Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (32 page)

Gemma stared, first at the viewfinder, then through the curtains to the real thing. What had happened to Anthony
Love? Slowly she lowered the camera while she peered at the clothes spread out around the couple on the floor. There was the brown velvet jacket, the man’s trousers, shirt and black shoes. The couple were now laughingly feeding each other, playfully making a smorgasbord of each others bodies: brie was spread on breasts and licked off, wine was drunk, slices of smoked salmon were draped erotically across thighs and neck. She turned away. She didn’t know whether to storm the front door in a fury or burst out laughing. All Minkie’s caginess and blushing around the topic of ‘Anthony Love’ suddenly fell into place. ‘But he’s an artist!’ she’d said. Indeed, thought Gemma. Patricia Greengate’s greatest piece of art had been herself, or rather, himself. As in all other worlds, Gemma thought, it’s more profitable to be a man.

Gemma leaned against the wall, incredulous to think how she had been duped. Yet it all fitted neatly together when she thought back on it. ‘I found her washing some clothes,’ the gaunt Peter Greengate had said of his suspicions. ‘
Men’s clothes.
’ And of course the exotic, shawl-trailing figure she’d been following at Bondi had transformed itself into a stocky man carrying an airline bag. None of this, however, exonerated the unwitting woman sporting with her girlfriend a wall-width away from murder. Had Benjamin Glass found out about his wife’s affair? Was Minkie, who’d showed her disdain for the conventional in some areas, squeamish about a lesbian romance becoming public knowledge? Gemma stowed the camera, and, after hesitating near the front door, walked back to the car. Minkie Montreau was no longer her business. Now, she had to face the tangled mess of her own life instead.

She sat in the car, looking at the beautiful house. Nothing was as it seemed. Minkie Montreau had done it again. Why on earth did she employ me in the first place? Gemma asked herself. The woman was an enigma. I’m surrounded by complex and possibly dangerous women, she thought, recalling her visit to the compulsive and crazy Skanda Bergen, her kidnapping by jealous Lorraine Litchfield. She recalled the photos on top of the cabinet in Skanda’s spotless apartment. And as she did, her mind made a connection.

Her mobile rang. It was Dr Heather Pike.

‘I must be mad,’ she said, ‘to even consider doing this. I’ve got that Naltrexone implant you wanted.’

They made an appointment time and Gemma drove back to Phoenix Crescent. There was no way, she decided, she would ever show this video to Peter Greengate.

•

Spinner was the only person in the office when Gemma got back and while she prepared the video, she told him the story of what she’d witnessed at Minkie’s place.

‘Just goes to show,’ said Spinner ‘how we can’t ever assume anything in our game.’

‘Spinner,’ she said, ‘tell me something. Why would a person kill someone with carbon monoxide and then use an HTA to burn the place down, especially if by using the HTA they knew they’d be drawing attention to themselves in a very dangerous way?’

‘Aren’t there more important questions you should be answering right now?’ Spinner asked.

‘So answer me this instead,’ she said. ‘Why would Lorraine Litchfield be in a family shot with Skanda Bergen?’

‘In a box of photos?’ Spinner asked.‘Or on display?’

‘Right on top of the shelf,’ she said. ‘With all the other icons.’

Spinner stared at her. ‘You know the answer to that one yourself.’

She did. ‘It indicates that Skanda and Lorraine have a relationship that is very important to Skanda,’ she said. ‘A relationship that she wants to display.’

‘That would certainly be similar to the conclusion I’d come to,’ said Spinner in his cautious way. ‘If there’s a photo of the two of them on show.’

‘I want to pay her a visit and ask her a few more questions,’ said Gemma.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Spinner said. ‘Can’t have you going by yourself to that place.’ Then he went a little too far. ‘Why don’t you come with me to church tonight? We can pray over you.’

‘You can pray for me when I’m dead, Bede,’ she said, warning him off by the rare use of his real name. ‘And I’m not dead yet.’

Her phone rang and it was Angie.

‘I’ve just heard the bad news,’ she said. ‘You and your business going very public. Mr Right was squawking about it to the whole floor. Gemster girl, what happened?’

Gemma gave her friend as brief an account as she could bear. Angie listened in sympathetic silence.

‘I just want you to know,’ she said when Gemma had finished speaking, ‘that
I
know what it feels like to have your whole world shattered.’

Gemma recalled the time when Angie was suspended. ‘But Angie, Mercator is finished.
I’m
finished,’ she said, tears stinging the backs of her eyes.

‘You can go down with the ship and accept that the end has come,’ her friend said. ‘Or you can remember that you’re a professional. And have a look at the fact that someone has set out deliberately to sabotage you. Are you just going to collapse and let an arsehole like that win? There’ll be a bit of gossip and scandal about this for a while. Then it’ll blow over. Things like this always do. And meanwhile you can track down whoever it is that’s set out to bring you down. If this had happened to another operator and they came to you about it, what would
you
do?’

‘I’d tell them we’d investigate for them,’ she said. ‘I’d ask them for a list of people they thought might do something like this to them. Then I’d start asking around.’

‘Okay,’ said Angie. ‘Then that’s what you’re going to do. I’ve never liked the name ‘“Mercator Security and Business Advisers’” anyway. You could come up with a brand new business name, something flash and keen. Something like ‘“Angelface Solutions”.’

Despite everything, Gemma smiled. ‘And my other worry is Steve,’ she said. ‘I’m scared he’s gone in too far, one way or another.’

‘What would you tell someone else who came to you saying they thought their boyfriend was in trouble with a major crim?’

Angie was right. So was Kit. She had two good women saying almost the same thing to her in their different ways. ‘Angie,’ she said. ‘About that Glock.’

‘Hush your mouth, Gorgeous. I’ll call you back on an outside line.’ Angie rang off and Gemma put the phone down.

‘I was hoping that would be Steve,’ said Spinner, indicating the phone.

She shook her head. ‘I wish he would ring.’ She considered. ‘Spinner, I 
have
to do something. Have things in place so that if Steve’s in big strife he’s got more than just departmental rules to fall back on. I want us to be there.’

They both looked up as Mike came into the room. ‘Have you decided already what you want to do?’ she asked.

‘I want to stay and work here. I reckon we can ride this out. I want to be involved in anything going down.’

‘I’m not even sure what to do,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ve never been in this situation before. My business is destroyed and my boyfriend is involved in a dangerous undercover operation’—she paused, reluctant to continue—‘which I may well have compromised.’

‘I’ll need to know a few things,’ Mike said, ‘if you want me to help.’

‘Why would you want to?’ Gemma asked. ‘There’s nothing in it for you. What are you going to live on? If you had any sense you’d be out looking for a job.’

‘I like seeing the good guys win,’ Mike said.

Gemma thought about it. She did need Mike, it was true. ‘I don’t like the feeling of owing anyone,’ she said reluctantly.

‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘Pay me the usual rates.’

‘I may not have the money.’

‘Borrow it,’ he said.

She remained indecisive.

‘You’ll have to trust me,’ he said.

‘I suppose I will,’ she agreed. It wasn’t very gracious, but it was the truth. There wasn’t time for the niceties.

‘You’d better tell me what you know about Steve’s operation, then,’ said Mike.

‘What if you’re working for George Fayed?’ she said, only half-joking.

‘I’m not. Now tell me what you know.’

‘Terry Litchfield’s widow believes George Fayed had her husband murdered. She’s working with the police to expose him. I believe Steve’s been introduced to Fayed as an interstate buyer with a lot of money and someone who has a lot of influence over Lorraine.’ She managed to say the name without stumbling. ‘The set-up is that she wants a business merger with Fayed. That way, they combine two big crime businesses. So Steve is on the scene as an attractive potential investor, perhaps even partner, in Fayed’s business. However,’ she added, ‘I have heard a rumour that Lorraine Litchfield paid someone to get rid of her husband.’

‘Either way,’ said Mike, ‘Steve’s in a tricky situation. How much do you know about Fayed?’

‘He has an elaborate security system, both external and internal,’ Gemma said, ‘and he’s paranoid about everyone and everything.’

‘With good reason,’ said Mike. ‘Let’s say the worst has happened,’ he continued, ‘and Fayed has exposed Steve.’

Gemma swallowed hard. Even imagining this was unbearable.

‘That would play right into his paranoia. Fayed would be very, very rattled. He might do a couple of things.’

Gemma closed her eyes, knowing one of them.

‘He might want to make Steve an offer he can’t refuse and get him to work as a double agent,’ said Mike.

‘Steve might agree to that to save his life,’ she said. ‘But they’d never trust him. They’d always be on him and then they’d dump him when he was no longer useful to them. He’d be disgraced. Or worse,’ she added, ‘they could easily set something up. Make him an addict. Kill him.’

She recalled their last meeting and Steve’s coldness. Maybe he had already agreed to work for them. Maybe Steve’s partner, Ian Lovelock, already knew this. Maybe not. She remembered all too well how convincing Steve had been in his distaste as he compared her with Lorraine Litchfield. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang.

‘Ring this number,’ said Angie. ‘Re the package we were discussing earlier.’

Gemma scribbled the phone number down. ‘He’s a registered dealer,’ Angie added, ‘but he does special orders for friends. It’ll cost you, but.’

‘Thanks, Ange.’ Gemma rang off.

‘Okay, Mike,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some business to do tomorrow morning. Then I’ll call you.’ She paused. ‘And, Mike?’

He looked up.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

•

She worked till late, driving around, pulling in favours, cruising the streets of the Cross, asking about Fayed, and in some cases, Steve. Everything was quiet. No one knew of anything unusual. There was no street talk around, just the usual rehash of what she already knew, that Fayed wanted all the parlours, that he punished people with his ‘French Connection’. None of her usual sources had anything to say. It felt ominous. Back at home she lay awake most of the night with Taxi heavy on her feet.

•

First thing in the morning, she rang the gun dealer and drove to a meeting with him, ringing Angie from his office. For five hundred dollars—a special deal because she was a friend of Angie’s—Gemma bought a Glock 27. She paid for it in cash and, when she stowed it in the car, found she couldn’t stop looking at the large black plastic box on the back seat.

Later in the morning, Angie helped her through the paperwork at the Firearms Registry. ‘You’ll need to do the Glock course at the range. Do it this morning,’ Angie urged, ‘so you can get out there and feel good.’

‘I haven’t got time to feel good,’ said Gemma.

‘I’m not letting you run loose with one of these without any training,’ said Angie, ‘and that’s that. Do as you’re told for once in your life.’

Angie drove them to a private range south of Sydney run by an ex-SAS friend.

‘It’s a beautiful weapon,’ Angie said, as they drove. ‘It’s a slightly smaller edition than the police issue Glock 19. I know you’re going to fall in love with it,’ she added. ‘It’s chambered for the venerable 9 mm Parabellum cartridge, it’s got heaps of stopping power. It’s got good sights, it’s safe, it has a very nice military matte finish. Just the thing for those sweaty situations a lass occasionally finds herself in. It has exactly the same fine qualities as its big brother. It’s chopped and channelled nicely and it’s a true pocket pistol. See? The safety engages automatically so you don’t have to worry about a misfire. Just the accessory for the well-dressed investigator.’

She looked across at her friend. None of her technical talk had raised a bite. She tried another tack.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think you’d better tell Aunty Angie what’s going on.’

‘I did something really silly,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve compromised Steve’s operation.’

‘Shit,’ said Angie. ‘You’d better tell me.’

Gemma told her everything except the Lorraine Litchfield beauty pageant and Steve’s choice of queen.

Angie took a corner too fast and corrected the skid. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Hey Gems, you’re really doing it tough just now.’

At the range Angie demonstrated operating and field-stripping and made Gemma do the same until she was reasonably proficient in her handling of the gun. Then they both put on safety goggles and ear muffs and it didn’t take long for Gemma to start bonding with her Glock 27. As Angie had said, it was controllable, user-friendly and reliable, recoiling straight back. And it balanced and fitted nicely into the web of her firing hand. She liked the feeling of lightness, compared to the weightier .38.

‘I’ll need a shoulder holster,’ said Gemma. ‘Have you got one?’

‘FBI carry, girl,’ Angie said, ‘that’s what you need.’ She pulled out her own Bianchi holster and rig and fitted Gemma with it so that the holster was snug against the small of her back, with the Glock’s butt facing outwards.

‘Okay,’ Angie ordered. ‘I’ll show you how you do it from there. Let’s do the Glock foxtrot. Drop your right hip a little. That’s it. That opens your jacket coat if you’re wearing one. Now hand to butt in one nice smooth movement. That’s the way. Then a neat rotation on the axis of your wrist. Don’t labour it. Just nice and easy. If you need to, you can shoot while you’re still drawing it forward through the wrist rotation. With this weapon, you don’t even have to hit a vital spot. Hit someone anywhere with one of those and the hydrostatic shock kills them stone motherless.’