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‘And I’ve been on the plan for two years, and…’

Makedde Vanderwall spent the entire flight back from Melbourne to Sydney ruminating over every word Amy Camilleri had said. The girl still was not answering her phone, but Mak was sure the video message had come from her.

Is that video how she knows that Damien Cavanagh is involved in Meaghan’s death? Or was there more? What is the link? Who is the girl in the video?

The video had effectively taken Mak’s mind off her conversation with Andy.
There is nothing you can do right now.
Mak wished she’d been able to think more clearly, but she had a talker sitting next to her.

‘It actually reverses ageing,’ the man went on, incessant in his desire to talk Mak’s ear off. He’d already given her a business card she didn’t want for his health clinic. ‘Reverses it,’ he repeated.

That’s it.

Mak put down
The Age
newspaper that she had been pretending to read. ‘Ageing can not be
reversed,’ she said, irritated. ‘It is age. It is time passing. Therefore, by its very nature, it cannot be reversed. You can’t reverse or stop time from passing, only prevent premature physical signs of age. Which is not the same as reversing actual age.’ She took a breath. ‘I am pleased you have found a health program that works for you. Good for you.’

She brought her paper up again, feeling his eyes on her through the newsprint.

‘How old are you?’ he asked her, undeterred.

Mak rolled her eyes behind the pages. ‘I’m forty-eight—why?’ she lied, and gave him a look.

His eyes got big. ‘Really? That’s amazing.’ He looked a little perplexed.

‘Good genes, I guess,’ she said.

The flight arrived right on time, and Mak was pleased to leave her talkative new friend. She switched her mobile phone back on as she disembarked and put it in her jacket pocket. Hopefully there would be some kind of message waiting for her, anything at all to explain the video and its origins.

Mak planned on taking a taxi straight to police headquarters to speak with Detective Sergeant Hunt, and to show him the video she had been sent; and while she was at it, she hoped they would run a CCR check on the phone number and be able to confirm whether or not Amy Camilleri had sent the message.

Mak strode past the gates towards the airport arrivals exit, head down. She stepped out into the fresh air through the exit doors and saw that the taxi rank had a long line-up.

Damn. This will take a while.

To her surprise, she was shoved sideways. She stumbled on the footpath, nearly losing her balance.

‘Hey!’ she called out, shocked.

It took her only a moment to realise that her handbag had been lifted from her shoulder.

‘Hey! Stop! Police!’ she yelled, registering what had happened.

She took off down the sidewalk after the man. He looked young and thin, wearing board shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes. And boy, he could run. Mak struggled along after him, hauling the weight of her overnight bag on her shoulder as he dodged the incoming traffic to cross the street and flee into the massive parking centre.

Shit!

‘Someone stop him!’ Mak yelled.

People stood around stupidly as Mak streaked past, fuming. She could still run when she had to, she was discovering, but no matter how fast her legs moved, the young man seemed to be able to move faster. He was getting ever more distant ahead, and she could see him bob and weave between parked cars.

‘Dammit! That’s my handbag!’ she yelled, knowing it was useless. She stopped in the middle of the parking lot and caught her breath.

Great.

Mak’s phone beeped and she pulled it out of her pocket to answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, Mak, how are you?’ It was the familiar voice of her friend Detective Karen Mahoney. ‘You sound out of breath!’

‘I am,’ Mak replied. ‘Karen, I want you to meet me at the airport. It’s kinda important and it would be a huge favour. Can you do it?’

‘Well, sure,’ Karen replied.

‘I’ll be in the airport police office, making a report.’

‘Brown hair, short around the ears,’ Mak explained. ‘He was wearing a baseball cap, light blue, and board shorts. Five foot nine, mid-twenties.’

Frowning and irritated, Mak sat in the office of the airport police; it was a sparse headquarters for the many cops who worked the place. She had some standard forms to fill out to report the theft of her handbag, while she waited for Karen Mahoney to arrive. Sadly, she didn’t really expect to get it back, but she had to report the guy.

A young, prematurely bald airport police officer with meaty lips and a pleasant demeanour
took notes as she spoke. ‘Anything else?’ he said, impressed with her detailed description.

‘The board shorts were kind of bright. Mambo, I think,’ she added.

He smiled. ‘You ever thought of becoming a cop?’

Mak smiled back.

‘Hi, Mak.’

She turned. Detective Karen Mahoney had arrived.

‘Karen, this is Officer Milgrom,’ Mak said, standing and making the introduction.

‘Hello, Officer Milgrom,’ Karen replied. She was wearing her Irish curls in a tight ponytail, but the ends still bounced as she spoke.

Mak gave the officer an expectant look. ‘Are we done here?’ she finally asked.

‘Oh, um, yeah. I’m sorry, ma’am.’

‘Thanks. I hope you catch him.’

On the way to the terrace Makedde explained everything that had happened—at least, everything except her conversation with Andy, the lap dance with Charlotte and Bogey, and the massage. That would be for another night, when she had more distance from it all, and when the conversation could involve drinking.

‘I’ve had a terrible day, Karen, I can’t tell you. I need you to help me up onto the balcony,’ Mak said. ‘My house keys were in my handbag.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Karen said.

‘And then I am going to send you something on your mobile phone that I need you take in to police headquarters. Do you have your phone with you?’

Karen nodded. ‘Yeah.’

The sooner Mak got that video into police hands the better, she figured.

Maybe it isn’t a coincidence that someone tried to steal your handbag? Maybe they wanted your phone?

How many people knew that Mak had the video? The sender. Bogey. Anyone else?

‘Good. You’re going to want to take it straight to Hunt. I think he’ll want to call me when he sees it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, it’s a doozey,’ Mak said.

It had been quite a scramble to break into the terrace through the first-floor balcony, but Makedde managed it. She reminded herself that she needed to have a look at securing that window and, now that someone had the key, it might not be a half-bad idea to change the locks, either. She could never be too careful, especially in her new line of work.

She was about to call Marian and tell her what had happened when she got a call from Brenda Bale.

Oh, Brenda.

Hopefully Brenda had decided to move on to a clinical psychologist more appropriate for her problems and she was calling to cancel their Friday appointment. Mak thought fleetingly of ignoring the call, but she answered.

‘Makedde Vanderwall speaking.’

‘Hi, Mak, it’s Brenda.’

‘How are you feeling about our last appointment?’ Mak asked, ready to drop the hint about her moving on.

‘Good, thanks. I was actually calling because there is someone I think you should speak to.’

Mak blinked. ‘There is?’

‘About your case…I hope you don’t mind, but Loulou mentioned it to me.’

Loulou, I am going to kill you.

How could Loulou do that? She knew that Mak’s cases were confidential.

‘I think this person might prove useful to your case. I took the liberty of setting up a meeting, and she can see you tonight…’

‘You are niiiicee. I wannnnna…’

Mak looked over at the grey-haired man who struggled to stand as he called to her, full of bourbon and compliments, his eyes rolling in their sockets and his clothes reeking. She kept walking.

‘You niiiiiice…’

‘Go home to your wife,’ she said and shook her head as she passed him at the kerb. He swayed in place, mouth open and one arm extended, as if trying to think of a response, though his mind was mush.

Damned winos.

Mak didn’t have the patience for him, not with the day she was having. She had walked the few metres from where she had parked her motorbike on Victoria Street reasonably unmolested, and was
now nearing the address she sought. This was a place where the famous and the infamous came together to have a good time, and although it was already well into the evening, the day would just be starting for the vampires, whores and voyeurs who brought Kings Cross to life. With its notorious reputation for strip bars, sex shops and brothels, it was really no wonder that someone—perhaps a real estate agent—had encouraged the addresses on the other end of the very same street to be the suburb of ‘Potts Point’ and not Kings Cross. They were kidding themselves.

So it was a very short stroll from the famous Coca-Cola sign at the heart of the Cross to the more-civilised-sounding address in Potts Point where Mak had organised to have a word with the supposedly infamous Mistress Serenity, whom she hadn’t heard of before Brenda filled her in. The two-level terrace house was so unassuming that Mak walked right past the door and had to double back. A faded red door with a small plaque confirmed that she had reached her destination.

THE TOWER BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

She buzzed the intercom and identified herself. Before long a young woman swathed in shiny PVC opened the entrance and let her in, before again sealing the private realm of the
bondage parlour known as The Tower from the outside world with two bolt locks.

Whoa, someone here likes red.

Mak stood in an entry hall of sorts, taken aback by the overwhelming womblike hue of the walls, the ceiling, the furniture. The Tower was not a tower at all, but simply a narrow house painted blood-red within, containing numerous ‘tower rooms’ within which clients could have their fantasies of bondage, dominance and submission fulfilled. The floors were concrete, painted a slick black, and Mak wondered if they were as slippery as they looked. She trod carefully as her host led her deeper inside the parlour.

‘I am Electra.’

Of course you are.
Electra had bone-straight hair the colour of cola, and an outfit of red and black PVC that exaggerated her compact, athletic build and pale skin. She must have been quite short, because even with her platform shoes she was barely up to Mak’s chest. Mak could picture her as an aerobatic circus performer, breezing through the air in her PVC, mastering the flying trapeze before deciding on a more intimate life of theatre behind the closed doors of The Tower.

‘You have an appointment?’ Electra asked before they got any further.

‘I have an appointment with Mistress Serenity. My name is Makedde Vanderwall.’ Mak dutifully produced a business card for Marian Wendell’s agency. ‘I am an investigator.’

‘Thank you. She is expecting you. If you wouldn’t mind being discreet while you’re here, please. Having a private investigator here might send the wrong message. Plus, we don’t get a lot of female clients.’

‘No problem.’
What, does she think I’m going to start flicking a whip around and cut her lunch or something?

‘The Mistress will be with you shortly, if you would like to come this way and take a seat, please.’

Mak followed. She was led into a cosy waiting room of yet more red and invited to sit on a black leather couch. Everything here, it seemed, was either black or that ever-dominating hue of red: red roses in a vase, black leather couch, red walls, black floors, red sidetable, black iron human-sized birdcage. Mak did a double take.
Yes, human-sized birdcage.

Left alone in the room by Electra, Mak cocked her head to one side and considered what strange uses there might be for a human-sized birdcage. It was some time before she noticed that she was not, in fact, alone. A single, still customer was perched on the end of a couch opposite her in the waiting room. All she could see of him was his crossed legs in suit pants and a gleaming bald spot. He’d been so small and unmoving that she hadn’t even noticed him. He appeared reasonably normal from what she could see—except he kept his head buried in
Skin II
fetish magazine. No backless chaps or leather harness.
Yet.
Mak
felt apologetic for her intrusion on this man’s evening. He probably only saw scarlet-lipsticked women in corsets with whips when he came for his sessions here. Or maybe her motorbike look was exactly what he was hoping to find.

Mak was distracted from her feeling of dis-ease when a striking figure began to descend a narrow red staircase into the waiting room. The figure appeared slowly, toes first, dominating the attention of those in the waiting room. The woman descended to their level in a kind of a fetish version of a Mae West entrance. Her shoes were blood-red patent platform heels with toe cut-outs, laced up to the calf; her legs were encased in fishnet stockings more refined and sexy than those chunky ones Loulou had such a penchant for. A tight and shiny latex skirt began mid-thigh and went up to meet a blood-red corset made of stiff rubber, laced hard against her ribs. A heaving bosom spilled from the top, held in only by a black netting of mesh that covered her chest and arms, and hooked around her thumbs. It was not difficult to guess that this was Mistress Serenity. She was perhaps fifty years old and wore surprisingly little make-up, apart from a dramatic winged liner on her eyes and the requisite blood-red lips. Her hair was swept into a stylish chignon.

Yes, a fetish Mae West
, Mak decided.
One of the most feared, revered and infamous bondage mistresses in Australia. Wow.

‘Come this way,’ the woman said haughtily, and Mak found herself obeying as if the headmistress had spoken. The bald man reading
Skin II
stayed perched in his place but looked noticeably disappointed that he was not being called—he pouted.

‘You are a
bad boy
, and bad boys need to wait their turn. I will deal with you accordingly,’ the Mistress instructed sternly, admonishing him and giving Mak quite a fright in the process. But rather than the man scurrying away, his pout vapourised and there was a delighted glint in his eye, though he dared not smile.

Mak followed Mistress Serenity up the staircase of The Tower to the hallway of the first floor. She heard the cracking of whips and a stifled moan, and it gave her a shiver and a sick sensation of curiosity.

She swallowed.

Mistress Serenity welcomed her to a back room where there was a small office space. She closed the door behind them and sat at a plain desk, clearly at home. She invited Mak to sit opposite.

Mistress Serenity pulled out Mak’s business card, which Electra had obviously given her. She turned it over and looked at both sides, silent.

‘Brenda said you might have some information for me,’ Mak started. ‘I appreciate you taking the time.’

‘Brenda? You mean Mistress Scarlet.’

‘Sorry, yes—Mistress Scarlet.’

‘Yes. It is slow on Mondays. Mistress Scarlet asked me to speak to you.’

Mak nodded.
What is this all about?

‘Understand that my business revolves around discretion. You aren’t recording this in any way, are you?’

‘No,’ Mak assured her.

‘I don’t want to testify in court or anything. It would ruin my business.’

‘I’m working for my client, not the police.’

Mistress Serenity squinted for a moment, thinking. ‘Understand that I protect my clients’ privacy at all costs. That is an important part of my business. The only reason I don’t mind offering you this information is because…I think it is more important than my usual rules.’

Mak nodded, hoping that Mistress Serenity would have something useful to tell her.

‘I wouldn’t be telling you this if you were a cop.’

‘I understand. I am not a police officer, just an investigator.’

‘But your boyfriend is a cop,’ Mistress said.

‘Uh, yes. He keeps out of my affairs and I keep out of his. This is a private investigation…a private matter.’

Mak had never had anyone use Andy against her before, but she guessed that she might need to get used to that. Some people were suspicious of the police. And Mistress Serenity certainly had her information on Mak.

‘Also understand that whatever I tell you is in
confidence. Mistress Scarlet let me know that you are someone to be trusted.’

Mak nodded. ‘I can be trusted. I don’t ever reveal my sources. That would be bad for
my
business.’

Mistress Scarlet seemed to like that comment. ‘I don’t know if you understand what we do here, exactly, but we provide extremely professional services for people with special needs. Some girls come here looking for work with the idea that they can just strut around in a fetish costume with a whip and make big cash without having to do anything. But the work is involved. It’s an art. It requires not just acting but training in proper techniques, and medical knowledge. We don’t allow full intercourse here at The Tower, but we promise clients a “happy ending” if they wish. Some girls can’t handle the intimate nature of some of our services.’

Mak nodded, her mind stumbling to try to grasp the actual activities that would take place in a session. What did people come here for that required medical knowledge?

‘Your friend Mistress Scarlet was a good worker. It was a blow for me when she left,’ Mistress Serenity continued. ‘I liked her and that’s why I agreed to talk with you.’

Mistress Scarlet was not so much a friend of Mak’s as an unofficial client, but fine—anything to help her get closer to good information for her client, whatever or whoever the source.

‘We aren’t like other places you might have heard of. We don’t thrive on getting new girls every week like the brothels down the street. We have experienced women with special talents and I need to hang onto them when I find them. Our clients come here for reliable service, not fluffy bar girls with big tits.’

Mak suspected that she was being sold a line, but she didn’t know why. Was this a rationalisation about Mistress Serenity’s business? And she wasn’t so sure she totally believed Mistress Serenity’s vows of allegiance to Brenda/Mistress Scarlet even after she jumped ship. This was clearly a sharp, shrewd woman. It could be that there was something else in it for her, apart from a code of friendship among whip-wielding mistresses.

‘Most of our clients are very loyal.’

Mak took that on board, wondering when the Mistress would get to the point, and exactly why she had been called here.

‘But the client of ours that you are interested in…I can tell you that he is not what we like here.’

Mak’s ears perked up.
Client?

‘Simon Aston tried to poach a couple of my girls outside of the house. He wanted them to entertain his friends.’

Ah, Simon Aston.

‘How did you find out?’

And how the hell did you find out I am interested in Simon?
Loulou had looser lips than Mak thought—not that she’d done the wrong thing
in getting Mak to this odd meeting. She would have to have a word to her, though…

‘I know everything that happens in my house.’ Mistress Serenity said the words forcefully, and Mak sat back in her chair, getting a taste of her dominating skills. ‘Simon is not a true fetishist. Not even close,’ she said with disdain. ‘He’s a thrill-seeker, nothing more. He could not handle any of the real work we do here.’

‘Do you get a lot of clients like that—thrill-seekers?’ Mak asked.

‘Yes and no. We don’t discourage those who are curious, but nor do we cater to every drunk sailor who comes in off the street looking for a freak show. Thrill-seekers like Simon come and go quickly, and we avoid them. We are discreet. It’s word of mouth that brings people here, not advertising. We have a good, loyal clientele and we cater to their needs. That’s why we are appointment only. Some of our services need days of preparation.’

Days of preparation?
Mak’s mind wandered off into possible scenarios.

‘Simon Aston is what I call try-sexual. We see his type from time to time, but they never last long. His needs were purely superficial. After a couple of sessions when he more or less perved on my girls without getting down to any serious activities, he began trying to poach my girls to perform for him at his parties for nothing. He wanted to show off to his friends.’