by Tara Moss
Detective Inspector Roderick Kelley had been Andy’s boss and mentor when he was working homicide for state police in NSW. Andy admired him enormously and after a few high-profile cases, most notably the Stiletto Killer case, Andy had earned Kelley’s much-sought-for respect. In the most recent policing reshuffle, which included police headquarters moving to Parramatta, Kelley had been quietly offered the position of commander of the homicide squad. Andy knew he declined the position and the pay rise it would bring mostly because he preferred working cases with his team and despised the politics of the higher levels of policing. According to Andy’s good friend and former police partner Detective Senior Constable Jimmy Cassimatis, Kelley was the only detective inspector in the new building to have his own office. It was clear that his old boss remained something of a legend within the NSW police. Without his recommendations Andy suspected he would not have been able to get the SVCP unit up at all.
‘Flynn,’ the inspector replied, typically economical of speech. ‘The Hempsey murder we discussed last night …’
They’d spoken late, Andy recalled, though truthfully he didn’t remember the conversation well. He’d been several hours into staring at the bottom of a whisky tumbler, which increasingly filled and emptied each evening like a tide pool after the sun set. Andy frowned and searched for the details as Kelley had presented them on the phone. Single homicide. A woman in her thirties. The staging of the body suggested sexual sadism. Andy had suggested that it was unlikely to be a first offence, considering the description of the wounds.
‘We’ve found a couple of incidents in the area that fit the pattern you asked me to look for,’ Kelley told him. ‘Two sexual assault cold cases, both also in the Surry Hills and Strawberry Hills area. I think we could benefit from your perspective … the perspective of your unit. How soon can you get here?’
Andy felt a rush of adrenaline. ‘Three or four hours by car,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Is the scene still secure? I’d like to see everything in situ.’
‘The body is at Glebe now.’ The well-known ‘city’ morgue. ‘But forensics are still going through. I’ll see to it they don’t release the house to the family until you’re finished. Come to my office first thing in the morning. And, also … I’ve been on the phone with Berrima. If you want to send a man over to look at the cold case there, they’ll be receptive.’
Andy nodded to himself. Kelley was on side. ‘That’s good news.’ Certainly it was if the Berrima case did turn out to be linked to the Worthington homicide. ‘I have someone in mind. And I’ll be bringing another member of the team for Sydney,’ Andy added before signing off.
‘I’ll see you and your man then,’ Kelley said and hung up.
Andy leaned back in his chair. This was a small breakthrough. Within police departments there was still some resistance to using profilers and when it was deemed necessary they often farmed out the role to academics who had never seen action, or even American FBI profilers who were flown in to assist in key international cases. A lot of state police still felt a certain bitterness when the AFP tangled with their cases, even as consultants. The new SVCP unit was not well funded or well understood by others in the law enforcement community. It was a program in its infancy — a program designed to keep resources within the police departments. Despite this undeniable advantage, it had been hard to get up and it would be far too easy to have the funding pulled. For it to work, old habits needed to change. This was part of that change, he hoped.
Andy put in a call to Berrima to arrange the details of his unit’s involvement. When he returned to the incident room he found his profilers were still discussing the Worthington case. He let the team continue for a few minutes while he considered his strategy.
‘The Berrima case does have several parallels,’ Harrison was saying. Andy watched her, letting her finish her comments before announcing his news. ‘… and not only the wounds.’ When she finished speaking she turned and looked at him, and she saw the anticipation in his face. And once she did all the faces in the room turned to Andy, too. They waited for him to speak.
‘I’ve been on the phone with New South Wales,’ he announced. ‘Patel, I’m sending you to Berrima to look at the cold case. I’m working on getting you to Benalla to examine the Worthington crime scene as well, but Victoria has been slower to come on board. If the cases are linked, you’ll need to present a solid case to argue it. It crossed borders so be particularly mindful. No one wants to claim a serial killer.’
There was a subdued feeling of triumph in the room and Patel seemed pleased to have been chosen for the Worthington case. ‘That’s good news. When do I travel?’
‘They’re expecting you tomorrow. And Harrison,’ Andy continued, looking to Dana, ‘we will travel to Sydney this afternoon. There is a homicide there they’d like us to take a look at.’
He hadn’t actually seen Agent Harrison smile before, he realised, but now the corners of her mouth turned up.
‘We’re being let out of the cage?’
‘We’re being let out of the cage,’ Andy confirmed.
Agent Flynn found himself in the driver’s seat of his Honda, outside Agent Harrison’s flat, looking at his watch. It was past four. If she didn’t take long, they might beat the worst of the rush-hour traffic getting out of Canberra. He’d hastily packed for one night, maybe two. Kelley had sent through preliminary details on the Hempsey homicide and information on the sexual assaults that might be linked to the case, and now Andy looked down at his laptop, which was propped open awkwardly on his thighs, heating up at the base. The crime-scene images were as disturbing as Kelley had led him to believe.
Ms Hempsey had been bound and gagged. She had cuts all over her body.
You tortured her.
And you liked it.
He frowned, closed the computer and took a breath. He pulled out his phone and dialled Jimmy Cassimatis, his former police partner of over nine years. He hadn’t visited for a while.
‘Cassimatis,’ Jimmy answered.
‘Jimmy. How are you?’
‘Well, if it isn’t the Golden Boy,’ he replied mockingly, recognising his friend’s voice. ‘How am I? I’m working with a pack of fucking arseholes. That’s how I am. You? How are things in the ivory tower?’
Andy laughed. ‘No ivory here. And no tower. And Inspector Kelley is not an arsehole.’
‘Not Kelley. Jesus, I’d love to still be working with Kelley. No, Hunt is the arsehole. If I had to deal with Kelley all day, it would be a fucking holiday,’ Jimmy explained.
Andy doubted that.
‘This guy’s fucking arrogance is driving me batshit.’ He’d made inspector and Jimmy was shifted under him. ‘Honestly, he’s been inspector for two seconds and he acts like he fucking owns everyone.’
Andy had heard that Hunt was after Kelley’s job and now that he’d made inspector he was already gunning for a promotion to commander, too. He’d risen in the ranks with unprecedented speed since Andy’s departure.
‘Well, I’d be happy to swap with you,’ Andy lied.
That had perhaps been true only the day before, but now that the unit was finally getting some traction and he would soon be on the road with Harrison, he felt differently. Still, he did miss working homicide, particularly under Kelley. And he missed spending more time on the street, getting his hands dirty.
‘Yeah, right. You don’t have to deal with psychos any more; you only have to talk about them,’ Jimmy complained.
‘Is that what they’re saying? Look, I might be able to swing a visit.’
‘Thank Christ. Angie was starting to think you’d forgotten us.’
Andy shifted in his seat. He looked to the door again. Dana was nowhere to be seen. ‘You know the Hempsey murder? The young woman in Surry Hills?’ he said.
‘Yeah. Ugly thing that is.’
‘It’s come my way. I’m headed to Sydney now. We’ll be going over it with Kelley in the morning. Looks like a potential serial crime to m
e,’ Andy explained.
‘A serial killer? Skata. As if Sydney hasn’t had enough of those.’
The shadow of the Stiletto Killer could still be felt. As with so many high-profile serial-killer cases, the newspapers rehashed the details any time a major crime was mentioned. Worried parents were still known to warn their daughters not to go out at night in high-heeled shoes, as if that could protect them.
‘Want to stay with us?’ Jimmy asked. ‘How about dinner tonight? Angie will be offended if you say no.’
‘Tonight? I don’t know.’ He was already across most of what Kelley had sent, he supposed. The crime scene was still being analysed. ‘Yeah, okay. Yes to dinner, anyway. But I’ll be staying at a hotel in the city.’ He’d stayed at the Cassimatis home plenty of times. Angie was an excellent host, but with four children in the place it wasn’t somewhere to stay for work.
Movement caught his eye and Andy noticed Harrison emerge from her flat with a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I should go,’ he said and looked to the hands of his watch again. The drive would take about three hours. Maybe less if they were lucky. ‘See you seven-thirty — eight? Is that too late?’
‘Sweet. After dinner we can lose the kids and have a beer,’ Jimmy said and hung up.
Andy leaned across and opened the passenger side. Agent Harrison had changed for the drive, and now she wore a brown leather jacket over a white cotton shirt and slim-fitting denim jeans. She slid inside, bringing with her the scent of her perfume, and when she turned and smiled at Andy, clutching her duffle bag in her lap, there was no denying to himself that he found her beautiful.
As soon as he realised it, his instinct was to keep her at a professional distance.
‘Put that in the back,’ he said more gruffly than he’d intended, and that lovely, rare smile faded. ‘Can you read okay in the car?’ he asked.
She nodded.
He looked out the windshield and turned the key in the ignition.
CHAPTER 5
On Wednesday afternoon Makedde Vanderwall strode along the labyrinthine streets of the Barri Gòtic area with a dog-eared map tucked discreetly into the pocket of her leather backpack. Even after weeks living in the area, she still occasionally found herself on undiscovered streets that twisted and turned until her inner compass was in a spin. Like Catalonian architect Antoni Gaudí’s iconic Barcelona buildings, each appearing to melt and curl, there was nary a straight line in all of the old town.
Mak wore the casual garb favoured by the locals — skinny jeans, a lightweight leather jacket over a sleeveless hoodie and flat-heeled boots that were good for walking. She pulled her hoodie up, and kept her head down.
Over time she’d begun to feel less paranoid on the streets. Around every corner she’d feared another assassin, another Luther, but now she could see she was anonymous. She’d opened her eyes to the beauty here, the obvious friendliness of the locals. And everywhere in the gothic quarter there was history. The spectacular Barcelona cathedral, built on an ancient crypt. The countless museums. Medieval walkways sculpted in sandstone; wrought-iron lamps so old that they would have once lit up the night with dancing oil flames instead of the modern blink of electricity. Tapas bars overflowing with loud patrons. Stained glass. Carved signs. Well-worn stone. Gargoyles watching from above.
Many times now, Mak had wondered whether it was possible to successfully take on a new identity, to live here happily. Hers was a lonely existence, but only because she worked so hard to be invisible. The Spanish were not a solitary people. All through the night they talked and drank and danced, while Mak locked herself inside Luther’s apartment, only venturing out for exercise or to buy supplies. Would she ever bring herself to forget, to move on? Could she let justice take its own course? Could she live with herself, as someone else?
She was about to find out.
Mak pulled the hood forwards on her head as she walked.
She arrived at La Rambla, the popular tree-lined pedestrian mall flanked by single lanes of traffic on both sides, that stretched about twenty blocks, from Plaça de Catalunya to the seaport. It was busy, as always, and she moved down the promenade without attracting attention, the locals engrossed in their own shopping, or selling to the tourists, and the tourists busy gawking at the architecture. The Spanish were friendly, but not aggressive, as Mak had found the Italians in Milan when she’d been modelling there. The men in Barcelona did not leer or follow her, did not pinch her bottom as she walked up the steps from the subway, or brazenly sing the praises of her female form as she passed the cafés. No, here she could remain unmolested, unharassed. Vendors smiled. Waiters were flirtatious but respectful. She was left in little doubt that she could have company if she wished, but she did not, and in time, as she’d grown more familiar with her daily routines, she’d realised that she could go about her life as invisibly as she needed to.
Despite everything, she’d begun to feel almost safe.
Mak arrived at the entrance to the famous Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueria, a public market that dated back to the thirteenth century. The large open-air marketplace was announced by the presence of an enormous crowd of local Catalonians and tourists, over which the oft-photographed blue, gold and red stained-glass sign hung, featuring the name of the market and an insignia: a shield below a large crown. Above the crown, a silver bat was proudly displayed, its broad wings spread. Mak wondered about the significance of the winged creature.
She stopped, took her backpack off and put it on back to front. There were many pickpockets in crowded areas like this. Once prepared, she stepped into the crowd, passing vast and impressive displays of vividly coloured fruits — perfectly formed apples, oranges, bananas, pears, lemons, avocados — and exquisite handmade chocolates shaped as tiny shells, beetles, poodles, cats or miniature replicas of the Sagrada Família. Other stalls held mountains of nuts, dried fruits or dried mushrooms behind spruikers hoping to attract the tourist Euros, instead of merely the interest of their clicking camera lenses. Mak moved past each familiar display, barely giving them a glance, and made a beeline for her favourite cheese stall further inside the market.
Today a woman with short hair manned the stall.
‘Hola. Quisiera comprar …’ Mak began and scanned the latest offerings. She pointed at one of the hard sheep’s cheeses that looked appealing. ‘Me gusta comprar un queso de oveja buena.’
The woman lifted the cheese out of the glass case and nodded, speaking in rapid, singsong Spanish, only half of which Mak could catch. She sliced off a small sliver and handed it across. ‘Buena.’
Mak nodded in agreement, tasting the sample. It was very good. Strong and nutty in flavour. She made a sign with her index finger and thumb to indicate approximately how much she wanted. The woman placed a knife over the block and Mak stopped her.
‘Un poco,’ she said and indicated a smaller amount.
The woman shifted the knife. ‘¿Tanto?’
‘Si.’
‘¿Algo más?’
‘No. Es todo,’ Mak replied. No. That is all.
She put the block of sheep’s cheese in her backpack and walked to the next stall, where she bought some penne pasta, fresh tomatoes and basil. On the way out of the market, she averted her eyes from the grim displays of whole pig’s ears and trotters, thick cow’s tongues, tripe layered and folded like fleshy curtains, and flayed whole sheep’s heads of all sizes — almost enough to make her a vegetarian again. She stopped at a popular stall that was literally overwhelmed with dozens of cured legs of jamón, ham, hanging from every available square inch of the display. They had particularly good jamón serrano, the famous dried hams, and the stall was always very busy. When the vendor was free she purchased a typical Catalan chorizo from him. He wrapped it up and she popped it in her bag and thanked him. She left the market and continued southeast down La Rambla, slinging the pack back over her shoulders once more, now heavy with her fixings for dinner.
Now, where is this place?
; She wasn’t quite sure what to look for. What kind of a shop would it be? Surely no one advertised what she was seeking to buy. Would it be a private residence, perhaps? Luther’s address book did not make it entirely clear.
Only a couple of blocks down from the market, directly across from the famous Chinese dragon hanging over La Rambla, she found the entrance to Carrer de l’Hospital, a road she had not had reason to venture down before. It was still single lane, but this road was set between actual kerbs and was a little less narrow and winding, an indication of relative modernity compared with the opposite side of La Rambla, where every lane was twisting and medieval, barely able to take a car. Carrer de l’Hospital was hemmed in from the sidewalk by tall eighteenth-century terraces with flat roofs, each five or so storeys high, adorned with evenly spaced balconies of intricate wrought iron. Here, after only a few minutes, she felt a subtle change in atmosphere. Tourists came to this street, certainly — she could see several of them, and the presence of a money changer and some tiny tourist stalls indicated as much — but it seemed most foreigners did not venture too far from the attractions of La Rambla, and the area had not been gentrified. The rows of terraces grew a little more decrepit as she walked further from the main street: balconies rusted, laundry hung out in limp lines, flapping in the breeze. There was more graffiti here. Mak felt herself grow instinctively more alert to potential dangers. The area was slightly reminiscent of some of the more run-down streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter, she thought. She paused as she passed a lovely square with a large church built, as per the charming, typically Spanish habit, in two distinct eras. Part original Roman church, part eighteenth century, perhaps? It had five huge archways with wrought-iron gates across the front, beneath a flat-faced façade of stonework so old it appeared to be crumbling. Next to it, a hotel appeared to have been made from what once was a convent: there was an old statue of Mary in one window.
Mak kept walking.
