Already entered onto her PC files, the new folders would soon house any photographs, surveillance reports or other physical evidence that might be gathered. She read the clients’ names again. One was a woman, Minkie Montreau—Minkie—the funny name was vaguely familiar. Gemma pulled a face at the nickname, conjuring a spoilt brat-woman with a fur and a simper. The other was a Peter Greengate. She picked up Peter Greengate’s folder, opened it and shut it again. She recalled his voice on the phone. He’d sounded in a bad way, she thought. Quiet and desperate. She knew nothing about Minkie Montreau because Spinner had taken the call and made the initial entry. Spinner, her ace operative, was one of a staff of four, counting herself. From time to time Gemma still liked to get out on the road herself. She saw that Spinner had written a note under the woman’s name—‘fatal fire’ followed by a question mark. She frowned, wondering what that meant. And suddenly remembered Minkie Montreau. Fifteen years ago that name had been a well-known label and Minkie Montreau was the designer of expensive underwear and negligees in brilliant floral satins. Gemma remembered a magazine interview with the erstwhile university medallist who’d turned her engineering brilliance to the design of uplift bras and almost magical figure-trimming torsolettes for the less-than-perfect figure, which meant about ninety-five per cent of the market. But then she’d dropped out of sight. Now, Gemma thought, she’s probably just another hard-working Sydney businesswoman. Like me.
The big injection of money which had come to her from her father’s life insurance she’d put into state-of-the-art software, not to mention a complete refurbishment of her apartment, office and wardrobe, and it was beginning to pay off. Gemma’s security business, started seven years ago after she’d left the police service, was growing all the time and she had her fingers crossed, knowing she was one of only two left on the shortlist to pick up a huge contract with the Department of Social Security which would get her out of debt and guarantee her future expansion. A girlfriend, ex-detective Jenny Porter, now a risk analyst with Social Security, had as good as promised Gemma as much work as she could handle. ‘We’re outsourcing many of our departments,’ Jenny had told her, ‘including fraud investigations. We’ve narrowed the list down to you or Solidere Security. Forget I told you any of this.’ Gemma promised and then did some discreet investigating herself. She checked them out and the word so far was that Solidere was a well run business with good professional standards and a lot of money behind it. Gemma was confident, however, that she’d have the edge, given that she’d been in the business longer than her rival and because of her connection with Jenny. When I get that contract with Social Security, she thought dreamily, I can expand even further and Mike or Spinner can take over and manage it for me. Then I can please myself. Her thoughts turned to lazy caffé latte mornings at Tamarama and late nights with Steve, dancing in a dive, not having to worry about being up at 6 a.m., having to fill in for an operative who’d suddenly rung in sick. Thanks, Dad, she said despite herself, for the money—now almost all gone—that allowed me to build this business up. And all the time she was thinking of her father, she was trying not to think of the way she’d nearly died on another wet, windy night like this. Shifting her thoughts away from this, she made a mental note to ring Jenny in the next few days to see how things were shaping up and jumped when her mobile rang.
‘Yes?’
‘Gemma? I thought you’d be in bed.’
Her heart lifted. ‘Stevie. Where are you?’ Behind him, she could hear sounds consistent with a nightclub, low voices and music playing.
‘Not far away,’ he said. ‘Is it too late for a visitor?’ Taxi was looking over at her with narrowed green eyes, as if he knew that his rival for bed rights was on the other end of the line. Gemma smiled.
‘Depends on who the visitor is,’ she teased. ‘I need more information. Where’ve you been?’
‘You know that matter we talked about a few weeks ago?’
Gemma remembered dropping in on Steve unexpectedly one afternoon to find him studying black-and-white police photos. He’d whisked them into an envelope immediately when she walked in and quickly pushed it aside.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ she said now.
‘What if I said a randy undercover cop found himself in your area with a few hours to spare and a story to tell?’
‘I’d say he might get lucky.’ Gemma felt her body surge with excitement. ‘You drive carefully in this weather,’ she added, as the storm increased outside her haven.
‘You bet,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’
Gemma put the phone down, recalling how she’d sneaked a look at the photographs in the envelope when Steve was in the shower. The faces were familiar to her: stolid Mrs Lorraine Litchfield and her glamorous daughter at the funeral of their late husband and father, Sydney crime boss Terry Litchfield, gunned down some time ago outside his home—a daring drive-by shooting—and left to die in the gutter.
Now she danced Taxi round the room, holding one of his front legs stiffly up in the air, like a dancing partner, noticing as she did the dryness of the skin on her fingers and terracotta clay still under her nails. Despite scrubbing and lashings of hand cream, her skin felt tight and parched. She’d spent most of the afternoon down at Phoenix Bay, at the boatshed she was renting, working on her sculpture. The boatshed, on the southern side of the hidden beach south of Tamarama, was a magical place to work. When a full moon pulled the water right up to the stone seawall, Gemma could hear the water lapping under her floorboards. She thought with pleasure of the stylised lion she’d been modelling, copying from the picture of an archaic statue in a book on the isles of Greece. It had required a large amount of clay and a lot of work with tools and hands. Now the almost completed lion leaned out from the bench that ran down the northern wall of the boatshed, slowly drying. She was very proud of the way she’d captured the vigour and thrust of the original so that it faithfully reflected the proud tension of the beast, the way it pressed forward into some timeless place, yearning into eternity. She threw Taxi back down on his chair where he stood, tail lashing, looking away from her while she danced on into the bathroom and showered. When she came out, he was sitting neatly on the client folders in his snail position, tail wrapped tightly around himself, paws under-tucked, eyes almost closed, probably planning revenge, she thought. Gemma put on a cream silk negligee and its matching robe, puffed her new Annick Goutal perfume near her neck, ran a touch of pencil round her eyes, fluffed up her hair and was in the kitchen putting on coffee when she heard a car pull up outside. The powerful motor cut out and in a moment she heard Steve’s gentle tap at the door. It was a measure of Gemma’s trust that she had given Steve a key to the strong grille door at the front of her apartment. During working hours, she let people in and out.
Gemma opened the door and there he was, wearing the black Armani birthday shirt she’d given him, and a gold Scorpio zodiac chain that she hadn’t. With the light shining on the raindrops on his shirt and hair he was like a dark angel and he looked so good that she wanted to laugh out loud. Instead, she stepped back, as much to take him all in as to let him walk by her into the hallway. She could see the tension and strain in his tanned face, the tired sadness in his eyes, the way the furrows running from nose to mouth had deepened. Oh Stevie, she thought to herself, you work too hard and too long. And you work in bad, bad worlds. So do you, whispered a little voice. So do you. She hugged him.
‘You bloody gold-chained lair,’ she whispered, drawing back for him to kiss her and they stayed there, swaying together until she gently disentangled herself.
‘I’ve got fresh coffee on,’ she said eventually.
‘Anything stronger?’
‘Sure.’ She went to the sideboard where the crystal decanters stood with their silver labels on chains around their necks.
‘I came via the boatshed,’ said Steve, ‘and shone my torch through the window
.’
Gemma poured Scotch into a glass, smiling to herself.
‘I couldn’t see much of him under his drapes. But he’s got great front feet,’ said Steve. ‘You could put him out there in the garden.’
Gemma nodded, pleased that Steve had bothered to look in on the lion. Then she remembered that Steve noticed everything, it was what made him so effective.
‘He’s not actually finished yet,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to do another one so I’ll have a pair.’
Gemma passed Steve’s drink to him. He tossed it down and threw himself on one of the armchairs. Taxi had vanished. She was dying to ask about the zodiac charm and could barely wait till he put his glass out for another drink. She fetched some ice from the fridge, went back to the decanter and turned around, keeping her voice as casual as she could.
‘Where did you get that Scorpio charm?’
Steve squinted down at it, pulling a face. ‘A woman gave it to me.’ He swung it into his hand and jiggled it up and down. ‘It’s what she thinks is appropriate for a boyfriend.’
Gemma felt her heart give a throb of jealousy as she reached out and touched it. At the same time, she wanted to gather more intelligence about Steve’s undercover job.
‘It looks expensive,’ she said. But then, money would be no object to Terry Litchfield’s widow, Gemma knew.
Steve shrugged. ‘I suppose it is,’ he said. ‘I don’t really take much notice of it, except when it hits me sometimes at the gym.’ He stood up. ‘That email you’ve been getting—I want to see it.’
Gemma shook her head, wishing she’d never mentioned it to him. ‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s horrible.’
Steve came closer. ‘How did you get involved in something like that?’
His question caused her body to tighten defensively. She didn’t want to talk about it, not now, and certainly not with Steve. She picked up her empty cup and his glass and walked out to the kitchen. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It’s too late now. Do you want another drink?’
He nodded and she made him another one, then brought her coffee mug out and curled up on the floor, leaning against his legs. He smoothed her hair and sipped his drink.
‘How’s it all going?’ she finally asked, knowing that he wouldn’t say much.
‘I think it’s going to be okay,’ he said. ‘I got through the first meeting with the person we’re targeting.’
‘Stevie, I hope you’re being really careful,’ she said, looking up at him, suspecting already whom he meant. Steve squeezed her shoulder. Still looking at him, she put her hand over his. ‘Is that squeeze supposed to be reassuring?’ she asked.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘You might have to do better than that,’ she said. ‘I know you can’t say much but I happen to know already that you’re working with Terry Litchfield’s widow—’
‘How do you know that?’ Steve asked too quickly, and she realised she’d caught him off-guard.
She looked at him more closely. ‘You’re rattled,’ she teased. ‘Have I touched on a sensitive issue?’ He was looking hard at her, obviously not pleased that she knew so much. ‘Steve,’ she said, ‘you must have known I’d guess. I’m an investigator too, remember.’
He grunted noncommitally.
Gemma laughed at his discomfort. ‘Oh come on,’ she said. ‘What’s the worry? I’m discreet. And I can’t imagine you’d be doing anything you shouldn’t with that woman.’ She paused. ‘Unless the widow’s a cradle-snatcher or you’re looking for a mother figure.’
Steve frowned, taking his hand away from her shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh Steve.’ She was irritated by his unusual denseness. Normally, Steve was right there with her. ‘Lorraine Litchfield must be old enough to be your mother! And you’re forty-five.’
Steve said nothing, leaving an odd silence. ‘You know I can’t say much, Gems,’ he said, after drinking more of his Scotch.
‘But I can,’ she said, taking his hand back again. ‘I can put two and two together.’
‘Yes, but does it add up to four?’ He put his glass down. ‘Hey’—he took her hands in his—‘come to bed.’
She loved Steve’s solid body, strong from his daily work, and the way he fitted into and around her. ‘Listen, you,’ she said as they snuggled together, ‘I’m not kissing you with that bloody charm around your neck.’ She took it off, flinging it and the other woman with it over the edge of the bed. She melted into his kisses, aware that he smelled different somehow. He was wearing a sultry aftershave she didn’t recognise and when she closed her eyes, she could have been lying with a stranger. It was as if the miasmas of the dens and dives he’d been in over the last few months had seeped into his skin.
Later, she snuggled up to his back and stroked his arm, wondering where he’d spent last night. On the lounge or in the spare bedroom of another woman’s house?
‘What is it?’ he asked, feeling the silence.
‘I was wondering,’ she said, not wanting to own up to where her thoughts really were, and using the acronym for deep undercover work, ‘why you wanted to be a DUC. It’s not everybody’s cup of tea.’
Steve settled himself on his back and she resettled her head on his chest. ‘I suppose it’s because I’m an action man,’ he said. ‘I was never much of a scholar. I knew I’d be hopeless inside, stuck at a desk all day, always wanting to be outside doing something.’
‘You could have been a gardener,’ she joked.
He gave her a soft slap. ‘I need to keep on the go,’ he said. This sort of life suits me.’
‘But the danger—’ she started to say.
‘Greatly overrated,’ he said, ‘by guys who want to look like heroes. And television drama. Like most investigative work, it’s slow and boring. Mixing with dickheads all day.’ He laughed. ‘Just like working at the Police Centre.’
‘No, but—’ Gemma started to argue.
‘Do the job properly,’ Steve interrupted, ‘follow procedures, keep alert and it’s okay. Safer than going to work in the traffic every day.’ He stroked her hair. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What did you want to be when you were growing up?’
Gemma considered. ‘I wanted to be safe,’ she said, remembering a household filled with menace. ‘And I wanted to have an ordinary mother and father like I thought other people had.’
‘No mothers or fathers are ever ordinary,’ said Steve, and she kissed his chest, loving how he just knew things.
‘I didn’t want any of the usual things that my girlfriends wanted. I wasn’t attracted to further study. And I certainly didn’t want to ever have children.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I’m talking career. Why you ended up in the game you’re in. You know what I mean. First the cops, now this. Stalking people.’
She pounced and pulled his pillow out from under his head. ‘I’ll stalk you!’ she said, beating him with it. She resettled and considered. ‘Law and order,’ she said. ‘The order part of it appealed to me. After a crazy childhood, the thought of order is quite appealing.’
‘You never talk about what you liked doing when you were a kid,’ he said.
Gemma pulled the covers up over them; it was cold in here, she thought. ‘Not much to tell,’ she said. ‘Aunt Merle, who practically brought us up, had a couple of art books. I used to love looking through those with Kit. She used to make up stories about the people in the paintings and sculptures. I wanted to make things too—people, animals. I liked the idea of making something beautiful out of a lump of clay or stone.’
‘I used to make things out of tins,’ said Steve, ‘and then pot them with my air rifle.’
Gemma laughed and snuggled closer. ‘You’re such a bloke, Steve.’
‘Yes,’ he said, grabbing her,
‘and you wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘I used to make things with plasticine,’ said Gemma. ‘I felt I could somehow make something mine, really own it—if I could get its essence down in something solid.’
‘You’ve ended up doing that,’ Steve pointed out. ‘Getting the essence of people. On video, in your reports. Some of their essence, anyway.’
They lay together in silence a while, and Gemma wondered if making copies of another artist’s work would ever really satisfy her.
The scent of the foreign aftershave brought her attention to the present and she leaned up on an elbow and looked down at him. ‘What’s Lorraine Litchfield like?’ she asked.
Steve turned towards her, gathering her in.
‘She’s tough,’ he said. ‘But you’d have to be, to be married to a crim like Terry Litchfield. If she’d had a few decent breaks, she might have really made something of herself.’
Gemma settled down to sleep, aware that Steve had turned and was now lying on his back where she could sense his eyes open in the darkness. She rolled back to him.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like.’ Gemma did know. The life of an undercover operative was adrenaline-charged day and night, the agent always being fearful of making the one tiny slip that would give him away. The silence of late night was filled with the crashing of the sea on the rocks below her place. ‘Your target,’ she said. ‘It’s George Fayed, isn’t it?’
It hadn’t taken Gemma long to work out that Steve must have been targeting the new ‘king’ of Kings Cross. Why else would he be working with Lorraine Litchfield, widow of the deposed and murdered ex-king? The personal introduction of Steve, Gemma knew, coming via Lorraine Litchfield to this criminal, would help Steve make contact with George Fayed, and then, if all went well, effect penetration of the drug lord’s empire.
‘Ssshh,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Go to sleep.’
Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing Page 2
