by Tara Moss
Hunt had to be very careful now. He had to be very careful what he said, how he acted. A lot was riding on the way this all panned out. ‘Our intel was good,’ he began. ‘She did show and she was armed. There were a couple of uniforms in the area, so they came as backup. I suspected she was dangerous.’
‘You suspected she was dangerous, but you sent Jimmy in alone?’
He hesitated. ‘We felt it was best to send Jimmy in alone, so she wasn’t spooked. They have been on friendly terms in the past, when she was dating Andrew Flynn, the former —’
‘I know who Flynn is,’ the commander cut in impatiently.
Hunt paused. ‘We certainly didn’t, um, see this coming. I could not have imagined she would shoot him. I guess we underestimated her.’
‘I’d say that much is certain.’
Hunt absorbed the verbal jab without comment. ‘I was just outside the entrance, listening,’ he went on. ‘Jimmy went in and tried to get her to come in peacefully, but they got into an argument. She resisted and pulled a firearm. She shot Detective Cassimatis before any of us could do anything. I went after her, but she ran up some stairs and jumped out a window.’
‘And where were these backup officers, uh, Granger and Wosley?’ He glanced at the report and back again.
‘I had them near the entrance, in case she tried to escape. One of them called for assistance and the other helped me give chase, but like I said, she ran up into the building, to some kind of mezzanine level, and then leaped out. We lost her. I didn’t predict she would jump out the window, sir. It was quite a drop.’
‘And she couldn’t be found in the area?’
He shook his head. ‘From the way she was dressed, we are guessing she had a motorcycle or scooter nearby. I heard a bike. I think that was how she got away.’
‘And you didn’t get a numberplate, a model or make? Nothing?’
‘No, sir. She just vanished,’ he said weakly.
‘People do not vanish.’
‘Yes, sir. She’s armed and dangerous. As I’ve said, we’ve checked with customs. She didn’t come into the country legitimately.’
‘Has Mr Cavanagh been made aware of what occurred?’
‘I think he should be warned. She could be going after him.’ He’d recommended a bodyguard for Jack Cavanagh — a friend of one of his cousins — as a way of getting into the inner circle, but Cavanagh had organised someone else. The commander did not know about that exchange, of course. It wouldn’t look good to be too involved when an investigation was underway into Cavanagh’s dealings. Not that that investigation was going to get anywhere. Neither would Mak. When the smoke cleared, Hunt felt sure he would be generously rewarded.
The commander clenched his jaw, eyes unreadable. ‘You’ll have whatever resources you need to bring her in. There can’t be any more mistakes. Get this woman.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hunt said.
Makedde Vanderwall stopped at a payphone in Kings Cross. Her hand hovered around the keypad.
Dammit. What’s the point?
Richard Staples had ratted her out. Or he’d been intercepted. They’d probably had him watched since his feature on them was first published, she realised. They were probably trying to find ways to discredit him, take away the threat to them his interest caused. Their tentacles were far reaching. She wondered if Richard was in actual danger as well? What would the Cavanaghs do to him if he tried to write about them again? Would he find himself out of a job or worse? Would he have an accident? Did he sense he was in danger?
And now that Mak was on the front of the paper her time was numbered, no matter how many disguises she used and wigs she bought.
Enough.
She had a disturbing thought. She’d been careful, but what if they could trace her iPhone? She still hadn’t got rid of it.
Instinctively, she cracked it against the edge of the metal phone box. She smashed it again and stepped out of the booth, head down, and dumped the damaged phone in the garbage bin, where it sat on top of discarded fast-food trays and Coke bottles before sliding down and disappearing. She had the footage of Jimmy’s shooting in online storage and could easily download it at an internet café: it wasn’t worth the risk to keep the phone. Especially now. Especially now that she had another reason to live.
Mak spotted a punkish young woman, a backpacker, and followed her. She was at least five foot eleven and perhaps twenty-five. Even features. Blue eyes.
She would have to do.
The door was opened for her with a small key with a rusted edge. The room inside was the colour of faded photographs. It smelled of salt air and faintly of smoke, and had a small seventies kitchenette, a sagging double bed, a television with an old cathode-ray tube and a single window with a view of the dark waters of Palm Beach. Mak pulled her boots off and walked across the multicoloured carpet to inspect the bathroom, feeling the remnants of sand under her feet.
It was a far cry from the luxurious hotel she’d enjoyed. Small but adequate. The tiles around the bath were highlighted with green-tinged grout. Mak popped her head around the wall and smiled. ‘I’ll take it!’
The landlady — an elderly woman who’d already put her hair in curlers when Mak showed up, answering the ad — looked delighted. Even more so when Mak provided her with the first week’s rent in cash, not that she planned to be there that long. It had a private entrance from the rear. She was promised privacy and a place to garage her motorbike. That was enough.
Mak didn’t own a lot of things. What clothing she had she hung on wire hangers in the tiny upright closet. She stepped into the bathroom and sized herself up in the mirror.
It was certainly too late for witness protection, not that she had ever seriously considered it an option. Now it was clear there was nowhere left for her to turn, and with her face on the front page of the most read newspaper in Sydney, it wouldn’t take long for a well-meaning member of the public to recognise her and dob her in, if an enterprising killer didn’t get to her and her unborn baby first. She doubted she would survive police custody while Cavanagh had corrupt cops in his pockets. She doubted she could survive being on the run much longer.
As she saw it, she only had one option left.
In the aged patina of the bathroom mirror she looked substantially different from the woman on the front of the paper, but not different enough. She picked up a pair of scissors and ripped them out of the plastic pack. She gave them a trial snip and grabbed a section of her thick hair. After years spent as a model she’d learned about makeup, but she’d never really learned how to cut hair. A hairdresser, she was not. She pulled a section up and snipped, watching with strange fascination as it fell into the basin. The second piece was easier. She snipped and snipped, locks of dark hair falling to the basin, to her feet.
When she was done Makedde looked at the driver’s licence she’d stolen, then back at her reflection. ‘Hello, Kristi,’ she said.
CHAPTER 36
Mak found herself on Davoren Lane.
It was a narrow, grey two-level terrace, barely four metres wide. It would have been built in Victorian days, but the ironwork was gone. No plants in the barred windows. No welcome mat. Mak knocked on the front door, a smile pasted on her features. When no one answered she held her ear to the timber for a moment, looked both ways down the narrow lane and resolved to pick the lock. It was an old five-pin tumbler — easy. She quickly let herself in and closed the door behind her.
She flicked a switch and a bare light bulb illuminated the space. She frowned. It was tiny. A real dive. Scratched and patchy paint job. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, wiped her prints off the light switch and door with the corner of her shirt, and looked around. The lounge room contained a threadbare couch and a bunch of sagging cardboard boxes, stacked up. They were dusty and looked like they’d been there for years, perhaps from the move. She walked through an open doorway to discover a small kitchen. It was no larger than the one in the flat she’d decided to rent, only it was walle
d in. She literally could not turn around. It was depressing, and she left it immediately. There was a steep staircase a few feet inside the front door and now Mak crept up the steps to examine the upstairs. She found herself in a living room with another threadbare couch, this one heaped with unwashed clothes. Boxes of DVDs. A small flat-screen television. A makeshift office in the corner.
The terrace was a one bedroom. She could see the bed from where she stood. She moved towards the cluttered and cramped desk in the far corner of the room. It had a standard office computer chair tucked under it. An old nineties PC sat in the centre, surrounded by stacks of papers and magazines: Australian Hunter Magazine, ASJ — Australian Shooters Journal, Australian & New Zealand Handgun. Mak sifted through the stacks and picked up a piece of unopened mail.
Mr John Dayle. Bingo.
Plastic slat blinds hung over the window above the desk. She pulled them back and saw, leaning in the window, a framed photograph of a skinny man in his early twenties, proudly holding a caught fish. ‘Hello, John Dayle,’ Mak said quietly and coughed. God, it’s dusty. The photo looked as old as the computer.
Dayle had left some bags and clothes heaped on the floor. Some shirts were on hangers and some tossed on the couch. Looked like he didn’t have a closet, or he didn’t use it. His bed was a twin and unmade, she noticed. The bedroom door was ajar and now Mak reluctantly walked into the room, leaned over the side table and lifted the slats off the window — again the slats were so dusty she covered her mouth with the crook of one elbow to avoid sneezing. Peering out into the darkness between the terraces, Mak tried to get a sense of the man who inhabited this sad little space. This John Dayle seemed lonely, untidy and far from rich. And he might come back at any time, she reminded herself. Mak let the slats down, paused and lifted them again, eyes brighter. This window had a view of the same small courtyard the one over the computer did. The courtyard appeared to belong to the house behind. She squinted, tilted her head. She hadn’t noticed it before.
It’s the victim’s home, Mak thought suddenly as she spotted the crime-scene tape across the back doors, rippling slightly in the moonlit breeze. It was a view of his murdered neighbour’s courtyard, and her back windows. She wondered if he’d watched her often.
Mak shivered.
Well, let’s see if Andy’s right about you, John, she thought and let the slats down. The Glock felt reassuring against the small of her back as she flicked on the light of the small bedside table lamp and got on her knees. Her gloved hand wandered across the filthy carpet under his bed like an inquisitive spider, moving carefully around tangled fishing line, a rod and reel, crumpled tissues and several well-fingered magazines. She squinted at the magazines, lip curled in distaste, and flipped each one open to search for notes or photographs. Nothing. Mak pushed aside a revolting pair of dirty men’s underwear and pulled out two black rectangular boxes. She tilted her chin, opened the first one. What she saw made her eyes narrow. A pair of standard-issue handcuffs, easy enough to buy online. She examined them with her gloved hands, feeling the weight and checking for the telltale quick release latch of novelty cuffs. No. These were the real deal. Also in the box was a length of climbing rope, looped neatly and tied off with a piece of string. A clean hunting knife sat in its leather sheath looking new and unused. A mouth gag with a red ball. It was an intriguing series of items to have stored together, she thought, and when she pulled the last item out her mind began to pull unwanted memories to the surface. A scalpel. Why would this man have a scalpel? That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Mak placed the steel blade on the carpet, eyeing it with suspicion as if it might move on its own, and opened the second box, pulling back a folded handkerchief, the significance of which escaped her.
And beneath the handkerchief she saw.
The clippings.
With a sickening jolt of recognition she found herself looking at the familiar face of Ed Brown, the ‘Stiletto Killer’, in grainy newsprint.
After a moment of shocked stillness, she dug deeper into the box and pulled out layers and layers of clippings. SYDNEY SERIAL KILLER, POLICE CLUELESS, one headline shouted. STILETTO KILLER STRIKES — BECKY ROSS MURDERED, another said. She read one more: SOAP STAR MURDERED Television star Becky Ross, who went missing after the launch of her own fashion label on Thursday, was found murdered in Centennial Park yesterday …
Words and images of Ed Brown’s horrendous crimes, lovingly collected and pored over. It was all in there. And amongst it all was a picture of Makedde’s closest friend, Cat Gerber, smiling innocently in a flattering dress. She was the reason Mak had first visited this country. Cat had always raved about Sydney. And then Mak had found her dismembered amongst the tall, swaying grasses of La Perouse beach on the day of her first modelling job in Australia — the day she met Detective Andy Flynn.
CANADIAN MODEL — THIRD VICTIM OF STILETTO KILLER, the headline above Cat’s face said.
Makedde lifted the image tenderly, took in her friend’s face in the tiny dots of newsprint and felt a tear escape her. Cat. It had been more than five years since she’d laid eyes on her friend. Mak took a breath, turned the clipping over and placed it face down on the carpet. And there in the box beneath her slain friend’s image was one of Makedde herself.
MODEL WITNESS FLEES TO HONG KONG.
It was a blurry photograph of Mak boarding a flight to Hong Kong, only one of many more clippings relating to the Stiletto Killer case. Some showed Andy, hand out in front of the lens, trying to shield himself from the flash glare. Many showed Ed’s victims, all attractive women, some models, the earliest victims allegedly prostitutes. Mak had nearly joined their number. What she’d suffered at the hands of Ed Brown was unthinkably horrific. He’d tied her up, he’d …
No.
She pushed the memories firmly out of her conscious mind, but her toe began to tingle right where Ed Brown had severed it with his scalpel and the microsurgeons had expertly sewn it back on. It sometimes did that — tingled when she was distressed. Seeing these clippings made her sick inside. They made her angry. But Ed Brown wasn’t going to hurt her any more. He was dead now and Mak was alive — the only known survivor of his twisted obsession.
And this fucking guy idolises him, she thought, the clippings laid out around her like puzzle pieces.
John Dayle idolises the Stiletto Killer. He wants to be him and he used his neighbour to practise …
CHAPTER 37
What are you doing here, Dana?
Young Federal Agent Dana Harrison sat on the stool with a drink in her hand, nursing a crick on the left-hand side of her neck. She used her left hand to change gears in her old RAV4 and the gearbox was sticky — after three hours of driving it had given her a headache.
She was in Sydney, which in itself was not so unusual for her, but in a way she still wasn’t sure what she was doing at this bar, with her dark hair worn in curls at her shoulders, and the only pair of stiletto shoes she owned on her feet. She was off duty and she could do what she wanted to, she supposed. This, it seemed, was what she most wanted to do.
You fucked up. You fucked up with Flynn, she thought.
She was still embarrassed by the exchange. Why did she have to ask him for that drink? Why? It had been a stupid slip. She hadn’t meant it to come across so unprofessionally. She’d thought it would sound casual, but it hadn’t. She could tell by the look on his face the moment the words had left her lips, and she’d wished she could take it back. There was sexual tension between them. She hadn’t accepted that until it was too late. She should have noticed how much she wanted him to like her. She’d wanted it a bit too much. What kind of psychologist was she if she couldn’t even see these obvious things in herself?
She and Flynn had barely spoken on the drive back to Canberra. And now she was back here, alone.
What are you doing, Dana?
On the drive up she had told herself it had been too long since she’d come to Sydney to see her interstate friends. Too long since her last visit.
She’d needed to get some distance from work, after the awkward exchanges with Andrew Flynn, a man she admired, and yes, found attractive, in a hard, brooding way. But as she’d checked in to her hotel, and dressed and hailed a taxi to Surry Hills, she’d had to face her true intentions, the idea she’d been toying with since she’d slipped into the driver’s seat of her car. And now she sat on the bar stool, restless and coiled, and feeling an unfamiliar, seething rage. And she knew why she’d come to this bar where she knew no one.
No one except a man named John Dayle.
Someone has to keep an eye on him.
The surveillance team had been pulled, not because of lack of suspicion but lack of resources. Lack of resources, of all things. And he’d quite possibly murdered that poor woman. Tortured her. Done unspeakable things to her. It was a nightmare. She had not joined the cops to be useless. She could not just sit in her flat in Canberra waiting to hear news. No. If Dayle came and acted suspiciously, she could do something about it, at least. Maybe even help crack the case. Maybe even help someone, which was why she’d joined the police in the first place. Maybe even get herself noticed for all the right reasons. Not just for the scholarship but for what counted. The real work.
She was tough enough for this.
CHAPTER 38
Mak heard a key in the lock. She’d been in wait for John Dayle for over an hour now, sitting at the base of the staircase in his narrow, filthy terrace, rage coiled in her. Luther’s Glock tingled at her lower back.
Quiet as a shadow, Mak stood up on the bottom stair and leaned her back to the wall, listening as the front door creaked open. She heard a single set of footsteps, an unintelligible muttering and the click of the door as it shut. Again, he didn’t throw the dead bolt. There was something like the rustle of bags and the main light came on, illuminating the filthy lounge room. She heard the thud of rubber-soled shoes — one step, two — and a shocked yelp of surprise as the man fell forwards, tripping on the thin fishing wire she’d set up to catch him. He landed on his knees and palms, something spilling heavily on the wooden floor with a thud. Mak emerged in a swift blur and pushed herself on top of him, seizing his wrists and pulling them behind his back. In seconds the cuffs were on him and she had him flipped over and wriggling on the floor at her feet, the gleaming scalpel at his face.
