Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  Gabrielle Lord is widely acknowledged as one of Australia’s foremost writers. Her popular psychological thrillers are informed by a detailed knowledge of forensic procedures, combined with an unrivalled gift for story-telling. She is the author of fourteen novels – Bones, Tooth and Claw, Salt, Jumbo, The Sharp End, Feeding the Demons, Whipping Boy, Fortress, Death Delights, Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing, Lethal Factor, Spiking the Girl, Dirty Weekend and now Shattered. Her stories and articles have appeared widely in the national press and have been published in anthologies. Winner of the 2002 Ned Kelly Award for best crime novel for Death Delights and joint winner of the 2003 Davitt Crime Fiction Prize for Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing, Gabrielle has also written for film and TV. She lives in Sydney.

  Other Gemma Lincoln novels

  Feeding the Demons

  Baby did a Bad Bad Thing

  Spiking the Girl

  Shattered

  Gabrielle Lord

  First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2007

  by Hachette Australia

  (An imprint of Hachette Livre Australia Pty Limited)

  Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000

  Website: www.hachette.com.au

  This edition published in 2008

  Copyright © Gabrielle Lord 2007

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing

  for the purposes of private study, research, criticism

  or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968,

  no part may be stored or reproduced by any process

  without prior written permission. Enquiries should

  be made to the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Lord, Gabrielle, 1946- .

  Shattered.

  ISBN 978 0 7336 2307 3 (pbk).

  ISBN 978 0 7336 2564 0 (ebook edition).

  1. Women private investigators - Fiction. 2. Murder -

  Investigation - Fiction. I. Title.

  A823.3

  Cover design by Luke Causby/Blue Cork

  eBook by Bookhouse, Sydney

  For Lisa Highton,

  gracious publisher, with thanks and admiration

  Prologue

  Drizzle mists the windscreen as a car swings hard for the greasy right-hand turn into the perfect spot to park. On the other side of the road, lights twinkle through the deep foliage surrounding elegant homes in their generous grounds.

  The vehicle comes to a silent stop. The figure within leans over into the back to pick up an object and pulls out an Anschutz 525 from under a rug. The loaded magazine makes the gun heavy.

  Getting out of the car, the driver stretches, sniffs the rain, then vanishes into the deep darkness.

  •

  Approaching the house, the intruder steps silently, noting the lights shining from the newly renovated kitchen. This is familiar territory; this is not the first time this person has been here, armed, and under the cover of darkness, checking out the inhabitants, making sure of the routine, of who would be inside. The intruder can see through the slats of the timber blinds that the target and another party are standing in the kitchen, talking urgently. The stealthy figure moves away from the window and quietly checks the rest of downstairs. Apart from a light in the empty living room and one on upstairs, the house is in darkness. The intruder steals through the dense bushes of the overgrown yard, keeping low, past the tall hedges that continue all the way round to the front garden and line the curved driveway to the road.

  Heart racing, hands shaking, Anschutz and the object, a talisman, gripped tight, the intruder hesitates for only a second before knocking hard on the front door.

  Inside the house, footsteps clatter on polished floorboards and the frosted panels of glass beside the door darken as someone approaches.

  A woman opens the door, revealing the staircase behind her, she’s still frowning, preoccupied with something her companion just said, her beautiful face in profile.

  Here’s something to really worry about, thinks the shooter, raising the Anschutz. As the woman realises who is in front of her, and what is aimed at her face, the scream freezes in her throat. Venetian gold and crystal beads around her neck shine radiantly in the hall light.

  The shooter squeezes three quick shots past the baffles of the silencer. Before the woman can make a sound through her shocked mouth, she starts folding over, her descent accompanied by the shattering beads, falling and scattering in a high-velocity starburst.

  The shooter flinches and blinks in pain as the woman slumps onto the floor, one arm falling heavily among the rolling beads. Tiny golden shards and comets spike air and skin.

  ‘What is it?’ her companion calls, puzzled by the odd sounds and the even odder silence.

  Suddenly he’s there, stepping directly into the line of fire; shock, recognition then comprehension play in quick succession across his features. In a doomed attempt to deflect the business end of the Anschutz, he launches straight at the shooter, arms outstretched in front of him.

  But for all his desperation, there’s nothing he can do. A fleeting moment of disbelief in his eyes and another three rounds explode.

  A double tap to the head and another to the chest provide a speedy resolution to most problems, the shooter muses.

  The big man collapses, falling more slowly than the woman, snowy shirt ruined with blood, tumbling heavily beside her, one arm thrown across her body.

  The shooter lowers the rifle. Job done, time to get out.

  A muffled gasp causes the shooter to swing back round. A small boy is on the stairs behind the fallen bodies, one arm raised in an instinctive, useless defensive gesture.

  Holy hell! What’s he doing here?

  The child’s huge eyes lock into those of the shooter. There is no choice.

  Streaming fans of blood pulse out onto the wall beside the boy as he crumples sideways, tumbling downstairs along the bannister to land headfirst on the floorboards at the bottom of the stairs, touching the man’s body, skinny legs in shorts still partly up the stairs.

  A movement on the floor makes the shooter jump, but it’s only a cartridge rocking to its still point. No witnesses, the shooter thinks. With that sort of arterial gushing, the boy will be dying by now.

  A terrible anguish rises from the depths of the shooter’s heart. The animal howl is choked back as, running low along the side of the house, the shooter vanishes into the night.

  It’s not till the shooter is safe in the car, stashing the weapon, that the realisation hits like a physical blow. The talisman has gone.

  A frantic search fails to find it. It’s missing. The talisman could be tracked directly back to the shooter. But would the talisman even be noticed in all the mess? Who would notice a scrap of cotton wool amongst fleeces? An uncut diamond amidst a pile of shattered windscreen glass? Should the talisman be retrieved? It has done its work. There is a long moment’s hesitation while the shooter weighs the risks and breathes through panic.

  The shooter drives away.

  One

  Gemma Lincoln and Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald sat on fashionable, uncomfortable, polythene chairs at the glass and steel table of a new Darlinghurst eatery. They were waiting for their guest of honour, Senior Constable Jaki Hunter from ballistics in Sydney, to join them.

  ‘She should be here by now,’ Angie said, pulling out her mobile. ‘It’s nearly nine. I’ll try her one more time.’ Tossing her newly coloured auburn hair, a frown on her face, she hit redial and listened while Gemma scanned the bistro’s clientele: smart, young business types from the city – lawyers, acc
ountants, consultants, perhaps – well-dressed, well-heeled, drinking bottles of boutique wine, straight white teeth showing as they laughed. Gemma glanced down at her second-best jeans, soft linen blouse and pink, gold-flecked crocheted vest that wasn’t quite warm enough, feeling underdressed and out of place. Again, she wished she’d stayed in tonight, curled up with Taxi on the blue leather sofa, writing up reports, catching up with her notes, doing something to earn money – instead of spending it in a place like this. She should be home, licking her wounds and eating something simple and homemade that might – just might – stay down long enough to be digested.

  ‘Still not answering,’ said Angie, putting the mobile back in her briefcase and tucking an escaped strand of hair behind her ear in a familiar gesture. ‘It keeps going straight to voice mail. It really pisses me off when people are late like this. Plus I went to all the trouble of getting another copy of that graduation photograph of her – the one I took way back when I was her mentor – remember?’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Angie dug into her bag, pulled out a photo in a plastic sleeve and passed it to Gemma. Taken in the moment when the new graduates threw their caps in the air, it showed Jaki Hunter, hair shining, face uplifted as she fielded her cap. The angle of the shot and the sheer vigour and beauty of the young woman reminded Gemma of Marilyn Monroe – Jaki even had a similar beauty spot near her mouth.

  ‘She’s probably on her way,’ Gemma murmured, handing the photograph back. Jaki Hunter, for whom the celebration meal had been organised, had recently acquired her expert’s certificate in ballistics.

  Gemma caught herself thinking about where she’d be now if she’d stayed in the job, but stopped, remembering the problems and the treachery of the senior police officers thirteen years ago who’d saved their own skins by pegging hers out to dry. She sighed. That was all a long time ago.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ said Angie, glancing at her watch. ‘But I came straight from training and I’m starving. Jaki or no Jaki, I’m going to order.’

  ‘She must have been called out on a job,’ said Gemma.

  ‘She’s not rostered tonight,’ said Angie, shaking her head. ‘And if she has been dragged out despite that, she’d better have a good excuse for not giving us a call at least. Lately, she’s been all over the place. She used to be so professional – she even buys her own crime scene gloves! Reckons police issue isn’t up to scratch. Let’s order.’

  At the thought of food, Gemma’s stomach rebelled and she swallowed hard, but she picked up the menu and glanced at it before passing it to Angie.

  ‘So how’s it all going?’ Angie asked, after closing the menu.

  ‘Not great,’ said Gemma, as a wave of nausea started to unroll from the depths of her being. ‘I had to put Spinner off last week.’

  Spinner, the ex-jockey who’d been with her from the beginning, had taken the lay-off hard.

  ‘I told him it was only temporary, but God knows how long it’ll be before I can afford him again. Business is so slow. I heard of two more security businesses folding last week and another two of the big ones have merged. I’m back to working seven days a week like I had to when I was starting up. And they’re only small-time jobs. I’ve managed to keep a couple of the big insurers. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be looking for a job myself.’ She paused. ‘And I’m missing Kit. I hadn’t realised how much I take her for granted.’

  Gemma’s older sister was travelling with her a cappella singing group, following the pilgrim routes, and was currently in Spain.

  ‘When’s she back?’ Angie asked.

  ‘Not for a month at least. I had a card saying she might even try and extend her stay in Paris.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Angie. Then, frowning, ‘You’ve gone all white, Gems.’ She signalled the waitress. ‘You need to eat. Especially in your condition. Here, have some bread.’

  Gemma shook her head, gave a desperate wave in an effort to convey her state, and scrambled from the table, bumping her way past people to the ladies.

  She pushed open the door, barely making the cubicle in time. Once inside, she hung over the bowl, pulling her citrine pendant out of harm’s way, body heaving with the gut-wrenching, tear-jerking spasms that had become at least a daily event. Sometimes thrice daily. It was a while before the heaving subsided and she dared to straighten up. There hadn’t been much to throw up, she thought, wiping her streaming eyes and mouth and blowing her nose on toilet paper before flushing it away.

  It took her a while to work out how to operate the featureless slinky spout in the handbasin, then she sluiced cold water over her face, drying it with tissues. She was staring at her haggard reflection in the mirror when Angie came into the restroom.

  ‘I see what you mean when you say it’s not just morning sickness,’ said Angie.

  ‘Morning, noon and night sickness,’ Gemma agreed wearily. ‘I threw up some lemonade this morning about thirty seconds after I’d swallowed it. You can’t imagine how vile lemonade feels in reverse and still fizzing.’

  ‘Is there anything that helps?’ Angie said, solicitously dabbing smudges of mascara from Gemma’s cheek with a tissue as Gemma hung over the sink, splashing more water on her face.

  ‘If there is, I haven’t found it yet,’ she croaked, slowly lifting her head.

  ‘What does your doctor say?’

  Gemma made a noncommittal noise, not wanting to confess that she hadn’t yet seen her GP. She knew it was irresponsible and probably the result of some deep layer of denial.

  ‘Are you okay to come back to the table?’ Angie was asking. ‘You’ll be more comfortable sitting down than hanging over these basins. And you should try to eat something, honeybun. Just something light and dry. Some dry toast?’

  ‘What is it with this dry toast nonsense?’ Gemma asked, irritated. ‘Dry toast comes back just as fast as anything else.’

  As they reseated themselves at their table the thin blonde waitress approached with her pad and pen.

  ‘Fettuccine marinara,’ said Angie, ‘and a glass of house white, please.’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Have you told Steve about the baby?’ Angie asked, peering closely at Gemma. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  Sometimes, for minutes at a time, Gemma could forget the pain she was in over the break-up with Steve, but lately it seemed to be getting worse. She shook her head.

  ‘You must!’ Angie insisted. ‘You absolutely must, Gems.’

  ‘You’re very passionate about this,’ said Gemma.

  Angie made a dismissive gesture. ‘Just take it from me that it’s really important you tell him. Straightaway.’

  ‘He’s not the one who’s pregnant!’ Gemma said, surprised and a little hurt. ‘You seem to be more interested in Steve’s position than mine.’

  ‘Hell, Gems, that’s not true. It’s your position I’m thinking about. Believe me.’

  ‘If I have a quiet termination, Steve doesn’t have to know anything about it,’ said Gemma. ‘He’s never been interested in having kids. It’ll be as if the whole thing never happened.’

  ‘Are you crazy? Do you really believe that?’ said Angie, her shrewd eyes narrowing. Gemma looked away, recalling the last painful fight with Steve, the way she’d lashed him – again – about his infidelity until Steve had finally lost patience with her. This time, permanently. She hadn’t heard from him for over two months.

  ‘Hey, I don’t mean to sound preachy,’ Angie said, softening. ‘But you can’t pretend a pregnancy never happened.’ She paused to refill her water glass, doing the same for Gemma.

  ‘Steve would’ve stayed rock solid with you if you’d been able to get over his . . . misdemeanour,’ Angie continued. ‘You kept throwing his past mistakes at him.’

  Gemma’s heart sank, feel
ing all over again how her childish jealousy had been largely responsible for Steve walking out for the last time. Then she frowned.

  ‘How come you know all that?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to break one of my own rules, Gems, and tell you that Steve and I had a long chat the other day. A lot of it about you.’ She nodded at Gemma’s look of surprise. ‘Last week. I bumped into him in Goulburn Street and we went up to the Galleon for a bite.’

  ‘And I suppose he said something about how desperately he needs a dependent woman and a baby in his life, right?’

  ‘Gemster,’ said Angie, disregarding her sarcasm, ‘he’s got the right to know an important fact like that, because unless there’s some sort of intervention, he’s on the way to fatherhood. That’s big.’

  ‘How was he?’ Gemma asked, feeling miserable and still unable to believe that it was over.

  Angie looked around, as if Steve might suddenly materialise and overhear her. ‘He was . . . confused, is the word I’d use. I got the feeling he’s had it up to here with undercover work. He said he wants a normal life.’

  ‘Hah! That’s a joke,’ said Gemma. ‘He’s always said he could never see himself with a family, kids and all that. Steve’s idea of “normal” would be very strange.’

  ‘I think he’s changing. He thought I’d be angry with him, because he knows what good friends you and I are. Hell, I said to him, I don’t take this sort of thing personally. I’m really sad that you two have split up but I never take sides. I love both of you and always will.’

  Always is a long time, Gemma thought. And, casting her memory back, she couldn’t remember either Steve or herself ever employing the word.

  ‘I don’t want to betray Steve’s confidences,’ Angie was saying, ‘but I had the feeling he was actually looking for a face-saving way to get back with you.’

  Gemma felt tears spring to her eyes and hope unfold in her heart.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gems,’ Angie said, patting her hand. ‘You know I don’t normally go on with this psychologising business. And I know this topic hurts you. But I’m trying to make a point. I sensed that Steve still loves you. I’m sure of that.’