by Tara Moss
Conniving, scheming tart…
It was an important ring. His father had awarded it to him and a precious few other top brass at the company. It meant that he had proven himself. Unlike his parasitic brothers, he had a future. One day it would all be his, and the ring proved it.
The ring…
He had even phoned the hotel and asked them to search everywhere. When his colleagues noticed that it was missing he had to make an excuse. “I lost it scuba diving in Fiji,” he had told them. “Don’t tell Dad.”
No, I took it off to wash my hands in a hotel room, and the little trollop stole it.
A droplet of sweat rolled down his throbbing temple. His pulse was racing. Everyone would see the article. If anyone looked close enough, they would recognise the ring. What if they made the connection? And the police; what if they found his ring among her possessions?
It has my damn initials engraved on it!
He wiped the sweat away, his blood-pressure soaring.
Something had to be done. He needed to get that ring back.
CHAPTER 9
There was no such thing as an “unintrusive” search, Makedde decided. The flat still felt like a crime scene. Any attempt the police had made to return the place to its original state had not been at all successful. Every object in the room was just a few precious inches out of position, the dark coffee table was grimy with white Lanconide and the cream-coloured kitchen cupboards were still sooty with carbon powder. Makedde was grateful that the flat wasn’t her own. Cleaning it up would have been a far more traumatic process.
Mak set about rearranging the place and packing up Catherine’s belongings. She started with the walls. One by one, she tore the magazine pin-ups down. Sticky tape ripped off in loud strips, leaving a tacky residue in their wake, the airbrushed faces of starry-eyed models shredding into meaningless ribbons of colour.
Catherine had naïvely aspired to become a “supermodel”. Of the many that tried, few lasted very long on the international scene, and even fewer made it to the big time. Mak had been the flavour of the month in Italian Vogue at one point, and enjoyed fleeting moments of fame as the face of numerous fashion and cosmetic campaigns, but she’d never quite fit the title of “super”.
With the exception of Carmen, and perhaps Lauren Hutton, who both continued to do the occasional photo shoot several decades after they began in the business, a model’s career was spectacularly brief. The transformation from fresh-faced fourteen year old to jaded twenty-five year old was as cradle to the grave to most in the industry. Makedde had seen countless girls come and go. In their fleeting time, some sacrificed more than others, and some achieved more than others, but for most the trip was ephemeral, and the fickle industry moved on. The trick was to take the money and run, but it was a strategy few young models understood.
Makedde reached up and tore another face from the wall.
When fifteen-year-old Catherine reached five-foot-nine, she had wanted to give international modelling a try. Mak had mixed feelings about her friend’s aspirations. It would forever be a misunderstood lifestyle, reinforced by movies like Prêt à Porter and Unzipped, which portrayed the industry about as realistically as Pretty Woman portrayed prostitution. The international fashion scene could be harsh and confusing to a teenager, and the combination of a mismanaged career and a misguided soul could be disastrous. Everyone knew a horror story—sixteen year olds gliding down the catwalk zoned out on heroin; cigarette and coffee dieting anorexics; bulimics; chronic diet pill—laxative pill—diuretic pill—upper—downer—everything pill poppers. The casting couch. It could become a deadly obstacle course for unchaperoned kids with poor self images or little self control.
On the flip side, many models enjoyed great experiences—travel, culture, new sights, new languages, new people, and occasionally, lots and lots of money.
Knowing all that, what do you do when someone you know wants to give it a shot?
In Makedde’s case you help in every way you can, and try to guide them away from the pitfalls. With a six-year gap in age and experience, she showed Catherine the ropes, leading her through the bizarre maze of international modelling. She bailed Cat out of trouble on several occasions, but it seemed she wasn’t there for her when it really mattered.
One day too late.
She crunched the magazine photos tightly in her hand, shoved them into a large garbage bag and walked over to the neat stack of Catherine’s clothes. The Unwins, Cat’s foster parents, had made it clear that they had no use for the clothes. The police had no use for them either. Mak would take them to a women’s charity and ship the remainder of the belongings back to Canada.
She had never met Catherine’s birth parents, and was thankful they never lived to see their only child cut up like that, cold and lifeless on a morgue tray. With her eyes closed, Makedde placed the stack of garments into a fresh garbage bag. She didn’t want to see any familiar clothes. One glimpse of a moss green jumper had brought memories flooding back of Catherine smiling and laughing in Munich, treating herself to a shopping spree for landing her first big hair commercial.
With the clothes ready in bags for charity, she turned her attention to the ornate, antique jewellery box that sat beside the mirror. Catherine’s cherished jewellery box. It was made of wood, intricately carved and embellished with swirling designs and bright, luminous semi-precious stones. It was a sentimental reminder of Catherine’s true mother, one of the few tangible things which had remained of her. It was small, and Catherine had travelled with it wherever she went. Alison Gerber had given it to her daughter only months before she and Catherine’s father drove over the Malahat to visit a friend. The Malahat cuts for miles through the mountains of Vancouver Island in a steep and winding highway. Sometime during the night, as they made their way home, their car hit black ice and slid off the road, rolling down the mountainside for five hundred feet before lodging in the pines. Both parents died before the wreck was discovered. Catherine was being baby-sat at home. She was five.
Makedde sat cross-legged on the hard wooden floor, placed the jewellery box in her lap and opened it. It was small, and its contents few. Some thin necklaces, silver and gold, were tangled inside. A pair of delicate, diamond stud earrings, and a turquoise and silver ring were jumbled underneath. But it was the thick diamond ring that immediately caught Mak’s attention.
She fished the ring out. It was a chunky men’s style, with a pattern of diamonds set in its square design. The gold was smooth and unmarked. It couldn’t have belonged to Catherine’s father; it was too new. Where else would she get a ring like this?
The lover.
The lover’s ring. A souvenir. She turned the ring over and looked inside its band. She couldn’t believe her luck.
JT.
The initials were engraved on the inside of the ring. She recalled the notepad message she had seen when she first arrived.
JT Terrigal
Beach res
16
14
Makedde slipped the ring on her thumb. It was solid proof of the relationship, but she was no longer sure that she cared to share it with Detective Flynn. She placed the jewellery box on her bedside table and leant her favourite photo against it. Makedde’s face smiled out from the photo, standing beside a happy, living Catherine.
CHAPTER 10
He licked his lips distractedly, one hand flexing slowly while the other held the photograph.
Makedde Vanderwall.
Makedde.
Mak.
She was the blonde in the photograph. Beautiful. Special. She was the one who’d written the letter. The one who had found his handiwork at the beach. Her eyes were light, although from the photograph he could not tell if they were green or blue. Her nose was slim and straight, her body curvaceous, and she was so familiar.
And her skin. Her skin looked so…perfect.
Utterly perfect.
He was annoyed that he couldn’t tell what her feet looked like from
the photo. She was cut off at the hips. But she looked so tall standing next to Catherine that he convinced himself she was wearing high, vermilion stilettos. He just knew her feet would be as perfect as the rest of her.
Her familiarity drew him in; she was magnetic, more special and important than any of his other girls.
Makedde was the one.
He traced his finger slowly over the face of the photograph. Destiny brought the dark-haired whore to him. Destiny brought Makedde with her.
CHAPTER 11
Makedde held a black skirt in front of her at the full-length mirror, trying to decide what to wear to The Space nightclub. She cocked her head to one side and eyed the hem.
Too short?
If she wore opaque stockings with it, the skirt would be fine. With a miniskirt and her shimmery, deep blue top, she would blend into the clubbing atmosphere. She slid dark stockings over her bare legs, careful not to catch them on her nails, and pulled the skirt over her hips. To complete the look, she chose a pair of comfortable, mid-heeled boots that laced up to her calves. She threw a coat on, checked her pockets for cash and switched the lights off. Venturing into the night alone made her a little nervous. She would have liked a good can of Canadian Bear Spray to carry with her, but that was illegal in Australia. She’d have to rely on quick thinking or a wicked snap kick.
Makedde followed the thundering dance music from almost a block away, arriving outside The Space close to midnight when things were just starting to heat up.
The hip and nocturnal had come out of the woodwork, rowdy and ready to play. Leather, PVC, micro-minis and fish-nets appeared to be the uniform of the moment. Mak felt pretty tame in her carefully chosen apparel.
A queue of about thirty clubbers snaked away from the entrance. As soon as Makedde joined the end of the line, a tall hulk of testosterone with a buzz cut called her up to the front. After glancing around to confirm that it was indeed her that he was motioning to, she sashayed up to the door and gave him a sultry smile. There was no sense in waiting in line if it wasn’t necessary.
“You a model?” he grunted. He stank of cigarettes and cheap cologne.
“Yes.”
He eyed her approvingly, which made her skin crawl, but her smile never faltered.
“Which agency?”
“Book,” she replied.
With the magic words spoken, he opened the door. As she stepped cautiously into the smoke-filled nightclub, he mumbled something incoherent and shut the heavy door behind her. Her senses were immediately assaulted by a high decibel pounding dance mix and a throng of sweating bodies grooving to its beat. A long, neon illuminated bar held four, busy, steroid-inflated bartenders in skimpy black leather vests. She wondered for a moment whether she had stumbled upon a real S&M party, but on surveying the dancing crowd she determined that it was probably just a trend, and she would not at any moment be whisked away for a spanking.
Squinting through the smoke she spotted what she had come for—the photos. A display area towards the back presented large black-and-white prints. She weaved through the whirling crowd and made her way towards them. When she looked down to pull her skirt further down her thighs, she caught a flying elbow hard in the jaw. It could have been any one of a number of the flailing limbs of several people crushing against her. Fists up at her face in a protective boxing position, she continued towards the far wall. When she finally broke through the other side of the dancing mob she discovered more people, seated at a series of tables, attempting conversations that consisted of little more than hand movements. It was a relief to stop moving, so she simply stood still for a moment, and instantly regretted it.
Someone grabbed her by the shoulder.
Makedde inhaled sharply at the surprise and spun around to look down at the man’s face. Her fist was clenched and ready in case she needed it, her whole body tensed. It took several seconds to register who it was.
“Oh, Tony. How are you?” She hoped she managed not to sound frightened by his sudden appearance.
“Good. How ya goin’?” he shouted above the din, sending a cloud of stale beer breath into Mak’s nostrils.
“Fine. I heard about the exhibition. The agency’s raving about it,” she said.
“Really?” His face lit up. “Have you seen it all?”
“No, I just got here.”
“Let me take you through it.”
She managed a smile, and he led her by the hand to the first of the photos. Makedde felt decidedly uncomfortable. She wanted to know why Tony’s exhibit had caused such suspicion, but she hadn’t expected a personal tour.
She ran through a series of excuses in her head: I have friends waiting? I have an early morning photo shoot? I’m allergic to smoke? Then why had she come here? Good question.
The first photo immediately answered her questions about his exhibition. It depicted a young, naked woman, trussed in thick rope. Her long brunette hair was brushed forward over her face, and ropes circling her head held her mane in place. The faceless body was so tightly bound that the rope bit painfully into the woman’s flesh.
Makedde was at a loss for words.
“That’s Josephine. She’s a professional dancer,” Tony boasted.
She answered his questioning look with a neutral smile. He led her to the next print.
“This one is Josephine, again.” He stared at Makedde’s expression as she studied the print. It featured the same faceless physique, hands tied behind the woman’s back, bound in a restricting, leather corset and impossibly high stilettos. Her feet were so arched with the shape of the shoes that her ankles seemed to bend over her toes. The woman’s breasts were popping out over the top of the leather, and her naked hips bulged under the strain of the tiny corset. The body was contorted into an agonising, silent struggle with its bonds. Rather than arousing, the effect was disturbing. A little playful bondage didn’t trouble Makedde. But this clear depiction of deliberate pain was troubling.
Sadistic fantasies. How far does he take it in real life?
“I love what you’ve done with the developing,” she commented vaguely. “The sepia and tobacco tones complement the mood nicely…”
“Thank you,” he exclaimed proudly. “I felt that it brought out the texture of the leather in this shot.” He slurred his words slightly, turning the word “texture” into “testya”. He didn’t bother correcting himself.
The police were giving Tony trouble for good reason. He had arranged the location for the La Perouse shoot and may have known Makedde’s connection to Catherine. He also had a definite predilection for paraphilia. She needed to know more.
After perusing the stylishly displayed images of bondage, dominance, and sado-masochistic sex which made up the remainder of the exhibition, she sat down with him at one of the tables. With a fresh beer in one hand Tony loudly went on about how the police “wouldn’t know art if it crept up their trouser legs and bit them where it matters”.
“Tony, I remember you were arguing with a detective after Catherine was found. He was holding your camera. What was that all about?” she asked him casually.
“What a prick. Detective Wynn—”
“Flynn?”
“That’s right. That wanker took all my film from the shoot as evidence. The client freaked.”
“No kidding? Why would he want the film?”
Tony was obviously still upset about it. “Fucked if I know.” His face twitched as he spoke. “What a fuckin’ prick.”
What are you hiding, Tony?
“Are they still on your case?”
“Yeah.” He changed the subject. “So you’re from Canada, eh?”
“Eh. That’s very good.” If she had a dollar for every time someone had made a joke about a Canadian expression, she’d be a very rich woman. “So, did you see much of Catherine before she…died?”
“Nah. You out here with anyone?”
Makedde could see it coming.
“No,” she said honestly.
“H
mmm,” he murmured. She could see his inebriated mind slowly clicking over. “Would you be interested in doing a test sometime? We could shoot whatever you wanted; head shots, body shots, whatever.”
“Oh, no. I have plenty of shots in my book at the moment. Thanks anyway.” Makedde pushed back her chair. “I’ve gotta get goin’, uh…early shoot tomorrow morning.”
“Want to go out sometime? Maybe—”
She swiftly cut him off. “I’m involved with someone.”
Myself.
“We could just go for coffee or something,” he persisted.
She was up and walking away as she repeated, “No thanks.”
From behind her she heard him say, “I didn’t kill the stupid bitch, for fuck’s sake.”
She shot him a hard look over one shoulder, and hissed, “I’m leaving.” She forced her way through the crowd. Behind her, she could hear Tony shouting, “I’m sorry, Macayly! I didn’t mean that! I’m sorry!”
“It’s Makedde, you jerk,” she mumbled, pushing past the mass of dancing bodies. “Ma—kay—dee.”
She hurled herself out the front doors and into the crisp, night air. The cool wind whipping down the street was a welcome relief. She shook her head and hailed the nearest taxi. In under an hour, Tony had managed to insert himself at the top of Makedde’s growing “arsehole list”.
Just after 2 a.m. the taxi deposited Makedde outside the block of flats on Campbell Parade. She tipped the driver and dragged herself out of the taxi, still brooding over Tony’s flippant comment. She was too tired to think straight. Whether it was jet lag or the hour, she was running out of battery strength like an old toy winding down.