The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  Calmly now.

  Calmly.

  She squeezed mint toothpaste onto her index finger and forced it up one nostril and then the other; a trick she’d learnt from a pathologist years ago. The smell of a cadaver can cling to nose hairs, making everything smell of the deceased. She washed it out, and the fresh, toothpaste fragrance remained. Breathing in a mint-scented world, she left the bathroom and walked straight to the small fridge in the kitchen. She removed a large slab of marzipan chocolate, the wrapper crinkling as she pulled back a corner. She paused guiltily, salivating and stressed, and put it back in the fridge, slamming the door. Don’t do it. Mak turned and started to walk away from the kitchen and then turned back and dove for the fridge again. In an instant the wrapper was off, her blood soaring in a sugar ecstasy.

  Mak turned her attention to the old television set sitting across from her. The small box begged for her to flick it on, so she did, and her ears were immediately accosted by the loud volume. The ancient remote control was the size of a brick, and was running out of batteries. It took several tries to reduce the volume. A smiling newscaster loudly reminded her that on this day in 1969, before she was even conceived, the first man walked on the moon. They cut from the smiling newscaster to old footage of a space-suit bloated Neil Armstrong triumphantly touching down on the moon’s dusty surface.

  “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

  Man-kind.

  The two words seemed perversely mismatched.

  As she lowered the volume further she noticed that beneath the blaring noise the phone had been ringing. She answered it with a deceptively chirpy, “Hello?”

  Click.

  The dial tone resumed.

  Mak stared into the earpiece for a moment and then hung it up. How rude. She turned her eyes to the quiet television again and was horrified to see Catherine’s face staring back at her. Panic rose in her, a cold sweat breaking out over her body. In an instant the remote was in her hands and she was pressing the off button. It wouldn’t work. The television image panned across the front doors of Book Model Agency, and then lingered on the crime-scene tape around the tall and trampled grass. Makedde pressed the off button repeatedly.

  Dammit! Turn off!

  Finally the set obeyed and the image flickered away.

  Heart pounding and eyes rimmed with stubborn tears, she lay down on the bed and stared at the cracked paint on the ceiling, breathing deeply, trying to relax.

  Think of something else, anything but Catherine.

  As a child she had stared for hours at the stucco ceiling in her room, wondering what it would be like if the world was upside down, and people walked on ceilings, stepping over chandeliers and smoke detectors, and reaching up to turn on kitchen taps that would send water flowing straight into their mouths. She tried to return to that life, to let pleasant fantasy captivate her, but she could not.

  I need a friend. I need someone to live through this year with me.

  Makedde opened her wallet and pulled out a few crinkled photographs. She examined each one lovingly, and when she found the one she wanted, she slowly smoothed it out, carefully bending the corners back into shape. Cat had the duplicate photo, and she had inscribed this one with the optimistic inscription, Me ’n’ Mak making it big in Munich! She studied the smiling faces of Catherine and herself posing in Marienplatz. Cat looked so young. With watery eyes Mak studied her own face in the mirror across from her bed. The woman in her reflection looked much older than in the photograph.

  There was a time when Mak and Catherine would sit before a mirror and play with make-up for hours. Makedde had a model’s kit overflowing with shimmering colours and powders. She taught Cat how to apply it; a sweep of charcoal here, a slick of lip gloss there. She would play with dramatic eyeliner and deep red lips. Brigitte Bardot eyes, or Madonna’s frosted lips. Everything looked great on Cat’s thirteen-year-old complexion. Everything. She had such a beautiful, even-featured face. The same face that would six years later stare back at Makedde from a morgue tray; tortured and wasted.

  Tomorrow she would pack up Catherine’s things and rip down the collage of magazine photos. But she would keep a picture of her friend in a special part of the room; the photo of them together in Munich, perhaps. That was the normal, rational thing to do. Wasn’t it? A sane photo of happier times, to honour her friend. She would have to make the flat her own, because she would stay in Sydney for a while; as long as it took for the police to find Catherine’s killer.

  She remembered a couple of recent postcards and letters from Cat that she had stashed in her suitcase. One of them had been written from the Bondi address. Perhaps she wrote it while seated in exactly the same spot. Indulging her sense of loss, Mak walked to the smaller of her two suitcases and removed the correspondence from a zippered pocket on the outside. Her heart ached at the sight of the familiar, cheerful handwriting.

  Dear Mak,

  Greetings from down unda! It’s almost July. Soon you’ll be hanging out with me with the kookaburras and the Aussie babes. Even their winter is sunny, like a Canadian spring, I swear. Fabulous! I can’t wait till you are here.

  I’m happy to be nearer to the love of my life. He is busy, and for the moment our love is still a secret, but he isn’t continents away now. He’s such a great guy, and classy too. You’ll adore him. It won’t be a secret for much longer. You’ll meet him soon. We’ll laugh about all this mysteriousness!

  Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the clandestine lover. Why did this man need to be a secret? She had assumed he was married and that Catherine would eventually get smart and break off the relationship. But she never did. For the past year she had foolishly pined for the elusive Romeo.

  With rage slowly building within her, Makedde imagined the words he must have used to keep her hanging on—“I’ll divorce my wife and marry you, I promise. But she couldn’t go through a divorce right now. Not yet. I love you, and soon we’ll be together always. Just wait a bit longer.” How many times had those words been spoken throughout the history of illicit relationships?

  Urgent curiosity and a sense of purpose pushed Makedde’s sadness aside. She pulled Detective Flynn’s card out of her wallet and dialled his mobile number. She had forgotten to tell the police about Catherine’s affair. What if it was important? She would tell Flynn what little she knew about the unnamed paramour. No…she would come to see him in person and let him see the letters. That would convince him to follow the lead.

  After a few rings, he answered.

  “Detective Flynn, this is Makedde Vanderwall.”

  “Hello, Miss Vanderwall. How can I help you?”

  “You said I should call if I had any further information. I know it’s Sunday, but I was wondering if I could come down. I have something that might interest you.”

  “It’s all right, I’m coming in later anyway. Is 4 p.m. at Homicide all right?”

  “Four is fine.”

  “See you then.”

  Knowing that he was working on Catherine’s case on a Sunday reassured her a little. She was glad she would have a chance to talk with him about it in person. Looking out the window, she noticed for the first time the blue, cloudless day. She decided to go for a walk along the beach and compare her little life and its tragedies against the immensity of nature. It always made her problems seem insignificant.

  Makedde dressed in faded jeans, her favourite Betty Page T-shirt, a warm navy jumper and comfortable walking shoes. With her mind racing to recall every detail of the relationship that Catherine had ever eluded to, she set off on her walk.

  CHAPTER 5

  Faint sunlight filtered through closed red curtains, turning the room to midnight crimson. Exposed by rumpled bedsheets, his sweat-soaked skin glistened in the unearthly blood-glow. A weak, incomprehensible noise escaped his throat as his fingertip made contact with shiny, black leather. Eyes shut, he lovingly fondled the shoe, stroking the long, thin heel, with its sharp, well-worn point. He
traced his fingers gently down the length of the leather sole, his breath quickening.

  Her toes.

  With agonising deliberation he fingered the thin ankle strap, pausing at its small, metal buckle to press his finger onto the sharp edge.

  Her ankles.

  He watched with grotesque pleasure as it pierced the skin, a tiny droplet of blood trickling down his finger.

  Whore.

  Rolling onto his bare belly he ground the stiffness of his groin hard into the bed and pulled the shoe to his face, deeply inhaling its sharp odour. His exposed buttocks writhed and jerked with spasmodic gesticulations.

  Hunger built within him. Frustration, anger, violence and pleasure coursed through his veins.

  Bound flesh.

  Blood.

  Scenes replayed; every stroke, every cut remembered. But each time less powerful, less fulfilling. He needed more, much more. He thrust the shoe down towards the source of his release and his climax filled the stiletto with a spew of milky vexation.

  More.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hours later, Makedde waited patiently outside the office at Central Homicide, distantly aware of suggestive stares from several young, bored detectives. She was not in the mood. Knowing that the uni-student look rarely helped her to be taken seriously, she had changed out of her jeans into something slightly less casual. She wore her tailor-made, slim black pants; a well travelled favourite that she had specially made to fit her. She paired them with a crisp white man’s shirt she’d bought on King’s Road in London, and a cashmere jacket from New York, a comfortable and versatile classic.

  Time ticked by. She checked her watch. It was 4.15 p.m. Fifteen minutes later she was still waiting. Flynn was obviously busy.

  An argument taking place in the next room diverted her attention. Raised voices spat through the walls, growing louder and louder, too loud to ignore. The words were hard to make out, but the tone was unmistakably emotional. It had the whiff of a nasty lover’s quarrel, and Mak felt embarrassed at her unintended eavesdropping.

  Then a woman’s voice broke clearly through the walls. “I guess the living are second-rate in your book! I’m over it!” This outburst was punctuated by a thunderous crash inside the room. Several detectives looked up, alarmed. Another crash. It sounded like something big was being smashed repeatedly against a wall. A young man leapt from his chair and ran towards the door, and was nearly hit in the face when it opened unexpectedly. A beautiful, petite, dark-haired woman emerged, her face flushed. She turned back towards the room and bitterly exclaimed, “You’re pathetic!” before striding proudly past the desks. Her head was held high as she ignored the silent looks from the detectives. Wearing a smart-looking suit and a very nasty frown, she made straight for the elevator, arms folded across her chest. As she was swallowed up by the closing doors, she gave the men a sneering, superior look. She seemed quite in tact, so clearly it wasn’t her who had been hurled against the wall.

  The instant she disappeared the room erupted in nervous laughter. Detective Flynn emerged with his fists tightly clenched and his face set in a vicious scowl. He looked like he was ready to kill.

  A detective playfully called out, “Ya know what Cassandra means in Greek?”

  “No, Jimmy, I don’t know,” Detective Flynn shot back angrily.

  “It means ‘confuser of men’.”

  “Oh, fabulous. Thank you. Where were you four years ago when I needed you? Fuckin’ women.”

  A fresh burst of laughter filled the room, and Detective Flynn cracked a grim smile.

  “You sure can pick ’em,” said another, younger detective, still laughing.

  But Flynn was no longer in the mood for it. “Don’t push it, Hoosier,” he snarled, fixing the detective with a black look. What had the woman done to elicit such a strong reaction? And what was that noise?

  Flynn turned to see Makedde waiting and a red flush instantly coloured his cheeks. “Uh, Miss…Miss Vanderwall…” he spluttered awkwardly. Makedde smiled, embarrassed for him.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he continued, quickly composing himself. His voice again took on the polite, detached lilt that it had the day before. “Could you wait just another moment?”

  She nodded, and he disappeared into the mysterious room again. A minute later Flynn emerged, calmer. “You have some information for me?”

  With an extended arm he escorted her to the private room that she knew would be used for interviews. The stark room had a well-used formica table as its centrepiece. She noted that the table legs were screwed into the floor and wondered how many cops had been assaulted with it before they’d taken the extra measures. Some of the other detectives were still snickering as Flynn shut the door behind them. She decided that she wouldn’t make any reference to his argument. It was none of her business.

  Andy motioned for her to sit, but when she pulled a chair out he said, “Sorry, not that one.” She noticed one of the metal legs was badly bent. She tried another, unmangled chair, and he sat opposite.

  Makedde recalled the few interviews she had been permitted to watch in secrecy from a two-way mirror not unlike the one she sat opposite now. Her father was an expert interrogator. He built rapport with his suspects, put them at ease, and then trapped them with their own words. A somewhat different approach to throwing chairs. But then, to be fair, that woman was clearly not a suspect.

  Mak wondered whether Detective Flynn was a good inquisitor. She hoped he was. She was certain that a few detectives had made their way over to the interview room as soon as the door closed behind them. If they had stared at her in the waiting room, they would certainly be staring at her now. It was Sunday afternoon, and no doubt they were tired and bored. She could feel their eyes. Should she let them know that she knew they were watching? Nah. Why spoil their fun?

  Detective Flynn was settling into his chair, still cooling off from his argument. Alone in this quiet room, devoid of all distractions, Makedde noticed that he was actually quite attractive. His dark hair was thick and cropped short, accentuating a distinctive, squared-off jawline. His lips were even, his teeth straight, and something about the way they were formed was strangely sensual. But handsome wasn’t quite the word for Detective Flynn. His nose was a bit crooked, his ears a bit too big. His green eyes seemed world weary and sceptical under dark brows. Somehow though, when you put the features together, and added his impressive height, the effect was appealing. Especially to Makedde.

  Admit it, that’s why you wanted to see him in person; because you think he’s attractive.

  His face was still a bit rosy, and she could have sworn she could feel the heat his body was still giving off. Makedde continued to dwell on minute details of Andy Flynn’s appearance—like the little scar on his chin that she felt the urge to touch. She suddenly imagined the police issue handcuffs he would wear on his belt, and felt a naughty tingle of sexual excitement. The sensation made her so uncomfortable that she became suspicious of her hormones, or the moon.

  “First off, let me just apologise for not being able to make a positive ID on Friday,” Makedde began. “Obviously I was in no state to be of much use in that regard. But even though she looked…different at the morgue yesterday, I—”

  Condescendingly, he cut her off, “The autopsy was completed before your ID. Standard procedure when the death is suspicious. Bodies look different after death, Miss Vanderwall, they…” He trailed off, his hands making a gesture to indicate the unpleasantness of posthumous bodily functions.

  The tiny hairs on the back of Makedde’s neck bristled. Was he playing up to the watching detectives, trying to assert his manly superiority over a female?

  “I’m not totally ignorant, Detective,” she replied calmly, for she was accustomed to being underestimated. “I’m quite familiar with autopsy procedure, and rigor mortis and that most unpleasant swelling you so enjoyed illustrating for me just then. My father was a Detective Inspector, and—”

  “Really?”
She caught a flicker of interest in his eyes. “He’s retired now?”

  “Yes, but that is not the point here. I’m not asking you for a lesson on post-mortem methodology. I am simply clarifying that the ID was positive. Now, to get to the point, I think I may have some information that could prove central to the investigation.” Andy leant forward. She seemed to finally have his attention. What should she say? Perhaps there was nothing more sinister about the relationship than a common cheating spouse?

  “Catherine Gerber was involved in an affair,” she began. “One which she was sworn to secrecy about.”

  Andy leant forward even further. There was an intensity about him that frightened her a little, particularly when she pictured him smashing that chair against the wall. Makedde pushed back her chair casually, separating them another inch.

  She swallowed hard. “Catherine had been telling me about this affair for approximately the past twelve months. She wouldn’t divulge any specifics, however she did allude to the fact that the man was powerful, wealthy, and older than she was. With her being nineteen, I would assume he was considerably older. I also had the impression that he was married, and the whole affair was certainly considered top secret.”

  Flynn had moved back a touch, his body language subtly expressing a disappointment in the information.

  “Well, we’ll look into that.” He gave her a patronising, fixed smile, and said, “Is there anything else?”

  Makedde couldn’t quite believe that he’d just brushed her off. She sat and studied him for a moment, analysing his position.

  I should have waited until I had more to come in with; a name, dates, places.

  She felt the need to fill the uncomfortable silence. “I don’t know why I thought you’d care, but you did say that I should come to you if—”

  “I do care. I care in so much that every bit of information is important, and even the most seemingly insignificant detail can take on important meaning in the big picture.”