by Tara Moss
‘Okay. Thanks so much for your time. I appreciate you telling me all of this. I understand you must be very busy.’
‘Yes, I am a busy woman. I have clients to attend to,’ Mistress Serenity said coolly and stood. She made for the door in a whirl of latex and fishnets and led Mak out.
‘I really do appreciate your time. Thank you,’ Mak said to her back as they reached the top of the staircase. ‘I have just one last question, if it’s not too much trouble.’
Mistress Serenity turned, one hand on the banister. Her features were stern. She was back into her role-playing, and she’d clearly had quite enough of Twenty Questions.
‘Why did you choose the name “Mistress Serenity”?’ Mak asked.
The Mistress brightened a touch. ‘It is my special word,’ she replied calmly. ‘My clients use it when they can’t take the pain any more. They say “serenity”, and I stop.’
Mistress Serenity disappeared down the staircase, leaving Mak dazzled. Electra then led her out.
Serenity, Mak thought. If only that special word worked for real life.
CHAPTER 48
On Tuesday, Makedde slept in late. Between Thunderball strip club and The Tower, she’d had a lot of strange, late nights recently and she had sleep to catch up on. When she woke and poured herself some cereal, the house was strange without Andy. It wasn’t that she was unfamiliar with his frequent absences, but it felt different knowing that he would not be home soon.
Three months.
Mak spent the remainder of her morning researching Damien Cavanagh and his family on her laptop; there was a wealth of information about them on the internet. Simon Aston’s name came up a few times as well, though much less frequently, and always in relation to Damien. The good-looking Simon was only ever pictured near Damien, in the background, never sharing the limelight.
At midday she deemed the hour late enough for Loulou to be awake.
‘Sweetie, how are you!’
‘I’m good. How are you?’ Mak asked. ‘How are things with Drayson?’
‘Oh, he is such a doll! A doll! When are you coming back to visit?’
‘Not for a while, Loulou. I have this investigation to finish first, and I doubt I can justify another trip to Melbourne.’ Unless I hear back from Amy. Amy had not called her again, and Mak had no verification that the video had been sent by her, although in her guts she knew. ‘Loulou, I have to ask you something serious.’
Loulou paused. ‘Okay, sweetie. Anything.’
‘Who have you told about my case? Did you tell someone that I am looking into Simon Aston?’ Mak asked gently.
‘Oh, sweetie! I’m sorry. I just thought…you know, I thought Brenda might know about him, and she did. I was only trying to help. I hope you’re not mad at me!’
It was hard to be mad at Loulou especially when the result had been a fruitful, albeit bizarre, meeting with Mistress Serenity. Still…
‘Loulou, I just need confidentiality. That is a big part of investigation work. I could have got in a lot of trouble.’
‘Oh, darling!’
Mak rolled her eyes. ‘I know you meant well, and it was helpful to speak to Mistress Serenity, but I just need you to ask next time, okay? I need you to ask me first if it is okay to tell anyone.’
‘Okay,’ came Loulou’s voice, sounding uncharacteristically serious. ‘I promise.’
‘Good.’
‘So you’re not mad at me?’
‘No. Just don’t do it again.’
When the phone rang at two, Mak expected it to be Sergent Hunt calling about the video. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since she’d sent Karen to him with it. Why the delay?
But it wasn’t Hunt.
‘Look, something’s happened. Can you meet me at the office right away?’
The blood drained from Mak’s face at the tone of Marian Wendell’s voice. Her employer was not the type to sound concerned—she was always so cool about everything, so knowing.
‘What’s happened?’
Her reply did nothing to ease Mak’s alarm. ‘We shouldn’t discuss it over the phone. Can you get here fast?’
Mak could.
She suited up and rode over to Marian’s office as fast as she safely could, parked her black bike right outside and ran in without even stopping to take her helmet off. She found Marian standing outside her office doorway looking somewhat less composed than usual. Her hair had not been blow-dried into submission, and her usually confident demeanour had a touch of uncertainty about it.
Marian was not alone, either.
‘Oh, hi, Pete,’ Mak said, surprised to find Pete Don in Marian’s office.
Mak had first become aware of Pete’s work when he had been a guest lecturer at her Certificate III course on investigation, and Marian had mentioned him once or twice in the year Mak had been working for her, but he seemed out of context in this office. As a fellow investigator with his own outfit, he was, after all, one of Marian’s competitors.
What’s going on? What’s he doing here?
Pete was a man in his forties with meaty arms like a gorilla and jet-black hair that he wore in a ponytail. He was a man of good humour with a disarming smile, but his physical attributes would certainly lend him a threatening appearance in other circumstances. As legend went, he was once one of the best undercover Drug Squad officers the New South Wales Police had. He even had bikie tattoos—more visible than Bogey’s—dreadlocks and both the voice and look of a hard smoker and drinker. A smart and brave man, Pete Don had infiltrated all levels of the biggest organised criminal group in the state, helping the authorities collect evidence that eventually brought down a lot of the major players in the drug ring.
But after years of successful undercover work, his career came unstuck—and he nearly lost his life—when a routine covert driving exercise with other Drug Squad officers at a local racetrack was seen by an outsider. As the officers practised high-speed pursuits and spinouts on the track, a man asked one of the staff who the drivers were. His response? ‘Ah, that’s the undercover Drug Squad.’ The man then took long-lens photographs of the undercover cops and circulated them amongst his gang friends. The stupidity of that staff member resulted in the men being confronted and searched for wires when they returned to their jobs. Two of them were beaten to death when discovered, and despite being attacked with a crowbar, Pete somehow escaped with his life. But his cover was blown and he could never return to his work. He was forced to choose between paper-pushing, or a new career under a new name. He chose to go into the private sector.
One obvious remnant of his altercation with the mob was the fact that he no longer had any cartilage whatsoever in his nose. He was not vain enough to have it reconstructed and, in fact, he seemed to like making a spectacle of it—in certain company, at least. He’d made Mak touch it on the second day of his class. ‘There, have a feel,’ he’d insisted. ‘Take a good look, have a feel and then it won’t distract you.’ It had felt like a blob of putty on the end of his face.
Pete was wandering through the waiting room, brandishing what Mak recognised as a common hand-held debugging device. It was switched on, and a sequence of small red lights flashed up and down the face of it as it scanned the room for frequencies transmitted by any bugging devices.
‘Is it clear?’ Marian asked.
Pete nodded.
‘Someone has been through the office,’ Marian told Mak solemnly.
Mak wasn’t sure exactly what she meant. ‘What do you mean, “been through”? Was there a burglary?’
‘Someone’s ransacked it.’
The office didn’t look ransacked to Mak. ‘What’s missing? Do you know?’
‘I am not sure yet—I’m still taking inventory. This was well organised. They went through the filing cabinets. That’s the reason I called you in—your file on Robert Groobelaar’s assignment is missing. You didn’t take it home for any reason, did you?’
Mak’s blood ran cold. ‘No.’ Thankfully her
laptop held copies of the work she had compiled so far, but having the information in that file stolen could potentially threaten the confidentiality of the client.
‘And you had your handbag stolen.’ Marian narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s bad luck.’
‘Yeah,’ Mak said. ‘There’s a lot of bad luck going around at the moment, isn’t there? Does Groobelaar know about this?’ She gestured to the office.
‘He’s been informed. He didn’t seem as upset as I feared he would be. He knows his confidentiality is still protected, so he’s fine.’ Marian never kept client names or billing details with case files. All the information was encrypted in her system. If someone had stolen the file it would not have shown any direct link to the client, but it would still have a load of information on the people who were being investigated.
And now I’m probably out of a gig. After all that.
‘Did he cancel the job?’ Mak asked, dreading losing out on all the income for the assignment.
‘No. It’s still yours, unless you want to quit.’
Mak had never quit anything in her life, let alone when it got interesting.
‘I’m no quitter,’ she said. ‘If there was an intruder here, you must have got them on tape?’
Marian was tight with security, and she had a surveillance system installed. There was a keyhole camera hidden in the front door, one in the waiting room and a third in her office.
‘No, the cameras didn’t get anything. They disabled them. The system calls Pete when someone disables any of the cameras. By the time he got here, they were gone.’
Pete specialised in the surveillance and security side of investigations. His previous work as an undercover police officer gave him a good background for it. It was the first time Mak had twigged that Pete had actually installed Marian’s surveillance system. Was that such a good idea if he was a competitor?
‘I have to say, nothing looks disturbed,’ Mak commented. ‘Why are you checking for bugs?’
‘We found one under the desk,’ Pete said.
Shit. ‘Really?’
‘This was professional, not a random burglary, there is no doubt about that,’ he continued. ‘There are a few files missing, including your current case, so I would recommend you be careful. It could be that someone doesn’t want you poking around.’
Mak thought about that possibility. There were four known people central to her assignment thus far. The first was the client, who, as far as Mak could see, had no reason at all to steal the information he was already paying to have provided to him. The second was the victim, who was dead before Mak even got involved. The third, Tobias Murphy, was in jail. The fourth key person was Simon Aston.
Simon Bloody Try-Sexual Aston…Or even Damien Cavanagh himself?
‘Tell me something: are the other stolen files for current cases?’ Mak asked.
‘No. Not that we’ve found so far. Only yours. Which makes me think that the other files were taken to make it look less obvious.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Mak said.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Mak, I hate to ask you this but I need to know something. I need you to answer this truthfully.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have you said anything about the specifics on this case to your boyfriend or any other cop?’
Mak paused, trying to think of the implications. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Well, I passed on that video, like I told you.’ She’d worded Marian up on her arrival back in Sydney. ‘I thought the police needed to have it. It might show a girl’s death. But as it didn’t show Meaghan Wallace, it probably isn’t related to our investigation work anyway.’
Or is it?
‘I’ve confidentially spoken about some aspects of the case to a police officer friend who I trust,’ Mak continued, ‘but not the client’s details or anything sensitive—just my feelings on the murder and the kid they have as a suspect. I have some niggling doubt that the boy is guilty.’ She and Karen had spoken about a lot of things on the way from the airport, but nothing that Mak felt compromised her investigation—to the contrary.
Marian nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you haven’t mentioned Groobelaar to anyone?’
‘I would never do that.’
‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I am sorry I had to ask.’
‘That’s okay.’ Marian would no doubt be feeling violated and suspicious, knowing that someone had penetrated her security. ‘Wait a second…’ Mak clicked to her meaning. ‘Are you saying that you think the cops might have done this?’
‘All I know is, this was very professional,’ Marian said. ‘If all this was done to find out about your assignment, then you really need to be careful. Don’t do anything that might compromise your position, or lose you your licence.’
Mak nodded. She was partial to bending the rules, but she rarely flat-out broke them. However, in light of what had just happened, Mak had some ideas that didn’t quite fit into the Private Investigators Act of 1999.
‘And you must have seen the article in the paper. I thought you’d be unhappy about it, bringing up that whole trial again.’
‘What article? What paper?’ Mak felt her big toe start to itch, exactly where the microsurgeon had sewn it back on. ‘Why would there be an article about that? The trial was over two years ago. More. It was nearly three years ago, wasn’t it?’
‘I dunno, Mak. But your face is in the paper today. There’s a copy in the waiting room. It says you are working for me as a private investigator. It kinda makes it sound like you can’t get a job as a shrink. I think someone planted it. Someone is out for you, Mak.’
Mak felt her face flush. She ran out to the waiting room and grabbed the paper, Marian and Pete following close behind. She had to flip through several pages before she found it.
STILETTO MURDER VICTIM’S SECRET LIFE IN SYDNEY
Surviving Stiletto Murder victim, Canadian model Makede Van der Wall, has secretly returned to live with her detective boyfriend in Sydney, despite the horrors of her brutal rape and abduction here five years ago. The Stiletto Killer—the most prolific and violent killer in Australian history…
Mak didn’t think she could read on, but she did. She found the part Marian was talking about:
…despite being a trained psychologist, Van der Wall had not been able to find work. She has been secretly working for Marian Wendell Private Investigations, where perhaps her past is less likely to be questioned.
Secret life? What secret? Mak stared at the article disbelievingly, a quiet rage building in her. They made her sound like some kind of freak.
‘How can they write that? They even spelled my name wrong. Who writes this shit?’
How can a few days turn so bad?
‘It’s bile, Mak. Don’t pay it any attention,’ Marian said calmly.
Why now? Why me?
‘Don’t take it too harshly. No one believes those rags anyway.’
‘Well, you bought a copy, didn’t you?’ Mak countered. And so did hundreds of thousands of other people who read it daily.
Marian shrugged.
‘I think you might be right. Someone is trying to discredit me,’ Mak said as calmly as she could. And I think I might know who that someone is. She turned to Pete. ‘Is your mate Sergei working at the moment?’ Mak asked him.
Pete smiled. ‘Looking to do some shopping, are you?’
Mak grinned back, but her lips were sealed. The only thing to do when she was angry was to get to work.
Mak arrived at the terrace and parked her black bike next to Andy’s little red Honda. She was going to have to borrow it again—not that he’d care. She needed a car for what she was planning to do.
She put a call in to Pete’s contact Sergei. ‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably closing soon.’
‘Yep.’
‘I have something urgent. I just need a couple of items. How’s your stock at the moment?’
‘Pretty good,’ he responded.
>
‘Can I swing past?’
There was not much of a pause. Sergei’s cash register was always willing to accept payment.
When Mak pulled up at the daggy little doorway on Parramatta Road with the shop sign that said SPY WORLD—complete with a cartoon symbol of big eyes doing a suspicious sideways glance—Sergei was just opening the door for her.
‘So what can I help you with this afternoon, Miss Vanderwall?’
Sergei never called anyone by his or her first name. He was a lanky Russian immigrant with a heavy accent, a number-one buzz cut and a remarkable talent for being able to turn just about any basic household item—photo albums, cans of soup, desk clocks, light switches, thermostats—into surveillance devices. He could probably implant a tiny camera into your dentures if you wanted it.
‘Ah, I am just looking for the usual, Sergei. Throwaways. Nothing too fancy.’
Mak followed him through the doorway and up a staircase to the first floor. Inside his shop were glass display cases filled with every type of surveillance equipment Mak could hope for, and then some.
‘So what do you need?’
‘A couple of taps.’ Phone tappers.
Sergei disappeared into the back room to get them for her while she perused some of his keyhole camera handiwork longingly. One day she wanted to be on a job where she needed one of his infamous button cameras. The camera was a tiny keyhole lens positioned in the centre hole of a regular jacket button. The video images it could capture were as clear as day, and it fed all of the footage into a receiver Mak could carry in a small purse. It was a brilliant piece of craftsmanship. It even came with extra matching buttons so the jacket would look uniform. It would take a highly trained—and suspicious—eye to spot the miniature lens. There was a similar set-up available in the head of a screw, which could be fitted to any wall or device. It too came with extra screws to match the doorway or wall the lens was fitted to. It was a tight surveillance unit with high quality reception, and it was very expensive. Mak couldn’t afford it unless a client was picking up the tab, and in this case there was no way to warrant filming anyone’s activities. Not yet, anyway. Nonetheless, she drooled over the items in the glass cases as if they were rare and precious jewels.