Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

by Lord, Gabrielle

‘I’m going to have to lay you all off,’ she said. ‘There’ll be no work after this. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m so sorry. You’re all good workers. You’ll have no trouble finding employment and you can count on me giving you very good references. Not,’ she added bitterly, ‘that a reference from me will carry much weight anymore.’

  ‘But do you think anyone will want us after this?’ Louise’s babyish voice was tinged with misery. ‘We’re stuck in this shit, too.’

  She stood up and went to the door, watched in silence by Spinner and Mike. She seemed stunned, Gemma thought, noticing how remarkably thin Louise was. Had she always been like that and Gemma just hadn’t noticed?

  ‘It’s all gone wrong,’ said Louise. ‘Terribly, terribly wrong.’

  Gemma could only agree in silence. Louise left and Spinner walked to the window.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, a frown turning his wrinkled little jockey’s face into a leprechaun’s. ‘What else can I do? I’m unemployable in any other area. Give me something to do. You’re still my boss as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Look through the outstandings and take your pick,’ she said, feeling a little comforted.

  ‘What about this one?’ he said, picking up the Minkie Montreau folder.

  Gemma shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, taking the folder from him. ‘I have to tell her I’m handing the evidence I’ve collected against her over to the cops. Then she can pay me. As far as I’m concerned, that case is closed.’

  ‘Get her cheque first,’ warned Spinner, ‘then tell her what you have to do.’

  Gemma turned to Mike. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer immediately, but sat fiddling with the corner of the elastoplast over his eye. Finally, he got to his feet, picked up his jacket and pushed his chair in under the desk.

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  •

  This is my last visit to Minkie Montreau, Gemma thought as she drove towards the Vaucluse mansion. If I ever see her again, it will be when I’m in the witness box, being cross-examined during her trial. She thought back to when the case first came to her attention. It seemed ages ago now that Steve had come round with the wretched Scorpio charm around his neck, smelling like a stranger. Now, with her world lying in shards around her, she found some comfort in just doing the job she knew so well, tying up the ends, presenting her account. God knows how long it might be before she got another cheque. I have no idea how I’m going to survive this business, she thought. Maybe it will be just Spinner and me again, like the old days, until the scandal dies down and people forget. I’ll create a new business, let the work slowly build up again. It didn’t seem fair to have to start all over again at her age, but she knew the alternative was to collapse into aggrieved victimhood.

  The sight of the familiar canary-yellow BMW parked in Queen Street diverted her thoughts immediately. On full alert now, Gemma looked around for a place to pull over. I should just go straight past, she thought, go on to Vaucluse and stick my account and report in her mailbox. It doesn’t matter any more, the case is finished. But a rare parking spot alongside Zigolini’s tempted her more than her curiosity could bear. She swung into it, copping the admonishing angry horn of the driver immediately behind her, who’d had to use his brakes. She switched off the ignition and waited.

  It wasn’t long before she saw Anthony Love in a brown velvet jacket, his hair tied back in a romantic ponytail, help Minkie Montreau, spick and span in a crisp charcoal pantsuit, both laden with shopping, climb into the BMW. Gemma followed them home, parking on the high side of the street some way off. From here she had a good view of the house. Through the lacy iron gates, Gemma noticed a lot of giggling as the two lovers unloaded the car unpacking what looked like gourmet delicatessen treats and wine, Gemma thought, from the clinking of bottles. A baguette stuck out of a paper bag and Anthony Love angled the shopping bags he was carrying so that from Minkie’s point of view, it looked as if he were sporting a huge, crusty erection. Minkie’s features were creased with laughter. It was hard to imagine her as a ruthless murderer.

  Gemma waited while they went inside. And she waited a little longer. Then she climbed out, taking her briefcase and camera. Silently, she opened the gate and walked up the path through the formal wintering gardens, but this time, instead of pressing the doorbell, she crept around the building, tip-toeing along the sandstone flagging of the low verandah that surrounded the house. She had a pretty accurate idea where Minkie’s private sitting room lay, and she thought that would be the first place Minkie would take her lover, once they’d prepared their feast. As she circumnavigated the house, careful to make no sound, she saw the harbour ahead of her, the sea a deep winter navy, and the small craft going about their business. She continued creeping towards the back of the house, hoping her actions were obscured from people passing on the road by the lush growth of the flowering japonicas, pink, white and mauve, that edged the verandah. As she neared the windows of Minkie’s private sitting room, she could hear the sound of voices and the occasional burst of laughter.

  Gemma drew her camera out of the briefcase, silently switching it on, making sure it was ready. Why am I doing this? she asked herself. Insurance? She wasn’t entirely sure, but she had an idea that a video of these lovers together could one day provide her with some sort of bargaining power. She waited until things became quiet and then went right up to the barred window. The rich fabric of the two curtains didn’t quite meet in the centre of the window, and the lace under-curtain was very fine, allowing a narrow view into the cosy room. Gemma poked the camera towards the glass and checked in the viewfinder. Oh boy, she thought. What a picture! On a beautiful pale blue rug in front of the open fire, two bodies writhed. The tables around them were loaded with smoked salmon, cheeses, the broken baguette, a silver bowl of impossibly perfect fruit and two glasses of wine. But the couple on the floor were satisfying other appetites.

  She stepped back, looking round, again checking that her own activities were not being seen by neighbours. This is the Benjamin Glass arson case swan-song footage, she announced to herself. I’ll make Madam Minkie a copy of this and she can perhaps find some comfort in it in her prison cell. Again, she pressed the video camera silently against the glass, checking the viewfinder, selecting the best focus before starting to shoot. It was always expedient to keep the exposure the same, so that later it would be impossible to tell from the film how close she had been, in case issues of trespass were ever raised later in court. She studied the picture in the digital viewfinder: the lace curtain gave the image a misty, arty look complemented by the walls of the sitting room which were covered with paintings and beautifully coloured hangings. Ignoring the art display, Gemma started recording, focusing on what was happening on the floor in front of the fire. Despite the hazy quality, it was very clear that one of the parties mutually engaged in heavy petting was a partly undressed Minkie Montreau. Her jacket and silk blouse lay discarded on the rug, her slacks were round her ankles, revealing shapely white legs and as she lifted her head to kiss her lover, Gemma’s camera caught her flushed, smeared features in full. Then it was eclipsed by her partner’s bowed head. His hair seemed much longer than Gemma had previously thought, spreading across his narrow shoulders, like a woman’s. His wide rump was clearly visible and although Gemma puzzled over its unusually effeminate contours, it wasn’t until the pair disengaged somewhat from their mutual caresses, that she became aware of two extraordinary things: first, that both the bodies involved in this coupling were female, and secondly, that the other party, whose face, ecstatic from the attentions of Minkie Montreau, was now turned partly towards Gemma, was none other than Mrs Patricia Greengate.

  Sixteen

  Gemma stared, first at the viewfinder, then through the curtains to the real thing. What had happened to Anthony Love? Slowly s
he lowered the camera while she peered at the clothes spread out around the couple on the floor. There was the brown velvet jacket, the man’s trousers, shirt and black shoes. The couple were now laughingly feeding each other, playfully making a smorgasbord of each others bodies: brie was spread on breasts and licked off, wine was drunk, slices of smoked salmon were draped erotically across thighs and neck. She turned away. She didn’t know whether to storm the front door in a fury or burst out laughing. All Minkie’s caginess and blushing around the topic of ‘Anthony Love’ suddenly fell into place. ‘But he’s an artist!’ she’d said. Indeed, thought Gemma. Patricia Greengate’s greatest piece of art had been herself, or rather, himself. As in all other worlds, Gemma thought, it’s more profitable to be a man.

  Gemma leaned against the wall, incredulous to think how she had been duped. Yet it all fitted neatly together when she thought back on it. ‘I found her washing some clothes,’ the gaunt Peter Greengate had said of his suspicions. ‘Men’s clothes.’ And of course the exotic, shawl-trailing figure she’d been following at Bondi had transformed itself into a stocky man carrying an airline bag. None of this, however, exonerated the unwitting woman sporting with her girlfriend a wall-width away from murder. Had Benjamin Glass found out about his wife’s affair? Was Minkie, who’d showed her disdain for the conventional in some areas, squeamish about a lesbian romance becoming public knowledge? Gemma stowed the camera, and, after hesitating near the front door, walked back to the car. Minkie Montreau was no longer her business. Now, she had to face the tangled mess of her own life instead.

  She sat in the car, looking at the beautiful house. Nothing was as it seemed. Minkie Montreau had done it again. Why on earth did she employ me in the first place? Gemma asked herself. The woman was an enigma. I’m surrounded by complex and possibly dangerous women, she thought, recalling her visit to the compulsive and crazy Skanda Bergen, her kidnapping by jealous Lorraine Litchfield. She recalled the photos on top of the cabinet in Skanda’s spotless apartment. And as she did, her mind made a connection.

  Her mobile rang. It was Dr Heather Pike.

  ‘I must be mad,’ she said, ‘to even consider doing this. I’ve got that Naltrexone implant you wanted.’

  They made an appointment time and Gemma drove back to Phoenix Crescent. There was no way, she decided, she would ever show this video to Peter Greengate.

  •

  Spinner was the only person in the office when Gemma got back and while she prepared the video, she told him the story of what she’d witnessed at Minkie’s place.

  ‘Just goes to show,’ said Spinner ‘how we can’t ever assume anything in our game.’

  ‘Spinner,’ she said, ‘tell me something. Why would a person kill someone with carbon monoxide and then use an HTA to burn the place down, especially if by using the HTA they knew they’d be drawing attention to themselves in a very dangerous way?’

  ‘Aren’t there more important questions you should be answering right now?’ Spinner asked.

  ‘So answer me this instead,’ she said. ‘Why would Lorraine Litchfield be in a family shot with Skanda Bergen?’

  ‘In a box of photos?’ Spinner asked.‘Or on display?’

  ‘Right on top of the shelf,’ she said. ‘With all the other icons.’

  Spinner stared at her. ‘You know the answer to that one yourself.’

  She did. ‘It indicates that Skanda and Lorraine have a relationship that is very important to Skanda,’ she said. ‘A relationship that she wants to display.’

  ‘That would certainly be similar to the conclusion I’d come to,’ said Spinner in his cautious way. ‘If there’s a photo of the two of them on show.’

  ‘I want to pay her a visit and ask her a few more questions,’ said Gemma.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Spinner said. ‘Can’t have you going by yourself to that place.’ Then he went a little too far. ‘Why don’t you come with me to church tonight? We can pray over you.’

  ‘You can pray for me when I’m dead, Bede,’ she said, warning him off by the rare use of his real name. ‘And I’m not dead yet.’

  Her phone rang and it was Angie.

  ‘I’ve just heard the bad news,’ she said. ‘You and your business going very public. Mr Right was squawking about it to the whole floor. Gemster girl, what happened?’

  Gemma gave her friend as brief an account as she could bear. Angie listened in sympathetic silence.

  ‘I just want you to know,’ she said when Gemma had finished speaking, ‘that I know what it feels like to have your whole world shattered.’

  Gemma recalled the time when Angie was suspended. ‘But Angie, Mercator is finished. I’m finished,’ she said, tears stinging the backs of her eyes.

  ‘You can go down with the ship and accept that the end has come,’ her friend said. ‘Or you can remember that you’re a professional. And have a look at the fact that someone has set out deliberately to sabotage you. Are you just going to collapse and let an arsehole like that win? There’ll be a bit of gossip and scandal about this for a while. Then it’ll blow over. Things like this always do. And meanwhile you can track down whoever it is that’s set out to bring you down. If this had happened to another operator and they came to you about it, what would you do?’

  ‘I’d tell them we’d investigate for them,’ she said. ‘I’d ask them for a list of people they thought might do something like this to them. Then I’d start asking around.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Angie. ‘Then that’s what you’re going to do. I’ve never liked the name ‘“Mercator Security and Business Advisers’” anyway. You could come up with a brand new business name, something flash and keen. Something like ‘“Angelface Solutions”.’

  Despite everything, Gemma smiled. ‘And my other worry is Steve,’ she said. ‘I’m scared he’s gone in too far, one way or another.’

  ‘What would you tell someone else who came to you saying they thought their boyfriend was in trouble with a major crim?’

  Angie was right. So was Kit. She had two good women saying almost the same thing to her in their different ways. ‘Angie,’ she said. ‘About that Glock.’

  ‘Hush your mouth, Gorgeous. I’ll call you back on an outside line.’ Angie rang off and Gemma put the phone down.

  ‘I was hoping that would be Steve,’ said Spinner, indicating the phone.

  She shook her head. ‘I wish he would ring.’ She considered. ‘Spinner, I have to do something. Have things in place so that if Steve’s in big strife he’s got more than just departmental rules to fall back on. I want us to be there.’

  They both looked up as Mike came into the room. ‘Have you decided already what you want to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to stay and work here. I reckon we can ride this out. I want to be involved in anything going down.’

  ‘I’m not even sure what to do,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ve never been in this situation before. My business is destroyed and my boyfriend is involved in a dangerous undercover operation’—she paused, reluctant to continue—‘which I may well have compromised.’

  ‘I’ll need to know a few things,’ Mike said, ‘if you want me to help.’

  ‘Why would you want to?’ Gemma asked. ‘There’s nothing in it for you. What are you going to live on? If you had any sense you’d be out looking for a job.’

  ‘I like seeing the good guys win,’ Mike said.

  Gemma thought about it. She did need Mike, it was true. ‘I don’t like the feeling of owing anyone,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘Pay me the usual rates.’

  ‘I may not have the money.’

  ‘Borrow it,’ he said.

  She remained indecisive.

  ‘You’ll have to trust me,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose I will,’ she agreed. It wasn’t very
gracious, but it was the truth. There wasn’t time for the niceties.

  ‘You’d better tell me what you know about Steve’s operation, then,’ said Mike.

  ‘What if you’re working for George Fayed?’ she said, only half-joking.

  ‘I’m not. Now tell me what you know.’

  ‘Terry Litchfield’s widow believes George Fayed had her husband murdered. She’s working with the police to expose him. I believe Steve’s been introduced to Fayed as an interstate buyer with a lot of money and someone who has a lot of influence over Lorraine.’ She managed to say the name without stumbling. ‘The set-up is that she wants a business merger with Fayed. That way, they combine two big crime businesses. So Steve is on the scene as an attractive potential investor, perhaps even partner, in Fayed’s business. However,’ she added, ‘I have heard a rumour that Lorraine Litchfield paid someone to get rid of her husband.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Mike, ‘Steve’s in a tricky situation. How much do you know about Fayed?’

  ‘He has an elaborate security system, both external and internal,’ Gemma said, ‘and he’s paranoid about everyone and everything.’

  ‘With good reason,’ said Mike. ‘Let’s say the worst has happened,’ he continued, ‘and Fayed has exposed Steve.’

  Gemma swallowed hard. Even imagining this was unbearable.

  ‘That would play right into his paranoia. Fayed would be very, very rattled. He might do a couple of things.’

  Gemma closed her eyes, knowing one of them.

  ‘He might want to make Steve an offer he can’t refuse and get him to work as a double agent,’ said Mike.

  ‘Steve might agree to that to save his life,’ she said. ‘But they’d never trust him. They’d always be on him and then they’d dump him when he was no longer useful to them. He’d be disgraced. Or worse,’ she added, ‘they could easily set something up. Make him an addict. Kill him.’

  She recalled their last meeting and Steve’s coldness. Maybe he had already agreed to work for them. Maybe Steve’s partner, Ian Lovelock, already knew this. Maybe not. She remembered all too well how convincing Steve had been in his distaste as he compared her with Lorraine Litchfield. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang.