Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

by Lord, Gabrielle

  ‘You can,’ Gemma shouted above the noise. ‘And I can tell the police about you. Right now.’

  Skanda lunged around the room with the vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Turn that damn thing off and tell me what I want to know,’ said Gemma, ‘and I might be able to lose your name for a while. Tell me what you and Mr Glass did.’

  Gemma waited. Finally Skanda switched the cleaner off. Then she stamped around like a crazed parlourmaid, straightening a pile of magazines, putting on a CD, plumping up cushions, generally tidying an already perfectly tidy room.

  ‘Sometimes it was just body work, you know, massage. Pressure points. Breathing techniques.’ Her mouth curled down in distaste. ‘Most men are so fucked up about sex they find it impossible to enjoy full body orgasm. They’re fixated on their pricks. They just do those little spurts and grunts and think they’ve climaxed.’

  She opened the front door and stood waiting beside it. Gemma took the cue and stood in the doorway, ready to leave.

  ‘And was that the case with Benjamin?’

  ‘He was improving a lot.’

  Skanda’s face showed a hard, bitter expression that was gone almost the moment Gemma noticed it. Gemma stepped outside, said goodbye and Skanda closed the door. She took her time going back down to her car, thinking over the interview. Skanda Bergen was a case, that was clear enough, with her crazy cleaning routines. And she was furious. Was she so self-centred that she took Benjamin Glass’s death personally, angry at the loss of such a rich client? Gemma jotted down a few notes about the angry, defensive nature of the woman and her obsessive compulsion to clean. She couldn’t quite find the words she needed to describe whatever it was that lay in those darting eyes. Something volatile, dangerous. She looked forward to discussing it with Kit.

  Across the road, under the spreading protection of a huge Moreton Bay fig, a couple were embracing. All the pain and jealousy about Steve came rushing back again. She stared at the pair, wondering where her man was, and what he was doing. Just in this moment, Gemma didn’t care that she had a teasing new lead into the Benjamin Glass investigation. Right now, all she could think about was the fact that Steve was living with another woman, sleeping under her roof, putting his arm around her waist. Gemma straightened her shoulders and got into her car. Earlier, she’d made an appointment to visit Mike. It was time to clear the air in that direction, at least. On the way to Mike’s place, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being followed. Uneasy, she checked her mirror. The traffic behind her seemed innocent but she checked her rear-view mirror more often than usual.

  •

  The house Mike Moody shared with another deserted husband was a small Victorian terrace not far from the University of New South Wales at Kensington. Mike opened the door at her knock and she was shocked at his appearance. One eye was black, there was a stitched split over his eyebrow, another on the cheekbone, and the right side of his mouth was grazed and swollen.

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘You do look terrible.’

  ‘This is good,’ he responded, ‘compared to how I was the other night.’ His voice sounded flat, bruised lips hardly moving. He watched as she hobbled in. ‘And anyway,’ he said, ‘you’re not too smart yourself.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I forgive you. I didn’t think I’d ever want to see you again,’ she said, ‘let alone employ you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he grunted. ‘Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?’

  He busied himself in the kitchen and Gemma looked around. It was definitely a rented bachelor domain. An old sunken lounge in front of the television, a dying indoor plant, a few chairs and clothes drying on a clothes horse near a small heater comprised the furniture of the living room. Mike came back with two coffees and set them down on an uncomfortably low coffee table, a refugee from the ’70s, all orange and lime-green ceramic tiles.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ he said. ‘I’m not much of a housekeeper.’ He went into the kitchen again and returned with a large round cake tin, opening it to reveal an elaborate chocolate cake and offered her a wicked looking slice.

  ‘Whipped it up yourself, did you?’ she joked.

  Mike nodded. ‘Actually, yes, I did. I’m working through an international cake cookbook. This is a Bavarian recipe. Bit like Black Forest cake. Every week I make the next cake in the book.’

  Gemma stared at him. ‘I’m astonished,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Most of the great chefs are men.’

  ‘It’s not a skill I associate with police officers,’ she said. ‘It’s delicious,’ she added, when she’d tasted it.

  Mike replaced the lid on the cake tin and took it back to the kitchen, returning with a small piece for himself. He ate with difficulty, chewing only on one side of his jaw, and barely moving his wounded mouth. What a pair we are, she thought. But at least Mike caught his target on video. Mine got away.

  ‘Want to see what I got?’ he asked.

  Gemma blinked, wondering for a moment what he was talking about. Then he slid a cassette into his VCR. The image was blurred for a second until the automatic focus hardened the edges around a young girl, tall, full-breasted, her upper body encased in a low-cut bustier in black leather, held together with studs, her back completely naked. Thigh-high boots with dangerously high heels covered tight leather hipster pants, revealing a trim tanned belly with a jewelled navel. Belinda Swann, Gemma thought, looking like a vision from Miss Kitty’s House of Bondage. No one seeing this would imagine the girl could possibly be fourteen. It was the sort of image that would be very helpful to Belinda Swann’s ex-boyfriend’s counsel.

  ‘How old would you think she was if you didn’t know?’ Mike asked.

  Gemma considered. Taking into account her make-up, her height and mature-looking figure, Gemma tried to forget she knew the girl’s age. ‘I think if you said twenty-six no one would argue,’ she replied.

  ‘Watch this bit,’ said Mike. ‘You can see the two guys there’—he pointed to two murky figures standing behind the queue near the door of the nightclub—‘the ones who bashed me.’

  Gemma studied them as they loomed closer.

  ‘I kept filming,’ said Mike. ‘You never know when it might be needed in court.’

  The men’s features became clear as the automatic zoom righted itself. Young, fit, dark, dangerous, she thought. They started walking towards the camera and then it all happened. The camera angle suddenly swerved, swung upside-down and the images became incomprehensible. Then came the grainy black and white tweed pattern as the picture was lost. Mike stood up and switched it off.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got those two cold if we ever meet up with them again. I’ve already printed off copies for the cops.’

  Gemma turned to him. ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘I owe you an apology. I was furious with you. I thought you’d just stood me up.’ She didn’t tell him she’d really wanted to see him to make sure his injuries justified his no-show the other night.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mike attempted a lop-sided smile. ‘You came round to check me out, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Make sure I was fair dinkum?’

  He’d got it in one, she thought.

  ‘I’d do the same,’ he said, ‘if I’d been in your shoes. After all, you don’t really know me very well yet. It takes ages to build up a working trust in a game like this one. I just hope you believe I’m trustworthy. I like working with you.’

  It was hard to know if he was trying on a low grade flirt, or merely speaking his mind.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said vaguely before continuing. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been so badly assaulted, Mike. And then your dopey flatmate lost my mobile number and couldn’t ring. So I didn’t know what the hell was going on.’

  Mike rehoused the cassette in a black cover and put it away.

  ‘My flatm
ate is now my ex-flatmate. He moved out a few days ago,’ he said. ‘He’s always got to keep one step ahead of his ex. She finds out where he lives and does terrible things to him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Mean things. Prawn heads in the hub caps. Graffiti on the walls. Shit in brown paper bags type of things. That sort of stuff. She broke into one of the places he was renting and destroyed everything in his wardrobe. But she’ll get her comeuppance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gemma asked, uneasy at the turn the conversation seemed to be taking.

  ‘I ran a check on her new boyfriend,’ he said. ‘And he’s got a criminal record. Real nasty.’

  Gemma stood up, brushing crumbs off her knee. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘I won’t be far behind you,’ he said, picking up the cups and plates, taking them back into the kitchen. Then he went into the bedroom, leaving Gemma perched on the arm of the lounge. From that position, she could just see into the bedroom, painted an ugly green, with stacks of CDs and books, and on the wall, a poster of a naked woman, a bullseye target on one breast.

  The door moved slightly and Mike came back out carrying a coat.

  ‘I want to do a full forensic on that computer of yours,’ he said. ‘Make sure everything’s ridgey-didge. You’ll definitely need to upgrade your security.’ He checked his wristwatch. ‘I’ll need it for a couple of hours. You can have it back as soon as I’ve finished. Is that okay?’

  It was more of a statement than a question, and Gemma nodded.

  ‘Just excuse me for a moment,’ Mike said, vanishing into the bathroom, closing the door. While he was occupied, Gemma crept into the green bedroom. An old suede jacket hung from the doorknob. Gemma felt around in its pockets and found a man’s handkerchief. Gingerly, she pulled it out. It was heavily bloodstained. Pinching it between two fingernails, she folded tissues from the nearby box around it and slid it into her pocket. Close up, she could see that the poster of the naked woman had been further defaced, not only by the bullseye over her heart, but also by what appeared to be small stab wounds around her other breast, belly and groin. Both eyes had been scratched out with a sharp instrument. It was so ugly that she jumped in fright when she heard a sudden sound. It was only the toilet flushing next door so she limped back to the living area and was innocently loitering near the front door when Mike came out, drying his hands. She felt the purloined handkerchief, safe in her pocket. I’ll get this matched against any DNA traces from the previous attacks, she thought. I have to eliminate Mike from this or I’ll forever be unsure about him. The two assaults were hours apart; it’s possible for him to have been involved with both. And I need to see Kit soon, too, and talk to her; do whatever it takes to get our relationship back on track again.

  •

  Her mobile rang. It was Minkie Montreau returning her call. Gemma arranged to see her but first she dropped the handkerchief off to Angie at the Police Centre who parcelled it up neatly for the Analytical Laboratory and promised personal delivery later that day.

  ‘Tell Ric to match it against the attacks on Robyn Warburton and Shelly.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ Angie asked. ‘Whose is this?’ And she indicated the package.

  ‘Just do it,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘You’re not withholding anything from the relevant authorities, are you, girl?’ asked Angie.

  ‘It’s just a real wild card,’ said Gemma. ‘Elimination purposes only.’ But Angie’s words reminded her of another package. She fished it out of her briefcase. ‘And give these photographs to Sean?’ She handed over the pictures of Skanda Bergen in her birthday suit and gloves. ‘Tell him I found them among Benjamin Glass’s possessions.’ She wondered how long it would take Mr Right to track down the late philanthropist’s bedmate.

  •

  Half an hour later, Gemma was knocking on Minkie Montreau’s huge front door. Minkie’s face was apprehensive as she opened it. Not all your locks and bolts and castle gates can keep this away from you, Gemma thought, as she walked into the spacious foyer.

  ‘What is it now?’ asked Minkie nervously.

  Gemma swung round to face her. ‘Three things,’ she said. ‘First, someone has reported a yellow BMW in the vicinity of the beach house prior to the fire. Secondly, I checked with the company which insured your Nelson Bay property. You asked for a copy of the policy to be sent out to you only last week.’

  ‘I did not!’ said Minkie indignantly.

  ‘Your broker’s records prove it,’ Gemma continued relentlessly. ‘And thirdly, I went to Sydney University and tracked down a copy of your Masters thesis.’

  She watched Minkie’s face as she pulled out her notebook. A look of pure terror contorted the usually regular features and too much of the whites showed in the strange green eyes.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she said in a barely audible voice.

  ‘And this is what I discovered,’ Gemma said, finding the notes she’d scribbled down in the university archives. ‘A Masters thesis submitted by Miriam Montreau titled “Applications of synthetic and natural polymers in the production of high temperature accelerants”.’ Gemma read from the title page.

  She turned on the woman who was now huddled on a chair like a frightened child, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ whispered Minkie. ‘Who is doing this to me?’ Her voice was like a smothered scream.

  ‘Minkie,’ said Gemma, ‘you’ve lied to me every time we’ve met. And every time I’ve discovered something else you haven’t told me. I’ve had to drag the truth out of you. I don’t know what your game is but I think it’s only fair to warn you that when I hand this information over to Sean Wright, the police could well believe they now have enough on you to charge you with the murder of your husband.’

  ‘No!’ cried Minkie. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Personally,’ said Gemma, to drive it home, ‘I think they’ve got more than enough for a committal hearing.’

  ‘But they can’t do that!’ she said. ‘I didn’t do it. You’ve got to believe me. Please don’t pass this on. You’re working for me, not the police!’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ Gemma asked. ‘You’ve lied and continued to lie.’

  ‘Only about things that have nothing to do with Benjamin’s death,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you the truth about everything else.’ Tears ran down her face. ‘I’ve had a very difficult life,’ she said. ‘People only see this’—she waved her hand vaguely at the lavish surroundings—‘they don’t know what it was like to grow up with parents who were Communists in the ’50s. Ideologues are the pits when it comes to parenting. I was a political ideal, not a little child.’

  Here we go, thought Gemma. The sob story to soften me up again.

  ‘I’m not going to give you the story of my unhappy childhood,’ Minkie said, as if reading Gemma’s mind, ‘but I was forced to do that wretched Engineering degree and that bloody Masters thesis by a woman who’d didn’t even finish her own degree. I was halfway through my doctorate before I cried enough! Even then, I didn’t start living my own life. I started designing and manufacturing sexy underwear. You know why? To get right up my mother’s nose! I knew she’d hate it and I was right. But after a while, I found that I couldn’t sustain my interest in it. It wasn’t what I really wanted to do either. But by then I’d met and married Benjamin.’ She paused. ‘It took me years to discover what I really wanted in life. And years to find what was important to me in matters of love.’ She walked to the long window and looked out at the garden for a moment before turning back to Gemma. ‘I know I’ve appeared dishonest. But I’ve only tried to keep some things . . . someone . . . out of the picture.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Gemma. ‘Who cares if you’ve got a boyfriend? Your husband’s dead. What’s the big d
eal?’ She remembered the time she’d rung Anthony Love and a woman had answered. ‘Is he married?’ she asked. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It’s much more complicated than that,’ she said. ‘Anthony could be in real trouble if the truth came out.’

  Gemma swung round, ready to leave. ‘I’m going. I’ve had enough of this,’ she said. ‘I’ll total up what you owe me and fax it to you.’

  She went to the door. Minkie made no move to open it for her.

  ‘You don’t seem to appreciate the very real danger you’re in,’ Gemma said. ‘Stop pretending to be noble. If all these lies have been to protect Anthony, you’re wasting your time and energy. It only makes everything look worse. As a person connected to a murder investigation, he’ll have to be interviewed by the police.’

  ‘No!’ Minkie’s voice was a shriek. ‘That mustn’t happen. The success of his latest work depends on it. You don’t understand!’

  ‘It’s you who doesn’t understand,’ snapped Gemma. ‘Now please open this door for me.’

  For the first time, she felt a shiver of fear. If this woman had murdered her husband, Gemma might be next on the hit list. She wondered how well she’d be able to defend herself, with her strength compromised by her injuries.

  Minkie, however, proceeded to open the heavy door and Gemma went down the path as fast as her leg would let her. By the time she got back to her car, it was aching again from the effort. Once or twice, she fancied she saw a black car in her rear-vision mirror that made all the same turns as she did, but she dismissed the idea as paranoia.

  •

  Next morning found Dr Heather Pike poking and probing around Gemma’s ribs. Gemma had told her about the events of the night in the lane and the injury to her leg and flank. First, Heather had checked her knee and ankle, and pronounced herself satisfied at the way it was healing.

  ‘You’ve taken a terrible whack across the ribs,’ she observed.

  Gemma shuddered, remembering. But there was another danger to address, and this was the main reason she’d made the appointment.