Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  I brought Beering back to the two girls. ‘You said the two he killed yesterday both worked for Toby Devon. He had a runner on Saturday, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. And one of the murdered girls, Stacey Marshall, was leading in a horse for him. Her room-mate, Catrina, also worked for Devon, although she wasn’t working at the races on Saturday. That didn’t stop him from killing her, though.’

  ‘Was Stacey in the main race, the one with the strapper’s prize?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did she win it? I didn’t pay any attention after I left you.’

  ‘No, in fact they gave it to one of the guy strappers.’

  ‘And the others who were killed, were they all in the strapper’s prize or had perhaps won it?’

  ‘Punter, I know where you’re going with this, but trust me, the crew from Homicide are two steps ahead. They’ve looked at all that. Julie Summers and the girl who worked for your father, Carmen Leek, were both killed before this stupid strapper’s prize even started. Melissa Jordan won the strapper’s prize and she was victim number three. Then Stacey competed in it, but didn’t win, and she was murdered, as was her flatmate who wasn’t even there. So there doesn’t necessarily appear to be any connection between the strapper’s prize and those killed.’

  I let that sink in. ‘What about the location of where the girls worked? There’s been a couple now from Caulfield, haven’t there?’

  ‘True. Two from there, but now three from Flemington. The sequence is a Flemington kill first, followed by two in a row at Caulfield and now these two at Flemington. If he did that cold-case girl, Amanda, well, she lived all the way down at Frankston. None of them knew each other, except the two who worked for Devon and roomed together. There’s no apparent rhyme or reason apart from the fact they were all strappers.’

  ‘Have you just come from there?’ I asked.

  ‘I have, but I wasn’t allowed inside the crime scene. Although I can tell you that from what I heard, it wasn’t a pretty sight.’

  Beering described it: all the familiar trademarks of the strapper killer, including the now infamous words scribbled in lipstick on Stacey’s mirror and walls.

  ‘I’ll tell you two weird things about that writing,’ said Beering. ‘The first is that the message was slightly longer than it usually is. This time it said: I’m a Silk Chaser. Every other time, just Silk Chaser has been written up. The second thing, which has been confirmed by police, is that all the messages except for the one at Julie Summers’ crime scene, have been written by the victim.’

  ‘Seriously? They can tell that from just scribble on a wall?’

  ‘Punter, they got forensic handwriting experts who can tell you about the curves and the slants and the slope of writing. They can tell how much pressure’s been used to write a word, and all sorts of stuff about the shape of the strokes. Even the spacing between letters. All that shit. They know enough from what they’ve seen to confirm that the last three murder scenes have all been written up by their victims. All of them probably under frightening duress,’ he said soberly.

  ‘So we can assume it was the killer himself who wrote the message for the Summers murder, then got the girls to write their own epitaphs for every killing that followed. It’s like he keeps developing his act, keeps trying to bring new tricks to the party.’

  Later in the week David rang to remind me about arrangements for Boxing Day. As if anything ever changed. Ever since David and I were young strappers working for my father, the routine had never varied. First, there was the quiet family Christmas Day luncheon at my parents’ house. Then, that was followed by the annual Christmas party thrown for all of Dad’s stable clients after the Boxing Day meeting at Caulfield. I told David I’d be there to lend a hand, as always, straight after the races.

  Christmas Day came and went. My mother prepared a roast chicken, even though the temperature hovered around the high thirties. Cold seafood would have been more appropriate, but Mum was a traditionalist and so we got what she deemed to be authentic Christmas fare. Afterwards, we sat down in the lounge room and exchanged presents and pleasantries. David had brought along Dianne, his perennial fiancée. They’d been together eight years, engaged for at least three. When they were going to tie the knot was anyone’s guess. Still, they seemed happy enough in their perpetual state of readiness. They were still my mother’s best bet for a grandchild, although she hadn’t completely given up on me.

  ‘How’s that lovely girl you’ve been seeing?’ she asked me. ‘Why didn’t you invite her over as well?’

  ‘Maxine will be at the party tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Besides, she was spending Christmas with her father today.’

  ‘Such a pretty thing . . .’ mused mother. She was already in babyland, dreaming of the little booties she could knit. ‘You two make such a nice couple.’

  We made polite family small talk for the rest of the afternoon. The women carried the conversation as they usually did. David and I and the old man talked racing.

  I can’t say it was relaxing; my father getting up to answer the phone every five minutes to owners demanding to know something about their horse. A trainer’s life doesn’t change just because it’s Christmas, although you’d think some owners could hold off pestering him for at least one day of the year.

  The next day was the annual Parraboo Lodge Christmas party. Even though the party was always professionally catered, it was an unspoken tradition that David and I circulated with the drink trays and mingled with Dad’s clients. Of course, I hadn’t been involved with the stable in an official capacity for years, but I didn’t mind mixing with the predominantly racing crowd, so I played the dutiful son every year and never complained. I’d been at the Caulfield races all day and after the last I drove back and parked my van outside the stables in Booran Road. There was already a fair-sized collection of distinctive-looking owners’ cars in attendance. Sounds of laughter and conversation drifted from across the marquees which had been erected between the lawns and pathways surrounding the stables. The party appeared to be well under way.

  I walked under the archway sign that said ‘Parraboo Lodge’. Most top trainers end up calling their stables after one of their champions. Tommy Smith called his Randwick stables Tulloch Lodge after that great old campaigner who still holds race records decades after his death. But you won’t ever see mention of Parraboo in This Racing Year. He only ever won three races, but his first win enabled my father to land a plunge which had paid for the building of the stables. They say he had to stuff the cash in chaff bags in the back of his car to get it all home from the track. I asked him about it once; if it was true. A faraway look came into his eye as he travelled back fifty years or more in his mind to that day. ‘A good horse that, son,’ and then a twinkle and a smile. ‘A nice day’s work.’ That’s about as good an admission as you’re likely to get off Dad that he’s had a winning day. He’s trained a lot of quality horses since then, picking up a couple of Melbourne Cups and most of the major Group races, but he’s never been tempted to change the stable’s name to one of his better-known gallopers.

  David was at the first marquee with Dianne, fussing around with some drinks at the bar. They both lived in the foreman’s house at the front of the stables which meant David was on call twenty-four/seven. It could easily have been me who ended up in that house; taking phone calls from rude owners. Sorting out staff squabbles. Feeding the horses, mucking out boxes, getting things shipshape, just the way my father demanded them. I was so glad I’d gone my own way all those years ago.

  David and Dianne were having a stressful conversation. He was in a flap that they didn’t have enough cold champagne on ice.

  ‘Those bloody caterers,’ he fumed.

  ‘Can I help?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, would you,’ said Dianne. ‘If you can grab a tray of drinks off the bar and offer them around to the guests, that would be great.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ I said. ‘Is Maxine here yet?’

  �
�She arrived about twenty minutes ago. She’s out the back somewhere with her father.’

  The trouble with other people’s parties; you couldn’t exclude undesirables from the guest list.

  I picked up a tray of mixed drinks and carried them out into the back section of the stable block, past boxes one and two, which I used to muck out as a kid. They’d seemed much bigger back then, especially when you’d slept in and were trying to get finished before Dad turned up and caught you out. DJ was there now, with a group of owners including Maxine and her father. They were outside the stable door of Henshaw’s horse, Princess Upstart. Maxine was holding court, as usual, chattering away nineteen to the dozen. I caught the tail end of the discussion as I walked up behind them like a waiter with my tray.

  ‘Drinks, anybody?’ I asked.

  Maxine wheeled around, smiling as she heard my voice, and planted a kiss on the side of my cheek. Henshaw glared coldly at me, a face that would guarantee him a movie role as Dracula.

  ‘Hello, sweetie,’ said Maxine.

  ‘I see the hired help’s arrived,’ said Henshaw sarcastically.

  I ignored him, giving out some drinks and collecting empty glasses from my father and one of the other guests.

  ‘DJ’s going to run Princess Upstart on New Year’s Day at Flemington, aren’t you?’ said Maxine.

  My father said it was one of three meetings he was considering. ‘Depends what weight she gets,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh no, you have to run her at Flemington, she’s in the strapper’s prize and I’m going to win it. Please say you’ll run her?’ Maxine played the helpless owner’s daughter to perfection, applying not-so-subtle pressure to both my father and Henshaw.

  ‘Dad, please say we can run her in the strapper’s prize. I so want to win it. I’ve already bought new riding boots and jodhpurs especially.’

  ‘I don’t know, Maxine,’ said Henshaw. ‘I’m uneasy about you strapping at the races with this madman on the loose. I’d prefer you stayed away until they catch him, just to be on the safe side.’

  Henshaw’s comment started an instant discussion – it seemed everybody had a view about it.

  ‘There was that shocking killing last weekend; two of them who shared a room at the back of the stables. The police don’t seem to have a clue who’s done it,’ said someone.

  ‘Could be anybody,’ said another.

  How many times had I heard this talk at the races over the past few weeks?

  ‘Aren’t you afraid that he could be out there, watching you as you lead your horse around?’ said one of the women.

  Maxine was defiant, as I knew she would be. ‘Are you kidding? Have you seen the extra security they’ve got at the races now? They’re patrolling the mounting yard every race, the stripping stalls, the float park. You can’t walk two steps without being asked for your ID in the restricted areas.’

  ‘I’d feel more comfortable if they actually escorted all female strappers to and from the track,’ said Henshaw.

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Dad, there’s far too many strappers to watch them all around the clock.’

  ‘Well, the extra security didn’t stop those two girls getting killed the other day,’ said Henshaw, ‘nor poor Carmen who worked here.’

  ‘They were full-time strappers living at the stables, I’m not. Besides, you can’t just stop women strappers leading in horses, I mean where does it end? Are you going to forbid them from walking horses around the stables for exercise? This killer could be anywhere, not just at the races. He might be watching strappers at track work for all anyone knows. Anyway, he’s certainly not going to stop me from doing what I’ve always done.’

  It wasn’t a bad argument, actually. The killer could indeed be anywhere, stalking the women from any vantage point. Not attending a race meeting wouldn’t necessarily protect them.

  ‘Well, if you are that determined to go,’ said Henshaw, ‘then I insist on arranging your own personal bodyguard to accompany you at all times.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be absurd. I’m not going to be seen dead with some uniformed knucklehead following two steps behind me. It takes away all the pleasure of strapping. Besides, Punter’s going to look after me on raceday. We’ve already talked about it, haven’t we?’

  Henshaw glared at me.

  ‘Well, we’ve all seen how effective that protection has been in the past, haven’t we?’

  I ignored Henshaw, instead pushing the case for Maxine. ‘I think Maxine will be fine as long as we make sure staff are around when she gets the horse ready and when she brings it back from the races to the stables.’ I turned and looked at her. ‘I can even go in the float with you to and from the races, just to be on the safe side. That way, you’ll never be alone.’

  Everyone thought it was a good suggestion except Henshaw.

  ‘I still think you need a professional security guard to go with you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if you want to come along in the back of the float with Punter and me, you’re welcome to,’ said Maxine.

  Touché. Somehow I couldn’t envisage Henshaw with his expensive suit and shoes travelling in the back of a dirty horse truck like some common stableboy. Especially with me.

  ‘Hey, that’d be fun,’ I said, rubbing it in. ‘We could share a few tinnies in the float. Be a real bonding session for us.’

  Henshaw glowered at me and took a half step forward. I thought for just a moment he might have wanted to take up where he’d left off at the hospital. Maxine neatly avoided any trouble.

  ‘Oh stop it, you two,’ she said, putting her arm through mine. ‘It’s settled then. Punter can come along as a strapper with me on New Year’s Day.’

  The days following Christmas were eerily quiet. It was still unbearably hot; yet another run of thirty-five degree plus days accompanied by the threatening northerlies that firefighters dread. Those lucky enough had escaped the city’s heat by making their annual summer holiday trek to the coastal resorts of Torquay or Portsea. People like me, stuck at home, were driven indoors seeking the shelter of air conditioning and drawn blinds. Glenferrie Road was like a ghost track. Scotch College had shut down for the summer holiday break and unlike the usual endless procession of Camberwell wives dropping their kids off to school in oversized four-wheel drives, there wasn’t a car or child to be seen anywhere. I watched from the cool of my balcony as an empty tram rattled up the road.

  Kate was with me. She’d dropped by to give me the latest news on the case.

  I offered her a chilled glass of champagne and we sat outside with our drinks, trying to catch the promise of an evening sea breeze.

  ‘That’s refreshing,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm. I don’t usually drink the stuff except at Christmas or weddings. Someone gave me a couple of bottles. Goes down well on a night like this.’

  Kate gave Che a pat between the ears. He’d wasted no time in jumping up onto her lap and arranging a cuddle.

  ‘He seems to have made himself at home,’ she said, jug gling her glass in one hand and stroking Che’s ears with the other.

  ‘He deserted me as soon as he saw you coming. I’ve never seen that cat approve of a stranger like he does of you.’

  ‘I’m hardly a stranger. Besides, I’ve seen him purring around your neighbour, Mrs Givan. And I’m sure he’s just as friendly with other regulars who drop by the Punter penthouse.’

  Meaning Maxine, of course. Ex-girlfriends; they’re black belts in the art of subtle barbs. I thought for a moment of Che hissing at Maxine as she trod on his tail rushing to the bathroom.

  ‘Hmm, he’s not as friendly with everyone as you think. Consider yourself one of the lucky few.’

  Kate laughed and I laughed at the pair of them; Kate, with her feet propped up on the railing and Che, with his legs flopping down either side of her lap.

  ‘He knows I’m good for a spoil,’ she said.

  I topped up our glasses and waited for Kate to fill me in on what had been happening.

  ‘B
een no sign of him over the Christmas period,’ I said. Like every other racegoer, I’d been half expecting the strapper killer to strike again after the Boxing Day meeting. But it seemed as if the killer had taken a break himself over Christmas. Since the two girls at Flemington had been murdered, there had been no further killings.

  ‘No, thank god. But it’s only been, what, a week or so since the last two were killed.’

  ‘When you say it like that, it sounds like he’s overdue for another.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘No, I know what you mean.’

  Kate took another sip and played with the stem of the glass in her fingers. ‘There’re some more details starting to come through about the killings,’ she said. ‘You’re bound to see a bit more about it in the papers over the next few days.’

  ‘Oh, like what?’

  ‘You probably know that not everything gets released to the press by the police at a murder. They don’t like to panic people, so they just feed us journos the bare bones and hope we’ll go away. However, things are starting to surface now that simply can’t be suppressed any longer.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Kate thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, for example, all the victims had been reported as dying of injuries inflicted by a knife. Now, what’s that tell you?’

  ‘That they’d all been stabbed to death?’

  ‘Right, but there’s stabbing and then there’s stabbing. I’ve seen the official police photographs; those girls had their throats slit and their bodies mutilated. It was a frenzy of rips and slashes that beggars belief. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Kate’s seen plenty of spilt blood and bodies in her line of work. And I know she’s not one to bullshit. It sounded bad.

  ‘I’ve got some pretty good contacts down at St Kilda Road, as you know.’

  That was no bullshit either. You didn’t write the stories Kate did without a network of police and underworld contacts. She had both.

  ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I’m milking them for all they’re worth. A guy I know in forensics confirmed that all of the girls, with the exception of one of the double murders at Flemington, had been raped. They’ve completed the DNA analysis of the semen samples, all of which have been identified as belonging to the one, as yet unidentified offender.’