Feeding the Demons

by Gabrielle Lord

  Twenty-One

  ‘There are two of them!’ she said to Angie the minute Angie appeared in view back at the police centre. ‘Two!’

  ‘Two what?’ Angie’s frown wrinkled her forehead, making her eyes darker and greener.

  ‘Two killers. We’re dealing with two different offenders.’ Gemma jumped out of the lift, nearly knocking over a seriously overweight senior sergeant who wasn’t looking where he was going either. The puzzling aspects of the investigation unjumbled themselves in her mind and started to fall into neatly fitting pieces. ‘Organised and disorganised together, Ange.’ They hurried back along the corridor towards Angie’s office. Gemma saw the fine lines of concentration on Angie’s forehead. ‘Think about it,’ she continued as they turned into the room, ‘when we first meet him, he’s just an opportunist, cruising, looking for chances. Then suddenly, he’s breaking into houses, kidnapping.’

  ‘You’re just trying to get your sister off the hook,’ said Angie.

  ‘My sister’s not on the hook. We are. Or rather, we were. We’ve been stuck trying to make sense of something that doesn’t work. You think about it,’ Gemma said again. ‘That offender suddenly went from passive to active. He went from making a woman out of clothes to taking a real woman from her house. That might work in the movies, but you know and I know from our profiling experience that these are two entirely different MOs. And very unlikely to come from the one personality. It suggests two entirely different personalities.’

  A light drizzle had started and Angie was standing at her window, looking out into the lightwell. Then she turned round to face Gemma. ‘My experience tells me we’ve just interviewed the killer earlier on today. You want to talk profiling? Okay. You’ll remember then that the killer more often than not turns out to be someone who has been interviewed in the early stages of the investigation and then cleared. Mistakenly. Like happened just a while ago.’

  But Gemma wasn’t intimidated. It seemed so obvious to her now. ‘Listen to me. The first woman he kills he leaves lying on the floor,’ she said. ‘The second one he wraps in layers and takes out into the bush to hide. Doesn’t make sense. But it does if there’re two of them. Two killers working as a team.’

  ‘There’s one killer,’ said Angie, her voice rising. ‘And I’m pretty sure I know who it is.’

  ‘You’ve got to keep an open mind, Angie. You’ve just locked on to Clive Mindell.’

  ‘I do keep an open mind. I haven’t “locked on” to Clive Mindell without damn good reason. Newspaper clippings of the murders, souvenired panties for Godsake.’ She paused before continuing. ‘Gemma, you used to be a good cop but then you left the job. All this sitting in cars all day has fevered your imagination.’

  ‘For Chrissake, you think about it!’ Gemma felt her own anger rising. ‘Layers and layers of plastic and fabric around a body. What’s that saying? That’s saying “I hide my victims. I wrap up my crimes. I don’t leave them lying on the floor.” So why did he take another one out of her house and kill her? I’ll tell you why. Because at Maroubra, there was only Killer One. A pathetic little passive turd who panicked when he was interrupted doing his ritual. But at the Perrault house, there was Killer One and someone else. Killer Two. There must have been a car for the second crime. We know that. Killer Two has a car. Killer One doesn’t. He cruises around on foot, looking for open motel doors, open windows. That’s how they subdue a girl. And take her away in the car. That’s why the clothing effigy at the Perrault house was so different—not done properly. Killer One didn’t have time to do his thing properly. Maybe Killer Two stops him. That’s why there were so many discrepancies and changes.’ Gemma paused. ‘Killer One meets up with someone else. Someone much more dangerous. I can just see them. Talking at a pub. Swapping bravado. Exchanging fantasies.’

  Angie picked up her briefcase. ‘Fantasies, all right,’ she said. ‘That’s what I’m hearing right now.’

  ‘Angie, listen to me! I’ve worked it out. Kit said—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear what Kit said! I’ve had you theorists up to here. I’m going home.’

  ‘Please, Angie. For behaviour to change, reality has to have changed. You had the same feeling that there was something we weren’t seeing. You knew what I meant when I said that I felt we were missing something huge. You felt it, too. You did. Instinct.’

  ‘My instinct tells me if I could’ve had another four hours with Clive Mindell, I could have nailed the bastard,’ said Angie. ‘Your sister’s blind to the obvious. And it looks like you are, too.’

  Gemma realised they were at a stand-off. She changed her tack. ‘Where’s Amy now?’ she said.

  ‘With her mum. We’ve moved them.’

  ‘The killer’s already made contact with her. You heard what Garry Copeland said. He feels he’s part of the family. And now we’re dealing with Killer Two. He already thinks he has a relationship with her. Angie, Amy’s in terrible danger.’

  ‘She’s no longer where he rang. No one knows where she is now,’ Angie snapped. ‘She’s in a safe place.’

  Gemma thought of years of sitting off houses watching people who didn’t even know she existed. She thought of an unlisted number and watching someone come out of a house in Fleming Avenue, Artarmon in the early morning. ‘No place is safe,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got good people with her,’ said Angie, her voice rising. ‘And we’ll be watching Clive Mindell like a hawk. Nothing can happen.’

  ‘If it’s not him, you’re wasting your manpower. And if you’re not watching in the right direction, you can’t know where the next attack might come from.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Angie. And she walked out of the room.

  Gemma moved quickly to follow her. She saw Angie’s lift go down to the basement, to the car park. She practically ran past Security in the foyer, throwing her Visitor’s badge at them, ran out the doors and down into the street. Her car was parked in a No Standing zone across the road and already she could see the brown envelope under the windscreen. She didn’t even curse, just grabbed it and jumped into her car, watching in the rear vision mirror. She saw Angie emerge from the depths of the car park and drive straight across Goulburn Street up into the opposite lane heading towards Oxford. Gemma pulled out, left into Riley and raced to the intersection, just in time to see her erstwhile colleague emerge from the lane and turn across the city bound traffic and into Oxford, heading east. The lights were red at Taylor’s Square, holding Angie up, so that Gemma had time to do the same, getting herself into the centre lane and keeping an eye on Angie, who was two cars ahead of her in the inside lane. Gemma settled down into follow mode.

  It was a good follow. Angie led her all the way to Bondi Beach and along Campbell Parade. Gemma had three cars between them when she saw Angie turn left into Curlewis. The smell of salt was strong here where the southerly blew without check and a brisk breeze tossed the tops of small shrubs and bushes planted in the street. Gemma drove past a block of four flats called ‘Kia-ora’ where she had a good view of the street. Angie turned left at the end of the street and Gemma followed her. There it was, a Budget Motel of two levels—eighteen units, nine on each floor, tiny, rusting balconies and a narrow cement parking area in front where a couple of dried-out palms moved in the wind.

  Gemma braked quickly. Angie’s car was parked across the road from the motel. She picked up the two-way. ‘Base to Tracker Three,’ she said, checking her rear vision. ‘Copy, please.’

  Spinner’s voice came in, his high voice penetrating the slight static. ‘We’ve finished the Cross Weld job,’ he said, thinking she wanted an update. ‘I’m just about to leave on my way home.’

  ‘Good work, Spinner,’ she said. ‘Hey, can you do me a favour? Put in a couple of hours now? Sitting off a motel in Hallam Avenue, Bondi?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘That’s what I don�
��t know,’ she said. ‘Could be my girlfriend is having an assignation in a sleazy joint. Or it might be the place where a frightened little girl and her mother are hiding out. That’s what I want you to find out. I’d do it myself except I’ve got a date.’

  ‘Steve’s back already?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and no.’

  ‘Women,’ said Spinner. ‘I’ll see what I can do. What am I looking for?’

  Gemma described Mrs Perrault in detail and gave what information she could from her memories of the photograph of the sisters. ‘I don’t know how much police activity there’ll be,’ she said. Unmarked police cars stuck out like dogs’ balls, she thought, especially the pursuit vehicles; the shiny Commodores and Fords with the telltale new number plates and rego stickers all issued in the same month. The wide wheels and the low suspension.

  ‘I’ll come over now,’ he said. ‘Noel’s already gone home. He was in a bad mood all afternoon. Really pissed off.’

  Gemma grunted, signed off and hooked the two-way back into its housing. She switched on the radio. Golden Earring were revving up ‘Radar Love’. This is my life, she thought, sitting off other people’s lives, watching other people’s messes and intrigues. Watching the victims of violence. Keeping myself busy with other people’s business so that I don’t have to look at how fucked my own life is. But this is different, she told herself. This is guardian angel work. Amy Perrault has attracted the attention of a very dangerous predator.

  She thought of her men. She wondered what her father was doing right now. The sight of Angie running across the road to her car jolted her into action. Angie pulled out in a rush and Gemma followed, keeping another car between them all the way back to the main road and up the hill, heading south. In Bondi Road a marked police car joined them, sitting behind hers. Something was up. She checked in the rear vision mirror. He wasn’t interested in her. At the lights, he came up beside Angie’s car and cut in behind it. He was coming along too, wherever Angie was going. Gemma felt the adrenalin surge and she accelerated, singing along, her blood up for the chase. ‘We got a thing, and it’s called radar love,’ she sang. ‘We got a vibe in the sky’, following them all the way to the Perrault household, now devoid of its women, in South Coogee.

  •

  Gemma pulled her car up and parked down the street opposite the Perrault house. She ran across the street and through the small group of people who had gathered on the street outside the house, curious about this sudden renewed police activity. Suddenly, Angie appeared on the front door step.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Gemma asked. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed you, Angie.’ Gemma shrugged. ‘It’s my job. And you asked me to keep an eye on things for you.’ She took a deep breath, waiting for the storm. But it didn’t come.

  Instead, Angie stepped aside, allowing Gemma to come in. ‘Take a look at this,’ Angie said, ‘before everyone gets here.’

  Gemma walked in. Everything looked just the same—the neat, clean, suburban house she’d visited in the dawn two days ago. She followed Angie down the hallway to the Perrault sisters’ bedroom, stood at the doorway and looked in, her breath catching in her throat at the sight.

  Twenty-Two

  The Perrault sisters’ pretty bedroom was ruined. A huge uneven star of blood eclipsed the lavender wallpaper opposite the window. Darkening stains of blood drenched the white bedspreads and spilled onto the floor. Gemma took it in. The window pane opposite her was smashed and bloody blades of glass lay on the carpet. A blood-soaked half brick lay near a chair. Angie came up behind her. ‘The blood was thrown in the window in a weighted plastic bag. With enough force to burst it on the wall.’

  ‘What a thing to do,’ Gemma said, turning away, sickened.

  ‘Ask your sister about it.’ Angie couldn’t help the barb. ‘She’s the expert on sickos.’

  ‘It’s got to be some crank,’ Gemma said, moving carefully around the room. ‘The chances are against it being related to the killer.’

  ‘You and Kit,’ said Angie. ‘Holmes and Watson. How can you be so sure?’ she said. ‘I know of at least one other murder where the killer did something like this back at the murder house.’

  ‘That was in America,’ said Gemma. ‘Not here.’

  ‘So was Kentucky Fried Chicken,’ said Angie. ‘And now it’s here.’

  Gemma knew when to shut up. Angie left the room, pulling out her mobile. Gemma followed her out after a second, noticing that the Crime Scene people were arriving.

  In the backyard of the house, Angie rang off the mobile, flung her notebook to the ground, then swore and kicked it. Then she put her hands on her hips and walked away, gathering herself. She came back to where Gemma waited and pulled out a cigarette. Her face was pale and her eyes were bright with anger. ‘That was Bruno. Clive Mindell hasn’t come home. He’s not at work either.’ She picked up her notebook. ‘He’s vanished into thin air. Fucking hell!’ She paced angrily. ‘This investigation,’ she said, ‘is all over the shop. Half my people are off at court today. I’m stuck with bloody Bruno and his hostility.’

  ‘Can’t you talk to the boss about him?’

  ‘What? And have everyone say I can’t hack it? That I have to run to Daddy when I’ve got a problem? No thanks.’ She stuffed the notebook back in her bag. ‘I feel like tossing it all in,’ she said. ‘Getting out of the job.’

  Gemma stared at her. ‘You’re not serious,’ she said. ‘You love it. It’s the reason you get out of bed in the morning. It’s what makes your heart pump.’

  Angie looked around as if she hadn’t heard. ‘You know what I’d like to do?’ she said, making a wide sweep with her arm as if scooping up and throwing away all Sydney crime. ‘Get away from all this stinking nastiness and move to the country. Get a little cottage with roses all around it. Grow vegetables and keep chooks. Breed Turkish water cats.’

  ‘You’d last till morning tea time, day one,’ Gemma said, ‘never mind your bloody Turkish water cats.’

  Angie pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Seriously,’ she said, ‘if there were any decent men around, I’d be having babies in the country. I wouldn’t be here, looking for a knife-crazed homicidal psychopath who’s already killed two women. I’d be humming in the garden, hanging out the washing.’

  ‘Angie, I’m your friend,’ said Gemma, putting her hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘I’ve known you for fifteen years. You’d be screaming in the rose garden and hanging yourself on the washing line.’ She thought of something. ‘Whatever happened to Dreamboat?’

  Angie just looked at her with the ‘Don’t ask me’ blazing from her green eyes. Gemma tried another tack. ‘Come on, Angel Face,’ she said, reaching out with her hand. ‘I’ll buy you a coffee. Have something to eat.’ I’m sounding like Kit, she thought to herself. This will never do.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll have to work late. Especially after this. I want to get back and see if those test results have come back from the Institute. I’ve got so much to catch up on.’

  ‘I still think,’ Gemma said, ‘that we’re looking for two homicidal psychopaths.’

  Angie took a deep breath and Gemma braced herself for the assault. This is it, she thought. I’ve really done it now. She remembered from past experience, both personal and from witnessing other occasions, just what Angie could be like in a rage attack. But it didn’t happen. Gemma stood there, tense, waiting. But the atmosphere between them was no longer charged.

  ‘You know?’ said Angie. ‘You may have a point about there being two offenders. It fits everything we know about the case. It’s the explanation that makes sense of the suddenly different MO.’ She paused. ‘And there’s no reason Clive Mindell can’t be one of them.’ She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. ‘I’d love to have a break, but I can’t just yet,
’ she said. ‘I’ve got so much to do. And now I’ll need to talk to Garry Copeland about the two-offender scenario. Get that out to everyone before I knock off. We need to find out what friends Mindell might have and where he might be hiding out.’ She reached over and touched Gemma on the hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Things have been bloody tough lately. The job. The men. The whole damn circus. I know I’m a touchy bugger. But don’t think I don’t appreciate you.’

  Twenty-Three

  Gemma couldn’t get the bloody bedroom scene out of her mind and, because there had been no body in it, it somehow seemed worse than the crime scenes where there were. Such contrivance, such spite, such nastiness. Blood is very provocative, she thought. It stirs us up. The bloodstains of another crime came to her mind and a thought suddenly crystallised. I’m going to go ahead and clear my father’s name. Despite him. Whatever it takes. Because even if his name is no longer my name, his blood is mine. Was she using her father as ‘the man’ to give meaning to her life when in reality, it was she herself who was ailing? She thought of Kit’s words that the answer is never a man. Did they apply to her in this? She found she’d paused with her key in the lock, immobilised by the thought. She pushed it aside and opened the door. Her heart sank lower as she remembered there was no Taxi to greet her. She walked to the sliding doors, willing him to be sitting on the deck. He wasn’t. She unlocked the doors and called him. Nothing happened. No wobbling ginger shape coming across the grass towards her. She turned at the sound of someone at the door.