Again, the pencil flew across the paper. ‘I have the security code door medical building. Watching them – my bird-watching binoculars.’
Gemma took the piece of paper and read: ‘F4067X.’
‘You’re an investigator,’ Gemma read the hastily scribbled words: ‘Investigate!!!’
The pencil stabbed at the paper, almost tearing through it, as Mrs van Leyden heavily underscored the last word. Then she viciously tore the piece of paper to shreds.
Gemma took hold of the woman’s narrow shoulders. ‘I have to get out of here now but I promise you, I’ll do everything to see that you get what you want.’
The guards were so close now, Gemma could hear their voices. She hurried to the window, lifted the mosquito screen out of its housing and climbed out, crouching low against the wall under the window, listening as they knocked on Mrs van Leyden’s door, then went inside. She prayed they wouldn’t notice that the fly screen had been taken down, but she didn’t wait to find out. Instead, she felt her way around the side of the cabin, heading to the lake. In the dim night light, she stepped into one of the kayaks and in a few strokes had made it to the other side. There she broke into a run towards her car. She heard voices and risked a quick glimpse behind her. At that moment, two men walked into the glare of one of the lights over the path and she saw that one of them was Dr Egmont, walking with a companion, deep in conversation. She shrank back, immobilised, hoping that the grevillea bushes would hide her. As the second man turned, his face became clear.
Now the Ratbag’s description of how Mischa had willingly jumped into the passing green Peugeot made sense.
The vampire and Lizzie had worked like a pair of hungry wolves, herding their prey into a trap.
Gemma jumped into her car and turned down the driveway, her headlights turned off. She didn’t breathe until she was a kilometre along the road. Finally, she pulled over and stopped.
As she mentally replayed the scenes she’d just witnessed, the crickets, silenced by her car, took up their tentative chiming again. She thought about the connections between the vampire, Tolmacheff, Egmont and Sapphire Springs Spa. It appeared that the vampire worked for Tolmacheff. And maybe Egmont as well. She would find out. She was determined to do what she could to help Mrs van Leyden.
She waited. The occasional car sped past but no one came from Sapphire Springs.
With the code to the medical centre firmly fixed in her head, Gemma drove back, again switching off the headlights well before she swung into the car park.
The landscape was just discernible by starlight and the searchers had given up. All was quiet.
She hurried across the short distance between the cabins and the low buildings of the medical centre. Her mobile rang and she silenced it. Mike. Not the best time to talk; but what if Rafi was sick? She couldn’t risk being overheard, and Mike would only scold her. Sorry, Mike, she thought ruefully, cutting the call.
Dim lighting showed through a small window, and as she stepped up to the door of what she saw on a small sign was the records office, and pressed F4067X, it clicked open. Cautiously, she pushed it a little further and peered around. Opposite was a security desk and four split CCTV screens on the wall covering the rooms and corridors of the medical centre. From the entrance area, a corridor led off to the left of the security desk; opposite this was a closed door. She could see herself on one of the monitors as she stepped towards it.
There was no one at the desk but she could hear a man speaking some distance away. Quickly she went to the console and scanned it, looking for the reverse play. She found it and erased the last few moments. Without close attention to the fast-running clock at the bottom right corner of the screen, the missing footage would not be noticed.
The sound of the man’s voice came closer and she could also hear his approaching footsteps. The only place to hide was offered by the closed door. With gritted teeth, she slowly turned the handle and ducked into the darkness behind it, where she waited, immobilised, listening. She heard the squeak of a chair as the man, presumably the security guard, sat down at the desk. From the one-sided conversation, Gemma could discern that he was arguing with his wife or girlfriend. The argument became more heated, the chair squeaked and she heard the footsteps again, coming closer. Don’t come in here, Gemma prayed. He was now standing right outside the door. He raised his voice and swore as he terminated the phone call. She heard him muttering under his breath and the sound of the front door opening. A few seconds later, she could smell cigarette smoke. For the moment, she was in the clear.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Gemma saw that she was in an office, or storeroom. Carefully, she drew out her mobile and switched on the flashlight, keeping the piercing beam low and letting its peripheral light show her more of her surroundings. Opposite her was a large cupboard, its doors were securely closed, with the key conveniently dangling from the lock. Quietly, Gemma turned it and pushed back the doors to reveal shelves of medical records neatly organised in colour codes and alphabetical order. Scanning the files, she found ‘Wentworth, Maxine’. She pulled it out and briefly looked through: name, date of birth, address, the date she arrived at the medical centre, data of her DiNAH therapy and then the date of discharge, with the twice weekly follow-up visits marked in. Apart from the basic details, the information was incomprehensible to a lay person.
She tried, and failed, to make sense of what looked like arithmetical scores under a list of abbreviated headings: HLA – A26, HLA – B59, HLA – C10, HLA – D26, HLA – DR22, HLA – DQ9, HLA – DP6. At the back of Maxine’s file another, smaller file had been stapled. It seemed to contain a similar set of letters and figures. Unable to make any sense of this highly scientific medical record, Gemma was about to replace the folder when she caught a glimpse of the name at the bottom of the last page: ‘Wilson, Phoebe’.
Puzzled, she checked again, but there it was. Had Phoebe Wilson, the woman who’d been found floating dead and mangled in the harbour, also had cosmetic surgery here? Even if that were the case, why were her details in Wentworth’s file? Gemma pushed the file under her top, securing it in the waistband of her jeans. Listening for any sound of the security guard’s return, she noticed a familiar name on another file: ‘Carr, Annabel’. The beautiful girl she’d interviewed at the Bondi cafe with a grizzling Rafi. Flickering connections in Gemma’s mind started to spark.
On the lowest shelf lay a lone file. Across its cover someone had scrawled: ‘Final action processed’ with the date from two days ago. Gemma picked it up and flicked it open. It was Mrs van Leyden’s medical file. Attached to it was a thinner folder with a name at the top: ‘Russell, Lucy Anne’. Gemma frowned. Who was Lucy Anne Russell? Beneath her name was a similar string of incomprehensible HLA numbers and letters.
She stiffened suddenly at the sound of a voice, swiftly cut out her mobile flashlight and hid the van Leyden–Russell and Carr files under her top as well. Moving as silently as she could, she closed the cupboard doors and turned the key, locking it before tiptoeing to the door to listen. The argument was once more in full swing, but the voice was further away. The security guard was back outside. Cautiously, Gemma opened the door a crack and looked through. She could see the front door standing a little ajar, and heard the guard’s accusatory tones clearly carrying in the night air.
‘You were supposed to. Not me. You always do this!’ he said, raising his voice. Gemma moved silently and peeped outside to see the guard standing with his back to her, hunched over his mobile, absorbed in the argument.
She edged out the door of the records office and slid along the other side of the wall, looking at the nearby medical supercentre. As she quietly put more distance between herself and the guard, she thought of Mischa. That’s where I need to get into next, she thought. What or who else might be hidden in that locked facility?
She crept alongside the mysterious supercentre. It was impossible to see inside the windows; all were secured with internal shutters, all closed. She
rapped on the blind windows, calling Mischa’s name as loudly as she dared. She doubled back to the front door with its electronic lock. She tried the code F4067X but to no avail. If Mischa were here behind this locked door, there was no way Gemma could help her tonight.
Her heart pounding and her body fizzing with tension, she made her way along the walls, past the supercentre. Her mobile shivered again and she barely glanced at the screen: Mike. Again. Not now, darling, she thought as the argument with the security guard’s girlfriend became more heated. He was pacing up and down, gesticulating with one hand, his mobile clenched to his ear.
Gemma risked a chance when he was farthest away and took off, keeping low and moving quickly in a diagonal tack away from the records office and closer to the main reception building, towards her car.
During the drive home, she desperately tried to make sense of the pairs of names – Wentworth and Wilson; van Leyden and Russell – and Annabel Carr. Images of the murdered women Starr and Palier also twisted through her mind. She recalled the half-burned photograph of Brie in Tolmacheff’s office, and thought about Mischa possibly lured to Sapphire Springs by a pink invitation …
‘Oh hell, why haven’t I thought of this before?’ she said out loud, remembering the card from Sapphire Springs in Delphine’s coat pocket. Private investigators sometimes used the ploy of a fake competition to draw reluctant targets into the open: ‘You’ve won a fantastic weekend away in our latest promotion. Please contact this number for more information …’
Gemma called Delphine. No answer.
She threw her mobile on the passenger seat in frustration. Delphine had been offered a free day spa at Sapphire Springs, but what would really happen when she got there?
By the time Gemma arrived home, some of the connections were starting to splice. Mischa, DiNAH therapy, three women murdered – all connected to Angelo Tolmacheff, the vampire and Sapphire Springs Spa. Magda Simmonds, Maxine Wentworth and Janet Chancy – all now dead and each connected to the spa and in some way to the revolutionary DiNAH therapy.
Everything meshed at Sapphire Springs.
When she turned the key and crept inside, well after midnight, Mike was working at the dining table, waiting for her. Hugo must have moved into the operatives’ office again.
‘Where do you think you’ve been all this time, Gemma?’ he asked. ‘I’ve tried calling you over and over.’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t in a position to take your calls, Mike. I think Mischa is being held at Sapphire Springs Spa. And it’s possible that Delphine Tolmacheff is also there.’
‘Gemma, where have you been?’ Mike repeated.
‘Just listen, Mike. Delphine said something about being “a new woman”. What if she means that literally? What if they’ve offered her the chance to experience the DiNAH-therapy treatment? They keep a mailing list of all their clients. And what if Tolmacheff has used his influence to lure his wife to Sapphire Springs?’
‘You have no proof of that. She could be anywhere.’
‘Anywhere else, and she’d have to take toiletries and personal things. She doesn’t need them at Sapphire Springs. That’s why all her gear’s still at Beecham House. Tolmacheff, the vampire, the green Peugeot, Lizzie—’
‘Who’s Lizzie?’
‘She works at Sapphire Springs. She’s also the registered owner of that Peugeot – that’s where I was this afternoon, at her address in Belambi. She’s Elizabeth Winchester. That’s why Mischa jumped into that car. She recognised Lizzie. She felt safe with someone she knew. She wouldn’t have known that Lizzie was working with the vampire and that he is connected to Sapphire Springs. That’s why it’s important to establish her presence there. That’s why I went out there, to collect samples.’
She pulled out the purloined medical records and slapped them on the table.
Mike took one look at them and shook his head. ‘If Bruno Gross finds out about this, about you taking medical records …’
‘He’s not going to. And there’s another connection: Phoebe Wilson and Annabel Carr. For some reason they’ve each got a file connected to the records of women who’ve had DiNAH therapy. Phoebe is dead. Annabel Carr is still alive and yet she’s got a file down there at Sapphire Springs. She could be in danger, too.’
‘Gemma, I think you’re reading too much into some circumstantial evidence. Look, it’s not even circumstantial. You’re pulling together things to make a pattern that may not be there at all. You’re imposing your interpretation on a series of events that mightn’t even be related. You know what can happen when an investigator gets a bee in their bonnet. Their judgement is skewed. They start racing along a line of inquiry and soon they can’t see any other possibilities.’
‘But Mike,’ she began, ‘can’t you see—’
‘I’ll tell you what I can see. A woman who’s rushing around, getting involved in everybody else’s investigations, getting involved in their lives and neglecting her own.’
‘Mike, I’m contracted to help Delphine Tolmacheff. And I have a moral responsibility to Mischa Bloomfield. Not to mention the fact that I need to be financially independent. You can’t be the only one bringing in money. It makes me feel – bad.’
‘It’s the sort of work you get involved with, Gemma. What’s the matter with insurance work? There are other, safer investigations you can take on. With the people you’ve been dealing with it’s a wonder you haven’t had death threats.’
She didn’t tell him she already had.
‘And there’s the practical question of housing. I’m going to say it again – this place is too small for four people. Even for one woman, it was always pretty small. I need space for my life too. Sometimes it’s like I’m an annoying boarder tolerated because of his help with the bills.’
‘Mike, that’s not true! I could never see you like that!’
‘You can’t even give me a straight yes or no when I suggested we get married.’
‘I need time to think.’
He sighed. ‘Okay. But I’ve had time to think. And we’ve got to find a bigger place. That’s if you still want our relationship.’
‘I do. I really value it,’ she said.
‘Maybe you do. But in practical terms, working in that front office isn’t enough for me, and lately, it’s been occupied by Hugo. It can’t go on like this, Gemma.’ She was frightened at the tone of his voice. She’d never heard him speak like this before. ‘I can’t do it, Gemma,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve tried and I can’t do it anymore.’
She felt like crying. ‘Mike—’
‘I want to live with you and Rafi in a peaceful household, not a refuge for a teenage runaway, assorted crims and the ghost of bloody Steve Brannigan.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk about moving. But not just now.’
Mike shrugged and headed up the hallway to his office. She heard him close the door. Through the door she heard his exclamation of irritation: Hugo.
Gemma went over to the sideboard and poured herself a stiff scotch. She stood there, staring at the decanter, feeling as if she was being pulled apart. Mike, Steve, the dangerous connections between women she felt obliged to help and whatever was going on at Sapphire Springs, swirled in opposing constellations. But the biggest concern at the moment was Mike. What was she going to do? This question now took precedence. Everything he said was justified and yet she was unwilling to change anything for him. She was hurting him badly, she knew. But something held her back from making a full commitment to him, despite everything. Tonight she’d seen a flash of emotion in him that reminded her of something Kit had said years ago: Beware the anger of a patient man.
Soon she would have to make some big decisions, marriage to Mike, a new house, a bigger space for Rafi to play and grow in. She tossed down the burning spirits and winced.
CHAPTER 33
Gemma’s phone woke her and as she groped for it, stumbling out of bed, she became aware that Mike wasn’t beside her. Her heart heavy from the words of the n
ight before, she looked over to Rafi, where he slept peacefully in his cot, his eyelids flickering. She crept out, almost falling over Hugo who’d relocated during the night and obviously slipped off the couch and was now curled up in the doona on the floor like a witchetty grub. Where’s Mike, she wondered?
‘Lance, do you ever sleep?’ she asked, stepping with the mobile out onto the deck.
‘Ah,’ he said laughing. ‘My family is away this weekend so I’m using the time to catch up. I’ve got a result from the swabs. The material was somewhat degraded but I was still able to get a result.’
‘And?’
‘The material on the toothbrush and the material from the swab are a match by a factor of one in eleven million. I’m still waiting for results on the DiNAH pills.’
‘Eleven million!’ Gemma repeated. ‘I knew it!’ Mischa had been at Sapphire Springs Spa.
‘And the invoice?’
‘Send them both to Angie McDonald. It’s worth a try. Might slip past the accountants. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to pick them up.’ She continued, ‘I found some medical files with strange letters and numbers attached to the names. Would you have a look at them and tell me what you think they might be? Or where I could find someone who would know?’
‘Drop them by. I’ll have a look first. If I don’t know, I can point you in the right direction.’
She thanked him and rang off.
Mike was already at his desk, head down, hard at work.
‘Can I bring you a coffee?’ she asked.
‘Later. Thanks,’ he said, not looking up.
She called Angie and left a message updating her on the news. She then took Rafi into the shower with her, where he giggled with delight and clung to her like a little warm, soapy koala. But this morning she was too preoccupied with the events of the night before to enjoy playing with him, and still fatigued from too little sleep.
When they were dressed, she gave him a quick breakfast and drove him to Kit’s where she hoped to have a chance to talk about something other than work with her sister. But as they sat down to tea and toast, Angie called.
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