by Tara Moss
The remnants of a large pizza cooled on the coffee table between them. It was getting late and first thing in the morning Andy would have to brief the homicide unit’s strike force on his profile of Victoria Hempsey’s killer and his suspicions about John Dayle. Nothing the team had uncovered since Friday had given him any reason to reconsider his concerns about Dayle, though he’d have to be cautious about how he presented his view, so as not to seem blinded by a single suspect.
If Andy was right about him.
And if he was wrong?
Andy leaned back in the hotel chair, rubbed his eyes and shut the lid on his laptop, seeing the text imprinted on the insides of his eyelids for a moment. ‘What were your impressions of Dayle when you met him?’ he asked, swivelling the chair around to face her.
Dana looked up from her iPad. ‘Creepy,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I agree with you that his link to the sexual assault cases is quite a coincidence. And he seemed nervous.’ She shifted to face him, leaning back on her elbows and flicking her hair to one side. She licked her full lips with unconscious sensuality, and Andy swallowed.
‘People tend to be nervous with the police around,’ he said sharply. ‘Beware of mistaking nervousness with guilt.’
You haven’t been on the beat, he was saying. It’s not like a textbook.
Her face darkened a touch, but she said nothing. She sat forwards and cocked her head. ‘You told Kelley you liked him for it. You seemed pretty sure.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
He hoped he was right about Dayle. If it turned out he was wrong, he would have wasted police resources and quite possibly slowed down the hunt for the real killer. It would be a setback for the unit. He wasn’t sure they could afford a setback.
‘For what it’s worth, I agree with you,’ she said. ‘He’s suspicious. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’
Andy shook his head. He had been thinking about the three-year gap between reported crimes. If Dayle was the rapist and Hempsey’s killer, as he suspected, they had to consider what might have made him attack again, and kill. ‘He had the blinds closed over his windows, but that view would have him looking directly into Victoria Hempsey’s courtyard,’ Andy said. ‘The weather has been good lately. Unseasonably warm. The victim was tanned.’
‘She was sunbaking out there?’ Dana said and nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
‘So Dayle has been fantasising about committing another rape,’ he postulated. ‘He was spooked about how close it got in the Graney case and he’s been afraid to act. Then he starts seeing Hempsey every day. Maybe she’s sunbaking outside his window. Maybe she doesn’t pull the blinds all the way down at night. Whatever it is, he notices her. He starts to fixate on her, starts watching her.’
‘So he’s been fantasising for a while, planning even,’ Dana said.
‘But like I said before, it isn’t smart to kill your neighbour. It exposes him.’
‘So he didn’t plan it. It was a crime of opportunity? He snapped, took it to the next level. Raped her and then realised he couldn’t leave her as a witness?’ she suggested.
It was possible. Hempsey’s killer was a sexual sadist and totally without empathy for his victim. He had inflicted pain on her before death, he’d raped her and cut her as she struggled — all hallmarks of a sadistic psychopath. But not all killers were smart and despite popular belief, not all psychopaths were smart either. In reality, psychopaths with the deadly combination of high intelligence and homicidal impulse — Ted Bundy, Ed Kemper, Ed Brown — were very uncommon, and it was lack of intelligence and lack of planning that contributed to making serial killers so rare a phenomenon. Someone with a homicidal impulse who was not intelligent was more likely to be caught after the first attack, so John Dayle might have lucked out in the past, avoiding time for serious sexual assault, but if this was his first kill and he’d gone into it unplanned or without caution, they had a good chance of nailing him. He would have left evidence somewhere. No one committed the perfect murder, and certainly not without a great deal of planning. The trouble was, though the killer might have left evidence, a man like that was a ticking bomb. He could go off again at any time and they had to get him before that happened again.
They had to be smart about catching him. The moment they asked for fingerprints or a DNA sample it would give the game away. Unless they had something solid to charge him with, it was too risky.
Andy liked Dayle for the Hempsey murder. Really liked him for it.
He’d let Kelley know as much, but that wasn’t enough to get them the search warrant, though warrants for telephone intercepts and internet surveillance were under way, and had possibly already come through, as the applications required only suspicion and not ‘belief’. Inspector Kelley agreed that they should get a surveillance device into Dayle’s home, but that could take time. The STIB — Special Technical Investigations Branch — was already overstretched. Likewise, the surveillance teams. It was unclear whether, or how, they would move ahead with setting up the physical surveillance Andy recommended. John Dayle might already be disposing of evidence — and the kill might have given him new confidence.
‘Are we thinking the shoes taken from the rape victims were trophies?’ Dana asked.
‘Trophies,’ Andy agreed.
‘And to further humiliate, perhaps? To slow down the victim’s ability to get help? Taking her ID, her phone, her shoes,’ she reasoned.
Andy nodded again.
‘And the toe?’
The toe. It appeared to have been removed before death. Victoria Hempsey’s feet had been severely cut in her struggles, probably kicking out at her attacker as he tied or retied her ankles. But the toe was different. The cut was hardly surgical, but it didn’t fit with the pattern of the defensive wounds. That detail troubled Andy a great deal, and what he wasn’t yet willing to say — was not yet willing to bring into the discussion — was the fact that the rapes had taken place soon after the media obsession with Ed Brown, who kept his victim’s shoes as souvenirs, and who had also kept body parts — toes.
And now Victoria Hempsey is dead and her toe is missing.
Ed Brown was gone and the case was closed, but it was on Andy’s mind constantly for a plethora of reasons, not least what Brown had done to Cassandra. And Mak’s experiences at his hands — and her absence now. But he had to be cautious about making any links. Just because the Stiletto Killer was on Andy’s mind didn’t mean the cases were related. It would be unwise to focus on the shoes. The rapist had taken a number of things from the second victim. They didn’t know whether any of Victoria Hempsey’s shoes were missing. The toe could be explained by something else. Possibly.
‘The toe was either lost in her struggle, or it was deliberately cut off as a form of torture,’ Andy said.
‘But it hasn’t been found, has it?’
‘It is possibly a trophy also,’ Andy said vaguely, and hoped Dana could tell he was not willing to talk about any potential link to the Stiletto Murders just yet.
All he could do was work up a detailed profile of Dayle and recommend a strategy to the strike force. Kelley would take Flynn’s advice on how to handle Dayle and the investigation, but the fact was, Andy was only a consultant on this case, not the chief investigating officer he had been in the past. In the morning he would present his offender profile to the Hempsey homicide strike force, and then he and Dana would head back to Canberra. Kelley would keep him in the loop, but ultimately it would be out of his hands.
That part wasn’t easy. Not now that he thought of Ms Hempsey as Victoria.
Not now that he’d walked through her home and seen her personal space.
Not now that it felt personal for him, too, because of the links that kept cropping up. The stolen shoes … the toe …
Dana was watching him carefully. ‘Are you thirsty?’ she asked after a minute.
Andy was taken by surprise. ‘Maybe,’ he said, with a question in his voice. ‘Can I get you something, Harrison?
’
‘You can call me Dana,’ she said and stood up, and though her tone was neutral her words caused a ripple of tension. He didn’t want to call her Dana. Not just at the moment. Not while she was here in his hotel room, standing before him with her hair loose around her shoulders. The old habits from his younger days were there, just waiting beneath the surface. He could ask her out for a drink. Just something casual. They could have a few beers and see what happened next. At some point back in Canberra he had thought of that, regardless of the mistake it would be. Unprofessional. Unwise. And now he was alone with her in his hotel room and she had a look in her eyes that made him wonder if she’d thought the very same things.
Had it been dangerous to invite her to Sydney with him? She was the best for the job. He’d been convinced of that. Her or Patel, who he’d sent to Berrima instead …
‘We could grab a drink if you like?’ she suggested.
Andy was glad he’d resisted the pull of the minibar so far, or his response would not have been so easy. ‘We leave early tomorrow. Be packed and ready at eight for the briefing at HQ,’ he found himself saying. He gave her a tight smile and flipped his computer open again, the screen glowing as it came to life once more.
Her lovely face dropped just a touch. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean anything …’ she responded after a beat, tilting her chin up slightly and managing a carefree pose.
‘I know you didn’t,’ he said. If he had been working with Jimmy, they would have gone for a drink.
But she wasn’t Jimmy.
Dana picked up her jacket. ‘It’s getting late. I’ll, um, see you in the morning then.’
He nodded, and listened as she retreated to the door and let herself out. Then he got up and pulled the chain across his door as much to keep himself in as to keep anyone out.
And he opened the minibar.
CHAPTER 16
He got on his knees and pulled out the special box under his bed. It was the most special of all the special boxes he had, and in it was a jar that had once held jam and now held something quite different. He wiped his sweaty brow and sat up and leaned against his bed, examining the prized possession through the smeared glass in his hands. His prize floated slowly in the formalin. His prize.
Victoria.
In many ways he was only now getting over the shock of having made it this far. He’d fantasised about it so long that when he’d done it he thought he might burst inside somehow. And the feeling he’d had when he’d woken the next day to find he’d got away with it was something else altogether. The police had come to him, asked about her, asked if he’d seen or heard anything unusual and then they’d simply gone away again. Somehow the sun had risen again and the world had kept turning, with him a killer. Someone with power. Someone to be feared. Someone who could command those whom he chose to command, and could pluck the chosen ones as a gardener plucks a thorny rose.
Victoria Hempsey.
She’d been his first choice. A beautiful widow with skin like milky coffee, and delicate, small feet and hands, and eyes like infinite sadness. He’d claimed her as his own and this jar was proof.
High on the thrill his prize gave him, he lovingly placed the jar back in its box, closed the lid and slid it slowly under his bed, where it sat amongst the common things — clothing and discarded shoes and his favourite magazines. And his very special boxes.
He’d finally done it and it had felt good. So fucking good.
Pleasantly stirred, he clothed himself in his loose cargo pants, cupping the seam in the centre to feel the proud profile of his aroused genitals. He adjusted himself, pulled on a T-shirt and tied his sneakers on, then took the steep staircase downstairs. A baseball cap sat at the front door and he put it on and stepped out into the rain to breathe Sydney’s damp night air.
Ripe with new possibility.
CHAPTER 17
It was two o’clock on Monday morning as The American, Mr White, slipped into the serviced apartment where Makedde Vanderwall was thought to have been staying under the false name of Maria Cruz. He shut the door behind him carefully, the lock making a barely audible click. He pocketed his electronic swipe card — effective with most simple hotel-style locks like this one — and removed his wet shoes.
The apartment was noiseless and dark. He could smell something faintly burning.
He held his Beretta, the safety off, and crept soundlessly up the carpeted staircase. Near the top he made out a set of shoes, the dark soles sitting up like tiny tombstones. He moved higher, up another step, then two more, his weapon drawn, breathing softly and listening for movement in the apartment, but hearing only the relentless rain outside.
He reached the final stair.
The shoes belonged to a man in black clothing, lying on his back. He was fit and blond and dead. He lay spread-eagled on the carpet with his throat torn open. Mr White bent and touched the wrist, though even in the low light he could see that the throat area and surrounding carpet were dark with blood. The wrist was cold. The man had been dead at least two hours.
It was the assassin code-named Geoff Rosamond. His was not the body Mr White was expecting to find.
Outside, the rain continued to come down in sheets, drumming against the windows. Mr White straightened slowly, breathing evenly. He held his weapon in front of him, a gloved finger resting on the trigger, and moved cautiously towards the nearest doorway, keeping his back to the wall. He entered the first bedroom with his gun extended, travelling swiftly, efficiently. In seconds he had moved around the unmade bed and pulled the closet doors open. The wire clothes hangers inside were bare. One lay on the floor, discarded. There were no suitcases. An en suite bathroom extended off the room, door ajar. He could see in the mirror reflection that the spotted shower curtain was pulled shut. He entered the space muzzle first and ripped the curtain back with one hand. Inside was a bare tub, inhabited only by a forgotten bottle of bath gel.
Mr White stepped around the pool of blood surrounding the assassin’s body as he made his way past the small kitchen, his feet inches from the man’s outstretched left hand. He paused. Inside the kitchen the stovetop was on, one round element glowing red, causing the light burning smell that he had detected earlier. He stepped up to it and switched it off, and the red glow faded immediately. The living room was clear and the bed in the second bedroom was neatly made, the starched linen tucked firmly down. It had not been slept in.
There was no sign of Makedde Vanderwall.
Once Mr White was sure he was alone, he switched on his torch and shone it down at the corpse. The assassin Mr Rosamond was flat on his back, palms open. His face was bulging and red with burns. His eyes were closed over, swollen shut. His neck had been opened with a wide, round hole. He appeared to have been blinded, burned and shot through the throat. On the floor next to him was a gun, an upturned kitchen pot and what looked like food. Faint, evenly spaced grooves in the carpet at the top of the stairs indicated the passage of a bag of some sort. A wheeled suitcase. Rosamond wore black leather gloves on his outstretched hands. He would not have left prints in the apartment. Mr White noticed smudges of blood on the gloved fingertips of the right hand, where he might have touched his throat briefly, hoping to stop the bleeding. The carpet around the man was soaked thickly with his blood. The body had not been moved. It had all happened here.
The American bent at the knees and frisked the dead man. No identification. No notes. No keys. No phone. Mr White spotted a single spent bullet casing on the carpet, just beyond the wide spread of blood, and he pocketed it and the discarded gun, which he identified as a common Browning Buckmark .22 fitted with a TAC-65 suppressor.
He stood up again.
Blinded, burned and shot through the throat.
When White had not heard back from the man he’d sent for the job, he’d had to investigate. Considering what he’d found, he had to regard the possibility that Makedde Vanderwall had enlisted some heavy help. As he looked down on the dead assassin — a professional
of some standing — he felt sure that Luther Hand had not contacted his agent, Madame Q, for the second half of the funds owed simply because he could not: because he, too, was dead. Somehow. That in itself was hard to believe, knowing the man’s reputation. And now Geoff Rosamond was dead. Mr White had misjudged the situation. The Spaniard, Javier Rafel, had given him good information. Maria Cruz was the identification Vanderwall had used to enter the country and to rent this apartment. But she was not operating alone. Either that, or she was considerably more formidable than he had imagined.
He frowned.
Rosamond had been ambushed, perhaps. The throat was a strange place to shoot someone. Why not use a knife? No, there had clearly been a struggle. He had entered quietly, as Mr White had, then crept up the stairs. Vanderwall was taken by surprise. She threw the pot of boiling water at him, and someone came to her aid, removing Rosamond’s weapon. There was a struggle. They aimed for the head or chest, but caught Rosamond in the throat and then it was over. They vacated the apartment, leaving nothing behind but the body and the gun, no doubt wiped of prints. The second bedroom was unused. She had enlisted a lover? Perhaps found the toughest man she could in Spain to protect her? Brought him with her? But to what end? What was her plan here? And how did that explain the disappearance of Luther Hand, who had taken her in France and contacted his agent to indicate the job was done, and she was dead?
The American looked at the swollen face. He squinted.
Vanderwall may have got lucky. Perhaps Rosamond simply slipped up. Somehow.
