Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

by Lord, Gabrielle

  ‘Except for the fact that there was no trace of carbon monoxide anywhere at the fire scene except concentrated in the tissues of the late Mr Glass,’ said Sean. ‘So how could he have done that?’

  ‘Surely the fire would have destroyed any residues?’ she said.

  Sean lifted his shoulders and pulled a face. ‘It’s got to have come from somewhere, and in concentrations high enough to be lethal.’

  Gemma went to the sink and poured herself some water using one of a stack of polyfoam disposable cups. This investigation was getting weirder by the minute. Benjamin Glass dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. Someone activating the house alarm, then swiftly switching it off and setting a fire with a rare accelerant that took the evidence with it but, at the same time, drew attention to itself and the dead man at its centre. Had Minkie or Anthony Love, or both of them together, somehow gassed him in his car, dragged him into the house, panicked and forgotten to deactivate the alarm, then set up HTA fuel for ignition a short time later? It was too complicated. Why not just push him off the headland? Or knock him on the head? Or gas him and leave him in the car? It would be much simpler to make it look accidental or to simulate a suicide. Why then draw attention to the whole incident by making a fire with an accelerant so unique, so spectacular, that it would create immense speculation and interest? Nothing about this case made any sense at all. And yet the investigator in her knew that although the facts she could already see ran through a wall that made them invisible or went underground, they were there all right, as real and as solid as she was, just waiting for her to discover them and make the right connections. People never do things without reasons, she knew.

  ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve come to see about this job,’ said Sean. Here we go again, thought Gemma, restraining her desire to say please don’t.

  ‘What we think we don’t know about a case is too often staring us right in the face but we can’t see it. And why’s that?—because it’s so big and obvious.’

  Gemma looked up at him and this time didn’t have to feign interest. Someone had gone to an enormous amount of trouble for the sake of this death. At this, a clear light suddenly shone into the murky conjectures that so far had only teased her. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Sean, you’re dead right.’ A line of enquiry so clear, so obvious, that it was embarrassing not to have considered it before, had suddenly opened up with Sean’s words. Gemma couldn’t wait to get away and research it.

  ‘Hey!’ said Sean, thrilled at her response. ‘How about a proper drink?’

  His question barely registered with her as she tried to work out where to start chasing up her new idea. The university, she thought. Academic records. ‘Uh?’ She swung back to him, aware he’d just issued an invitation. She flashed him one of her best smiles. ‘Another time, Sean. The cat. What about the cat?’ She waited to see what he’d say.

  ‘We didn’t find any cat,’ he said. ‘But if all we’ve got left of an adult male is a small piece of rump we can’t expect there’d be anything left of a cat, now could we?’

  If he was disappointed about her not accepting his invitation for a drink, Gemma thought, he didn’t let it show. Probably puts it on any female from fifteen to fifty. ‘I’d give a lot to know if that cat was in the holiday house or not,’ she said.

  ‘I went to Benjamin Glass’s factory,’ he said, ‘and found cat hair all through his office and a nice photo of the damn thing. Funny patchy chequerboard face.’

  ‘I heard there were cat hairs found at all three fire scenes,’ she said with relish.

  ‘Oh that,’ he said dismissively. ‘It’s got to be the same cat to mean anything,’ he reminded her. ‘Benjamin Glass’s cat. What is it with you and that cat anyway?’ he asked.

  Gemma smiled. ‘Don’t you remember your lectures on Fraud Indicators?’ she asked. ‘Go and dig up your old notes and read the bit about arson and the family pet.’

  ‘I never took notes,’ he said. ‘Didn’t need to. Waste of time.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Gemma. ‘So I’ll tell you something for a change. One strong indication of arson is the discovery that the family pet just happened to be staying somewhere else at the time of the fire. The arsonist arranges a sleep over for Fido to make sure he’s not killed or injured in the blaze.’

  Sean shrugged his shoulders as if discounting what Gemma was telling him.

  ‘I hear the widow’s paying you to investigate the fire. You’d better be careful of that woman. I bet she didn’t brief you that a yellow BMW was reported near the Nelson Bay house around the time of the fire. I did my homework. That’s what Minkie Montreau drives.’

  ‘Who reported it?’ said Gemma, frowning.

  ‘The policeman’s best pal,’ said Sean. ‘Mr Anonymous Tipoff. Anyway, what are you doing here? Who have you come to see?’

  His dominating manner was back in full force and in that instant, Gemma decided to give herself another twenty-four hours before handing over Ms Black Lace Gloves.

  ‘You,’ she said sweetly. ‘I was told you were here. I just wanted to keep you informed. On account of auld lang syne. I found a couple of things in a safe at Benjamin Glass’s factory office. Obviously no one from your team had found it.’ Sean looked extremely pissed off at that, but before he could say anything, Gemma continued quickly. ‘I was acting on the instructions of Minkie Montreau. She wanted me to search the place thoroughly because she knew there was a safe but not where it was. I found a key hidden in his office at home.’

  Sean’s face was compressed with anger.

  ‘Look,’ she said, trying to placate him, ‘I had all the advantages. I’m working for the wife. I was invited in first.’ If you guys had taken these fires more seriously from the beginning, she felt like saying, I doubt if I’d even be here.

  ‘That’s no excuse,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to remind you that your licence depends on you cooperating with the police whenever appropriate. You don’t want a suspension.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ she said, handing over the decks of cards and the scalpel.

  From down the hall, she could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner moving closer. I’ll hand over the rest tomorrow, she decided. After I’ve visited Sydney University. She brought her attention back to the present.

  ‘Did the PM doctor say any more about the autopsy results on Shelly?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  Sean put the cards and scalpel back into the plastic bag, and slid them together into the large envelope he carried. ‘The bruises on her body match the injuries we photographed on Robyn Warburton. The doc thinks it’s probably a chain that he wraps round his fist. To give him more clout.’

  Clout all right. Gemma shuddered. She remembered the terrible blow to her flank and how the bruises were getting darker under her silk blouse. Just thinking about it made her aware of how sore her ribs were.

  ‘What’s up?’ Sean asked, noticing her wince.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘My war injuries playing up.’

  ‘You should let us do our job, Gemma,’ he said in his patronising way. ‘Just follow your insurance fraudsters and stay out of trouble. Little girls get hurt when they try playing with the big boys.’

  ‘If the big boys were doing their job properly,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I wouldn’t have even been there that night.’ She flashed him a wide smile to undercut the criticism. The noise of the vacuum down the hall became louder and the cleaner came in, wrestling with a very noisy industrial-strength machine. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ Gemma said over the sound. She felt only marginally guilty about the photographs still in her briefcase.

  At the door, Gemma turned to him. ‘I’ll ring you soon,’ she said. ‘We’ll have that drink.’ He opened the door for her and she hurried outside.

  •

  It was an unsettled evening and a light rain had fa
llen while she was inside. Parramatta Road was streaked with water, oil stains and the lurid reflections of red, white and green lights. To get to her car from the main entrance, she had to turn off the comforting busyness of Parramatta Road and into a darker Glebe street. She walked as briskly as possible, aware of her limp, yet as ready for action as she could be, her mind trying to make sense of a case that just seemed to get wilder and crazier by the moment. A card cheat, high temperature accelerants, a blonde with black lace gloves, a missing cat. And now carbon monoxide in lethal concentrations in the pathetic bit of tissue left after a conflagration like the fires of hell. Not to mention an anonymous tipoff that put a car similar to that driven by the dead man’s widow at the fire scene. She stopped by her car, and stared up at the new moon, just visible through thin cloud. Her side was really painful now and she had to ease herself gently into the driver’s seat.

  •

  When she arrived home, after rehearsing a few sentences to use on the Ratbag, she was puzzled to see her place in darkness. Maybe he’d gone to sleep on the lounge watching telly, she thought. But her puzzlement turned to alarm when she stepped up onto the small tiled area that led to her front door. Her security door stood wide open and her front door was also slightly ajar. She pushed it cautiously, spooked by this breach in her security.

  ‘Hugo?’ she called. ‘Where are you?’ He must have gone out and left the door open. She didn’t like this one bit. ‘Hugo?’ she called again.

  But her apartment was darkly still. She stepped into the hall and could see the eerie glow of the screen saver in the operatives’ office. She reached for the hall light and switched it on. Now she could hear the sound of the television in her living room. ‘Hugo?’ she called again, walking with more confidence in the light. She was about to lock the door when she recalled some advice: don’t lock the exit until you’re sure the place is empty. Remembering this, she walked to the door that opened onto her lounge room and switched the light on. The television was on but the rumpled nest of blankets and coats on her lounge was empty except for Taxi, curled up in a ball, half-opened eyes reflecting the colourful gleam of a television advertisement. She went through every room but there was no trace of the Ratbag or anyone else. She went out onto the timber deck. The old sleeping bag was gone. Back inside, she checked the small change jar in the kitchen. It was empty. Some part of her was relieved, but she hated to think of the poor little kid trying to keep alive on the hostile, predatory streets of Kings Cross. She had no idea of who or where his father might be, nor could she even remember his surname. And how dare he leave her house wide open like this?

  ‘Damn you, Ratbag,’ she said out loud. Somehow, the little fellow had weaselled his way into her heart, made her feel responsible for him, reminding her of Will at that age, and of herself, a lost and lonely child at boarding school. She tried to distract herself by looking in the fridge and found there was nothing left. The Ratbag had cleaned that out, too.

  She felt too restless to stay home now. She could drive to the Cross, ask Kosta about the missing diary, do her shopping at the huge supermarket there, pick up her clothes from where she’d left them at the safe house and make enquiries about Shelly’s stepfather. No doubt the police would have contacted him by now. Maybe she would be able to pick up any news on the street about Steve’s dangerous target. And she could keep an eye out for a frightened little kid who had, by her reckoning, about eleven dollars in the world. She finally found Kosta’s number in an old diary and although he was surprised to hear from her, he sounded keen to meet up with her again.

  •

  She drove to the Cross, turning Meatloaf up loud to drive her gloomy thoughts away and sang along with him that ‘Two out of three ain’t bad’.

  In spite of everything, the lights and smell of the Cross lifted her mood. Maybe a drink in a bad dive would be fun later on. Just the one. Just to have a look around. Just a sniff of loud rock and bad company. I need cheering up, she told herself. Perhaps it would help dislodge the dark undercurrent that seemed to be undermining her spirits over the last month or so. She parked in a quiet cul-de-sac near the top of the Cross, did her shopping and loaded it into her car, and returned to the café on the corner where she’d arranged to meet Kosta.

  She took a table against the back wall and was wondering whether to order now or wait till Kosta arrived when she heard a couple arguing near the entrance. She looked up and then froze as Steve, gorgeous in black leather, halfway through the door, met her eyes. It was an electric moment and he broke the connection immediately as he swung around to the blonde woman behind him.

  ‘No, Lorraine,’ she heard him say in his authoritative voice. ‘Not this place. Come on. Let’s go.’

  Gemma looked across to the black glass counter that ran half the length of the café. In its mirrored surface she could see that Steve was hustling the woman behind him, steering her, arm around her waist. Gemma’s heart started beating hard. She could hear the woman protesting, complaining at this sudden change of plan.

  ‘But why? Just tell me why,’ she demanded, turning to look back into the café, as if trying to see what the problem was, knowing intuitively that there was a reason why Steve was making them go somewhere else. But Steve was adamant and Gemma knew that mood, too. Part of her understood exactly why he would do this. She would do the same thing in the same circumstances, pleading anything—bad vibes, a headache, anything— rather than enter a place where someone familiar was already ensconced.

  But the woman with him was not easily persuaded. As the couple walked past the glass wall that separated the café from the street, Gemma took a chance and looked straight at them. The woman with Steve was not fat and fifty. She was probably less than half that age. Lorraine Litchfield was deadset-film-star-knock-your-eyes-out-drop-dead-gorgeous. Then, in a split second that Gemma would forever regret, her eyes and those of the blonde locked. Gemma looked away quickly, pretending her glance was casual, but it was too late. She’d broken one of the commandments: never make eye-contact with a target. Gemma cursed herself. From the corner of her eye, she could see Lorraine Litchfield trying to push past Steve and return to the café. But Steve was blocking her, steering her backwards, his gestures conciliatory. Finally, they started walking away. But Lorraine Litchfield kept turning her head back towards the café.

  Gemma waited till they were out of sight, then jumped up and went to the front of the café, pushing aside the waiter bringing her a jug of water. She waited, peering cautiously round the door, watching as the couple crossed the road heading north towards Macleay Street. Gemma hated seeing Steve’s arm around the blonde’s narrow waist. How could I have made such a mistake? Gemma wondered, as she hastened across the street, ignoring an angry driver who’d had to brake suddenly in front of her. She remembered the newspaper and television images of the family at the funeral and Mrs Litchfield, her corseted body and face congested with anger, swearing at the photographer. Mrs Litchfield senior, mother of the murdered crime boss. The woman Gemma had presumed to be Litchfield’s daughter or daughter-in-law was in fact, his wife, now widow.

  Gemma ducked into a shop entrance as she saw Steve turn round to check behind him. She was sure he hadn’t spotted her. But she hurried after them, always keeping a lot of people between herself and her quarry for cover. Suddenly Steve beckoned a cab and she watched as her lover helped the other woman into the back seat, sliding in beside her and the cab took off.

  Gemma stood in the doorway, heart racing, trying to calm down. She started walking quickly, the pain in her ankle temporarily forgotten, not caring where she went, just wanting to keep moving, keep the anxiety at a bearable level. Why had Steve lied to her about this job? She went over their conversation in memory. She could feel her hackles rising and the beginning of raw anger. A few things fell into place. That odd pause in the conversation when her joke about Steve’s interest in an older women had fallen flat. No wonder
he hadn’t laughed. There was no joke. He wasn’t involved with an older woman at all. No wonder the atmosphere around her remark had been so charged that Gemma could still feel it now, mixed up horribly with all her present feelings of anger and jealousy. Steve had his chance to correct her right then and there and he hadn’t done it. Now Gemma had to ask herself why. Her anger grew. She wasn’t watching where she was going and almost tripped over. Was it just a lazy male thing? Easier to stay silent and let the assumption remain rather than create a fuss and the potential jealousy that the truth might bring? Bastard, she thought to herself, if that was the case. And if it wasn’t, and he genuinely had something to hide about this relationship, then things were far worse than she’d imagined.

  Gemma’s heart lurched and she almost cried out loud. Terry Litchfield’s widow was young, beautiful and very, very rich. Unconcerned passers-by bumped into her as she stood in the street, dazed. That heavy brassy looking zodiac charm had been her gift to Steve and Gemma realised now its heaviness was because of the amount of gold in it. In the same way that she’d known the photographs taken by Benjamin Glass of the naked woman in the black lace gloves had not been taken by a client but a lover, Gemma suddenly realised that the zodiac charm was of a similar order. Gemma knew this was a classic situation reversed—the crim, Lorraine Litchfield, had fallen for the middle-class man, Steve. She stumbled on, unseeing, uncaring about the other pedestrians who had to get out of her way. ‘Steve?’ her rival had called out when Gemma rang him, ‘it’s some woman’. And Gemma had found it faintly amusing then. But not now. Steve said that business was hotting up and he was under Fayed’s surveillance and forced to be scrupulously careful. But the fact was he’d dropped right out of her life over the last week. Could there be another reason, something else, something that chewed at her consciousness and worried at her heart?

  She had walked almost to the El Alamein fountain before she became conscious of her surroundings again. A group of Koori kids sat in a silent row nearby. She sat too, staring sightlessly past the kids as they pretended not to look at her. Their silence was broken by whispered comments and laughter. Maybe about her. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except one thing. She prayed that Steve was simply acting his role. Of course he’d put his arm around a woman’s waist in public if he was supposed to be her boyfriend. It went with the undercover script. But did the arm drop away once they were alone together? She prayed that Steve had not stepped over the line that kept him both professional to the job and true to her. Behind her the fountain hissed and tiny droplets chilled her face. Tears started at the very thought that she and Steve might be through. I need to get right out of here, she told herself. I need a drink. For a second, the petulance cleared and she had a detached insight into herself. Steve’s not the only one who might be acting unprofessionally, girl, she heard an inner voice say. Look at you, carrying on like a lovesick adolescent, not only interfering with an important police operation, but also endangering your man with your own unprofessional behaviour, making dreadful tactical mistakes just because you can’t handle the pressure. Gemma made a decision to maintain her standards, no matter what personal pressures bore down on her. As she moved to get up, her injured flank twinged savagely and she stopped, forced to stoop for a few long moments till the spasm passed. God, what a pathetic creature I’m becoming, she thought to herself. This time, she stood up slowly and squared her shoulders.