Spiking the Girl

by Lord, Gabrielle

  Gemma felt shocked. Though she’d foreseen this as a possibility, now that it was actually happening it felt terrible. And she’d occasioned it herself with her intoxicated, wilful lust. ‘Mike. Please. Don’t say that.’ She hesitated. ‘Unless it’s really what you want to do.’

  ‘It’s not what I want to do. It’s what I think I have to do.’ He threw her another long look then busied himself with his video camera, his broad back turned against her.

  ‘I have to accept responsibility for what happened,’ she said. ‘But can’t we find a way that doesn’t mean you have to go?’

  He turned round at this and she saw the sadness in his face and the concern. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You can’t go because you’re the boss. I can’t stay because I overstepped a mark the other night. And a certain situation occurred.’

  ‘God, you sound like an incident report! And you didn’t “overstep” anything!’ Gemma’s voice rose sharply. ‘I pulled you over whatever “mark” you’re talking about. I made the first move.’

  ‘No. I kissed you.’ He was looking at her intently and she wondered what was going through his mind.

  ‘But I took it further,’ she persisted, unable to look into his eyes any longer. ‘It’s not fair that you should lose your job because of my behaviour.’

  ‘We don’t live in a fair world. You must have noticed. And like I said, there’s plenty of work for me.’

  A sound came from Gemma’s apartment and Mike frowned. ‘Who’s in there?’ Then, shaking his head, ‘Sorry. That’s none of my business.’

  ‘It’s the Ratbag. He’s staying over for a couple of days.’

  ‘That kid?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I thought it might’ve been Steve.’ Again, he spoke without looking at her.

  She was incredulous. ‘After what he must have overheard the other night?’ Immediately Gemma regretted bringing the subject up again. She continued, talking too fast, awkward and off-balance, ‘I don’t know quite how to say this, but if you and I—I mean, if we could somehow just put the other night behind us. What I’m trying to say is, I’d like us to get back on a professional footing. Forget those few minutes. Forget they ever happened. Maybe you’re—we’re making more of this than is warranted.’

  A long silence. Then, ‘Maybe.’

  They stood together in more silence a moment.

  ‘I’m really sorry for my part in it. And now, I’m going back to work,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll call you later, after I’ve spoken to the cop at Waverley about Daria Reynolds’s husband. What’s a good time? I don’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘I don’t mind if you wake me up,’ he said with the hint of a smile. ‘I’ll get cracking on tracing that Hotmail email before I crash.’

  Gemma turned to go back to her office.

  ‘And I’ll consider what you’ve suggested,’ he added. ‘Maybe the situation can be salvaged.’

  God, she thought. He made her sound like a shipwreck.

  ‘I’ve checked the Annie Dunlop program,’ he continued, and Gemma recalled her music teacher’s old mother. ‘It seems to be working okay now.’

  She thanked him and settled down to check her email—slow today, with several virus alerts—then she rang to check that Diane Hayworth was at work, toted up the account so far for Daria Reynolds, adding ten per cent GST and another ten per cent for nuisance tax and put the account and the records of their surveillance work in her briefcase, leaving them by the front door. Down the hall she went to tell Hugo she was heading out for a while, do her hair and apply some lipstick and mascara. That done, she went back to the operatives’ office. She hadn’t forgotten her intention to gather more intelligence about Bruno Gross—maybe Diane Hayworth might be helpful. And after the incident at the Cross, it was imperative that she contact Trevor Dawson. Hi, Trevor, she planned on saying. Haven’t seen you for ages, then I bump into you at the ice-cream shop at Kings Cross. Nice family you’ve got. So when do you intend to tell my best friend Angie about them?

  ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘I’m going out for a while. Can you lock up when you’ve finished here?’

  He nodded but didn’t turn round.

  •

  Waverley police station adjoined the busy local court and it was hard to find parking. Gemma had to walk a short distance, passing small groups of people outside the courtroom doors. Hairy young men dressed in unaccustomed suits accompanied by well-dressed lawyers. A gaunt woman with hair pulled back harshly and long black earrings puffed desperately at a cigarette before going through the doorway.

  At the police station counter, Gemma asked for Diane Hayworth. Diane, an attractive woman in her thirties, hair in a smart French roll, came out to meet her and took her through to her shared office space.

  ‘Do you want a tea or coffee?’ Diane asked, handing Gemma back her card.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Gemma. ‘Just a seat.’ She sat on the chair Diane had pulled up near her desk.

  ‘You used to be in the job, didn’t you? I used to work with a girl who worked with you,’ Diane said. ‘She told me a bit about what happened to you. Why you left the job.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a long story,’ said Gemma, not wanting to revisit it. ‘That was eight years ago.’ She glanced around. It all smelled and looked much the same to her.

  ‘You were shafted is what I heard,’ said Diane.

  ‘You can believe that.’

  ‘And I heard that the men involved were promoted.’

  ‘That too, is true.’

  Diane gave her a hard look. ‘Some things stay the same.’

  ‘They do,’ said Gemma. ‘Does the name Jim Buisman mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not much. He’s off on indefinite sick leave. I hear he still reports for duty at the Kensington Club every day. He’s one of the old pisspots.’

  Gemma took a deep breath, thinking of what she’d accidentally seen outside the ice-cream shop. ‘Do you know where I can get hold of Trevor Dawson?’

  Diane took a brief phone call, then turned her attention back to Gemma. ‘Dawson? He used to go out with a girlfriend of mine. He’s in the State Protection Group now,’ she said. ‘Used to be with the old TRG.’

  ‘I need to contact him urgently. Have you got a number?’

  ‘I used to have their number here somewhere.’ She hunted round on her desk, lifting files and pads. ‘So what’s Daria Reynolds saying? No, don’t tell me,’ Diane paused in her search, ‘I think I can guess.’

  ‘She engaged me to run a surveillance operation,’ said Gemma. ‘Her ex-husband keeps breaking into the house and harassing her.’

  ‘That’s exactly what she told us,’ said Diane.

  ‘She’s not very happy with the police. She says you’re useless. That you’re not doing anything about her husband stalking her. And trespassing.’

  Diane sighed and took down a small address book that had been hidden behind an official book of by-laws. ‘That woman is hard work. We went and talked to her and explained what she could do about it. When he was stalking her.’

  ‘She reckons he still is,’ Gemma said. ‘I checked him out. He’s a cleanskin. But maybe you know what he’s like?’

  Diane frowned, intent on something. ‘Here it is. I knew I had it somewhere.’ She glanced up. ‘The number for the state protection guys.’ She scribbled it on a card.

  Gemma took it and slid it into her wallet, her mind preoccupied with Daria Reynolds and her stalking ex-husband. ‘She says he’s still stalking her,’ she went on. ‘Breaking into the house at night and, according to her, you haven’t responded.’

  Diane Hayworth stared. ‘How could we respond—under the circumstances?’

  Now it was Gemma’s turn to stare. ‘What do you mean? What circumstances?’

  ‘She hasn’t told you th
en?’

  ‘Told me what?’ Gemma was starting to get impatient. Why was Diane Hayworth stalling like this?

  Diane lifted down a folder from the shelf near her computer screen. ‘I printed this off for you—seeing as you were a colleague once—so you could read a copy of the case notes.’ She passed the folder to Gemma. ‘You can keep those.’

  Gemma took them, curious. Diane leaned back in her chair, as if the whole thing was now out of her hands. ‘I don’t know who’s been getting into Daria Reynolds’s place,’ she said. ‘But it sure as hell isn’t her ex-husband.’

  Gemma opened the folder, leafing through photocopied incident reports.

  ‘He isn’t in a position to be stalking anyone,’ Diane continued.

  It took Gemma a moment or two to take it in. She stared at the print-out in disbelief.

  ‘Vincent Reynolds has been dead for over a year,’ Diane was saying. ‘He’s buried in Waverley Cemetery.’

  Eleven

  Gemma was hardly conscious of driving to Daria Reynolds’s place. She swung the car against the kerb, jumped out and, clutching the print-out Diane Hayworth had given her, hurried up to the door. Again, the sickening smell of incense filled the air, reminding her of the weird candle procession. She rapped on the door.

  After waiting a few seconds, she knocked again, harder this time. She listened intently for any sounds from the interior. What on earth was the woman on about? She stepped back and then made her way round the back of the house, calling out as she went, but there was no answering reply. The place seemed empty.

  Gemma went back to the front, where she shoved one of her cards under the door with ‘Ring me asap!’ scribbled on it and underlined.

  Daria Reynolds, you’ve got a helluva lot of explaining to do, she thought, as she drove away.

  On her way to the Kensington Club, Gemma tried calling the State Protection Group number Diane Hayworth had given her. She left her name and a message asking Trevor Dawson to ring her urgently.

  She rang several other contacts, who all promised they’d do what they could to get in touch with him.

  Gemma parked a little way from the club, an ugly 1960s building of glass and concrete with a huge bronze fountain shaped like a box jellyfish in the foyer. The stench of stale tobacco and old beer hit her as she stepped inside its icy, overcooled interior. Beyond the box jellyfish, she could see through to a huge barn-like area where banks of flashing, whirring or spitting poker machines stood in long lines. She signed the visitors’ book and looked around. She vaguely remembered Jim Buisman as a fair, bristly man, with the sort of reddish skin that deepens in colour over the years, either through weathering or alcohol. The club made her feel claustrophobic with its absence of windows and its ceiling hung with tiny lights that made it forever midnight. Through the noise and clatter of hundreds of people, she could smell the bistro and the fish cooking. She made her way between tables and chairs, people arguing, laughing too loudly or staring out at nothing. Over against a wall, with a schooner glass in front of him and reading a folded-down paper, she recognised the man she was seeking.

  She walked up to him and put her hand out. ‘Jim Buisman?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ Buisman looked up at her, his shaved head a little to one side, squinting over his bifocal reading glasses. He was not pleased to be interrupted.

  ‘I’m Gemma Lincoln,’ she said with what she hoped was a disarming smile, hastily sitting before he could respond. ‘Licensed investigator.’ She flashed her ID. ‘I’m hoping you can help me with a couple of questions.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ he said, looking down his nose at her ID and picking up the schooner glass.

  ‘Let me buy you one,’ she said chirpily.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and showing his large beer belly. ‘You used to hang around with that smart little redheaded number. Annie McDonald.’

  ‘Angie McDonald.’

  He gave no sign he’d heard. ‘I’m out of the job. HOD.’

  ‘Shoot-out?’

  ‘Milkshake.’

  ‘They can be bloody dangerous.’ Gemma couldn’t resist. ‘Specially the double malted.’

  ‘When you slip on them in the meal room,’ he said through his teeth, ‘they can break a foot bone.’

  Gemma regretted her flippant response and tried to make peace. ‘What are you drinking?’ He told her and she went over the long bar. By the time she got back with his new beer, he was deep in the sports section again and the glass in front of him was empty.

  ‘So,’ he said, folding the paper away as she sat down. ‘What do you want from me?’ It seemed he’d forgiven her now that the schooner had arrived.

  As he drank the beer, she brought him up to date with what had happened since Amy Bernhard had disappeared, explaining her place in the investigation and asking him about his supervision of the original investigation when Amy was listed as missing.

  ‘It’s a homicide case now,’ he responded. ‘I heard she’d turned up on a bit of scrub near Port Botany. What have the scientific boys found?’

  ‘Very little. All they’ve got is some fancy cord tied round a wrist. And an unusual knot.’

  ‘Colin Roper can get a lot from knots,’ said Buisman, turning his attention to a huge colour television in the corner of the room where a horse race was in progress.

  ‘This one was called a thief knot,’ said Gemma. ‘Apparently it looks almost identical to a reef knot.’

  Buisman grunted, not taking his eyes off the screen as the horses thundered down the straight.

  ‘And you’ll no doubt remember,’ Gemma pressed on, ‘that Bruno Gross was senior investigator in the initial strikeforce after Amy went missing.’

  ‘So?’ The winner flashed past the post and Buisman threw his newspaper down in disgust.

  ‘I’ve sighted a memo sent by you,’ Gemma persisted, ‘taking Bruno Gross off the whole investigation. You mentioned a “situation”.’

  The energy between them suddenly changed. No longer was he the bored ex-cop, barely tolerating questions about something he couldn’t care less about. Buisman’s ruddy brow wrinkled and, although he affected a frowning forgetfulness, his eyes, when he took the bifocals off and placed them on the table, were hard and clear, wary and full of vigilance. ‘You expect me to remember some piece of paper from a year ago?’

  ‘If there was a situation warranting you taking someone off a case, I don’t think you would have forgotten.’ Gemma leaned in closer, working hard to pick up the subtext in his demeanour. ‘I’d remember making a decision like that—taking someone off a case. And sending them the memo about it.’

  ‘You women are pretty smart like that. You never forget anything.’ He picked up his paper again. ‘You should’ve seen the letter my ex-missus left me when she walked out.’ He unfolded the newspaper and put the bifocals back on, turning his attention to another race, another horse’s name with a red biro circle around it. ‘Thanks for the beer. But I can’t really help you.’

  Gemma sat staring at him. He was lying, of that she was certain. Slowly she stood up.

  Buisman glanced up. He leaned forward, as if he were about to confide in her. ‘I’ll give you a tip, just to show you that I can still appreciate a pretty girl.’

  Gemma held her peace and waited.

  ‘You mentioned a thief knot,’ Buisman continued. ‘I remember a violent offender who used a thief knot. A rapist. Colin Roper pointed it out to me. It was about twenty years ago. Used the girl’s own scarf in one case. It’s probably filed away somewhere in an old exhibit bag.’ He attempted a smile but it went nowhere near his eyes. ‘We never got that bastard.’

  As she stepped outside, Gemma glanced back. Buisman, no longer involved with his sports newspaper or the races on the big monitor, was huddled in conversation on his mobile.
Gemma would have taken bets about who was on the other end of the line.

  •

  ‘Your sister rang and the new tenant from upstairs knocked on the door,’ said Hugo when Gemma arrived home.

  ‘What?’ She’d been miles away, wondering what Buisman was hiding under the booze and the horses.

  ‘The new tenant upstairs,’ the Ratbag reiterated patiently, the expression on his face saying: See? I can be helpful to you. ‘He said to tell you that the gas man’s coming in the morning to do some work for him and do you want any repairs done or anything?’ He passed her a business card.

  ‘When was this?’ she said, looking at the gas man’s card.

  ‘About an hour after you left. He’s offering a fifty per cent discount on bayonet fittings. Summer rates for winter jobs, he said.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘The new tenant said. About the gas man. What’s the matter with you? You’re not listening.’

  Gemma focused her attention. ‘What does the new tenant look like?’

  ‘He’s just an ordinary-looking bloke. Real cool shirt. Bit of a beer belly.’

  ‘Come on, Hugo. If you want to work as a PI you’re going to have to do better than that.’

  Hugo beamed. ‘Okay!’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’d say he was about one and a half metres tall, with dark hair—I mean, what you could see of it. He was going bald at the front. He had a tatt on one arm, but I couldn’t—’

  ‘Good work,’ she said, cutting him short, relieved. It wasn’t Mike.

  ‘Have you got a bayonet?’ He looked so impressed it was hard for her to disappoint him.

  She explained what they were and put the gas man’s card on the dining table, thinking she’d ring him later. Another bayonet fitting in her office would be ideal, especially at a discount. It got cold in there in winter.

  ‘And Mike said be sure and let you know about the courier delivery.’

  ‘What delivery?’

  The Ratbag pointed towards her office. ‘On your desk.’

  A note in Mike’s writing sat on top of a security courier package. Gemma picked it up. This came and I signed for it, Mike had written. I opened it because it wasn’t addressed personally to you. Who got this? I hope it wasn’t you.