call him in a few hours, after he’d suffered enough. But a couple of police saw us. They asked questions and, well, after a few minutes, we were in deep shit. And that’s how come I ended up at the police station, charged with stealing a car. Well, almost charged.’

‘You’re damn lucky you weren’t. What happened to Brand and Jason?’

‘Their parents came. I was the only one left.’

‘What did your parents say?’

‘I left a message on Mum’s phone. Dad hit the roof and said I could stay and face the music. He said he was too busy to take time off work to drive down to Maroubra. He was going to call his solicitor and send him down later. But he didn’t arrive and I didn’t know what to do. So I rang you. I’m sorry.’

He looked away so that she couldn’t see his face.

Gemma patted his knee. ‘It’s okay. You don’t need to be sorry. Not to me. But you did a crazy thing.’

‘You bet!’ he said, grinning again.

‘I don’t mean crazy like you mean crazy, Hugo. I mean it was a stupid thing to do because it’s the sort of thing that can get you a police record.’

The Ratbag shrugged. The rain came down heavily again, drumming on the roof and bonnet. Gemma thought of all the dangerous times she’d shared with the Ratbag. On one occasion, there was no doubt he’d saved her life as well as his own. She owed him. But at the moment, that wasn’t the point. She didn’t want him to make a train wreck of his life.

‘Hugo! Listen to me. If you get a police record, it will follow you all your life. When you go for job interviews, when you apply for scholarships. Hugo, don’t shrug. Do you know what I’m saying? You’re just very lucky that Sergeant Adams is a decent guy. Don’t smile like that. This is bloody serious.’

The smile vanished and he slumped in the passenger seat. ‘You sound like Mum,’ he muttered.

That’s because I am a mum, she almost said.

‘Why are we stopping here?’ Hugo asked, when they pulled up near the daycare centre.

‘Wait here while I go in and pick up my son.’

‘Your son? You’ve got a kid now?’

Within a few moments she was back again, Rafi warm and snug in her arms. Hugo jumped out to open the back door so Gemma could put Rafi into his car seat. When he saw Rafi, Hugo’s face lit up with delight. ‘Wow! What a cool little guy! What’s his name? How old is he?’

‘This is Rafi. He’ll be one in a few weeks,’ said Gemma, strapping him in. ‘Now let’s get back to my place while we work out what we’re going to do with you.’

Once they were inside her apartment, Gemma sat Rafi on the rug with his toys and put some coffee on to brew.

‘Um, what’s to eat?’ Hugo asked, looking up from running a small wooden train along the floor in front of Rafi.

‘Just call your father, please,’ said Gemma. ‘He should know where you are.’

‘He wouldn’t care,’ said Hugo bitterly, leaving the train and pulling out his mobile. While he made the call, Gemma hunted around in the kitchen for something to offer him. She listened to the Ratbag’s end of the conversation – mostly mumbled ‘Yeah’s and grunts. She found a tin of baked beans and started to heat them up, putting some toast on while the coffee slowly bubbled. Then she cut up some apple and cheese for Rafi to eat, and to play with.

‘Dad wants to talk to you,’ the Ratbag called.

Gemma hurried out to take the mobile from him.

‘Ms Lincoln,’ the man said as Rafi reached for Hugo’s mobile. When he didn’t get it, he crinkled up his face and started crying, red-faced, building up to a scream, while Hugo desperately patted him, trying to soothe him.

‘Hey, not so vigorous with the patting, Hugo. Give him to me. Hello, Mr Sherry,’ Gemma said, with her other hand trying to pacify Rafi, ‘Hugo is here with me. He told me what happened. It seems the incident that got him into strife with the police was more like adolescent high spirits than any serious criminality. Can you come and pick him up, please?’

Rafi’s cries reached a piercing velocity. With the mobile tucked under her chin, Gemma tried to change Rafi’s position to get a firmer hold of him but he kicked out and she dropped the mobile. As she picked it up, her head collided with Hugo’s who had reached for it at the same time.

‘Ouch!’ she cried, swearing in shock at the surprisingly painful blow, which only caused Rafi to scream more.

‘Sorry!’ cried Hugo. ‘I didn’t mean to—’ At the same time, she smelled burned toast.

‘Mr Sherry,’ she said, interrupting his reply as chaos erupted around her, ‘I’m going to have to call you back.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not convenient, Ms Lincoln,’ he said. ‘I’m about to—’

Gemma cut him off, putting Rafi back on the rug and handing the mobile back to Hugo. ‘Take this,’ she said, in a blaze of frustration, racing into the kitchen as the smoke alarm started its deafening scream.

‘Not convenient!’ she yelled as she fanned the alarm with a tea towel to make it stop and grasped the burning toast. ‘Ouch! Not convenient! Screaming baby, delinquent adolescent, burning toast, smoke alarms and sudden head injury! These aren’t convenient either, Mr Goddam Sherry!’ She was about to swear violently, but remembered herself in time, and yelled ‘For heaven’s sake!’ as loudly as she could.

Hugo appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘You okay, Gemma? I’m real sorry I’m—’

‘Hugo! Just come here and look after these beans. Make yourself some more toast. I’ve got to feed Rafi. Where’s the phone?’

‘Don’t worry about it. He’s gone.’

Gemma sighed and silently set about preparing Rafi’s bottle and then settled him with it on the couch.

‘Can I stay here tonight?’ Hugo asked in a cautious tone, as he came out of the kitchen carrying his bowl of beans and toast. ‘Please?’

She was about to say yes, when he tripped on Rafi’s train, crashing down swearing. Baked beans splattered all over the rug and the floorboards, a hot orange streak burning Gemma’s eye.

Rafi wailed as her body stiffened in shock.

Gemma swore and burst into tears.

An hour later, with Rafi sleeping blissfully in his cot, Gemma and Hugo sat together at the dining table – Gemma with half a glass of white wine, and Hugo eating Mike’s tart.

‘I’m really really sorry, Gemma. I didn’t mean to muck everything up.’

‘I know you didn’t, Hugo. It’s just been a hell of a day. You know, things piling up, and then your dad just said something – injudicious.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Something that really got to me.’

Solemnly, he nodded. ‘Right. He does that injudicious thing heaps.’

After a pause he asked, ‘Um. Please can I stay here with you for a while? I’m real sorry about everything, like causing trouble for you. I’ll wash up and stuff.’

She patted his arm.

His voice brightened. ‘You know, I could help out with the little guy. I’ve always wanted a baby brother.’

Before she could answer, Gemma heard Mike walk in. He stopped in the doorway when he saw Hugo. ‘Well, this is a surprise! We haven’t seen you here for a while. What’s been happening?’

‘Hugo narrowly avoided being arrested for assault and car stealing today,’ said Gemma, turning to face Mike. ‘He’s on school holidays and he’s asked if he can stay here for a little while. The situation at his father’s place is a bit messy at the moment.’

‘Car stealing? You’re not even old enough to have a licence!’

‘It was only a joke. We weren’t going to steal it.’

‘Your father still hasn’t got that extra room built on to his place yet?’ asked Mike from the kitchen. ‘Where’s the tart I made?’

‘Here,’ said Hugo, proffering the mangled remnants on his plate.

Mike came out, glanced at it. ‘Right. How was it?’

‘Not bad. Would have been better with ice-cream.’

‘So, what do you say, Mike? Do you think we could accommodate Hugo for a few days until we work something out with his father?’

Mike came over and kissed the back of her neck. ‘It’s up to you, Gems. I’m out most of the day and some of the night at the moment.’

Hugo’s eyes were pleading with both of them as he looked from one to the other.

‘Okay then,’ said Gemma. ‘You’ll have to fight Taxi for the sofa.’

‘He used to like me sleeping there. We used to snore together. Kinda like purring.’

Gemma’s mobile rang. ‘Yes?’

‘Me here, honey bun,’ said Angie. ‘Is this a good time? I can call you back.’

‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘Go on.

‘Ted Ackland has done the autopsy on Janet Chancy. Cause of death – blunt force trauma to the head. According to his estimation, she was killed very soon after leaving Sapphire Springs last Monday. The MO isn’t the same as in the cases of Starr and Palier. No tissue or bone removed. No sign of acid. Just thought I’d pass this on as it came to hand.’

‘If it was someone from Sapphire Springs,’ said Gemma, thinking aloud, ‘they might have thought it was a good idea to let her get some distance from the premises before silencing her.’

‘You okay? You sound kind of stressed.’

‘I’ve just had a total meltdown and now I have a house guest, Mr Hugo Sherry.’

There was a silence until Angie recalled the person belonging to that name.

‘The homing pigeon? Who eats like a horse? And must be driven everywhere because he can’t walk more than a few inches without facing death from exhaustion?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Gemster! As if you haven’t got enough on your plate! Kick him out!’

‘It’s just for a little while.’

‘But you were only grizzling the other day about how you’re already so squashed with the three of you there now. Your place wasn’t designed for three people, much less four.’

As Gemma rang off, Hugo walked back into the room, his mobile in his hand. ‘Dad says it’s okay that I stay with you for a little while. No problems.’

No problems for Mr Sherry, she thought.

The next morning Mike took Rafi to daycare on his way to a meeting so Gemma had time to trawl through government departments, pulling in favours, trying to get information on Adel Milani. Finally, she got a hit. A helpful clerk in Immigration said yes, they did have records concerning someone of that name, but they were confidential. Adel Milani was a student on an Iranian government scholarship, attending an Australian university.

She immediately called Mike. ‘If she’s on an Iranian government scholarship,’ he suggested, ‘the chances are she’s keeping an eye on her compatriots’ behaviour out here, but it’s unlikely they’d send a single female alone – there’s bound to be a husband here to chaperone her. And if she’s having an affair with Tolmacheff, that could make things very awkward for her, dangerous in fact, unless she’s able to keep it very quiet. ASIO’s been keeping an eye on some of the Iranians living here because of their connections with the Lebanese Hezbollah.’

‘ASIO’s not going to talk to me,’ said Gemma, sighing, ‘and I just don’t have time to go through every university in Australia, and then every faculty and department trying to find this person. Chances are she’s no longer attending university, especially if she’s carrying on with a married man.’

In the evening, with Mike at home minding Rafi, and Hugo watching reruns of American sitcoms, Gemma drove into the city for her dinner date with Angelo Tolmacheff. She wore tailored trousers and a low-cut blue-and-white jersey top under a dark blue blazer. A quick check in the rear-vision mirror showed that she was having a good-hair day and the copper-coloured lipstick enhanced the grey-green of her eyes. Remembering that she was supposed to be a wealthy woman, she’d worn some of her mother’s antique jewels – a cabuchon ruby bracelet set in gold and a diamond cluster ring, as well as her mother’s cabochon ruby-and-diamond earrings.

Here we go, she thought, rehearsing her script as she got out of the car and locked it, throwing her dainty shoulder bag on its gold chain over her left arm. I’m Gerri Westlake, heiress, dilettante and sculptor.

Inside the restaurant, Tolmacheff rose to greet her and instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it. ‘Gerri! You look just wonderful! And on time, too.’

The food was pleasant enough, and Gemma practised the art of charming seduction. Listening intently to everything Tolmacheff said, a slight smile on her face, she scanned every word and phrase he uttered for clues about his character and his enterprises, knowing that rapt attention was just about the highest form of flattery any man could experience. She also noticed how quickly he appeared to become interested in her, gazing into her eyes, his hand reaching out to touch her fingers, pumping out every positive signal from the manual. He appeared absorbed in everything she had to say, even if it was only to discuss the menu.

‘It’s wonderful to be with such a discerning woman,’ he said, when Gemma selected an average Hunter Valley wine. ‘And, your French accent is impeccable,’ he complimented when she ordered the Lapin Provençale avec trois legumes.

It was hard to conceal a smile on occasions when she realised they were doing exactly the same thing – applying charming seduction in spades. Gemma hoped the smile didn’t give this away, but rather indicated the docile and biddable nature she was trying to project.

Her mobile rang and she took the call, turning away so that Tolmacheff couldn’t see her face.

It was Mike. ‘In case you can’t talk freely, just say “yes” if you’re okay.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I’m having dinner with a friend right now. Call you later.’

‘Better I call you later?’

‘No, no. That’s fine,’ she said brightly, shrugging apologetically as she put the mobile away. ‘Family, Angelo. You know what it’s like.’

‘Who was it?’

‘My sister,’ she lied quickly.

‘Is your sister as attractive as you?’

‘What a question!’ Gemma giggled.

‘Well, is she?’

‘You don’t seriously expect me to answer that!’ Gemma smiled sweetly.

Over the main course and in answer to his discreet probing, Gemma said, ‘I’m fortunate enough to be financially independent, and I noticed you have the same happy situation. I’d love to know more about your business, if that’s not being too personal?’

‘Well, as I metioned when we first met, I deal in property. I guess you could also call me a stockbroker, Gerri. I buy and trade shares. And I have a small business organising corporate promotions. I seem to have a good head for business, so I’m told.’

After coffee, Tolmacheff insisted on paying for dinner, then escorted Gemma to her car. Before she could stop him, he’d taken her in his arms. ‘I don’t mean to frighten you,’ he said, ‘but you are deliciously tempting.’

Gemma laughed and disengaged herself. ‘Thank you, Angelo. I really enjoyed myself.’

‘I believe in being direct. It’s a European quality. What are you looking for in a man, Gerri?’ Tolmacheff asked.

Gemma opened her car door, cocked her head to indicate deep thoughtfulness and after a pause said, ‘Someone who is kind, honest. A man who understands what a woman wants and needs. Someone I can admire and look up to. Someone I can trust.’ Penny Watson’s words ran through Gemma’s mind. She tried to smile at him to cover her growing disgust, noting how Tolmacheff had nodded in agreement with every quality she mentioned.

‘Angelo, now may I ask you the same question?’

He took Gemma’s hands in his. ‘Of course. I am all for equality.’

She gazed into his eyes intently. ‘What are you looking for in a woman?’

He leaned towards her, the bulk of his body coming closer. He whispered, his breath in her ear, ‘You.’

Mike was opening the door even before she put the key in the lock.

‘I was starting to worry,’ he said. ‘You’re later than I expected and I was just about to grab Rafi and get in the car and check out the restaurant. How did it go?’

‘He really is very unpleasant. I don’t know how good I am with subterfuge these days. I found him really sleazy. I hope it didn’t show.’

She dropped her keys and bag on the dining table.

Hugo rolled over from his position on the floor in front of the television. ‘You look really hot,’ he said, looking up at her, ‘I mean, for an old chick. Where did you go?’

‘Thanks a lot, Hugo. I went out.’

‘I’ve got coffee on,’ Mike offered, ‘if you’re interested.’

‘Tea, thanks. I need to check on Rafi first.’

After looking in on her little boy sleeping soundly – one starfish hand spread out near his cheek, a slight smile on his mouth, his lashes quivering as he dreamed his baby dream – Gemma had a shower. Being with Tolmacheff had made her feel grubby all over, and a woman sitting outside the restaurant had been smoking heavily. Gemma washed away the smell of cigarette smoke, but the bad taste left by Tolmacheff was harder to erase.

As she walked into the living room towelling her hair, she saw Mike stretched out along the sofa and Hugo sprawled on the floor, both watching the weekend football replay. Three males in my home, she thought. And another one not far from here whose predicament weighed heavily in her heart.

‘I wish you’d reconsider this Tolmacheff dating business,’ said Mike as she sat down beside him. ‘It’s just too dangerous. I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy.’

‘You and me both. But you have to admit that it’s a gift to anyone wanting to get closer to him. I’ll be able to go out with him, meet his business acquaintances, check out his office and maybe, eventually, his house. I’d be crazy to pass up an opportunity like this.’

‘You’re dating another man?’ Hugo asked, sitting up and sternly looking from Gemma to Mike and back again.

‘All in the line of work,’ said Gemma. ‘I need to keep watch on this man. We found his online singles profile.’

‘Very cool,’ said Hugo, nodding his approval. ‘I wish you’d let me help. I’m an okay hacker. Like, I could do work experience for him. Or I could get into his system and get to know all his secrets. I wonder if there’s any ice-cream in the freezer?’

Hugo went out to the kitchen and when he’d been gone longer than Gemma thought necessary for him to eat the last of the ice-cream, she went looking for him. The kitchen was empty so she walked down to her office.

‘Hugo! What are you doing in here?’

He jumped up, startled. ‘Nothing bad, Gemma. I was just reading this report you’ve done – on Mischa Bloomfield.’

‘Hey, you shouldn’t be reading that. It’s confidential.’

‘I’m not going to tell anybody!’

‘Hugo, that’s not the point. Please give that to me and get out of here, okay?’

‘But that’s a totally bad thing that happened to her. And now you’re really worried that she might end up like the other two women?’

Gemma shepherded him out the door. ‘Hugo, please don’t go into my office in future. I have confidential files in there. I’m running a business here, not a gossip magazine.’

Hugo looked at her, hurt. ‘I could be helpful,’ he said. ‘I need something to do over the holidays. I’m getting sick of lying around watching television all the time. I want to earn some money.’

Mike heard him as Gemma and Hugo walked into the lounge room. ‘You can wash my car for five bucks.’

‘I mean real money.’

‘I need to earn real money too,’ said Gemma.

‘Hey, can I borrow that bike that’s under the deck?’ Hugo asked.

‘My bike?’ said Mike.

‘It would be real sweet if I could borrow it, Mike. I’ll look after it. Promise.’

‘I guess it would be all right.’

Hugo’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘Then I can get my own food. You won’t have to drive me everywhere.’

‘There’s plenty of food here, comrade,’ said Mike.

‘Proper food,’ said Hugo.

‘He means deep-fried objects with chips,’ said Gemma. ‘Myocardial infarction food. Death food.’

Hugo grinned. ‘Yeah. Death food.’

CHAPTER 19

After dropping Rafi off, Gemma met Yvonne Creswell at her shop, Trend Fashions. ‘The girl who usually opens up is on holidays,’ Yvonne said, as they shook hands, ‘so I had to come in early this week.’

Gemma studied her, noticing how good she looked in her fitted black dress and long draped cardigan chicly looped; sleek, black hair pulled back in an elegant chignon; dark red lipstick dramatic in her pale face; the perfume one of Gemma’s favourites, Annick Goutal’s ‘Songes’.

Racks of fashionable clothes hung around the walls and two long tables in the centre of the boutique were stacked with glamorous accessories: handbags, beads, gloves and delicate feathery things on hair combs.

Yvonne indicated a small room behind the shop where they could talk.

‘You wanted to ask me about Magda?’

‘Yes. Did you see the note she left?’

Yvonne shook her head.

‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Please.’

Gemma pulled out her photocopy and passed it to Yvonne, who read it aloud in a halting voice and then looked up, her eyes filled with tears. ‘This is unbearably sad. And so puzzling.’

‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me what terrible thing was happening in Magda’s life.’

‘What terrible thing? Magda was over the moon. She adored Ambrose. I hadn’t seen her so happy in twenty years. She looked marvellous after her facelift; she was like a girl again, running around organising her wedding. She talked to me about the dress – pearl satin sheath with a ruffle neckline … beautiful. I just can’t understand why on earth she should do such a shocking thing to herself.’

‘When was the last time you talked to her?’

‘The day before she – she died,’ said Yvonne, wiping a tear away.

‘And how did she seem?’

‘I just put it down to bridal jitters. Actually, I think she was a little drunk.’ Yvonne paused a moment, thinking. ‘She called to cancel a get-together we’d organised. Said that she had to go back to Sapphire Springs immediately.’

‘Sapphire Springs?’

‘Yes. Her voice was a little – slurred?’

‘And that’s why you thought she might have been drunk?’

‘That’s right. Although Magda never drinks. Not since she had the surgery, at least.’

‘Might she have been under the influence of drugs?’

‘I suppose that’s possible.’

‘Did she say why she had to go there immediately?’

‘No, she didn’t. I asked her if she could leave it till the next day. I’d got a casual in to work here while we went out. I was really disappointed, as well as inconvenienced. But she said she had to go. I thought it must have been something to do with that special treatment they’ve developed.’

As their meeting came to an end, Gemma gave Yvonne her card, asking her to call if she remembered anything else. On the way home, she rang Angie.

‘I’m wondering now if the DiNAH therapy has some nasty side effects – like sudden onset depression. Something they’re not telling their clients.’ She went on to tell Angie about her interview with Yvonne Creswell.

‘We have to go back to Sapphire Springs to chase up Janet Chancy’s notebook. Let’s see what else we can find out while we’re there.’

‘Okay.’

‘And by the way, if you’re free any time this afternoon do you want to come with me to the morgue?’

‘Sure, I wouldn’t miss it. But what for?’

‘I’ve been wondering if there have been other murders like these,’ Angie said. ‘I want to go through the records, if Ted Ackland will let me.’

Gemma considered. ‘Mike will be home after three and he could pick up Rafi for me,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘How about four? I’ll meet you there for afternoon tea. Silver service.’

‘Great. But stainless steel will have to do.’

Almost the moment Gemma rang off, her phone rang again.

‘Hello, mysterious one.’

‘Angelo,’ Gemma said, flinching at his tone. ‘Why mysterious?’

‘I can’t seem to find any reference to you. You don’t Twitter, you don’t Facebook. You have no online presence.’

‘I’m just a sweet, old-fashioned girl. I still write letters.’

‘Love letters?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ she flirted.

‘I wish you’d write me a love letter. When can I see you again?’

Gemma did a fast calculation. ‘Let me get back to you on that. I’ve got a few things on at the moment.’

‘The fewer the better. And all black lace, I hope.’

For a second, Gemma didn’t get it. Then her heart sank at his heavy-handed attempt.

‘I’ll call you, Angelo. Promise.’

She rang off before he could offend her further.

Dr Ted Ackland met them in the foyer of the morgue and took them into his office. ‘We pretty much keep our records forever,’ he said with a smile. ‘Unlike most government departments. After you called, Angie, I pulled out what I thought would be the most appropriate files on women from the last ten years for you to start on.’

Several piles of manila folders covered the table. Gemma opened one and found it contained computer print-out copies of notes for the coroner’s report and contemporaneous notes made by the pathologist at the time of the autopsy.

‘Of course there’ll still be a whole lot there that aren’t relevant; you’ll need to sort them out yourselves. Now I’ll have to leave you to it.’

As soon as Ted had left the room, Angie and Gemma divided the piles of folders between them and started their search.

‘I think we can discard files for anyone over thirty,’ Gemma said, ‘maybe even over twenty-five.’

‘Right,’ said Angie nodding. ‘Starr and Palier were both in their early twenties.’

‘Brie is only twenty,’ said Gemma. ‘And Mischa too. God, I hope they’re safe.’ She paused, considering this and then added, ‘And then there’s Janet. She’d be my age or even older. She doesn’t fit in.’

‘No, she doesn’t fit the pattern at all,’ said Angie. ‘She is too old, nothing was removed from her body according to Ted, no acid – and a personal possession of hers may have been taken instead. Looks like a different killer. We’ve already interviewed her family and friends. Nothing helpful there.’

By culling the records they finally reduced the number to half-a-dozen.

‘Let’s pinch these and then go and talk to your sister.’

They gathered up the files and left Ted Ackland’s office. ‘Do you think he’ll mind us taking these?’ asked Gemma.

‘I’ll call him and explain,’ said Angie.

Gemma called Kit and asked if they could come around.

The three women sat down at the kitchen table and Gemma and Angie took Kit through everything they knew about the murdered women.

‘The young women who died or were attacked,’ Gemma said, ‘they’re all extremely beautiful. I mean outstandingly beautiful, not just the usual shiny youthful beautiful, but classic beauty beautiful. They could hold their own against any competition. And I saw a portrait of the sex worker, Brie. She’s another one – drop-dead gorgeous. Or was, when the portrait was done.’

‘He picks out the most beautiful women and destroys them,’ said Angie. ‘Beauty and the beast.’

‘Except there’s no redeeming transformation of the beast,’ said Kit. ‘This guy stays a beast.’

Gemma thought of something and added, ‘I’m presuming it’s a him.’

Angie nodded, slowly. ‘We need to keep the possibility open. What about a woman who’s really jealous of beautiful women?’

Gemma shivered and said, ‘I suddenly thought of that phrase: “Cutting off her nose to spite her face.”’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go soon. But Angie, the name Magda Simmonds. Does it mean anything to you?’

‘Yes. Sydney socialite, suicided. I read about her, and Sean Wright from our section was the one who did the job. Went to the house when the family found her. Why do you ask?’

Sean Wright, Gemma thought, remembering ‘Mr Right’ from her serving days.

‘I’ve been asked to make inquiries – by her fiancé,’ she said. ‘He wants to know why she did it.’

Angie sighed and turned to Kit. ‘What do you think about that, Kit?’

Kit thought for a moment. ‘Sometimes there just aren’t any answers. That’s hard for people to accept. They think that if they can find out why it happened, it won’t hurt so much. It doesn’t work. Explanations don’t make it any easier.’

‘I’ve got a copy of her suicide note,’ said Gemma, ‘from when I visited her fiancé. She wrote that something terrible was happening; said that her fiancé could probably guess why she killed herself.’

‘Was he playing up?’ Angie asked.

Gemma shrugged. ‘He could have been. He tried flirting with me. But that doesn’t fit with the rest of the note. Also, why kill the goose – if you’ll pardon the expression – who is about to provide you with a lot of golden eggs? Magda was a very wealthy woman.’

‘And the police are sure it was suicide?’ Kit asked.

‘As sure as anyone can be,’ Gemma replied. ‘No signs of violence.’

‘I could ask Ted for more details. He or one of his associates would have done the autopsy,’ said Angie.

‘She’d taken a huge overdose of Xanax,’ said Gemma. ‘No one knows where she got it. According to the evidence, she had a bath, got dressed in a gorgeous negligee, and then went to bed. The empty pill bottle was on her bedside table.’

‘The three dead women we are talking about sure didn’t suicide,’ said Angie, getting the conversation back on track. ‘Kit, I’m here for a bit of your profiling expertise.’

‘Why don’t you use one of those police psychologists?’ said Kit.

‘I prefer your insights, if you don’t mind.’

‘Profiling’s lost a lot of its gloss over the last few years.’

Angie nodded. ‘A lot of cops are very suspicious of profiling.’

‘They always were,’ Kit said.

‘But surely,’ Gemma said, ‘looking at the MO of a crime is helpful? This killer is telling us something in the way he operates. Kit, I remember you saying something, years ago, about how we reveal who we are in everything we do. That has to include killers, right?’

‘Speaking as a psychologist,’ said Kit, ‘my understanding of profiling is that it’s just another aspect of psychology. Of getting to know why and how somebody operates.’

‘Kit, I’m going to talk to the boss to see if we can bring you in as an investigative psychologist. I think he’ll like that phrase. Would you be willing to work for the police?’

‘As a consultant? Maybe,’ she answered. ‘I’ll think about it. What’s the pay like?’

Angie grinned.

CHAPTER 20

Gemma and Angie pulled up outside the lush tropical entrance to Sapphire Springs Spa at about nine-thirty on Saturday morning. Angie had called the spa the previous afternoon to check that Dr Evans would be there on the weekend.

Kit had offered to look after Rafi for the whole day. It would be the first time she and her nephew had spent more than a couple of hours together and she was nervous and excited when Gemma dropped him off.

As Angie parked the car, Gemma rang Mischa but the call went straight to voicemail and she left a message, asking her to call.

‘Okay,’ said Angie as she slammed the car door. ‘We want to get a handle on what happened to Janet Chancy while she was here and what’s happened to her notebook.’

They walked past the spikes of hanging orchids in their huge baskets on either side of the entrance, and the receptionist looked up as they approached.

‘Angie McDonald,’ said Angie, opening her warrant card over the desk. ‘I have an appointment with Dr Evans.’

‘I don’t think she is available just now. Please wait a moment and I’ll check.’

The young woman made a call and after a brief conversation looked up at Angie. ‘She is currently over in the medical department, but she’s due back soon to see you. Please take a seat,’ she added, waving them towards the plush velvet lounges in a corner.

Before they could sit down a commotion outside stopped them in their tracks. Gemma went to the door to get a better look. Dr Evans was running towards the foyer, her usually neat hair coming undone and her face contorted in anguish. Gemma ran outside, followed by Angie.

‘What is it?’ Gemma cried. ‘What’s happened?’

Beyond Dr Evans’ running figure, Gemma noticed a heavy-set man approaching from the direction of the medical buildings, but he appeared to think better of this, and paused, then turned, hurrying back the way he’d come.

As soon as Dr Evans saw the two women, she stopped running, smoothed her hair back and attempted a smile. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘you’ve caught me at an awkward moment.’

‘Is everything okay?’ Gemma asked.

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ said Dr Evans, stepping briskly towards her office, straightening her suit, attempting another smile. ‘Sometimes the staff can be difficult.’

Gemma and Angie looked at each other and followed her. This was not about difficult staff, thought Gemma. Something truly distressing must have happened.

‘You’re shaking,’ said Gemma. ‘What is it?’

Reaching her office, Dr Evans seemed to morph into the cool, controlled administrator who’d greeted them on their first visit.

‘I’m fine. Just overworked.’ She managed to flash a tight smile. ‘In a matter of days we’re hosting the international cosmetic surgery conference. Our special guest is this year’s Miss Cosmetic Surgery Europe, Galenka Abramova. I’m catering for three hundred people. It’s been a nightmare getting it all organised – finding suitable accommodation in the area.’ Her complaining stopped and she changed tack. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

Blowing her nose, she took her place as elegantly as she could at the tidy desk. Gemma noticed the huge poster advertising the upcoming conference on the wall behind Dr Evans. It featured the guest of honour in a strapless evening gown that was clearly held up by her cantilevered breasts, piles of glossy hair tumbling down over her bare shoulders, and a face with features that reminded Gemma of Taxi.

‘Maybe you haven’t heard yet,’ said Angie, perching on a cream-puff chair, her notebook on her lap, ‘but the journalist Janet Chancy, who as you know was staying here recently, was murdered not far from here, and within a very short time of leaving these premises.’

Gemma watched Dr Evans’ face intently, seeking any information from the director’s response to Angie’s words.

‘I did – I heard something about that,’ she said, her eyes darting from Gemma to Angie. ‘I was very – shocked.’

That much was true, Gemma thought. And you still are. Despite her smart suit and desperate attempt to restore her composure, Dr Evans looked like someone who’d just been told she had three minutes left to live.

‘This was the place she was last seen alive,’ Angie said. ‘Our missing-person inquiry is now a murder investigation.’ She looked down, consulting her notes. ‘You told us that Ms Chancy left here around eleven and someone saw her car driving away. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’ Dr Evans nodded, looking surprised. Had she been expecting to be questioned about something else? Gemma wondered.

‘She left Sapphire Springs,’ said Dr Evans, ‘and later I read that her body was found several kilometres away, at a well-known lookout.’

Gemma decided to press the advantage of Dr Evans’ discomfort. ‘The notebook, Angie.’

‘That’s right,’ said Angie. ‘Her notebook is missing. She was an old-fashioned journalist who liked to take shorthand notes during her interviews. Apparently she never went anywhere without it. Do you know anything about that?’

Dr Evans blanched. ‘Nothing at all. I saw her making notes on occasions during her stay here. She must have mislaid it.’

The desk phone rang and she grabbed it. ‘Yes?’ She listened for a minute and Gemma wished she could hear what was being said on the other end of the line. Despite the Botox, Dr Evans’ eyes showed deep distress. ‘I can’t talk now. I have the police with me.’

The way she leaned on the word ‘police’ was definitely a warning for the caller, Gemma noted. What the hell was going on here?

‘Dr Evans,’ Angie announced, ‘I can come back with a search warrant and a squad of police, or I can just have a quiet look around now. Which would you prefer?’

‘A search warrant?’ Dr Evans’ stricken eyes darted from one face to the other. ‘You want to search Sapphire Springs?’

‘That’s the plan. So, how would you like to do it?’

The woman’s face clearly showed that she would not like it to be done at all.

‘You leave me no choice,’ she said shortly, standing up. ‘Of course, I will need to accompany you.’

‘Not necessary,’ said Angie.

‘Quite necessary,’ said Dr Evans, trumping her and holding up her security pass. ‘You won’t get very far without this. Besides, each cabin has a unique security code. And we must protect our clients’ privacy.’

‘I’ll want to search every unit and every room,’ said Angie. ‘We could be here for a while.’

It took over an hour to search the rooms in the main building. They opened drawers, looked behind cupboards, under beds, checking every nook and cranny where a stenographer’s pad might have been left.

Then they walked outside into a light drizzle, following a few steps behind Dr Evans as she headed for the cabin they’d searched on their previous visit.

‘What about those other cabins?’ Angie asked Gemma quietly. ‘We’ve only got her word concerning where Janet stayed while she was here. She might have stayed in one of the other cabins.’

‘You want to see all the cabins?’ Dr Evans said, when Angie caught up with her and made her request. ‘But I showed you the one that Ms Chancy used.’

‘All of them, please,’ said Angie, firmly.

They started with the nearest one, cabin number one, and Gemma watched carefully as Dr Evans punched in the security code under the door handle. ‘C’ and then three numbers Gemma noted, the first being one. Dr Evans’ finger moved too quickly for Gemma to be sure about the other numbers.

She deliberately lagged a little behind the other two as they made their way across the lawn so she could activate the video camera in her phone to capture Dr Evans’ action as she typed in the security code.

There was some awkwardness when a heavily bandaged woman in cabin three had to stand aside while Angie and Gemma did a thorough search.

By the time they reached cabin five, Gemma was fairly certain that the security code was very simple – ‘C’, presumably standing for ‘cabin’ then the number of the cabin followed by two other numbers. She could check this on her camera later, frame by frame.

Inside, Gemma noticed a squashed mosquito on the wall above the bed and a tiny smear of blood under it. A fresh kill, Gemma thought. The blood is still red.

She dropped to the floor to check under the bed and spotted something, a small object that glinted in the narrow space.

‘What is it?’ asked Dr Evans.

‘I can’t tell yet,’ said Gemma, flattening herself out. She scrabbled on the floor, searching the small gap between the base of the bed and the carpet, feeling around until her fingers grabbed a small, sharp object. She climbed to her feet and opened her hand. It was a golden arrow; the brooch was now missing the sharp pin that fitted into the clasp.

Gemma blinked.

Two disparate worlds collided.

What on earth was Mischa Bloomfield’s arrow brooch doing here?

‘Do you know anything about this?’ Angie asked, as Gemma focused on Dr Evans’ reaction. The woman’s face, already stressed and ravaged from whatever had upset her earlier, wavered, but within a nanosecond her expression hardened.

‘I’m sure there must be dozens of trinkets like this around. Now, is that everything you want to see?’

‘We’ll need to take this with us, Dr Evans,’ said Angie as Gemma dropped the brooch into a plastic bag that Angie held out for her.

‘I want to talk to one of the doctors on the medical team,’ said Gemma, thinking of Magda Simmonds and her mysterious suicide. ‘About the DiNAH therapy.’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Dr Evans coolly. ‘In fact, you’re in luck. Here comes Dr Egmont now.’

The large man Gemma had seen before, now wearing the classic white medical coat, had come out of the medical supercentre and was striding across the lawn towards them while having an animated conversation on his mobile. When he looked up at them, Dr Evans waved him over.

‘Dr Egmont,’ she said as he reached them, ‘allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald and her assistant, Gemma Lincoln. Ms Lincoln would like to have a word with you.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Dr Egmont, his shrewd eyes studying Gemma’s face from hairline to jawline. He reminded Gemma of a wrestler who’d been famous when she was a teenager, a hulk nicknamed ‘The Crusher’.

‘I could help you lose ten years, Miss Lincoln,’ said Dr Egmont. ‘Little bit of work around the eyes and the jawline. Maybe a little something just here? Have you looking twenty-nine again. What do you say?’ He smiled broadly, perfect white teeth in a wide face, thick hair smoothed back and just the barest trace of an accent.

‘I say no thank you,’ said Gemma, flashing a smile. ‘I’m not here to inquire about cosmetic surgery for myself but about your work with your patients using the DiNAH therapy. You are part of the team that developed it, I gather?’

The broad smile faded. ‘Yes,’ he said, drawing out the word, indicating his reluctance. ‘But you are aware that it is at the patenting stage and I am not at liberty to speak about it, except in the most general way.’

‘Could you at least tell me if the therapy has been linked to any contraindications? Such as depression? Sudden onset depression?’

‘I can’t possibly answer that question. Until the therapy is patented and tested by the usual regulatory bodies, that kind of information simply isn’t available. Also, DiNAH therapy has only been used in a handful of cases. We are very much at the experimental stage, a dynamic state – DiNAH is constantly being modified, improved. The number is too small for any reliable statistics to be drawn from them.’

‘You’re using these women as guinea pigs?’ asked Angie.

‘Not at all!’ Dr Egmont laughed, showing his gleaming teeth again. ‘These women pay for the treatment and with our medical team they are pioneers in the new frontier. This is how surgery progresses. The use of the client’s own DNA in the creation of new blood and nerve growth factors is in its infancy. We told the women about the new therapy, the superior growth factor, described its benefits, explained that it was still in early development, and they elected to avail themselves of it. It’s very much their choice. I thought all you feminists were in favour of women being able to make choices. Of course, as you can imagine, it’s not for everyone. For a start, it’s extremely expensive, but the results are astounding.’

‘Someone I know,’ said Gemma, ‘who was researching DiNAH therapy, said to me, “It’s not what people think” – what could she have meant by that?’

Dr Egmont drew himself up. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘No information has been released. Where did this friend of yours get her information?’

‘Right here, actually,’ said Gemma.

‘Tell her she’s mistaken.’

‘I can’t. She’s dead. She was murdered only a few days ago.’

Dr Egmont swallowed. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid, ladies, you will have to excuse me. I have an urgent appointment to keep. Very nice to meet you.’

He hurried towards the reception area and disappeared inside.

‘I must also get back to work,’ said Dr Evans. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find the notebook, but of course my staff will call you if it turns up.’

After finding the brooch Gemma was keen to find Mischa. ‘Thank you, Dr Evans. You have been very helpful.’

Angie was surprised at this but knew that Gemma must have had something on her mind if she was ready to wrap up the interview while they were still looking for the notebook.

‘Dr Evans,’ Angie said, ‘our investigations into Ms Chancy’s death have only just begun. We will speak to you again soon.’

Back in the car, Gemma turned to Angie. ‘I want to drive straight to Mischa’s place. That little golden arrow is part of Mischa’s brooch, I know it. She was wearing it when she came to my place with you. I don’t like this at all.’

‘Let’s hope you’re worrying unnecessarily. Like Dr Evans said, there are probably more than one of those around. I’ll send it off to DAL on Monday; they’ll be able to tell if it’s hers. But it might take a while for the result. What the hell was going on with Dr Evans? Something had really upset her.’

‘My guess is that she’d just discovered some major fraud or that someone was cooking the books.’

Angie started the car. ‘To me, it looked like a lot of fear. And she was really concerned at the thought of a search warrant.’

‘I wonder what she’s hiding?’ said Gemma. ‘What if they have done some evaluation of the DiNAH therapy? And what if there have been dangerous contraindications discovered? She could be frightened that the lab books would be found. What if that’s what Janet had found out? Ange, we’ve got to get into that medical building – the supercentre. There’s something really off going on round there. What did you make of Dr Egmont?’

‘Smooth,’ Angie replied, as she turned onto the main road.

‘And condescending. What about that “all you feminists” remark?’

‘He’s a pants man, too. I could tell by the way he was looking at your breasts.’

‘Come on, Angie. He was thinking how he could improve them.’

As they approached the city outskirts, Gemma recalled their conversation with Dr Egmont. It was a while since she’d been twenty-nine.

Lorraine Litchfield flashed into her mind. Litchfield was twenty-nine and a vision of Hollywood glamour. Gemma wondered how much it was costing Fayed to keep Lorraine in clothes, hair styling, make-up, visits to the gym and the beautician … maybe cosmetic surgery …

Perhaps there was a way to force her to withdraw her statements about Steve. A possibility suggested itself to her. She flashed a glance at Angie, briefly considering whether she should discuss the plan. No, she thought. Not yet.

Gemma tried Mischa’s number, but again the call went to voicemail. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said. ‘I’m almost certain that broken arrow is hers.’

When Angie dropped her off, Gemma hurried inside, feeling Mike’s absence in the stillness of the apartment.

‘I didn’t think you were working today,’ she said when he answered her call.

‘Hi, Gems,’ he said. ‘A potential new client called and asked if we could meet, but I’ve been stood up. I’ll give him another fifteen minutes. Where are you?’

‘Home. We didn’t find any trace of Janet’s notebook at Sapphire Springs. Of course, it could be locked away in a cupboard in somebody’s office, or destroyed already. A couple of interesting things happened, though. I’ll tell you about it later.’

Gemma re-read a scrawled note Hugo had left for her on the dining table saying he was visiting a mate. She made herself a pot of tea and a cheese-and-tomato sandwich and enjoyed a moment of peace on her own.

As she ate, her idea about Lorraine Litchfield formed more clearly in her mind and she dialled Spinner’s number.

‘Boss,’ he answered when he heard her voice. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I want to talk something over with you, Spinner. Can you drop by sometime?’

‘I was going to knock off for a meal break in the next thirty minutes or so,’ he said.

‘Have it over here with me. I can make you a toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwich. And coffee.’

‘I’ll be there in forty-five.’

A knock at the front door puzzled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone. ‘Got to go,’ she told Spinner as she hurried to open the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Gemma,’ said Elaine. ‘Someone came around with a package for you. I was out here tidying up the hedge over there and I offered to take care of it for you. But he wouldn’t leave it. Apparently you have to sign for it. I thought I’d better tell you as soon as I noticed you were home because it must be important for the courier to come on the weekend.’

‘I haven’t ordered anything,’ Gemma said, frowning.

‘It might be a surprise,’ Elaine suggested with a bright smile.

‘Did he leave a card?’

Elaine shook her perfectly bobbed hair. ‘I thought that was strange. How are they going to get it to you?’

‘Thanks, Elaine.’

‘I’m sure they’ll try again.’

Gemma closed the door. In her line of work, fake deliveries were often used to confirm someone’s place of residence, with the signature establishing ID. But in this case, the courier already knew her name and address.

When Mike arrived home Gemma immediately asked: ‘Your client didn’t turn up, did he?’

‘No,’ he replied slowly.

‘Someone came around with a package while I was out. Elaine spoke to him. He wouldn’t leave it with her and he didn’t suggest any arrangements about a later delivery. He didn’t leave a phone number.’

Mike’s worried eyes met hers. ‘Someone wanted to ping you – personally. It was you he was after. Why?’

They reviewed the security-camera footage, but jerky frames of a hurried courier racing down the steps and under the camera’s field of vision revealed only that the figure was male, carried an electronic clipboard and had dark hair.

‘Someone is taking a great interest in you, Gem,’ said Mike, ‘and they know too much about you.’

CHAPTER 21

Gemma heard Spinner’s utility pull up on the roadside above.

‘I asked him over for coffee,’ she said in response to Mike’s questioning look. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with him.’

‘Something theological?’ Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘I hope you’re not getting yourself into something I don’t know about.’

‘You mustn’t worry about me. Nothing’s happened.’

‘Yet.’

‘I’d better let Spinner in,’ she said.

‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Mike, shaking Spinner’s hand when he walked in. ‘How have you been?’

‘I’m doing okay,’ he said, ‘thanks to the Lord and His Providence.’

‘Good to hear it.’

‘You’d hear more if you came to church with me,’ said Spinner. ‘You’re welcome any time, you know.’

‘That’s nice to know and very generous of you, Spinner,’ said Mike, heading into his office. ‘I might take you up on that … one day.’

Gemma made the promised toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwiches and put on some coffee to percolate.

She carried the mugs and food out onto the deck into a perfect, sunny afternoon. White tips on the sea responding to the gentle nor’-easter and puffy picture-book clouds sailing in the blue sky lifted her heart. She slid the doors closed behind them.

‘I haven’t been able to do much with your vodka man – Tolmacheff,’ said Spinner, picking up his coffee. ‘Except to follow him when I’m around that way. He spends time at his Edgecliff office. Visits his son. No sign of the girlfriend yet. At least not on my watch.’

‘That’s strange,’ she said. ‘He’s made her the beneficiary of an insurance policy; if she’s that important to him, you’d think he’d be spending time with her. I found out that she’s an Iranian student, over here on a scholarship. Maybe he’s got her stashed away somewhere, like a proper mistress, in her own flat. But I don’t know how he could afford it. According to his wife, he’s desperate for money.’

‘That’s probably why – spending it all on bad women,’ Spinner scolded. ‘I’ve been quite busy with other jobs, boss. I’m not covering anything like all his movements. I could be missing a lot, like when he gets together with her.’

‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s very good of you to keep an eye on him for me. It’s really my job, Spinner. I’m pretty confident of getting something on him myself quite soon,’ she said, thinking that she should ring Tolmacheff soon to arrange their next meeting. ‘But this isn’t about Tolmacheff. I want to ask you a question. A question about Lorraine Litchfield.’

‘Where did that come from?’ asked Spinner, surprised by the change of subject.

‘Prison, actually. Early release.’

‘Someone had a bad idea, then. Why the hell would she get an early release?’

‘I’ll tell you why in a minute. What do you think Litchfield might fear worse than death?’

‘Old age,’ said Spinner.

‘Good. What about the loss of her beauty?’

Spinner nodded. ‘For sure. You want to put pressure on her?’

‘You bet. I was at Sapphire Springs Spa earlier in the day and one of the surgeons there offered to make me look twenty-nine again. I declined but it gave me an idea. There’s a woman there, terribly disfigured, waiting for her facelift.’

‘Steady on, boss. You’re not thinking of disfiguring Lorraine Litchfield?’

‘Thoughts like that have crossed my mind from time to time,’ said Gemma, dryly. ‘But no. I’m not thinking of disfiguring her. But there’s someone who would – if he was given the right motivation. He’s done it before.’

Spinner stared at her, deep in thought.

‘You’re right,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Big, fat, rich, jealous Raimon Fayed.’

Gemma nodded. ‘See, if I can get footage of her misbehaving with another man, I could threaten to show it to Fayed. You know what he did to his ex-wife.’

‘Everyone does. He’s a sadistic brute. But how do you expect to get hold of footage like that? Is she playing up already?’

‘I don’t know about that. But for what I’m thinking, I’ll need your help. And Steve’s, too.’

‘Steve? How come?’ Spinner frowned.

‘I’m counting on Litchfield’s infatuation with Steve. I’m hopeful it can be rekindled.’

It was time, she knew, to tell Spinner the whole story of Steve’s predicament, Lorraine Litchfield’s early release depending on her allegations about Steve taking bribes from Fayed and other big crims. ‘I suspect that even now, she’s still keen on him. That’s why it’s so important to her that she bring him down.’

‘Holy cow,’ said Spinner, which was about as close as he ever came to cursing, thought Gemma. ‘That woman is bad news.’

‘She’s determined to destroy me too,’ said Gemma. ‘So, I’m thinking that she might well be quite willing to be courted by Steve again. Not only because she’s still attracted to him but for sheer malice. Just to get at me.’

‘What does Steve think about this?’

‘I haven’t told him yet.’

‘And Mike?’

‘Same.’

‘Mmm. Maybe you should start telling the men in your life what you’re planning. Especially when it needs the—’ he paused, searching for the right expression, ‘—the intimate cooperation of one of them. In an act of fornication.’

The thought of that made Gemma flinch. ‘For heaven’s sake, Spinner. Right now I just need you to agree to help me. You don’t have to condone it. And it doesn’t have to go as far as fornication.’

‘Boss, you’re going to need the money shot,’ said Spinner, to Gemma’s surprise. ‘That way, you’ve got her. Do you think Steve would be up to it?’

‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. But whatever happens, I want us to be in the front seat of your ute, capturing live feed from Steve’s bedroom on your laptop.’

Spinner looked away, out to sea, and then back again, deep concern showing on his wizened face. ‘Boss, you would be meddling with deep and dark forces.’

‘Please don’t give me a lecture on sin, Spinner.’

‘I’m not talking about sin,’ he said seriously. ‘Not right now, anyway. I meant what I said. Deep, dark forces that might have consequences you could never foresee. Litchfield and Fayed are the couple from hell.’

‘Will you do it?’

Spinner sighed. ‘You’re the boss,’ he said. ‘Let me know when you set it up. You know I’m your man.’

After he’d left, Gemma checked her voicemail to find a message from Mischa. At first, relieved that Mischa had finally contacted her, she listened. But her relief was short-lived.

‘I’ve seen him! I’m packing up. I’m leaving for Mum’s right now. I’ll text you the address I’m going to. He was parked across the road when I walked out to go to work. I ran back inside and locked the door and I’m packing up right now.’

Gemma checked the date of the message: it had been left the previous morning but only come through today. Gemma jumped up cursing the service provider and ran out to tell Mike. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘There’s no way you’re going alone. This is too important. Come on. Let’s get going. This girl is in trouble!’

Mike drove, while Gemma called Angie to fill her in.

‘Gems, I can’t leave. I’ve got to be here with the rest of the team for another briefing. Can you check up on this? I’ll get away as soon as I can and you can brief me. I’ll find her mother’s number. Let’s hope she’s gone home.’

‘Mike and I are on our way.’

‘Call me if you find anything.’

Mike cursed every red light that held them up. Finally, he swung the car into the kerb outside Mischa’s house.

Gemma jumped out and ran to bang on the door.

Within seconds, it opened and the pale face of Kirsty, Mischa’s housemate, peered out. Gemma briefly explained who she was and why she was there.

‘Tell me exactly what happened yesterday,’ she said, hurrying inside with Kirsty.

‘She totally freaked. She threw some things into a bag and left at about eight-thirty yesterday morning. She was going to get a cab to her mother’s. I told her to wait and call a cab from here, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept saying, “He knows where I live – I’ve got to get out of here!” She was irrational. I told her to wait a minute and I’d come with her, but she wouldn’t listen. She just bolted. And now I don’t know where she’s gone. I don’t know what’s happened to her. She’s not answering her phone, either.’

Mischa’s room showed signs of a hasty exit – clothes strewn on the bed, a bottle of perfume fallen to the floor.

Angie called. ‘I’ve contacted Mrs Bloomfield. Apparently Mischa rang her mother the night before last to say she was coming down to visit her. But she didn’t arrive and her mother doesn’t know where she is. She said she was going to call the police. Her mother said she sounded very upset about something but Mischa wouldn’t tell her what it was.’

‘She’s not at her mother’s,’ Gemma said, turning to Kirsty.

‘She’s not at work,’ Kirsty replied. ‘I already checked.’

‘Where else might she have gone?’

Kirsty shrugged.

‘Mischa’s little arrow brooch,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you remember if she was wearing it yesterday?’

Kirsty nodded firmly. ‘I’m pretty sure. Why?’

Gemma called Angie back.

‘Angie, she was wearing that brooch yesterday morning. Mischa was there. Yesterday. At Sapphire Springs.’

‘But why? What would she be doing there?’

‘You mentioned she’d had cosmetic surgery done. Maybe she went back?’

‘Seems a strange thing to do when you’re scared for your life,’ said Angie. ‘But I’ll check it out. Meet me at the Galleon in an hour.’

Mike dropped her off at the Galleon cafe and went on to Kit’s to collect Rafi. Angie and Gemma spoke urgently across the small table, ignoring the coffees they’d ordered.

‘I called April Evans,’ said Angie. ‘She denies Mischa has been there recently. All she would confirm was that Mischa had some work done on her nose there about two years ago.’

‘She was very quick to try to explain away the arrow brooch …’ Gemma said.

‘The last place Chancy was seen is Sapphire Springs,’ Angie added. ‘And only a few hours after that, she’s murdered.’

‘And Magda Simmonds rings her best friend to cancel their lunch date,’ said Gemma, ‘because she has to go back to the spa. Shortly after, she commits suicide because “something terrible is happening”. Then we find Mischa’s brooch at Sapphire Springs a short time after she vanishes.’

Angie nodded. ‘Sapphire Springs connects them all in some way that I don’t understand.’

‘You’ve got to go back there,’ said Gemma. ‘Try for fingerprints. Other traces.’

Angie pulled back in her chair. ‘Gross isn’t going to okay this. We won’t know for sure if Mischa was there until we get the DNA on the brooch, and we can’t prove that a crime’s been committed there either. He’ll say we’re jumping the gun.’

‘You want to wait until we find Mischa with her head and hips caved in?’

‘Of course not but we need cold, hard facts. Incontrovertible evidence. You know that.’

Gemma was silenced. Angie was right. ‘I can’t just sit around while that girl might be in the hands of someone who has already smashed the life out of two other women. I’ve got to do something.’

‘Let’s practise some intelligence-led policing then. Go through the autopsy reports on murdered women that we borrowed from the morgue. Let’s see if anything meshes. I need to find that sex worker who’s seen the vampire guy twice now – Brie?’

‘Yes. That’s her name,’ said Gemma and she gave Angie Nicole’s name and the address of the open-door brothel.

‘Okay, Gemster. I’ll get on to her and see if she’s heard from Brie.’

Angie paid for the coffees and headed back to the police centre, while Gemma walked out onto Oxford Street. Her restless desire to do something was only partly assuaged by Angie’s suggestions. Mischa, Delphine Tolmacheff and Steve. The first two she was contracted to help; Steve she was bound to by tenacious heartstrings.

CHAPTER 22

Gemma felt she’d spent the whole night thinking about Steve, and Lorraine Litchfield.

After an unusually leisurely Sunday breakfast, Mike offered to take Rafi down to the park and Hugo still hadn’t come home so she had the morning to catch up on the laundry, but she rang Steve instead.

‘There’s something I want to discuss with you.’

‘Sure. Come over. I’m not going anywhere.’

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting opposite him, on an old leather chair near a small desk covered with piles of papers. The pot on the window ledge she’d watered the other day had responded already with tentative green shoots. She glanced around the room. There was an empty takeaway container on the coffee table and next to it, last night’s half-drunk glass of scotch-and-water; a small delta-winged moth floated on the surface.

Gemma reached over and picked up the glass and looked at the drowned moth.

‘At least he died drunk,’ said Steve. ‘Sorry about the mess. I’m just not motivated to clean up. I’m trying like crazy to work out how to defend myself against these allegations. What did you want to talk about?’

‘That’s why I’m here – about the allegations. This might sound like a crazy question but can you contact Lorraine Litchfield?’

‘What?’

‘Can you?’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you? I could. But why the hell—’

‘I’ve been thinking about this for a while and come up with something that might work. This is how it goes. You call Litchfield. You say that you’ve heard she’s been released early and you’ve got some information that she really needs to know. Make it sound like it’s vitally important that you pass this on in person. That you have to see her again.’

‘Gemma, don’t you remember that scene at the hospital? She hates my guts. And she’ll be suspicious as hell. Just what are you getting at?’

‘You’re the undercover expert; the man of a million scripts – find one that works. Then when you do get together, you’ve got to act like you still find her irresistible. You know how to sweet-talk her. Then you bring her back here and make out with her. In the meantime, Spinner and I will have set something up so that we will catch it all on video.’

‘You want to get footage of me and Lorraine Litchfield having sex – on video?’ Steve asked, leaning forward with surprise. ‘You want Raimon Fayed to kill me?’

‘Steve, can’t you see this is your chance – maybe your only one – to get her to retract her statement?’

‘I don’t see how that will …’ His words petered out and Gemma watched as his expression changed. Finally, she knew he’d got it when he spoke. ‘So, this is the deal: I get her into bed, you and Spinner get us on video – and you show this to Lorraine and threaten to deliver the footage to Fayed?’

‘Yes. You know what he did to his wife when he discovered her affair.’

He sighed.

‘So? Will you do it?’

Steve stood up and looked out the window, at the fence and next door’s brick wall. ‘It could work. That’s if she buys it. Then if she does, the only thing I really have to worry about is how to conceal my loathing. And avoid Fayed.’

‘Consider it a professional job. This could be the toughest assignment of your career. You’ve worked with low-life crims before and pretended they were your best mates.’

Steve managed a grim smile. ‘Actually, one or two of them really are almost mates. You work alongside someone long enough and you get to see the man inside.’ His smile vanished and he became suddenly very serious. ‘Baby, you might have just come up with the plan that will save my arse.’

Gemma got to her feet. ‘That’s what I hope. Now, I’d better go. A girl’s gone missing – on my watch. I want to find her before it’s too late.’ But she lingered, unsure of why she was waiting, until Steve walked ahead of her and opened the front door.

‘I don’t want to get too technical, Gemma, but there are certain physical aspects to a man’s response to a woman. If the guy can’t stand her, there could be problems with the hydraulics, if you get my drift.’

‘Stevie,’ she said softly, ‘just close your eyes and pretend it’s me.’ The words were out before she could retract them.

Steve gave her a long, tender look. The atmosphere in the narrow hall became suddenly very still.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said as she walked quickly out the door.

CHAPTER 23

Mike had joined some mates for a game of touch football, and Rafi was playing with a pile of toys under the dining table while above him Gemma and Angie divided up the autopsy reports from Ted Ackland’s office between them. Angie looked around. ‘Where is Hugo?’ she asked.

‘No idea. He comes and goes. I’m not worried. He’s done it before and he’ll phone if he needs us to pick him up.’

‘What are you going to do about him?’ asked Angie, sitting back. ‘Adopt him?’

‘I’ve just had so much on that I haven’t really thought about him much. I spoke to his father and he was impossible. I get the feeling that if Hugo suddenly vanished from the face of the earth, Mr Sherry wouldn’t really mind.’

‘What about his mother?’

‘She still lives in Melbourne. Hugo goes to school there and comes up during the holidays to stay with his father. He doesn’t get on with the girlfriend at all. Plus he got into a bit of strife with some schoolmates. I kind of bailed him out. And here he is. He’s a good kid, Angie. He deserves better. But I don’t know what I can do about him.’

After studying the three autopsy reports she’d selected from the pile, she said to Angie, ‘I’ve got two possibles here. This girl was murdered last year – Britt Goodwin, twenty-three,’ she continued. ‘Multiple injuries including skull and facial trauma and deep lacerations and damage to lower body. But look at what the PM doctor’s written here in the contemporaneous notes.’

Gemma passed the notes across to Angie. Under the usual mention of various organs and their respective weights and condition, the doctor had scribbled three words. They were underlined: ‘No bleeding … why?’

‘I can suggest a reason,’ said Gemma.

‘Me too. She was already dead.’

‘Britt Goodwin definitely fits the pattern,’ said Gemma. ‘Here’s the case number. Will you follow it up?’

‘Sure,’ said Angie, noting it down. ‘I’ll talk to whoever led the investigation. What about the other one?’

‘It’s from three years ago. A girl called Phoebe Wilson. Massive injuries to upper and lower body, particularly the head and pelvic girdle. Body found in Sydney Harbour where it had collided with the propeller of a speedboat.’

‘What a mess,’ said Angie. ‘What else do the notes say?’

Gemma skimmed through the pages, past the painstaking details of the state of the dead woman’s body, until she found what she wanted. ‘Listen to this. The pathologist has written here: “Absence of any bleeding and vital responses in association with multiple injuries may indicate that at least the worst of the injuries were sustained after death.”’

‘How old was she?’

Gemma turned back to the first page. ‘Phoebe Wilson. Aged twenty-two.’

‘I’ll check her, too. Phoebe and Britt – both unusual names,’ said Angie, noting the details of the deceased woman.

Angie stood up, the gathered files under her arm. ‘I’ll return these to Ted Ackland on my way into work tomorrow. I’ll call you when I’ve found out more about the two women.’

Gemma was on the lounge reading to Rafi when she heard commotion outside and rushed to the front door.

‘Good grief, Hugo! What happened? Where have you been? I got worried when you didn’t come home.’

Hugo, pale and breathless, had skidded on Mike’s bike and now lay partly under it, a nasty graze on one knee.

‘I stayed at my friend’s place. I was going to come back yesterday because I’ve got some news for you, but my friend’s band was practising so I decided to stay around.’

‘You didn’t try to ride the bike down the stairs, did you?’

‘Not really. But I was in a hurry and came off. I’ve been walking the bike back here practically all day!’

‘Okay. Let’s have a look at that cut on your knee.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Hugo said, scrambling to his feet and propping the bike against the wall. ‘I’ve been on the case. I’ve got something to tell you. And show you.’

Rafi was delighted to see his friend again and reached for him as Hugo limped inside. ‘What case? What are you talking about?’

‘Hello little guy,’ said Hugo, then answered Gemma. ‘I followed the car but I lost them. I couldn’t ring you. My phone’s stuffed and I didn’t have any money for a public phone. See, if you’d pay me, I could have rung and told you how I followed the car. Maybe I should have rung you from my mate’s place …’

‘You what?’

‘Like I said,’ said Hugo, dropping on the lounge, his injured leg stuck out in front of him. ‘I saw Mischa getting into this car on Friday morning.’

‘She got into a car? You mean she was dragged into a car?’

Hugo shook his head. ‘She got in. She couldn’t get in quick enough! She was running down the street and then this car pulled over, and straight away she jumped into it.’

‘Okay, let’s start from the beginning. What were you doing over there in the first place?’

‘You know when I was in your office and you yelled at me to get out? And you know how I was reading the report about Mischa Bloomfield? I wasn’t just being nosey. I thought maybe I could help you, so I took Mike’s bike and went over to her address, to sit off the address – like you do when you’re out on surveillance.’

‘Go on.’

‘I saw Mischa come out really early but she seemed to get frightened of someone further down the street – someone I couldn’t see, so she ran back inside again. I tried to look for what had scared her. Could have been someone in a car or someone on the street. No luck. Anyway, I stayed there. It was really boring, but I remember you saying how boring surveillance is and so I was expecting that. But then a bit later, she came out again and this time she was carrying an overnight bag. It was weird. Almost the same thing happened again. It was like she’d seen someone who frightened her. But this time I’m pretty sure it was a guy in a car parked down the road where I couldn’t see. Mischa started running down the street trying to get away from him, I guess, and that’s when I saw another car pull out and drive down beside her. I jumped on the bike and tried to follow them.’

‘Hugo,’ said Gemma, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite him, ‘you’re telling me you saw Mischa’s abduction?’

‘You’re not listening to me. It wasn’t an abduction. She got into the car by herself. Nobody made her do it. If she was kidnapped I would have let you know straight away somehow. She couldn’t get into that car fast enough. She slammed the door and the car took off.’

‘Could you see who was driving?’

‘Not really. I think it was a chick. Some lady,’ he corrected.

‘What sort of car was it?’

‘Peugeot. Green.’

It must have been a friend, Gemma thought. And Mischa’s safe after all. But why isn’t she answering her phone? Maybe she’s too frightened. Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to know where she is, and isn’t taking calls.

‘This morning I thought I’d better come back and tell you,’ he said. ‘On the way, I chucked a wheelie and lost it. I couldn’t ride the bike anymore, so I had to walk it all the way from my mate’s place. With a bit of a break for food. I spent all my money on something to eat.’

Gemma passed Rafi to him and stood up. ‘I’d better call Angie.’

‘So, it wasn’t Mischa’s arrow brooch after all,’ said Angie once Gemma had filled her in on Hugo’s surveillance operation. ‘She’s taken off with a friend. Nothing to do with the Sapphire Springs cabin. Now we just have to wait till she surfaces again. And when she does, we’ll put her straight into protection.’

Gemma put the phone down. ‘Hugo, I’m not sure what to say to you about all this. You’ve stuffed up Mike’s bike, but you’ve done a good job, actually.’

He beamed at her.

‘You should leave this to the professionals, though.’

Hugo rolled his eyes. ‘If I’d done that, you’d still all be running around like crazy, looking for Mischa. Wasting time.’

‘Let’s clean that knee up,’ said Gemma, frowning at his injuries.

‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, half hopping out to the kitchen following her, with Rafi holding on tight, ‘I took a photo of the car on my mobile before my battery went dead. Hope I didn’t lose it.’

‘Charge it up and let’s have a look,’ said Gemma, taking Rafi and handing Hugo some clean tissues and a Band-Aid. ‘Give your knee a wash and put that over it.’

Hugo did so, and then plugged in his mobile. In a few moments, he’d recovered the photograph and held it up for Gemma to see.

‘It’s only the back of the car,’ he said, ‘and the quality’s pretty random. But maybe you’ll be able to see the rego numbers.’

‘Well done, Hugo! You’ll make a great operative one day.’

‘What do you mean “one day”?’ I already am. See if you can spot the rego and find out who Mischa’s friend is. Then you can find out where she’s staying. Then you can talk to her. Then she’s safe. No worries.’

Gemma smiled. ‘Now that your wounds are dressed, maybe you should see if you can fix Mike’s bike. Okay?’

‘What’s this about my bike?’ Mike asked, coming through the front door. ‘Did you wreck my bike, Hugo?’

‘A bit. One of the wheels is really bent. I’m sorry, Mike. I can fix it.’

‘Take a look at this,’ said Gemma, handing Hugo’s mobile to Mike. ‘Hugo took a photo of the car that Mischa Bloomfield got into.’ Frowning, Mike zoomed the photograph focusing on the registration.

‘The quality’s not very good,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got a program that will enhance this. We should be able to get the rego numbers. It’s a late-model Peugeot coupe, pale green.’

Gemma glanced at the small image of the car, sleek and crouching and looking as if it was built for speed.

‘That’s a Peugeot RCZ,’ Hugo announced. ‘They cost over fifty grand.’

CHAPTER 24

As she was walking down the steps into her front garden on Monday morning after taking Rafi to daycare, her mobile chimed.

‘Gerri,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call. How about dinner tonight? My place?’

‘Angelo, nice to hear from you,’ she said in what she hoped was a demure tone. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been very busy otherwise I would have called you much, much sooner. I can do tonight.’

‘Excellent. I’m a great cook. All you have to do is bring your beautiful self and maybe a bottle of red wine? I’ll supply dinner and flowers. Do we have a deal?’

Hugo was still tinkering with the badly buckled front wheel of Mike’s bike as she opened the front door and went inside, thinking quickly.

‘That sounds great,’ she cooed.

‘Wonderful! About seven-thirty? I’ll text you the address.’

‘I’ll be there.’

If Tolmacheff was at home cooking prior to seven-thirty, she would know where he was. She went into her office and opened a drawer, taking out the key to the Edgecliff office that Delphine had given her, and then she called Delphine.

‘I’m fine,’ Delphine said when Gemma asked her. ‘I’ve moved into this cute little boutique hotel, Beecham House. It’s gorgeous. Looks straight over to the Opera House. And, you’ll never believe this, but I’ve just won a fantastic prize in a cosmetics competition! I don’t even remember entering it! That’s cheered me up a bit.’

‘Sounds nice. But you must do everything to keep safe until your husband is out of the picture.’

‘I’m just hoping I can go home soon. I’ll be a new woman without him.’

‘Good,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m very hopeful I can get him off your back.’ And mine too, she thought as she ended the call.

Washing up the breakfast dishes gave Gemma time to plan her day, then she rang Angie for an update.

‘I’ve spoken to the guy who headed up the Britt Goodwin murder investigation,’ Angie said. ‘They got someone for that on physical evidence and a confession. Illegal immigrant. He’s currently in prison as a flight risk and awaiting trial.’

‘So, he’s out of the picture,’ Gemma said. ‘That was a dead end. What about Phoebe Wilson?’

‘An open verdict. I had a quick look through the coroner’s findings and the police notes. There was no way to know how she’d come to be in the water. She was fully clothed, which could indicate an accident, or even suicide. According to the notes here, she lived at Kirribilli in an old waterfront apartment block. It’s possible that she fell from a window, or from the jetty on the southern side of the apartment. I’ll skip this next bit – oh – here’s another relevant section … “the jetty had been condemned some months earlier”.’

‘She might have gone for a walk on the jetty anyway,’ said Gemma, ‘and fallen through the timber, injured herself, drowned, bled out and then collided with the speedboat.’

‘Okay,’ sighed Angie. ‘We’ll need to check this one. She’s a possible victim.’ There was a short silence.

‘We’re almost back where we started,’ said Gemma, ‘and that was never a very good place. We still don’t know anything about this killer, except that he seems to carry out a vicious minor assault, and then comes back for the kill. But not in all cases – and we don’t know why.’

‘Gems, I do have some more information,’ Angie said. ‘Bob Stein’s just called me.’

Gemma recalled Bob Stein, who headed up the DNA section as chief analyst at DAL, the Department of Analytic Laboratories, the government laboratories where police exhibits were taken to be examined, the results delivered to the prosecutors to be placed before the courts.

‘Bob ran all the items from the murders through the PCR again just in case they missed something the first time. He said he knew I’d want to hear back as soon as possible about any new results but I’m afraid he hasn’t been able to get much out of the samples. He repeated how thoroughly the bodies and clothing had been washed down and said the second results were as inconclusive as the first. And results on the arrow brooch were inconclusive too.’

‘So it was just a waste of time?’ Gemma asked.

‘Not completely. He said they found traces of an anti-bacterial wash that’s normally only found in labs, and not used by the general public. He’s sent the clothes off to Andy Morphett, the palynologist. He might be able to supply some sort of profile from pollen evidence. He also mentioned they’re going to try a very new technique from Zürich, lifting fingerprints from the skin surface of dead bodies.’

‘What about Janet? Any result on her?’

‘Nothing yet. I’ll let you know when I hear. Morphett is pretty good. If there is anything in the pollen profile, he will find it. Is that Rafi or the Ratbag I can hear in the background?’

‘That would be Hugo. He’s trying to fix Mike’s bike. He’s driving me crazy and being helpful all at the same time.’

‘He could be quite an asset, Gemster. I remember him handling a Glock very well indeed. He’s a smart kid.’

Mike looked across at her as they were preparing lunch. ‘Come on, Gems. We both worked too much over the weekend, how about I take us out to dinner tonight? I’ll even shout Hugo. We can go to your favourite Thai place.’

‘Oh. I can’t, Mike. I’ve got a date tonight. With Tolmacheff.’

Mike’s face hardened. ‘I don’t like you using yourself as bait for Tolmacheff. It’s a bad idea going into his territory. It makes you too vulnerable.’

‘Mike, it puts me right in the belly of the beast.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. He’s going to want dessert. It’s bloody dangerous, Gemma.’

There was a silence in which Gemma could feel the distance between them but as they ate and talked they both relaxed, and forgot about work for the moment.

‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Mike said when they had finished.

Gemma followed him down to his office.

‘Take a look at this.’ He indicated the image on his laptop. ‘You can read the registration now – plain and clear.’

‘Great,’ she said, writing it down on a piece of paper: BAW 06Z. ‘I’ll get that through to Angie straight away.’

She noticed Mike hesitating, about to say something. ‘What is it?’

‘What are you going to do about Hugo?’ he asked in a low tone, closing the office door. ‘He can’t go on staying here indefinitely. This apartment isn’t even big enough for you and me. Factor in Rafi and Hugo … and it becomes very crowded. He’s a good kid and I like him, but …’

‘I know, Mike. It’s just for a little while. The school holidays.’

‘And what about the next school holidays? Is he going to be living with us over Christmas as well?’ Mike sighed. ‘We’re trying to run a business here, out of a couple of cluttered rooms with a baby and an adolescent boy thrown in. I just haven’t got the liquidity at the moment to rent office space somewhere else. I don’t want to sound mean, and I want to live with you, but under different circumstances. You’re off meeting Steve Brannigan again and dealing with some very unpleasant characters. I don’t like any of this, Gemma.’

‘Mike, I’ll do something about it just as soon as I can. But right now I’ve got a lot on my plate. Please understand my position.’

‘I’m trying,’ he said, frowning. ‘Believe me.’

Just after three o’clock, Gemma met Spinner outside Steve’s place. ‘Feels like the old days,’ Spinner said as Steve let them in.

He had made some attempt to tidy up, Gemma noticed as she and Spinner followed him into the small living room. The plants she’d watered looked even more promising, the rug had been straightened and possibly vacuumed.

‘Good to see you again, Steve,’ said Spinner, vigorously pumping Steve’s hand. ‘I have mixed feelings about this, you know.’

‘I can imagine. I remember your scrupulous nature, Spinner,’ said Steve, with the barest smile. ‘Aiding and abetting attempted sins against the sixth and the ninth commandments.’

‘I really hope that things stop at the attempted stage, mate,’ said Spinner. ‘That Litchfield woman is deadlier than Delilah.’

‘We should start with the bedroom,’ said Steve. ‘I’ve got a date tomorrow night.’

‘How?’ asked Gemma. ‘How did you set it up? Did you call her?’

‘No, I thought I’d … Gems, you don’t really want to hear about this.’

She didn’t say anything. Finally, he sighed and continued. ‘I know her favourite nightspot is Astro Lunar. I went with a mate as cover, and once I’d spotted her I ordered her favourite cocktail and wrote a note to accompany it. She came over. She was furious. She threw the drink over me – let me have both barrels. How I’d humiliated her, how she would never forgive me, how I was going to be as sorry as hell. She was practically spitting with rage.’

‘How did you turn it around?’

‘It took a while. I sat there, like a good boy, sucking it up. Literally. My face was dripping with Bundy and Kahlua. By then my mate had bolted to the Gents. Once she’d run out of steam I told her if she ever wanted to hear my side of the story, all she had to do was call me. I gave her my card and then I stood up. She seemed quite stunned and had nothing more to say, so I got in close and whispered something to her.’

‘What did you say?’

Steve hesitated. ‘I said, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”’

Gemma reminded herself that this was part of a script, nothing more.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he said.

‘I got that part,’ she said, her voice sharp.

‘Gemma – I meant—’

She cut him off. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

After a long pause, Steve continued. ‘About three am, my mobile rang. I was sound asleep. But there she was. From throwing drinks to calling at three in the morning. Extremely keen to get together again. She said now she did want to hear my side of the story. So, I asked her out. We had dinner and I could tell from the way she was dressed and how she behaved with me that she was interested in taking things further. I hear Raimon has trouble getting it up.’

‘So what is your side of the story?’ asked Gemma.

‘I think it was convincing. Besides, I could see she wanted me and it was convenient for her to be convinced. I told her that I’d been under a lot of pressure from you, that I owed you money, that you’d threatened to expose me for an incident that I didn’t want to tell her about.’

Irrationally, Gemma could feel herself growing angry at this scenario. Calm down, girl, she told herself. This is an act, not reality.

‘In the end, she agreed to come over to my place. Tomorrow night. You and Spinner better be close by. Be in position by eight or even earlier.’

‘We will.’

‘When you see things getting really heavy, Spinner, can you bang on my front door. Make up something that’ll get me out of there.’

‘Sure, no worries,’ Spinner said.

‘And Gems, I’ll never forget this. If this works …’

‘You’ll owe me,’ she said.

‘I’d put another one in here,’ said Gemma, looking around the lounge room, ‘just in case things get a bit ahead of themselves.’ Her heart ached as she remembered a time when she and Steve could barely get inside the door and keep their clothes on.

Spinner shook his head, almost tut-tutting in disapproval as he looked for a suitable place for the tiny lens. After a moment’s hesitation, he examined the framed photograph of the Port Stephens dolphins and the heavy black lace of the wrought-iron candelabra. ‘I could do something here,’ he said, ‘in this gap between the dolphins and the bookcase. I can hide the camera in that candlestick.’

Gemma pulled the tiny camera out of her bag and passed it to Spinner, who fixed it to one of the winding wrought-iron leaves, threading the cable around the iron lace and from there behind the dolphin photograph. ‘There. Invisible.’

He picked up his tool kit and went into the bedroom, looking around for a hiding place for the second camera. This he found in the L-shaped light on the bedside table, hiding the tiny lens along its extendable arm.

Half an hour later, both cameras were in position and tested as working well. Gemma and Spinner sat outside in Spinner’s Toyota, watching the live feed from the cameras on a split screen on the laptop. ‘We’ve got him covered,’ said Spinner, ‘in both locations. All he has to do is lure Mrs Litchfield into his bedroom. The voice and movement activation capability will do the rest.’

He turned to Gemma. ‘How do you feel about this? About watching Steve with another woman?’

‘How do you think I feel, Spinner?’ she said, her eyes following Steve’s appearances on the split screen. Too many mixed emotions, too many surges of love and anger, jealousy and hope, were streaming together and churning, so that she almost felt she might be sick. ‘It has to be done. If it saves Steve, it has to be done. There’s just no alternative.’

‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

So do I, she thought.

Gemma started to get ready for her date with Tolmacheff as soon as she arrived home. Then she tried to put Steve out of her mind by focusing on feeding Rafi a little earlier than usual. She aimed to be at Edgecliff at half past six so that she could check out the office, safe in the knowledge that Tolmacheff was working in his kitchen a few kilometres away, awaiting her arrival at around seven-thirty.

‘Are you okay?’ Mike asked her as she came out of the bedroom, dressed in her best black skirt, cream silk blouse and a gold chain around her neck, black jacket over her arm. The key to Tolmacheff’s office was safely tucked in her slim leather wallet.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘You look tired. What were you up to this afternoon?’

‘I helped Spinner to put in some spy cams,’ she said, deadpan.

‘Don’t be late,’ he said, an edge to his voice.

‘Hey man,’ said Hugo from his position on the floor, ‘that’s not very cool. Gemma’s on the job, not having fun.’

‘It’s okay, Hugo,’ said Gemma, ‘I won’t be late, that’s for sure.’

‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through?’ said Mike, walking with her to the door. ‘He’s invited you to his place. He’s got designs on you. He’s going to want sex. How are you going to handle that?’

‘I’ll think of something. There’s always the headache excuse.’

‘Gemma, I don’t have to remind you that this man is a potential murderer. What if he’s a rapist as well?’

‘Mike, I’ve learned a few tricks over the years. I know some fancy footwork that’ll put a man out of action for a week. And I’m not afraid to use it.’

‘Will you teach me?’ Hugo called from the other end of the hall.

‘This is a private conversation,’ said Mike.

‘I didn’t know that. You could have had it outside if you didn’t want me to hear.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘Go outside and finish fixing my bike.’

‘I’d better go,’ said Gemma, glancing at her watch. ‘I’ve got an office to search and then a dinner date.’

She parked in the Edgecliff Centre and caught the lift. Stepping out into the narrow corridor with offices on each side, she hurried along until she came to the door marked Satellite Imports & Promotions Pty Ltd. Mischa Bloomfield had been given a card by the man who called himself Jacob Titov with the same business name. How were Titov and Tolmacheff connected?

With a quick look around to make sure the corridor was quite empty, Gemma slid the key into the lock and turned it. It opened easily and she went inside. The office was one small room, with windows to the west; there was still some light in the sky although the interior was dim. Keeping her torchlight on her phone low, Gemma flashed it around. The first thing that struck her was how neat the place was. The shelving built along the wall was empty, apart from a small cactus in a pot and an ashtray. She went to the desk, which took up a quarter of the room. There was just a lamp, a pen and pencil set and a phone on it. The drawers weren’t locked, so she opened each in turn. The first and second were empty; the third one held a folder. She flipped it open and frowned, puzzled by the contents. She found business cards bearing Tolmacheff’s name under the company name ‘Perestroika Enterprises’, and a recent bill for the mooring of a luxury yacht at the Rushcutters Bay marina. So that’s where some of Delphine’s money had gone, she thought. She turned on the lamp, laid out the bills and receipts and photographed them.

When she checked on the review facility and zoomed, she found she could read them quite easily. Hastily, she gathered up all the papers and put them back in what she hoped was the order in which she had found them, put the folder back into the drawer and flicked the light off. She was about to walk away when something caught her eye – a small metal rubbish bin beside the chair. Directing the torchlight into the bin, she saw that something had been burned in there. Carefully, using her thumb and forefinger, she lifted the charred papers out and laid them on the desk. One was a business card and the other a partly burned photograph of a woman. There was enough of the face left for Gemma to recognise it: she’d seen this young woman before in the portrait drawn by Nicole at the open-door brothel.

Brie.

Questions started racing through her mind. What was Perestroika Enterprises and what was the connection with Tolmacheff? Then fear. Tolmacheff and the vampire were definitely linked. And why had the picture been burned? She photographed the burned photo then turned her attention to the small singed card.

She could still make out the lettering and part of the phone number superimposed on a photograph of the Opera House. ‘Be – h – m – H – s –’

Beecham House.

Gemma immediately called Delphine.

‘The mobile number you have called is currently unavailable. Please try again later.’

Damn you, thought Gemma. Switch on your phone!

Reading from the burnt business card, Gemma called the hotel. The receptionist was reluctant to give out any information but finally said that she thought Delphine might have gone out to dinner with friends. ‘Please ask her to call me as soon as she comes back,’ said Gemma, leaving her name and number. ‘It is imperative that I talk to her.’

The receptionist sounded guarded, but said that she would pass on the message. Gemma glanced at her watch. She was going to be late for dinner. Then she’d drive straight to Beecham House.

On the way to Angelo’s, she called Angie and told her what she’d found. ‘Can you do a company search on Perestroika Enterprises? Find what that’s all about?’

When she told her about Delphine, Angie said, ‘I can call the cops at the station nearest the hotel. Maybe someone will go down there and try to intercept her before she goes to her room. But I can’t promise anything.’

‘And it’s essential that we find Brie, too,’ Gemma added. ‘She’s eyeballed the killer, twice now, and somehow she’s connected to Tolmacheff. I want to know how and why.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Angie. ‘But if she’s gone interstate, as you say, then it’s going to be very difficult. These girls are hard to keep track of at the best of times and at the moment, she’s lying low.’

Gemma tried calling Delphine Tolmacheff again after pulling up outside the marital home. Again, her call went through to voice-mail and she left another urgent message. At least Delphine was safe for the next couple of hours, while her husband entertained another woman, Gemma thought. There was nothing more she could do right now, so she checked her hair and lipstick in the rear-vision mirror, picked up her wallet and climbed out of the car. As she made her way through the wrought-iron gate and up along the wisteria-draped trellis, she saw the front door was open.

‘Hello? she called. ‘Angelo?’

She heard footsteps and called out again. But there was no answer. Hesitantly, she stepped into a spacious foyer, with a domed ceiling from which hung an elaborate chandelier, fully ablaze. Gilt-framed colonial portraits hung on the walls and a staircase curved around to a landing. As she walked further inside, Gemma saw that several rooms led off the circular foyer. She checked the first one, a beautifully furnished lady’s sitting room, with swooning lounges and armchairs around dainty tables, the furniture forming an irregular semicircle around a graceful fireplace, currently filled with pine cones. Copies of Vogue and House & Garden were scattered over a low table and tall French windows were hung with ruched damask drapes.

Gemma continued to the second room, a gentleman’s study in dark green tones, with leather-bound volumes on the shelves. A handsome cedar roll-top desk beside the window, its roller shutter half raised. She couldn’t resist glancing inside.

A folder with a heraldic shield flanked by swans printed on its cover lay on the polished surface of the desktop. Glancing behind her to make sure she was still alone, Gemma opened it. Inside was a brochure with photos of six beautiful women on the front page. Two of them seemed familiar. Curious, Gemma picked the brochure up but before she could identify the two familiar faces, she was abruptly interrupted.

‘What do you think you’re doing in here?’

The deep voice made her jump in guilt and fear. She dropped the folder and spun around. Angelo Tolmacheff stood blocking the doorway, his face dark with anger.

‘Oh, Angelo! How embarrassing!’ she said. ‘What will you think of me? I couldn’t find you and I came looking in here—’

‘And you thought you’d find me in that folder on my desk, did you? Among my personal papers?’

‘Look, I just opened it out of curiosity. I’m a curious woman. Please forgive me. I am so sorry. I was admiring your beautiful study and I just …’

‘What did you see?’

‘Nothing,’ Gemma stuttered.

‘You opened that folder!’

What the hell was inside it? Too late, Gemma wished she’d seen more.

‘I didn’t! I didn’t have time to—’

‘Who are you? I’ve made some inquiries about Gerri Westlake and I keep running up against a brick wall. Gerri Westlake seems to have no friends. Gerri Westlake seems to have no credit rating, she doesn’t even have a bank account. I can’t find out where she lives.’

Gemma tensed in anticipation. This guy’s been doing his research, she realised. I should have anticipated this.

‘I’m surprised you’ve gone to so much trouble. Why would you check me out like this? I feel quite frightened by such scrutiny.’ Maybe, she thought, picking a fight is the easiest way out of here. She wanted to get out of the confined space of his study but he was still blocking the doorway.

‘I think I should go,’ she said. ‘Your behaviour is unforgivable. Dinner should be indefinitely postponed.’

‘I want to see your ID. Give me your wallet.’

Hell, the key to his office is still in it, she thought, as she answered, ‘You have no right to ask me this. Please stand aside and let me leave, Angelo.’

‘Not until I know who you are. You’re a cop, aren’t you? Some sneaky little undercover cop. I want to know why you’re investigating me. And why they’ve set the dogs on me.’

Gemma spread her hands in appeal. ‘There is no need for this overreaction. Of course I’m not a cop. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came here at your invitation, I strayed into your study and yes, I glanced at a few things and noticed a folder on your desk. And now you’re accusing me of all sorts of strange things, Angelo. I find your behaviour alarming. And I’d like to leave. Now.’

He didn’t budge, his bulky body blocking her escape.

‘You’re a friend of my wife. She sent you here.’

‘You’ve got a wife?’

‘Give me your wallet.’

‘No. You lied to me. You’ve got a wife!’

‘Give me that wallet!’

‘No way! You have no right!’

He took a step closer, roughly snatching the wallet out of her hand. ‘This isn’t about right, sweetheart. This is about doing what you’re told.’ The menace in his voice was unmistakable and his face was twisted into a snarl. This was the real Angelo Tolmacheff, Gemma thought. The man who was plotting the murder of his wife. The man who had some connection with a fleeing sex worker, a woman who’d had a narrow escape from murder herself … and the vampire.

He stepped forward, leaving a narrow route to the foyer. Gemma did a quick situational calculation. Despite her boast to Mike, it had been some time since she’d practised any fancy moves. Looming closer, Tolmacheff hissed, ‘Who are you?’

Gemma made a split-second decision. She hurled herself against him using her body weight and surprise to unbalance him. He yelled and stumbled, but quickly righted himself, almost knocking her off her feet, punching out with an arm that she ducked easily. She wrenched back her wallet from his other hand, then kneed him as hard as she could. She heard his harsh roar of pain and rage as he crashed to the floor.

She was out the door and racing across the foyer to the front door before he had time to recover.

Fear and adrenaline propelled her until she was back at her car, fumbling with the keys, jumping in and screeching away from the kerb.

She checked in her rear-vision mirror to see that Tolmacheff was coming after her, hobbling like something out of a horror movie towards his car. She didn’t have time to be scared; she needed all her energy to lose him. She headed down to New South Head Road, skidding through a just-changing red light, then swung a hard left and raced away from the intersection. Another glance in the mirror showed her that Tolmacheff hadn’t made it through the intersection and was blocked by a car in front of his. She relaxed just a bit, swinging another sudden hard left just in case. After driving about a kilometre, she swung right and found herself heading for Charing Cross. She parked in a lane near a cafe, dashed inside and sat down to catch her breath. She ordered a cup of tea and called Mike.

‘What is it?’ he asked urgently at the sound of her voice.

‘I’ve blown it with Tolmacheff,’ she said. ‘At least Gerri Westlake has. He sprung me looking at something on his desk. He knows where his wife is staying. He’s obviously been investigating me while I was investigating him. If he finds out who I am, I’m in trouble.’

She gave him a rundown on what she had found at Tolmacheff’s office, of her confrontation with him and her narrow escape from the house.

‘Gems. Come home. If you’d listened to me—’

‘Don’t start.’

After a pause he asked, ‘So what connection do you think Tolmacheff has with these women from the brochure?’

‘Not sure yet. That’s what I’ve got to chase up. Angie’s looking into Perestroika Enterprises – could be a modelling agency? I’m wondering if maybe these women worked for him. But in what capacity. Maybe they’re all sex workers like Brie. At this stage, I’m only guessing.’

‘Gemma, please just come home. This is getting deadly serious. And I mean deadly.’

‘Mike, I’ll be home soon. Promise.’

She heard his angry sigh from the other end of the line just before he hung up.

CHAPTER 25

As Gemma started her car to drive home, a call came through.

‘Ambrose Cobcroft, Gemma. Apologies for the time of my call, but I found something that might interest you. Could you drop by my place sometime?’

Gemma looked at her watch. Her pulses were quietening. ‘How about now? I’m not too far away.’

He hesitated for just a moment. ‘Fine,’ he said.

She was soon in Cobcroft’s smart apartment. On the dining table were the remains of two half-eaten meals.

‘I hope I haven’t interrupted you,’ said Gemma, glancing at the dishes.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I meant to have them cleared away before you arrived. My dinner guest left early.’

As he swept past carrying the plates to the kitchen, Gemma picked up the faintest trace of perfume – ‘Songes’.

‘Let me guess,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Your dinner guest was Yvonne Creswell?’

He stopped in his tracks as he emerged from the kitchen. ‘How on earth did you know?’ Then quickly covered his unguarded question. ‘You’re very good at your job.’

‘I’m pleased you think so.’

‘Drink?’ he offered, heading towards a tray of crystal decanters on the polished cedar sideboard.

‘Scotch-and-ice, thanks,’ she said, ‘with a dash of water. You mentioned on the phone you had something to show me?’

He poured two drinks, vanished into the kitchen for ice and water, then reappeared and handed her one. ‘Cheers,’ he said, tinkling his glass against hers. ‘I’m sorry Yvonne had to leave. She mentioned you’d had a chat with her. She mentioned too, that you had shown her the suicide note.’

‘Yes,’ said Gemma. ‘Yvonne pretty much told me the same things that you did. That Magda had everything to live for – that she was on top of the world. That she called Yvonne, possibly drunk, to say—’

‘No, no. Not possibly drunk. Impossibly. Magda almost never drank prior to the cosmetic surgery, and afterwards not at all. It was completely verboten to anyone on the DiNAH therapy. There’s no way Magda would have been drunk.’

‘Magda’s speech was slurred, Yvonne said.’

‘Whatever was causing that wasn’t alcohol. No way. She must have already been affected by the drugs she’d taken to – to …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘What did you want to show me, Ambrose?’ asked Gemma finally, letting the silence hang between them while sipping her scotch.

‘These,’ he said, putting his glass down and going to the sideboard. ‘I found them in Magda’s bedside drawer. I almost threw them out while I was clearing out her things.’

He passed Gemma a small glass pill bottle containing several capsules. ‘It’s from Sapphire Springs Spa.’

‘I thought clients had to go back to the spa for the therapy,’ said Gemma, reading the handwritten label: ‘DiNAH Growth Factor. Take only under managed medical supervision. Must not be removed from premises at Sapphire Springs Spa.’

‘I was under the impression that DiNAH was always kept very tightly under wraps,’ she continued, ‘so that no one could discover what it was until the rights to produce it were finally secured.’

‘Magda clearly broke the rules,’ he said.

Gemma turned the small bottle around in her hands, thinking that with a wedding to organise Magda might have decided that taking two days out of every week to go to Sapphire Springs was time she didn’t have. Somehow, she’d purloined her own supply.

‘I’d like to take this,’ she said. ‘I have a contact who can run a few tests on the capsules, separate the components and deliver a report on what’s in them.’

‘Maybe there’s some component that causes sudden mood swings or depression?’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Gemma. ‘And if that’s the case, no wonder the team that’s responsible for creating DiNAH don’t want anyone to know about it.’

After taking possession of the small bottle and assuring Ambrose that she’d call him as soon as she found out more about the drugs, Gemma finally headed home.

‘I was really worried, Gemma,’ Mike said, when she walked in. ‘I thought you were coming home when we talked.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, almost tripping on Rafi’s wooden train as she went into the living room. The place looked a mess, she thought, with Mike’s work piled up on the dining table and Hugo’s gear strewn around the floor and the lounge. ‘I did a couple of things on the way. I have to try to get hold of Delphine Tolmacheff again, then I’ll fill you in.’

Delphine’s mobile was still switched off, so Gemma poured herself a glass of water and a weak scotch-and-water and told Mike about her visit to Ambrose Cobcroft. ‘I’ll ask Lance at Paradigm to test the samples. I’m convinced there’s something in that therapy that’s very dangerous – so dangerous that they don’t want anybody to know about it. And that Janet was killed because she discovered what it was. DiNAH therapy costs over a million dollars. It’s a goldmine, and ridiculously secret. We’re incredibly lucky that somehow Magda Simmonds was able to smuggle some of the stuff out.’

‘You think that the medical team at Sapphire Springs is involved in some kind of criminal activity? A cover-up?’

‘I know it sounds a bit unbelievable. It’s such a well-known health resort. But think about it: it only takes one or two of the team to be capable of this sort of thing. The other staff might not have any idea what’s going on.’

‘Whatever happened to Hippocrates and “First, do no harm”?’

‘Millions of dollars, that’s what’s happened.’ Gemma swallowed the last of the scotch before continuing. ‘What I need to do is talk to someone who really knows about DiNAH—’ She picked up her phone and went straight to Google.

Mike stood beside her and Gemma pointed to the screen. ‘Maxine Wentworth. She was one of the first, if not the first, to receive the DiNAH therapy three years ago. She’s a great-grandmother and look at her! You’d think she was thirty-five. She’s the one. I need to talk to her.’

‘So tell me again about what happened at Tolmacheff’s?’ Mike asked.

‘He caught me snooping. He was furious, but I got away.’

‘You make it sound very simple.’

‘That’s pretty much it,’ she said. ‘I told you I can take care of myself.’

‘So it was a waste of time,’ he said, ‘putting yourself at risk like that. Now he’ll really wonder who you are.’

‘He thinks I’m an undercover cop.’

‘You hope he does. It mightn’t take him too long to work through the list of female private detectives,’ he said. ‘We just don’t know what he’s capable of, Gemma.’ He looked at her, shook his head, then walked out.

She called Wentworth Thoroughbred Breeders. A recorded message gave her several options and she left a message inquiring about contacting Maxine Wentworth.

Wearily, she stood up and went into the bedroom to look in on Rafi, who was sound asleep, one fist clenched against his cheek, his other hand softly on top of his woolly bear. She checked the grille at the window – it remained locked as usual – and then she opened the gun safe, taking the Glock 27 out of its box and turning it over in her hands before replacing it, relocking the safe and gently kissing her son, then tiptoeing out of the room.

Hugo hadn’t been there when she got home, and when she went to bed she lay awake worrying about him. This is crazy, she thought. Worrying about Hugo is not really my job; he has two parents who are supposed to be doing that – but are almost certainly not. Then her mind jumped to Mischa Bloomfield. Rafi’s contented grunts as he slept couldn’t distract her from the treadmill of thoughts running in her wakeful mind. She wondered where Mischa was now, and who the friend was who had picked her up so fortuitously. Gemma would lean on Angie to hurry along the search for the owner of that car.

Mike came in an hour or so later, then around 2 am she heard Hugo fumbling at the front door and got up to let him in.

‘Hugo! Where the hell have you been?’

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he whispered, tiptoeing in behind her. ‘I had dinner with Dad. And I sort of went to sleep on the couch. I didn’t want to be there in the morning when his girlfriend wakes up.’

‘Okay. Now go to bed.’

‘Night, Gemma.’

‘Sleep well, Hugo.’

‘You too.’

But she couldn’t. Dark, foreboding dreams troubled her all night, and it was a relief to finally wake from a restless sleep to Rafi’s polyphonic conversation with himself in the dim dawn. She reached over to the remote on her bedside table and turned on the feed from the security camera. The front garden area around the window was dark and quiet. She switched it off.

CHAPTER 26

With Rafi crawling through the apartment, hauling himself up alongside one of the chairs around the dining table and staggering around it until he plopped back down on the floor, Gemma poured herself a coffee and joined Mike, who was already eating breakfast.

He looked at her as she sat down. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

Hugo, at the sound of the voices, crawled out of his doona and quietly dragged it into the operatives’ office and closed the door. Now, the two of them sat opposite each other at the table, Gemma looking past Mike’s head to the blue sea, with its slight chop running away from the nor’-easter.

‘What about?’ she asked, bringing her attention back to Mike’s face.

‘The same problem. This apartment, Gemma. It’s too damn small. We need a bigger place to live. I’ve downsized a lot, but this place is still too crowded. I’ve got everything I own crammed into my office; I have to work on the dining table because the desks in the front office are piled with my things. I come back here and try to work in the living room and find Hugo’s stuff everywhere. I told you – I want to live with you and Rafi, but the way things are is just not working for me.’

‘Hang on,’ she said, frowning. ‘We haven’t got the money to move into a bigger place. When I bought this place, there was only me.’

‘But now,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a baby, a full-time man and an occasional juvenile delinquent living here.’

Gemma knew he was right but couldn’t offer any solutions.

‘Hugo might have to go.’

‘But he’s only staying here for a few days,’ she said.

‘It’s been almost a week. And the holidays run for another week.’

‘Can you be patient just one more week?’

‘I’m getting sick of hearing myself say the same things over and over. You don’t listen, Gemma. You’re so taken up with everything else. Can’t you see we need more space? Rafi will be running around soon. There’s just no room. Not to mention the dangerous cliff out there past the bushes.’

‘I can’t do anything about it right now,’ she said, getting up and gathering the breakfast dishes and carrying them to the sink.

‘And there’s another thing.’

There would be, she thought.

‘We don’t make love anymore. I’m often out at night. And you’re tired – understandably,’ he added. ‘We don’t seem to have any time to ourselves.’

He was right. She’d been so busy, so immersed in her son, in throwing herself back into work, that sex was the last thing on her mind. ‘Mike, I know. I thought I’d be easing back into work, instead of having an avalanche hit me. And then with everything …’

‘And I’m not at all happy about you taking on the Tolmacheff case. He’s a dangerous man. You shouldn’t be taking risks like this. You have a small son who needs you.’ He paused a moment, before continuing. ‘And I’d better say it, because it’s on my mind. I really don’t like your re-involvement with Steve Brannigan. I don’t think it’s wise.’

Gemma sighed. ‘Mike, I know there’s a lot going on at the moment. But soon these cases will be wrapped, and I won’t take on any more for a while. Okay?’

Mike shrugged. ‘What else can I say but “okay”?’ He stood up. ‘I’d better be going.’ But he didn’t. Instead, he turned and asked, ‘Gemma, do you love me?’

‘What sort of question is that?’ she asked, trying to make light of it.

‘The sort of question that requires an answer, not fobbing off.’ He looked at her with his steady grey eyes. ‘Do you?’

‘Of course I do,’ she said, flustered. ‘You’ve been so good to me and Rafi and—’

Impatiently, he brushed her words aside. ‘You make me sound like some sort of benevolent fund.’ He paused but she didn’t respond.

‘I have to go.’

He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

Later in the morning, Gemma called Lance at Paradigm Laboratories. ‘Gemma Lincoln here, Lance. How are things?’

‘Busy. Paternity tests. Couple of incest cases. The usual.’

‘Can I drop something by? I’d like you to test the contents.’ Briefly, she outlined the circumstances in which the capsules had been handed over to her, and the suicide of Magda Simmonds.

‘You mean you’ve got hold of the DiNAH therapy complex? The top secret breakthrough?’ He laughed, quoting a recent news article. ‘Would I like to have a look at that! Just about every medical scientist in the world wants to get their hands on it. If my mass spectrometer isn’t up to the job I’ll see what I can swing with contacts at the university’s School of Chemistry.’

‘I’m particularly looking for some component that might cause mood swings, depression, something like that?’

‘Mmm. There are often quite negative side effects to drug therapies. Any indications of this?’

‘A very unexpected suicide in a seemingly well-balanced and happy woman. Oh, and she was reportedly slurring her words.’

‘Sedatives, alcohol?’

‘According to people close to her, she didn’t drink.’

‘Could have been an idiosyncratic reaction. Her system could have been adversely affected by a depressive agent. It will be interesting to see what she might have been ingesting.’

‘Strictest confidentiality,’ Gemma said.

‘Goes without saying. Bring it over now.’

‘I’ll be there within the hour. Thanks, Lance.’

On her way she phoned Angie. ‘Any idea yet about who drives the Peugeot that picked up Mischa?’

Gemma could hear the sounds of shuffling paper down the line. ‘Yes. It’s here somewhere. I had a name. I seem to have mislaid it just now but it’s definitely here somewhere. I’ll get straight back to you when I find it. But in the meantime, I’ve found the address of Phoebe Wilson’s father. I told him you’d visit him sometime today.’

Phoebe Wilson, Gemma thought, the twenty-two-year-old who’d ended up dead in the harbour three years ago, her body mangled by a speedboat’s propeller.

Gemma dropped the pills off at Paradigm then drove over to interview Eric Wilson.

She pulled up outside a small bungalow in Marrickville and when the door opened, she saw a stooped, bearded man, with bags of grief under his eyes. As she walked into the living room Gemma was immediately drawn to a huge portrait of a beautiful young woman taking pride of place over the mantelpiece.

‘Eric,’ said Mr Wilson as Gemma introduced herself. ‘Please call me Eric.’

‘That’s Phoebe?’ Gemma asked, indicating the portrait. Eric nodded and once again Gemma was struck by the extraordinary beauty of the young girl. Standing next to a piano in an off-shoulder evening gown, Phoebe Wilson turned a three-quarter profile to gaze at her admirers with her large, clear eyes.

‘After her … death, I commissioned this from a photograph.’

‘She was beautiful, really beautiful,’ said Gemma.

‘And so was her spirit,’ said her father. ‘Everything about her was beautiful. Three years have gone by and I still miss her every day, every hour.’

‘Eric, I know this must be distressing for you, but I have to ask you some questions about events prior to Phoebe’s death.’

‘I understand. Please sit down. The police officer who called me before explained that there wasn’t any new information about her death as such.’

‘That’s right. But the case is being looked at again in the light of some other incidents.’

‘That surprises me. We told the police everything we knew. We went over and over everything. I still don’t understand how she came to be in the water. She was a strong swimmer, and I don’t understand why, even fully clothed, she didn’t just climb out of the water … Unless she was unconscious. But that doesn’t make sense either. Falling into water makes you wet, not unconscious.’

‘Eric,’ Gemma began after a pause, ‘this might seem like a strange question to ask but did Phoebe mention anything peculiar happening in the week or so before? Any accident? Injury of some sort? Any minor wounds to her arms or legs?’

‘How do you know about that?’ Eric asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Yes, she did mention being hurt on the ankle.’

‘Under what circumstances?’

‘She told me that she was trying to get on the Kirribilli ferry and she thought somebody had kicked her ankle. She turned around but couldn’t see who it was because there was such a crowd of people. When she got home, she found an ugly scrape mark on the outside of her ankle.’

Gemma forced herself to remain calm, professional. This is our man.

‘But what’s that got to do with my daughter’s death?’

‘There have been some other deaths – young women like your daughter, and in some cases, there had been an earlier minor assault.’

‘Do you know something more about Phoebe’s death?’ His eyes anxiously searching her face.

‘Not yet,’ said Gemma. ‘But as I said, the police are having another look at it.’

Eric stood up and walked over to the portrait of the beautiful girl, looking up at it, before turning back to Gemma.

‘If it was murder, I hope they get him and lock him up for the rest of his life. I’m locked up here, with my grief. It killed my wife.’

‘I’m so sorry, Eric. If I find out anything more, I’ll let you know.’

He accompanied her to the front door. ‘Please help me. Find justice for my daughter.’

Gemma drove away, still carrying some of Eric Wilson’s pain.

When the traffic thinned out, she found a park and called Angie and left a message: ‘Can you please pull out the autopsy report on Phoebe Wilson and look right though it? There should be a reference somewhere to an injury on one of her ankles.’

She then called Hugo. ‘How’s everything?’ she asked. ‘No one delivering anything suspicious?’

‘All quiet here. What are my chances of a pizza? I can pay you back.’

Gemma smiled. ‘Pretty good. I’ll see you soon.’

After leaving a message for Spinner she pulled out when it was safe to join the traffic again and, looking in the rear-vision mirror, she noticed a dark blue Mercedes. From where she was it was impossible to work out who was driving it or see the registration. Tolmacheff?

Relax, she told herself. There are lots of dark blue Mercedes cars on the road. But she couldn’t take any chances. Without indicating, she made a sudden left turn and sped up a small street, relieved when she saw the car travel straight past the turnoff she’d just taken.

Just to be sure, she waited, then turned and drove back to rejoin the traffic; there was no sign of the Mercedes ahead of her.

At the next set of lights, she made a right turn and took the long way.

She arrived home, her mind turbulent – and not just because of the threat of Tolmacheff discovering her identity. The discussions with Mike that morning pointed to a looming crisis. She felt overwhelmed. She sat in her car a moment with her head resting against the steering wheel.

‘Hey. You okay?’

It was Hugo, who had come up the steps to meet her. Seeing him jolted her back to the present. ‘Hugo! Hi. Let’s go pick up Rafi and get that pizza!’

After collecting Rafi and a pizza, Gemma and Hugo sat around the table eating. Rafi wriggled in Gemma’s arms until she put him on the floor and he took off towards the kitchen where he opened the cupboards himself and pulled out the pots and pans.

‘Man, that baby can go!’ said Hugo, pulling away a strand of melted cheese from the side of his mouth. ‘The fastest kid in nappies on the planet. Crazy!’

Mike walked in just as Hugo was about to demolish the last large slice. With a deft swipe, he intercepted the slab of pizza. ‘Mine! This makes up for my stolen tart. Okay? And I haven’t even started on what you owe me for the damage to my bike!’ He turned to Rafi. ‘Are you making all that noise, Mr Rafi?’ Mike picked Rafi up and hugged him, placing a small saucepan on Rafi’s head. ‘Nice hat,’ Mike said, putting him down again, laughing with Rafi.

‘I’m still hungry,’ said Hugo.

‘I think there’s some ice-cream in the freezer,’ said Gemma.

She retrieved Rafi from the kitchen floor and, despite his howls of protest, carried him away for a bath. As soon as he saw the bath and his rubber duck and tug boat, the yelling stopped and he stretched out his arms, ready to get in.

Spinner called and Gemma took it in her office, aware of Mike and Hugo arguing about football teams in the living room and Rafi joining in with excited squeals.

‘I think the gas man is probably the best idea – evacuation because of a gas leak nearby. I’ve got the uniform and ID.’

‘Spinner, you’re a genius. But isn’t that dishonest?’ she asked, teasing him.

‘It’s in a good cause. I’m preventing fornication,’ he said. ‘Especially fornication with that woman.’

Gemma collected everything she’d need for an evening in Spinner’s van: a bottle of water, some nuts and dates in case they got hungry, a cushion to make the long surveillance hours more comfortable, a large glass jar to pee in if things got desperate. Hugo observed the preparations with much interest.

‘No, Hugo. You can’t come,’ she said in answer to his inevitable question. ‘Another time.’

‘Please.’

‘No deal, Hugo. This is a vital operation.’

‘What operation is that?’ Mike asked. ‘What’s on tonight?’

It’s time to come clean, she thought.

‘Mike, I’ll be in Spinner’s van – the one he uses for surveillance. We’ve set up a couple of cameras in Steve’s flat.’

‘You’ve what?’

‘It’s okay. I’m working with Steve to get footage of him and Lorraine. We’re going to use it to lean on her so that she’ll withdraw her false allegations.’

Mike frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Lorraine is Raimon Fayed’s girlfriend. If he thought she was playing up behind his back …’

‘Okay. Steve with Lorraine. That’s what you’re hoping to get.’

A long moment passed while Mike stood there, silently looking at her.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Say it. Say what’s on your mind.’

‘I don’t like it. I’ve already said I don’t like you getting so involved with Steve again. I know the company he’s forced to keep as an undercover cop, I don’t want that shit coming home to our place. Not here, not ever. Now I find you’re right in there again, trying to save him.’

‘Mike, be reasonable. This is hardly “getting involved”. And as for “saving” him …’

‘You’re rescuing him, involving yourself with him again. What’s going on, Gemma?’

‘This is a professional job. To help out a friend. Surely you’d do the same?’

He didn’t answer, so she went to the door, looking back over her shoulder hoping he’d say something.

He didn’t.

She hurried to the car. Bloody Mike, she thought. But she couldn’t maintain her self-righteousness for very long. Mike was an intuitive man. Had he sensed that somewhere in her heart, Gemma was still in love with Steve Brannigan?

Spinner had selected a magnetic strip to run along the side of the white van. This evening he was ‘Ackroyd’s Gas & Plumbing Services’. The mobile phone number accompanying this went to a message bank with the greeting, ‘You have reached Ackroyd’s Gas & Plumbing Services. Please leave your name and number and we will get back to you as soon as possible.’ Of course, no one ever did get back, and no doubt disappointed citizens cursed the unreliability of tradesmen.

They found a parking spot across and down the road a little way from Steve’s flat and settled in, Spinner setting up his laptop to receive the live feed as soon as Steve came on line.

‘Once I’ve knocked on the door and got them out of there,’ said Spinner, turning to Gemma, ‘you make a call to Steve. A call he’s gotta take. You’re the solicitor who’s helping him with his legal defence.’

‘Right,’ she said.

‘You have to meet him straight away. Okay? His whole future depends on it.’

‘Got it.’

At ten to eight, Steve called. ‘She’s on her way. She’ll be here in about ten minutes.’

‘That’s okay. We’re in position,’ said Spinner. ‘Everything right at your end?’

‘Yes. Is Gemma there?’

‘I’m here,’ she said taking Spinner’s mobile from him. ‘Everything’s ready this end. And Steve, break a leg.’

There was barely a second’s hesitation. ‘It’s not my leg I’m worried about.’

‘I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,’ she said, her voice light and innocent.

She smiled. This is a crazy situation, she thought. Here I am, about to watch my former boyfriend making out with a woman who tried to kill me.

With that thought she grew anxious and restless. She wriggled in her seat, adjusting the cushion, taking unnecessary sips of water, eating dates and nuts she didn’t even taste. Finally, sound and action lit Spinner’s laptop screen. Gemma sat bolt upright, staring. Even in black and white, Lorraine Litchfield looked good: her long legs swaying on six-inch heels, big blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her sinewy figure wrapped in a tight-fitting sheath, the front of the dress plunged to her waist, almost completely revealing perfect and impossibly firm breasts.

Gemma scrunched her toes as Litchfield strode into the bedroom, placed her jewelled evening bag on the bedside table, then changed gear to turn and grab Steve, hauling him against her, fastening her lips on his, rubbing her hands up and down his back, seizing his hair, pushing his buttocks into her body. She sure wasn’t wasting time, Gemma thought. Steve reacted with similar vigour, grasping her hair, pressing hard against her, turning them both around so that they fell backwards onto his bed, Steve on top, still kissing her, grabbing at her dress while Lorraine tried to help wrench it from her shoulders. Steve buried his face between her breasts, and Gemma had to blink and look away for a moment. Then she looked again, frowning. The breasts were standing up on their own, like two round balls with nipples, defying gravity. Surgically enhanced.

‘Hey, boss,’ said Spinner, drawing on memories of his racing days and riding the gallopers, ‘remember this is like crooked racing: it’s making sure you look like you’re riding for a win when all the time you know the instructions are to pull up well back in the field.’

‘Doesn’t look like pulling up well back in the field to me,’ she said in a voice she didn’t recognise.

‘It’s okay. Steve’s doing a job. So are we. Come on, things are hotting up in there. Time the gas man called, I think.’

By now, Litchfield was naked from the waist down. Steve had pulled off her shoes and thrown them to the floor, interspersed with ripping off his shirt, and climbing all over her, kissing her wildly, imprisoning her, his hands pressing down on her outstretched arms.

‘Right. That is quite enough. Time to go,’ said Spinner, taking off his polo shirt to reveal the businesslike overalls underneath with their tradesmen’s logo on the pocket.

‘I’m wired too.’ He winked at Gemma. ‘You can hear my progress. Okay? Use those headphones.’ He indicated the headphones attached to his laptop, grabbed his wallet from the console with the fake ID and was out of the van in a flash.

On the screen, Lorraine had managed to free herself from Steve’s pinioning embrace and was grabbing at the front of his trousers. The two writhed together on the bed, Lorraine’s legs wrapped around Steve’s, clawing his back, looking as if she were trying to dissolve him into her body.

Gemma was aware of how fast and hard her heart was racing. The scene was rousing all her denied desire for Steve, enhancing her deep regret that she was not the woman on the screen with him.

Just when she thought she could stand no more of it, she heard Spinner banging on the door of Steve’s flat.

Back on the screen, the couple on the bed stopped wrestling. Steve sat up, dishevelled, hair falling across his forehead, and hurriedly did up his trousers while Lorraine, tousled and panting, adjusted her dress down over her hips and up over her breasts, her angry face turned to stare after Steve. Slowly, unwillingly, she slid off the bed, grabbed her shoes, picked up her evening bag and smoothed over her wild hair. She gave herself an approving glance in the mirror before moving out of camera range.

It was easy for Gemma to imagine the rest of the scene with the audio coming through, loud and clear as she held one of the headphones against her ear.

‘What gas leak?’ Lorraine demanded, her high-pitched voice edged with anger and frustration. ‘I can’t smell anything!’

Gemma strained to hear Spinner’s reply.

‘No need to panic, ma’am. Just a precaution. We want everybody out of this block. One of the mains has been leaking badly and there’s been a suspected build-up in the pipes under this area. Better be safe than sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, baby.’ Steve’s voice. ‘Better drive you home.’

‘Just like that? Right now? You’re just going to drive me home?’

‘I’ll call. Soon. Come on, baby. Don’t punish me for a gas leak.’

‘It should only be for about half an hour,’ said Spinner.

Lorraine’s voice was harsh. ‘I’ll get a taxi, thank you very much.’

She doesn’t want to take the chance Raimon might see her in a car with another man, Gemma thought.

‘Baby, I promise I’ll call you.’

‘Don’t bother!’ said Lorraine.

‘Don’t torture me, baby!’ said Steve. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.’

Then Steve’s voice again. ‘Taxi!’

Spinner’s voice. ‘I’ve got five other buildings to alert, sir. I’ll let everybody know when it’s safe to go back inside.’

Back in the van, Gemma and Spinner were reviewing the footage taken from Steve’s bedroom when Gemma’s mobile rang. Steve.

‘I was about to call you,’ said Gemma, ‘as the solicitor who’s going to try to save you.’

‘Spinner saved me. Thank God for the gas man,’ he said. ‘I was terrified she’d make a lunge for me and discover that – well, the hydraulics weren’t kicking in.’

‘It looked pretty convincing to me,’ said Gemma.

‘That’s good,’ he said.

Spinner nudged her. ‘Tell him to come over and take a look at what we’ve captured.’

This is bizarre, thought Gemma, squashed up in the front of the van some minutes later, watching the footage again with Steve on one side of her and Spinner on the other.

‘Not bad,’ said Steve. ‘That is definitely R-rated footage. Fayed won’t like it. I think I did a pretty convincing job,’ he said with the hint of a smile.

‘You’re a natural at subterfuge,’ said Gemma, elbowing him. And they laughed, eyes locked, and for a moment it felt as if they had never parted.

‘I’ll email this footage to you both,’ said Spinner.

‘What’s next?’ asked Steve.

‘I’m going to set up a meeting with Litchfield,’ said Gemma, ‘with this footage on my mobile. I’ll show it to her then I’ll put it to her: she retracts her allegations, or we send this to Fayed.’

‘I’ll extract a good still from this lot,’ said Spinner, ‘and send it on to you.’

‘The bait,’ said Gemma.

‘You’re not going alone,’ said Spinner. ‘You need back-up with that she-devil. She could easily be packing that M1911 of hers in her handbag.’

‘We’ll both be there, Spinner,’ said Steve.

‘Hang on, the pair of you. Let’s just see whether she contacts me first. I’ll explain to her that if she wants to see the rest of the footage, she’d better agree to a deal or I’ll send all of it straight to Fayed.’ She paused, thinking of the photo she had of his ex-wife – what was left of her face after the acid attack – ‘I’ve got another photo to show her, too. In case she hesitates.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you for this,’ said Steve, grasping her hand.

She almost said, ‘I do,’ but bit it back. Not in front of Spinner. Not in front of anyone. In fact, such sentiments should not be in her mind at all.

She and Steve were over.

Mike was waiting for her when she got home, sitting in the lounge room, holding Rafi.

‘What’s that baby doing up at this hour?’ She tried to smile, but the atmosphere killed her joke.

‘He wouldn’t settle. He’s dribbling a lot; I think those top teeth are trying to come down. But I think it’s more than that.’

Rafi jigged excitedly at the sight of his mother, lifting his arms up towards her. Gemma took him from Mike, holding him close to her heart, patting him on the back. ‘Poor baby with sore gums. Maybe some apple juice?’

‘I think he needs more than juice. I think he needs a mum who’s here more often in a quiet house that’s not so crowded. I think he needs things to settle down.’

Gemma turned. ‘Are you sure you’re talking about Rafi and not yourself?’

Mike stood up. ‘Maybe I’m speaking for both of us.’

‘Mike, you’re a grown man. You’re still angry with me for helping Steve, aren’t you?’

‘It’s not only that. It’s the danger that you’re putting yourself in.’

Gemma walked to the sliding doors and opened them, carrying Rafi out to the deck where black clouds showed along the horizon and the moon had deteriorated to a fading sliver.

Mike followed her out, his tall bulk filling the doorway, the frown disturbing his good-looking features. ‘I know you have to make your own decisions, but I’m here to remind you that your decisions impact on other people too.’

‘But, Mike, I have to—’

He sighed wearily. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up just now. Let’s talk about this another time when we’re not tired.’

Gemma stayed a moment longer then came in shivering as a sudden gust of chilly air rustled in the scrubby bushes at the cliff edge.

After settling Rafi down, she flopped into a lounge chair. She had to concede Mike had a point, but why couldn’t he understand that she had to help Steve, and she had to stay focused on her other cases? These people also needed her. Competing priorities. She dragged herself up and went into her office to check her emails. Among the messages was one from Spinner attaching the footage from Steve’s bedroom and several stills. Gemma sent one of the stills to Litchfield with the text message: ‘Lots more where this came from. Call me to organise a deal or your boyfriend gets the lot.’

There, she thought. The bait is laid, the trap is set. Will the fox be snared?

She reviewed the footage one more time and found herself thinking of times when she’d been in Steve’s bed, and other places – in the magic twilight of Phoenix Bay, secluded under the rocky overhang, the leisurely days and nights of holidays at Nelson Bay, swimming with dolphins, making love with him.

CHAPTER 27

On the way to the police centre the next morning, Gemma tried to contact Delphine Tolmacheff. When there was no answer she called Beecham House and spoke to the receptionist, who informed her that Mrs Tolmacheff was not in her room but she couldn’t say whether she had been out all night. Gemma called Spinner. ‘I’m worried about this client,’ she said. ‘Can you swing by Beecham House and see if you can find out anything more? I’d do it myself, except—’

‘It’s okay, boss. I can do it.’

Angie met her at the station and they caught the lift up to the offices currently being used by the strike force.

‘I found what you were looking for,’ Angie said, ‘in the autopsy report on Phoebe Wilson. It confirms what you suspected.’

‘Suspected? I’m sure of it now,’ said Gemma. ‘Any more from DAL about that new technique for lifting fingerprints off cadavers?’

‘Nothing. And nothing from the palynologist, either. I’ve emailed Andy to put it through as an urgent matter. Bob Stein’s promised to call the minute he gets a result. Let’s go and talk in my office.’

As Angie shepherded Gemma past the detectives’ desks, a couple of people looked up, but most took no notice of them.

On the office wall, a chart with photographs and the details of the two murdered women – Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier – now had a third name and photo added to it: Phoebe Wilson. A large black question mark had been scrawled to the side of the photograph and Gemma recognised Angie’s handwriting: ‘Could this have been an earlier murder by the same killer?’

‘I had to read through a lot of routine comments,’ Angie said, picking up a copy of one of the autopsy reports. Now, bright yellow highlighter lit up a short comment on the fourth page of the notes: ‘There was a five by ten millimetre abrasion over the lateral malleolus of the right ankle, which showed minor puckering of the surrounding skin and scab formation over its surface, consistent with having been sustained a number of days to a week previously.’

‘That’s it, Angie! That confirms what Phoebe’s father told me.’

‘Oh, and I found that name I’d mislaid earlier,’ Angie said, passing her a printed page. ‘The owner of the pale green Peugeot. It was there all the time, underneath my leave application. Here.’

Gemma scanned it quickly. The registered owner of BAW 06Z was Elizabeth Mary Winchester of 66 Hadley Street, Belambi.

‘I’m calling her right now,’ said Gemma, pulling out her mobile.

‘Hi,’ said the voicemail message. ‘I can’t come to the phone right now but please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

Gemma left her details.

‘We should have done this as soon as we got the rego number,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this friend who suddenly appeared just at the right time.’

‘I have a police mate who works at Wollongong,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll ask him to call round to the Belambi address and have a chat. I think you’re worrying unnecessarily. Mischa’s probably staying down there and Elizabeth is her friend.’

Gemma’s mobile chimed. ‘Yes?’

There was a pause at the other end and then a deep intake of breath followed by words that came out in a rush. ‘Are you trying to mess with my head, bitch? Sending me this shit?’

‘Lorraine,’ said Gemma as calmly as she could, despite her racing heart. She was aware of Angie’s eyebrows practically hitting her hairline and the look of wide surprise on her face. ‘Litchfield?’ Angie hissed.

Gemma nodded. ‘Calm down, Lorraine, and listen to me. We need to talk.’

‘No, you need to listen! You expect me to take any notice of a blurred photo? That could be anybody! I’m planning to fix you good and proper!’

‘Meet me this evening on the old jetty at Phoenix Bay. It’s private there. Nine pm. Be there. Or I send everything I’ve got straight to Raimon Fayed.’ She rang off.

Angie jumped to her feet behind her desk. ‘Did I hear right? You’re meeting that snake Lorraine Litchfield tonight?’

‘You heard right. I’d better explain.’

A few seconds later Angie was seated again. ‘You’re not going alone. I’ll be there as back-up. Out of sight, of course. But if that Litchfield woman puts one toe out of place, I’ll come out, blazing.’

Gemma smiled. ‘That’s my girl.’

Gemma spent the rest of the day bringing her records up to date. She called Angie mid-afternoon. ‘Have you heard anything from your mate at Belambi?’

‘Not yet. I’ll call him again and get back to you the minute I hear anything.’

She decided to collect Rafi early from daycare and take him to the nearby playground. He shrieked with joy as she guided him down the small slippery dip. When they got home they found Hugo and Mike in close discussion at the dining table, working out how Hugo was going to make up for the damage to Mike’s bike.

‘But it’s a really old bike,’ Hugo was saying as she took Rafi into the bedroom to get him ready for his bath. ‘Just chuck it out.’

‘That’s not how I do things, mate,’ said Mike. ‘My job is to fix things, not chuck them out.’

The discussion kept going over dinner and Gemma decided that neither side was winning.

When she walked out of the bedroom, gently closing the door after checking on Rafi, the Glock 27 was stashed in her handbag. She didn’t put it past Litchfield to start waving her M1911 around, and although Gemma wasn’t sure of the current status of her gun licence, now wasn’t the time to worry about it.

‘I’m going out for a while,’ she said.

Both Hugo and Mike looked at her. ‘Where? Meeting Steve?’ Mike asked.

Hugo’s eyes under their heavy brows darted between Gemma and Mike’s faces, frowning, reacting to the tension between them.

She shook her head, knowing he’d freak if she told him. She decided on part of the truth. ‘I’m meeting Angie.’

‘Are you busting someone?’ asked Hugo, trying to read the situation.

‘Could be,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

The skinny moon was low behind her in the west when Gemma drove down the hill to Phoenix Bay. As she turned left to park across the road from the beach, the wind lashed the pine trees and chilled the air.

She stayed in the car for a few moments, scanning ahead. The beach was deserted, the surf boiling with dangerous cross-currents and the notorious Phoenix Bay rip was clearly visible, rushing oceanwards through the turbulence.

The locked-up cafe was a dark black silhouette against the rolling sea, and the grey horizon was barely visible. Clouds blocked any starlight and a heavy fog was moving in from the water. Gemma hoped that somewhere behind the dark shapes, Angie was in position.

Pulling her coat closer against the wind, she shrank against the cafe wall as she heard footsteps approaching.

‘Stop right there,’ someone called, stepping out from the shadows and blocking the path. She could see enough to identify Lorraine Litchfield, wrapped in a trench coat, fairy-floss blonde hair whipping in the wind.

Here we go, Gemma braced herself.

‘You think you’re so clever,’ Litchfield sneered as she approached. ‘You think you’ve got something over me. Well I’m here to tell you, bitch, you don’t know jack shit! Your double-crossing, cheating, crooked boyfriend Brannigan couldn’t wait to jump into bed with me. And that picture he managed to take of us could be anybody. But I’ve got something planned for you that’ll make you think twice about ever getting in my face again!’

Gemma pulled out her mobile.

‘You’re not going to show me that stupid photograph you sent me! You think I should be scared of that? Your idiot boyfriend couldn’t even do a decent job. He can’t get it up. He couldn’t even take a good blackmailing photograph. That woman in the photo could be Little fucking Bo Peep!’

Gemma pressed the ‘Play’ button, starting the footage Spinner had captured.

‘Ooh!’ squealed Lorraine. ‘I’m soooooo scared!’

Gemma shoved her mobile closer to Lorraine Litchfield’s beautiful face. ‘You might be when you see this.’

In the slight glow of the mobile’s screen, Gemma saw Lorraine’s eyes widen and her face drain.

‘That’s not Little Bo Peep,’ Gemma said, holding on tight to her mobile as the two tiny figures went through their motions on the screen. ‘That’s you, Lorraine. What do you think Raimon “Sulphuric Acid” Fayed will make of this? And if you’re thinking of using your M1911, don’t. This has been copied and if anything happens to me, it goes to Raimon.’

Lorraine’s mouth opened and closed as if she were trying to say something but no sound emerged.

‘Raimon really is a conservative guy. Very touchy about female infidelity. And just in case you need a reminder,’ said Gemma, pulling up the photograph of the acid-melted face of Fayed’s wife, ‘this is what his ex looked like after he’d tracked her down. No doubt you’ve heard how he responded when he heard she’d been playing out-of-school?’

An audible gasp burst through Lorraine’s perfectly glossed lips. ‘No, you can’t! You can’t show that to Raimon!’

All the brassy bravado had gone, and only a terrified little girl remained shrinking in the trench coat. In the darkness, Gemma could feel her desperate eyes, darting from the dreadful image on the screen back to Gemma’s face.

Gemma left her with it for a few moments before she spoke. ‘Here’s the deal, Lorraine. I don’t show this to Raimon – on condition that you drop all allegations against Steve Brannigan. You must retract your statement that you saw him taking bribes and counting money. And you must convince Raimon to withdraw his allegations, too. The minute I hear that you’ve done this, I’ll destroy this footage forever. I don’t want anything like what happened to this unfortunate woman to happen to anyone else, not even to you.’

‘Why should I believe you? How do I know you’ll do what you say?’

‘You don’t. You’ll just have to take my word for it. And that probably doesn’t mean anything to you.’

‘I can’t withdraw the allegations! I’ll be charged with perjury or conspiring to pervert the course of justice. I can’t do this! I’ll just be in more trouble.’

‘I don’t think there’s any worse trouble than this, do you?’ Gemma asked, holding up the horrifying ex-face once more.

‘It’s up to you, Lorraine. Tell them you made a mistake. Tell them you confused Steve with someone else. Tell them you’ve gone mad. I don’t care what you tell them, but take back everything you said and say you’re no longer able to act as a witness against Steve.’

‘But Raimon said we should—’

‘Should what? Collude in perjury? You’d better uncollude quick smart. Tell Raimon it’s not working. Tell him the cops aren’t buying it. Tell him any bloody thing. Tell him he’s under investigation because of the allegations. You’ll think of something. But if you go ahead with the allegations, then I go ahead with emailing this to Fayed. That’s the choice you have.’

Lorraine backed away from the terrible image glowing from the mobile screen.

‘You think you’ve won, don’t you?’ Her voice was filled with hatred, and fear. ‘Let me tell you that you’re a dead woman walking. There’s someone on your case. Once he’s on to someone, he never lets go. You are terminal, bitch. Terminal. You and your snivelling brat!’

‘Retract those allegations against Steve, Lorraine,’ Gemma hissed, the threat and insult against Rafi churning her guts in searing rage.

Lorraine Litchfield swung away towards the path leading up to the road, her trench coat flaring out behind her like a witch’s cloak.

‘You have twenty-four hours!’ Gemma called after her.

Lorraine paused in her stride and turned around. ‘And you have a whole lot less!’

Gemma stared after her a few moments then yelled, ‘Twenty-four hours, Lorraine! Or else!’

The figure didn’t turn back, and Gemma realised she was trembling – a mixture of excitement, relief and fear. It was horrible to experience the depth of hatred that had just been turned on her; it hung in the air like a lethal gas. Was this true? Was someone coming to kill her? Or was this just Litchfield’s threat, nothing but a vicious bluff?

She jumped as someone came up behind her.

‘I heard all that. What do you think? Is she fair dinkum?’ asked Angie. ‘About someone coming after you and Rafi?’

‘I don’t know. I just hope she retracts the allegations. Thanks for the back-up, Angie.’

‘No problem. Are you okay? You look shocking.’

‘She’s given me indigestion,’ Gemma said, tasting the acid in the back of her throat.

‘You’ve given her a lot more than that.’

They walked together towards their cars as the wind soughed in the Norfolk pines on the rise above the bay.

‘Thanks, Ange. Now I guess I just have to wait.’

‘She’s got to back-pedal fast,’ said Angie. ‘She doesn’t want to end up looking like the ex-Mrs Raimon Fayed.’

From the ocean came the five deep blasts of a foghorn. Gemma turned but couldn’t see the signalling ship through the blur of sea fog. Five short blasts. She couldn’t remember what that meant.

Mike was sitting alone reading when she walked in. She was so lost in the events of the last hour that she didn’t notice Taxi coming sideways to chase her ankles. She stumbled and fell, sprawling, her handbag flying open.

‘Are you okay?’ Mike stood up to help. ‘That bloody cat. I nearly did the same yesterday.’

‘I’m okay. Thanks, Mike,’ she said, brushing herself down, frowning at Taxi now sitting on the arm of the lounge, eyes dilated like a wildcat, tail swishing. Mike put his arms around her and a flood of goodwill and love for him made her tighten her arms around him. ‘I love you, Mike Moody,’ she whispered, recovering.

‘But …’ he said, adding it to her statement as if she’d said it.

‘What do you mean “but”?’ She looked up at him.

‘Isn’t there always a “but”?’

She closed her eyes, leaning against his warm strength. Mike’s right, she thought. There is a ‘but’ and its name is Steve Brannigan.

‘What is it?’ she asked, aware of a shift in his body and the way he was now staring past her, at her bag.

‘You took the Glock? You went somewhere you had to take a weapon, without telling me? Are you licensed for concealed carrying? What the hell’s going on? You said you were meeting Angie!’

‘I did see Angie,’ she said, grabbing up her bag, aware and ashamed of her earlier lie of omission. ‘But there was someone else involved in the meeting.’

‘Steve?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Lorraine Litchfield.’

‘Jesus Christ, Gemma!’ Mike shouted. ‘Are you crazy? You went to meet the woman who’s trying to destroy you? Late at night and carrying a firearm? Are you out of your mind?’

‘Angie was there as back-up.’

‘Oh great! Was Angie going to take the bullet for you? You’d be dead before Angie could—’

‘I’m still here, Mike. Obviously, I’m okay.’

‘You put your life at risk to save Brannigan’s neck. Did you consider Rafi? Did you consider me?’

‘Of course I did a risk assessment. I believed I’d covered the safety angles. Plus I had Angie discreetly on the scene. I offered Litchfield a deal. I made it very clear that if anything happened to me, incriminating footage of her making love with another man would be sent to her boyfriend Fayed. I showed her what he’d done to his ex-wife. Believe me, it worked. She wasn’t going to hurt me. Not tonight, anyway.’ She didn’t think it was the time to tell him about Lorraine’s threats against her and Rafi.

Mike walked away and stood with his back to her, his hands opening and closing around the top rung of a dining chair. Gemma followed, putting her hand on his arm. ‘Mike, I’m sorry if this upsets you. But I have to do what I think is best. And so far, I’ve got the upper hand. I’m sure she’ll withdraw the allegations against Steve.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Hugo?’

‘He went out not long after you left. Said he was meeting up with a mate.’ Mike went to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff brandy. ‘I just don’t know what to do about this business.’ he said. ‘Every instinct’s warning me that you’re treading on very dangerous ground, Gemma. And to go off like that tonight without telling me …’

‘Maybe that was the wrong thing to do,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to have to fight with you before I went out to deal with her.’

‘Fight with me? Is that how you see me – someone you need to fight?’

‘Of course not. But you’ve got this sensitivity around my dealings with Steve. I don’t know how to cope with it.’

Mike tossed down the brandy. ‘I’m going to have a shower and go to bed.’

Gemma hoped he might feel better in the morning but she knew this was a problem that was not going to go away. She collapsed onto the lounge and an hour later, she was still there. Mike’s unhappiness weighed on her mind.

She sent Spinner a text asking him to call her if he was still up. He called almost immediately. ‘Sorry about the late hour, Spinner. I met up with Lorraine Litchfield and showed her our footage.’

‘How did it go?’

‘She freaked. She made threats against me. And against Rafi.’

‘Probably bluff,’ said Spinner.

‘Better be. If anyone harmed Rafi I’d kill them …’ She sighed. ‘Any news on Delphine?’

‘I haven’t found anything more than you already know,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t come back to the hotel. Her gear is still there, according to the manager. Just her handbag and car keys are missing.’

‘It’s not looking good,’ Gemma said.

She wished Spinner a good night and remained sitting, thinking. She felt exhausted, and needed sleep, but she was still filled with the anxiety and fear that had been with her all night.

Litchfield said that someone was after her and Rafi … Things were not going to plan. Girl, you’ve taken on too much, she berated herself. She let out a long sigh. Sleep just now was impossible.

After checking on Rafi and the security monitor, Gemma scribbled a note for Mike, then drove to Beecham House. At the counter, she showed her ID and explained to the night receptionist that the police had concerns about the safety of Delphine Tolmacheff. Could she have a look at Delphine’s room?

The receptionist took her up to room 211 and opened the door. ‘We can only hold the room another day,’ she said. ‘There’s a great demand for accommodation at the moment.’

Housekeeping had obviously tidied it up, Gemma thought as she walked in, but Delphine’s cream leather suitcase sat in an alcove and, more ominously, her toothbrush and toothpaste as well as her make-up purse were lined up against the bathroom mirror. She went to the wardrobe and opened the mirrored door: a couple of coats, one lightweight and one heavier, and one tailored cherry-red suit hung on the rack and two pairs of shoes were lined up neatly on the floor. Under the receptionist’s watchful eye Gemma checked the pockets of the coats and pulled out a twenty-dollar note and a large pink card – she recognised it immediately as a complimentary voucher for Sapphire Springs Spa, similar to the one Dr Evans had given her. But this one had something extra written on it.

Gemma turned it over: ‘As one of our most valued clients, we are thrilled to offer you a free day spa valued at $940 and a consultation session with our experienced staff to learn more about our special services that may be of interest to you.’ Gemma returned the money and the card to the coat pocket.

‘Thank you,’ she said to the receptionist who was already heading for the door, waiting for Gemma to walk through. ‘Please let me know the minute you hear anything from Mrs Tolmacheff.’

‘We’ve already promised that we will,’ said the woman crisply. ‘Obviously, we’re concerned about this matter, too, madam.’

CHAPTER 28

Gemma groped for her mobile. Mike was showering and Rafi was already wide awake. At the sound of the phone, he stood up in his cot, grinning at her and waving his bear. She walked over to get him, holding him and kissing him on his head while listening to Angie.

‘I’m about to call my mate at Wollongong to see if he’s been able to drop around to the house in Belambi. I’ll tell him we’re coming down to check it out too.’

After the call Gemma and Rafi ate their breakfast of Weetbix with banana, and she packed his lunch and snacks, then hopped in the bath with him, enjoying his gurgling delight in her presence, splashing and patting her, singing with pleasure.

Mike looked in, his expression softening as he saw the two of them. ‘Room for one more?’ he asked. ‘No, not really, I can see.’

Gemma noticed his appreciative glances at her, her hair pinned up and the soapy water streaming from her shoulders and breasts as Rafi bashed water wildly and noisily, banging her nose with his duck. ‘Come on in,’ Gemma said, flinching back. ‘If you can handle the danger.’

Parking the car after driving back from daycare she saw a missed call on her mobile and opened it, wondering at the unfamiliar number.

She called back.

‘Gemma Lincoln speaking,’ she said, when a young woman answered. ‘Someone called me from this number.’

‘I did. This is Danielle Wentworth. You left a message, wanting to contact my mother, Maxine Wentworth?’

‘That’s right,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m hoping to speak with her.’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Ms Lincoln – my mother is dead.’

‘Oh,’ said Gemma, taken aback. ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’ She was also sorry to miss the chance to speak to someone else who’d had DiNAH therapy.

‘I was calling your mother in connection with an investigation into the DiNAH therapy. I believe she underwent this procedure?’

‘She sure did,’ said Danielle, her voice wobbling, ‘and thank goodness someone is investigating it.’

‘I’m beginning to have serious doubts about the safety of this therapy,’ Gemma said, ‘and that’s why I wanted to talk to your mother.’

‘You’re right to have doubts,’ said Danielle. ‘There’s something terribly wrong with it. Thank God an investigator is looking into it. I’d like to talk to you about it. In person.’

‘I can arrange that. Where do you live?’

‘I’m at Dee Why. Northern beaches.’

Gemma took down the address. ‘If it’s convenient, I can meet up with you in an hour and a half or so?’

‘Sure. I’ll meet you near the playground on the southern end of the beach. Do you know where I mean?’

‘I’ll find you.’

A car horn, blasting twice, startled her as she opened the car door. Two short blasts. Suddenly Gemma remembered the meaning of five long blasts on a ship’s foghorn: Danger.

Danielle Wentworth, in her mid-thirties, wore a wide-brimmed hat over her long dark hair, and a fluffy white cardigan and drifty floral dress. They found a spot near the Norfolk pines that lined the promenade along the beach and sat on a park bench.

Danielle took off her huge sunglasses and Gemma could see the worry and sadness in her eyes, their blue shining against her tanned skin.

‘Everyone thought Mum had gone crazy. Even I started to wonder about her sanity.’

‘What exactly happened?’ Gemma asked. ‘Do you mind if I take a few notes?’

Danielle shook her head. ‘Mum looked fantastic after the surgery. It was extraordinary. She’d gone from looking like a well-kept woman in her late sixties to someone my age. I have to admit that at first I was a bit funny about it all. I soon got used to it, though, and Mum seemed so happy. My kids used to call her “new Nanny” and talk about her new skin. She used to go back to Sapphire Springs Spa a couple of times a week to maintain the post-operative DiNAH therapy and everything seemed to be wonderful for her until …’

‘Yes?’ Gemma prompted.

‘She came back from Sapphire Springs one afternoon and everything had changed. She really seemed to be in a state of shock. When I asked her what had happened she said she’d discovered something about the DiNAH therapy. But she wouldn’t tell me what it was.’

Goose bumps rose on Gemma’s skin at the eerie similarity of what Danielle was saying to Janet Chancy’s last words before her mobile had died, and also to those written in Magda Simmonds’ suicide note: ‘Something terrible is happening.’

‘So, you have no idea what she might have discovered?’

‘No idea,’ said Danielle. ‘But whatever it was, it made her go into purdah. I mean that literally. She started concealing her face. She’d walk around with scarves swathing her head, and only her eyes visible. She became a recluse. She wouldn’t go out anywhere and she didn’t want to see the kids anymore. She really didn’t want to see me. It was just awful. I completely lost my mother. I just became someone who did the shopping and delivered the groceries. She’d gone from being an outgoing, sociable, communicative, happy person into this house-detention mummy. I suggested she see someone professionally – you know, some kind of counsellor or therapist. There was no doubt she was in a deep, deep depression. But she wouldn’t do it. I gave her some phone numbers, asked around and got the names of some really good therapists, but it was useless. She said there was no therapist that could help her.’

Gemma looked up from her notes. ‘I’m investigating a very similar incident. An outgoing, happy woman, looking forward to her wedding, changing suddenly – and I mean suddenly, within a few hours – and becoming suicidal.’ Gemma paused. ‘She did, in fact commit suicide.’

‘That was my greatest fear, too. We don’t know what happened with Mum. For months she went on like this, with her face wrapped up and only her eyes showing. I started to think that something terrible must have been happening – that she had some post-operative infection that was eating away at her skin. I begged her to let me have a look and make sure everything was all right. Then we found her dead in her bed, still with her face covered. I was devastated, but not surprised. I’d been dreading this and then finally, when it happened …’

Danielle gathered herself and continued. ‘I unwrapped the scarf that was covering her face, bracing myself for what I might have to confront, and guess what?’

Gemma leaned forward, dreading what she might hear.

After a pause, Danielle answered her own question. ‘When I pulled back the scarf from her face, I couldn’t believe what I saw. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it! It was still that amazing, youthful result she’d had from the cosmetic surgery. She looked as gorgeous as ever. Unbelievably young and beautiful.’

‘And the cause of death?’ asked Gemma.

‘The finding was “Accidental death”. Apparently she’d taken some kind of sleeping tablets she hadn’t used before and there’d been some fatal idiosyncratic reaction. We’re all still grieving terribly. Especially the kids. She just cut them off – wouldn’t see them, wouldn’t talk to them on the phone. It was like she’d gone into exile – into solitary confinement.’

Tears welled up in Danielle’s blue eyes. ‘You said there had been another, similar incident? Another woman who’d also had some kind of adverse reaction after DiNAH therapy?’

Gemma gave Danielle more details about Magda Simmonds’ sudden onset depression and suicide.

‘There’s got to be an investigation!’ said Danielle, tears falling from her eyes. ‘This therapy must be stopped. It’s too dangerous.’

Gemma closed her notebok and put it back in her handbag. ‘Thank you so much for this. I know it must have been painful for you to talk about your mother’s ordeal. But if it’s any comfort, I’m determined to find out what it is about DiNAH therapy that induces these side effects. It’s essential that we find out the truth, even if the research team is withholding information. They have to be stopped doing any more DiNAH until they can guarantee its safety. Already it looks like they could be liable for huge compensation claims, at the very least.’

‘Otherwise,’ Danielle agreed, ‘other women are going to end up like my mother and the woman you mentioned.’

‘Call me if you remember anything else,’ said Gemma as they made to leave.

Back home, Gemma, looking for the images of her last visit to Sapphire Springs, played the footage she’d downloaded onto her laptop of the security code being punched into the cabin lock. She checked it over and over until finally she had the door key code. She grinned. Now she had entrée into the cabin that she suspected had been used to hold Mischa Bloomfield.

The rest of the day she spent catching up on all the things she had pushed aside since going back to work – paying bills, the wretched Business Activity Statement and returning calls.

When her desk was cleared, she headed off to pick up Rafi. She found him playing near some of the other children, his wide smile as she hurried over to him streaming straight into her heart. Gemma scooped him up and Susie, one of the childcare workers, walked out with her.

‘He had a really good day today, Gemma. Bit of an upset over lunch when Arcadia grabbed his stick of celery. But apart from that, he’s been terrific. In fact, he is turning out to be a very sociable boy.’

Gemma grinned, absurdly pleased. She kissed Rafi’s warm head and waved goodbye to the carers and the toddlers.

Mike was out late on a job and when he finally came home, he barely spoke to her, instead showering and going straight to bed. Gemma called Hugo but he wasn’t answering. Taxi would not settle. He kept jumping up on her desk, walking across her keyboard, jumping down only to repeat it all in a few minutes. Finally she picked him up and put him outside her office door, closing it.

Eventually she tiptoed into the bedroom. Rafi and Mike were sleeping soundly, and she was about to join them when a movement on the monitor outside alerted her. Someone was stealthily moving around the garden. Quickly, she slid to the window, flattened herself against the wall and peered out into the darkness. Someone was out there.

She crouched down and crept past the window, tiptoeing towards her wardrobe and her bag hanging inside. She felt her way to the Glock and lifted it out, its weight comforting in her sweaty hands. With the gun in a firm grasp, Gemma slid low along the floor until she came to the window again. She ducked back, then looked: partially obscured by a large shrub, a dim figure hunched over the bike that Hugo had propped against the wall. A petty thief, Gemma thought with relief.

She went to the front door and flung it open, switching on the outdoor light. ‘Hey you! What do you think you’re doing?’

The figure straightened up and looked around.

‘Hugo? What the hell are you doing? Where have you been? You haven’t taken Mike’s bike again – after what you did to it last time?’

‘It’s okay. I’m putting it back.’

He hurried inside and Gemma stepped back in surprise. She closed the door, and surreptitiously tucked the Glock into her jeans, under her jumper, as Hugo walked ahead of her.

‘You took it again. Did you ask Mike? Hugo, that’s not acceptable. Mike spent a lot of time fixing it.’

‘I had to, Gemma. I followed Lorraine Litchfield after her meeting with you.’

‘You what?’

‘And when you and Angie were talking near the jetty, wasting time while she got away, I followed her. I’ve got some valuable information. And a photograph.’

Gemma’s anger dissipated. ‘You’d better tell me about it,’ she said finally.

‘First, I’ll need food.’

First, second and third, she thought.

While Gemma heated up the chicken casserole that Mike had made, Hugo wolfed down two bananas and almost half a loaf of sliced bread, smothered in butter and peanut butter, leaning against the counter, detailing his surveillance.

‘I followed the Litchfield chick to a restaurant–bar kind of place at Kings Cross. Lost her a few times but made it up at the lights. She had a meeting with this dude at the tables outside. Then they were joined by this other big guy. I managed to get a photograph of them as I cruised past.’

‘Show me.’

Gemma stared at the small mobile screen. At Indigo Ice cafe, the very same place where she and Tolmacheff had met, she saw him again, this time with two companions. Across the table from him was Lorraine Litchfield. Gemma felt her heart start to race. Litchfield and Tolmacheff knew each other! But, she thought, this wasn’t really surprising. There’s a certain amount of overlap in the criminal world, Angie always says. Ninety per cent of crime is carried out by ten per cent of the population. The third man she didn’t know. Broad shouldered and hulking, the heavy figure was leaning towards Lorraine as if in intimate conversation. Gemma studied his face carefully, using the zoom to come in closer. A dark blemish under his left eye.

With a thrill of shock, Gemma realised who she was looking at.

The vampire.

She recalled Lorraine’s words. ‘There’s someone on your case … You are terminal.’

Was she talking about Tolmacheff? Or even worse, the vampire? A thrill of fear momentarily tightened in her chest.

‘Well? Don’t you think I did good?’ said Hugo, noticing her intent interest in the photograph.

‘You sure did, Hugo. Why didn’t you bring this to me straight away?’

‘Dad wanted me to stay at his place to help clear out his attic. That’s where he’s going to build my bedroom,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to tell him what I’d been doing and that I couldn’t help him.’

Hugo had gathered evidence linking Litchfield and Tolmacheff with the vampire. The vampire linked to Mischa. And to Brie. Tolmacheff had a partly burned photograph of Brie in his office wastepaper bin. This photograph taken by the Ratbag brought a lot of things together. ‘You did very well, Hugo.’

CHAPTER 29

Shortly after, Gemma left the sleeping household and drove to Indigo Ice, parking in the underground car park behind the police station and walking across the park towards Macleay Street.

Staying well back, she observed the cafe but couldn’t see the trio. She was about to give up, disappointed even though there was no reason they should be back there again, when she saw three men: the vampire, Tolmacheff and a man with his back to her. She used the groups of people still strolling the streets as cover and walked around until she could see the third man: Tolmacheff’s son. She sat on a bench nearby and waited. Finally, Tolmacheff and the young man stood up and walked away, leaving the vampire sitting alone. He pulled out his mobile and it appeared as if he was answering rather than making a call. When it was finished, he walked over to the counter and paid.

Gemma called Angie. ‘I know you’re off duty,’ she said to the message bank, ‘and trying to get some sleep, but I’ve found the vampire. He’s connected to both Tolmacheff and Lorraine Litchfield. I’m going to follow him now from the Cross. I’ll keep you posted.’ She said the last few words in a rush because the vampire was on the move, striding purposefully down Macleay Street, passing without noticing her, head forward on his thick neck, deeply intent on getting somewhere quickly.

This is the man inextricably linked to the murdered women, Gemma thought, the man who assaulted Annabel Carr, the man who’d tried to attack Brie a second time. I mustn’t lose him.

Within a few minutes Gemma realised he was heading to the underground car park.

Staying back and walking softly, she followed him, down to the second level where he was heading towards a car right at the other end. What am I going to do now? she thought. She didn’t dare go back and get her car because by that time, she might have lost him. Her best bet was to stay where she was and take down his car’s registration number. Of course it would be useless if the car was stolen, or borrowed, but she didn’t have much choice. She heard a door slam and an engine start up, and saw the reverse lights as the car backed out, turned and started to drive away.

As it did, Gemma felt all hope for Mischa drain away. The car that was driving towards the exit was the pale green Peugeot, BAW 06Z. Gemma hurried back to her car. Somehow, Mischa had been tricked into getting into that car. They must have worked as a pair, Gemma thought: the vampire on the street near Mischa’s house, and an accomplice driving. An accomplice Mischa knew and trusted.

Gemma left another message: ‘Ange. Mischa Bloomfield is in great danger. The Peugeot might be registered to someone in Belambi, but it’s currently being driven by the vampire!’

Angie called back early next morning. ‘We’ve got everyone out looking for that Peugeot,’ she said. ‘I door-knocked the neighbours who live near Elizabeth Winchester and discovered that sometimes the Peugeot isn’t around and Elizabeth gets a lift. She works at a hospital, according to the old fellow next door.’

Someone who works at a hospital, Gemma thought. Someone who’s forensically savvy. She started to feel the exhilaration that comes with getting closer to solving a case. Her mind was holding a huge amount of information, an incomprehensible set of seemingly unrelated events and people, and yet she knew that with the right catalyst, these shapes would come together and lock into position, forming the perfect pattern: the truth of what was really going on.

Hanging up from Angie she checked her emails and saw a name she didn’t recognise at first, then it dawned on her. Dr Andrew Morphett, the palynologist, had sent through his findings.

The email was headed: ‘Pollen profile’.

The first page consisted of statistical data, numbers and types of pollens found, and botanical names that meant little to her. She skimmed down, bringing her attention to the last section.

‘After several wash cycles, I found various pollens and debris: some rainforest plants and dry eucalypt forest, including blackbuttapple shale forest, scribbly gum woodland and temperate rainforest, silvertop ash forests and turpentine forests. However, I did find one anomaly – an extremely rare species – Daviesia suaveolens, commonly known as the bitter pea. As far as I know, this is the first time it has been found so far north, usually being restricted to the south of the state. I took samples from the crime scene where Rachel Starr’s body was found. There is no source of this rare plant here and none showed up in samples taken from various sites in the area. Despite Marie-Louise Palier’s clothing having been submerged in sea water for some time, successful profiles were recovered and traces of Daviesia suaveolens were also present.

‘I draw attention to this particular variety of pollen appearing on both victims’ clothes as it could well turn out to be a marker when the original crime scene is finally located. Apart from this strange and extremely rare intruder, this profile is typical of the Illawarra Escarpment between Stanwell Tops and Bulli.’

Gemma opened the images of the bitter pea plant that accompanied the text – a modest yellow and reddish pea flower – and was trying to make sense of the report when she heard a sudden noise in the living room behind her. She swung round, spooked. ‘Hugo! I thought you were still asleep!’

He stood awkward and gangly, his long T-shirt hanging on him, the heavy eyebrows and the worried eyes. ‘I had a nightmare. It woke me up. I saw this forensic science show about a guy who’d been eaten by an anaconda. They had to use DNA profiling on the remains inside the anaconda to prove who the person was inside the big snake. I dreamed I was being swallowed by this huge python. I knew that you’d come and cut it open and find me inside but it would be too late to save me.’

‘I’d come and get you before the python was able to swallow you,’ she said. ‘And anyway, there are no pythons round here.’

‘It was like a huge big leech just sucking me down.’ He shuddered.

‘There was a case in Tasmania,’ she started to say, as Hugo collapsed back onto the lounge, pulling the doona over him, pushing the iPod’s earplugs into his ears, ‘where the blood inside a leech was used to identify an offender at the scene …’ Gemma’s thoughts consolidated.

After her drive to Rafi’s daycare centre, Gemma threw herself into attacking a mountain of neglected washing, searching under the lounge and chairs to find Rafi’s little T-shirts and socks and even one of Hugo’s singlets. Once the washing was under way, she went into her office, took a look at her desk, sighed and got to work. But something from her conversation with Hugo concerning his nightmare kept bothering her, and she couldn’t put it out of her mind.

It took her most of the day to straighten the house and catch up with her work. She went shopping before picking up Rafi and while he cruised around the kitchen, she cooked a rich tomato and basil spaghetti sauce.

She bathed and fed Rafi, then put him to bed just as Mike arrived home to say goodnight to him. He tiptoed out and Gemma patted Rafi to sleep.

They were just sitting down to eat when Hugo turned up.

‘Something smells wicked,’ he said.

‘Get yourself a plate,’ said Gemma, noticing Mike’s resigned look. ‘There’s more sauce in the pot. You might have to cook some more pasta.’

Much later, when Mike had gone to bed and Hugo was half-asleep on the lounge, listening to music, Gemma stared sightlessly at Lateline. She was still plagued by the feeling that there was something in the conversation about the dream, something that she needed to remember. She tried going over the details: Hugo telling her about the anaconda. She saying how she’d get to him before it was able to swallow him … Hugo saying it was like a huge leech … she talking about the case in Tasmania where the blood inside a leech had been successfully analysed to place an offender at a crime scene …

The blood inside a leech …

The DNA on the arrow brooch hadn’t been conclusive. If she could just prove that Mischa had been in that cabin at Sapphire Springs, Angie could get the resources she’d need for a proper forensic search of the whole place – especially the forbidden medical block, with its records and lab books detailing everything that went into the creation of the DiNAH therapy.

‘Come on,’ Gemma said abruptly, pulling out Hugo’s earplugs and wrenching the doona off him. ‘Hugo, wake up and put your jeans on. I’m going to need an assistant. You’re always saying you want to work in a security business – here’s your chance! I’ll grab my camera and rape kit.’

‘Rape kit? What do you mean? Where are we going?’

CHAPTER 30

Gemma left a phone message for Angie, made sure she had the piece of paper with the security code for the cabin and rummaged through a cupboard until she found a couple of rape kits, took out two sterile containers and a packet of sterile swabs. Putting them all in her bag, she scribbled a note for Mike and left it on the bedside table, then kissed Rafi gently on his polished cheek, her heart opening at his soft, unhurried breathing, and quietly tiptoed out.

Hugo, now dressed in jeans and a hoodie, followed her quietly down the hall and up into the night air.

As they climbed into her car, he asked, ‘When are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

The roads were clear at this time of night and the driving was easy. In just over an hour they were descending from the escarpment into the hinterland where small farms slept under the stars. Another half an hour and Gemma was silently swinging into the driveway of Sapphire Springs Spa. She had explained to Hugo what she needed from him.

Only a few lights were on around the grounds, and apart from a light above the terrace outside the entrance, the reception area and cabins were mostly dark. No one seemed to notice their arrival as she doused her headlights and coasted into one of the parking bays. Quietly, she got out of the car, the video camera over her shoulder, the sterile containers in her bag. ‘We’re aiming for that one over there,’ she whispered to Hugo. ‘Number five. We need to keep out of the way of the security cameras.

‘Where are they?’

‘Not sure. But keep out of the lit areas along the paths.’

‘How are we going to get into the place?’

‘I’ve got the security code,’ she said in a low voice. ‘So, you know what to do?’

‘Sure,’ he said, taking the camera from her. ‘We’re making a crime-scene video.’

‘That could well be the case. I need you to record every step I make. Okay?’

‘Cool.’

At this hour, even the frogs were silent, the only sound an occasional small splash in the water of the lake and the rustlings of the palms that grew around the grounds. Gemma wondered if there were security cameras hidden among the trees. But everything remained silent as they made their way across the dewy grass.

‘So far, so good,’ she whispered, stepping up to the cabin, and pulling on protective gloves, praying that no one was monitoring the security camera that was almost certainly covering the entrance to the cabins at that hour.

‘What will you do if there’s someone sleeping in there?’

‘Make sure we don’t wake them. Camera rolling now?’

‘Yep.’

Gemma’s gloved finger lightly touched the security code and the door softly clicked open. She crept in first, looking around, and exhaled with relief: the cabin was empty. Hugo followed her and held the camera steady as Gemma’s mobile set on torchlight flashed around, coming finally to rest near the bedhead and the wall just above it. She searched until she found the tiny brownish smear from the mosquito, positioning the mobile on the bed with the light shining straight up onto the small mark.

With Hugo covering every step she took, Gemma tore open the sterile seal on the rape kit, removing one of the swab sticks and gently stroking it along the dry trailing smear of blood. The tip of the pure white swab took on a grubby tan hue. Gemma’s gloved fingers unsealed the small, sterile container and dropped the swab stick into it, sealing it tightly. Just to be sure, she repeated the process with the second swab stick and sterile container so she had two good specimens.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘we’ve got what we came for. Let’s get out of here.’

They hurried through the darkness, retracing their steps to the car park. Just as Gemma was about to open the car door, the headlights of another vehicle turned from the road into the driveway. ‘Hugo, get down!’ she hissed.

They crouched low behind her car as the headlights swung across the car park before coming to a stop a bare twenty metres from where Gemma and Hugo crouched.

Gemma held her breath. It was a dark blue Mercedes. And the man who was getting out of it was Angelo Tolmacheff.

Her heart and mind started to race. What the hell was he doing here? Tolmacheff, Lorraine Litchfield and the vampire triangulated in a sharp and dangerous point – Sapphire Springs Spa.

Neither Gemma nor Hugo moved until the bulky figure of Tolmacheff had disappeared through the main entrance.

‘Come on, into the car!’ she whispered.

She winced at the sound of the ignition and engine. She didn’t use the headlights as she cruised quietly out of the car park, through the entrance, and onto the road.

She didn’t switch the headlights on until they were well clear of Sapphire Springs.

‘That was the guy I saw at Indigo Ice with Litchfield,’ said Hugo. ‘He sure gets around. Where does he fit in?’

‘I’m working hard on that, Hugo.’

‘That was easier than I expected,’ said Gemma, turning to Hugo after driving in silence for some time.

‘You’ll give that to Angie?’ Hugo asked, indicating the two containers holding the swab sticks. ‘For a DNA profile?’

‘I’ll take it round to Lance at Paradigm Laboratories. There’s too much of a backlog at DAL. If it ends up as evidence in a murder trial, it’ll have to go there eventually.’

‘You reckon Mischa might have been bitten by a mozzie and then whacked it?’

‘I’m hopeful.’

‘But won’t the blood be all mixed up with mozzie stuff?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘That’s what the experts can sort out. I’m hoping it’s not too degraded. That there’ll be enough to prove Mischa was there.’

‘You’ll have to give him something as a comparison – something of Mischa’s.’

‘Good, Hugo. First thing in the morning, I’ll go to her house and do just that.’

Gemma and Hugo crept quietly down the stone stairs.

‘That was totally cool,’ said Hugo, easing Taxi off the doona. ‘And I reckon night rates must be double pay.’

‘I’ll deduct it from the expenses for your board and lodging, buddy,’ Gemma said, ruffling his hair as he turned over to go to sleep.

‘Rats. Thought it was worth a try,’ he said, yawning. ‘Night.’

CHAPTER 31

Mike had left very early to finish the petrol-tanker job and Hugo was sprawled on the lounge, one leg sticking out from under the doona and Taxi snuggled into his neck. Gemma bribed Rafi with half an Anzac biscuit from Mike’s latest batch and loaded him and his gear into the back of the car. She felt a little bleary from last night’s activities and singing ‘I had a cat …’ to Rafi as she drove helped her to wake up. Rafi squealed with delight at the ‘fiddle-dee-dee’.

She was heading to Mischa Bloomfield’s share house.

‘No,’ said her housemate, letting Gemma in and glancing with surprise at Rafi in her arms, ‘I still haven’t heard from her. I’ve been really worried.’

‘Has she taken her toothbrush?’ asked Gemma, checking in the bathroom as the housemate looked on, bewildered.

‘That’s hers there. The mauve-and-white one. Why?’

Deftly, when the girl’s back was turned, Gemma transferred the toothbrush into a plastic bag. ‘Call me if you hear anything from her,’ Gemma said.

Their next stop was Paradigm Laboratories.

‘I collected these items according to the book,’ said Gemma after introducing Lance to Rafi and thanking him for agreeing to see her on a Saturday morning. ‘I had a – a – colleague videotape every move I made. I used sterile containers and sterile swab sticks. And here they are,’ she said, placing the plastic bag holding the containers on Lance’s desk. ‘And here’s the comparison article,’ she added, giving him the bagged toothbrush.

Lance looked at her with admiration. ‘You can take the girl out of the cops, but you can’t take the cop out of the girl, huh? There’s an extra fee for fast-track jobs.’

‘Send the invoice to Angie at Homicide.’

‘I’ll do the DNA comparison as soon as I can. Okay?’

‘Thanks very much, Lance. Have you been able to do that assay on the DiNAH therapy yet?’

‘No. I’ve sent it to a drug expert in the chemistry department at the university,’ he told her. ‘It’s a bit beyond my expertise. It seems to be some sort of macrolide.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Something that acts on T-cells. But it’s way out of my area.’

‘Do you know if it’s the sort of thing that might result in sudden onset depression?’

‘It’s possible,’ Lance replied. ‘We’ll have to wait until the expert has reviewed it.’ He indicated the swabs she’d brought from the rape kit. ‘I’ll get cracking on these.’

The phone on her desk was ringing as she carried Rafi in. She raced down to her office and picked it up.

‘Gemma Lincoln?’ a man’s voice, familiar, Gemma thought. She recognised him a split-second before he identified himself.

‘You’ve been caught playing out of PI school, Ms Lincoln. You’ve been busted trespassing.’ Gemma’s heart started thudding. Of all the cops in all the world, it had to be Bruno Gross on the other end of the line. ‘Break and enter, in the company of some juvenile delinquent. We’ve had a serious complaint made against you. And I’m looking forward to charging you.’ He sounded delighted while behind his voice, she could hear the sound of heavy traffic.

The hostility between them went back years, to Gemma’s serving days and that regrettable one-night stand; because she had refused to repeat the misdemeanour, Bruno Gross had taken an intense dislike to her. He’d made life difficult for her when she was in the job and now there was no mistaking the relish in his voice.

‘Break and enter? That’s crazy! I didn’t break and enter!’

‘Dr April Evans from Sapphire Springs Spa tells a different story,’ he said with glee. ‘You were caught on their security cameras last night breaking into one of the resort cabins with some lout. I’ve got you cold, Lincoln. Trespass, and break and enter.’

Gemma felt the blood draining from her face. Fear poured in to the crazy mix of emotions and she sat down and held onto Rafi tightly as he tried to squirm out of her arms. If the receptionist and Dr Evans had recognised her, might Tolmacheff also see the footage?

‘No use denying it, ex-private investigator. The receptionist knew you from when you went out there with Angie McDonald. She thought you were a cop. I’m considering also booking you for impersonating a police officer.’

‘Total crap. I did no such thing. And it wasn’t break and enter. I used the normal way of entry. And if people like you had been doing their job properly, I wouldn’t have had to do it.’

Rafi started to cry, upset by the tone of Gemma’s voice. She found a toy for him and put him down at her feet to play.

‘When I do my job, I don’t break the law,’ Bruno said, with sneering primness. ‘What were you doing sneaking into a health spa cabin at all hours of the night? What did you want in there? What did you do in there?’

‘Something you should have done, if you’d taken Mischa Bloomfield’s disappearance seriously.’

‘You’ve got to be joking. I’m too busy to go chasing every hysterical little tart who’s had a bad trip and thinks she’s being targeted by a vampire. Get real. I’ve got serious crimes on my desk.’

‘Bruno, I had sound reason to believe Mischa had been kidnapped and taken to that cabin. I believe that a broken piece of jewellery found in that cabin was hers, damaged in a struggle. I believe I had a legitimate reason to be there. And here’s something else you should know: Angelo Tolmacheff was there last night. He is the man who is planning to kill his wife on a camping trip. She went to the police and was told there was nothing she could do until he actually attacked her.’

‘There was nothing legitimate about what you did!’ he roared. ‘You’ve overstepped the mark. You don’t deserve to have an investigator’s licence. With a conviction like this, you’ll lose it for sure.’

Gemma felt the full crushing weight of her situation. ‘Bruno,’ she said, swallowing her pride, ‘can’t we talk about this? Before you put it on paper? There’s such a thing as police discretionary power. I simply can’t afford to lose my licence. I’ve got a child to support.’

‘Too bad, sweetheart.’ He waited until the traffic noises behind him subsided before continuing. Gemma smelled a rat. Gross wasn’t calling from his office. Why would he go to the trouble of using an outside line?

‘Tell you what,’ he said, his tone changing. ‘I guess we could talk it over … How about dinner at the Kismet?’

The Kismet motel was a modest place just off the highway near Parramatta Road, the scene of Gemma’s first and only encounter with him. ‘We could discuss how to blow this allegation away; make sure it never gets off the ground. A nice, relaxing evening talking over old times. Just the two of us.’

‘There were no old times, Bruno. Just one hell of a mistake on my part. Even now, you’re blackmailing me. Putting the hard word on me again, calling from a phone outside the office so there’s no record on your mobile or your landline at work. You are a complete prick.’

‘You’ll regret that, sweetheart. I’ll be suggesting to the magistrate that an example should be made of you. There could even be a custodial sentence involved. You’ll be hearing from me.’ He slammed the phone down.

Gemma hung up, dazed. Blindly, she walked into the living room and went to the deck to look out at the sea and the sky.

What was she going to tell Mike about this? About creeping out in the middle of the night, taking Hugo with her? About being sprung on Sapphire Springs’ security cameras? About being blackmailed by Bruno Gross because of her actions? If she lost her licence, she’d lose her livelihood. And if Lorraine Litchfield was telling the truth, she was also in danger of losing her life.

As she went back inside to find Rafi, Hugo snored and muttered in his sleep, a doona-covered lump, now almost completely covering Taxi apart from a protruding ginger tail. For a moment, Gemma wished she could just dive under there with the Ratbag and the cat and hide.

Angie called back and Gemma told her about the conversation with Gross.

‘He what?’

‘He as good as said that if I slept with him, he’d use his discretionary powers and not charge me. He was calling from away from the office so the call couldn’t be detected.’

‘The bastard! That is just so typical of him. But what the hell did you think you were doing out at Sapphire Springs in the middle of the night?’

Gemma brought her up to date. ‘Angelo Tolmacheff was there, too. He’s connected to Sapphire Springs. He obviously has a key to the place – it seems to attract evil creatures. And the vulnerable.’ Vampires and their victims, she thought.

‘If you’ve got Mischa on those swabs,’ said Angie slowly, ‘even though it was obtained in a somewhat unorthodox manner, it can still be admissible in court at the judge’s discretion. Especially when you’ve got that video recording the collection of the exhibit. You did well.’

‘But Ange, what the hell am I going to do about bloody Bruno Gross? He could ruin me.’

‘Mmm. Let me think about it, honey. A sleazebag like him must have slipped up somewhere. I know he has a lot of enemies, me included. I’ll make some inquiries.’

Gemma turned as Mike walked in, throwing his car keys on the table.

‘Thanks, Ange. I’ve got to go. Talk to you soon.’

‘What did you get up to last night?’ he asked. ‘I found the note.’

‘I went out to Sapphire Springs Spa,’ she said, taking a deep breath before filling him in on the whole story. ‘I was picked up on the security cameras. I thought I’d got away with it, but apparently not, according to Bruno Gross.’

‘The guy you used to work with? The dickhead?’

‘Inspector Dickhead now. The receptionist and Dr Evans at Sapphire Springs recognised me from the footage. He’s going to charge me with trespass, and break and enter. Unless I have dinner with him. And the rest.’

Mike didn’t say anything, instead he went to the kitchen and pulled out some eggs and a saucepan. ‘Have you had any lunch?’

‘I couldn’t eat a thing at the moment. Mike, I feel sick. I could lose my licence over this.’

She collected Rafi in her arms, and walked back out to the deck and leaned her hip on the railing, staring out to the sea where a couple of small boats bobbed, gusts of wind wrinkling the surface of the water and soft clouds skimming the horizon. Since she’d returned to work, her problems seemed to have escalated. She took a breath of the sea air and joined Mike in the kitchen as he made an omelette and put an egg on to boil for Rafi.

‘I need to find Elizabeth Winchester and work out her connection to the vampire. It was her car he was driving at Indigo Ice. The same car that picked up Mischa Bloomfield. Winchester’s got to know something.’ Gemma watched Mike eating. ‘How about you? How’s the deal with Nick Cleary going?’

‘He’s pretty confident of picking up a lot of work. Between us, we have a long list of contacts with various law enforcement agencies. I expect it will start off slowly and then build. Meanwhile, I’ve got my other contracts.’

His manner was detached, even as he helped Rafi to eat his toast and egg, and Gemma knew he was still angry. Things were unresolved between them.

Taxi came into the room and rubbed against Gemma’s ankles. The lump under the doona groaned.

‘What strange life form moves under there?’ Mike asked, turning around to see Hugo struggling to sit up. ‘Hello, Hugo. Can we help?’

Hugo, dressed only in T-shirt and underpants, swung off the doona. He stood a few moments on his long knobby legs, scratching his head and then looked up. ‘You could help actually, dude. Can I borrow your laptop some time today?’

‘I guess that can be arranged,’ said Mike. ‘What for?’

‘I think I’m on to something,’ said Hugo. ‘You’ll see.’

CHAPTER 32

As she drove down the escarpment with the first flashes of the brilliant blue ocean shining through the eucalypt forest on the sloping hillsides surrounding the road, Gemma felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders. She was out on the road, on the job.

The house at 66 Hadley Street, Belambi was a modest, brick-veneer home set in a row of similar houses, neat and uninspiring. Gemma was pleased to see the pale green Peugeot parked in the carport. She knocked on the front door. No response. She walked round the back and called out. Nothing. No one home.

She drove to a nearby shop and bought a newspaper, some sandwiches and a carton of orange juice then went back and parked across the road, a little way beyond the house, where she could keep an eye on it.

The afternoon passed into early evening. Nothing happened in 66 and the Peugeot stayed in the carport.

Darkness fell and the hours went by. Mike had bathed Rafi and all was well at home, he said when Gemma called him.

She was dozing, her head leaning against the window, when the sound of a car woke her suddenly. She sat up, shocked that she had slept on the job. The Peugeot, discernible in the streetlight, was backing out and onto the road. Damn! She’d missed the moment and couldn’t see who was driving it.

She pushed the newspaper off her lap, threw the empty juice carton onto the floor and switched on the ignition. She waited a few moments and then followed the car, staying well back.

Gemma soon realised that the driver was heading in the direction of Sapphire Springs Spa. She doused the headlights as she pulled off the road, a little way from the entrance. She took nothing except her car keys and mobile and started out on foot, hurrying to keep up with the Peugeot, which was now in the crowded car park. Gemma remembered Dr Evans telling her about Miss Cosmetic Surgery Europe and the conference. It looked to be in full swing.

Moving cautiously and using whatever cover was available, Gemma came closer to see the woman getting out of the Peugeot. Shocked, she recognised her: Lizzie, the helpful young receptionist who’d shown Angie and Gemma around on their search for Janet Chancy’s notebook.

Gemma stood immobilised as her mind worked with these pieces, putting them together so that she almost saw the action replay: Mischa tries to get a cab. She spots the vampire waiting for her down the street. She turns to run, and then the Peugeot just happens to drive by with Lizzie from Sapphire Springs at the wheel. Overcome with relief and gratitude to see a friendly, familiar face, even if it’s someone she didn’t know well, Mischa willingly jumps into the car. Lizzie – Elizabeth Mary Winchester.

But what happened after that? How was Mischa coerced to Sapphire Springs?

Did Tolmacheff contact Lizzie and tell her to offer Mischa one of those pink invitations to a complimentary treatment? Did Lizzie in all innocence do this? Or was she complicit? And did Mischa believe that a luxurious day at the spa would be the perfect hiding place instead of going to her mother’s house and worrying her?

Closer to the foyer, Gemma could hear sociable chatter punctuated by occasional laughter, and looking inside she could see a crowd in the wide reception hall.

Glancing back to the car park, she was startled to see a white-robed figure stumbling across the lawns towards Lizzie, arms flailing, making a strange moaning sound. Gemma ducked behind a tree as the mysterious woman came closer to Lizzie.

‘What are you doing here, Mrs van Leyden? Why are you out of bed? You must go back. I told you the doctors will see you tonight after the conference event finishes. Now please, let me help you back.’ And with that, Lizzie took a firm hold of the unwilling figure and marched her towards the cabins beyond the lake.

After a couple of minutes Lizzie hurried over to the reception area. Gemma waited until she’d disappeared inside and then, keeping low, moved cautiously across the expanse of lawn, worried about the security cameras. She hoped she had been able to slip by unnoticed, given the number of people who were attending the conference – but suddenly powerful automatic lights switched on and in the distance she heard the shrieking of an alarm. She’d been spotted.

She ran out of the light, crouching low as she dashed across the lawns through the dark night. She could hear a commotion back at reception. Ahead of her, illuminating the pathway to the cabins, other powerful lights flashed on. The frog chorus from the lake fell silent. Gemma crept around the back of the cabins until she came to cabin number two, where Lizzie had escorted Mrs van Leyden.

Keeping low, Gemma rapped firmly on the cabin’s door. Again, she heard the strange moaning sounds. The door was opened to reveal Mrs van Leyden, a scarf covering her palsied face. When she saw Gemma, the strange noises she was making became more animated and she staggered across the room to a small table and picked up a pencil and wrote a word: ‘Police?’

‘No. I’m a private investigator and I shouldn’t be here. There’ll be a search party coming any moment. Tell me what’s going on.’

Mrs van Leyden wrote: ‘My mouth doesn’t work. Something very bad is happening here.’

‘What is it? What can you tell me?’

Against the silence, the scratching of the pencil on the paper sounded very loud and the jewels in Mrs van Leyden’s rings twinkled as she wrote. Hurry up, hurry up, Gemma silently urged, daring to peek out the window to see security guards with torches combing the grounds in the distance.

‘Look what they’ve done to me!’ As Gemma read this, Mrs van Leyden pulled off the scarf that covered her head. The terrible face sagged like a bloodhound’s. The mouth that couldn’t close gaped stupidly.

‘Done to you? I don’t understand.’

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pencil and paper.

‘I’m staying at this resort at their expense, until I have arranged to get my youth and beauty back – signed the contract to undergo DiNAH therapy, huge cheque. Half-million dollar deposit. This hideous thing. Healed. I want justice. I want them arrested. This is what their famous DiNAH therapy did to me! They are criminals! Not leaving here until this has been restored.’

Gemma stared, horrified, as the implication of those scrawled words registered. Mrs van Leyden wasn’t a ‘before’ DiNAH therapy example, she was an ‘after’.

The security guards were coming closer. Any moment now they would be banging on the door.

Gemma looked out the window and saw them heading straight for the cabin.

Mrs van Leyden’s jewelled fingers continued scribbling, pausing only long enough to wipe the saliva that threatened to fall from her open mouth. ‘I want my money back, compensation—’ she stopped writing and raised her head to indicate her disfigured face, ‘—want another facelift carried out by a different medical team. Not a bunch of crooks. I saw him and another man DRAGGING a girl into the medical supercentre.’

Gemma swallowed. Mischa.

Again, the pencil flew across the paper. ‘I have the security code door medical building. Watching them – my bird-watching binoculars.’

Gemma took the piece of paper and read: ‘F4067X.’

‘You’re an investigator,’ Gemma read the hastily scribbled words: ‘Investigate!!!’

The pencil stabbed at the paper, almost tearing through it, as Mrs van Leyden heavily underscored the last word. Then she viciously tore the piece of paper to shreds.

Gemma took hold of the woman’s narrow shoulders. ‘I have to get out of here now but I promise you, I’ll do everything to see that you get what you want.’

The guards were so close now, Gemma could hear their voices. She hurried to the window, lifted the mosquito screen out of its housing and climbed out, crouching low against the wall under the window, listening as they knocked on Mrs van Leyden’s door, then went inside. She prayed they wouldn’t notice that the fly screen had been taken down, but she didn’t wait to find out. Instead, she felt her way around the side of the cabin, heading to the lake. In the dim night light, she stepped into one of the kayaks and in a few strokes had made it to the other side. There she broke into a run towards her car. She heard voices and risked a quick glimpse behind her. At that moment, two men walked into the glare of one of the lights over the path and she saw that one of them was Dr Egmont, walking with a companion, deep in conversation. She shrank back, immobilised, hoping that the grevillea bushes would hide her. As the second man turned, his face became clear.

Now the Ratbag’s description of how Mischa had willingly jumped into the passing green Peugeot made sense.

The vampire and Lizzie had worked like a pair of hungry wolves, herding their prey into a trap.

Gemma jumped into her car and turned down the driveway, her headlights turned off. She didn’t breathe until she was a kilometre along the road. Finally, she pulled over and stopped.

As she mentally replayed the scenes she’d just witnessed, the crickets, silenced by her car, took up their tentative chiming again. She thought about the connections between the vampire, Tolmacheff, Egmont and Sapphire Springs Spa. It appeared that the vampire worked for Tolmacheff. And maybe Egmont as well. She would find out. She was determined to do what she could to help Mrs van Leyden.

She waited. The occasional car sped past but no one came from Sapphire Springs.

With the code to the medical centre firmly fixed in her head, Gemma drove back, again switching off the headlights well before she swung into the car park.

The landscape was just discernible by starlight and the searchers had given up. All was quiet.

She hurried across the short distance between the cabins and the low buildings of the medical centre. Her mobile rang and she silenced it. Mike. Not the best time to talk; but what if Rafi was sick? She couldn’t risk being overheard, and Mike would only scold her. Sorry, Mike, she thought ruefully, cutting the call.

Dim lighting showed through a small window, and as she stepped up to the door of what she saw on a small sign was the records office, and pressed F4067X, it clicked open. Cautiously, she pushed it a little further and peered around. Opposite was a security desk and four split CCTV screens on the wall covering the rooms and corridors of the medical centre. From the entrance area, a corridor led off to the left of the security desk; opposite this was a closed door. She could see herself on one of the monitors as she stepped towards it.

There was no one at the desk but she could hear a man speaking some distance away. Quickly she went to the console and scanned it, looking for the reverse play. She found it and erased the last few moments. Without close attention to the fast-running clock at the bottom right corner of the screen, the missing footage would not be noticed.

The sound of the man’s voice came closer and she could also hear his approaching footsteps. The only place to hide was offered by the closed door. With gritted teeth, she slowly turned the handle and ducked into the darkness behind it, where she waited, immobilised, listening. She heard the squeak of a chair as the man, presumably the security guard, sat down at the desk. From the one-sided conversation, Gemma could discern that he was arguing with his wife or girlfriend. The argument became more heated, the chair squeaked and she heard the footsteps again, coming closer. Don’t come in here, Gemma prayed. He was now standing right outside the door. He raised his voice and swore as he terminated the phone call. She heard him muttering under his breath and the sound of the front door opening. A few seconds later, she could smell cigarette smoke. For the moment, she was in the clear.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Gemma saw that she was in an office, or storeroom. Carefully, she drew out her mobile and switched on the flashlight, keeping the piercing beam low and letting its peripheral light show her more of her surroundings. Opposite her was a large cupboard, its doors were securely closed, with the key conveniently dangling from the lock. Quietly, Gemma turned it and pushed back the doors to reveal shelves of medical records neatly organised in colour codes and alphabetical order. Scanning the files, she found ‘Wentworth, Maxine’. She pulled it out and briefly looked through: name, date of birth, address, the date she arrived at the medical centre, data of her DiNAH therapy and then the date of discharge, with the twice weekly follow-up visits marked in. Apart from the basic details, the information was incomprehensible to a lay person.

She tried, and failed, to make sense of what looked like arithmetical scores under a list of abbreviated headings: HLA – A26, HLA – B59, HLA – C10, HLA – D26, HLA – DR22, HLA – DQ9, HLA – DP6. At the back of Maxine’s file another, smaller file had been stapled. It seemed to contain a similar set of letters and figures. Unable to make any sense of this highly scientific medical record, Gemma was about to replace the folder when she caught a glimpse of the name at the bottom of the last page: ‘Wilson, Phoebe’.

Puzzled, she checked again, but there it was. Had Phoebe Wilson, the woman who’d been found floating dead and mangled in the harbour, also had cosmetic surgery here? Even if that were the case, why were her details in Wentworth’s file? Gemma pushed the file under her top, securing it in the waistband of her jeans. Listening for any sound of the security guard’s return, she noticed a familiar name on another file: ‘Carr, Annabel’. The beautiful girl she’d interviewed at the Bondi cafe with a grizzling Rafi. Flickering connections in Gemma’s mind started to spark.

On the lowest shelf lay a lone file. Across its cover someone had scrawled: ‘Final action processed’ with the date from two days ago. Gemma picked it up and flicked it open. It was Mrs van Leyden’s medical file. Attached to it was a thinner folder with a name at the top: ‘Russell, Lucy Anne’. Gemma frowned. Who was Lucy Anne Russell? Beneath her name was a similar string of incomprehensible HLA numbers and letters.

She stiffened suddenly at the sound of a voice, swiftly cut out her mobile flashlight and hid the van Leyden–Russell and Carr files under her top as well. Moving as silently as she could, she closed the cupboard doors and turned the key, locking it before tiptoeing to the door to listen. The argument was once more in full swing, but the voice was further away. The security guard was back outside. Cautiously, Gemma opened the door a crack and looked through. She could see the front door standing a little ajar, and heard the guard’s accusatory tones clearly carrying in the night air.

‘You were supposed to. Not me. You always do this!’ he said, raising his voice. Gemma moved silently and peeped outside to see the guard standing with his back to her, hunched over his mobile, absorbed in the argument.

She edged out the door of the records office and slid along the other side of the wall, looking at the nearby medical supercentre. As she quietly put more distance between herself and the guard, she thought of Mischa. That’s where I need to get into next, she thought. What or who else might be hidden in that locked facility?

She crept alongside the mysterious supercentre. It was impossible to see inside the windows; all were secured with internal shutters, all closed. She rapped on the blind windows, calling Mischa’s name as loudly as she dared. She doubled back to the front door with its electronic lock. She tried the code F4067X but to no avail. If Mischa were here behind this locked door, there was no way Gemma could help her tonight.

Her heart pounding and her body fizzing with tension, she made her way along the walls, past the supercentre. Her mobile shivered again and she barely glanced at the screen: Mike. Again. Not now, darling, she thought as the argument with the security guard’s girlfriend became more heated. He was pacing up and down, gesticulating with one hand, his mobile clenched to his ear.

Gemma risked a chance when he was farthest away and took off, keeping low and moving quickly in a diagonal tack away from the records office and closer to the main reception building, towards her car.

During the drive home, she desperately tried to make sense of the pairs of names – Wentworth and Wilson; van Leyden and Russell – and Annabel Carr. Images of the murdered women Starr and Palier also twisted through her mind. She recalled the half-burned photograph of Brie in Tolmacheff’s office, and thought about Mischa possibly lured to Sapphire Springs by a pink invitation …

‘Oh hell, why haven’t I thought of this before?’ she said out loud, remembering the card from Sapphire Springs in Delphine’s coat pocket. Private investigators sometimes used the ploy of a fake competition to draw reluctant targets into the open: ‘You’ve won a fantastic weekend away in our latest promotion. Please contact this number for more information …’

Gemma called Delphine. No answer.

She threw her mobile on the passenger seat in frustration. Delphine had been offered a free day spa at Sapphire Springs, but what would really happen when she got there?

By the time Gemma arrived home, some of the connections were starting to splice. Mischa, DiNAH therapy, three women murdered – all connected to Angelo Tolmacheff, the vampire and Sapphire Springs Spa. Magda Simmonds, Maxine Wentworth and Janet Chancy – all now dead and each connected to the spa and in some way to the revolutionary DiNAH therapy.

Everything meshed at Sapphire Springs.

When she turned the key and crept inside, well after midnight, Mike was working at the dining table, waiting for her. Hugo must have moved into the operatives’ office again.

‘Where do you think you’ve been all this time, Gemma?’ he asked. ‘I’ve tried calling you over and over.’

‘Sorry. I wasn’t in a position to take your calls, Mike. I think Mischa is being held at Sapphire Springs Spa. And it’s possible that Delphine Tolmacheff is also there.’

‘Gemma, where have you been?’ Mike repeated.

‘Just listen, Mike. Delphine said something about being “a new woman”. What if she means that literally? What if they’ve offered her the chance to experience the DiNAH-therapy treatment? They keep a mailing list of all their clients. And what if Tolmacheff has used his influence to lure his wife to Sapphire Springs?’

‘You have no proof of that. She could be anywhere.’

‘Anywhere else, and she’d have to take toiletries and personal things. She doesn’t need them at Sapphire Springs. That’s why all her gear’s still at Beecham House. Tolmacheff, the vampire, the green Peugeot, Lizzie—’

‘Who’s Lizzie?’

‘She works at Sapphire Springs. She’s also the registered owner of that Peugeot – that’s where I was this afternoon, at her address in Belambi. She’s Elizabeth Winchester. That’s why Mischa jumped into that car. She recognised Lizzie. She felt safe with someone she knew. She wouldn’t have known that Lizzie was working with the vampire and that he is connected to Sapphire Springs. That’s why it’s important to establish her presence there. That’s why I went out there, to collect samples.’

She pulled out the purloined medical records and slapped them on the table.

Mike took one look at them and shook his head. ‘If Bruno Gross finds out about this, about you taking medical records …’

‘He’s not going to. And there’s another connection: Phoebe Wilson and Annabel Carr. For some reason they’ve each got a file connected to the records of women who’ve had DiNAH therapy. Phoebe is dead. Annabel Carr is still alive and yet she’s got a file down there at Sapphire Springs. She could be in danger, too.’

‘Gemma, I think you’re reading too much into some circumstantial evidence. Look, it’s not even circumstantial. You’re pulling together things to make a pattern that may not be there at all. You’re imposing your interpretation on a series of events that mightn’t even be related. You know what can happen when an investigator gets a bee in their bonnet. Their judgement is skewed. They start racing along a line of inquiry and soon they can’t see any other possibilities.’

‘But Mike,’ she began, ‘can’t you see—’

‘I’ll tell you what I can see. A woman who’s rushing around, getting involved in everybody else’s investigations, getting involved in their lives and neglecting her own.’

‘Mike, I’m contracted to help Delphine Tolmacheff. And I have a moral responsibility to Mischa Bloomfield. Not to mention the fact that I need to be financially independent. You can’t be the only one bringing in money. It makes me feel – bad.’

‘It’s the sort of work you get involved with, Gemma. What’s the matter with insurance work? There are other, safer investigations you can take on. With the people you’ve been dealing with it’s a wonder you haven’t had death threats.’

She didn’t tell him she already had.

‘And there’s the practical question of housing. I’m going to say it again – this place is too small for four people. Even for one woman, it was always pretty small. I need space for my life too. Sometimes it’s like I’m an annoying boarder tolerated because of his help with the bills.’

‘Mike, that’s not true! I could never see you like that!’

‘You can’t even give me a straight yes or no when I suggested we get married.’

‘I need time to think.’

He sighed. ‘Okay. But I’ve had time to think. And we’ve got to find a bigger place. That’s if you still want our relationship.’

‘I do. I really value it,’ she said.

‘Maybe you do. But in practical terms, working in that front office isn’t enough for me, and lately, it’s been occupied by Hugo. It can’t go on like this, Gemma.’ She was frightened at the tone of his voice. She’d never heard him speak like this before. ‘I can’t do it, Gemma,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve tried and I can’t do it anymore.’

She felt like crying. ‘Mike—’

‘I want to live with you and Rafi in a peaceful household, not a refuge for a teenage runaway, assorted crims and the ghost of bloody Steve Brannigan.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk about moving. But not just now.’

Mike shrugged and headed up the hallway to his office. She heard him close the door. Through the door she heard his exclamation of irritation: Hugo.

Gemma went over to the sideboard and poured herself a stiff scotch. She stood there, staring at the decanter, feeling as if she was being pulled apart. Mike, Steve, the dangerous connections between women she felt obliged to help and whatever was going on at Sapphire Springs, swirled in opposing constellations. But the biggest concern at the moment was Mike. What was she going to do? This question now took precedence. Everything he said was justified and yet she was unwilling to change anything for him. She was hurting him badly, she knew. But something held her back from making a full commitment to him, despite everything. Tonight she’d seen a flash of emotion in him that reminded her of something Kit had said years ago: Beware the anger of a patient man.

Soon she would have to make some big decisions, marriage to Mike, a new house, a bigger space for Rafi to play and grow in. She tossed down the burning spirits and winced.

CHAPTER 33

Gemma’s phone woke her and as she groped for it, stumbling out of bed, she became aware that Mike wasn’t beside her. Her heart heavy from the words of the night before, she looked over to Rafi, where he slept peacefully in his cot, his eyelids flickering. She crept out, almost falling over Hugo who’d relocated during the night and obviously slipped off the couch and was now curled up in the doona on the floor like a witchetty grub. Where’s Mike, she wondered?

‘Lance, do you ever sleep?’ she asked, stepping with the mobile out onto the deck.

‘Ah,’ he said laughing. ‘My family is away this weekend so I’m using the time to catch up. I’ve got a result from the swabs. The material was somewhat degraded but I was still able to get a result.’

‘And?’

‘The material on the toothbrush and the material from the swab are a match by a factor of one in eleven million. I’m still waiting for results on the DiNAH pills.’

‘Eleven million!’ Gemma repeated. ‘I knew it!’ Mischa had been at Sapphire Springs Spa.

‘And the invoice?’

‘Send them both to Angie McDonald. It’s worth a try. Might slip past the accountants. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to pick them up.’ She continued, ‘I found some medical files with strange letters and numbers attached to the names. Would you have a look at them and tell me what you think they might be? Or where I could find someone who would know?’

‘Drop them by. I’ll have a look first. If I don’t know, I can point you in the right direction.’

She thanked him and rang off.

Mike was already at his desk, head down, hard at work.

‘Can I bring you a coffee?’ she asked.

‘Later. Thanks,’ he said, not looking up.

She called Angie and left a message updating her on the news. She then took Rafi into the shower with her, where he giggled with delight and clung to her like a little warm, soapy koala. But this morning she was too preoccupied with the events of the night before to enjoy playing with him, and still fatigued from too little sleep.

When they were dressed, she gave him a quick breakfast and drove him to Kit’s where she hoped to have a chance to talk about something other than work with her sister. But as they sat down to tea and toast, Angie called.

‘Gems, have you seen the headlines? Check out the lead story in the Telegraph. I’ll say no more.’

‘No, Angie. You tell me. I just don’t think I could handle any more bad news.’

‘Who said it was bad?’ chuckled Angie. ‘As to your raid on Sapphire Springs, get Lance to email me the results of the DNA comparison test on Bloomfield’s mozzie. He runs an accredited lab and with that sort of positive ID, it’s going to be easier to convince Gross that we need a search warrant. Speaking of the Grossmeister, I’ve opened up an interesting lead on a way to get him off your back. I’ll say no more over the phone.’

Gemma then briefed Angie on Mrs van Leyden’s suspicions and on what she’d discovered in the files at the medical centre. ‘I’ve made copies and I’ll give them to Lance. They might tell us something about DiNAH.’ She sighed then went on, ‘I still don’t understand the connections between these women,’ she said. ‘And I don’t understand why Annabel Carr’s details are there.’

‘Annabel Carr? Remind me,’ said Angie.

‘The girl I interviewed at Bondi. She’d endured an initial vampire injury but never saw him again – unlike Brie, and presumably unlike the other two women who ended up dead.’

‘Right. If I can get a search warrant, we can seize everything there: paper files, computer records, the works.’

‘But I’ll miss out on all the fun,’ said Gemma. ‘I want to see it – I want to be there when the vampire goes down.’

‘I don’t think that can be arranged, Gems. Sorry. But first things first. I’ve got to get that warrant.’

After the phone call, Kit and Gemma looked at the Telegraph site and immediately saw a photograph of Lorraine Litchfield, her face contorted with fury as she attempted to lash out at the newspaper’s photographer, above the headline: ‘Crime Boss Widow Retracts Corruption Allegations’.

‘Gems, what’s going on? I thought this woman was in jail.’

Skimming the rest of the piece, Gemma gave Kit the barest rundown on Steve and Litchfield, carefully leaving herself out of the story. She knew what her sister would say if she found out.

Litchfield had withdrawn her allegations of corruption against an undercover police officer, the article said. The Police Integrity Commission inquiry had been suspended, pending further investigations; it was likely she would be charged with a number of offences.

A related article caught Gemma’s eye: ‘Early Release Deal Under Scrutiny’. Another journalist had turned up some information about Litchfield’s early release from prison and the quality of the information she had given in exchange for that release. An inquiry was pending. Thank God for a free press, Gemma thought. This was the best news she had had in a long time.

‘I’ve got to go, Kit. Can I leave Rafi with you this morning?’

‘Of course. We’ll do some baking together,’ she said. ‘Bye Gems, take care. You have a look in your eye that’s worrying me.’

‘I’ll be fine. See you later,’ she said as she kissed Rafi goodbye.

Mike remained silent in his office, which told Gemma that he was still angry, so she decided to give him some space. She packed the copies of the medical files that she’d ‘borrowed’ from Sapphire Springs Spa in her briefcase and left for Paradigm Laboratories.

Lance came out to the foyer to meet her and she handed over copies she’d made of the files.

‘These look like HLA tests,’ he said, leafing through the pages.

‘What’s that?’

‘Human leucocyte antigen tests.’

‘Antigen tests?’ Gemma asked. ‘Antibodies? Something to do with infection control?’

‘More complicated than that,’ said Lance. ‘I’ll have to find someone else to have a look at these.’

‘It’s important, Lance.’

‘I’m really busy,’ he said, ‘but I’ll do what I can and get back to you.’

And I need to get the originals of the medical records back to where they came from ASAP, Gemma thought, as she thanked him.

Not far from the lab her mobile rang, so she pulled over and snatched it up.

‘Gemma! It’s me, Delphine.’

‘Where the hell are you? Are you all right? I’ve been really worried. Everything was still in your room at Beecham House – your toiletries, everything.’

‘First of all, I’m safe. I know I should have called earlier but so much has happened.’

Gemma closed her eyes briefly, relieved. ‘You’d better tell me, Delphine.’

‘I was going out to do some shopping and as I stepped out of the lift at Beecham House I saw him – Angelo – coming into the hotel. He didn’t see me, thank God, and while he was at the reception desk I bolted out the door. The only place I could think to go to was my solicitor’s. So I landed there and filled him in on what had happened since he and I had last met.

‘The long and short of it is that I’ve left town and I’m renting a gorgeous house in Bowral. It belongs to one of the partners from my solicitor’s firm. I was down here in a couple of hours. It’s the first time I’ve been able to breathe in days. My solicitor’s calling the insurance company where Angelo’s taken out that big policy. Have you got the dirt on him yet?’

‘I’m working on it. Do you know anything about a company called Perestroika?

‘Perestroika? It’s a medical centre he’s invested in. That’s all I know. Why?’

‘I’ll keep you posted,’ Gemma said. ‘What about his connections with Sapphire Springs?’

‘Sapphire Springs Spa? He’s connected to that?’

‘Most definitely.’

‘Then thank goodness I decided not to take up their offer. God knows what he might have done to me! God! I wonder if he was behind that?’

‘It’s quite possible,’ Gemma said.

‘Looks like I’ve had a narrow escape!’

‘What do you know about his son?’

‘Son? He doesn’t have a son!’

‘Like he didn’t have a previous wife?’

‘I wonder what else I don’t know about him,’ said Delphine, her voice sad.

‘You probably don’t want to know, Delphine. How long are you going to be in Bowral?’

‘As long as I like. The rent is reasonable and the highlands air is doing me good.’

‘Where should I send my latest account?’ Gemma asked.

She noted down the address, determined to add an extra fifteen per cent for the unnecessary stress she’d endured because of Delphine’s tardiness in contacting her.

While she was stopped she decided to call Spinner.

‘Hey, boss, I was just about to call you. Guess you’ve seen the papers. That was a good job we did.’

‘It sure was. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

Spinner snorted. ‘Of course you could. Has Steve seen it?’

‘I’m not sure. I hope so.’

‘You should drop by and make sure.’

Driving off, she couldn’t get Spinner’s words out of her mind. She felt sure that Steve would know already – someone in the job would have called him. But what if no one had?

CHAPTER 34

Gemma picked up Rafi from Kit and by the time she’d driven to Steve’s place, he was sound asleep in his carseat. He barely woke when she lifted him out gently. Her heart was beating quickly as she carried him along the street, around the corner and up to the small apartment block.

Steve opened the door as soon as she pressed the button and stood there, staring at her and then at Rafi, a drowsy cherub, his head against her shoulder, his lips slightly parted and his eyelids flickering in baby dreams.

Steve couldn’t speak for a moment and neither could she. This was the little family Gemma had once dreamed about. Steve seemed younger and more boyish than when she’d last seen him, his hair falling over his forehead and a smile breaking out. A great weight lifted from him.

‘My son,’ he said, putting his hand out to touch the little, pearly fingers. ‘Rafi.’

Even in his sleep, Rafi’s fingers responded to Steve’s touch, gently budding open then closing again.

There were tears in Steve’s eyes and he coughed to cover them, stepping back and speaking too quickly. ‘Come in, both of you. I was just thinking about you, Gems, and here you are, with – with Rafi.’

‘So, you’ve heard the news,’ she said.

‘I can’t tell you how good I feel. A mate rang early this morning. It’s like my life has been given back to me.’

Once they were inside, Steve gingerly put his hand out again, softly touching Rafi’s rounded forehead and downy head. ‘G’day, little fella. Pleased to meet you.’

Rafi opened his eyes and immediately delivered one of his radiant smiles. Gemma saw the effect on Steve as his face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning.

‘Hey! Did you see that? He smiled at me. He smiled at his dad!’

Gemma bit her lip. Steve’s pleasure in his son made her want to cry. ‘Steve, he smiles at everyone.’

‘Not like that, he doesn’t. That was a special smile, wasn’t it, mate?’

Rafi did it again, this time even wider, jigging with excitement in her arms.

‘Hey little fella, come here to Papa!’

Responding with mysterious baby intuition, Rafi spread his arms out wide, reaching for his father. Gemma relinquished him and Steve took him, carrying him with assurance as if he did it every day.

‘We can go scuba diving, bungee jumping, fishing and rock climbing, Rafi. Abseiling. What do you think of that?’

Rafi squealed with joy as his father showed him around the room, all the while suggesting a litany of other unsuitable activities. ‘What about hang-gliding? Base jumping?’

Gemma’s heart ached. Why couldn’t he have been like this when she was pregnant? Why leave it until now, when it was all too late? This surprising and sudden fatherly euphoria was, she thought, the opposite reaction to the despair and hopelessness Steve had been enduring for weeks now. It was a huge emotional release. She smiled at the two of them, the dancing man, the laughing baby, thinking how quickly things had changed for Steve – from the depths of despair to this spontaneous joy.

After a few minutes Gemma tenderly took Rafi from him, saying, ‘Don’t get him too wild, Steve. He can go from laughing to screaming very quickly when he’s just woken up.’

She sat him down on the floor, positioning cushions around him to keep him somewhat corralled. It didn’t work. Within seconds he’d barged past them and was heading at full speed towards the narrow hallway that led down to the bedroom.

Gemma brought Steve up to date with the different cases she’d been working on. She told him about the connections to Sapphire Springs Spa, explaining the mystery and possible menace that surrounded DiNAH therapy. In a little while, discussing the cases so easily, it felt as if they had never been apart. In a break in the conversation, Gemma became aware of the silence. She jumped up. ‘Uh oh. Rafi’s up to something. He’s too quiet. Where is he?’ She hurried down to the bedroom – and there was her son, on the floor playing with Steve’s work boots.

She was aware of Steve coming up behind her and the two of them stood there a moment, gazing in wonderment at their boy. Gemma was surprised by sudden tears, which she stifled but Steve heard the sob. He pulled her hard against him, her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, grasping her hands in his, his face pushing down into the side of her neck.

‘This feels so right,’ he said quietly. ‘Holding you. You, me and our son.’

Gemma swung away, breaking the spell of his familiar scent and skin, turning to face him. ‘Don’t do this, Steve! It’s too late. And you’re not being fair, talking like this now that I’ve made a life without you.’

But he pulled her to him, kissing her hard. Gemma broke free, heart pounding, anger and desire melding in a confused surge of emotions.

Her mobile chimed and she ran back into the lounge room and snatched it up, grateful for the interruption.

‘Yes?’ she said, trying to bring her breath under control.

‘Miss Lincoln? It’s April Evans from Sapphire Springs Spa. I need to speak with you – urgently.’

The woman’s voice was strained. Something had happened. Gemma recalled the last time she had seen Dr Evans, distressed and upset, valiantly trying to smile professionally.

‘What is this about?’ Gemma asked, looking up as Steve appeared in the doorway from the hall.

‘I can’t really talk about it – not on the phone. Ms Lincoln, it’s extremely important. Please, can you come straight away? Look, if you’re concerned about that trespass business … it’s not about that.’

‘What is is about then?’

‘Please. I can’t speak about this on the phone. Just come.’

Gemma could hear the desperate plea in the woman’s voice.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ she said, ringing off, her heart rate starting to return to normal. No sooner had she done this than her mobile rang again. Angie.

‘Things are moving fast,’ she said. ‘No,’ she pre-empted, ‘I haven’t got that search warrant organised yet but the DNA match will make it a whole lot easier.’

‘April Evans just called,’ said Gemma. ‘She wants to see me, urgently. She sounded very distressed. She could be ready to answer a few questions about DiNAH therapy.’

‘I’ll meet you out there,’ said Angie.

‘I’ll have to get someone to mind Rafi.’

‘I can do that,’ Steve interrupted the conversation. ‘Just tell me what I should give him to eat.’

‘That was Steve’s voice?’ Angie asked in disbelief. ‘What the hell are you up to?’

‘Let’s talk about it later,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ll see you at Sapphire Springs.’

She rang off. Rafi might be happy now, playing with Steve, but she wondered how he would be when he realised she had gone.

‘Let me mind him. I’m his father, for God’s sake. He’s got to get to know me sooner or later.’

‘But I won’t be here if he needs anything. He doesn’t know you.’

‘Gemma, it’s time he did.’

She stood, irresolute a few moments. Steve had a point: Rafi did need to get to know his father. Now was as good a time as any.

Reluctantly, she went to her car and brought in Rafi’s bag. ‘There’s an emergency bottle of formula in the baby bag. You can warm it up for him. And he loves the apricot-and-rice that’s in there too.’

Steve waved her off. ‘Go on. He’ll be fine. If for some reason he isn’t, I’ll call you and you can come straight back. Okay?’

All the way down to Sapphire Springs, her mind replayed the scenes at Steve’s place. How was she going to deal with her wayward heart? Things had changed – she’d been there the moment Steve had fallen in love with his son and she knew he would want more than the distant, financial relationship he’d so far maintained. And what impact would this have on Mike, who was already sensitive about her relationship with him?

Steve held a biological card that Mike could not trump.

She parked, made sure the medical records were in her bag and hurried across the lawns to the reception area. There was no one at the desk but the door to Dr Evans’ office stood open and Gemma walked straight in, dropping the medical records on the desk. ‘Good evening, Dr Evans. These documents came into my possession,’ she said in a rush, ‘and I’m returning them.’

Dr Evans rose from her seat behind her desk, lifting her eyes from the file she’d been reading, her skin starkly pale, her red lipstick a bloody splash, and her eyes dark with fear as she hastily closed the folder. She hardly glanced at the purloined medical records as she picked them up, adding them to the one she’d been reading.

‘Ms Lincoln, thank you for coming. I need to talk to you. There are things happening here that—’ Her voice broke off. ‘I don’t want the police involved at the moment.’

‘I’ll see if I can help you,’ Gemma said, putting down her bag. ‘What is going on?’

‘The other day when I was so upset, I’d just discovered something dreadful – that someone connected to this establishment had murdered Janet Chancy.’ Even though she’d suspected it, Gemma still felt shocked at Dr Evans’ revelation.

‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know. But I overheard a conversation that leaves me in no doubt that Janet Chancy was murdered because of something she discovered here – something that isn’t right.’

‘Something about DiNAH therapy?’

Dr Evans nodded. ‘I’m very worried. Really frightened. But as I said, before I involve the police I want to speak with you.’

Dr Evans’ mobile rang. ‘Yes?’

Gemma watched her face as whoever was on the other end of the line spoke. A moment later, Dr Evans rang off. ‘I have to drop off these files then go over to the medical supercentre. Come with me. We can talk.’

A security guard glanced up and nodded to Dr Evans as she led Gemma into the building adjoining the supercentre.

‘It’s okay, Jason,’ she said. ‘My visitor has clearance here.’

Gemma followed her down the corridor into the medical-records room that Gemma had been to before. Dr Evans closed the door behind them, and placed the folders together with the folder she’d been reading on a small table. She’s so preoccupied with what’s happened, thought Gemma, she’s not even going to ask me where or how I got hold of those folders.

Dr Evans looked up from the table, speaking in a low voice. ‘Ms Lincoln, there’s something going on here that is not right. It’s already caused the murder of Janet Chancy. Dr Egmont and his surgical team are carrying out procedures that are not being correctly recorded. I understand that the Russian doctors are used to doing things in a different way, under different conditions – but there are certain protocols that are standard to medical practice and as a part owner in the Sapphire Springs Spa resort, I don’t want my reputation and the reputation of this establishment to become questionable. There will be a shocking scandal when the story breaks about the murder of the journalist and its connection to my spa. That’s why it’s imperative that I get to the bottom of this.’

Gemma tried to absorb all this information as Dr Evans’ phone rang again. Russian doctors? Was that the connection with Tolmacheff and the vampire? The Russian mafia in Australia? Is that what Janet had stumbled on?

‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Evans was saying with impatience. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

She rang off and turned to Gemma. ‘I have to go. Please just wait here. I’ll only be a minute or two. Then we can talk without interruption.’

Gemma put her bag down and looked at the folders Dr Evans had hastily dropped on the table, with the one she’d been reading on the top. Gemma immediately recognised the crest and the two swans. This was the same folder she’d found in Tolmacheff’s study, moments before he discovered her.

She pounced on it, opening it as her mobile rang. Lance.

‘Gemma? Sorry for ringing so late. But I’ve got a very brief interim report on those medical records. I thought you’d be interested.’

‘Go on,’ she said, opening the Maxine Wentworth file.

‘I was right: these are human leucocyte antigen tests. But it’s rather puzzling because in this context, the test is related to tissue typing. It can be used to determine parentage, as in paternity tests.’

Why on earth would they be doing paternity tests here, Gemma thought as Lance continued. ‘There’s a whole lot of very complicated material here about the sites of genes on chromosomes, but basically it’s about matching antigens from an organ recipient to those of an organ donor. It’s also used to ascertain compatibility for transplants. The greater the number of identical HLA antigens between donor and recipient, the greater the possibility of successful transplant, with a decreased risk of rejection.’

‘How’s it done?’ asked Gemma.

‘Either by using DNA methods or serologically,’ Lance replied.

‘Like a blood test?’

‘Usually by blood test. Blood is drawn from a vein. A bit of pressure applied to the puncture site until the bleeding stops to reduce bruising. That’s the usual way of doing it.’

‘Thanks, Lance.’

She rang off. A puncture wound matched the wound the women had spoken about, she thought. She quickly started to flick through the folder. Its dense medical and scientific terminology made it difficult to read, let alone understand.

She turned to the back of the Maxine Wentworth folder, to the attached Phoebe Wilson file, then back to the main file on Wentworth, studying them carefully. The back page seemed to be a colour chart of some kind in shades of pink to camel. Gemma turned to the text. Were these compatibility tests concerned with blood transfusions? It didn’t make any sense. Recipient. Donor.

She leafed through the swan folder, trying to decipher the text, but after a few moments she had to stop, disappointed. To her it was incomprehensible, a long scientific paper describing improvements to something called the Pittsburgh Protocol. She recognised some phrases, but most of it was about specific antibodies, again using the medical shorthand of HLA but this time with additional letters DQ together with the word ‘alleles’, which she knew concerned DNA testing. There were, apparently, ‘six loci on chromosome 6 where the genes that produce HLA antigens are inherited’. Other words she recognised from her conversation with Lance: ‘transforming growth factors – TGFs’, ‘collagen’, ‘interleukin’ and ‘successful immune privilege’ which ‘radically surpasses anything so far’. She guessed it was possibly the scientific basis for DiNAH – the tailor-made DNA medications that were part of the new therapy.

Frustrated, she put the folder down, wondering why Tolmacheff had been so concerned about the possibility of her seeing its contents – the medical information it contained was as good as encrypted. She pulled out her phone and keyed in ‘Pittsburgh Protocol’.

She scanned it quickly. The Pittsburg Protocol appeared to be something developed by the University of Pittsburgh Medical Centre concerning antibody therapy – donor bone-marrow cell infusion to reduce toxicity in patients. Donors? Gemma looked up from the screen. Was Sapphire Springs Spa doing illegal organ transplants? Maybe Dr Evans had discovered what was going on in the highly secured medical centre. Is that why she’s called me out here tonight? Gemma wondered.

Puzzling over this, but aware of the late hour and anxious about her son, she rang Steve.

‘He’s sleeping like – like a baby.’ Steve laughed. ‘I’ve made him comfortable on my bed and don’t worry, I’ve built a wall of pillows and cushions around him.’

‘I’m impressed that you knew to do that. But do watch him. He’s learned how to get past pillow security.’

‘Hey, I’m an uncle – not a very good one, but I’ve learned a few things.’

‘I shouldn’t be much longer,’ she said. ‘Dr Evans wants to see me. She’s just been called away.’

Gemma moved to the reception area of the medical records building to see if Dr Evans was on her way back, and in the bright security light outside she noticed something: it seemed like the heavy security door to the medical centre wasn’t quite closed. She stepped back into the hall. ‘Steve! Gotta go. I’ll call later,’ she said quietly.

Gemma walked out again and glanced at the security guard. He was sitting with his back to her as he rocked from side to side in his swivel chair talking loudly on his mobile. Flattening herself against the wall, she edged her way past him, crept to the door and, praying that it wouldn’t make a sound, cautiously opened it. She was outside and safe in darkness before she breathed again. Keeping low, she made her way to the heavy door of the supercentre, flinching as the brilliant automatic light came on.

She pushed the door slowly, cautiously, peering around and then stepping quickly inside, into a dimly lit room. Two corridors led off it, one to the right and the other stretched directly in front of her; this was the one she chose. It was eerily silent and she wondered where Dr Evans was and who had summoned her.

As she walked further down, her instincts warned her of danger. With a gasp, Gemma saw that lying on the vinyl floor, halfway through a doorway, was the supine body of Dr Evans.

She ran to her and knelt down while scanning the rest of the corridor.

‘Dr Evans!’ she hissed. ‘What happened? Wake up!’

The woman stirred and her eyelids flickered. ‘Got to stop them …’ she whispered. ‘Please, stop them.’

‘Who? What’s happening?’

‘Dr Egmont … I threatened … the authorities … jabbed me … something … can’t move – barely speak …’ Dr Evans opened her eyes, desperately fighting whatever sedation she’d been hit with. ‘… surgical team,’ she struggled to speak, ‘… here any moment … leaving – all flying out … one last surgery … Harlow Hadley … the Bloomfield girl … help her! … my security card … Get her out of here. I hadn’t realised. I thought they were only breaking … medical protocols – I had no idea … no idea … what was going on in here. It’s too late for the other one …’

Her voiced faded and her eyelids closed. Gemma shook her, hard.

‘Where’s Mischa Bloomfield? Talk to me!’

But it was no use. April Evans had plummeted into deep unconsciousness, her heavily sedated breathing barely there, the drug in her system completely claiming her.

Gemma gently removed the swipe card from around Dr Evans’ neck and scrambled to her feet with just one thought: Mischa.

With every cell of her body braced for action, she crept along the corridor. Two doors, both closed, stood opposite each other, with another exit at the end of the long hallway. Gemma was heading for the exit when she heard a sound and froze. Had she imagined something? She strained to listen. There it was again. A weak moan. From somewhere close. From behind one of the closed doors; the one on the right. Gemma’s blood iced with fear.

As she approached, feelings of dread rose up. The white door stood like a threat and she hesitated before using Dr Evans’ card. She swiped downwards, and heard the click as the electronic lock released. Quietly she pushed the heavy door open and peered into the dim room.

Someone was lying on a trolley, a young woman who turned towards Gemma as she approached.

‘Mischa?’

Mischa stared at her with glazed eyes. Her pale face was expressionless, her mouth slack. She tried to speak but all that came out was the shapeless moan Gemma had heard from the corridor.

‘Mischa, what have they done to you? We’ve got to get out of here. Can you get up?’

Mischa attempted to sit up, but fell back helplessly. Gemma hurried to the door and listened. Any moment now they could be discovered. She pulled out her mobile and called Angie. ‘Where are you? You should be here by now!’ she hissed to the message bank. ‘I’ve found Mischa! We’re in the medical supercentre.’

Using all her strength, Gemma hauled Mischa to her feet, dislodging two folders that were hidden beneath her on the trolley, one with Mischa’s name on it. Gemma noticed the name on the second folder as it fell to the floor – Harlow Hadley, the actor. She tightened her hold on Mischa. Was Harlow Hadley here too? Was she awaiting DiNAH surgery?

With Mischa leaning heavily on her, almost a dead weight, Gemma staggered to the doorway. She prayed that no one was coming; that she could get out before the surgical team arrived.

Where the hell was Angie?

Half dragging, half carrying Mischa, she made it out into the corridor. Dr Evans lay where she’d left her, on her back, arms outflung. There was nothing Gemma could do for her right now.

It was hard work dragging the semi-conscious woman towards the medical-records room, but fearful desperation gave Gemma the strength she needed. Only a little way to go, she urged herself: Come on, Gemma; you can do it, girl.

Suddenly, voices. Male voices. Desperate, Gemma looked for a hiding place, but there was none. She and Mischa were exposed in the corridor. Opposite them was another locked door. She hauled Mischa over to it and swiped it open. The hum of the airconditioner didn’t quite cover the sounds of the approaching voices as Gemma strained to listen, propping Mischa on a bench just inside the room, before frantically looking for somewhere to hide. The room was empty except for glass cabinets filled with specimen jars.

Gemma stared, then attempted to refocus. For several moments, her brain couldn’t take in what she was seeing; her mind was trying to make sense of the impossible. At first, she thought she was looking at a sculptured mask, hanging in front of her. She’d seen this beautiful face before, in a sketch made by Nicole.

Brie’s face.

Brie’s face, completely removed from her head, hanging, suspended in dense fluid, floating in laboratory glassware, the half-closed eyelids and their eyelashes surrounding vacant spaces where the eyes should have been.

Gemma froze in horror as the realisation set in. A scream choked back in her throat.

The peeled-off face of Brie, the young sex worker who had vanished.

Just beyond Brie’s face, separated by a wall of glass, floated another. This face, also as fine, was suspended like some appalling theatrical apparition. This face, too, she recognised; from the photograph Angie had shown her of the beautiful graduate with her mortar board worn at an impish angle.

She was staring at the peeled-off face of Marie-Louise Palier.

Like the grouping of shots on a target, the truth about the vampire killings started to come together. Gemma understood. Seemingly disparate incidents locked into place as she grasped why the vampire had attacked, then shortly after come back for Phoebe Wilson, Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier but not Annabel Carr. Gemma understood why he had attacked Mischa then relentlessly pursued her. She understood the colour chart at the back of Maxine Wentworth’s folder.

She understood now the importance of the first, minor assault on the victims – the puncture wound; she grasped why the medical records held information about the HLA components. She realised now why Annabel Carr had not been the victim of a second, fatal attack. Even though the destruction of the lower bodies remained a mystery to her, it became clear there was a need for those catastrophic post-mortem injuries to the heads of the young women—to hide the unthinkable, the reason they had to die.

Slowly, the long chains of letters and numbers underneath Phoebe Wilson and Maxine Wentworth’s names started to mean something. There had been many identical letters and numbers, Gemma recalled. These suggested compatibility. Phoebe Wilson shared great compatibility with Maxine Wentworth.

Just as the long chains of letters and numbers underneath Annabel Carr’s name must have delivered the opposite information: incompatibility.

That’s why she was still alive. Despite having all the desired qualities, when it came down to the nano level of the sixth chromosome, Annabel Carr had proved unsuitable. Gemma recalled Mischa’s description of the vampire’s interest in her skin tone. The chart at the back of Maxine Wentworth’s folder was a colour chart, all right, matching skin tones from donor to recipient.

Gemma felt the energy draining out of her as she stared at this cabinet of outrageous evil. Limp with shock, she slumped against the door, forgetting for a moment that she and Mischa were in great danger, that Dr Evans was threatened too. She forgot that Tolmacheff, Dr Egmont and the vampire could discover them at any moment.

This was what Janet Chancy had discovered; this was what she wouldn’t talk about on the phone; this was why she was murdered.

‘Puncture site,’ Lance had said, referring to blood sampling. In the first minor assault the vampire had taken samples from the targeted victims, for tissue typing, to check against the recipients of the ‘facelift’ to ensure there was enough compatibility before the final, fatal onslaught. Girls were chosen for their outstanding beauty, their skin tone and flawless complexion. Did Sapphire Springs have a catalogue for recipients to choose from? Is that what the catalogue with the swans contained? Could the women who desired an entirely different face pick their new look from an album – a catalogue of murdered girls? They’d matched the skin tones. They’d matched the HLA compatibility.

She pulled out her phone as the voices became louder, closer.

‘Angie! For God’s sake get here fast! Those women were murdered for their faces!’

CHAPTER 35

The voices outside the door came closer and Gemma ended her call. I’ve gotta get us out of here, came the voice of survival deep in her guts.

She could now hear words, phrases: ‘… flying out … getting too hot … Manila in the morning … as soon as the Hadley woman delivers the cash …’

She held her breath, willing them not to come into the room, praying that they’d walk straight past. Praying that Angie would arrive with the cavalry.

But the voices came closer and closer, and Gemma readied herself, deciding on a surprise attack. There was the barest chance that with the element of surprise, she might just get away with it. There was no alternative.

The door opened. Gemma crouched. For a nanosecond Tolmacheff didn’t see her. She flew at him and they went down hard on the floor, Gemma on top. Swiftly, she twisted his right arm back, attempting a vicious come-along hold, but as she did and Tolmacheff roared in pain, something slammed into the back of her head, sending her sprawling along the corridor. She attempted to get to her feet, dazed, trying to keep the momentum going, but the man who had kicked her in the head stood over her, grinning, wrinkling the smeared birthmark under his left eye.

‘Good one, Volk! Now the bitch is in the right place,’ snarled Tolmacheff as he clambered to his feet. ‘This is the last time you’ll get in my way. I know who you are. I got your rego number the day I caught you spying in my study, Gemma Lincoln!’

Gemma swayed then steadied herself against the wall, her eyes focused on the pistol Tolmacheff pointed at her.

He gestured with the squat weapon in the direction of Mischa, collapsed on the bench. ‘Take her to the theatre. I’ll deal with this one.’

The theatre. Where she would be murdered and her remains dumped. Ted Ackland had almost got it: the parts missing from the faces of the murdered women were not trophies. Gemma was shocked back into full consciousness at the sight of the vampire half carrying, half dragging the heavily sedated Mischa away.

‘What sort of doctors do this? How is it possible?’

‘Everything is possible. All it takes is finding out someone’s weakness. Some people call it blackmail. I call it insurance. Walk, bitch. Make any attempt to get away and that’ll be the last thing you do.’

Gemma stumbled in front of Tolmacheff, her brain racing despite the ache now spreading from the base of her skull. Her dazed thoughts centred on one plea: for God’s sake, Angie, get here now!

Tolmacheff pushed her towards the exit and Gemma started to walk, constantly looking around at him, terrified that he would shoot her. The thought of Rafi crying for her and she not able to come to him surged through her so strongly that she realised her fingernails were cutting into her clenched palms.

‘You can’t do this!’ she cried. ‘The police are on their way. Get out now while you can!’

His only reply was a vicious jab into her kidneys with the business end of the pistol.

They’d reached the exit.

‘Open the door. Step outside, then take one step ahead and stop. Put your phone on the ground. Slowly, now. No, don’t turn round.’

The night was black and no stars were visible. Slowly, Gemma reached into her pocket and took out her phone. Her hands were shaking but she was able to thumb Mike’s speed-dial number before lowering the mobile to the grass.

He would know she’d called even if he wasn’t able to contact her.

‘You think the police are coming?’ Tolmacheff laughed as he kicked the mobile aside. ‘They’ve been and gone. They sent some little girl out here and I dealt with her – sent her happily on her way. She thinks you’ve already left the premises.’

Despair crushed Gemma as Tolmacheff continued bragging. ‘Just like I handled that interfering journalist who’d seen something she shouldn’t have and thought she’d race off and report it. Should have chucked her in the incinerator after her notebook. But she didn’t get very far. And now it’s just you and me, sweetheart.’

Gemma’s mind whirled, terror and rage swirling like two demons. Angie wasn’t coming. Angie had been sent away. No one was coming to help her. She was on her own, against death.

The despair met a fury: this evil man would not get away with his crimes. A surge of fire flew up through her spine, activating muscle memory, spinning her into actions unpractised in years. Her left arm knocked Tolmacheff’s weapon hand sideways as a split second later, the fingers of her right hand speared him in the soft spot of his throat. He collapsed heavily to his knees, clawing at his windpipe, mouth gaping, the scream that he couldn’t voice choking him. With all her strength, Gemma kicked him under the chin, sending him flying backwards in a shower of blood. Stooping, she snatched up the pistol then ran to retrieve her mobile. She turned and sped back to the reception foyer, all the time fearing she’d hear the vampire hard on her heels. She grabbed one of the heavy wrought-iron chairs and swung it against the glass of the double doors. They crashed in a shower of shards and with her arms folded across her face she barged through, heedless of any cuts. She raced into Dr Evans’ office, grabbed her bag and then ran out the door again towards the car park.

The manoeuvre she’d used on Tolmacheff could be fatal, but she wasn’t going to check on him now. The vampire was nowhere to be seen. She had to stop them killing Mischa – had to get back to Rafi and Steve.

She was fumbling with her keys when a pair of headlights swung in from the road, hurtling through the entrance. Fearful, Gemma crouched down beside her car until she recognised the other vehicle.

Angie!

She ran like a maniac, hurling herself in front of the car, screaming and waving for Angie to stop.

Angie braked and the car screeched to a halt, almost knocking Gemma to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and flung herself into the passenger seat.

‘Angie! Thank God you came back! Call for back-up. We’ve got to stop them. They’re about to kill Mischa Bloomfield!’

‘Back-up’s on the way, Gems. Plus a medico. That bastard didn’t fool me for a second.’

Angie and Gemma ran to the medical centre where Tolmacheff, still alive, was making grotesque attempts to stand. Gemma snatched the security card from around his neck and used it to open the door.

The two women raced through the building, Angie’s weapon drawn, flinging doors open until they found the operating theatre.

Four masked surgeons looked up in surprise from where they stood around the anaesthetised woman on the operating table as Angie came forward holding up her weapon and her warrant card. ‘You’re all under arrest. Step away from the patient. On your knees. All of you. Now! ‘

Thank goodness that they hadn’t started cutting, Gemma thought. The anaesthetist gestured at his syringe line and Angie nodded. He switched it off then joined the others kneeling.

With Angie’s service pistol holding their attention, Gemma was able to restrain them with Angie’s nylon cuffs as the surgeons spoke urgently and loudly in Russian.

‘I don’t know what they’re saying,’ said Gemma, ‘but you can tell they’re not happy.’ She cradled the woman. ‘It’s okay, Mischa. We’re here. You’re safe. We’ll have you out of here as soon as you come round.’

The surgeons, minus their key cards, were herded by Angie and Gemma into a small adjoining wash room and securely locked in.

Angie ran outside and crouched over Tolmacheff, who still hadn’t been able to make it to his feet.

‘Angelo Tolmacheff,’ she said, snapping a cuff around his flailing right arm, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of murder and conspiracy to murder,’ she began. ‘You do not have to say anything, but anything you say may be later used in evidence against you.’

Tolmacheff croaked obscenities but the fight had gone out of him, at least for now.

‘I’ll stay here until back-up arrives,’ said Angie.

‘What about the vampire?’ said Gemma. ‘We can’t let him get away.’

‘Nestor Kalganov. He’s a standover man and suspect in a murder in Melbourne. He can’t have got too far. We’ll find him. We got his real name courtesy of Mike.’

‘Mike?’

‘Apparently he’s been on the case for a while now, keeping an eye on you. Don’t look at me like that. He was worried about you.’

‘Tolmacheff called him “Volk”.’

The sirens were approaching as Gemma ran in to check on April Evans. She placed her rolled-up jacket under the unconscious woman’s head then ran back out so she could get help for her.

‘Okay, Gems,’ said Angie. ‘What’s been going on out here?’

Despite the headache of the century, Gemma started to bring Angie up to date.

She was halfway through when the uniformed police pulled up. The doctor checked Mischa and called for ambulance transport. By the time the whole area had been secured, Gemma had finished her account to Angie and directed the ambulance crew to Dr Evans.

‘But wouldn’t the patient who’d had the face transplant look like the murdered woman?’ Angie asked the doctor.

She shook her head. ‘Not at all, because the transplanted facial skin is overlaid on the recipient’s own facial structure, their bones and musculature. Of course they’d look different, but that would mostly be because they’ve lost about thirty years in facial ageing. People forget what we looked like in our youth. And any discrepancy is explained away as having been caused by the “facelift”.’

Angie stared at her. ‘It’s hard getting my head around this. So creepy. So—’ She shuddered.

‘So evil,’ said Gemma. ‘There’ll have to be a full inquiry into this – to see if there’ve been other operations that we don’t know about.’

Angie sighed. ‘By the way, Brie’s real name was Lucy Anne someone.’

‘Lucy Anne Russell,’ said Gemma, thinking about the name in the medical records. Mrs van Leyden wouldn’t get her new face now. Nor would Harlow Hadley.

Two ambulance officers carried Dr Evans out on a stretcher.

Gemma should have felt a sense of elation after cracking a case so hard that it had seemed impossible, but instead she grieved for the families of the women she hadn’t saved.

‘I won’t be happy until I’ve got a few answers from this man,’ Gemma said to Angie as she crouched over Tolmacheff. She was not able to resist giving him a swift kick. ‘He was aiming to murder his wife for insurance money, weren’t you? You’ve already got another woman lined up.’

‘I loathe women,’ snarled Tolmacheff.

‘But not their money,’ Angie snapped.

‘You loathe women so much,’ Gemma said, ‘that you’ve taken out an insurance policy that could have made Adel Milani very rich.’

That got him, Gemma thought, noticing the surprise and confusion registering on Tolmacheff’s face. Then he made an unpleasant noise, which Gemma realised was his laugh. ‘You stupid cow! You don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘Why did Magda Simmonds commit suicide?’ Gemma continued, ignoring the insult.

‘Get fucked!’

‘Answer me! I’ve got plenty of kick left and there’s just you, me and Angie here right this minute.’ She gave him another vicious kick to help reinforce his vulnerability.

Tolmacheff howled, then spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Stupid cow noticed her new face was falling off. Came out here abusing me, screaming about suing me. Said she’d only had the facelift because her boyfriend pressured her. Said between the two of us, we’d destroyed her.’

Her boyfriend had pressured her, Gemma thought, recalling the suave, flirtatious Ambrose Cobcroft.

‘What do you know about Maxine Wentworth? About why she died?’

Tolmacheff remained silent, but a movement of Gemma’s right foot changed his mind.

‘She came here for her usual DiNAH medication. Somehow she got hold of her confidential medical file – saw her donor’s file attached to it.’

Gemma felt sick at his phrase, ‘donor’s file’, as if the murder of Phoebe Wilson and the destruction of her face were equivalent to visiting the blood bank.

‘She started screaming. I told her to shut up – that she was in it up to her neck – literally. That I had her permission signature on the surgical forms. That no one would believe her if she said she didn’t know. Of course she must have known! I warned her about saying anything. I suggested she should pay me a certain amount of money to salve her conscience and I wouldn’t involve her if questions were asked later.’

Gemma imagined Maxine’s shock when she realised she was wearing the face of a young woman whose murder she had purchased. No wonder she couldn’t bear to look at herself, or let anyone else see the new face that had cost another woman’s life.

CHAPTER 36

‘I should have guessed much earlier what was going on out there,’ said Gemma, holding two takeaway coffees as Angie filled her car with petrol at a service station on their convoy drive home. ‘If only I’d realised sooner that Mrs van Leyden was an “after”, not a “before”, maybe I could have done more.’

‘You did great, Gems,’ said Angie. ‘The palynologist visited the place as part of our preparation to apply for the warrant, and found that rare plant growing there – that bitter pea bush. Now we have more corroborating physical evidence linking the murders to Sapphire Springs. I still don’t quite understand why there was the damage to the lower body. What’s that all about?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gemma paused. ‘But I still think I should have worked it all out earlier – what was really going on.’

‘How could we? What they were doing was unthinkable.’

As Angie returned after paying for her petrol, she said, ‘I talked to someone about the name “Volk”. It’s a Russian word. It means “wolf”.’

‘Wolf,’ said Gemma. ‘That’d be right. That’s another reason why he wore those vampire teeth. He was in character so we didn’t believe the women he attacked.’

Gemma dialled Steve’s number, hoping that her phone still worked, and listened as the call diverted to voicemail.

‘Steve? I hope Rafi’s been well behaved for you. I’ll pick him up in about thirty minutes. Please call me.’

Angie had clearly overheard the message. ‘You have to let him go, Gemma. You’ve got Mike to consider – your life with Mike and Rafi. I get the feeling you’re still—’

‘Angie, he’s the father of my child.’

‘I’m not disputing that. But I’ve known you for nearly twenty years and I can tell. You still haven’t separated from Steve. Not emotionally. Are you still in love with him?’

Gemma hesitated. ‘I can’t help it, Angie,’ she said finally. ‘There’s just this – this – connection between us.’

Angie’s mobile rang and Gemma watched anxiously as she answered. ‘Thanks. Okay.’ She called off and shook her head. ‘That was one of the smarter young cops on the team. She’s tracked down the whereabouts of Adel Milani.’

‘You’ve found her? She’ll be able to—’

Angie cut her off. ‘She isn’t a she. He’s Tolmacheff’s lover. He’d been telling people he’s Tolmacheff’s son. According to what I just heard, he’s breached his student visa and he’s now in the hands of Immigration.’

Gemma blinked as she absorbed this news. She recalled the young man she’d seen in earnest conversation with Tolmacheff the day of their first meeting at the cafe, the man Spinner had described as having an argument with Tolmacheff at the Rushcutters Bay restaurant.

Tolmacheff’s comments at the spa made sense now. He was no lover of women, just a user. No time to consider this at the moment, she thought. Deep unease stirred in Gemma’s mind. She called Steve again; again, it went to voicemail. She couldn’t shake a bad feeling; she recalled the times she’d gone to her bedroom window to check if someone was out there; the time that Mike had walked around the garden to reassure her. The broken rose cane and the disturbed soil outside the bedroom window. Someone had been stalking her. What if the same had happened to Steve? Her heart yearned for her baby.

She rang Mike and before he could start she began, ‘Mike, I’m on my way to Steve’s place, to pick up Rafi. But I’m worried. Steve’s not answering his phone.’

There was a silence in which Gemma could almost hear Mike processing the implications in her words. Finally, he responded. ‘Okay. Call me if you need me.’ There was a pause, then he added, ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

She started to climb back into her car. ‘I’m going to Steve’s.’

‘I’ll follow,’ said Angie.

CHAPTER 37

Gemma parked some distance away from the small apartment block. Angie drew alongside and called out, ‘I’ll wait here for you.’

She hurried into the foyer, grim foreboding pulsing with every heartbeat. She rapped on his door. ‘Steve? Steve? It’s me, Gemma.’

She put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing. She had a strong sense that the place was empty. Where could they have gone? Surely Steve wouldn’t take Rafi out at this hour?

She ran back to Angie. ‘There’s no one there. The place is quiet. They’re not here!’

‘Okay. He couldn’t go many places with a baby. What about his mum’s house?’

‘Of course,’ Gemma cried, relieved. ‘Rafi’s been upset because I’m not there and Steve’s gone to his mother’s – and he didn’t want to admit defeat to me. I’ll call her.’

Gemma was so certain that Mrs Brannigan would reassure her that Steve and Rafi were both there, that when she said in a puzzled, even hurt, voice, ‘Gemma, why do you think Steve and your baby would be here?’ Gemma rang off without saying goodbye.

‘Angie. Something’s happened! Something’s terribly wrong!’

‘Calm down, Gems. Don’t jump to any conclusions yet. I’m sure there’s a—’

Gemma’s mobile rang and she pounced on it, recognising Steve’s number. ‘Thank goodness! Where are you?’

But it wasn’t Steve on the other end of the line. ‘Get to my house and we’ll talk about how things are going to be from now on. Otherwise you will never see your baby again. And if you bring the cops, that goes double.’

No words came when Gemma tried to speak. Instead, an icy fire of fear and rage caught in her throat. Behind Lorraine Litchfield’s shrill voice, Gemma heard another noise: Rafi’s despairing, hungry wail. At the sound of it, the fear and rage became high-octane ferocity. Rafi. This monster woman had Rafi.

The thought of Rafi in the hands of someone who didn’t love him – who could harm him – curdled the ferocity into iron-hard resolve. Her mind zoomed in to a narrow, laser-like beam, blazing with primal fury.

Finally she was able to speak. ‘I want to talk to Steve.’

‘He’s not in a position to talk just now. Just do as I say – and fast, bitch. I’ll be watching for your arrival.’

‘What is it?’ Angie asked, seeing Gemma’s face.

‘I will do exactly as you say. No police,’ Gemma responded, ignoring her friend’s anxious face. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I won’t contact the cops. This is just between you and me, Lorraine.’

But Lorraine had rung off.

‘What’s going on?’ Angie demanded.

‘Lorraine Litchfield. She’s got Rafi and Steve.’

Angie swore.

Gemma barely noticed the drive back to her place. She barely noticed that neither Mike nor Hugo was there. Angie ran around after her as Gemma grabbed a jacket and raced into the bedroom to the gun safe, unable to look at the empty cot.

Her heart was beating out a tattoo: You are dead, Lorraine Litchfield, you are dead, you are dead … She had to keep it going like a mantra, otherwise she’d go mad with the fear of losing her baby.

Angie wouldn’t let up. ‘Listen to me, Gemma! You’ve got to bring the police in. You can’t possibly do this on your own.’

‘I have to. I can’t take the risk,’ Gemma said, grabbing the compact Glock 27 out of its case, unlocking the ammunition and loading the extension magazine with nine rounds. ‘This is my son – my son’s life we’re talking about.’

She shoved the clip up into the weapon, cursing Litchfield, and checked that the automatic safety features were in place before strapping on an ankle holster under her trousers. She checked for keys and mobile while the connections merged in her mind. Hugo had seen Tolmacheff and Lorraine together at Kings Cross. Tolmacheff must have been the criminal Steve mentioned, the man Lorraine had lost interest in pursuing some time ago when she found he wasn’t the rich man he’d claimed to be. But they were together again now – Tolmacheff and Litchfield united again to destroy Gemma Lincoln.

‘You can’t expect me to sit on this,’ said Angie as Gemma made ready to leave. ‘I have to take action. I’m coming with you. You could end up doing something crazy.’

‘My son’s life is at stake, Angie. I can’t take the risk of any stuff-ups. You do what you have to, but I’ve got to move – now and fast. By the time the tactical-response guys get organised, it’ll be too late. If you go anywhere near Litchfield’s place, I swear I’ll shoot you myself!’

Angie stood watching helplessly as Gemma left.

The last time she’d been at this address, Gemma recalled as she pulled up across the road from the faux-Venetian McMansion, she’d been hauled from the floor of the back seat of a car that had hijacked her off the street. This time, things would be different.

I’m here to bring you home, Rafi, her heart whispered as she checked the concealed Glock securely fastened to her right ankle. There was no doubt in her mind that she would go to any lengths to keep Rafi safe.

She had driven here in a haze of fear and vengeance. Now, she was overcome by a sense of furious yet focused power; and it was directed straight at Lorraine Litchfield’s heart.

The front door opened as she approached. A man leered at her, the blemish beneath his left eye creasing under his psychopathic glare as he blocked her way.

‘Lorraine told me to come. Where is she? Where is my son?’

The vampire moved closer and started to pat her down with relish, running his hands over her body, lingering as he checked her inner thighs. It was all she could do not to punch him. Of course he found the Glock.

Gemma felt his hold on her loosening as he roughly tore off the ankle holster. Then he took her by surprise, knocking her to the floor and straddling her chest, his heavy arse over her face. His mobile rang and the vampire stopped it almost immediately. But in those few seconds Gemma recognised the sound that had woken her three weeks ago in the early morning: the first few strident bars of the stabbing, atonal violin shrieks from the shower scene in Psycho.

‘Get off me, you bastard!’ she swore, heaving him off as he clambered to answer his phone. He had been outside her bedroom and forgotten to silence his phone. The vampire had been scoping her before she even knew he existed.

He spoke briefly on the phone, then grabbed her and pushed her into the room she remembered from the last painful time she’d been here: the mother-of-pearl furniture, the giant hot-pink scallops that lined the huge mirror at the opposite end of the room, two black candelabra, studded with Tahitian pearls on either side, the long pink-and-grey granite table, and doors leading off to the other areas of the house. Gemma caught sight of herself in the mirror, dishevelled and distraught.

Litchfield stood preening herself in front of an oval mirror, between two heavy gilded dolphin candlesticks. She was wearing one of her favoured outfits, a low cut, mauve angora jumper and white trousers. Silver sandals decorated her permanently tanned feet and her hair fluffed out like yellow fairy floss. She turned as Gemma stumbled into the room. Gemma noticed three matching suitcases in pearlescent-pink fake crocodile in a row beneath the mirror. The almost empty champagne bottle and two glasses on the table indicated that she and the vampire had been having one for the road, celebrating their triumph.

Premature celebration, Litchfield. Gemma’s eyes narrowed, scanning for the chance to move as the young woman sauntered over to the table, picking up her glass.

‘Where’s my son?’ Gemma demanded from across the table. ‘No talking until I see my son.’

‘You’re not in a position to tell me what to do,’ snapped Lorraine.

Then Gemma heard Rafi in a room nearby, his despairing wail, and her heart nearly exploded. She took a step closer until she was pressed up against the table that divided them. ‘Please, please, give me back my son! What do you want from me? I’ll give you anything. I swear Raimon will never see any of that footage.’

‘You know, I actually believe you. But it doesn’t really matter. I can’t take the risk that you’ve left some sort of insurance that he will get hold of eventually. You’ve forced me out of town. So I need an ace card. That card is your son. I’m taking Rafi with me. Kind of a guarantee.’

No no no! screamed through Gemma’s mind. Reflected in the mirror, she could see the smirking vampire behind them, sprawled on one of the armchairs, legs apart, enjoying the scene. Near his right hand and sunk into one of the fat cushions was Lorraine’s thick-nosed M1911 from which Gemma had recoiled some years previously. Then, it had been grasped in Lorraine’s shaking hands.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you and that baby for a while. Now I’ve got all of you – the trifecta – in my territory. And I can do what I like.’

‘Please, Lorraine,’ said Gemma, her mind firing and discarding ideas with the speed of an automatic pistol.

‘You can beg all you like,’ she said, her face no longer beautiful but contorted into a snarl, leaning closer over the table so that Gemma could see her tanned cleavage. ‘I’m leaving the state – heading for another big city. Maybe even leaving the country. But there’s one thing I know about Raimon: he never gives up. He’s like Nestor here. That’s why I hired Nestor. Headhunted him from the guy he mainly works for.’

The vampire grunted at the sound of his name.

‘Raimon boasted to me what lengths he went to to get to his ex-wife, and you know what he did to her. She’d moved house but he tracked her down. He’d do that to me, I know. He’s got that sort of crazy love that turns to crazy hate – especially if he sees something like the footage you took. So that’s why I’m keeping Rafi with me. He’s my guarantee that you will never, ever show that footage to Raimon. Who knows, after a while when it all cools down, you might get your son back. I could get sick of him. Then again, I might keep him. He’s kind of cute – when he’s not screaming.’

‘Please, Lorraine,’ Gemma repeated. ‘You can’t take my son. Just hand him over to me now and we’ll forget about everything. I’m begging you.’

‘You are. And I’m loving it,’ she hissed, the perfect mouth shrivelling in contempt.

In the nearby room, Rafi’s crying had reached high-pitched choking despair until its crescendo formed his first word. ‘Mama!’ he called. ‘Mama!’

Mama. His first word, and he was calling for her!

Lorraine’s face contorted with relished hatred as she came even closer, almost shoving her face into Gemma’s across the table, enjoying Gemma’s suffering. ‘I just wanted to see you grovel, here in my house. To rub your face in the shit, like you’ve tried to do to me!’

Rafi’s cries became more and more distressed. ‘Mama! Mam-aa!’

Her son’s call for her surged a red-black fury through her body, searing through her right arm. In a speedy blur, she grabbed the champagne bottle and smashed the neck against the granite table edge in one rage-fuelled swoop, and shoved the jagged glass straight up into Lorraine’s jeering face. Lorraine’s head and chest slammed back, cascading blood. Gemma spun round, yelling like a crazy woman, ready to take on the vampire, hurling herself and the sharp, bloodied bottle at him like a berserker. Somewhere on the pink carpet, making incoherent sounds on the other side of the table, Lorraine Litchfield floundered.

The vampire leaped to his feet swearing, the M1911 raised ready to fire. Gemma barely registered it as she lunged at him with the bottle, desperate to get to him before he fired. But she missed because suddenly he’d lurched forward, sprawling on the floor near her feet, the heavy M1911 hitting the carpet.

Gemma stood, uncomprehending as Steve, miraculously materialising through the door behind the pink armchair, continued his trajectory, diving over the armchair, snatching up the M1911 and turning it on the scrabbling man, snarling, ‘Move and I’ll blow your bloody head off, pal!’

The trifecta! Just as Lorraine had said. She’d gathered them all together – Steve, Rafi and herself.

‘Steve! Oh thank God. Help me! I’ve got to go to him!’

She threw down the bloodied bottle and ran towards the door, following the sound of Rafi’s distraught screams.

‘I’m coming, Rafi! It’s all right, darling!’ she called. ‘I’m here, I’m here!’

She pushed the door open. In the master bedroom, where the décor was a cross between Versailles and Disneyland, Rafi sat up in the middle of the bed, his face red and crinkled with screaming, twisting the bedcovers with convulsive grabs of his fingers. When he saw his mother, the screaming briefly stopped. Then it started again, even louder.

Gemma, whispering soothing words, clambered up onto the huge canopied bed and gathered him to her. Rafi seized her and the screaming stopped as he snuffled and shuddered, looking up at her every other moment, his face crumpled in bitter disappointment. Where were you? his cries demanded. Why didn’t you come? I was crying and crying and you didn’t come.

Gemma collapsed back against the fluffy animals, pillows and bolsters, holding her son’s heaving little body tight against her heart until both of them slowly calmed down. ‘Everything’s all right,’ she told him. ‘Mama’s here.’

She looked up to see Steve at the door and only then did she realise he was injured; his right eye was swollen and half closed, set in discoloured flesh, and he limped as he approached. ‘Gems, she had a key to my place. God knows how she got it. Could have been someone at work. That thug was with her and they took us both at gunpoint. I’m so sorry, Gems. I had to go with her. I couldn’t endanger Rafi. I did what she told me. I was nearly out of my mind.’

‘It’s okay, Steve. Everything’s okay.’

‘I checked Lorraine. She’s gone.’

There was a pause; and exhausted as she was, Gemma understood what he was saying. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. It was a reflex action. She was going to take Rafi. I had to stop her. He was screaming. He was frightened, hungry. He was calling for me. He said, “Mama”!’

‘I know. I could hear him. It was his crying that helped me break free.’

Steve sat on the bed, putting his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to his chest. Together they gazed on their son, exhausted and finally at peace.

And that’s how they were when Mike walked in.

CHAPTER 38

Later, after giving her statement to the police, she was too exhausted and shaken to walk. When Mike finally drove her home, Gemma was grateful for his steady presence. ‘Mike, I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t – I’m not a killer, am I?’

‘It’s okay, Gemma. We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just get you home.’

Kit was waiting for them when they arrived. She threw her arms around Gemma who sobbed out the whole story.

Later, as Gemma was sitting in the bath with Rafi, trying to wash the scenes from the mother-of-pearl hell out of her mind, Angie rang.

‘We’ve charged Tolmacheff. He’s in hospital under police guard. The detectives are interviewing April Evans and Lizzie.’

‘What has Lizzie said? Why did she help them?’ Gemma asked.

‘She swears blind she didn’t know what was going on down there. We’re trying to find out how the vampire got her to cooperate with him to pick up Mischa. Dr Evans is saying she only just discovered what was going on the day she called you over.’

‘That leaves me,’ said Gemma. ‘I killed – someone.’ She couldn’t say the name.

‘Gems, I saw your statement. And don’t worry about copping a manslaughter charge. Even if you do, it’ll never come to court. The DPP wouldn’t waste the time and money. No jury in the world would convict a mother defending her baby.’

Gemma put the phone down and pressed Rafi closer to her heart. She never wanted to let him go.

CHAPTER 39

It took her a week of talking with Kit and Angie, going over and over the events that ended in Lorraine’s death before the incident stopped dominating her mind all day and most of the night.

Eventually, a call from Angie put an end to some questions. ‘I’ve got a long report here from Ted Ackland. You’d have to be a scientist to understand it fully but it explains the mutilation of the hip areas. Apparently, the hip bones are one of the best places for extracting the genetic material needed to manufacture the growth factor that was part of DiNAH therapy. This was given to the future recipients of the face transplant so that they already had their donor’s DNA code in their system prior to the transplant. That made them more receptive to the donor tissue. That, plus the growth factors from the client’s own DNA material, meant the transplant was more easily accepted and healed very well.’

‘In the end, though,’ Gemma said, ‘they just wanted to take Harlow Hadley’s money and leave the country.’

‘Mmm, yes. Now, Gems, don’t worry about Gross ripping up your investigator’s licence,’ Angie continued. ‘I had a word with Steve’s contact in internal affairs. Gross has been standing over a sex worker about a drug matter and getting free sex in exchange for not charging her. She’s now willing to make a sworn statement about it – and she’s got plenty of witnesses to back her up. When I pointed this out to the Acting Inspector, he suddenly decided that blurry images on a security camera were probably not the strongest basis for a break-and-enter charge.’

‘What would I do without you?’ Gemma asked.

‘Get into a lot more trouble, no question.’

She barely saw Mike during this time. He seemed to be working all hours, and Hugo had gone to his father’s place to get ready for his return to school.

It felt like there was only Rafi and herself in the world. The awful images of what she’d done continued to assail her – but she knew she’d do it all over again if she had to.

Finally she wore the sequences out and found she was able to put the nightmare away for minutes at a time. Then hours. She heard through Angie that Delphine had settled into her new life in the Southern Highlands and Mischa was happy in a new job.

On the matter of Lorraine Litchfield, Angie was more prosaic. ‘Look, honey, Litchfield had been gunning for you for years. This was the second time she’d tried to destroy you. One of you had to go, and I’m really pleased it wasn’t you.’

A week later as Gemma carried Rafi into the kitchen to mash up some banana for him, she noticed an envelope with Mike’s handwriting on it propped up against the electric kettle. She sat Rafi at the table, pulled a chair up next to him and opened the envelope.

Dear Gemma,

I hope you will understand my sudden absence. I made the decision to go away for a while now that you and Rafi are safe and most of the cases you were involved in are resolved. I would have done this earlier except the Litchfield business happened and I simply couldn’t leave then.

I’m writing because I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to this sort of thing, and I know that talking to you would make it very difficult for me to leave. You’d probably talk me out of it, which wouldn’t solve anything but only put things off for a while. I’ve tried to make it clear that things weren’t going well between you and me. When I walked into Litchfield’s bedroom to find you, Steve and Rafi cuddled up together, it hit me like a bomb – all the things that had been worrying me. Somehow, although I live with you, I still feel like an outsider. You pay more attention to Hugo than you do to me. You’ll probably deny that, but I know I’m only getting a part of you. I need more.

I’ll call in a week or two and give you the details of where I’m staying. I need some time alone to think about the direction I want my life to take. Maybe we can make a life together. Maybe not. You give more to Steve than to me, and the worst thing is, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

As always,

Mike

Gemma stood up, dropping the note onto the table, and blindly walked out to the deck. It was a blustery morning with the sea white-tipped ahead of the nor’-easter pushing fast clouds across the sky.

Mike hadn’t signed ‘Love as always’, she noticed through the daze, just ‘As always’. The ‘love’ had gone. She sat on the bench by the table, staring blankly out at the horizon. The shock numbed her for a little while and then the tears came.

Hours later when she was all cried out, she called Angie and told her about the letter.

‘I’d better come over and make you a stiff drink.’

‘Yes, please. A stiff drink and a good friend are what I need.’

During their chat, Hugo arrived to pick up some things he’d forgotten, letting himself in with his key, clattering across the floorboards, appearing on the deck holding Mike’s note in his hand. ‘Has Mike really gone?’

‘Give that to me, Hugo,’ said Gemma. ‘You’ve got to stop reading other people’s stuff.’

‘He’s leaving because of me. It’s my fault.’

‘Hugo, that’s not true. Sit down. Listen. This has nothing to do with you. It’s between me and Mike, okay?’

‘I found out some things for you,’ he said, ‘using the info Mike had already hacked. I’ve printed it all out and it’s sitting on Mike’s desk. About Tolmacheff and the companies he’s been using to launder money. Something called Perestroika Enterprises. About his business contacts and his connections to Sapphire Springs Spa, brothels and a college that’s supposed to teach English but doesn’t have any students – I hacked into its website to check its enrolments: totally zip. He’s got connections to really bad guys in Serbia and Russia. Man, he is a major criminal.’

Gemma walked him to the door and waved him off as he ran up the stone stairs to where his father waited in his car. Hugo didn’t look back and Gemma, with her own tears blurring her vision, understood why.

‘Mike doesn’t know what I’ve been dealing with,’ Gemma sniffed, blowing her nose as she joined Angie again. ‘The pressure I’ve been under. It’s been a hell of a time with a baby, work, and trying to do a live-in relationship as well. I don’t have any experience in two out of those three. And now, with this Litchfield business …’

Angie leaned over and patted her hand, saying, ‘It’s been a tough time for you both. And you’re learning on the job.

‘Mike does have a point, though,’ she continued a few moments later, putting the note down after reading it a second time. ‘You are still emotionally involved with Steve.’

Gemma was silent, then said, ‘Mike is such a good man. It hasn’t been easy for him. I know all that, and yet …’ She stood up and swallowed the rest of the stiff scotch that Angie had insisted on, then leaned over the railing, staring out at the sea. Finally she turned back to face Angie. ‘I don’t know what to do about that. It’s just something I live with. That connection to Steve. It’s in me. Maybe it’ll fade.’

After a pause Angie changed the subject. ‘Tolmacheff comes out of hospital today. Girl, you are one tough chick. What did you do to him? He couldn’t swallow for days. He’s being transferred to the remand centre. The charge sheet is as long as your arm. And we’re very close to picking up the vampire. You’ll possibly be charged with manslaughter. But I guarantee it’ll be No Billed.’

As she walked with Gemma and Rafi up to her car, Angie paused and turned back to her. ‘What do you want, Gemma? Who do you want?’

Gemma didn’t answer, just waved Angie off then walked back inside and out to the deck, cuddling her squirming little boy. Right now, she thought, I just want Rafi and – peace.

CHAPTER 40

Curled up in the big blue leather armchair, with the warm ginger coil of Taxi on her lap, she stared through the sliding doors at the pre-dawn sea and sky. Banks of murky clouds threatened the day, but beneath them, gold glowed low along the horizon.

Slowly, in spite of everything, her mind calmed and was filled with a curious sense of gratitude. She and Rafi were safe. They’d come through the threats and their enemies had been defeated. The cases she’d been working on had largely been resolved. Eric Wilson could take some comfort from knowing that his daughter’s killer had been found. No more young women would be murdered for their beauty. Steve was safe from destruction at the hands of perjuring criminals, and Lorraine Litchfield would never again be a problem.

She felt very sad about Mike and hoped that they’d be able to reconcile. She looked around her small apartment, where she’d lived and loved for many years. But maybe it was time to find a bigger place, and she would talk to Mike about this when he called in a week or so as he’d promised.

She wanted to do something to express her thankfulness so went looking for a candle in the drawers of the cedar sideboard. She found one and lit it, carefully shielding the small flame with her hand, and carried it into the bedroom, where Rafi was playing quietly. She was about to place the candle on the sconce beneath the cherub hanging on the wall, but she paused. It wasn’t necessary. A sunrise ray was streaming in, and as it touched the curves and valleys of the angel’s plump cheeks, Gemma could swear he was smiling.

OTHER GEMMA LINCOLN NOVELS

FEEDING THE DEMONS

Gemma Lincoln, ex-cop and owner of a security and surveillance business, has more than her fair share of skeletons in the closet. Gemma and her sister Kit’s childhoods were haunted by their mother’s murder and their father’s conviction for the crime. Thirty years later he is released from prison, causing conflict between the sisters, who have different opinions about their father’s guilt.

At the same time a series of gruesome incidents involving slashed women’s clothing escalates into serial murder. Both Gemma and Kit become caught up in a terror linked to past secrets.

In a gripping climax that threatens both their lives, demons from the past return to haunt their present.

‘A complex, masterfully paced story peppered with
memorable characters and superb dialogue’

Sydney Morning Herald

BABY DID A BAD BAD THING

Gemma Lincoln has never been busier. She’s investigating the disappearance of Benjamin Glass; she’s trying to discover who killed her old friend Shelly; and she’s also closing in on a serial killer who targets sex workers.

But at the same time some unknown person seems determined to destroy Gemma’s business. And she suspects her boyfriend is two-timing her. Always haunted by the insecurities of her past, Gemma struggles to pull her life together in increasingly sinister circumstances.

‘Harrowing … and irresistibly readable.’

Jeffery Deaver

SPIKING THE GIRL

PI Gemma Lincoln is brought in to investigate the disappearance of a missing schoolgirl by the principal of Netherleigh Park Ladies’ College. It is twelve months since the girl was last seen. The day after Gemma takes on the case another teenager from the exclusive school goes missing. Gemma’s best friend, Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald, is the investigating officer, but she is overworked and distracted. And Gemma’s got her own problems. She’s broken up with her boyfriend and she keeps getting the feeling she is being followed … She has no idea her life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Gemma discovers the missing students were messing about with web cams transmitting from their bedrooms and that they had links to a hardcore pornography site. When skeletal remains are confirmed to belong to one of the girls, Gemma pushes hard to uncover deadly secrets. But will her actions endanger the life of another student? Will Gemma be able to catch the murderer before they kill again?

‘superbly written psychological thriller …
Gemma fans should fasten their seatbelts’

Australian Women’s Weekly

SHATTERED

A young boy runs down the hallway stairs as his family are shot, one by one, at the front door. His eyes catch those of the killer. For a split second they stare at each other – Hell, what’s the kid doing here? – before three shots tear into his body.

Private investigator Gemma Lincoln and Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald take on the case, tracking down the brutal killer and piecing together fragments of evidence which hint that the shooter might have been a cop.

Meanwhile, Gemma is dealing with a runaway schoolgirl, searching for a young woman who does not want to be found, and grappling with the biggest question of her life.

Who is going to help her find the answer? Or is this something Gemma has to decide on her own?

‘keeps readers turning her pages’

Bulletin

‘delivers novels of criminal excellence’

Weekend Australian