Spiking the Girl

by Lord, Gabrielle

  ‘Me?’ Alistair Forde shook his head. ‘What would I be offering a lift to a young girl for? She’d just laugh at me.’

  Gemma pounced. ‘Is that what happened? Did she laugh at you?’ she dropped her voice. ‘And you decided to put an end to her laughing?’

  Forde was actually backing away, till he hit the edge of a chair and almost stumbled. ‘It’s not true! You’re just making this up as you go along! Everything I say you twist! You’re making everything I say into something ugly!’ Sweat beaded his forehead and his breath came in shocked bursts.

  Gemma closed in on him. ‘What you do is something ugly. Perving on young girls while they think they’re safe and sound in their own bedrooms.’

  Alistair Forde backed sideways around the chair behind him but Gemma followed him, step for step. He sat down suddenly, in another chair. God, thought Gemma, hearing his ragged breathing. She hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I might have had a bit of a look from time to time. But I swear I never touched that girl. Never. On my mother’s grave.’

  Angie’s mobile rang and she took the call. This gave Forde sufficient time to gather himself. He got up out of the chair, pointing a shaking finger towards the front door. ‘I want you to leave my house now,’ he said. ‘I try to be helpful and this is what I get.’

  Angie rang off. ‘If you let us have a look round your backyard, we’ll go,’ she said. Gemma realised Angie didn’t want the hassle of having to organise a warrant.

  Forde hesitated, weighing up the situation. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ he mumbled eventually and showed them out into the small fenced yard. ‘But you’re not coming back in here after today without a proper warrant,’ he said, slamming the door behind them.

  Alistair Forde watched from the window while they checked around his boundary line. The bushes in which he’d alleged he’d seen a prowler proved to be an overgrown ginger plant and a couple of hydrangeas that grew almost to the sill.

  ‘Amy’s window,’ Angie remarked as they stood looking across at it.

  ‘And then he’s supposed to have taken off down the back and over the rear fence,’ said Gemma.

  The fence, covered in the glossy green leaves of star jasmine, stood on a slight inclination of the land. Angie hauled herself up on it, peering over into the adjoining backyard. ‘It’s all quite possible, what he’s told us,’ she said, jumping back down again, brushing bits of jasmine off her hands.

  Back in Angie’s car, Gemma put a hand on her abdomen, feeling bloated and uncomfortable. She would be very pleased when her period arrived.

  ‘Let’s head to the morgue,’ said Angie. ‘I phoned earlier today.’

  ‘What about Forde?’ Gemma replied, giving her friend an enquiring glance.

  ‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ Angie said.

  •

  ‘Got your visitor’s badge?’ said Angie as they walked around to the back door and were buzzed in by the same morgue attendant Gemma recalled from eight years ago.

  ‘I called Dr Annette Chang earlier,’ said Angie, flashing her ID. ‘The pathologist who did the PM on Tasmin Summers?’

  ‘She’s just finishing up now,’ said the attendant. ‘I’ll take you down to her.’

  Gemma followed him and her friend down corridors she remembered from her days in the job until they arrived at an open door. At the sound of their approach, Dr Chang, who’d been working at her desk, turned round. Perfect creamy skin was enhanced by the tiny pearls in her ear lobes; the refinement of her silk blouse and tailored jacket set off by her sleek black hair.

  Gemma recalled the times she’d stood on the blue lino near the pathologist, patiently taking photographs at each stage of the examination and documentation. She’d spent many an hour watching the weighing and recording of the dead organs, the placing of tissue samples in little plastic cages, the brain in its bucket to harden for the neuropathologist.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of Bruno Gross,’ Angie said. ‘I had a message that you’d finished your physical examination of Tasmin Summers?’

  ‘My part is almost done,’ said Dr Chang. ‘But it could be a week or two before all the tests come back.’

  ‘Anything you can tell me while we’re waiting for the analysts’ results?’ asked Angie.

  Dr Chang reviewed her screen, scrolling through a document. ‘I do have the results of the diatom concentrations. I requested those ASAP.’

  Gemma remembered this word. Microscopic algae, their filigree silica shapes as varied as snowflakes, diatoms occur in teeming numbers in waterways.

  ‘At first glance,’ the doctor was saying, ‘it looked like the cause of death was drowning. We found concentrations of diatoms in the lungs.’ Angie and Gemma looked at each other as the doctor continued. ‘But none in the other organ samples—brain, marrow, liver or kidneys.’

  ‘So she didn’t drown?’ Gemma asked.

  Doctor Chang shook her head. ‘I found initial indications of opiates in her system, but again, we’ll have to wait for the toxicology reports on the tissue samples before we can say for certain what she’d taken. I did notice a very strong smell of alcohol in the stomach contents.’ She looked over the top of her screen at them. ‘Very high concentration in the bloodstream too.’

  ‘That deep laceration on one side of the wrist,’ Gemma said, remembering the gash she’d seen on the crime scene video, ‘where the cord was tied. What made that? Do you think Tasmin cut herself trying to get free?’

  Dr Chang again shook her glossy head. ‘By the time that cut was made,’ she said, ‘Tasmin was long past trying anything. It was a post-mortem wound. There were no vital reactions around it.’

  Gemma took that in while the doctor stood, gathering up papers from the desk. ‘Maybe someone lifted her body by the cord and the skin tore?’ the doctor went on. ‘Or possibly the cord became entangled with something underwater? Whatever it was, it exerted sufficient pressure and tension to cause that injury.’

  Dr Chang packed papers and notebooks into a fawn and green crocodile briefcase and rose to feet enclosed in perfectly matching low-heeled shoes. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she smiled. ‘It’s late and I have children to pick up.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Angie, stepping back to allow the doctor to switch her office light off and step out into the corridor. They walked towards the exit in silence until the foyer area.

  ‘So if she didn’t drown . . . ?’ Angie began.

  ‘I believe she died from the combined effects of various opiate depressants and alcohol, together with a physical obstruction to her breathing.’ The doctor paused, just about to push open the heavy glass doors onto Parramatta Road. ‘I found large amounts of semen at the back of her throat. And blood in her mouth.’

  ‘Her blood?’ The picture that was forming in Gemma’s mind was not pretty. It seemed Tasmin had been exploited sexually in every possible way, and fatally.

  ‘At this stage, I don’t know. But I had positive reactions for semen in both vaginal and anal swabs as well.’

  Gemma felt a sudden rage. ‘You’re suggesting she choked during oral sex?’

  Dr Chang pushed the door open. ‘That theory would not conflict with my findings,’ she said. ‘We’ll know more when the DNA samples are profiled.’ She made a graceful inclination with her head.

  Gemma and Angie got the message and hurried outside.

  ‘That’s what might have happened to Amy,’ Gemma said as they got into Angie’s car.

  •

  The Ratbag wasn’t in when Gemma finally arrived home again. Unable to shake the feelings of anger and sorrow aroused in her by Dr Chang’s findings and the rape case she’d read about in the VMO files, she went out to the deck. The evening seemed heavy with unavenged, seething energies. Looking down, she saw that the neglected
garden was wilting and decided to water it in the hot night air. She glanced up to the windows of the apartment on top of hers as she watered plants and saw that whoever had moved in still hadn’t organised curtains.

  She heard the radio crackle into life in her office. She turned the hose off and hurried inside.

  ‘Tracker Three here, Base. Copy?’

  ‘Spinner!’ she said, snatching up the radio. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I wanted to check with you about Daria Reynolds.’

  ‘Don’t waste another second on that woman!’ said Gemma. ‘Work out your hours and give them to me. Can you do that Bathurst job?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And there’s something else you can do while you’re there.’ Gemma’s free hand scrabbled around on the desk until it located Mannix Romero’s employment details. ‘It’s over twenty-five years ago, but someone who works or worked at Bathurst High might remember something. That was his first posting after teachers’ college.’

  She gave him a brief outline of the case and Romero’s name and date of birth, then told him about her first meeting with Romero, how he’d barged into the principal’s office without knocking, the breathless love letter inviting a rendezvous hidden in his desk and her discovery of his second laptop and the telescope trained on the girls’ dormitories.

  ‘Why do you want to know, Boss? Wasn’t he arrested?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gemma. ‘But I’m curious. And Angie is overworked.’

  ‘I’ll ask around. See what I can dig up.’

  If anyone could unearth an old secret, it was Spinner, Gemma thought as she wished him a safe trip. She rehoused the radio and went back outside to finish the watering. A quiet evening on the lounge beckoned invitingly but she glanced at her watch. No rest for the wicked, she thought.

  •

  Gemma was almost at Tiffany Brown’s place when her mobile rang. She picked it up and saw that Angie had sent her a text message—a website address followed by Take a look at this! The techies found this archived on Mr Romero’s laptop. Gemma saved it as she pulled up.

  Tiffany herself opened the front door when Gemma knocked. ‘You’re the lady on the staircase,’ she said with surprise, ‘who talked to us that night.’

  ‘The lady on the staircase! That makes me sound like a ghost,’ said Gemma and immediately regretted her comment. She’d forgotten how embarrassed adolescents can be by the remarks of adults. And worse, the words caused a shiver to run down her spine. Someone’s walking over my grave, Aunt Merle used to say. I’m not ready to be a ghost, Gemma thought as Tiffany led her into an open-plan house. Half an acre away, a granite kitchen gleamed and in another corner a lounge was arranged. Tiffany plonked herself down on a damask sofa, sinking into the luxurious cushions like a spoonful of sugar into a cappuccino.

  ‘I’ll sit here, shall I?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’

  Gemma perched on a small upright chair as Tiffany waited expectantly, eyes bright in her softly freckled face.

  ‘Tiffany, I need to ask you about your witness statement,’ said Gemma.

  Tiffany looked scared. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Gemma reassured her. ‘I just want to make sure I’ve got everything right. Just checking a few finer points. Okay?’

  Tiffany still looked wary so Gemma hurried on. ‘Let me just read it to you.’ She pulled out the copy. ‘My name is Tiffany Louise Brown and the last time I saw Amy Bernhard was the morning of December second when we were at the bus stop. The bus was quite crowded that morning. Amy is in the same class as me, but we do different level Maths. Someone told me she’d gone missing from the school grounds that morning. I can’t think of any reason why she might run away.’

  Tiffany nodded. ‘That’s right. That’s all true.’

  Tiffany’s mother appeared, crossing the kitchen. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked brightly, after the initial greetings.

  Gemma assured her it was and Tiffany nodded. They heard Mrs Brown’s footsteps fading as she carried a coffee upstairs.

  ‘Tell me a bit more about where Amy was that morning,’ said Gemma. ‘Who she was talking to at the bus stop?’

  Tiffany made a face. ‘Who do you think? Tasmin Summers and Claudia Page, who else?’

  ‘And was there anything about her that caught your attention? Anything different from usual?’

  Tiffany shook her head.

  Gemma considered something else. ‘Have you any idea why Amy might have left the school grounds later?’

  Tiffany shrugged. ‘Who knows? Amy did pretty well whatever she liked.’

  ‘And can you remember who it was who told you that Amy had left the school grounds that morning?’

  Tiffany looked sheepish. ‘I left that bit out,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t want to get her into trouble.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It won’t get back to the school, will it? If I tell you something I left out of that?’ She pointed to the copy of the witness statement.

  ‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘This is just between you and me. Who was it you didn’t want to get in trouble?’

  ‘Claudia. She was the one who told me. But if I’d put that in my statement, I thought it might get her into trouble—you know, because she didn’t dob to the teachers that Amy had shot through when it all got serious later.’

  Claudia telling Tiffany that Amy had left the school grounds in the morning. Gemma’s suspicion was hardening . . .

  ‘Let me get this clear,’ Gemma said. ‘You’re saying that the person you call “someone” in your statement was actually Claudia Page?’

  Tiffany nodded. ‘Is it all right? You said when you spoke at the school that anything we told you would be kept in confidence.’ Her young face contracted with anxiety. ‘You won’t say anything to the school?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I promise I won’t say a word at the school.’

  Tiffany relaxed a little.

  ‘And you saw Amy talking to Claudia and Tasmin at the bus stop?’ Gemma continued.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see Amy get on the bus?’

  Tiffany shook her head.

  ‘Did you see her get off the bus?’

  ‘No. But I was one of the first people off. She could have been behind me.’

  ‘And did you see Amy at school that morning?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Tiffany shook her head.

  Gemma stood up. ‘Thanks, Tiffany.’

  Tiffany uncurled herself, apparently disappointed that the interview was over. ‘Is that all?’

  Not entirely, Gemma was thinking. In fact, it’s just beginning. She was starting to suspect Amy Bernhard never actually made it onto the school bus.

  •

  Gemma pulled up outside her place and switched her radio off. She climbed out of her car, looking around fast; partly habit, this quick catlike surveillance of her territory was now even more essential. Underneath everything else going on in her life right now, the memory of that pencilled warning lay like an open grave, cold and dark, at the bottom of her mind. Even here, in her safe street, with her secure apartment close at hand, the warning stirred. But when she saw Mike’s car parked on the street, her mood changed. She hurried down the steps to the front garden and went inside.

  Mike turned on the swivel chair in front of his desk as she came into the operatives’ room. Gemma hesitated, waiting for him to start first in a silence filled with crowding regrets and shame.

  ‘Gemma,’ he said, standing up and coming over. ‘I was checking the current jobs. Looks like we’re way behind on some of them.’

  ‘We are. I’ve been caught up in the Netherleigh Park business. It’s a double murder investigation now. And Spinner’s off in the bush for a day or two.’

&
nbsp; ‘So what would you like me to do?’

  The nicest words a man can say to a woman, Gemma thought. She was tempted to invite him into the murder investigation, but drew back from that. Best they stay on separate jobs for a while.

  ‘You could take over the Forever Diamonds investigation. I’ve neglected that brief. I really need someone to get into their factory. Report back on how they receipt and make sure the correct diamond goes to the right home. I know they’re desperate for a receptionist.’

  She considered. There were several good women in the security business who could work undercover. But could she afford one of them right now? Maybe she could do a contra deal with another female PI?

  Mike checked Annie Dunlop’s place on his laptop while Gemma filled him in on the details of Mr Dowling’s complaint. She leaned over his shoulder to see the images, aware of Mike’s pleasing male scents, determined to keep things businesslike between them.

  ‘I think she must be seeing things,’ said Mike as he checked Mrs Dunlop’s lounge room on the screen. ‘There’s nothing moving in there except the old girl herself.’ In the jerky time-lapse surveillance coverage, Gemma saw Annie Dunlop settling down into her big armchair, a cup of something on the table beside her.

  Then they went through the outstanding insurance jobs and Mike selected several that Spinner needed to put to one side. Gemma left Mike organising his work on the new jobs and went into her own office, logging on to the website Angie had messaged her, the one found archived on Mannix Romero’s second laptop. A banner came up.

  Cute students by day; horny sluts by night at the Black Diamond Room! They can’t get enough of the gang-bang squad. Cum see what they get up to!!

  Gemma waited. The first image was an almost naked Amy Bernhard. Another hyperlink flashed under Amy’s body: a black diamond icon slowly turning on its axis. Gemma clicked on it and a scene from pornoland unfolded—a glittering black chandelier lighting black satin sheets and cushions, with a bed in the foreground, a girl on it wearing nothing except a diamond garter, and a group of men.