Part of her longed to ring Kit for tea and sympathy, but that seemed impossible just now. Kit wouldn’t say anything unkind, Gemma knew, but the unspoken words would still make Gemma feel bad. You seem compelled, Kit wouldn’t say, to deliberately put yourself in situations where your very life is threatened. Now look what’s happened.
Is it true? she asked herself. Is that really what I do? She looked at her bandaged fingers and her strapped-up leg. She had a vague working idea, mainly culled from reading and some of Kit’s more interesting cases, about the ‘repetition compulsion’, the way people continue to re-create the relationships of their childhood in their marriages, their careers and their relations with their children, repeating dangerous patterns of neglect or hostility. But when she looked back to her childhood she couldn’t see anything remotely similar to the way she lived now. She was certainly not a depressed woman, medicated by and living with a psychiatrist husband as her mother had been. Her life and her mother’s life seemed light years apart. But it was true that she had been involved in a serious assault last night and it was also true that her father used to assault her mother. She remembered hiding with Kit in the big wicker clothes basket while her father raged and her mother wept.
Gemma took her tea and some vegemite toast out onto the timber deck. It was a perfect winter’s day, and a calm blue sea lay under a soft sky. Taxi, leaving bits of chewed chicken wing strewed around the floors, came outside to harass her, trying to climb up on her lap. She kept pushing him away, wincing as she unwittingly twisted her damaged foot. Steve and the world of George Fayed seemed light years away from her now. She sat there, staring out to sea, wondering how she was going to deal with an injured leg and damaged fingers as well as everything else.
She poured another tea and hobbled with it back to the lounge room, where she collapsed onto the blue leather sofa beside the phone. Had the black meteorite struck last night? Or was it still spinning soundlessly through unthinkable distances in her direction? She looked out to sea again, to the blue horizon, the perfect sky. Out of the blue, she thought. That’s the expression we use for something completely unexpected. This sort of thinking will do you no good, she scolded herself. Time to get back into your life, girl.
With an effort, she tuned back into the present moment, and checked her voice mail. The first one was from Mike Moody’s flatmate, Roger Hollis. It had arrived around midnight.
‘Mike asked me to ring on his behalf,’ the vaguely familiar voice said, ‘but I mislaid your mobile number. I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you too much by not ringing earlier.’
He sounded quite jolly about this, Gemma thought, and she felt like ringing him straight back and saying, Oh not at all, old cock. No inconvenience whatsoever. Nothing I enjoy more on a Saturday night than being bashed by a stranger in a lane. She smoothed Taxi’s ears to calm herself down.
‘Mike’s had to take a few days off,’ the message continued. ‘Doctor’s orders. He was involved in a brawl last night and got injured. He’ll ring when he can. Goodbye, Gemma.’
She was surprised and incredulous together. A brawl? Mike had been watching Belinda Swann. How could a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl give him a problem? She rang back, angry and determined to find out. No one was there to take her call, the recorded message told her, so she left instructions for Mike Moody to ring her, asap.
The next communication was from Nick Yabsley at the Fire Investigation Unit. He had a result from the Government lab that might interest her. She realised she’d barely thought of Minkie Montreau and the fire investigation in the last twenty-four hours. Would Gemma please ring him back Monday morning? Gemma made a note to do so although it felt as if the mystery of the fire and the missing philanthropist belonged to another time and another place. The next message lifted her spirits. Twisted ankle, aching flank, swollen knee and all, she smiled at Steve’s voice.
‘I hope to get away for some stolen hours with you. I’ll ring again as soon as I can.’
Behind his words, she could hear the sound of a crowded room—a café perhaps, or a bar. She played it again, then listened to the next message.
‘Sean Wright here, Gemma. We found that silver Ford. We’ve given it a good going over. We found a lot of different fibres. And a lot of what might be animal hair. And we’re hoping we might have picked up some traces of the driver. It’s all gone off to the scientists. You owe me one now.’
Animal hair? she thought. This reminded her she still hadn’t found the whereabouts of Benjamin Glass’s cat.
The next message seemed to be nothing but music, a few bars of something that sounded like it came from her favourite repertoire, bluesy rock and roll, and was teasingly familiar. It wasn’t ‘Bad to the bone’, she thought, but something like that. Then came the beep beep beep of a hang-up. She ran it back again and this time listened more carefully. She wasn’t sure, but in front of the music, closer to the handpiece, she thought she could hear the sound of heavy breathing. The message tape clicked off. Great, she thought. Just what I need now, a breather. She couldn’t help thinking what Kit might say. I wonder what part of my unconscious you are, she thought, putting the phone down.
Ten
Gemma drove into the city through the early peak hour traffic and parked in the Police Centre car park, courtesy of Angie whom she’d arranged to meet first thing Monday morning. The limping walk down to Oxford Street was painful and she was aware of stares. But she finally made it and now she waited for her friend at the Galleon, a café in an arcade off Oxford Street. She ordered an orange drink to help clear the mean taste in her mouth, a result of the analgesics she was taking. She’d almost finished it when her friend walked in, looking fresh and elegant in a crisp white blouse and navy trouser suit, her red hair pinned in a french roll. Somehow she’d managed to avoid the commissioner’s insistence on uniform at all times and could have been mistaken for a successful corporate executive. Angie sat down, pulled her chair into the table and looked Gemma up and down.
‘I heard what happened,’ she said. ‘How’s your leg?’
‘I’m managing.’
‘Do you think it was the man we’re after?’ Angie asked. ‘What’s your gut feeling?’
‘I can’t say,’ Gemma said. ‘I sent the blouse I was wearing to the lab at Lidcombe. Maybe they can get something that will match up with Robyn Warburton and the Ford and then we’ll know for sure that it’s the same person.’
The waitress hovered by their table and they ordered cheese and bacon toasted melts and coffee, the same as they always used to have in the old days when they escaped here for lunch.
‘What’s the latest on Shelly?’ she asked Angie as the waitress departed.
‘Still down at the morgue,’ said Angie. ‘Her clothing’s been sent to Lidcombe.’
More clothing, more DNA extraction, more information, but still they were no closer to whoever it was who bashed and killed women. If indeed basher and killer were one and the same person.
‘I feel I owe Shelly something,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ll ask around. See if anyone saw anything. Heard anything.’
‘It could be our man,’ said Angie, ‘or any one of a large selection of ugly mugs.’
Gemma nodded. ‘Sean actually rang me and told me they’d found the car,’ she said, ‘the Ford. Lots of fibres and possible animal hairs.’
Angie’s eyebrows rose and she reorganised the serviette on her lap. ‘That surprises me,’ she said. ‘Sean passing on information. He must be after something.’
‘He’s always after something,’ said Gemma. ‘He’ll be looking for a trade-off of some kind. He told me I owed him one.’
‘Well, you know he fancies you,’ her friend teased. ‘He wants your body, Gemster.’
‘Then he’s going to have to try a whole lot harder.’
Angie laughed, swallowed the last of her coffee and put her cup d
own. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘will you please tell me the whole story of what happened to you?’
Even telling Angie about the ordeal made Gemma’s heart race faster and she could feel her temperature rising as she described the attack and its aftermath.
‘Same lane where the other young girl was attacked,’ said Angie when Gemma had finished. ‘Could be the same offender again.’ She looked at her friend closely. ‘What do you think?’
Gemma glanced away at two suited men, plain clothes police officers, hunched over their table.
‘I thought so at first,’ she said. ‘But then I looked at the differences. The man we’re looking for is a kerb-crawler. The man who attacked me didn’t pick me up. In fact he got out of his car.’
‘But he did have a car.’
‘Yes. But he came after me on foot. Why didn’t he pick me up in the car like he’d done with the others? That way he’d be sure to get me. At least he’d think so. I’m not sure it’s the same person.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Angelface, I wish I knew. He had the lights on high beam. I couldn’t see him.’
‘Any singing?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘And don’t ask me what sort of car it was either. It was impossible to see around the headlights.’
‘How the hell did he get away? You’d kneed in him in the face and sprayed him with capsicum.’
‘I think I missed with the spray. But he seemed to get away so fast. Maybe he had an offsider.’
‘Maybe they work as a team,’ Angie said. ‘The girls are networking already. Looking out for the prick.’
‘Or pricks. Did I tell you about the ribbons?’
Their meal arrived and Gemma bit into hers, hungrier than she’d realised. She told Angie the impression she’d had, of flying streamers.
‘Might’ve been an effect of concussion,’ said Angie. ‘It’s unusual attire for a violent criminal.’
Gemma kicked her under the table, then immediately regretted doing so, because she’d hurt herself. ‘I can only tell you my honest impressions,’ she said. ‘He seemed to be wearing something ribbon-like.’
They decided against another coffee and called for the bill, having the usual argument about who was paying until Angie capitulated.
‘I want to see if Sean’s around,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ll walk back with you. Although “walk” probably isn’t the correct word.’
‘You do what you can, honey,’ said Angie. ‘We’re here to help.’
Leaning on her friend’s arm, Gemma limped slowly back to the Police Centre. By the time they got to the fifth floor, her knee and ankle were very painful.
Angie cleared some papers off her chair and indicated to Gemma she should sit there. She stood, hands on hips, as Gemma hobbled over and sat at her friend’s desk.
‘Just look at you,’ she said, leaning against the partition, arms folded. Gemma remembered the days when she herself used to sit in partitioned offices such as this one. She missed the fun with Angie, but they could keep the rest, she thought. The call-outs, the rivalries, the bitching. The closed male upper ranks.
‘Are you still carting that quaint little antique .38 around?’ Angie asked.
‘Why?’ said Gemma, spinning round to face her friend.
‘Because if you are, you’re stupid. Especially if you’re going to act like that—’
‘Like what?’
‘Pro-active, Gemster honey. And I’m not punning on pro. You’re going to have to upgrade. You need a decent piece. Something that’ll deliver a one-shot party stopper.’
Gemma laughed. ‘You’ve been hanging out with too many ex-SASies, Ange.’
Angie pushed back a loose strand of dark red hair, leaning closer. ‘You listen to me,’ she said. ‘The world is changing, Gems. If you hadn’t noticed. We get drive-bys now. We get schoolkids shooting and knifing each other. We get crims with M16s. If you’re going to be on the streets and anywhere near the likes of George Fayed, you get yourself properly tooled up.’
‘I don’t plan to get too close to him,’ said Gemma. ‘And what’s the matter with the antique? It’s foolproof and I feel safe with it.’
‘Yeah? How would you carry it?’
‘In my briefcase, like a lady,’ said Gemma.
‘Gun in bag with zipper gets you dead, lady,’ said Angie. ‘You listen to your girlfriend. Come down to Georges Hall with me on the weekend. Get some hard training with a Glock 27. It’s more compact than the 19 issue. We’ll shoot the balls off some B-12s.’
Gemma remembered the man-shaped target templates from the police range, then looked down at herself and her bandages.
‘Don’t you think I should wait until I can walk first?’
Angie shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘but don’t you forget what I said.’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘Don’t give me whatever bullshit you’re starting,’ said Angie. ‘You’ve got to be equipped properly these days. Okay?’
Gemma picked up a pen and put it down again.
‘Someone like George Fayed would have you dead without thinking twice. There’s Terry Litchfield shot down, two dealers and two other people who have simply vanished over the last couple of years. Last seen in the company of that reptile lover.’ Angie walked out to make more coffee.
What brought all that on, Gemma wondered. It was probably Angie’s practical way of showing affection, Gemma thought to herself. She weighed up the pros and cons of upgrading her personal defence but Sean Wright’s staccato laugh interrupted her. He appeared around the door, holding a large envelope, smirking at her. He was in top form, she could see.
‘I heard you copped a belting, Gemma.’
‘Thanks for the sympathy, Sean.’
‘Nothing to it. All part of the new sharing and caring police service.’
‘I heard you were down at the morgue,’ said Gemma, ‘and they let you out.’
Sean smirked again. ‘That’s right. And no doubt you want to know how the autopsy went on Michelle Anne Glover.’
It took Gemma a second to recognise Shelly’s full name. ‘I do,’ she agreed.
Angie’s phone rang and her friend returned as if on cue, and leaned across the desk to pick up the receiver, turning into the corner with it.
‘The doc is finalising his reports now,’ said Sean. ‘You could ask him. Or I might tell you if you ask me nicely.’
‘I’m asking you nicely,’ said Gemma sweetly.
‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘But first, what do you know about HTAs?’
HT whats? Gemma’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the acronym. She’d heard it somewhere before. ‘I’ve heard of them,’ she bluffed. ‘But what’ve they got to do with Shelly?’
Sean reached into the envelope he was carrying.
‘Nothing to do with Shelly at all,’ he said, waving the contents at her. ‘ HTAs were used in the fire that destroyed Benjamin Glass’s holiday house. And the other two earlier fires.’
Damn, thought Gemma, remembering, too late, Nick Yabsley’s message to ring him. If I hadn’t forgotten to do that, she realised, I wouldn’t have to listen to Mr Right crowing on about it now.
‘HTA stands for high temperature accelerant,’ said Sean. ‘I went back to the fire site the day after we met you and Nick up there. Things had cooled down a lot. I took some more samples and I want to go back and take some more.’ He tapped his finger on the reports. ‘Everything’s so brittle because of the heat. It’s taking longer than I anticipated to get to where the lowest levels of the house stood.’
‘Yes, but what are these accelerants?’ Gemma asked. ‘What do they actually mean?’
Sean cleared his throat. ‘“Test results from infra-red spectroscopy and x-ray fluorescence spectroscopy,”’
he read, ‘“indicate the presence of ammonium perchlorate, iron-oxide, and a polymer binder”—’
‘Give it a rest, Sean,’ said Angie who’d finished her phone call. ‘Let’s hear it in plain English.’
Sean stopped reading and slid the report back into its envelope. ‘You did ask,’ he said. ‘The reason why it took them this long to find out what was used is because the mix was so potent it completely destroyed itself. Or almost. Usually there’s enough unreacted material for the scientists to collect and identify.’
‘So what the hell are we looking at?’ Gemma repeated.
‘Rocket fuel,’ Sean said, after a pause.
Gemma was astonished. ‘How on earth would someone get hold of that? What sort of person would have access to it?’
‘A rocket scientist, silly,’ said Angie. ‘This building’s full of them.’
‘I’ve made a few preliminary inquiries,’ Sean said. ‘It’s only available from a few very secure sources, mostly defence installations in the US.’
‘You’re talking about legally available?’ Gemma asked and Sean nodded.
‘I had a chat to Ric Loader at Lidcombe. He reckons it wouldn’t be difficult to make,’ he said. ‘Although getting the balance so finely tuned as this stuff would require professional expertise and sophisticated equipment. It can be set off with a remote control. Electronically.’
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