Feeding the Demons (25 page)

Gemma couldn’t get the bloody bedroom scene out of her mind and, because there had been no body in it, it somehow seemed worse than the crime scenes where there were. Such contrivance, such spite, such
nastiness.
Blood is very provocative, she thought. It stirs us up. The bloodstains of another crime came to her mind and a thought suddenly crystallised. I’m going to go ahead and clear my father’s name. Despite him. Whatever it takes. Because even if his name is no longer my name, his blood is mine. Was she using her father as ‘the man’ to give meaning to her life when in reality, it was she herself who was ailing? She thought of Kit’s words that the answer is never a man. Did they apply to her in this? She found she’d paused with her key in the lock, immobilised by the thought. She pushed it aside and opened the door. Her heart sank lower as she remembered there was no Taxi to greet her. She walked to the sliding doors, willing him to be sitting on the deck. He wasn’t. She unlocked the doors and called him. Nothing happened. No wobbling ginger shape coming across the grass towards her. She turned at the sound of someone at the door.

‘Who is it?’ she called out.

‘It’s me.’

She opened the door. The Ratbag stood there with a tear-stained face, holding a carton. Inside, Gemma could hear the kestrel scraping and moving.

‘Mum won’t let me keep him. She says he’s smelly and he’s not. And I’ve got to get rid of him.’

‘Come in,’ said Gemma.

The Ratbag walked inside holding the carton. Despite his distress, he looked around. ‘Cool,’ he said.

‘Have you still got those flowers?’ she asked him.

He nodded, looking around. ‘Your decor is the
same
as the flowers,’ he said, noticing. ‘You said they didn’t match.’

Good one, Ratbag, Gemma thought. How many kids your age would notice that? ‘Maybe I could offer you a job sometime,’ she said to him and laughed at his puzzlement. She went into her office, where messages winked redly on her answering machine.

The Ratbag looked around him. ‘Is this your private investigator’s office?’ he asked.

‘What are you going to do about the kestrel?’ Gemma asked, returning.

‘Dad said he’d help me make a cage for him,’ the boy said hopefully.

‘When?’

The Ratbag shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sometime. When I see him next.’

‘That’s not good enough. When will you see him next?’

The Ratbag shrugged again. ‘I don’t know.’

The two-way crackled and she grabbed it. ‘Tracker Three to base; copy, please.’ It took her a second to remember that Spinner was in Bondi.

‘Yes, Spinner?’ The Ratbag’s eyes were as big as saucers over the top of the carton.

‘I’ve been lucky. I’ve got those two for you,’ said Spinner. ‘There’s only one unit that has a mother and a daughter. The others are all couples or backpackers. I had a nice chat with the manager. Place is owned by an ex-cop.’ That makes sense, thought Gemma. Angie calling in a favour. ‘Do you want me to do the ditty?’ Spinner was saying. “Doing the ditty” meant establishing the target’s ID. A nasty mix-up with two brothers and one car had brought a very delicate surveillance operation undone at a critical moment, Gemma recalled.

‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘Which unit is it?’ Gemma scribbled down the details. Number 16.

‘If there’s nothing else, I’m going home,’ Spinner said. But he didn’t sign off and Gemma sensed there was something else he wanted to say.

‘What is it, Spinner?’

There was a pause. ‘It may not be anything.’ His voice trailed off.

‘What?’ Gemma repeated. She could sense his reluctance to speak when he wasn’t sure of his facts.

‘There’s someone else here,’ he said, ‘in a white Toyota ute. With a wheelbarrow on the back. He’s sitting off some distance from the motel so I can’t tell if that’s his target. But that’s what I’m doing, too. I’m pretty sure he’s one of us.’

‘Another surveillance operative?’ she asked.

‘Could be,’ said Spinner. ‘He’s been there as long as I have. Just sitting. Just like me.’

Maybe Angie had organised someone else privately. Gemma felt a pang of jealousy. Had the conflict with Kit and then with her changed her friend’s mind, made her decide to keep friendships and business in separate compartments? She could hardly blame Angie, Gemma thought, for wanting to keep things simple.

‘Angie must have decided to use some assistance,’ she finally said.

‘Everyone is watching everyone else,’ Spinner was saying. ‘It’s a crazy world. Anyway, it’s none of my business now. Without a ditty we can’t be one hundred per cent sure, but if you’re satisfied I’m going home.’

Gemma signed off and the Ratbag ogled the two-way. He shifted the carton and the kestrel scraped inside. She glanced at her watch. It was twenty-five to seven. Richard Cross! She’d completely forgotten.

‘I’ve got to go out again,’ she told him. ‘You can leave the bird here while we think what to do.’

The Ratbag’s face lit up with the first smile Gemma had ever seen on him. He had thick hair and eyebrows that were a bit too heavy for his young face. ‘That would be so cool.’

She was touched. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘give him to me.’ The Ratbag handed the box over and Gemma peeked inside. The large brown hawk-eye looked straight into hers, contrasting with the yellow cere. In the box she could see a small water container and a tiny dead mouse. ‘I haven’t got any more mice for him,’ the Ratbag said. ‘I haven’t got any money left.’ Gemma felt relieved and carefully lifted the box, sliding it on top of the large wardrobe. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can owe me. Come on, out. I’ve got to get ready.’ The kestrel’s talons rasped as he struggled but then he settled into silence.

‘I could pay you back next time I see Dad.’ Gemma nodded. ‘Can I come and visit him tomorrow?’ the Ratbag asked.

‘You can,’ she said.

‘Do people get after you?’ the boy asked as they walked out of the office towards the front door.

‘What do you mean?’ She looked down at him and his intelligent eyes looked frankly into hers.

‘If you’re chasing baddies,’ he said, ‘maybe one of them might get cranky and then chase after you.’

‘It’s not very likely,’ she said.

‘I would,’ said the boy. ‘If I was a baddy and you were hunting me, I’d just kill you and then you wouldn’t be able to get me any more.’

Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘Then it’s a good thing,’ she said as she put him out the door, ‘that you’re not a baddy, isn’t it.’

After he’d left, she checked that the kestrel was securely placed on top of her wardrobe then raced into the shower. She had less than twenty minutes to get ready and she wasted five of them putting on and taking off three different outfits. She finally settled for her black skirt, cream silk blouse and a red jacket. She had just finished putting on her lipstick when Richard Cross knocked on the door.

•

‘But it must be very interesting work,’ Cross said. Ravesisi’s was filling up and some brave people were sitting on the balcony despite the southerly breeze. They’d enjoyed their meal and were just finishing the coffee and truffles.

Gemma shrugged. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘People are always interesting. Sitting in vehicles all day is not.’

He laughed. ‘You still sound like a cop,’ he said. ‘“Vehicles”,’ he quoted. ‘Most of us just say “car”.’ He was looking very good, Gemma thought, in his white shirt and blazer. There was a neat, clean-cut finish to him: trim hair, white teeth, nothing out of place, and yet there was an edge that made him extremely interesting. She was very curious to know his history with women. All in good time, she thought.

‘Is there anything else you would like?’ he asked. ‘A nightcap?’

Gemma looked at the wine list again. They’d already shared a bottle of white and she’d had a gin and tonic before the meal. ‘Cognac would be very nice,’ she said.

So she was feeling very mellow on the drive back to her place, but not quite mellow enough to overlook his earlier remark. ‘How did you know I used to be a cop?’ she asked.

Did he hesitate a little too long before answering her? Damn that last drink, she thought. I’ve lost my finesse. ‘When I’m interested in a woman,’ he said, ‘which by the way doesn’t happen very often, I make it my job to find out as much as I can about her.’

Gemma turned to look at his well-proportioned profile in the car’s dim interior. They were driving around the coast near Tamarama and the sea crashed in luminous white waves along the beach under a half moon. ‘What else have you found out about me?’ she asked.

‘Enough to make me want to know a whole lot more.’ As lines go, Gemma thought, it was pretty nice.

At her place, she fumbled the key and dropped it and they both bent to get it at the same time, bumping their heads together. ‘Sorry,’ they both said and laughed. Richard patted her head gently. ‘Didn’t hurt you, did I?’ He left his hand there, cupping her neck, looking into her eyes, and it seemed impossible to Gemma not to ask him if he’d like to stay.

•

‘What’s really important to you?’ Richard asked as they lay together later, Gemma’s head on his chest.

‘Finding my cat,’ she said.

‘And?’

‘Clearing my name.’

He turned to her with interest. Here goes, she thought, and she told him all about her father and the murder of their mother. He listened in silence and didn’t say anything for a long time. Gemma started to get anxious. He was revolted, she started to think. It’s put him right off me. The old anxiety swirled in her guts and she moved away from him.

‘Say something,’ she finally said, trying to sound light-hearted.

‘It was such a long time ago,’ he said. ‘Are you sure your father hasn’t got a point? Do you really want to drag it all up again?’

‘I’ve thought about it,’ she said. ‘And I’m determined to go ahead. Whatever it means facing.’

Then he turned to look at her. He put a finger gently under her chin, like a father might do to a child. ‘The past,’ he said, ‘can be very dangerous. Think about it.’

She looked into his face. In the dim light of her bedroom, he seemed much older. She thought how Kit had said something similar to her. ‘I don’t ever want to go back there,’ Cross was saying. ‘People’s pasts can destroy them just as much as anything happening in the present.’ He sighed and turned over away from her and Gemma settled herself down. She fell into a troubled doze.

•

He left her place in the early hours, promising to call. Gemma lay awake, unable to sleep. She got up and went outside on the deck, leaning against the rail, listening to the sound of the surf, so loud in the night silence. She had started something, she knew. Something big. She thought of their lovemaking. For a first night, it had been more than satisfactory and this morning her body had the luxurious post-sex feeling she hadn’t experienced for a while. But it is not wise, she thought, to become involved on the rebound,
and
with a client. The Cross Weld contract was very important; only a few thousand dollars left before she reached the limit of the overdraft. Her mind kept jumping to the blood-soaked bedroom, and the chilling fact that the killer had contacted Amy. Despite all the other concerns she had at the moment, she felt that this was her case, too. She wanted to stretch protective wings over the Bondi motel because these suffering people were like her family, also disfigured by bloodstains and a maniacal killer. She shuddered. She padded back to bed and snuggled down again, allowing dreamy thoughts of Richard to replace the Perrault family’s nightmare. Memories of his solid body became hazy as she fell into a deep sleep.

Someone was banging on her front door. Gemma hauled herself out of bed and yelled, ‘Who is it?’

Angie’s voice from outside. ‘Amy Perrault’s gone from right under our noses. I’ve just been called out. I’m on my way there.’

Gemma struggled into her clothes, desperately trying to wake up. Her worst fear had materialised. He’d come back for Amy. But how? She fumbled with a zip. With all the bloody call-outs I’ve had recently, she thought as she went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of orange juice from the fridge, I might as well be back in the job. Outside, the eastern sky was still black and so was the sea, with only a tiny silver line delineating each from the other as she made her way to the car.

•

Gemma parked opposite the Bondi motel, where Angie and Bruno were visible near the entrance. She dragged herself out of the car, fighting the effects of lack of sleep and alcohol. The interlude with Richard Cross already seemed light years away.

‘But she’s not a cop any longer,’ she could hear Bruno saying as she crossed the road to join them. ‘And she’s got no business here.’

‘She is part of this investigation team,’ Angie said. ‘She was the first victim. And now, she’s working for me.’ Bless you, Angie, Gemma thought, as her friend greeted her with a nod.

‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Bruno. ‘Does the boss know about this?’

‘Listen, Bruno, if you give me any more trouble I’m putting you on paper and there’ll be a few other things the boss’ll know. Don’t think I don’t know how you’re bad-mouthing me when I’m not around.’

‘What are you talking about?’ His air of injured innocence was infuriating.

‘You know damn well!’ She swung around and went inside with Gemma trailing Bruno. They made their way up a staircase and along the upstairs hall until they arrived at No. 16. The door of the narrow motel room was half open and Angie pushed it wide as she walked in.

Garry Copeland, in T-shirt, sports coat and uncombed hair, turned as they entered the room and Angie’s voice cut like a knife.

‘Will someone please tell me what happened?’ There was the sound of a toilet flushing and the bathroom door opened to reveal Mrs Perrault. A silence fell over the room as Mr Perrault, accompanied by a policewoman, came into the room. The Perraults sat together on the bed, the husband trying to comfort his distraught wife.

‘I told her,’ she said, ‘on no account to go out. But she wouldn’t listen to me. Then
he
rang. I know it was him—’

‘Who’s him?’ Gemma asked.

‘The boyfriend,’ said Garry.

‘She’s been forbidden to give this phone number out to anyone,’ sobbed Mrs Perrault.

‘Who is he?’ Gemma asked, remembering Aunt Merle and forbidding and how useless it was as a method to control a wilful teenager.

‘Brett Collins,’ said Mr Perrault. ‘He lives at 4/40 Clarendon Parade, Maroubra.’

Angie noted this and stepped into a corner of the room, turning her back on the rest of them. A moment later, Gemma could hear her talking to Maroubra police. ‘They’ll be there in two minutes,’ she said.

‘When did you realise she’d gone?’ she asked the Perraults.

‘She must’ve gone when I was dozing,’ Mrs Perrault said. ‘An hour or so ago. I can’t sleep properly. Even with these pills.’

Angie checked her watch. It was nearly four. ‘Bruno, downstairs please and look out for the uniforms and Brett Collins when they arrive.’ Bruno gave her a look before leaving the room. Angie’s mobile rang and she snatched it up. She listened and her face was grim. She rang off. ‘Maroubra cops have checked his place. He’s not there and neither is his car. Let’s hope they’ve parked somewhere and are just doing a bit of what comes naturally.’

‘But we can’t assume that,’ said Gemma. Beside her, Mr Perrault tightened his grip on his distraught wife.

‘You bet we can’t,’ said Angie. ‘That’s why we’re taking this very seriously indeed. Every man and his dog will be on the look-out for him and his yellow Corolla. He’s got the state after him.’

Mr Perrault turned to Angie, his face distorted with despair. ‘How could you let this happen?’ he cried. In the silence that followed, Garry Copeland ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture that Gemma remembered. She noticed his face moving, as he chose his words carefully. It’s impossible, Gemma knew, to protect someone against their will. Protection requires the cooperation of the protected. But she hoped Garry wouldn’t point this out just now.

‘We’ll find her,’ Garry said. ‘Everything possible is being done.’

‘Yes,’ said Angie. ‘Finding her is our priority.’

Mrs Perrault raised her face. Her voice was scarcely a whisper as she broke another long silence. ‘It’s not their fault,’ she said to her husband. ‘Amy was determined to go.’ Her voice faltered. ‘We had a fight, Amy and me. A terrible fight.’ She paused. ‘Bianca not even buried—’ Her voice broke and her husband touched her on the shoulder. The woman blinked and continued. ‘—and Amy can only think of some
boy
! I forbade her. I told her I couldn’t talk about it. She screamed at me. She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Dad was over at my sister’s getting some clean things and I must’ve dozed off. When I woke she’d gone. It was just like finding Bianca’s bed that morning all over again.’ Mrs Perrault leaned right over, sobbing onto her knees, her hands holding her head. Her husband looked as if he didn’t know whether to touch her or not; his hands were hovering in distress over her collapsed form.

Garry beckoned Gemma to follow him out to the balcony. It was quiet out there, with only the odd car moving across the busy intersection overlooked by the motel. A light breeze lifted the hair off Gemma’s forehead.

‘Angie’s talked to me,’ he said to her, ‘and I think the possibility that we’re dealing with two of them is very real.’ Gemma stared at him. Any pleasure she might have felt about him coming round to her point of view was undercut by the seriousness of the situation for the younger Perrault girl. Garry kept his voice low, aware of Mrs Perrault only a few metres away. ‘If there’s two killers acting together, the sum is greater than the parts. Two killers bring out the worst in each other, and then some. Statistically, it’s not a common occurrence but it happens.’ He gestured behind him towards the Perraults. ‘Fingers crossed that she’s just run away with the boyfriend.’

Angie joined them, the three of them almost filling the tiny balcony. ‘And for your sake, too,’ he added, looking at her. ‘If the press gets hold of this it’ll be horrendous. First the blood attack at the other house. Now the girl running away like this. We should have had someone here with them.’

Angie shook her head. ‘Hang on, hang on,’ she said. ‘The blood attack. That was a nasty piece of work who lives down the street from the Perraults and works at the abattoirs. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. I’ve told the arresting officers to charge him with everything. Amy’s absconding is not due to us. I suggested leaving someone with them here as strongly as I could. But
they
said no way. They didn’t want a stranger living with them. Ian was downstairs all the time but he didn’t see her. He was watching for someone trying to come
in
, not Amy trying to sneak out.’

Garry Copeland shrugged. ‘It still looks bad for the police,’ he said.

‘The police’ve been looking bad since Ned Kelly,’ Angie said. ‘Come on, Gems. Let’s get out looking for that Corolla. Folllow me, OK?’

They left Garry Copeland with the Perraults and Bruno standing just inside the motel entrance. As Angie started her car the radio spoke.

‘We’ve found the car. Out near Port Botany. Marine Drive.’

‘We’re on our way,’ said Angie, checking the exact location and swinging the door shut as she accelerated away, Gemma right behind her.

•

The yellow Corolla could hardly be seen for all the cars and people around it. On the verge near a tall cyclone fence beyond which huge lights from the port blazed, bright as midday, Gemma spotted its canary colour, the area around it already surrounded by the blue and white checked plastic tape. Across a flat concrete desert through the fence, the shapes of cranes and huge containers cast long, black shadows. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour, but any car that passed by slowed down to see what was happening.

The Crime Scene detectives were on the job. One with his back to them was bent over at the opened driver’s door, putting samples into bags and containers with pale rubber-covered hands. Gemma could see past him and as she came up behind the stooping policeman, she knew that the boy slumped forward over the wheel was already dead.

‘Shot,’ said the Crime Scene man, straightening up. ‘Young fella by the name of Brett Collins. The doctor just left.’ He moved to one side and Gemma could see the dark red hole in the boy’s temple, the line of blood that ran down his tender young face, pooling in the little concavity formed by his lips squashed against the steering wheel.

Gemma walked around to the passenger side. On the seat was a little leather bag, square and with a leather strap. The initials ‘AP’ were engraved on a tiny gold shield. The bag was slightly opened and a used handkerchief, a comb and some coins had spilled out onto the seat.

‘She was taken here,’ said Gemma. ‘My bet is they stopped the car somehow, and then threatened the boyfriend with the gun if she didn’t do as she was told.’

‘They must have been watching the house,’ said Angie.

‘Oh God,’ said Gemma. ‘Spinner. The white Toyota.’ She grabbed her mobile and rang Spinner’s number. ‘What white Toyota?’ Gemma heard Angie ask as Spinner’s sleepy voice answered.

‘Spinner, sorry about the hour. That white Toyota. The one you saw last night at the motel. Tell me again what you thought.’

‘What white Toyota?’ Angie’s voice, more insistent this time.

Gemma strained to hear Spinner. ‘I thought it was someone in the business,’ he said, through the faint interference. ‘Tinted windows, the wheelbarrow on the back. All the builders were long gone. What’s he still doing here at this hour, I asked myself?’

You are very good at what you do, Spinner, Gemma thought. I should tell you more often. ‘Tell me what else you noticed about it,’ she said instead.

‘There were little side curtains on the window behind the driver’s and passenger seats. He was leaning back in the seat, just like we do on a long follow.’

‘Did you get the registration number?’ Gemma asked, and waited while Spinner logged onto his laptop. He read it out to her and she wrote it down. Gemma signed off and turned to Angie, who was bristling too close to her. ‘Angie, it might be that the killer was in Hallam Street street last night. In a vehicle reported by one of my operators. A white Toyota, registration KHI 311, with a wheelbarrow on the back. Side curtains, tinted windows.’

Angie wasted no time. She took the details, organised a registration check and put the description of the vehicle out. She called and ordered some hapless junior officer to do the death message and make the formal announcement. ‘Now tell me everything your operative said,’ demanded Angie.

‘Spinner felt that the driver of the Toyota was in the business,’ said Gemma. ‘In our—I mean, my business.’

‘Security?’ said Angie. She only paused a second, taking it in. ‘I’ll need to get Hallam Avenue checked to see if anyone saw a white Toyota ute last night. See if anybody saw the driver. Any possible description.’

There are hundreds of security firms in Sydney alone, Gemma thought, some large, some small operations. It would be a hopeless task trying to track some lone operative. Or ex-operative.

‘There’s nothing more I can do here,’ Angie said. ‘I’ll have to make some inquiries about Clive Mindell’s background. Your sister might know what sort of work he’s done. Where we start looking for him. Then I’ve got to face the music in the morning. Somewhere in all that I’ve got to get some sleep.’

Gemma touched her friend’s arm. ‘You can’t protect someone who won’t cooperate,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t your fault that Amy sneaked out.’

‘I just hope the boss sees it that way.’

Gemma walked with Angie to her car and watched while she climbed in. Angie looked up at her, her hand on the handle of the open car door. ‘This is my first really big case. I so want to get it right.’

Gemma nodded. ‘Let’s grab a few hours’ sleep,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back to the office with you and curl up on your floor. Make you a cup of coffee in the morning.’

On the way to the police centre, she couldn’t stop herself driving past Steve’s flat again, but this time she stopped outside. She found a pen in the glovebox and a spare manila envelope from the pack that she had on hand in the car for ditties. ‘Dear Steve’, she wrote. ‘I’m so sorry about my behaviour. You were quite right to react the way you did. I just want to tell you that you are very important to me and that I have come to love you very much over the last few years. Please forgive me. You deserve better.’ She wrote his name and address on the envelope and got out of the car and pushed it into his letterbox. Maybe it would get to him. Maybe not.