Death by Beauty

by Lord, Gabrielle

  ‘You know, Angie,’ said Gemma, ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Bruno Gross would be the boss. How does this sort of thing happen?’

  ‘It’s the nature of the brotherhood,’ sighed Angie. ‘People like me get passed over and people like Bruno Gross get to the top. Actually, it’s probably bigger than the brotherhood. Seems to be the way of the world. I don’t know what he’d do if he knew you were helping me out, Gems.’ She paused, and then spoke firmly. ‘I’ll talk to Mischa.’

  ‘I’ve done that. Talk’s not good enough. He could be back for her in days. Lean on her hard, Ange. I told her to go to her mother’s place, or somewhere else. She needs to disappear.’

  CHAPTER 17

  The next morning, with Rafi at daycare, Gemma sat in her office and looked up the details for Angelo Tolmacheff’s former lover.

  She called the number, waited, and was about to hang up when Penny Watson answered. ‘You’re under no obligation to do so, Ms Watson,’ Gemma said, after introducing herself, ‘but I hope you’ll agree to talk to me. I’m making some inquiries about an Apprehended Violence Order you took out against Angelo Tolmacheff some time back. Would you be willing to tell me something about that?’

  ‘That bastard! What’s he done now?’

  More than willing, Gemma thought.

  ‘It’s an ongoing investigation, so I can’t really say very much,’ she said, ‘but we wanted to contact you in case you can shed more light on the character of this man.’

  ‘Angelo Tolmacheff is lower than a snake’s bum. He cheated me out of money, and when I tried to get it back, he stalked me and bashed me. I was terrified. He’s a nightmare. He comes on all European gentleman, but cross him and he’s all Balkans thug. He forged cheques in my name, somehow got my PIN and withdrew thousands of dollars from my bank account. I wish someone would lock him up and throw away the key!’

  ‘We’re working on that,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Funny you should call me about him. I actually saw him a few weeks ago. He didn’t see me, and I crossed the street to make sure he didn’t. He was walking along with another thuggy-looking guy. I can tell you, my blood pressure went through the roof.’

  ‘Any idea who the other man was?’ asked Gemma, alert.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. They were coming out of Indigo Ice, a cafe in Macleay Street, at the Cross. Up to no good, for sure.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about the other man’s face?’ Gemma asked, thinking of the vampire.

  ‘They were too far away for that. Sorry.’

  Gemma thanked her and rang off. The same pattern, she thought, confirming the MO of Angelo Tolmacheff: charming women and then using them. Penny Watson was lucky. If she’d been as wealthy as Delphine, she might have ended up hiding in fear for her life.

  Gemma made herself a coffee and settled on the lounge next to the tightly curled-up Taxi. Steadying her nerves, she watched the crime-scene DVD that Angie had loaned her, replaying the close-up scenes of Janet’s body amid the scattered belongings from her bag. Over and over Gemma studied the scene: the bag, lying on its side almost empty. Its contents had spilled out around it – the wallet, a couple of pens and a pencil, a make-up purse, lipstick, comb, address book, a mobile phone, keys on a ring with a large cream ‘J’ encrusted with diamantés, a half-finished pack of chewing gum and a favourite pen with a long red tassel on it lying next to the car keys. Something was missing, Gemma thought. But what was it? It was infuriating.

  As she typed up her notes on the Watson interview, thoughts of the three dead women haunted her … and then she got it. Janet was an old-fashioned journalist, the sort who still took notes in shorthand – but there was no notebook in the scattered belongings.

  She immediately picked up her phone. ‘Angie! Janet Chancy’s stenographer’s book, where is it? It should have been in her bag with everything else.’

  Angie was silent for a moment. ‘Good question. If she was making notes at the spa for a piece for her paper, that’s where all that information should be. And you’re right, we didn’t find a notebook at the crime scene.’

  ‘The killer must have taken it,’ Gemma said, and thought for a moment. ‘What if Janet found out something that would discredit the medical team and ruin the spa?’

  ‘She sure discovered something,’ Angie agreed.

  ‘She might have talked to someone at the spa about getting that information. So there would be every reason for that person to take the notebook, especially if she had information they didn’t want anyone to know about.’ Gemma paused then went on: ‘Janet’s profile is different from the other victims. She’s older, for one thing; she’s – she was – a few years older than me. Starr, Palier and Brie are in their twenties. So’s Mischa.’

  ‘By the way, I talked to Gross, and there’s no chance of protection for her. He practically laughed at me. You know what his suggestion was? “Can’t she just go on a cruise?”’

  Mike came home for a late lunch, joining Gemma in the kitchen as she heated up a quiche for them both.

  ‘I haven’t been able to get anywhere with that beneficiary on Tolmacheff’s insurance claim,’ he told her as they ate. ‘Adel Milani doesn’t show up online anywhere or on any records I could find. But I spent an hour tracking your Mr Tolmacheff. All I can report is that he had brunch with a young man.’

  ‘Probably his son,’ said Gemma. ‘I guess I’ll find out more about that relationship if Tolmacheff asks me out for dinner.’

  ‘I’ll be at another table, keeping you under surveillance.’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Mike! I’d feel really self-conscious. Promise me you won’t go along.’

  ‘Okay. But I’ll be close by.’

  ‘As far as he knows, I’m Gerri Westlake. Stop worrying. I know how to do this.’

  ‘I just hope you’re right.’

  So do I, she thought.

  She’d gone for a run, showered and washed her hair and was dressing for her appointment with Ambrose Cobcroft when Angelo Tolmacheff called.

  ‘I can’t seem to get you out of my mind,’ he said. ‘I think we need to do dinner.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Gemma said, immediately alert.

  ‘And soon. How about tomorrow night?’

  ‘I’ll buy a new outfit for the occasion.’ She hoped the tone was right; coquettish and a bit silly.

  ‘Something low-cut,’ he said. ‘To show off your – charms. What time should I pick you up?’

  ‘How about seven? But I’ll be in the city tomorrow evening,’ she said, not wanting him to come anywhere near Phoenix Bay. ‘So we can meet at the restaurant.’

  He gave her the address. ‘I look forward to it,’ he said, his accent a little stronger than usual.

  She forced him from her mind as she selected a dark pink suit and cream satin camisole.

  Then she checked her hair in the mirror, happy with the way it fell in a tawny bob to just above her shoulders, and put on deep pink lipstick.

  She was aware of Mike’s warm presence behind her, looking past her into the mirror.

  ‘Very nice.’ Gently, he turned her around to face him. ‘I’m meeting up with Nick Cleary tomorrow, the ex-Federal cop that I mentioned to you,’ he said. ‘It will mean I won’t be around as much, but now that Rafi’s in daycare …’ He paused. ‘Have you thought any more about – about the Mrs Moody question?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’ She smiled. ‘Just give me a bit more time?’

  ‘I love you, Gemma.’

  She smiled and reached up to kiss him. ‘I’d better go.’

  The drive north to Vaucluse was marred by heavy rain and the ocean, when she caught glimpses of it, was battleship grey with churning white tips. On the high ridges she looked across to the harbour and the bridge, the sea beneath it the same dull grey.

  Ambrose Cobcroft lived in a block of four units, hidden from the road by tall hedges and a high stone wall. Gemma pressed the security buzzer and heard a man’s voice call, ‘Co
me in!’ and the gate unlocked.

  As she made her way along the winding path lined with small cypress trees, she saw him waiting at the entrance to his garden apartment.

  Gemma was surprised. Cobcroft was tall and athletic-looking with tanned skin and appeared to be in his forties – a generation younger than his fiancée Magda Simmonds.

  ‘Thank you for coming. I appreciate it,’ Cobcroft said as he led her into the living room, which was decorated with tribal art. Around the walls hung wooden masks studded with cowrie shells, some sporting what appeared to be human teeth set crookedly into gaping mouths. Large fibrous tapestries covered in geometrical patterns covered one wall.

  He walked out to the patio, indicating she should sit with him at a glass-and-wrought-iron table.

  ‘Magda waited until I was out and then took an overdose of Xanax. I didn’t even know she had it in the house. Or where she got it. Here’s the note she left,’ Cobcroft said, pushing it across the table as if it were a dangerous object. ‘The police returned it to me. I wanted you to see it. Of course I haven’t read any other suicide notes in my life, but this one is different somehow from what I would have expected. That’s why I want your opinion.’

  Gemma picked up the sheet of paper, pink stationery with a stylised rose in the top left-hand corner, noting that the writing looked weak, even shaky.

  ‘Please forgive me, everyone, for what I have to do. I thought I could make a new beginning with you, Ambrose, but I can’t. Something terrible is happening and I simply can’t cope with it. Maybe you can guess what it might be, Ambrose … What I’m doing is for the best.’

  At the bottom of the page she’d signed, ‘With all my love. My heart will live on, Magda.’

  Gemma read it again before raising her eyes to the man sitting opposite her. ‘I need to ask some questions. First of all, is that her usual handwriting?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Magda had a very firm, strong, flowing hand. This looks like an invalid’s writing.’

  ‘Was she ill?’

  He shook his head. ‘She seemed in radiant health. She looked wonderful after her facelift. You see, there is quite an age gap between us and – I’ll be brutally frank about it, I didn’t want to be seen with someone who looked – well – old. I loved Magda, but—’ he spread his hands helplessly, ‘—we men love beautiful young women. Remember that old song from the twenties? “Keep young and beautiful”.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ said Gemma. ‘But I guess Magda did.’

  ‘She did. That’s why she booked into Sapphire Springs Spa.’

  ‘What was the terrible thing that she was alluding to?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said, ‘and before you ask me about that line she wrote – “Maybe you can guess what it might be” – I don’t know what she meant with that, either.’

  ‘It’s a very pointed remark. You really have no idea?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Cobcroft answered quickly. Too quickly, Gemma thought. ‘I have to ask a few personal questions,’ she said, taking a new tack. ‘Your personal life was …?’

  ‘If by “personal” you mean our sex life, I’d have to say very good. We are – we were – both in excellent health. Add to that the fact that Magda was on top of the world. She was planning our wedding. I know it’s a cliché, but she really did have everything to live for. Her suicide just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What sort of business are you in?’ Gemma asked, looking from the patio into the well-appointed apartment and the expensive, if grotesque, masks on the wall.

  ‘I dabble in the art market. I’ve had a lucky run. I suppose you could call me an art dealer.’

  ‘Yes, you must be lucky. The art market’s been pretty wobbly over the last couple of years, I believe.’

  ‘Not in the middle market,’ he said, slight condescension in his smile. ‘I buy a lot of tribal art that people seem to like, and they are prepared to pay good prices for it. That’s how I met Magda: she bought a pair of masks. Although she is – was – much older, she was very good for me.’

  But were you good for her? Gemma wondered. ‘I read in the paper that Magda was one of the first clients at Sapphire Springs to take advantage of their new post-operative therapy?’

  Cobcroft nodded. ‘There was another well-known personality – I’ve forgotten her name – someone from the racing world.’

  ‘Maxine Wentworth?’

  ‘That’s right. That was the woman. I’ve got to say it’s a marvellous thing to produce such results. There was hardly any bruising or swelling and almost no scarring – just a little in front of her ears. There’s very little worry about post-operative complications, and it’s straightforward and simple enough. I hear that Harlow Hadley is having it done. She married a billionaire, that helps.’

  ‘Did Magda have to take any medication after the operation?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Yes, she had to undergo the regime of the DiNAH components in capsule form.’

  ‘Are her capsules still here?’

  ‘No. Apparently they’re not letting anything off the premises until it’s been patented. Magda had to go back to Sapphire Springs twice weekly.’

  ‘Are you quite sure you have no idea what the “something terrible” was, that Magda couldn’t face?’ she asked. ‘You do understand the implication, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘Magda was facing something she believed was so terrible that death was a better alternative. Women have suicided over the loss of love.’

  ‘But I did love her. She wasn’t about to lose me.’ He paused, looking away into the distance, then said quietly, ‘Believe me. I don’t know why she did it.’

  ‘Do you think she might have been depressed? Something to do with the DiNAH therapy? Some kind of reaction to the drugs?’

  ‘I have no idea. No one mentioned any adverse reactions. The only thing they told her was to stay out of strong sunlight in the middle of the day.’

  Like a vampire, Gemma couldn’t help thinking.

  ‘And she wasn’t depressed,’ Cobcroft continued. ‘I would have been the first one to have noticed something like that.’

  Gemma recalled reports she’d read, parents saying: ‘But we had no idea! She never showed that side of herself to us …’ She spoke carefully. ‘Sometimes those closest to the person are unable to see clearly what’s going on.’

  Then, after a pause, she asked, ‘What exactly do you want me to do, Mr Cobcroft? Do you want me to ask around among her friends and acquaintances? Isn’t that something you could do yourself? And far more cheaply.’

  ‘Actually, not quite so easily. Her son can’t stand me. He blames me for what happened. And a lot of her friends are very judgemental. They couldn’t handle the age gap between us. They saw it as something sinister. Some of them think I’m some sort of fortune hunter.’

  ‘I believe Magda was a very wealthy woman,’ Gemma said evenly.

  ‘She was. But her son will get everything. It’s not as if she was going to change her will and cut him out of his inheritance. And now the family are blaming me. They’re saying that I pressured Magda into having the DiNAH-therapy facelift.’

  Gemma looked him straight in the eye and asked, ‘And did you?’

  He turned away, seemingly suddenly interested in a plant growing nearby before turning back and replying. ‘I may have implied that things would be better between us if the age disparity wasn’t so obvious. I need to do a lot of socialising in my line of work and I didn’t want – an old woman on my arm.’

  At least, Gemma thought, he was being frank.

  ‘I can give you the details of her closest friend, Yvonne Creswell. Magda may have told her something; Yvonne was her confidante. I really want to find out why she did this.’

  He wrote out a name and phone number and handed it to Gemma.

  ‘I’ll do what I can, but it could take several thousand dollars of your money. What you’re asking me to do do
esn’t come cheaply. And I’m not even sure that there’ll be a satisfactory outcome.’

  ‘Minkie Montreau was delighted with what you did for her. And I’ve had a good month,’ he said. ‘I’ll write a cheque for a thousand dollars for a deposit. Is that enough to be getting on with it?’

  ‘I can ask quite a few questions for a thousand dollars.’ She smiled.

  They walked inside and Cobcroft invited Gemma to take a seat while he went to his desk to write out a cheque. She stood up when he handed it to her, and took a couple of steps towards the door, obviously in no hurry to leave. It was a technique that she often used: when people felt that an interview was at an end, they relaxed more and were often less guarded in what they said.

  ‘I’d like a copy of the suicide note,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll make one right now,’ said Cobcroft, after the barest hesitation and headed into a small office, leaving Gemma staring at another long-faced mask with mean, piggy eyes and a mouth that looked like a tapeworm’s. She heard the sounds of a photocopier and within minutes he returned with a copy for her.

  ‘One more thing. Could you give me the name of Magda’s doctor?’

  ‘But I’ve already talked to him. That was the first thing that went through my mind,’ he said, ‘that Magda had discovered some terrible threat to her health and thought suicide was a way out. Although that doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Perhaps she went to another doctor. One that you don’t know about,’ she suggested as they walked into the entry hall.

  ‘That’s possible. But what I am really hoping for is that someone – you – can give me an explanation as to how a woman can one minute be on top of the world—’ he lowered his voice as he added, ‘and then do something like this.’

  Gemma was silent for a few moments. ‘I’ll do everything I can. I understand how difficult this must be for you.’

  He opened the front door then looked into her eyes and said, ‘I must say, you’re not what I expected.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘Who said anything about disappointment?’