Assassin

by Tara Moss

  ‘You think I aided her? In her suicide? Christ!’ Andy stood up suddenly in his chair, toppling it over. He wanted so badly to punch Hunt that he could feel it. Could feel his knuckles make impact, could hear the jaw breaking.

  She was pregnant. SHE WAS GODDAMN PREGNANT, he thought.

  ‘Take a seat —’

  ‘This is bullshit, Hunt. You know this is fucking bullshit …’

  Flynn felt eyes on him. Kelley was probably watching. How long would he let this charade go on for?

  Andy had told Les Vanderwall himself. Though he couldn’t deliver the terrible news in person, he’d felt he owed Mak’s father that much. He had not told him his daughter was still alive when she’d appeared in Australia — had not done the right thing there, despite promising him he would. Andy would always feel guilty for that. But he’d told him what had unfolded at the Cavanagh house, over the phone, as Canadian police officers, the man’s colleagues before he retired, were gathered around him at his home in Canada, to console him. Vanderwall had wailed down the line — wailed like a wounded animal. First his wife, lost to cancer, and now his daughter gone forever. He was inconsolable. Andy could not stand to tell him Mak had also been pregnant. In a way, if her body never washed up, it would be better for everyone. Les would never have to know about the baby. And Andy would never have to know if it was his own. He’d never have to think about the child he wouldn’t have.

  ‘We don’t know that she suicided,’ Hunt reminded him.

  ‘It’s on the neighbour’s security footage for fuck’s sake. And she didn’t kill Jimmy. You know that, too, you slimy piece of shit.’

  Fucking Hunt, of all people. Hunt has to be the one to grill me about the note? Jesus. Andy had little patience left for this, particularly with Jimmy’s funeral only hours away. He had to believe Hunt’s brief reign was nearly over. He had to believe that now Jack Cavanagh was dead, it would all come out. The bribes. The corruption. Everything that had pulled apart a good, honest police force. The taint of the Cavanaghs stretched from the politicians to the media to the police. Yes, even the police. Hunt, and God knew who else. It was unthinkable. But there was no one left to pull the strings now. What Mak had done couldn’t be for nothing. It just couldn’t.

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’ Hunt said cautiously.

  With some effort Andy contained himself. He sat down, crossed his arms and kept his mouth shut.

  Perhaps a minute passed in tense silence. Andy half expected the door to open, but it didn’t. Hunt changed tack. ‘Well, you may not think she’d kill your friend Detective Cassimatis, but she certainly killed Jack Cavanagh. It’s on tape.’ There was a hint of triumph in his tone.

  ‘Yes,’ Andy admitted in a low voice.

  It was on tape. On the tape she’d left behind. And her prints were all over the place. On the note. On the stolen car. On the murder weapon. On the knife she’d cut herself with. How could she do it? Had the police let her down — had Andy let her down — so badly that she had to kill Jack Cavanagh and his son for all to see and then kill herself while there was a child growing in her belly? God knows he would have loved that baby, taken it on, even if it wasn’t his. It would have hurt, yes. It would have taken him a little while to get over it if it had turned out to be the child of that man she’d screwed so soon after leaving him, but he’d have got over it eventually. He’d have been able to get past it. But now they’d never have the chance to work things out. She was dead. She and the baby in her belly.

  He felt a hot tear roll down one cheek.

  Great. I’m fucking crying now. Arsehole.

  Andy wiped the tear and spoke. ‘Yes, it’s on the tape. So is his admission that he’d tried to have her killed in Paris. She was being hunted. Can you imagine how pressured she must have been to resort to this? And you know what, you’re right that I fucked up. You’re absolutely fucking right to bring me in here and grill me. Yes. If I could do it again, I would have reached in my pocket and read this scrap of paper and understood what was going on. I would have found the surprise note in my pocket when I was at the hospital with my partner dead and I would have read it and recognised the writing and thought, Jesus Christ, I’d better call my mates at the New South Wales police. Who knows, maybe we could have found her and stopped her? Maybe she’d still be alive?’

  Hunt frowned. ‘We don’t know that she is dead —’

  ‘Jesus, mate, did you see the way she stuck that fucking gun in her mouth? Do you think she’d leave video of herself murdering Jack Cavanagh if she’d planned on sticking around? You think she’d just leave the murder weapon there with her prints on it?’

  ‘How did you know about —?’

  ‘Don’t insult me, Hunt. I’ve still got mates here.’ He’d seen it. He’d seen it all. And it made him sick inside. ‘My ex-girlfriend killed herself and saw fit to give me the suicide note. No, I didn’t find it right away. We lost an hour because of me. Maybe two. That’s true. I’m going to have to live with that.’

  Hunt was silenced.

  ‘I’ve got a funeral to go to,’ Andy said. ‘Are we done here?’ He stood.

  They all had to go and die on him, didn’t they? Cassandra and Jimmy and now Mak. He had no one left.

  All dead. They’re all dead. Everyone you ever truly cared about.

  ‘Just a couple more questions —’ Hunt began and his sentence was stopped short by one sharp punch to the face. Andy walked out of the interrogation room, pulling open the door for himself as Hunt stood shocked, holding a broken nose which bled freely between his fingers. Two officers rushed into the room to aid him.

  Detective Inspector Kelley was waiting outside the commander’s office, arms tightly crossed. His slate-grey eyes were full of disappointment, but he patted Andy’s shoulder. For a man like Kelley, a gesture like that was akin to an embrace. ‘Sorry about that nonsense,’ he said quietly, not mentioning his violent outburst. ‘I’ll see you at the funeral.’

  Kelley flicked his eyes to Hunt, who had emerged from the interrogation room, bloody and flushed. ‘Hunt, the commander and I would like to speak to you,’ Kelley said as Andy walked away. The door to the commander’s office was ajar. An Express Post package was ripped open on the desk.

  Mak’s package for Kelley had arrived.

  You did it, Mak. You did it.

  Agent Andy Flynn was the last to leave the wake at the Cassimatis house. It was near ten o’clock when he finally stepped from the clinging grief of the small suburban house and walked out to his car, leaving Jimmy’s widow in the kitchen with her elderly, widowed mother, the two women making themselves busy with the domestic needs of a household that would need to keep on keeping on, without its patriarch.

  Four fatherless boys to raise. There would be dark days ahead.

  As Jimmy’s closest friend, Andy had been asked to speak at the funeral. He’d managed to keep it together, even when they’d played a video with photographs of Jimmy over the years. As a toothless, smiling baby. Fresh-faced in uniform for the first time. Holding his first baby boy, Dominique. Playing ball in the backyard. Posing as a dubious Santa in board shorts at Christmas. He’d been so young and slim once. Andy had almost forgotten.

  Jimmy was buried with full honours. Killed in the line of duty. No one mentioned Makedde or the Cavanagh murders to Andy. If it was a topic of speculation amongst the family, they kept it to themselves.

  What a fucking mess.

  Andy unlocked the door of his car. He’d remained sober out of respect for Jimmy’s family, but he’d soon fix that. He’d stop by the liquor store on the way to the hotel. The interior light came on and he slid himself inside, feeling hollowed and bare.

  What’s this? There was something on the driver’s seat. He picked it up and turned it in his fingers.

  Strange.

  A business card. It was bent at the corners, as if it had travelled in his wallet for months, only he didn’t recognise the card at all. He examined it under the glow of the interior l
ight and his eyes widened.

  Holy shit, Mak.

  His brain scrambled with this new information, what it meant. He thought of the video footage Mak had left at the scene, that horrifying image of her putting the gun in her mouth, nearly pulling the trigger. He thought of the blood they’d found on the knife at the shore. It would be her blood, he knew. Only it wouldn’t be from slitting her wrists. She faked it. She faked her own suicide to survive. The note. The tears. All of it. She’d known what she was doing.

  Makedde …

  HOTEL MIRALLUNA, PERATALLADA, SPAIN, the card said in big letters across the front.

  Have you ever been to Spain, Andy?

  EPILOGUE

  They made a striking trio, backlit against the Mediterranean sunset: the tall, handsome man with his full head of salt-and-pepper hair, the statuesque blonde woman and the small, smiling, spectacled boy.

  The man stood on the edge of the shore, cupped his hands to his face and shouted something in Spanish, and she, ahead of him, turned to smile in his direction. She had the even features of a model, with full lips and an even fuller mane of dirty blonde hair she was growing out, currently shoulder length and worn loose with a natural wave. What he’d said had pleased her and her eyes crinkled up, and she flashed a broad, dazzling grin as she bent at the waist in her white swimsuit and sarong to whisper something conspiratorially to the child at her heels. And then in seconds she was off, dashing up the beach on long, tanned legs, the sarong flapping behind her like a white flag and the young boy screeching with high-pitched laughter as he chased her, holding his black-rimmed glasses to his face and giggling madly.

  The man who had been Andy Flynn ran after the woman and the boy making fresh footprints on the unmarked, pale sand. And then he stopped and shook his head, the salty sea foaming around his bare ankles as he caught his breath. It was time for dinner and they were close to home now. Her father and stepmother would be waiting inside. He watched as his girlfriend scooped her son up further down the beach they called their own. She held him to her chest, his small legs flailing and kicking, and his laughter drifted back on the wind. Four years he’d been here. Four years. Day by day the past was fading like the paint on their beachside house, seasoned by laughter and sun and salt air. He’d lost himself and gained a future. They all had. Beneath the crimson rays of the setting European sun, they fit in, their scars invisible. Just a man, a woman and a beautiful boy.

  Nameless and wanting for nothing.

  Acknowledgements

  Makedde’s full story has been a long time in the making. I’ve had some valuable support over the past thirteen years to see me through the ups and downs of Makedde’s changing fortunes — and my own. I would especially like to thank my agent Selwa Anthony for her guidance and both Selwa and Brian for making me part of their family. Thank you also to the team at HarperCollins for taking the chance on me when I was a young, unpublished author.

  I have experienced some fascinating research for this novel. I’d like to thank Mark Patterson, General Manager, Department of Forensic Medicine, Glebe, and all the staff there who do such an important job in helping to answer questions of cause of death. I would also like to acknowledge the wonderful research assistance of NSW Homicide Commander, Detective Superintendent Michael Willing, DCI John Lehmann and the homicide and unsolved squads, Peter Moroney of Nemesis, Detective Senior Sergeant Mick Garrahy, Digital Scientist Allan Watt, Digital Forensic Examiner Kevin Clayton, Senior Constable Mick Samson, Senior Constable Michael Dunn, Chris Allen and Charles Stingel. I’d also like to thank St Vincent’s Hospital and my friend, fellow author Dr Kathryn Fox, for the fictional thoracotomy. I should also like to mention that Geoff Rosamond, who is named in this book, is not actually an assassin of any kind, but was good enough to bid on being named one in this novel, with his generous donation going to UNICEF Australia to help some of the world’s most vulnerable children. Hans Reichhold of Townsville, who is mentioned in this novel as a fine constable, bid generously to help rebuild a much needed maternity hospital in Minova, in Democratic Republic of Congo. Your generosity has made such a difference. Thank you.

  I am blessed to enjoy the company of some inspiring and diverse friends, including Miss J, Alison, Emma, Helen, Caroline, Catharine, Mindi, Tracey and little Charlie, Jacinta, Sarah, Marianne, Linda, Liz, Desi, Amelia, Dominic, Martin, Penelope and Karim, Tessa and Shane, Jody and Simon, Lauren and Josh, Kelly and Mick, Lisa and Julian, Jack and Venetia, and Adam and Susie. Thanks to all my patient friends and the gang at Sisters in Crime, the Stella Prize, Chadwicks, Foxtel, 13th Street, RIDBC, BFHI and UNICEF for your support and camaraderie.

  To my brave childhood friend Alana, be well.

  To my cherished father, to Lou and Jackie, Dorothy, Nik, Annelies, Maureen, and my extraordinary husband, Berndt, and our girl Sapphira, I love you all. Thank you for your unfailing love and life support. And the patience. Goodness me, the patience.

  Mum, I never forget you.

  Q&A with Tara Moss

  Although you’ve expressed interest in writing since you were a kid, you didn’t publish your first novel, Fetish, until you were in your twenties. What prompted you to write your debut novel?

  I wrote Fetish when I was twenty-three, without a publishing deal or agent, and at that time the idea of being published was very abstract. I wrote Fetish for myself between jobs, as being a published author was something I dreamed of but did not expect to achieve. In many ways, I still write for myself. I think that’s one of the keys to writing with authenticity.

  Although I have always been obsessed with books and I am naturally compelled to write, once I became an adult the idea of presenting my writing to anyone was terrifying. When I look back I can see that it was sheer lack of confidence that saw me wait until I was twenty-three to show my writing to anyone, apart from my school classmates when I was ten.

  What were your stories like when you were ten?

  I was a gruesome tomboy as a child, obsessed with horror, magic, ghosts and dragons.

  One of my earliest stories, a Stephen King-style novelette called Black and White Doom, featured a dismantled hand. I meant dismembered, but hey, I was ten. My classmates used to wait until after school to get the handwritten chapter featuring their own grisly demise. Kids can be pretty morbid. Old school friends have told me that those stories of mine are remembered fondly. My dad collected them when I was little and stored them in the attic for years. He sent them to me when Fetish was published. I have taken to reading sections at literary conferences, from time to time, usually introducing them as ‘some of my early work’.

  What does your writing process look like?

  I have never been particularly good at methodical planning. I tend to think about a novel for a long time before I write the first words, so that I have a solid idea of what I’d like to see on the page, but the story naturally evolves through the process of physical writing. I believe the book is boss. It will tell you where it wants to go. The characters and their stories take over.

  How does a typical workday unfold?

  I abhor routine and as a result I don’t have any typical working day, except perhaps when I am on hard deadline. On those days I wake, turn my phone off, get a coffee, get on my laptop and work solidly until I hit my word count or until the day ends, with only short breaks to eat and stretch. It is physically unhealthy to sit and stare at a computer for twelve to fourteen hours a day, so I don’t like to work like that more often than needed.

  You are known for taking risks and you’ve been set on fire and choked unconscious for research for your Mak Vanderwall crime series. Where did your fearlessness come from?

  Fear is an emotion that undermines our potential as human beings, and to my mind it drives a lot of what is negative in the world — fear of the unknown, fear of failure, etc. I’ve found that one of the best ways to combat fear is to face it head on, and to get the facts.

  My mother passed away after a brave battle with cancer when I was
a teenager. She taught me a lot about courage and the fragility of life. Life is too short to live the same day twice. I don’t have a lot of time for fear.

  What kind of research did you do for the Mak series?

  People sometimes mistake me for Mak, and my real father for the formidable Detective Inspector Les Vanderwall, but the reality is that my father sold fridges and stoves at a department store and I did not meet a cop until I started researching this series. In the past fifteen years I have immersed myself in criminal cases, investigation, criminal psychology, psychopathy and the study of homicide and violent crime. I have toured the FBI Academy in Quantico, shot guns with the LAPD, taken polygraph tests, researched with world expert on psychopaths, Dr Robert Hare, seen autopsies, spent time in morgues, in squad cars and with private investigators and homicide squads. I’ve also been choked unconscious by Ultimate Fighter ‘Big’ John McCarthy and set on fire by stunt company West EFX. I am extremely grateful to all of the professionals who assisted me over the years.

  When Mak took on PI work with Marian Wendell in the series, I earned my Certificate III in private investigation at the Australian Security Academy (a Certificate III is the licensing requirement for PIs) so I could understand the work. When she was choked unconscious by an assassin in Siren, I felt I also needed to experience that. The sensation was intense and surprising, and there is no doubt in my mind that I would have written that scene incorrectly if I had not experienced it myself.

  You are known for your advocacy on women’s issues. Is that why you wanted to write your central character as such a strong woman?

  I wanted to create a character I could relate to as a reader and as a person, but also a woman who could survive incredible challenges. Mak is flawed, but also strong, intelligent and psychologically resilient. She is constantly underestimated and she learns how to deal with that, sometimes even using it to her advantage. I do tend to focus my writing on strong women, but with this series I particularly wanted to explore the character arc of someone who is a bit naïve in the first novel and becomes tough and street smart as the series progresses, ending up with an incredible skill set and a determination for justice earned the hard way. In the final novel all of these aspects of her personality and experience come into play. She is pushed to her limit, and then some.