She hurried towards the big underground supermarket, taking the escalator down, hoping she’d remember all the things she’d run out of, wishing she’d made a shopping list. She trawled the aisles with her trolley, throwing in far too many items, remembering the frozen cheesecake and strings of sausages Hugo had enjoyed last visit.
She lugged the heavy bags to her car and was loading them into the back when her mobile rang. Cursing, she pushed the shopping inside and dug out her mobile.
‘It’s me,’ said Angie. ‘Things are looking very bad for Jaki. She’s not making much sense. I think she did it, Gems.’
‘But what about the doll?’ asked Gemma, sliding into the driver’s seat, stowing the last bag on the floor in front of the passenger seat. ‘The police doll someone sent her? It had Venetian glass stuck in it. Why aren’t you following that up?’
‘I’m not overly concerned about the doll,’ said Angie. ‘Not given the physical evidence stacking up against Jaki.’
‘Angie, I don’t think she’s guilty. Jaki couldn’t do something like those murders.’
‘It’s always hard to believe this sort of thing about a friend. But she’s all over this.’
‘But she’s a member of the forensic services group,’ said Gemma. ‘Surely she’d have worn gloves. That’s just basic.’
‘When the passions are running hot,’ said Angie, ‘even the most experienced practitioner can overlook basics. We’ve discussed this before. She may not have had the time to put on gloves. Until she tells us, we’re not going to know exactly what happened.’
‘So what is she saying?’
‘She’s denying everything. But she can’t explain how her genetic material showed up.’ Angie swore. ‘It’s a bloody horrible business,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sitting in the crime manager’s office watching the umpteenth bloody interview on the monitor. She’s admitted that she and Bryson fought over whether or not he was going to leave his marriage. She wanted to move in with him when he left the marital home and he wouldn’t agree. He talked about ending the affair and trying to reconcile with his wife. I think Jaki made that call to Natalie, although she denies it. But she did admit that she felt life without him was not worth living. Actually, I think she’s suicidal.’
Gemma thought of the beautiful young woman with the Marilyn Monroe mole near her mouth.
‘Maybe she can plead some sort of insanity,’ Angie continued. ‘Burnout or post-traumatic stress disorder.’
Gemma suddenly felt something click over in her mind. ‘You said something the night of our failed celebration dinner. Jaki wasn’t the only person who didn’t show up that night. You said Julie Cooper wasn’t at work either. She could have taken a weapon from the exhibits room. You said that new bloke left a security door wedged open one day; maybe he’d left it open the day of the murders too.’
‘Gemma, come on! That’s a crazy idea! You’re not seriously accusing Julie Cooper!’
‘Just listen, Angie. She could have gone in and helped herself if there was no one on the desk. And you said she always goes for men who already have a partner. She knew about me and Steve. She’s known for years that we’re a couple. She could have done the same with Bryson Finn and then got pissed off when he threw her over for Jaki.’
‘Gemster, stop it. You’ve got no evidence whatsoever. And you’re not a couple. At least, you weren’t a couple when Julie came into Steve’s life. And why the hell would Julie murder the superintendent’s sister-in-law?’
‘I still say she’s got the sort of experience to carry it out.’
‘There’s no evidence that she and Bryson Finn even knew each other. You’re not really serious, are you?’
‘I can’t believe that you’re not sticking up for Jaki! Angie, she’s our friend. I think that someone is deliberately setting her up. And that’s got to be someone with the know-how. Either someone in the job’ – she suddenly thought of Natalie and Donovan screaming – ‘or someone who used to be. Or simply someone who knows enough to lay a false trail. The general public knows all about DNA traces now, for goodness sake!’
Gemma thought hard of other possibilities. ‘Jaki could have left something at Findlay and Bettina’s house,’ she suggested. ‘Something with her DNA on it. Say a used tissue or some other discarded item. Findlay Finn could have carried out the murders, smeared Jaki’s material all over the cartridges and someone else pays for his crimes.’ She warmed to her own thesis. ‘He’s admitted his marriage was dead. He’s rid of his wife and the brother he’s always been jealous of. And gets some insurance money as well.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Gemma. Just look at the evidence around Jaki! The DNA is just part of it. There’s emotional involvement, the lying, the distress. And now that she’s told us Bryson Finn was hoping to get back with Natalie, Jaki’s got a real motive. Jealousy and revenge for her lover’s change of heart. You’re letting your own emotional involvement with Jaki cloud your judgment. Do you think it was easy for me? Look, I’ve gotta go. I can’t waste any more time arguing with you!’
Abruptly she rang off.
Gemma sat a few moments, collecting herself and cooling down. Angie had made up her mind and Gemma knew from long experience that it would take an earthquake to shift her. Or further evidence.
•
When Gemma got home, she found a note wedged into her security door and a small packet lying on her doorstep. After she’d lugged everything in and put most of the shopping away, she opened the package to find several items – a toothbrush, a folded-up piece of linen and a hairbrush – and a note: ‘Here are some things Steff left at my place. Hope they’re helpful in providing a reference sample for DNA testing, Toby.’
Gemma put the articles in a postal bag then turned her attention to the envelope that had been tucked into the grille, tearing it open to find a stiff, square card.
‘The bearer of this card is entitled to one dinner – at a time and place of her choosing – followed by any show in town. And yes, this is a man asking a woman for a date.’ Mike’s signature was written across the bottom.
This might be a very good idea, Gemma thought. With all the sad, bad things happening around her lately, not to mention her own decision not to go ahead with the baby, a date with Mike would remind her that there was still the possibility – maybe further down the track – for her dream of a little family to come true.
She tucked Mike’s invitation under a fridge magnet, made herself a salad sandwich and took it on a plate into her office. Grace’s recent note caught her eye. Grace must be included in this family too.
She was still thinking of Grace when she checked her email and found the Police Association had answered her query.
‘Dear Ms Lincoln,’ she read. ‘Your inquiry about the volunteers who dress the police dolls was passed on to us. If you would like to order one, please fill in the attached form and send it back to us, stating the rank and gender required. Or you may wish to contact one of our doll dressers directly and place your order with them. Their email addresses are included for your convenience. Sincerely, Marjorie Wentworth.’
Gemma glanced through the half-dozen email addresses. One of them caused her to look closer. No, she realised, she hadn’t made a mistake: [email protected] was included in the list.
Gemma leaned back in her chair, taking in the implications. Jaki Hunter dressed dolls for the Police Association. She stood up and walked to the window, watching cars passing in the road above her garden. Jaki had made and decorated a frame to hold the photograph featuring herself and Bryson Finn. Jaki liked making things. Was it possible she herself had dressed that doll and made up the story that it had come in the mail? No, thought Gemma. Jaki hadn’t wanted anyone to know about it. But so far, she hadn’t been able to produce the Venetian glass heart given to her by Bryson Finn either. Gemma remembered that one-third of all mur
derers suicide; Jaki could be heading that way, according to Angie. And often, in the case of crimes of passion, there was enormous remorse and regret.
Slowly, Gemma turned away from the window. Perhaps Angie was right, and she, Gemma, was in a state of denial. She’d have to accept the possibility that Jaki Hunter was a murderer. And yet, in Gemma’s mind, Natalie Finn was by no means off the hook. Nor was her weird brother-in-law, Findlay Finn. And Dan Galleone, despite his calm, practised response under questioning, also had strong motives for removing the man who’d cheated him out of money and a promotion. He certainly had the forensic knowledge, but there was nothing to link him to the murders, so far. But having suspicions wasn’t enough. Hard evidence, she reminded herself. She needed physical evidence, such as that ranged against Jaki. If she wanted to help her friend, finding evidence that cleared her was the way to do it.
She rang Angie. ‘That pink notepaper,’ she said, ‘used in the I think he knows letter – if we find a stash of that in the Galleone household, it would help harden suspicions that Galleone’s wife was the other woman.’
‘Girl, you’re dreaming. We can’t get a warrant because someone thinks that Mrs Galleone might have pink stationery. Can I remind you we have a suspect being questioned as we speak? The way Jaki is shaping up, I think it’s only a matter of time before we get a full confession. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s work to be done.’
Twenty-Two
The courier had just left with Steffi Boyd’s items bound for Paradigm Labs when the sound of the Ratbag calling from the front entrance brought Gemma’s ruminations about Jaki to a halt.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’ve just run a marathon.’
‘I have, sort of,’ he said, heaving his heavy backpack off. ‘I dragged this stuff all the way from Dad’s place. I need a shower.’
‘What have you been doing?’ Gemma asked, bringing him a clean towel. ‘I haven’t seen you since Saturday.’
‘I’ve done a bit of visiting,’ he said. ‘I called on someone, and then met up with a mate from my old school on Sunday afternoon. We played some touch football in the park near where he lives. Then we went up to the Cross and hung around and talked to some girls. I introduced him to Gerda.’
‘How was that?’
Hugo shrugged. ‘He was cool.’
‘Nothing like a liberal education,’ said Gemma, relieved that he’d found something to do, somewhere to go apart from her flat.
He carefully put his backpack down near the blue lounge then vanished into the bathroom. Soon she could hear the shower running noisily.
‘Hey, Hugo,’ she called after a while, banging on the door. ‘Don’t use up all the hot water.’
The sound of the rushing water stopped, and in a moment Hugo stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his lower body. As he passed her on his way back to the lounge where his backpack leaned, Gemma’s breath caught sharply.
‘Hugo! What have you done to yourself? Your back!’
Guiltily, he turned round. ‘What?’
‘Your back. Let me see it again.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ he said, too glibly. ‘I fell over last week.’
‘Stop right there,’ said Gemma. ‘And turn round again.’
He looked up at her from under his gabling brows, his expression reminding Gemma of Aunt Merle’s kelpie when he was found under the kitchen table, busily eating the butcher’s paper wrapping after having polished off the weekly meat order.
‘What happened to your back?’ Gemma asked, shocked at the series of bruises that ran from the top of his jutting scapulas down to below the towel at his waist.
‘Like I told you,’ he said, ‘I fell off my bike last week.’
‘You couldn’t have got those with a fall off your bike,’ she said. ‘Turn round again, please.’
Unwillingly, he obeyed. ‘It’s just some bruising. From a bike accident. Don’t know why you’re carrying on about it.’
‘Hugo, I’m not stupid. You’ve got bruises ranging in colour from yellow-green to black to deep purple. And every other colour in between. Know what that tells me?’
‘I’m a colourful guy?’
‘It tells me you’ve received these injuries over a period of time. Weeks, maybe longer.’
‘Yeah. I fall off every week,’ he said. ‘I go too fast. Mum’s always telling me that.’
‘Without grazing your knees, hands, elbows or anything else? You should be on the racing circuit, lecturing.’
Without warning him, she turned him again and tugged the towel down at the back. The range of bruises extended well below his hips and onto the top of his narrow buttocks.
‘Hey! Stop that!’ He rapidly reclaimed the towel. ‘Give a guy some privacy.’
‘Someone’s been beating you, Hugo. And not just once either.’
He ignored her, pulling on red underpants and jeans, back turned to her.
‘Your back is telling me someone’s been knocking you around for quite some time. I can’t believe it’s your dad or mum.’
He slipped a black sleeveless T-shirt over his head, and turned to face her.
‘Leave it alone. It’s just part of school.’
‘School?’ Gemma said. ‘Is that where it happened? Do they hand out corporal punishment? Assaulting school students like that has been outlawed. Which teacher did this?’
Hugo looked at the floor, then deftly ducked and went to the kitchen, swinging the fridge door open. ‘What’s to eat?’
‘Hugo, you tell me right this minute who did that or I’m going to ring the police myself!’
‘Don’t do a totally dumb thing like that!’
‘Then you come back here right now and you tell me.’
Reluctantly, he returned. ‘It wasn’t any of the teachers,’ he finally said.
‘Who then?’
A deep sigh. ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘I’ve already told Mum and Dad. And they said I was making too much fuss already.’
‘They don’t care that someone’s been beating you up? I don’t believe it!’
Hugo shrugged, defeat and sadness in the gesture. ‘I don’t think they’ve really noticed. They didn’t see my back like you did. And anyway, Bassett is Dad’s old school. He’s on the board – whatever a board is. On the board. Boring old bastards sitting around being bored.’
‘So what did your dad say when you told him?’
‘He said it’s just part of school life. That it happened to him and that I just have to put up with it. He says it’ll ease off in a year or two.’
‘In a year or two?’ Gemma repeated in disbelief.
‘Who did this, Hugo?’ She asked the question in a quieter tone. He looked away, head angled forward in shame and reluctance.
‘Come on, Hugo!’
‘Clifford and Mawby. They’re in the senior school. Year 12. Mawby’s a prefect. Clifford’s just a tool.’
‘A what?’
‘A tool. A dickhead.’
‘How old are this pair?’ Gemma asked.
‘Clifford’s seventeen and Mawby’s nearly eighteen. They’re big guys. Mawby’s a great big fat thing. Everyone’s scared of them.’
‘I want to know what they do, how they do it and when they do it,’ said Gemma.
‘They do it any time they can. They’ve just got it in for me. They found out that my dad’s on the board and they reckon I’m a suck. Clifford grabs me and holds me down while Mawby bashes me.’
‘Where does this happen?’
‘They hang round until I’m alone. Sometimes they get me in the toilets. Once they got me in the bathroom and twisted my wrist. I couldn’t write for about a week after that.’ He looked away, as if he was ashamed. ‘They’re always getting me. One guy tried
to help me for a while, but they bashed his little brother and put shit in his desk and in his bed. And we’re only in Year 7. They’re in Year 12.’
‘You mean shit as in shit?’ she asked.
He nodded.
Gemma’s shock must have betrayed her because Hugo suddenly looked pleadingly at her.
‘But you can’t do anything about it,’ he said. ‘Please don’t.’
She saw the fear in his eyes. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you want me to do something to stop this?’
‘Because if they found out I’d complained to someone, they’d make my life hell.’
‘Hugo, they’re already doing that. Is that the reason you hate school so much?’
He nodded, miserable. ‘I’m not going back there. I want to stay here with you.’ His eyes implored her. ‘Don’t say I dobbed. Don’t.’
‘Okay, okay. I won’t say or do anything without talking to you first. Let me think about this.’
She felt a deep anger for this boy. She’d always known his parents showed little interest in him, but to overlook a matter like this was criminal. She watched as he trailed dejectedly out of the room.
Gemma picked up the phone, took a deep breath and called Angie. ‘What do you know about assaults on schoolboys? I mean at school, by other boys?’
‘It’s assault, no matter where it happens,’ said Angie, clearly relieved the call wasn’t about Jaki. ‘Why? You want to beat up the Ratbag?’
Gemma explained the situation.
‘Hugo can take his complaint to the school, or his parents.’
‘He won’t do either of those.’
‘Tell him to come in here and fill out a statement. You think he’s fair dinkum?’
‘Ange, the kid’s back is black and blue. And green and yellow.’
‘So it’s been ongoing?’
‘All the time.’
‘Listen, hon,’ said Angie. ‘I’m going down to watch the rest of the interview with Jaki. I’ll call you back.’
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