She started to speak, then shook her head.
‘You help me, I’ll help you. I can stop him for good.’
Jennifer looked up mockingly, still shaking her head.
‘Do you trust me?’ Cardilini asked.
‘I had nothing to do with Hardy’s death!’
‘How do you know about Saturday?’
Jennifer shook her head again. ‘I don’t know anything about it, but I was told a foreigner, some bloke who films stuff, mentioned to a girl he’d be busy Saturday night.’
‘Foreigner? What sort of foreigner?’
‘German, I think,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t be involved in this.’
‘Who’s the girl?’
‘No one knows.’
‘Why weren’t the police told?’ Cardilini asked.
Jennifer looked back bitterly. ‘Police! What do they care? How many girls have gone missing, some turning up dead, and nothing ever happens?’
‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ Cardilini said, turning.
‘I’m helping you here, you need to help me. You know I didn’t kill Hardy,’ she insisted.
Cardilini sighed, met her eyes – wide, brown and pleading; she looked like a child, despite her years. He imagined leaving Louise in a cell. ‘I’d like to believe it.’
‘Christ, Cardilini.’
‘I’ll look out for you,’ he said, but couldn’t meet her eyes. He paused for a second before leaving and locking the cell door behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Friday, 3 December 1965
9 p.m.
In the mirror her face had a deserted look which shocked her. She didn’t understand it. This is my time, she told herself as she brushed it away with a smile. She decided her lips were lovely, her cheeks rosy, her neck slender, her shoulders pinned back. She avoided looking at her eyes as she might avoid looking at someone who was accusing her of a crime. She understood what she was doing wasn’t a crime: she was doing this to survive, to make a living, to be famous and rich – to realise her dream. Just like her mum said, ‘A girl has got what she has got for a purpose, don’t throw it away on some idiot, use it to make your own fortune.’ Melody wondered if her mother was still making her fortune. She knew more than half of her mum’s men were idiots; idiots Melody used to play like a flute. She’d had the power then as she would have tomorrow night. She would have the power and, like an opera singer, she would put horror and fear on their faces as they witnessed the tragedy of her torture.
Car headlights flashed on her window and an engine roared to a halt. Melody looked out the window. This could be Archie; just like him to drive like a madman. Men’s laughing voices echoed around the clearing. She flicked off the dressing-table lamp. Two men were looking into the boot of the car, pointing and pushing at each other. A chill went through her. She quickly turned from the window.
Muffled screams came from the clearing and she put her hands over her ears. Though terrified, she turned back to the window. The men were attempting to grasp at something moving in the boot, they were pulling their arms back quickly and laughing. They were holding a figure, just as they had held her, one man with his hands under the armpits, the other holding the bucking ankles. The vigorous bucking legs made Melody think it was a man, then a blackness fell and she saw the gleaming white legs.
The men laughed and whooped as the thrashing figure’s skirt was now above her waist revealing her stockings, suspenders and underwear. Melody pulled herself from the window, squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands over her ears again. She remembered the story Archie told her of the two girls who were found dead. She had dismissed him, sworn at him for putting her in the same category of girls who were dumb enough to fall that low. She had no sympathy for them; they had lost control, it was their own fault. Melody would never lose control. She would maintain her value. But now, as terror pulled at her stomach, she slid down the wall and pulled her knees towards her.
A fist pounded on the caravan door.
‘Time for your performance, your grace, get your glad rags on,’ a mocking voice called. Melody wanted to ask where Archie was, wanted to protest that she’d been told the performance was on Saturday night, not tonight, but her voice was trapped in her throat. She stilled her shaking hands: a moment ago the caravan was hot but now she was so cold. She told herself, No, no, no, this is your opportunity, and stood steadfast. I will show them, I will show them all.
***
The barn was lit up like daylight. Where was Archie? She swore that that was it, she’d had enough, and if he came now she wouldn’t let him touch her. But who would do his role? She swore and fought off her shallow breathing and shaking. He’d better be here. This was the performance that was to be filmed, nothing must get in the way – the slightest lapse and the tension would be lost. She’d heard someone laugh one time and remembered burning with shame. It was her performance that kept her in demand. Archie just had to stop drinking, stop listening to silly stories and feeling miserable.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She was beautiful. She had beautiful eyes, a perfect face. Why hadn’t Con seen that? Now everything had to be perfect. Now was her chance. She’d seen the way Heckle and Jeckle had started treating her; they knew now she had the power, that she would be a star. She opened her mouth and let a scream just sit in her throat. The first scream had to be perfect. It set the tone. She watched her eyes, raised her head and admired her neck. She was so lucky.
Please, please, dear God, let this be the start. Please, after all your punishment, I’m now ready for that beautiful life.
***
Daniel Abraham knew his preparation was first class. Ricker wanted extra cameras to capture Archie Cooper’s reactions. And the extra girl was a welcome surprise. The last two cameras he had to get at short notice, but he thought it a stroke of genius on Ricker’s part. Ricker explained it would move their product to the next level and guarantee Saturday’s event would be in high demand.
He turned his attention to Archie Cooper and the delicious addition. Both were bound to roof support pillars as thick as tree trunks. Cooper’s hands were tied behind the pillar, his arms, chest, waist, thighs and ankles were bound by a thick mooring line. The effect was dramatic. Ricker had commented on it and also on the girl’s Valkyrie outfit. In the short tunic her white thighs were deeply erotic. Though older than the others she was still beautiful, in a Katherine Hepburn manner. Abraham had her held down when she was first dressed. He wanted to rape her there and then. It was only the eyes of the two men holding her, men who’d come to Australia with Ricker, that stopped him. And thankfully he had stopped, for Ricker would not appreciate that sort of treatment. Ricker wanted her composed so the horror would grow on her face.
Not much chance of that, he thought, looking at her now; her eyes were as large as dinner plates. Her mouth was crammed with cloth so her jaw was locked wide open.
Cooper was looking defiant; he was proving stronger than they had anticipated: not even the three days in captivity, isolated in a room at the back of the house, had destroyed his resistance.
‘Change that look,’ Ricker instructed. Abraham gave Cooper a resounding smack on the face, but his hand was stinging, so he called the closest man from his camera to belt him properly. Cooper danced around like a doll on a string as the man punched him. Abraham laughed. That certainly changed Cooper’s attitude.
Abraham walked over to Katherine, smiled at her, and signalled the man to come over while he watched her eyes widen even further. Her terror filled him with joy. He waved the man away and walked back to his chair beside Ricker. When the pair were settled with a drink they toasted each other. It was perfect.
Instructions were yelled, cameras started rolling and one of Ricker’s men went to get Audrey Hepburn.
When Melody was brought in and saw Archie and the girl tied to the pillars she lost
the power in her limbs. She thought she recognised the girl, even in the warrior costume. It didn’t make sense. Her legs folded and she had to be carried to her chair.
Ricker began swearing and yelling his disapproval to Abraham.
Melody didn’t feel her arms or legs being tied, only a thumping in her throat. Her vision moved in and out of focus. One of the men stepped forward with a camera. No, this is not right, she whispered to herself.
‘Tell him you don’t want to be hurt,’ one of the men said.
Melody turned in confusion from Archie to the warrior and the faces of the other men.
‘Tell him.’ The man pointed to the cameraman.
‘I don’t want to be hurt,’ she pleaded.
‘Tell the camera,’ Ricker instructed.
‘I don’t want to be hurt,’ she repeated.
‘Smile, pleadingly,’ Ricker said.
Melody looked to Archie. He was encouraging her with his eyes and the nodding of his head. Melody did her best to smile but her lips were quivering uncontrollably. ‘Archie,’ she called, ‘what’s happening?’
Archie shook his head as tears filled his eyes.
She slumped back in the chair and an old but familiar feeling crept through her. She saw, through a dusty window, a young girl holding a tiny bluebird pendant. She smelt the stench of sweat and tried to move her hand to wind down the car window but couldn’t. Tears began to fall, fall in showers of sorrow for the girl in the car.
Ricker became furious as the vision of fear fell from Melody’s face. He jumped from his chair, threw his glass against the wall and screamed instructions to one of his men. The man retrieved a satchel and withdrew a syringe and vial.
Once injected, Melody reacted as if electrocuted. Her eyes and mouth shot open. The man looked to Ricker and received a nod to repeat the dose, which he did. Melody’s body arched; she tilted her head back and screamed. Ricker clapped. He issued more instructions, cameras shifted; Ricker poured himself another drink, took off his jacket and walked over to Melody. Her eyes were flicking while her fingers, arms, feet, legs and toes tried to claw their way free. He was handed a scalpel and he snapped an order at the closest man, who shifted his camera. When Ricker was satisfied he lifted the scalpel to Melody’s face and turned the glinting blade for the camera.
Melody felt like she was strapped to the front of a train plunging down a track. She screamed and screamed again … She caught glimpses of Archie writhing, crying; their eyes met. In a chaos of images, she saw the eyes of the warrior, hollows of despair. Finally, she saw the face of the young girl smiling at her from the moving car window. She smiled back.
Again, Ricker became incensed, screaming instructions.
Melody felt her bonds being released. She collapsed into arms that dragged her to the side. Her wrists were tied, her ankles were tied and she was hauled upwards so her arms were stretched. Her legs were pulled apart so her feet brushed the ground. When fire hit her veins she jolted, pulled and danced in the bindings, eyes open wide. The devil stood before her, features blank, eyes glimmering, a rictus grin.
She closed her eyes and held her bluebird tightly.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Saturday, 4 December 1965
6.15 a.m.
Cardilini hadn’t slept. His mind kept running over the scenarios. He was worried about Melody, worried about losing the German, worried about Spencer: he kept picturing her as she left the office yesterday. At times during the night he’d clung to the timber foot of the single bed in the sleep-out, praying for strength, to stay sane and focused, all the while muffling his anguish so as not to wake Paul.
He’d got to the station at 7 a.m. It was now 9 a.m. and Spencer still hadn’t arrived. He hoped she was taking his advice and not coming in at all. He tried to think of an excuse in case she found out he’d gone to the airport. He felt guilty. It’s for her own protection, he kept telling himself.
His phone rang. It was Flavour, his customs and border protection contact. ‘You’ve got a fax coming. Get onto it before anyone else. The quality’s not great, but we found passport photographs of the ones you wanted. One of them, a diplomat by the name of Ricker Schmitt, has a flight out tomorrow at midday.’
‘Noted, thanks. Anything else?’
‘Nope, we don’t have much to do with diplomats. Check with the federal police – they might, but I doubt it. It’s a tight circle at that level and consecutive ministers have been very protective of diplomatic guests.’
Cardilini went downstairs to the fax machine. Two sheets of paper sat in its tray.
***
An hour or so later, Cardilini watched the Qantas Boeing 707 taxi to the front of the terminal. He was still fighting with last night’s horrors as passengers disembarked and made their way across the tarmac into the arrivals lounge. There were ten men, all by themselves. Passengers started to trickle from customs, each with a look of part bewilderment, part weariness. Individuals and families were greeted. An older man with a weathered, tanned face and greying crew-cut and two young business types walked through without looking his way. A younger man went through, then two women. He thought the ones he was there to greet might have been caught in customs. He half hoped they were.
The last person, by Cardilini’s count, to come through was a single man in a crumpled suit. He seemed harried. Cardilini made a step forward to attract his attention, but the man glanced at him then continued on his way. Cardilini checked his watch again. Something had gone wrong. He turned and started towards the door. The line at the taxi rank had thinned; only the older man with the weathered, tanned face and a woman stood separately.
‘Cardilini?’ an accented voice called. He stopped and turned. The grey-haired man walked towards him, the woman several yards behind.
‘Yes?’ Cardilini asked, half-expecting him to be an ex-copper.
‘Just go to your car.’ It was a voice used to giving commands.
Cardilini did as he was told. He opened the boot for their cases and sat in the driver’s seat. The boot closed then the two rear doors opened and closed.
‘Let’s go.’
Cardilini started the car and drove to the exit.
‘Can you talk while you’re driving?’ the woman asked in a deep, German-accented voice.
Cardilini nodded. He then proceeded to tell them about the deaths of the young women, of how their bodies weren’t claimed. He told them about the mutilation. He related McBride’s wartime experiences and that he’d identified the injuries the women suffered as similar, if not identical, to those on the Perth bodies. At that point he passed them a file containing the photos of Bridget, Karen and Melody. He told them about Jennifer Clancy and how she’d said some sort of ‘event’ was happening tonight. He didn’t mention his reconnaissance trip to Geraldton, but did tell them about Archie and Melody, where Melody was being held and its connection to Daniel Abraham.
As he spoke, he stole glimpses of the pair in the back seat. The lines around the man’s mouth, the vertical lines down his cheeks, the set of his eyes and chin revealed a grim determination. At one point he caught Cardilini’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. The contact was like a punch in the face. The woman had honey-blonde hair that curled around her face and fell below her shoulders. She wore heavy-rimmed, tinted glasses and sat hunched over a notepad. She didn’t look up and her questions were addressed to her lap.
Finally, he gave them copies of the faxes he’d received that morning and told them about Ricker Schmitt’s departure tomorrow. At the mention of Ricker’s name, the old man bristled.
‘What am I to call you?’ Cardilini asked him.
The man stared back impassively. Cardilini hadn’t seen that type of face for what seemed like hundreds of years but at the same time felt like yesterday. That tiredness but also the ferocity: it was the face of war. Cardilini looked away.
‘Call me
Michael.’ Cardilini looked to the woman in the rear-view mirror as she gave a short look to the man and continued writing in her notepad. ‘She’s Bathseva,’ the man added.
She glanced at Cardilini and sunlight caught her beautiful, dark almond eyes. Sorrow lodged in Cardilini’s throat. The beauty of a woman always did it. He drove on, letting the thoughts and images of Betty wash through him.
After some time, Michael asked, ‘Who knows we are here?’
‘No one, and we have to keep it that way.’
‘As long as our interests remain the same,’ the man said casually as he looked at his watch.
‘As long as our interests remain the same, I won’t be handing you over to the federal police.’
He caught Michael’s smile in the rear-view mirror and their eyes locked. Cardilini smiled back. You don’t scare me, you old bastard.
When they stopped outside the Adelphi Hotel, Michael said, ‘We will be gone before you know it.’
‘And this man?’ Cardilini asked. ‘How will you find him?’
Michael’s lips moved slightly – a knowing smirk, a smile, a doubt, Cardilini couldn’t tell. ‘We know now.’
‘You know who you’re after?’ Cardilini pointed to the photocopies of the faxed sheets. ‘One of those?’
Michael signalled to Bathseva and reached for the door handle.
Cardilini sat and waited a moment before getting out. The man was waiting at the boot of the car and Cardilini unlocked it. The lid rose and the man retrieved the two bags.
‘What about tonight?’ Cardilini asked.
‘We don’t need you now. Thank you.’
Cardilini reacted as if he’d been slapped. ‘You’ve got that wrong, old boy. I don’t need you now. You all but told me it’s the Schmitt fellow. Why don’t I just take it from here?’
Michael slowly nodded. ‘You shouldn’t be involved anymore. For your own good.’
‘No, I need to see this happen.’
Michael considered Cardilini, then turned to Bathseva. She gave the slightest nod.
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