The Shadow Maker (25 page)

Loftus nodded and stood up. ‘I want to underline the point that we need to be patient,’ he said. ‘As with the Scalper case, it looks like we’re facing a high frequency of attacks, not much more than a week apart. But we mustn’t feel compelled to prevent the next attack. If we overreact to time pressure, we’ll only make things worse.

With patience, with methodical work, with detailed examination of the evidence and by building a profile, we’ll home in on a prime suspect. He may seem like a phantom at the moment, but we
will
catch this killer.’

Loftus glanced around the faces at the table. ‘That’s all for now,’

he added. ‘There’ll be fuller briefings later as we finetune the operation. In the meantime, if you can clear the decks of any case files that are less than urgent, it will help.’

As the detectives began filing from the room, Mace drew Rita aside. ‘You heard what Jack just said about a profile,’ he told her.

‘We see that as your primary role with the taskforce.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Much as I fancy the club for this, I don’t want it to be our only line of attack,’ Mace went on. ‘For a start, if the Hacker’s smart, he won’t go back there. So I want you working the flank, finding out as much about him as you can, psyching him out.’

‘You know I can only type him,’ she reminded him. ‘I can’t name him for you.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Mace.

‘But there’s something I’ve still got to do,’ she said. ‘Revisit the crime scene, now that things have calmed down there. I need to go on my own - at night. I might pick up on something I’ve missed.’

‘I remember,’ put in Mace, patting her on the shoulder. ‘Getting the mind trace.’

‘Exactly.’

As Mace walked away, Loftus asked her, ‘How’d you go with Martin Barbie?’

‘As far as I could,’ she answered. ‘He was friendly, cooperative and, just as with Kelly Grattan, I got nowhere. I’m convinced they’re both plausible liars, but I have to admit there’s nothing to show they have any bearing on the investigation, or even a crime. If they’re both covering something up, it’s well and truly buried.’

It was late at night and Rita was parked outside the apartment block where the young prostitute had been killed. There were no lights on in any of the flats, no sign of police presence other than the crime scene tape, no sign of any activity at all. Residents of the neighbouring flats had made other arrangements and moved out for the night.

She could hear the sea at the end of the road, and the tinkling sounds of the marina, the moored yachts riding the swell, the rigging playing tunes upon the masts. She could hear the splash of waves and smell the brine coming with the onshore breeze. No one else was around. It felt peaceful.

She picked up her mini-disc recorder, got out of the car, climbed the stairs to the upstairs flat and pushed aside the police tape. After letting herself in with the key she turned on the lights and went to the bedroom. Then she pressed Record.

‘You picked her up locally and she brought you back here. How far did you intend to go? You don’t arrive with a carefully planned program of attack. But you need aggressive, unprotected penetration and you make sure you get it. So why go further? Why the symbolic mutilation? It’s because something takes over - the need to inflict a ritual payback or tribute or conquest. That’s why you permanently damage them. Only this time you went too far. It makes you a killer now. But, of course, that’s only in your secret life. It’s like having another identity, one in which you lose all restraint and vent your fury.

The more you let go, the more you lose yourself, the more difficult it is to focus on who you really are. It still begs the question, though.

What has triggered it? What has fractured your sense of reality?’

She switched off the recorder, a niggling doubt in her mind. Her analysis was drawing her away from the conclusion that the Hacker was a calculating psychopath - a theory her police colleagues had automatically embraced. Instead, she was seeing him as intelligent but deluded - possibly a paranoid schizophrenic. Perhaps she was assuming too much. It was late and she was tired.

She locked up the flat and went back to her car, feeling that her brain needed a rest. She turned the ignition, switched on the lights and drove off. When she reached the corner of the beach road, she stopped and listened again to the waves against the shore and the clinking percussions of the marina. The sounds were soothing and reassuring - a reminder of normality - just as the killer had heard them.

It was Saturday morning and a day off work, but Rita needed to update the profile with her observations from the night before. First she phoned Loftus to ask about the taskforce operation at the nightclub.

‘It had an impact,’ he told her. ‘The place was packed with clubbers. Mace went in mob-handed with a dozen detectives and another dozen uniforms. He spoke in person to Kavella, explained it was nothing personal, even though it was conducted like a raid.

I’m not sure who’s more pissed off - Kavella or Proctor, who doesn’t want us muddying his pitch.’

‘Any suspects?’ Rita asked.

‘Initially, yes. About twenty customers fit the description. They were questioned, and after a bit of persuasion gave us prints and DNA. None of the prints match. But that’s only phase one. Mace plans to hit the place again to check out the Saturday night crowd.

He might get lucky.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Rita.

‘I agree,’ said Loftus. ‘The Hacker might be insane but he’s not crazy. He would have to be nuts to call on the club. Anyway, this is Mace’s play. You’ve got the weekend off, so relax. Do something other than work.’

‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

After emailing the updated profile to the taskforce team, Rita collected her gym bag, locked up her home and got in her car, which was parked out front. She sat behind the wheel, mobile in hand, wondering if she should call Byron Huxley. It was tempting, she had the whole weekend free, yet instinctively she felt the next move was up to him. She put away the mobile, her thoughts turning instead to the taskforce raid on Kavella’s club and wondering what the fallout would be.

Despite her promise to Loftus, Rita found it hard to relax. She sighed, sat back and looked around her. The narrow street of little houses seemed to drowse in the sunshine. She wound down the window and caught the scent of roses blooming in a neighbour’s garden. A cat sprawled in the sun on a window sill. From down the street came the high-pitched laughter of children and a dog’s playful barking. Like Jack said, she reminded herself, take it easy; relax.

She started the car, pulled away from the kerb and drove through the grid of inner suburban roads until she reached the shopping strip along Smith Street. Parking, she bought copies of the morning newspapers and went into her favourite local cafe.

The decor was basic with a bare concrete floor, bare wooden tables and chairs, and rough clay-coloured walls resembling the stone interior of a cave. She often came here to decompress and get work out of her head. The only other customers were a couple of down-at-heel students who sat smoking over empty cups and textbooks.

Trams clanged and rumbled through the nearby intersection. A thin stream of pedestrians went by the window - shoppers and bargain hunters, the occasional junkie looking gaunt and harassed. A weather-beaten drunk lurched into view then lurched out again. A police patrol car cruised by, the eyes of the officers hidden by dark sunglasses as they scanned the pavement.

As she ordered a light breakfast with an espresso, her mobile bleeped with a text message from Lola:
Am flying north. No strings
attached. See you next Wednesday.

Rita smiled to herself. She’d just spread the papers and was about to sip her coffee when a shadow fell across her table. She looked up and caught her breath as she saw the Duck standing over her.

‘I join you,’ he said, promptly pulling up a chair and sitting opposite her.

‘What do you want?’ she asked coldly.

‘The Duck pay social call. Smooth things over. Make things clear.’

‘You’ve been following me,’ she said.

‘This my neighbourhood, I live round here,’ he replied.

‘Kavella’s put you up to this. What does he want?’

‘He just want to have private chat with you.’

‘Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen,’ she said.

‘He want you stop causing trouble. Stop raids on club,’ said the Duck.

‘Or what?’

The Duck chuckled and the grin disappeared. ‘You know what,’ he said with deliberate menace. ‘I come visit you soon while you asleep.’

The words made her shiver.

‘I make myself home,’ he went on. ‘Piss in your dunny. Spit on your food.’ Then he leant forward, lowering his voice. ‘I do things to you. Use my knife.’

With a quick flick she emptied the cup of hot coffee onto his hands and he sprang back, yelping as if he’d been stung, his chair crashing onto the concrete floor.

‘You bitch!’ he shouted, and rushed through into the back of the cafe to find the kitchen, a startled waiter staring nervously after him.

There were bangs and crashes, the sound of breaking crockery, followed by the splash of running water against a staccato burst of Vietnamese curses. Moments later he came back, a deadly look on his face as he wiped his hands with a dishcloth and walked up to Rita, who was on her feet, ready for him.

‘You going to regret that,’ he said through his teeth, glancing back sharply at the witnesses, their heads bowing quickly.

Rita stood her ground. ‘Tell your boss you delivered your message,’

she said more calmly than she felt, ‘and you got my reply.’

He flung down the dishcloth and stalked off.

Rita was still battling to control her breathing when the waiter came over with a fresh cup.

‘You seem to have spilt your coffee,’ he said.

As she thanked him, her phone rang. She snatched it up and snapped, ‘Yes?’

‘Hello,’ said Byron Huxley. ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, still breathing rapidly. ‘There was something nasty in my coffee.’

‘Oh, right,’ he replied. ‘Look, I’ve got the afternoon clear and I was wondering if we could meet up.’

‘Yeah, why not. I’m going for a workout at midday, but I’ll be free after that.’

‘Good, I’ll be driving back up from the Peninsula campus, so why don’t we meet somewhere along the bay?’

‘Where do you suggest?’ she asked.

‘How about the Ricketts Point tearooms? They’re right on the beach.’

‘Sounds charming. What time?’

‘Around three?’

‘See you then.’

Rita’s trip to the gym was far more strenuous than she’d planned.

She did the full workout - weights, Stairmaster, rowing machine, a high-speed five k on the treadmill and a dozen laps of the pool. It helped burn off the nervous tension and anger brought on by the Duck’s intrusion. Feeling more relaxed, she showered and went to the massage room for her scheduled appointment, lying face down in the dimmed lighting. Environmental mood music played softly in the background and a soothing scent of aromatherapy filled the air as she waited for the masseuse to arrive.

The door of the massage room opened and closed as someone entered. Rita, lying naked under a towel, didn’t look up. Not until the person spoke.

‘You haven’t got a gun this time,’ said Kavella. ‘Unless it’s hidden up your pussy.’

Rita twisted around, a hollow shock in her stomach, to see him standing over her, a brutal smile on his face.

‘If you’re ready for your rub down, I’ll give it to you,’ he offered.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she warned him, trying to pull the towel around her and sit up.

‘Shut up and don’t move,’ he said, pushing her flat again. ‘I like you in this position.’

She clutched the towel tightly to her sides, feeling utterly vulnerable, her gun out of reach stowed away in a locker.

‘Where do you want it, Van Hassel?’ he asked, moving behind her. ‘In your twat?’

She shuddered.

‘Come on, speak up!’ he shouted. ‘Or do you prefer it up the arse?’

She swallowed and lifted her head. ‘Lay a finger on me and I’ll rip your balls off,’ she said. ‘Even if I have to do it in the nude.’

‘I’d like to see you try,’ he chuckled. ‘Lucky for you I haven’t got time to play around anymore.’

He walked around to the front of the massage table, leaning forward on it until his face was only a few inches from hers. His voice was just above a whisper as he said, ‘I sent a request for a meeting, but you turned down the invitation. That’s why I’ve come looking for you.’

‘What do we have to talk about?’ she asked.

‘You lied to me,’ he said. ‘About the Delos Club. I checked with the boys and they haven’t breathed a word of it, so you didn’t hear it from them. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what you know.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you’re lying naked in front of me. Because I’ve got a hard cock and a Glock semi-automatic in my trousers,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘And because I’m pissed off at my nightclub being stormed on the pretext of a rape hunt!’ He was shouting in her face now. ‘I want you to tell me what the fuck you know before I call Moyle in here to open your legs and hold you down!’

It was obvious she had to say something but not till she stood a chance of defending herself. ‘I’m not uttering a word until you let me up.’

‘Okay, get up,’ he said.

Rita sat up quickly, tucking the towel around her body and dropping off the massage table so it lay between them.

‘So the Delos Club really is important to you,’ she began. ‘I thought it might be.’

‘It would be very dumb of you to take the piss right now,’ he warned her.

‘Okay, my guess is you’ve set up a virtual private network as a secure line of communication with fellow hoods, like the ones you were having lunch with at Fioretto’s.’

‘And why would you think that?’

‘I got the crime lab to hack into contacts between you and Victor Yang,’ she lied.

‘But you were ordered to back off.’

‘Was I?’

‘Don’t play games with me,’ said Kavella. ‘So you went after me anyway, and what did you find?’