Back in her office, Gemma checked her email then turned her attention to her notes on Amy Bernhard. She recalled Beatrice de Berigny telling her that her friend Angie had recommended Gemma to follow up the police investigation into the girl’s disappearance. Perhaps Angie still had some records of interviews on her laptop—although access to this information might be problematic.
While she considered how to proceed, she wrote the covering letters for several completed insurance jobs and made out the accounts. This made her feel a little better; she needed the several thousand dollars these would bring in to maintain cash flow and keep paying Spinner and Mike. Gemma was just clearing her desk when a glance out the office window revealed an elderly man approaching the entrance. She opened the security grille and shook his proffered hand. ‘Mr Dowling.’ She led him into her office where he removed his cap and balanced his walking stick against the desk.
‘What can I do for you?’ she said, after he’d made himself comfortable.
‘I’m not sure where to start,’ he said. ‘It sounded like just the thing. But I don’t know what to do, where to turn.’
‘What do you need from me, Mr Dowling?’ she asked, guessing from his faint smell of old leather and moth balls that he was well into his eighties.
In reply, the old man took a card out of his top pocket and passed it to her. ‘This is the mob I want you to take a look at. It sounded like a good service.’
Gemma read the logo headed up by an embossed diamond in silver ink. Forever Diamonds, it said. Now your love can be truly eternal. There was an address in Trafalgar Street, Newtown, and Gemma wrote it down in the new file.
‘I took Shirley over to them in her little box, like they told me to, and left her there.’
Gemma, puzzled by this information and about to ask if Shirley was a cat or dog, was saved from what would have been a terrible gaffe by Mr Dowling’s next remark.
‘Shirley is—was my wife. The best wife a man could ever have.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘They have this process,’ he continued, ‘where they transform the ashes of your loved one into a diamond.’
Gemma recalled she’d read something about this process quite recently, claimed by both the USA and the USSR to be not only feasible, but capable of producing near gem-quality stones.
‘It’s expensive,’ said Mr Dowling. ‘Nearly nine thousand dollars all up by the time I’d had the diamond made into a little ring. I used the gold of her wedding ring.’ He fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I picked it up last week. It looks good.’
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out a small jewellery box. ‘Here.’ He put it on the desk beside Gemma. ‘You can take a look for yourself.’
Gemma opened the lid. A small bluish-grey stone winked from a band of gold. ‘May I?’ she asked. After he nodded, she took the ring out and looked at it.
‘And you’re concerned that it’s not genuine?’ she said, putting the ring back in its housing. ‘You’d need to take it to a good jeweller for that sort of information.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Mr Dowling. ‘It’s a genuine diamond all right. I took it to my old watchmaker up at the Junction.’
‘Mr Dowling, I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?’
Mr Dowling took the box back from her and turned the ring in his fingers. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I keep looking at it and putting it on. But then I take it off again. I just can’t wear it. I did for a day or so, but then I got this terrible feeling.’
He put the ring into its slot in the black velvet and snapped the lid shut. He leaned closer. ‘Miss Lincoln. It’s just not Shirley, I know it isn’t.’ The sadness in his eyes was replaced with anger. ‘I don’t know who it is in this ring, but it’s not my wife.’ He put the box back in his pocket. ‘That’s why I want you to check out these people. There’s been a mix-up, I’m sure of it, and now I’ve got nothing of her. I want you to find out what became of Shirley. I want her back. Someone else is wearing my wife. While I’ve got goodness knows who.’
His voice caught on the last few words and he looked as if he were about to cry. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened in this office, Gemma thought. Right now, she felt like crying herself.
‘Mr Dowling,’ Gemma warned him, ‘without getting someone in there undercover, it could be impossible to find out how they really manage their business.’
‘I hoped you could just ask the right questions,’ he said, looking dejected.
‘Sometimes, that’s sufficient. I’ll see what I can do myself,’ she said, ‘and, should it become necessary to put someone in there, I’ll let you know before incurring any extra expenses.’ She touched his arm. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea?’
•
Gemma spent the rest of the morning compiling new files and writing up her notes on Mr Dowling. She reviewed the information he’d given her about Forever Diamonds and checked them on the net. She’d never had a case quite like this one before.
Then, she changed into her shorts and T-shirt and went for a run along the cliffs, hoping that a good sweat would relieve some of her stored-up grief and frustration. She stretched out, passing the eroding angels and broken columns of the seaside cemetery which contained her murdered mother’s grave. Fat skinks plopped off stone ledges and disappeared into the grass at her passing. No breeze came from the flat surface of the Pacific and she thought she must be mad to be running in the building heat.
Back home, she showered and changed and went to her office. She checked her mobile—there was a text message from Angie: Call me.
‘I can’t talk for long,’ said Angie, sounding strung out. ‘It’s jumping round here. Another girl’s gone missing. From the same school.’
‘Netherleigh Park? I was only there yesterday. Thanks for the referral, by the way. The principal wants me to work on Amy Bernhard’s disappearance.’ Gemma paused.
‘So you’ve met Madame Beatrice de B? She’s really something, isn’t she?’ Angie lowered her voice. ‘It’s a madhouse here. Half are off on sick leave, half are at court and the other half are just plain mad.’
‘That’s three halves, Ange.’
‘Smartypants! I’m supposed to be compiling a list of possible VMOs—violent major offenders—for the boss so he can send them on to ViCLAS at the Crime Commission. Plus I’m on call-out for hostage negotiation.’
‘Well, Ange, you always say you like it hot.’
‘Not this hot. G-for-Gross is supposed to be assisting me as well, but ever since he got promoted to Inspector he’s been impossible.’
‘Promoted—Bruno Gross? How did that happen?’ It was painful for Gemma to think of Bruno, with whom she’d had a brief, ill-judged affair nearly ten years earlier.
‘God knows. He must have blackmailed someone. Or bribed them. His idea of policing these days is to lock the door of the station, take the phone off the hook and put the telly on.’
‘What’s ViCLAS?’
‘Violent crime linkage analysis system. Supposed to identify and track serial offenders. They want to marry my VMOs with theirs. G-for weaselled out of it and dumped it on me. So here I am with a tower of files. Gotta go, hon.’
‘The name of the latest missing girl—is it Tasmin Summers?’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Someone was looking for her yesterday, when I was at Netherleigh Park,’ explained Gemma, looking at her watch.
‘You’d better come in and we’ll have a chat,’ Angie suggested.
As Gemma looked in the fridge, deciding on what to eat, she wondered where Taxi was. He should have appeared by now, nagging for food. Finally she made a couple of cheese crackers, brewed a pot of tea and, deciding to do things in style to cheer herself up, fetched a large crystal jug and a tray from the large sideboard near the dinin
g table. The tray, its decanters and the matching crystal jug were almost the only family possessions she still had. The decanters, wide and heavy-bottomed, were specially designed for stability on the tray in heavy seas and even the tray had a little fence around it to keep articles from sliding off. They had come from long-widowed Aunt Merle’s master mariner grandfather. Gemma filled the crystal jug with apple juice and carried the tray back out to the timber deck, remembering Aunt Merle who had raised Gemma and Kit after the loss of their parents.
Despite the still summer day and the hazy blue of sky and ocean, Gemma felt storm-tossed. She bit into a cracker and cheese and went looking for Taxi, checking all his secret hideouts. Sure enough, she spied a lump under the cream and blue damask cover of her light summer doona. ‘There you are, you straight-tailed, orange-flavoured cat!’ She dragged him out and hugged him, wondering if a cat was all she’d be hugging for quite some time. She carried him out to the deck and put him down, watched him arch his back then roll over and stretch front and back legs into star paws.
•
Gemma made herself get back to work. She printed out her notes and information on the manufacture of synthetic diamonds and was reading them when she heard something. She glanced up at the CCTV monitor to see Spinner arriving. She let him in and went back to her chair. ‘I thought you weren’t going to come in,’ she said, swivelling round.
‘I’ve got that video to process,’ he said, patting the camera bag. ‘And I want to print out a couple of reports. Then they’re done.’
It was Gemma’s policy to present the evidence and her account at the same time at her office. That way, there was a definite incentive for the client to pay up. No pay, no info. Normally, she’d be feeling pleased about these small successes. Today, however, her bruised heart could not rejoice.
‘And I remembered this.’ Spinner passed her a clipping. ‘It was in last weekend’s colour magazine.’
Gemma opened it out and read. ‘Boyleford Brissett: the legend’. She glanced through it, then put it to one side and went back to finalising her notes and copying them onto the laptop. One day, she told herself, she’d practise doing everything straight onto it. But often a notebook was simpler and easier. She was aware of Spinner moving around in the office across the hall and the printer clicking and whirring. Later, he came to her door.
‘Boss, I’m getting some takeaway for tea. Want me to get you something while I’m out?’
Gemma looked at her watch. The afternoon had flown in the end: it was after seven. She hadn’t shopped for days. She knew exactly what was left in the fridge—a half bag of carrots, the carcass of a chicken that needed burial and a packet of drying prunes. Even the cheese and biscuits were running out.
•
When Spinner returned with some takeaway Thai, Gemma smiled and said, ‘Come and eat with me if you like.’
He followed her into the flat and she put a couple of place mats on the table with plates and cutlery. They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the flavours of the food.
‘Bloody hell!’ she said halfway through the meal, jumping up from the table. ‘I’m supposed to be at my music lesson!’ She had completely forgotten.
She flew round getting ready, cleaning her teeth, grabbing her music book. ‘Lock up behind you?’ Spinner nodded.
Mrs Snellgrove, teacher of the pianoforte and president of the Paddington Historical Society, opened the door with a gentle scolding for Gemma’s tardiness. ‘You’re a naughty girl, Gemma,’ she said, ushering her in, the free-swinging diamond at the bottom of her fan brooch glittering as it moved. ‘That’s twice in a row you’ve been late now.’
Gemma murmured an apology and walked through to Mrs Snellgrove’s living room, crowded with historic photographs from a hundred years ago, flat irons, kerosene lamps with delicate hand-painted shades and a collection of tin mechanical toys that had belonged to Mr Snellgrove when he was a boy.
Mrs Snellgrove opened the piano lid, diamond rings sparkling as she patted the piano stool, her late husband’s watch swinging on her frail wrist. Gemma pulled out her music and set it up on the piano while her teacher made herself comfortable in her cane chair.
‘That pendant,’ said Mrs Snellgrove, ‘it’s very unusual. The empty centre, I mean.’
‘It’s supposed to have a stone there but I lost it when I was on holidays.’
Mrs Snellgrove patted her shoulder and looked at the piano. ‘So I don’t suppose you’ve had much time to practise “Jungle Drums” and “Gingerbread Cakewalk”?’
‘Not really.’ Gemma felt about eight years old as her music teacher sighed and shook her head.
‘Well, then, let’s just start them again, shall we? Now, right hand first. Nicely curved fingers. One, two, one, two.’
When the lesson was finished and Gemma gathered up her music, Mrs Snellgrove hovered. ‘Gemma, my dear. I wonder if you could help me?’ she asked.
‘I’d be delighted.’ Gemma had become very fond of Mrs Snellgrove and her eccentric, loving ways.
‘My mother asked me, actually.’
Gemma recalled that Mrs Snellgrove’s mother still ‘did’ for herself in her small apartment at Dover Heights.
‘She’s ninety-two, you know, and almost blind. But she’s very active, knows her way round her flat, and we’re all agreed that the best thing is to support her in her own little place as long as possible.’ Mrs Snellgrove adjusted her pearls. ‘She lost her old pussy cat recently and I think she’s lonely and imagining things.’
‘Like what?’
‘She keeps insisting that there’s some sort of animal in her apartment. Ethne and I go there once a week to visit and do a quick whip around, although Mother really is quite able. We’ve checked the place out thoroughly. There’s simply nowhere for an animal to get inside. It’s a second-floor apartment. But Mother is adamant about this animal! She says she can feel it touching her legs.’
‘What do you think?’
Mrs Snellgrove’s face became very still. ‘I think it’s the beginning of the end,’ she said. ‘The doctor wants her to go into a nursing home. She says that once old folk start seeing and hearing things, we just have to accept that the time has come.’ Mrs Snellgrove’s voice was sad. ‘Anyway,’ she added, brightening up, ‘Mother read about you in the papers and she knows you’re one of my students. She was very taken with the idea of one of those cameras you use. She told us that if you put a camera in her flat, she reckons it will prove there is an animal in there.’
‘We could do that for her,’ Gemma said, ‘and keep an eye on her.’
The look of relief on Mrs Snellgrove’s face as she nodded made Gemma smile. ‘Mother said that if you could keep an eye on men who were playing up, you could certainly find out what animal it is that’s bothering her.’
‘Let me know when you’re next visiting your mother,’ said Gemma, ‘and I’ll come along and set up the camera myself.’
•
Gemma spent most of the weekend keeping busy, trying not to think about Steve. On Saturday, she checked out Netherleigh Park’s website, searching the net for references to the disappearance of Amy Bernhard and making notes.
Sunday morning she went for a run around the cemetery, pausing at her mother’s grave and picking a bunch of wild yellow daisies that flowered around the graves in early summer. She lay them next to the headstone and stood there for a few moments before resuming her pace.
Later in the afternoon, she took herself to the movies, recalling the last time she’d been at the Ritz only a few weeks ago, with Steve sitting beside her, his arm around her shoulder, his hand stroking her neck.
She did some piano practice and watched television before going to bed, wanting to be up fresh and early for the start of the new week.
After breakfast—toast and the last scraping of the honey jar�
�the next morning, Gemma introduced herself on the phone to the mother of Claudia Page, making a time to see Claudia, best friend of Amy Bernhard and Tasmin Summers, after school that afternoon.
Then, as Angie had requested, Gemma drove to the Strawberry Hills police station, waiting outside while Security buzzed upstairs. Within minutes Angie appeared, carrying her smart maroon briefcase. Her auburn hair was newly cut in a gamine style that suited her wide-boned face and she was even wearing tiny pink pearl earrings with her white blouse and trim grey suit.
The two women headed for a coffee shop. ‘I can’t stay long,’ said Angie. ‘There’s a pile of files almost up to the ceiling that I’m supposed to be going through in my big joke spare time. To send to the Crime Commission for scanning the old ones into the system.’ She suddenly frowned, looking hard at Gemma. ‘You look awful. What is it?’
‘Steve,’ Gemma said. ‘We’ve broken up.’
They walked into the Baccarole, ordered at the counter, then sat in the furthest corner where they could see who might come in. Gemma pulled out her notebook.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Angie.
‘Sure as anything.’ Though she felt like crying, Gemma slapped the notebook down on the table. ‘I don’t want to talk about it right now.’
‘But Gemster, you have to. You can’t just break up like this. What happened?’
Gemma swallowed hard. She knew how relentless Angie could be when pursuing a line of questioning. ‘We went away for two weeks to the Bay. It was so nice. On the way back, Steve started talking about maybe buying something together—moving in together. So I had to think about whether or not I could trust him. The subject of Lorraine Litchfield came up and one thing led to another.’ She fiddled with the notebook. ‘I ended up screaming at him to get out. He reckons I’ve got commitment problems. Me—when he’s the one who’s out screwing other women!’
Spiking the Girl Page 5
