by Tara Moss
He hammered on the door. “Makedde!”
No answer.
“I’ll go round the back.” Andy ran across the lawn and up the porch steps two by two. He looked for her through the window. “No sign of anyone. Let’s do the back door,” he called out.
Jimmy appeared in seconds. They counted to three and kicked the door in together.
There was no one in the main room…the kitchen…the bathroom. In the bedroom tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt had been flung into one corner. A couple of drawers were open, and a make-up case was spread out on the bedside chest of drawers. She must have been in a hurry. They hadn’t missed her by much.
Sirens cut out on the street outside. Jimmy let the officers in the front door and briefed them on what was happening, while Andy searched frantically for a clue as to where Makedde had gone.
“There’s a team ready to go in to Ed Brown’s flat,” Jimmy said. “We’re working on dispatching a search helicopter to spot the VW. What next?”
Andy could sense the abrupt change in attitude. He was one of them again. They believed him.
CHAPTER 57
Screams. Hellish screams stretched out into space and snapped like an elastic band pulled too far. They sounded distant, removed; but through the nausea and confusion, Makedde knew it was her own mind creating the terrifying sound. Unconsciousness floated towards her, an endless void beckoning her away from the pain, and she had to struggle with all her will to break free from its temptation. She was on her back, wrists shackled together and secured to something. Hard steel jarred against her back as she was flung up and down. Sluggishly, she tried to take in her surroundings, but there was noise and movement, and not enough light.
Her left ear felt sticky where it was rubbing against her upper arm. Her arms were stretched so far above her head that her shoulders cried out with pain at every bump. She couldn’t move or relax them. The thumps and swerves pulled her back and forth. Through one squinting eye she saw that she was lying on the floor of an old van.
She remembered the red-haired man.
He was going to help her with her car.
Tilting her head back, she tried to make out what was holding her wrists—it appeared to be heavy metal cuffs, chained to the wall.
The van swerved.
Makedde’s legs swung back and forth, her stilettos rolling loose along the floor. She was aware of an odd smell, not unlike disinfectant, that drifted up from the blanket she was lying on, the walls, from everywhere. It filled her nostrils and entered her lungs, forcing out a sneeze. And there was something else…tea-tree oil? Distantly familiar.
The face of her mother Jane flashed into Makedde’s mind. Smiling as she gently rubbed tea-tree oil into Makedde’s tiny wrist, soothing the little scrape she’d earned falling off her skates.
Another flash…Catherine. Dead. Wrapped in a shroud of cloth. That smell, tea-tree oil, and the underlying odour…decaying flesh.
Makedde could smell death in the van where she lay.
Through half open eyes she could see the back of the driver’s head through a part in the curtains. She had met him in her nightmares these past two weeks. He killed young women just like Makedde, and now he was going to kill her.
CHAPTER 58
Just over an hour after the phone call, Andy Flynn stood outside the decrepit, three-storey block of flats in Redfern that Ed Brown had shared with his disabled mother all his adult life. Dead weeds and grass poked out between the bricks. Electrician’s tape held together a few window panes. The entire structure seemed to lean slightly to one side; the side that held flat number eighteen.
An APB was out. Every patrol cop, every hospital, every point of departure alerted. A search helicopter had just been scrambled. Ed Brown was on the run. They had finally put a face to the Stiletto Killer.
But Andy knew it wasn’t enough.
If he had been on the case, would it have come to this? If he had continued to keep his eye on Makedde, would this have happened? Would he be standing outside the killer’s flat hours too late?
Makedde’s flat had turned up nothing. Book Model Agency confirmed that she was not on any known assignment or audition since she had finished a shoot for ELLE magazine earlier that day. She couldn’t be considered missing for another twenty-three hours, but no one knew where she was.
“The place is already crawling with D’s,” Jimmy said, interrupting Andy’s train of thought. Andy recognised a few of the detectives milling about; Hunt, Reed and Sampson had just arrived. They still looked like a bunch of rookies.
Jimmy stuck close to Andy as they entered the building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Ed’s mother was a paraplegic. There was no lift. They immediately spotted Mrs Brown in the busy third-floor hallway. She was sandwiched into an old, standard-size wheelchair, huge rolls of flesh spilling out in all directions. She waved her white, flabby arms about and yelled at an unfortunate young officer who was attempting unsuccessfully to calm her down. She looked unusually haggard for someone Andy had been told was under fifty. She had painted herself in heavy make-up that settled roughly in the creases of her worn face. Andy took in the garish red lips and fingernails, and the revealing top that barely held heavy, stretch-marked breasts. A blanket partially covered the fleshy stumps of amputated legs. She wasn’t wearing pants.
Mrs Brown didn’t appear embarrassed at her state of semi-dress, nor did she seem particularly saddened or frightened at the chain of events; just angry. In an irritatingly high-pitched voice she cursed loudly, making outrageous threats. A pot-bellied man with a sparsely furnished head of white hair and a nose like a rotting tomato gripped her shoulder protectively. He was the building’s superintendent; a married man by the name of George Fowler who was in his late-sixties. Flynn guessed that George may have taken his building duties to a new level with Mrs Brown, and he wondered what hold such an overbearing and unattractive woman would have over a married man. Viagra gone wrong, perhaps.
Andy and his partner left them to make their way to the doorway of flat eighteen and Ed’s mother began yelling again. “He didn’t do nothin’!”
A crime-scene officer wearing latex gloves and carrying camera equipment ducked under the chequered police tape. Andy and Jimmy followed. Flat eighteen was a foul smelling two bedroom suite with a small bathroom and split kitchen/living room. The pungent odour of smoke and hops oozed from the walls and furniture. Andy counted five full ashtrays in the one room alone. The place was a mess. Stacks of dusty newspapers and magazines sat on every surface in the living room. There were scattered bottles and even an open lipstick which had left a red stain across the carpet. A tower of second-hand books rose up to meet Andy’s eye; dog-eared romance novels and pulp fiction. Two thread-bare couches looked to be rotting.
In an instant Andy could picture Ed’s life—years of bringing home the groceries for mum; frozen dinners, beer and prescriptions. Bathing her, changing her, turning her over in bed. The only privacy in his room with the door closed.
Sitting with abject disinterest, a black cat watched them pass. Its intense yellow eyes shone in the dim room. Jimmy noticed the cat and gestured mockingly towards it. “Hello little Lucifer…” The cat hissed at him and narrowly missed him with a vicious swipe.
Andy noticed three large tubs overflowing with empty beer and liquor bottles. VB appeared to be a favourite, with any form of vodka a close second. He wondered if Cassandra’s house could possibly have smelled as bad after his drunken days there. “Good to know they recycle,” he muttered as they passed.
“Skata! She looks familiar,” Jimmy said, pointing to a large picture frame. It held an old black-and-white photograph of a young woman, and even with the heavy make-up and outdated hairstyle, the resemblance was unmistakable.
Makedde.
Mrs Brown had once been beautiful—blonde hair, light eyes, perfect nose. Any vague doubts that Ed hadn’t abducted Makedde instantly vanished. Andy could see it all. Dahmer had a thing about his dad.
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Ed Brown had a thing about his mother.
The floor of Ed’s bedroom was raised six inches. Had Ed chosen the room for that reason? It was obvious that his mother would not have been able to enter her son’s room without assistance. In stark contrast to the rest of the flat, Ed’s room was obsessively clean and neat. There was a desk with a lamp, an empty wastepaper basket, a single bed and a set of shelves on one wall. There were no rumpled clothes, no loose papers, nothing out of place. You could bounce a coin on the bed.
The smell of smoke was barely noticeable. Instead, the room reeked of strange odours that irritated Andy’s nose. The crime-scene photographer set up his equipment and began taking photos under the bed. The covers were pulled back and a series of bright flashes illuminated the neatly spaced collection of shoes.
Nine single high-heeled shoes. Stilettos.
Nine.
Andy recognised a couple of them—the red, scaly, fake snakeskin shoe that matched Roxanne Sherman’s; the shiny black one with the thin ankle strap that had belonged to Catherine Gerber.
“Anyone find the missing tools?” he asked the officer outside the door.
“Not yet. Still searching. There’s so much shit everywhere—”
“He’d keep them clean,” Andy said. “Look for a sterile area, or a sealed bag or a box somewhere. We’ll cover the room.”
The officer nodded and spoke to someone down the hall. Andy doubted they would find the autopsy tools. This was not Ed’s working area, this was where he reminisced, where he fantasised. He’d have the tools with him.
The photographer’s flash turned to the set of thin wooden shelves, held up by Y-shaped braces on the wall to the left of the bed. A few books and trinkets were arranged on it, along with a nondescript shoe box inside a clear, plastic evidence bag.
“Open the box,” Jimmy said.
Hoosier obliged, trying to act important. He reached up for it while the photographer waited with his lens poised. When he lifted the lid he immediately turned his head away, screwing up his nose.
With his hand over his mouth and nose, Andy stepped forward and examined the contents.
“Jesus.”
Severed toes.
Immaculately pedicured with bright red polish. Big toes. Little toes. Different sizes and shapes. Varying states of decomposition. Andy counted at least ten. And some strange, shrivelled bits of leather. No—nipples, two sets.
He handed the box to the photographer who snapped it from different angles. What Detective Flynn focused on next disturbed him even more. Directly across from the foot of the bed an enlarged photographic print was tacked to the otherwise bare wall. He recognised its subject immediately. It was Makedde, stunning in a short leather skirt and high heel shoes, posing for the camera.
CHAPTER 59
Makedde’s head was throbbing, her thoughts murky. She had no sense of time. Had they been driving for half an hour? Two hours? She struggled to stay awake as her body rolled on the van floor. After a blessedly smooth patch, the road became uneven again, gravel spinning under the tires. The van flew over bumps, her raw wrists protesting in pain as they tore and jerked inside the cuffs.
She spoke. “I-I don’t know you. I can say that I haven’t seen your—” She swallowed her words as they flew over a nasty bump, smashing the back of her head on the hard floor. She started again, trying to sound calm, to rationalise. Her throat gurgled as she spoke. “I haven’t seen your face. You could walk away. I could pay you money. I have a bankcard…”
He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even acknowledge the sound of her voice.
She tried again, louder this time. “I’ll give you my bankcard and the PIN number. I’ll get the money for you myself if you like. You could let me go. I won’t tell anyone. You could…” She tried to shuffle around a bit, to take the pressure off of her shoulder joints. Do something. Anything! What had they taught her? When one tactic doesn’t work, try another. With effort, she swung her long legs up in the air above her, as if she were riding a bike upside down. Her head swam with the sudden movement. She found the door with the toes of one foot, and the wall with the toes of the other. She rocked back and smashed both feet into the door, screaming with all her might, “LET MEEEE OOOOUT!”
The door was solid and unmoving, but her captor turned his head. She had his attention.
“Shut up!” he hissed at her, his voice oddly high-pitched.
The van was still speeding across the gravel and the man jerked his head back around to face the road, but already they were skidding, the van shuddering. He wrestled the steering wheel hard to the right. A tree leapt out of the black night and crashed into the left side of the windshield, breaking it with a thunderous explosion of glass. The van lurched and Makedde’s body hit the wall, a heavy toolbox sliding along the floor and slamming into her ribs. The man made a noise, a small cry, as the van turned over, the gravel now gone. Still handcuffed, Makedde was hurled against the wall again, harder, her body twisted. Then there was another, greater crash.
They’d hit water.
CHAPTER 60
Underground sex magazines; FETISH, Bound, S&M Hookers. Amateur bondage pictorials. Violent portrayals of involuntary sexual acts. They were stacked in Ed Brown’s closet, filed neatly in order of issue, dating back at least ten years. Ed’s favourite magazine appeared to be FETISH, a periodical specialising in women’s feet and kinky shoes. Andy searched behind the magazines. He found very little dust but he did find an unopened twenty pack of Polaroid 600 film. “Look for Polaroid photos,” he announced. “Look for a Polaroid camera. Careful of prints.”
Hunt and Hoosier nodded in unison.
A black sheet covered a series of odd shapes along the bottom of the closet. What next? Andy had the police photographer capture the arrangement on film before he slowly removed the blanket. Three jars. Big and cloudy with liquid. Containing something.
Andy’s stomach churned. Each jar held an entire human foot, neatly severed just below the calf.
Christ.
The pale feet arched with lifeless elegance, toenails again painted garish red, each in a state of perfect preservation suspended in formalin. Andy felt a familiar numbness spread through him, anaesthetising his nerves. He would be worthless to Makedde if he lost his objectivity. No fear. No revulsion. Keep it clinical. Keep it professional.
Flashes went off as the find was recorded.
“He gives them manicures,” Andy began, “same polish, but only the feet and toes that he keeps. The ones he likes. A post mortem pedicure. Find the red polish. We want everything we can find.” As an afterthought he added, “The polish is his mum’s.”
“We don’t know he’s got her,” Jimmy offered, watching his partner’s face closely. “He might have just fled.”
“He doesn’t have her? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“Skata! I’m sorry, mate. That’s just the facts. What he will do, he will do. You are only guessing. We can’t know.” Jimmy’s black hair was a mess and his olive skin looked pale. “Can I talk to you a minute?” Jimmy asked in a whisper.
Andy nodded and followed Jimmy out of Ed’s bedroom into the privacy of a small bathroom. It too was clean, and was the only space not crawling with officers toting evidence bags. Andy wanted someone to search it right away but Jimmy was in his ear, speaking in low tones. “This nutter’s pretty damn obsessive. I figure he’s obsessed with you. He killed your wife, framed you. He’s gotta have some little shrine or something. When we find it, it could help to clear you.”
Andy couldn’t dwell on that yet. He needed to stop Ed from killing again.
“And,” Jimmy went on, “if it comes down to it, and we don’t find nothin’ like that…” He pulled a small zip-locked bag out of his pocket and gestured to it. It held a familiar gold wedding band.
Andy’s eyes widened.
Hearing footsteps, Jimmy quickly pocketed the bag. Inspector Kelley walked past them and stopped.
“Inspector—
” Andy had broken into a sweat.
“Flynn, I was told you were here. I took you off this case a week ago, and your wife’s untimely death should be all the more reason for you to remain so.” He paused. “Do you have a gun?”
“Uh, yes sir.” The question surprised him. “Jimmy’s .38 Smith and Wesson.”
“I brought you your Glock.” Kelley handed him his Model 17.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, trying not to sound astounded.
“Don’t assume anything. I’ll talk to you about it later.”
“Yes sir.”
Inspector Kelley’s eyes were steady. “Watch your back,” he warned. “This nut case could have a thing for you. I don’t think it’s wise for you to hang about. We’ll keep you informed.”
With that, Kelley disappeared into Ed’s bedroom. The Inspector was covering his arse, but he wasn’t kicking him out. Andy knew he had to tread carefully.
In the putrid smelling hall there was chatter. More officers had arrived. He overheard someone say, “Do you believe in numerology? You know what eighteen is? 6—6—6.”
Then, a louder voice shouted from Ed’s bedroom. “Hey, I got something!” The call came from Hunt, who was half-jammed in Ed’s closet, searching the magazine collection.
Andy ran to the bedroom trying unsuccessfully to maintain a calm exterior. Where has he taken Makedde? Then suddenly Kelley was on him, barring his way.
“What?!” Andy exclaimed.
“You shouldn’t be here, Andy.” Inspector Kelley firmly gripped Andy’s shoulders. Past Kelley’s tall frame, Andy caught Hunt’s eye for a moment. The constable was staring blankly, his face bloodless. Quickly, he broke from Andy’s gaze and turned away, instinctively raising a hand to his mouth to contain his vomit.
The Redfern block of flats was lit up like a dance party with bright flashes in the night air. Photographers and television crews swarmed outside, trying desperately to get past the barricade to seize an exclusive story. A news helicopter circled overhead. Andy watched the mayhem from his car further down the street. Inspector Kelley had sent someone to fetch the Honda; another way of telling Andy to go home.