Death by Beauty (26 page)

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.