by John Byron
‘I’d love one,’ Sylvia said, ‘but I’ll just grab a shower first.’
Jo nodded. ‘No worries.’
Sylvia raised an amused eyebrow at the pair, then headed for the bathroom. She rinsed her swimsuit then soaped up. This was an intriguing development. She must have been wrong about Matthijs, or else it had blown over. But this was obviously doing Jo good. Either way, it was all best kept on the down-low.
Sylvia finished her shower and put on her dry clothes. Back in the living room, she found Jo and Amy on the sofa sipping their teas.
Sylvia grabbed her cup of tea from the bench on the way past and sat on the floor. ‘How have you been, Amy?’ she asked.
Amy glanced at Jo and stroked her ankle. ‘Pretty bloody good, lately. How about you?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ replied Sylvia. ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be at Surry Hills?’
‘I’m on my academic day,’ said Jo. ‘But my office at uni has no air conditioning so I’m better off at home. There’d be nobody there to miss me, anyway.’
‘Getting lots of research done then, Dr King?’
Jo stuck her tongue out but didn’t attempt to defend herself.
‘And I’m taking a day in lieu for working on Labour Day,’ said Amy. ‘It’s all legit.’
‘Although we’d rather you didn’t mention it,’ added Jo.
‘Yeah, no, I’d assumed that,’ said Sylvia. ‘Don’t worry; not a soul.’ She hesitated. ‘But I will say how well this suits you both.’
Jo returned her smile lovingly. ‘Thanks, Sylv. That means a lot to me.’ She stroked Amy’s arm. ‘This one is taking very good care of me.’
‘That’s the way it should be.’ Sylvia cleared her throat and sat upright. She couldn’t afford to think too much about that sort of thing right now. ‘Have you been playing guitar long?’ she asked Amy.
‘No, I’m still learning, really.’
‘Me too,’ said Sylvia.
‘That’s such bullshit,’ said Jo. ‘Sylvia is performance-standard,’ she told Amy, while Sylvia shook her head. ‘She’s had paid gigs and all.’
‘That’s awesome! Whereabouts?’
‘Oh god, I was pretty ordinary,’ said Sylvia. ‘I had a residency at the Tilbury, year before last.’
‘You were not ordinary!’ said Jo. ‘You were a bit nervous at the start, but once you relaxed you were terrific. Your last two shows were packed out.’
‘Anyway they shut it down after me,’ said Sylvia wryly.
‘That was the noise complaints!’ Jo shook her head and laughed.
‘Have you considered doing it again?’ Amy asked Sylvia.
‘I have, but it’s pretty nerve-wracking. I’d need to practise a lot more first.’
‘You should, though, you’re a natural,’ said Jo.
‘Maybe,’ said Sylvia. Radiography had been positive but the persistent throbbing in the bruised fingers of her right hand told her it would be another week or two before she’d pick up a guitar. She looked at Jo’s kitchen clock. ‘I’d better get going, I have some errands to run.’ She got to her feet and scooped up her bag.
The other two stood as well. ‘Thanks for being so lovely, Sylv,’ said Jo as she hugged her. ‘You’re the best.’
‘It’s nice to see you so happy, sis.’ She gave Jo an extra squeeze, then turned to give Amy a light hug. ‘Welcome to the family, Amy. Or half of it, anyway.’
‘Might be best left at that for now,’ said Jo.
‘I reckon you’re right,’ Sylvia replied, opening the door. ‘But I’m glad to be in the picture. I hope we can hang out.’
‘Yeah, I’d like that,’ said Amy.
‘Hey, let’s all go to the Ladies’ Baths,’ said Jo, her arm around Amy. ‘One day over the holidays when we’re all not working.’
‘That’d be great,’ said Sylvia. ‘Have fun!’
Jo smiled. ‘Oh, we will,’ she said as Sylvia closed the door.
Tuesday 18 December – morning
The twelve-seat dining table in Neutral Bay was an elaborate mahogany antique with the aura of an heirloom piece, although this was probably the end of the line, with all the fluids from the owner’s corpse ruining the finish.
‘Who is she, Mack?’ asked Murphy. He’d brought the whole squad with him today, plus Jo. It was well past time for all hands on deck.
‘Amber Felicity Darcy. Passport in the bedside table checks out. Fifty-four, married with one, husband found her when he returned from a business trip.’
‘Looks like you got your sex-type thing, boss,’ said Harris, bent over the table inspecting the crater where her pelvis used to be. He pulled back and shook his head. ‘That’s seriously fucked up.’
‘No, I don’t think it is like that, actually,’ said Mack. ‘This is strictly the lady version of the bollocking at Roseville. Wouldn’t you say, Jo?’
Jo summoned to mind Hazlitt’s observation that technical interest overcomes repugnance even at the sight of a maimed corpse, and looked again at the remains with an analytical eye. With the exception of a thoroughly dissected left breast, the rest of the body had been disturbed only to the extent necessary to gain access to the reproductive organs. The killer had removed these and dissected them in detail at the other end of the long table.
‘Yes, this is a straight dissection of the female reproductive organs,’ she confirmed. ‘Volume Five, Chapters Fifteen and Eighteen: the uterus and other female organs, and the breasts.’
‘Not Sixteen and Seventeen?’ asked Janssen.
‘I’ll defer to Mack, but I’m guessing the pregnancy chapters don’t apply.’
‘No, you’re right, Jo. She was most likely beyond that, anyway.’
‘So no violation, then?’ asked Harris.
Mack shook his head. ‘There’s no foreign material, he’s proceeded in his customary orderly fashion and he’s shown the genitals a strictly professional anatomical interest.’
‘You call this orderly?’ asked Murphy sceptically, looking at the pile of organs and the jagged cuts on the body. ‘Professional?’
‘I’ll grant you it’s untidier than the last few. But I’ve seen plenty of dissections and plenty of sex murders, Spud. Believe me, I know the difference.’
‘Fair enough, just asking.’
‘Bloody methodical with that book,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘He’s a machine.’
‘Two volumes to go, isn’t it?’ asked Nguyễn.
Mack nodded. ‘Heart and brain.’
Chartier groaned softly.
‘There will not be two more,’ said Murphy in a low, hard, even voice. ‘We’re going to fucking catch him.’
‘It’s strange he’s left everything else alone and stuck strictly to the gynaecology,’ said Jo.
‘Makes sense, if he’s just scoping out the new stuff,’ said Nguyễn.
‘Yeah, it’s methodical and all, but I wonder if it’s to do with time,’ Mack said. ‘He’s just left it as is, instead of arranging things for us like he’d been doing recently.’
‘As though the full-time siren went,’ said Nikolaidis.
‘How long do you think this would’ve taken?’ Chartier asked Mack.
‘Nothing like the others,’ said Mack. ‘A day, maybe? Less?’
‘Why choose a post-menopausal woman for female reproductive organs?’ asked Harris. ‘Seems odd to me.’
‘Good point,’ added Murphy.
‘No, the organs don’t change much, anatomically,’ said Mack.
‘But did Vesalius know that?’ asked Nikolaidis.
‘Fair question.’ Mack looked at Jo.
‘Vesalius’s specimens seemed to be of child-bearing age, like his dissection of the lactating breast,’ she said. ‘But he makes no comparative remarks to distinguish pre- and post-menopausal characteristics.’
‘Which he would have, if he’d had the chance,’ added Mack.
‘Definitely,’ said Jo. ‘He commented on everything he saw with his own eyes.’
&nbs
p; ‘Nah, but Harris is right,’ insisted Murphy. ‘If you want to inspect the reproductive system, surely you’d use a viable one.’
‘By that logic, our killer should go for a pregnant woman,’ said Chartier.
‘Ah, well, Vesalius never managed to dissect the pregnant uterus,’ said Jo. ‘That would be a big departure from the program.’
‘Perhaps he was avoiding another physical struggle with a fit young woman,’ suggested Janssen.
‘So no presents for us this time, Mack?’ asked Chartier.
‘There is, Amy, as it happens,’ said Mack, leading them across the lounge room to the fireplace. ‘When I said he just packed up and left, that wasn’t entirely true. He did leave us one little gift.’ He indicated a glass of greenish liquid on the mantelpiece.
‘Looks like chartreuse,’ said Janssen.
‘Too viscous,’ said Mack. ‘And by the whiff, a little too organic.’
‘What do you think it is?’ asked Murphy.
‘Obviously we’ll test it, but my guess is it’s another bit of character assessment.’
‘Oh, god,’ said Chartier. ‘It’s not bile?’
Mack nodded. ‘He’s milked the gall bladder.’
‘Good fuck,’ said Murphy.
They were each quietly processing this choice detail when a telephone shrilled, and everybody jumped. They all turned to the cordless handset on a side-table.
‘You answer,’ Murphy told Chartier. ‘Be her.’ He nodded at the corpse.
Chartier held the handset out so the others could hear. ‘Hello?’
‘Good morning, may I speak with Mrs Amber Darcy, please?’
‘What is it regarding?’
‘It’s Jen from Anthony Hordern & Sons department store, Mrs Darcy, in Pitt Street. You spoke with Annabelle on Sunday about your lost Hordern’s card?’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve been unable to track it down, Mrs Darcy.’
‘Right …’
‘So it’s Hordern’s policy to cancel a lost card immediately. I can organise —’
Murphy took the phone from Chartier’s hand. ‘Jen, is it?’
‘Oh. Yes. Who is this, please?’
‘Jen, this is Detective Senior Sergeant David Murphy of the New South Wales Police State Crime Command Homicide Squad. I’d like a word with your supervisor, please.’
Tuesday 18 December – afternoon
Two hours later, Murphy and Chartier were with the head of security at Anthony Hordern & Sons. Graeme Archer was an ex-cop who’d moved into the private sector for twice the salary, half the stress and one-tenth the risk.
‘Bloody hell, Archie, is that the best you can do?’ asked Murphy.
They were looking at grainy black-and-white security footage of a woman standing at the cosmetics counter. The picture was shithouse. Murphy couldn’t believe the contrast with the video from his high definition spy cameras at home.
‘How do you even know that’s Amber Darcy?’
‘Time stamp,’ said Archer. ‘And that’s Taasha, serving her.’
‘Come off it, there’s no way you can recognise that cashier.’
‘You would if you’d seen her in the flesh, mate. She’s a little hottie.’ He looked at Chartier. ‘Sorry.’
‘Just play the collision again, please,’ said Chartier.
Archer started the video. A man with two children approached Darcy just as she was putting her store card away. He bumped into her, knocking her purse to the ground. He bent over, surfaced with the purse and handed it to her. He paused to apologise, but his children escaped and he took off after them.
‘That’s the moment, but it’s the weirdest snatch I’ve ever seen,’ said Murphy. ‘Two kids under five to slow him down, then he hangs around to cop a mouthful. Not exactly a criminal mastermind, is he?’
‘Is there a better image of him later?’ asked Chartier.
Archer called up some footage from adjacent cameras, but the quality was so poor the man might’ve been anyone from Pope Francis to Humphrey B Bear.
‘I dunno,’ said Murphy. ‘It doesn’t add up, does it?’
‘What about her other transactions?’ asked Chartier. ‘Can we look at them?’
‘What’s the point?’ asked Archer. ‘She still had her card at cosmetics.’
This is vintage Archie, thought Murphy. Why go nine yards when four will do? ‘Just roll them, will you, mate?’
Archer brought up the kitchen appliances department, but it added nothing. Next he cued the toy department, with Darcy standing alongside a line of customers, obviously intending to cut in. She managed it, too, after a dispute with those in the queue.
‘That would have pissed them off,’ said Murphy.
‘That’s Erin who’s served her,’ said Archer as Darcy completed her transaction and left. He stopped the video.
‘No, keep going,’ said Chartier. Archer hit play again. ‘Go back to when she shows up, then play it through.’ Archer complied. ‘Stop,’ she said after Darcy left the frame. Chartier pointed to a figure at the adjacent cashier, who’d been in the queue during the argument. ‘This man was down at the cosmetics counter,’ she said.
Archer didn’t need any further instructions. He ran the cosmetics footage from the beginning in another window. A figure they hadn’t noticed earlier was hovering near Darcy and Taasha during their discussion.
‘Fuck me, you’re right,’ said Murphy. They couldn’t make out any features, but it was definitely toy-counter guy. He made brief contact with the father just before he knocked into Amber Darcy.
‘He’s given the dad a nudge,’ whispered Murphy. They watched both men go down to retrieve the spilled items; the father came up with the purse, while toy-counter guy stood, turned and headed for the doors.
‘He’s stolen her card right there,’ said Chartier.
‘For sure,’ said Archer.
‘Faaaark!’ groaned Murphy in anguish. ‘We fucken had him! Where do you buy your security kit, Arch? Fucken Vinnies?’
‘Mate.’
‘This is the halfest-arsed setup I’ve ever seen. And I work for the government.’
‘Believe me, I know,’ said Archer. ‘I take this into court and the magistrates want to put me away instead.’
‘Are all the stores like this?’ asked Chartier.
‘Nah, course not. Pitt Street’s last on the upgrade rollout. Fucken Launceston’s high def is so good they can probably tell people’s eye colour. But the profit forecast threatened the executive bonuses, so there’s a freeze on expenditure. Probably wiping their own arses up on the top floor, poor dears. We’re all doing our bit.’
Murphy pushed his seat back. ‘I sympathise with you, Archie, I do. But that’s no fucken help, is it? We have the killer of six citizens right there on camera!’
‘Come on, Spud. It’s not that bad.’
‘Arch, this prick has been invisible so far, then we get him on fucken video and it’s about as useful as a cave painting!’
‘At least you know he’s white and male. Probably middle-aged.’
‘Practically every serial killer in the entire fucken history of serial killing has been white, male and fucken middle-aged.’
Archer shrugged. ‘Now you know for sure.’
Murphy sighed lengthily. He was not to be mollified.
‘Here’s your MacGuffin, anyway,’ Chartier told him.
‘What, he takes the card round her place, talks his way in?’
‘Yeah, I reckon. Explains how he’s getting inside.’
‘Can’t see this working six times, though, can you? Picking their pockets?’
‘Yeah, I don’t like that bit,’ she admitted. ‘Way too risky.’
‘You would have seen this before, if he’d been pulling this caper all along,’ chimed in Archer.
At the interjection, the two sworn officers realised they’d been thinking aloud in front of an outsider. Ex-cop, but still.
‘Keep all this quiet will y
ou, Arch?’ asked Murphy. ‘I can’t afford another leak.’
‘Yeah, I saw the fingerprint thing on the news.’ Archer chortled. ‘You must have copped some shit over that.’
Murphy smiled grimly. ‘I could do without a repeat.’
‘I won’t breathe a word, Spud.’
‘Could you make us a copy?’
‘No worries. I’ll bring it over myself.’
‘We’re going to need to interview those two cashiers,’ said Chartier.
‘And the one who served our man,’ added Murphy.
‘Young Andrea. I’ll line it up.’
‘Thanks for this, Archie. It’s a big help,’ said Murphy. ‘Sorry for being shitty.’
‘It’s all right, Spud. I understand.’
‘How’s the festy season going, anyway?’ Murphy asked.
‘Same as always. I fucken hate Christmas.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Spud, you got no idea. Being a cop was bad enough, but retail crushes your faith in human nature. This industry would turn the Dalai Lama into Vlad the Impaler.’
Wednesday 19 December – morning
Chartier and Murphy had just finished filling in the squad on the Hordern’s tapes. They passed around someone’s homemade shortbread.
‘This is great, but it doesn’t get us anywhere,’ said Nikolaidis.
‘Are you kidding, Angelo?’ said Jo. ‘He got himself caught on camera!’
‘My old Commodore 64 had better resolution than that crap,’ he said, waving at the blurry stills on the incident board from atop his grey steel throne. ‘It’s completely useless.’
‘But we have a method,’ added Harris. ‘That’s a huge lead.’
‘No, it’s an aberration,’ said Murphy. ‘London to a brick it’s not his usual MO.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Harris asked.
‘There’s no way he’s doing this every time; we’d know about it for sure.’
‘But we only know about it by coincidence, because Hordern’s rang,’ said Jo. ‘He was just unlucky this time.’
‘That wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Chartier. ‘They rang because he took her card.’