Siren (3 page)

‘It didn’t quite sound like you,’ the familiar woman’s voice purred.

Marian Wendell!

‘Oh, God, you scared me. How are you? I got in not even…’ she looked at her watch ‘…not even two hours ago.’

Marian Wendell ran a private investigation agency. Mak had done some PI work for her the previous year, and by the time she’d left there had been a little too much focus in the local papers on one particular investigation of Mak’s. She now wondered if perhaps she had followed Andy Flynn to another city as much to try to save the relationship as to distance herself from the investigation and the controversy it caused.

‘I was going to call you tomorrow…’ Mak continued guiltily.

Marian had a new assignment for her, and right on time, too. Apparently, the client had asked for her specifically.

Makedde had previously plied her height and natural good looks in the modelling industry, catwalking around the world to pay her way through her PhD in forensic psychology. Now that she finally had her doctorate, she found it ironic that she wasn’t even working in the field, which wasn’t to say that psychology couldn’t be useful in this new trade. Her involvement in private detective work had begun innocuously
enough, with a bit of banal administrative stuff for Marian’s agency, but the next thing Mak knew she was getting her Certificate III in Investigative Services and becoming one of Marian’s part-time investigators. Every step she took towards starting her psychology practice seemed impeded in some way, yet investigations pulled her in like a magnet. It was not the occupation she had chosen, but it sure seemed to keep choosing her. Certainly the casual psych tutoring she had picked up at the Australian National University in Canberra had not encouraged her to find similar academic work in Sydney. Teaching a semester of ‘Introduction to Methodological Design and Statistics’ to first-year students was excruciatingly tedious, and not very helpful for her pocketbook.

‘Nine-thirty in my office.’

‘Nine-thirty? Okay,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Uh, Marian, who is this client who asked for me?’

‘I’ll see you in the morning. It’s good to have you back.’

Mak hung up the phone and ran a hand through her mane of long dark-blonde hair, her fingers catching in a tangle at the ends.

Back to investigations.

With considerable haste, Mr Nicholas Santer departed from his palatial London home at the hour of five a.m. while his wife of seventeen years slept soundly in her own bedroom, on her own floor, in a separate wing of the house. He had packed several valuable items from his private safe including £20 000 in hundred-pound notes, his father’s medals and watch, and a small Rembrandt ink sketch no larger than his fist, which he hoped to sell on the black market.

He had not bothered to say goodbye.

Nearly twenty-four hours and over 1000 kilometres later he was snoring in a rustic farmhouse south of the town of Vézelay, France, his dreams assisted by a now empty bottle of fine cognac. As the bottle from his impressive cellar had been steadily drained, so also his worries and strain had dissipated, along with the feeling in his limbs, his lips, his face. He was tingling and warm by the time he nodded off, stretched out on a couch he barely remembered buying years before, surrounded by white dust covers, a half-unpacked case and an overflowing ashtray of cigarette butts that he could no longer
see through the blur across his eyes. His 52-year-old body slumped in inebriated rest, but even in his dreams his mind was active with worry. He imagined himself in a huge wine barrel, running like a mouse on a wheel, a heavy briefcase of money in his hand. In his nightmare everything depended on him running and never stopping.

Running…running…

A bead of acrid sweat rolled down his temple.

With distaste, the man watched the bead of sweat move down Santer’s face. Santer did not realise it, but he was not alone.

The sweat was puzzling to the man who stood silently over the snoring, sweating, murmuring Santer. The room was not particularly warm; in fact, it was winter in Burgundy, and the old farmhouse felt like an icebox, not a sweatbox. It had been no colder in Russia, his last stop.

Santer let out a grating snore, and at this Mr Hand squinted.

Luther Hand had found him easily. One of the things he specialised in was finding people. And what he did to the people he found paid very handsomely. For five or six figures, Mr Hand—Luther, or ‘The hands of Lucifer’ as he was sometimes called—would remove from the food chain any politician, policeman, dignitary or despot, witness, waitress or lover, troublesome competition or troublesome colleague his client nominated. He was what the industry called a ‘cleaner’. He cleaned up problems for anyone with pockets deep enough to pay for his services. His job was simply to follow instructions, and to remain invisible. As a cleaner—a hitman—he was adept at delivering death using knives, axes, blunt instruments, rope, poison and chemicals. He had fine firearm
skills at close and middle range. His sniper skills were excellent. He had successfully staged fatal drownings, robberies, suicides and accidents, and had also arranged terminations where the hit appeared precisely what it was—to make a point. He was a flexible and near flawless operator, unfussed by codes that restricted others to eliminating only male targets, or members of particular ‘organisations’. He did not belong to any crime family. He had no loyalties. He did business, and that was all it was. He was professional, unattached and virtually untraceable, and anyone on his list, whether man, woman or child, would be dispatched efficiently, and according to any special instructions. With these attributes, Luther Hand had gained a reputation over six years as a valuable and successful component of the international crime community.

Generally, Hand was one or two closely guarded steps removed from the client he served. They never met him, and it was not his job to ask why the names ended up on his list. More often than not, he received background on the individual mark, but he did not require reasons for the call upon his services. This mark was different, however. Santer had pissed off an impressive number of ruthless people, and had come to the attention of more than a few members of Luther’s trade. If it had not been Luther, it would have been someone else cutting his throat that night.

Luther adjusted his latex gloves, gripped Santer’s floppy chin in one steady hand, and drew the sharpened blade of a hunting knife across his neck from his right ear to his left. The mark was so drunk that his body barely flinched at the intrusion of the blade. There was a gurgling sound as the trachea opened up and air rushed out. In seconds, torrents of blood flowed from the wound and down his chest. The cut
was deep, and the skin sagged as it hung open, giving the dead man the look of a fleshy jack-o’-lantern, head thrown back against the couch cushions, a giant, oversized red smile slick across his neck. Luther briefly thought of pulling the tongue through the wound to create a ‘Colombian Neck-Tie’, as it was called. But he didn’t see any reason to bother with such flashy creations. It was not in his instructions, and if he did everything properly, there should never be anyone to witness his handiwork with this mark. Instead, he set to work transferring the body to the garage for the next vital stage. Mr Santer needed to disappear, something he had not so successfully achieved in his living moments, and so Luther’s work was not over yet. He spent the next hour focused on the task of dismembering the mark over thick sheets of plastic in the garage next to his new car, a maroon BMW, with bright yellow British plates. It, too, would need to disappear. When the body was dissected into enough pieces—eighteen in all—it fitted into a chest. Luther locked it and by torchlight buried it in the back garden amongst the dead flowers.

It was early morning when Luther stripped the BMW of its books, plates and valuables, and drove it to nearby Vézelay. The black-market dealer was waiting for him at the edge of town at six. He was Italian and Luther had dealt with him before. He counted the notes carefully. The transaction was quick, and in minutes Luther had ten thousand euros in cash. The serial numbers would be filed off Santer’s car, the paint changed, perhaps even the interior. Untraceable, the new car would be resold to an Italian businessman for four times what Luther was paid for it, still somewhat less than its retail value. He returned to the farmhouse and gathered up the valuables Santer had fled with. They were best hidden on the property
for now. It would not do to travel with such easily traceable items. He replaced the dust covers in their original positions, cleaned up the blood and superficial evidence of recent activity, and closed the place up.

It was a beautiful area, he reflected.

Remote.

Luther might like to return to such a place, if ever he found someone to share time with. Perhaps he could send his mother to a place like this. There would be many cottages and farmhouses in the area, all of them affordable to a man of Luther’s means. But he couldn’t be sure his mother would even recognise him. Or accept him. She lived in Australia, where he had grown up. She had not seen him in years. But she would like a place like this, wouldn’t she? She had been on his mind a lot lately.

Luther stepped out into the fresh air, showered, cleaned and satisfied with his work. Without a tip-off, Santer would not likely be found for some time. There was no one alive who’d be the least bit interested in getting in touch with the authorities regarding his absence. Scotland Yard would be left to their own devices, having to search every one of Santer’s nine properties that stretched from the Bahamas to the English countryside. He doubted they would care that much. And if they did, and if he was found, no one would be very surprised that he had met a grisly end. He’d certainly seemed to be asking for it.

The client would be pleased to know that Santer had taken a permanent vacation. He would let his agent, Madame Q, know the job was done. With something like the contentedness of job satisfaction, Luther turned on his phone and sent the agreed message to signal the success of another job.

COMPLETE.

He had a message waiting on his phone, and it was not from Madame Q, but from a hired contact in Australia.

At the sight of the name, his countenance changed. His throat tightened.

URGENT NEWS ABOUT CATHY DAVIS, the message said. CALL ME.

Running…she was running as fast as she physically could. Running…muscles burning…
I must save her
!

Mak wore a uniform, a police uniform, but it was too big for her and the arms and legs were long like an unbound straitjacket, cuffs dragging across the ground of her dreamscape, tripping up her feet. It was her father’s police uniform.
‘Mom
!’ she tried to say, and the word came out like her own name, and bounced from the edges of the surreally lit corridor, echoing back into her ears again and again, fading.
MAK…Mak…mak…mak…
Room 101. She had arrived. Mak broke into the hospital room, door flying off its hinges in a flash of splinters. Inside, the room looked like a bedroom in a cabin. It was familiar.
Horrible.
A hospital bed stood at its centre. Her mother, Jane, was strapped to the bed, wrapped in tubes that moved in and out of her nose and mouth and twined themselves around her limbs. She was still alive. For a too-brief moment Mak felt a weight lifted. She was in her mother’s presence.
Jane Vanderwall. Mom.
But there was another figure in the room. A man stood over her mother with a scalpel. He did
not hold it as a surgeon would; he held it like an icepick, ready to drive it down.
I must stop him!
Mak was just in time, and she tried to get the gun, but her arms were useless. The straitjacket was tied, and she wriggled uselessly like a worm, wrestling with herself, frustrated, impotent.

A strange moan escaped her lips, and the man with the scalpel turned to look at her.

He was grinning blood.

Mak knew his face. It was Damien Cavanagh.

Mak woke on Loulou’s mattress with a gasp, exposed and short of breath. At some point during the previous hours of restless sleep—shifting in the dark and missing the distant sensation of a warm male body next to her—she had remembered that the boxer shorts she wore had once belonged to Andy, and had tossed them aside as if they were cursed. Now her naked body was slick with a sickly sweat, sheets pushed down and twisted around her ankles. Her heart pulsed like a drum.

Mom.

Makedde folded her knees up to her chest.

Damien Cavanagh.

She turned on her left side.

Andy.

Now she was face down, body positioned like a rock-climber, one knee up near her chest and the other straight, a hand extended to touch the cool wall.

A shiver.

Her head was abuzz with thoughts of her failed romance, and the failed, dangerous case she had been involved with before leaving Sydney.
Andy.
She shifted and sighed.
The
Cavanaghs.
Mak finally rose, and paced the small bedroom a few times, then returned to bed, stretching herself across the mattress like a starfish, her long limbs reaching from corner to corner. Loulou’s alarm clock glowed the early hour of 4.53 a.m., which seemed painfully uncivilised. There was nothing helpful about being awake at this time. She was not being productive, and she would feel horrible in the morning for her meeting with Marian.

Close your eyes.

Sleep.

But her mind was too active. Sleep would not come.

There was one sure-fire way to clear her mind, and it did not involve staring at the ceiling. At a quarter past five Mak crept into the basement garage of the apartment building, where she’d shifted her Triumph after unpacking. She was clothed in a full set of dark leathers, helmet in hand.

This is the way to reacquaint myself with Sydney.

She threw the silver cover off her bike and put the key in the ignition, pulled the choke out and started it up, filling the garage with a thunderous roar and the fumes of her exhaust. After a short while she pushed the choke back in, and the engine began idling nicely. It was satisfyingly loud. She belatedly hoped she hadn’t woken anyone on the lower floors. She zipped up her black leather motorcycle jacket to the collar, pulled her helmet on and flicked the visor closed. Now warm, the bike rolled off the kickstand willingly.

Ah, Sydney streets at night…
It had been a while.

After midnight the city streets opened up. It was a motorcyclist’s dream: the city without cars, the roads welcoming and free, the occasional headlights in the far distance on long roads. Freedom.

She pulled out of the garage and headed in the direction of the CBD. It was, as she’d expected, a corporate ghost town. The buildings in the central city were modern rectangular monoliths—many forty or fifty floors apiece—their windows now but dimly lit. Streetlamps lined empty footpaths where businesspeople would begin gathering again in a couple of hours. Mak ripped across the bitumen on her sleek machine, crossing white lines at will, leaning into corners, the wheels gripping the road as if they had claws. George Street, Elizabeth Street, Macquarie…She circled near the giant white shells of Utzon’s Opera House, beautifully lit up, as an icon ought to be at any hour. A security man stepped out of his booth to peer at her. With a roll of the throttle she was back up the road, then passing the wharves of Woolloomooloo, boats bobbing up and down, water shimmering in moonlight. She slowed through Kings Cross, still abuzz with groups of revellers at that late hour. Neon lights glowed, spruikers invited groups of men into their strip clubs, and revellers exited nightclubs to stagger home via the kebab shop. A thin woman in very high shoes and an even higher hem swayed and beckoned to passers-by. Mak flicked her visor up to take in the sights and sounds, then kept on her way.

Gradually her tension disappeared into the play of throttle and gears, the sound of her engine and the feeling of the wind through her helmet. Makedde sped through the dark streets, content in her concentration. She found a good pace down Kings Cross Road, and made a little detour to Kellett Street, where, she’d read, a bloody showdown of razors and guns had occurred in 1929 between the rival gangs of underworld queens Kate Leigh and Tilly Devine.
Prostitution. Prohibition
era booze.
Tonight, a few scantily clad women with hard faces loitered about neon doorways. No blood on the streets. She turned her bike and headed out past Rushcutters Bay Park, picking up pace again. Her bike flew along the streets, not planning her path, and when she reached the hill on New South Head Road she geared down.

Go on.

Darling Point. She was being pulled towards it. And there could only be one reason for that. She turned onto Darling Point Road, passing the former home of Nicole Kidman, and the gate where a bug had notoriously been discovered, supposedly planted by a paparazzi photographer to monitor the movie star’s comings and goings. Mak rode slowly past the homes of Sydney’s sleeping multi-millionaires, and before long she saw the familiar high stone wall and gates of the Cavanagh house. She geared down to second, then to first, her bike purring between her legs.

The Cavanaghs.

The Cavanaghs were one of the most powerful, rich and influential families in Australia. And they had ended up being the focus of Mak’s last investigation. Her failed investigation.

Frowning, she imagined them sleeping soundly on Egyptian cotton sheets in their safe, luxurious abode while others took the blame for the deaths of those who got in their way. The Cavanagh heir, Damien, still lived in his parents’ palatial home. Born into all that money, he wouldn’t have to worry about things like rent, like making a living, abiding the law…

His powerful father protected him, and it seemed there was little anyone could do about it.

Perhaps.

Makedde drifted in slow circles with the engine purring low, and then braked directly across the street from the front gates of the property. She could not see the house over the stone walls, but she knew it well. She had bluffed her way inside Damien Cavanagh’s swanky thirtieth birthday party there shortly before everything had spilled onto the front pages of the papers, and before her departure to Canberra for doomed love and temporary escape. To fake her way in, all it had taken was some cubic zirconia, a chauffeur-driven luxury car and a couture gown with a distractingly high split. It had probably helped that she could still pass herself off as a supermodel if she needed to; she would use those looks where necessary while she still had them. Looking the part had worked to get her in, but had also got her spotted by the wrong people among those hundreds of rich and influential guests—people who wanted her dead. The fireworks, the expensive champagne, the long corridors bedecked with priceless artwork—it had been the opulence she had expected, and more. But it was no better than a very salubrious crime scene, and that birthday party had feted a sick young man who’d managed to successfully avoid being charged with sex crimes, drug possession, murder and perverting the course of justice. Few, if any, of the guests could have known that, of course.

Mak knew.

There was a lot Mak knew.

‘
These are very powerful people, Mak. You can’t just go accusing them of murder.
’

Andy, her cop ex-boyfriend, had defended the way the police were handling the case. That was ridiculous. How much evidence did the police need?

The Cavanaghs were protected, and not just by the high walls surrounding their luxurious home. They had their power, their influence and their teams of lawyers and spin doctors. Mak would like nothing more than to bring them down. She just wished there was a way.

Something will come, something…Something will slip…

They could not be impenetrable forever.

Mak snapped her visor shut and sped home through the dark Sydney streets, feeling no greater pull to the arms of Morpheus than she’d had before she’d left.

Hours later, Mak was on a bus bound for Marian’s office, eyes puffy, stifling a yawn.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs impatiently, tugged on her pencil skirt so it would cover her kneecaps, and tapped her pointy stiletto absent-mindedly. Instead of reading her paperback, she was fidgeting with her nails, staring blankly out the window, wrestling with the adaptations necessary for her new life.

Her prime reason for staying in Australia was no longer a going concern, but she was not sure she wanted to return to Canada, the country of her birth. And she was about to be drawn back into PI work, despite her intention to become a forensic psychologist. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind for her life, but she’d always been adaptable enough to use the opportunities that came her way.
Maybe just a few jobs with Marian and I’ll apply for that job at Long Bay Correctional, and make a career for myself there?
Mak didn’t yet have enough money saved to open her own practice, a situation her stint in Canberra had not improved. That meant scraping together some extra cash working for Marian, or going back to her old
model agency to try to drum up some catwalk or photographic jobs. But imagining walking into Book Model Agency gave her a rush of insecurity. Modelling was increasingly unlikely work for her, she knew. Despite the politically correct sound bites of those in the fashion industry, models over twenty-five were not in demand unless they were already famous brands, like Kate Moss or Elle Macpherson. In Australia Mak might arguably be
infamous
in some circles, but she was certainly not famous. Being snapped on the courthouse steps was not exactly good for one’s portfolio.

Ugh. Body odour.

Someone’s smell drifted up to her nostrils and Mak rubbed her nose.
Terrible.
She had opted to take public transport so she could wear something businesslike for her reintroduction to Marian Wendell, instead of her tomboyish motorcycle leathers. Already she wondered why it had seemed important to dress up. Marian knew her well enough. Perhaps after her hiatus she wanted to feel like she was ‘going to work’, the way normal people did.

Who was she kidding? She was anything but normal.

As if to emphasise the point, Mak felt plastic brush against her bare elbow, and her edgy survival instincts kicked in. But it was only a silver-haired woman manoeuvring her shopping bags next to her.
No threat there.
In seconds the bus braked, and she was pulled a few centimetres across the seat towards the woman’s shopping before the vehicle came to rest and let a new passenger on. It was an odd-looking man. He wore his few strands of hair in a greasy comb-over, and had on a woolly turtlenecked sweater with a pilled business suit, a choice that seemed more than a little out of place for the warm Sydney weather. Had he been wearing a long coat, she might have
ducked for cover. In Mak’s experience, people wearing long coats in summer generally harboured weapons. As it was, she watched the man in the periphery of her vision as she pretended to read her novel. He walked past her and took a seat nearby. His appearance made her uneasy.

You are paranoid.

The doors of the bus hissed closed with a familiar hydraulic sound, enough of a sensory cue to temporarily transport her back to her early twenties, to New York City, hearing that same hydraulic sound as she fought a horrible man with a similar penchant for comb-overs to the man on the bus. She had been living in a model’s apartment in a modern high-rise, and arrived home from a shoot to notice someone dressed in a tracksuit near the bell panel. The instant she unlocked the glass lobby door to go inside, the man leaped on her, groping her breasts and trying to push into the building. Self-defence classes had taught her well, and she shouted with all her might and smashed her umbrella into him like a nightstick. But he persisted, and each time she managed to get him back outside the doorway—beating his prying hands out of the way with her umbrella—she would try to slam the door closed, and instead hear that horrible hydraulic hiss, the door fighting against her urgency. Mak and her attacker struggled violently for what seemed like five full minutes before she managed to close the maddeningly slow hydraulic door, finding safety in the lobby on the other side of that locked pane of glass, exhausted and in shock.

You are a psycho-magnet.

Thankfully the past several months, though emotionally trying, had not offered up any fresh psycho-magnet stories. But she wondered how much longer this respite from the bizarre would last.