Kit reached up into the cupboard for the honey jar. ‘You remember what it was like for us,’ she said. ‘Always terrified we’d be discovered by the authorities. Remember that dreadful boarding school, the Reverend Mother who told us our mother was a saint in Heaven and our father would burn in Hell for eternity. And the nun who told me that I was prone to evil and had the blood of a murderer in my veins. The cruelty of those women and the lies we had to make up for the other girls and teachers. The lies we had to live. Our whole childhood was a lie. I was always terrified one of the girls would find out. Most of them knew something weird was going on.’
Kit turned and leaned against the bench behind her, tears running down her face that she made no attempt to hide or stop. ‘We did what we had to to survive,’ she said. ‘We were brave, amazing children who coped with the cruelty of adults in the best way we could. You lost your mother and father physically when you were five and I was twelve. But we’d never really had them before that. A deeply depressed woman can’t mother her children, and a fiercely ambitious man can’t be a father. I think we were heroic. Many children are. I wish I’d had the understanding I have now when Will was little.’ Again, Gemma went to comfort her sister and again, Kit brushed her away. ‘I don’t see us as living a lie,’ she added. ‘We dealt with things in our own way and we supported each other. There was no alternative. We had to have a cover story to survive.’
‘Like undercover agents,’ Gemma said.
‘Exactly so,’ said her sister. ‘We grew up as undercover agents.’ She turned to Gemma. ‘But,’ she said, ‘I’ve resigned from that kind of work. You’re still doing it. And part of working under cover is to discover something that’s hidden. I’m not going to go into the psychologising of why you would want to spend your energy like that—what you’re avoiding in your own life. That’s your business. But I don’t have to do that, Gemma, and I will not have anything to do with it. As far as I’m concerned, you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.’
‘OK, I get the message,’ Gemma said sharply. ‘Maybe there are issues in my life I’m not dealing with right now. But you’re not so perfect either.’
Kit looked at her. She remembered Alexander saying that whenever anything dreadful happens, make a cup of tea and have a bath. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m not claiming to be perfect.’ She took the milk from the fridge and set it down near the two cups and saucers. ‘Do what you must, but keep me out of this. I don’t want to know.’
‘But Kit, I’ve always had you on my side,’ Gemma said. ‘It feels so bad for me to know that you’re not with me in this. I feel lost. I’ve never had this sense before.’
Kit turned back to the tea things. ‘Part of growing up is to do the things you have to, even when there’s no support, Gemma. Part of being an adult is supporting yourself when there’s no one else. Especially in the face of hostility.’
‘I could do without the sermon,’ said Gemma. She tried another tack. ‘Kit, you’re the psych, I’m the cop. I’ve always thought of us as having two very different jobs. I want to find out what happened, and you want to find out why it happened. I know it’s very oversimplified but that’s how I’ve always seen us. But in this case, you don’t want to know what or why.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe you need to ask yourself about that. I’m not the only one who might have motives that are hidden from me.’
Kit looked up at her from pouring the two cups of tea. She went to say something, then stopped. Finally, she spoke. ‘There’s something else that troubles me,’ she said. ‘And it’s got nothing to do with the facts of what’s going on between us. Or between you and—him. I know you don’t see things like I do, but when certain old stuff that’s been dormant for a lifetime is reactivated it attracts new energies. You don’t know what you’ll stir up going back into this. It can be very dangerous. I see it in my clients all the time and I warn them about it. I tell them to take extra care when crossing roads. And when driving. You can’t avoid disturbing a lot of old demons. I think you should be aware of that, at least. And stay mindful. Because, Gemma, what you stir up won’t only affect you.’
After Gemma left, Kit spent some time sitting in the garden with her tea. Light from the kitchen window fell in shafts across the grassy edge and the ivy that lined the wall behind the pond. Her mind was disturbed by Gemma’s words. Will had accused her during one of their terrible fights of hating men. ‘You do hate me!’ he’d screamed. ‘You hate all men. You hate Dad. You hate your own father. You’re full of hate. This family’s fucked!’ Now, some years later, Gemma’s remarks were provoking her. She stood up and threw the rest of the tea into the pond. Some of the drops splashed the stone face set in the wall and Kit stood a while, looking at the Medusa-like face and its sightless eyes. Is it true, she wondered? Do I hate men? In the sky a waning twilight moon peered between scudding clouds and she went back into the house, her heart heavy with foreboding.
Twelve
Kit’s words of warning haunted Gemma all the way to Darling Point. She’d grabbed a cab and Noel was already sitting in his van waiting for her outside the address in Eastpoint Avenue where the huge Moreton Bay figs dripped darkly in a soft rain. The tower they were visiting had its foundations a long way beneath the roadside and Richard Cross was on the fifteenth storey. There were five levels beneath road level and ten above. ‘Ritzy joint,’ said Noel, as they walked across a footbridge from the footpath to the entrance foyer on the fifth floor. They pressed the button for the lift and went up to the tenth. Richard Cross’s door opened to their knocking. Gemma noticed he’d just had a shave and was wearing a beautiful shirt of some soft, expensive fabric. Was it disappointment, she wondered, that moved like a shadow across his face when he saw that Noel was with her? ‘Would you mind taking your shoes off?’ he asked. ‘It’s an idiosyncrasy of mine. I like to leave the outside world at the door.’
She kicked off her high-heeled red sandals with relief and stepped onto the luxurious carpet. She was wearing a tailored suit with a figure-hugging, cream lace body suit instead of a blouse. Richard Cross’s unit was furnished simply; it was almost minimalist in its spartan lines and black, white and pewter. Brown and dark red were the colours that dominated the living room: deep leather lounges, a huge oil painting on the western wall and a life-size Melanesian carving whose wide eyes were outlined with cowrie shells and whose penis hung to his ankles.
‘Where do you want the sensor lights?’ Gemma asked.
‘I want one on the fifth floor,’ he said, ‘where the footbridge comes into the foyer. There are lights there, but they’re very dim, they’re always going out and it takes ages to get them replaced. I’ll need to discuss this with the Body Corporate. Which is largely me.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got the numbers.’ He led them towards the northern rooms, where a balcony overlooked Sydney Harbour. In the rain, the sea and the sky were indivisible, with only the slow-moving lights of ferries and small craft differentiating water from land.
‘It must be stunning in sunshine,’ Gemma said.
‘It is,’ said Richard, pleased. ‘I hope you can see it soon in all its beauty.’
He showed them where he wanted the other light installed—on the north-facing balcony, so that it shone directly down into the small tubs of rainforest shrubs against the balcony wall. ‘I want the sensors set,’ he said, ‘so that anyone moving onto the verandah will make the light come on. Any cat burglars will be spotlit.’ He laughed. ‘I doubt if anyone could climb up here, but it’ll make a lovely show of my rainforest area.’
While Noel looked for junction boxes for the wiring and then drilled the wall to install the light, Richard poured them all a drink.
‘Not for us,’ said Gemma.
‘But it’s after hours,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘After hours is often when we’re busiest.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Keeping all us honest citizens safe.’ Fo
r some reason, he seemed to find that situation amusing. ‘You don’t mind if I have a Scotch,’ he said.
‘I’ll join you,’ said Gemma, ‘once we’ve finished the job.’ She helped Noel work out the most efficient angle on the sensor box under the powerful light, then she and Richard stood while Noel walked in and out of the doors, activating the north balcony light. The dense green foliage growing in handsome pottery containers looked magnificent when lit up.
On the way home, Noel looked over at her. ‘He fancies you,’ he said. ‘He was watching you.’
Gemma felt pleased. ‘You’re not jealous are you, Noel?’
He wouldn’t answer her, just changed gears noisily and turned east into New South Head Road.
•
When Kit woke, it was just dawn. Her dreams had been troubled and she’d awoken several times to find moonlight on her face. She made a cup of tea and took it out into the garden. Over the stone wall, the Pacific swung in and out, pushing at the cliffs and rocks that confined it. Kit sat near the pond listening to its restless energy, always beating against coasts. The sightless eyes of the Medusa face stared into hers and she thought about men.
The fight with Gemma of the night before had struck home. It was true that she had no loving male relationship in her life, apart from Alexander. Her father was forbidden entry to her heart and mind, her son had been turned out of the house and she had been estranged from her husband for years and was now divorced from him. I have to start healing myself from the loss of father, son and husband. She put the cup down, went inside to light the candle that stood next to Will’s picture and brought it outside. It flickered in the dark garden from its position on the coping of the pond, casting a small and moving circle of light around itself. Kit closed her eyes and sighed. I need to take the right action, she thought.
•
Gemma was woken, startled, by the phone. She fumbled for it, noticing that it wasn’t yet five o’clock.
‘Gemma. He’s struck again. The effigy killer.’ Angie’s voice, thready with tension. For a second, Gemma didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘He’s taken a young girl from her house,’ said Angie. ‘I’m ringing from there now.’
‘How do you know it’s him?’ Gemma asked.
‘Come and have a look yourself,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll get you in somehow. I’ll meet you outside.’ And she gave Gemma the address.
Thirty-five minutes later, Gemma pulled up outside the cordoned-off address in South Coogee, parking behind one of two police cars outside the well-proportioned house. It was a triple-fronted solid brick place with an added timber pergola across the front entry and double doors opening onto a paved terrace. Several television vans were parked on the street and Gemma recognised one of the journalists she’d worked with years ago. She was still dopey from lack of sleep and the early hour. In the east, the sky was streaky pink gold with layers of dark red and grey and she pulled her jacket closer around her, grabbed her video camera and got out of her car. Ahead of her, a uniform standing near the kerb was turning the television crews away. Across the road, Gemma noticed a heavy middle-aged man watching the scene with great interest, leaning against a low brick wall, as if the whole business had been staged for his enjoyment. She turned her attention back to the house and the police officer standing outside, recording the details of those present at the crime scene.
‘Hullo, Mick,’ she said to him, hoping to avoid argument by moving quickly. ‘Remember me?’ He squinted and shook his head. But behind him, she could see Angie hurrying towards her. ‘She’s okay, Mick,’ her friend was saying. ‘She’s helping with the inquiry. She’s a witness.’
‘Get his name, too,’ Gemma said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the heavy man across the road. ‘Get the details of anyone watching this.’
‘Yes,’ said Angie, who’d come up to join them. ‘Anyone taking an interest. Next-door neighbours. The lot.’
‘I know how to do my job,’ Mick said.
‘Good to hear it,’ said Angie brightly, and the two women left the footpath and hurried past a stuffed wheelie bin standing next to the fence at the road end of the driveway.
Gemma looked around. All the lights were on inside the comfortable, middle-class house where a large open living section gave onto a hall that led to the other rooms, the kitchen and outside decking. Fingerprints had been here already, leaving their white frosting on the surfaces and the glass of the window panes. Gemma followed Angie down the hall to a bedroom filled with the posters, ornaments, mementos and stuffed animals of adolescent girls, noticing the two beds over her friend’s shoulder, one stripped, its bedding already on the way to the government laboratory where analysts would examine every fibre, hair and particle of dust and the fabric as well.
Once inside the bedroom, Gemma’s eyes were drawn immediately to the floor. Again, women’s clothing. This time, though, it was not carefully laid out in the shape of a woman. The clothes were just dumped on the floor, all in a pile, with shoes and stockings at the bottom and the skirt and blouse on top. And this time, he’d laid out a string of pearls and two pearl earrings on either side of the pile. Gemma swung her camera out of its bag and started filming, taking in the carpet, the bedroom, the stripped bed, the knocked-over chair, the small jewel case lying on the floor with its tiny ballerina stalled at an impossible angle.
‘But it doesn’t look like him,’ she said, straightening up and stopping the camera. ‘The clothes aren’t laid out.’ She looked carefully round the carpet near the clothing, noticing the fallen chair. ‘Can’t be a copycat, Angie. It’s very different.’
Flashlights popped around them, as a police photographer took pictures from all angles of the room. Angie looked up from her little notebook. ‘Nobody would know what to copy anyway,’ she said. ‘We’ve never released details. We’ve only said he appears to handle certain things belonging to the women. Take a sniff down there,’ she suggested, and Gemma squatted down near the clothes where the scent of perfume was strong. ‘He’s used perfume this time,’ said Angie. ‘Instead of talc. The bottle’s gone with Fingerprints. Might get something off it.’
‘Was there any semen?’ Gemma asked.
‘Can’t say until we get the analysts’ report back.’ Angie turned to the young detective who’d just walked in, elegant in an expensive suit. ‘You can pack this up now, Bruno,’ she said. ‘We got all the shots we want.’ Bruno stared at Gemma and seemed about to say something, but instead turned his back and started working. Gemma looked at the back of his head, the line of his hair along the back of his neck. She remembered times when she’d undone that very tie he was wearing, undone the buttons of his shirt, unbuckled his belt, said things like ‘Put that weapon here on the bed where I can see it, officer.’ Remembered his mouth hot on her neck and breasts and her hands digging into the warm skin of his back and shoulders that were now turned away from her. She brought her attention back to Angie. ‘Who is she?’
‘She’s sixteen-year-old Bianca Perrault. Her younger sister, Amy, was staying over at a girlfriend’s house. Mrs Perrault was asleep in bed and Mr Perrault is away on business. We’re trying to get hold of him.’ Angie looked around the room again. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that the MO is different this time because he doesn’t need to make a woman. He’s taken a real one instead.’
Gemma looked at her friend then turned the camera on again, slowly panning the collection of family snapshots on top of a white-painted chest of drawers. In one of them the two sisters, dressed in the short pleated skirts of a netball team, looked out laughing at the photographer. ‘That’s right,’ she said, picking up Angie’s line of thought, herself thinking out loud. ‘He’s got himself a real one. And there’re no stab marks, either,’ she added as she videoed the carpet, looked up and met her friend’s eyes again. The stab marks will come later, Gemma thought, wherever he’s taken her. Her blood chilled at the th
ought and she put her camera down because her hands were shaking.
The two women walked out of the bedroom and into the large living area where a blue vase of jonquils filled the air with their delicate scent. From outside came the sudden unexpected burst of laughter that Gemma remembered from the old days. Some black joke, she thought, to make the unbearable bearable. She was perversely pleased to get this call-out. It was like the old days and it felt familiar. It also took her mind off the rift between herself and Steve, the stand-off between herself and Kit. My life is so bloody uncomfortable, she thought, and then felt immediately guilty, thinking of the accounts clerk dead on the floor of her Maroubra flat and the terror of a young girl, stolen in the night from her own bedroom by a madman.
‘How do you read it?’ she asked, looking around. There were grilles on the windows and she’d noticed the security doors back and front when she’d followed Angie inside and through the house.
Angie flicked through her notebook. ‘He came in the back door to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘The lock had been forced. We think he forced her to go with him back out through the door. You can see there’s been a struggle in the bedroom. But he’s overpowered her and silenced her. Possibly at knife point.’
‘He’s got to have had a vehicle,’ Gemma said. ‘Someone must have seen something, heard something.’
‘Mrs Perrault had taken a sleeping pill,’ Angie said. ‘She didn’t see or hear anything until the phone rang this morning and she saw Bianca’s empty bed and the back door open.’
‘What about the security grille?’ Gemma asked.
‘Mrs Perrault says she thinks it wasn’t locked,’ said Angie. ‘Just closed.’
Gemma thought of all the times she’d locked her front door but only pushed the grille door shut. Letting the hell beings slip in, Kit would have said. ‘She’ll be feeling good about that,’ Gemma said.
Feeding the Demons Page 13
