Feeding the Demons

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘Hey!’ Gemma jumped in excitement. ‘Let’s make sure he’s there!’ Kit and Angie looked at her. ‘Let’s send him an invitation,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Angie.

  Gemma’s face was alive. ‘I’ve just thought of a way we can encourage him to come. If the Perraults agree.’

  Angie said, ‘Tell us.’

  Gemma outlined her plan. The others listened intently. ‘Let’s throw everything we’ve got at this,’ she concluded. In the silence that followed, she could feel their willingness.

  Angie stood up. ‘Let’s do it,’ she said.

  Within the hour, Angie had talked with her contacts at the Mirror and the Telegraph and they’d talked to their respective editors. Both had late editions still to print. She spoke to journalists on the television channels. The Sydney Morning Herald ran the story the next morning that police were confident that the killer who was terrorising Sydney was dead. No names were released but there was a photograph of Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald, out of focus at her request, talking to Bianca’s father. Beneath the photo was another story. ‘Security tight at murder victim’s funeral’ ran the headline.

  The family of murdered Bianca Perrault, whose funeral is to be on Wednesday, asked that people respect their desire for privacy today. Seventeen-year-old Bianca Perrault’s body was found dumped in bushland near Windsor last week after being abducted from her house. Her younger sister Amy was also abducted later but managed to escape. The grieving family will recruit private security manpower to ensure that the funeral does not become a media circus, Mr Perrault said today. ‘We wish to be left in peace to say a final farewell to our beautiful daughter. We don’t want a police presence.’ Mr Perrault added that he had no criticism of the police investigation and only praise for individual members. Mr Perrault further said he would personally be choosing the security personnel for the job.

  The next day, many security firms contacted Mr Perrault’s office. He thanked them for their interest but said he was handling this himself. Several individual operators also phoned. Using his work office, Mr Perrault made appointment times for all of them. Altogether seven men turned up. As soon as he’d carried out the interviews, Mr Perrault faxed through the details of the seven men’s names, birthdates and work histories to Angie.

  Thirty

  Angie and Jason were checking the seven men through the COPS system when Angie’s mobile started ringing. She snatched it up, listened intently, wrote down another phone number, rang off and hurried to the door of the Strike Force room.

  ‘That was Colleen from the Institute.’ Everyone looked up from what they were doing. The atmosphere of the room was continuing to change. Now it was charged with hope; the hard work was starting to pay off. ‘You all recall there was a notepad on which Amy wrote a letter to her family?’ Angie said. ‘We sent the notepad over there. Even though we’ve never found the letter, the people at the Institute have been putting the page underneath it through the ESDA machine.’

  Gemma remembered seeing the Electro Static Detection Apparatus machine and how it could pick up and enhance the tiniest indentations on a surface, using darker and darker tones until it was possible to read whole words that were only the faintest impression.

  ‘They’ve come up with part of a shopping list,’ Angie was saying, ‘and a phone number for us.’ She looked around. ‘I’ll have to see if the boss will let us put a trace on it.’

  ‘Could Amy identify him from his voice?’ Jason asked. ‘He must have spoken to her.’

  ‘She told us he spoke very little. And when he did, it was in a whisper.’ That thought sent a shiver down Gemma’s spine.

  Angie left the room but returned shortly, looking relieved. ‘He’s going to okay it.’ She looked at Jason. ‘Ring Harvey Urquart at Telstra. Get him to put an urgent trace on this number. We need to know whose it is. As soon as possible, please, tell him. It could be very important.’

  Jason nodded and picked up the piece of paper with the telephone number on it. ‘By the way,’ he said as he left the room, ‘the first four guys applying for the security work at the funeral are cleanskins.’

  Angie looked around. ‘Bruno, I want you to check out these other three names. See if they come up clean. If not, give me a detailed account of any previous convictions.’ Bruno didn’t move.

  ‘In your own time, Bruno, of course,’ Angie added drily. She waited in silence until Bruno finally left the room.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I want Colin to come with me while we work out the way to keep tabs on this funeral,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to liaise with the SPG. We want the cemetery secured because Amy could be exposed to the killer again. Even if our killer doesn’t take the bait and come as a security worker, we can watch out for him on the fringes of the funeral in case he turns up to stickybeak.’ The phone rang and Angie grabbed it.

  ‘Harvey Urquart. Telstra security for DS Angie McDonald. You wanted the details of a number.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, grabbing a pen. ‘Go for it.’

  ‘The mobile belongs to a Jeremy Mintner. Here’s the address.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Angie, scribbling down the details. ‘Kellyville?’ she queried. Then she turned to Gemma, who was also half out of her seat. ‘Come on, girl. We’ve got something.’

  Kellyville is an odd mix of battlers’ blocks littered with old car bodies and collapsed chook runs, rubbing up next to flash project homes on small acreages and smart new housing estates. ‘Here it is,’ said Angie, as they came to the mock tudor that was 349, with its fake black beams trim and large, disproportionate windows.

  They left the vehicle on the road and walked up the long bricked path to knock on the door of Mr Jeremy Mintner’s house. A white-painted tyre, split to look like a swan, hid the garden tap and more painted tyres formed semi-circular hoops that edged the garden plots. Gemma and Angie looked at each other. ‘None of this feels right,’ said Gemma. Through the textured glass panels of the door they could see someone coming down the hall. The door was opened by a cosy elderly woman in an apron; behind her wafted the smell of freshly cooked cake.

  Angie opened her wallet and showed her warrant card. ‘Angie McDonald,’ she said. ‘I’m working on the murder of Bianca Perrault.’ The woman blinked and swallowed. The girl’s name was a household word by now, thought Angie. ‘And this is Gemma Lincoln. We’re in the area making inquiries. Is Mr Jeremy Mintner home?’

  The woman looked startled, looking from one to the other of the two young women who stood on her doorstep. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s my husband. I’ll just get him for you.’

  Angie and Gemma looked at each other as Mrs Mintner, this time without her apron, came back, followed by a frail old man. ‘I don’t know what they want, dear,’ she was saying. ‘Put a cardigan on, for goodness’ sakes. You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Please come in,’ said Mr Mintner, ushering them into the house. ‘Come down the back into the sun room. It’s warmer there.’ The two women followed him through the house to a glassed-in verandah where grevilleas and bottlebrush bushes grew against the glass, and New Holland honeyeaters swayed on the blossoms. ‘Please sit down,’ he said, indicating an old velvet sofa.

  ‘I believe you have a mobile phone,’ said Angie, ignoring his invitation, fishing out the bit of paper with the number written on it and passing it to him.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, checking the number. ‘That’s my number. Eileen bought it for me last Christmas. Just before we went away on the cruise, wasn’t it, Eileen?’ Mrs Mintner had joined them.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re investigating a murder and an abduction,’ said Angie. ‘Bianca Perrault and her younger sister. This phone number was written down on a notepad taken from the house where the younger girl was held.’

  Mr Mint
ner looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. ‘But who would do that?’ he said. ‘Why would someone like that write down my number?’ His bewilderment was touching, thought Gemma. He seemed older and more transparent now with the colour drained from his face.

  ‘But that’s terrible,’ said his wife. ‘Why would our number be involved? I wouldn’t write down my own number. I might be getting on but I’ve still got my marbles.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s the case,’ said Gemma. ‘But we need to know who else might have written it. I think you’d better sit down, sir,’ she added. Mr Mintner looked as if he might faint. The thought of him being Killer Two was completely impossible. Amy Perrault weighed more than he did, and he must have been eighty if he was a day, Gemma thought. He’d keel over with a gentle shove.

  ‘Who else has the number?’ Gemma asked.

  The Mintners looked at each other. ‘No one,’ Mrs Mintner said. ‘No one has it. We just use it between ourselves. To ring home if one of us is out and something happens. Like I can’t get a cab or something and I don’t want him to be worrying because I’m late getting home. It’s very handy for that sort of thing. You know what it’s like trying to find a public telephone.’

  ‘So no one has the number apart from yourselves?’ Angie looked around. ‘What about your family?’

  ‘They just ring us here. On the ordinary phone. Dad didn’t want anyone to know about it. He thought they’d tease him.’

  ‘They would too,’ he said smartly. ‘You know what that Graham is like.’

  Angie and Gemma looked at each other in disappointed silence.

  ‘Well,’ Angie said after a pause. ‘We’re sorry to have troubled you. But if anything comes to mind. Anyone else who may have had access to this number, please ring me.’ She handed her card to the old man.

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘But there’s no one else.’

  The two women left the house. ‘Someone took that number and wrote it down,’ said Angie, ‘on a notepad that ended up in a crime scene.’

  ‘Maybe the old fellow will remember something,’ said Gemma. But she felt drained. There had been some hope and now they were back where they started.

  ‘I want to clear something up with Mark Condon,’ said Gemma as they got back into the car. ‘At Liverpool. Do you mind?’

  Angie glanced at her watch. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘As long as you’re quick.’

  ‘As I can be,’ Gemma said.

  •

  At Liverpool Police Station she went to the Exhibit Room with Mark Condon. Behind her, she could hear Angie’s voice as she and Mark walked down the corridor. ‘I don’t want this bastard spooked,’ Angie was saying. ‘I want him soothed into a false sense of security. But he’s very clever and I want to lock him into this murder and abduction with as much physical evidence as possible.’

  Apart from my sister, I haven’t heard that much passion in a woman’s voice since I left the job, Gemma thought.

  In the Exhibit Room with its shelves of goods and evidence, Mark led her to several large, labelled cardboard packing cases. ‘This is the stuff we took from Adrian Adams’ flat.’

  Gemma started going through it. She pulled out a handful of women’s clothes, and was about to shove it back in again when she saw the yellow skirt. Under that was the white halter top. Bo Bayliss’ outfit. She put them back again and pulled out another box, this one filled with photographs. It soon became clear to her that Adrian Adams’ obsession with invading women’s lives with his camera lens hadn’t stopped when he started slipping into their houses. She pulled pictures out, shuffling them like cards. There were many pictures of the accounts clerk from Maroubra, some showing her gardening outside her ground floor unit, others in a bikini sunbaking in what she imagined was the privacy of the backyard. Photos of Bianca taken with a long distance lens showed her shadowy in her bedroom.

  It wasn’t till she was almost halfway through the second box that Gemma stopped in shock. There was Kit, in a shot taken through her kitchen window at Gordon’s Bay. Gemma shuddered. Her blood ran cold as she imagined him bringing his new associate one night along the dark path around Gordon’s Bay to Kit’s house. Maybe he had. Maybe the grilles going up had thwarted them and Kit had remained safe and sound in her house, barred against the evil that moved around her garden in the night. And then she thought of the man in the green Ford. Maybe he had been just a perv, wanting to follow her, give her a bit of misery for a while until he got bored. Maybe he’d thought she’d given off some vibe of interest. She called Angie over, who took a long look and slowly shook her head.

  •

  Angie dropped Gemma back at her place. Returning to the police centre, Angie reviewed the progress of the investigation again. She frowned.

  ‘Where’s Bruno?’ she asked. She finally located him down in Ballistics, where his laugh could be heard all the way down the corridor. He whirled around at her approach and the two men to whom he’d been speaking looked uneasy. He’s been talking about me, she knew, backbiting and laughing at me.

  ‘Those other three names I gave you to clear up. Have you done it?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said in his patronising way. ‘Nothing much there. Mostly just traffic.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d report to me. Names and records. That’s what I asked for.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. Back in her office he stood at the door. ‘We haven’t got anything on Larry Hogan,’ he said, ‘apart from traffic. The other two, Alan Bentley and a Roger Poole. They’ve both had a few brushes with the law.’

  ‘Like what?’ Angie said.

  ‘Bentley’s been done for assault. Six months nine years ago. Nothing since then apart from traffic. Poole’s had a couple of Apprehended Violence Orders and breach of AVO. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ she said. ‘Who took out the AVOs?’

  ‘His wife.’ Bruno shrugged. ‘Some silly bitch making trouble.’

  ‘Right,’ said Angie. ‘Thank you for your insights into domestic violence. You might be good enough to bring me a printout of Roger Poole’s record.’

  ‘But I’m telling you. He’s only down for domestics.’

  ‘A man who threatens women is exactly what we’re looking for. Just do it.’

  After a moment he returned, slammed the piece of paper down on the desk and walked out. Angie felt herself shaking with anger. Bruno had perfected a sort of insolence and insubordination that evaporated the moment she tried to describe it and write it down. If she lay down the law to him just as a male superior would do, he’d be just as likely to patronise her as being premenstrual.

  She picked up the printout and started to glance through it. She looked more closely. There were three AVOs and one breach of the order, but no further action. The AVOs had been taken out by two separate women, the most recent being less than a year ago. This Roger Poole definitely had a problem. If Clive Mindell didn’t show up at the funeral, or any other person taking an interest without any legitimate reason to be there, Roger Poole just might be someone to keep an eye on. She sighed. It wasn’t much. But it was all they had at the moment. She phoned Charles Perrault.

  ‘Employ all of them,’ she said. Anyone who applied for that job could be suspect, she knew.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be one of them?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Angie. ‘If Amy is willing, I want her to be with you when you give each man his pay. Just so she can hear his voice.’

  ‘She’ll be willing. I can safely speak for her on this matter. She’s got more courage than either of us. I can’t even bear the thought of him being anywhere near her—looking at her.’

  ‘Charles, I understand. But you’re going to be surrounded by armed police officers. No harm can come to her. And we’re going to be watching everyone there. Perpetrators of this kind often
like to be part of the funeral in some way.’ She paused. ‘He might just be a passer-by.’

  •

  Late next morning, Angie wound up the briefing. ‘I’ve managed to beg, borrow and steal fifteen people, mostly offering out of the goodness of their hearts,’ she said, ‘who’ll be in and around the cemetery.’ She indicated the map. ‘They’ll be watching for anyone taking more than a passing interest.’ Gemma glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve got two hours,’ Angie said, ‘before the funeral starts. Let’s get this rolling.’

  As everyone left the room, Gemma pulled out her mobile. ‘Spinner,’ she said a moment later when he answered. ‘We’ve got an urgent job.’

  ‘But I’ve got the Blacktown thief,’ he said. ‘She’s loading stuff into her car. In broad daylight. That’s how she does it.’

  ‘She’ll do it again. Come in now. I need you.’

  She gave him the address of the cemetery and explained the situation. ‘I want you and Noel in position there as soon as possible. Contact Noel when I ring off. Tell him to look like you’re part of the funeral.’

  She rang her own number and listened to the messages. There were seven. Three were potential new customers. One message, from Richard Cross, made her blush. She rang him back but his receptionist said he was out. I’m neglecting my own job, she thought to herself as she scribbled down the other messages. But this is my job, she realised.

  Gemma drove home, noting the high-flying cirrus mares’ tails indicating instability and a possible change on the way.

  Thirty-One

  Gemma wore her black sheath dress with a black jacket over it, to cover her bare shoulders. The sky had clouded over suddenly and a few spots of rain fell. Beside them, the Pacific heaved and crashed on the rocks and Gemma thought she could feel the ground reverberate under her feet as massive waves dissolved into surf and spray on the side of the cliffs.