The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  Amy had been so certain that Damien had been involved and now, sadly, she had turned up dead herself. Another suicide. She had been found with an overdose of drugs in her system, lying on her kitchen floor, decomposing; a puppy sat whimpering next to her, evidently a gift from a lover. And Simon had got drunk and hanged himself from a chandelier.

  Now no one was alive to point the finger at the Cavanaghs. It was all very convenient. And the higher powers in the police force certainly did not seem keen to pursue any potential link between Damien Cavanagh, the overdose of the Thai girl, and the Meaghan Wallace hit. The hairs found at the Cavanagh house had perfectly matched those of the Dumpster Girl. How was that not enough to warrant further inquiry?

  Through their very highly paid lawyer, the Cavanagh family had expressed ‘great concern and regret that anything untoward might have taken place in their home’ without their knowledge. The late Simon Aston had been a friend, but not a close friend. Certainly no one had known the extent of his activities until it was too late. The Cavanagh son, Damien, did not know of his friend’s illegal activities, their lawyer claimed. Questioning anyone who may have been present at the party that night would no doubt be a long process, and probably a fruitless one. The case was dead in the water.

  It’s not right.

  It was little wonder that Mak’s client, Robert Groobelaar, had been so paranoid about his confidentiality. If the Cavanaghs found out he had started an investigation of his own, who knows what they might have done to him or his business to shut him down?

  Makedde shook her head with disgust and frustration.

  The one upside was that young Tobias Murphy had been cleared of the murder, thanks to Simon Aston’s apparent confession to Detective Hunt that he had hired a thug named Warwick O’Connor to do the hit. O’Connor had not yet been tracked down. Tobias had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, coming to his cousin for money on that Thursday night, as he did every fortnight. Though he had been through a terrible loss and no one could replace his sympathetic cousin, his being arrested had quite possibly saved his life. He was now in a rehabilitation program, finally getting the help he needed, and just as importantly, he was back in communication with his biological father, Kevin, and was going to live with him and his new family.

  ‘Just think of what could have happened,’ Mak said, watching the quiet street outside the terrace, the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. ‘That poor kid was going to go to jail for a murder he didn’t commit.’

  Clearly, for reasons she could not come to terms with, Sergeant Hunt and the police were not going at Damien Cavanagh with both barrels. They’d never done more than pussyfoot around.

  ‘Don’t be so quick to blame the police, Mak,’ Andy told her, defending his colleagues from afar. ‘It’s not always so simple, you know. No one has been able to prove that it’s Damien in that video.’

  Mak shook her head. Bullshit.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to fly back? Just for a few days?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I insist. I have plenty here to keep me busy. In fact, I’ve never been so busy in my life.’

  Robert Groobelaar had been more than satisfied with the amount of information she had uncovered; in particular, that Meaghan Wallace had not been having an affair with Simon Aston. That seemed to have put his mind at ease. Another happy customer. And there was something else: several new cases had come in for her since the nasty article about her had been in the paper. The phone was practically ringing off the hook for her services.

  Oh, the irony.

  Mak was sure that the Cavanaghs, or whoever had planted that article, had done so to discredit her investigation work and maybe lose her the case. Few could have anticipated it having the opposite effect. Apparently her particular brand of infamy and experience could be an asset in the profession.

  Mak sat up when she saw Bogey’s gleaming blue convertible pull up outside the house. The top was down. She watched Loulou with her exploding hairdo bound out of the passenger seat and run up towards the house. Bogey slowly opened the driver’s side door and stood up. He wore slim black jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. She watched him with interest, her heart speeding up a touch.

  ‘It looks like I may be back in four months or so,’ Andy said.

  ‘So they have extended your stay? That’s good, isn’t it?’ Mak suspected that now he was at Quantico, Andy was seeing new opportunities for his career. He would probably be there for much longer than he first thought. Perhaps he was trying to break it to her gently.

  ‘Yes,’ Andy admitted. ‘Hopefully not for too long…’

  ‘No, no, it’s good,’ Mak insisted. ‘I’m proud of you, Andy. You need to do this. It will be great for your career.’

  ‘You’re not mad at me because of what I said before?’ Andy said.

  ‘That conversation seems like another lifetime. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you, Andy. What will be will be.’

  There was a long pause.

  It had not yet been a fortnight since his departure, but Mak realised that it felt like much longer. ‘I’ll call you later,’ she said. ‘Loulou and Bogey are at the door. Don’t worry about me, Andy. Just take care of yourself, okay? I’m proud of you.’

  Whatever happened, she was proud of him. And maybe of herself, too. Mak wasn’t sure where things would lead, but for the moment at least, she would happily take the ride and find out. Things had a way of working themselves out.

  She hung up the phone and made her way to the door. When she opened it, she was smothered by Loulou’s hugs.

  ‘We’ve got Gatorade, cold presses, chicken soup, and enough DVDs for a movie marathon! Karen said she’ll stop by after her shift, too. We won’t have to leave the house for days.’

  Mak laughed. So much for recovering in private.

  She was glad of it, though.

  Humphrey Mortimer closed the trunk and walked up to the house, smiling gently and holding bags of groceries.

  ‘Loulou, you are the best,’ Mak told her, and held the door open for them both.

  Cathy Davis emerged from her Redfern flat. She held her purse in one hand and an empty cloth shopping bag in the other, ready to run her errands for the day. A slew of carefully clipped grocery coupons bulged from the hip pocket of her long apricot cardigan, the elbows of which she had recently mended with wool a touch too orange to match the rest. She carefully locked her door, shut the torn flyscreen and made her way across the small porch.

  I need milk, a packet of gravy, three eggs, one potato, one carrot and one onion, she thought, counting up the items she planned to buy with her coupons and coins to sustain her for another few days.

  She stopped.

  There was a package on her doorstep.

  How odd.

  She could not remember the last time anyone had sent her a package of any kind. All she ever received were bills and the humble government cheques that kept her going. Slowly, she stooped to pick up the parcel, thinking it was surely for one of her neighbours. But it was not. A card taped to the top said, TO: CATHY DAVIS.

  Cathy carried it to the bench on her porch and took a seat, moving aside some filthy newspapers that had floated down and lodged in the corners of the wooden boards.

  With some effort, she slid a fingernail through the tape that held the box closed. She pulled the lid back and peered inside.

  The box was filled with money.

  Lots of it.

  It looked like Monopoly money to Cathy Davis, who was fifty-nine and had not been employed since she was in her forties. Even back when the cheques that came were bigger than what the Government saw fit to pay her now, she had never seen money like this. Ever. The bills were wrapped together in elastic bands. She looked at them quizzically, not sure if they were real.

  There must have been hundreds of dollars in the box—no, thousands.

  Mrs Davis looked around, bewildered. Who would do such a thing?

  Overhead, a 747 jetted through the clear sky
and Cathy’s son, Luther, settled into his trip to Mumbai. He hoped to return to Australia one day when the time was right. He had unfinished business in Sydney. Business with his mother—and with a woman named Makedde Vanderwall.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Every novel is a new adventure and a fresh research challenge, and I have been blessed to be able to spend time as a ‘forensic tourist’ amongst specialists and wonderful real-life characters who have been generous with their time and assistance. A special thank you must go to former police officer, forensic polygraph examiner and great mate Steve Van Aperen of Australian Polygraph Services International; poisons expert, award-winning author and pharmacist Gail Bell; pharmacist John Fregon; psychopathy expert Dr Robert Hare; barristers at law Jason Pennell and Sarah Fregon; forensic psychologists Tim Watson-Munro and Carla Lechner; security specialist and private investigator Carl Donadio and Once Blue; Tony Zalewski of the Australian Institute of Public Safety; the Quantico FBI Academy; Sergeant Glenn ‘Standing By’ Hayward; Spy Quip World; Mistress Serenity; The Castle; the larger-than-life Maxine Fensom; Alison Arnot-Bradshaw; Abracadabra Films for Trafficked; and Ray and the ladies of Goldfingers —with a special mention to Charlotte for my first private dance. Also, thank you to John Austin for the coffins; Drayson at O’Connell’s for the name; my anonymous Mistress friends for the peek into your world; and to the two-wheeled fiends at the Victorian branch of Women’s International Motorcycling Association and Netrider.

  Thank you so much to my literary agent and fairy godmother Selwa Anthony for the faith and support. You made my childhood dream of being a published writer come true. I am grateful to the whole gang at HarperCollins Australia for believing in me when I was an unpublished gamble. Special thanks go to Shona Martyn, Linda Funnell, Mel Cain, Louisa Dear and Angelo Loukakis. Also thanks to National Geographic Channel; Craig Schneider of Pinnacle PR; the lovely Di Rolle; Martin Walsh at Chadwick; Saxtons; Bolinda Audio; and everyone at Sisters In Crime.

  Lots of love to the Moss, Carlson, Bosch, Hooft, Fregon and Pennell clans, particularly my wonderful sister, Jackie; my father, Bob; lovely Lou; Auntie Ellie and Herman; Oma and our beloved Opa (we miss you); Heather; John; Nell (the life of the party, we miss you); Louise; Sarah; Jason and little Ella; and all my great friends, especially Captain Millimum; ‘the gang’: Irving, Hugh, Deb, Ava and Oscar; Gloria; Mark; Jac and Mitchell; brilliant artist and friend Nafisa Naomi; Russell; Mindy; John and Flynn; fabulous Amelia; Desi and Robert; Linda (Miss J forever!); Bob and Margot Atkins; Xanthe; Laidley and the McLaughlin family; the Myman clan (when are you moving?); Misty; Pete and Anne; Tracey and Charles Millard and Charlie (thank you for the Brisbane Covet launch!).

  Love to my buddies Bo, Gomez, Thing and the pond dwellers for the furry and scaly writer’s companionship on countless dark nights burning the midnight oil.

  Mum, I never forget you.

  Siren

  Tara Moss

  Dedication

  To new beginnings…

  siren

  —noun

  a device that makes a loud prolonged sound as a signal or warning: a police siren.

  Classical Mythology. One of several sea nymphs, part woman and part bird, who lure mariners to destruction by their seductive singing.

  a seductively beautiful or charming woman, esp. one who beguiles men.

  a woman who is considered alluring or fascinating but also dangerous.

  Epigraph

  Security is mostly a superstition.

  It does not exist in nature.

  HELEN KELLER

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Siren

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Epilogue

  A Note About The Grand Guignol

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  A brief glow peeked through the curtains, washing the crowd in crimson light, before the little theatre plunged into shadow. There were murmurs, and then renewed silence, ears straining for sounds beyond the curtain.

  Shhhh…

  It was late in Paris, and the infamously unsavoury streets of Pigalle were dark, though anything but quiet. Tucked away inside the venue at the end of Rue Chaptal, the audience was fully immersed in the claustrophobic atmosphere of Le Théâtre des Horreurs. Men and women sat quietly in their seats, some holding hands, some sitting tensely with crossed arms, all overlooked by a pair of two-metre carved angels hanging above the neo-Gothic wood panelling of the interior. In the stygian darkness, the angels seemed to glow with a sickly green light, the origins of which were not clear. The theatre had once served as a church, but those gathered this night had come to find entertainment in acts of iniquity and horror, not divine solace. Rather than lighten the spirits of those present, the ghostly angels added to the sensation of a tomb-like proximity with death.

  A stark spotlight hit the darkened stage, and a delicate dancer emerged into the pool of light, toe first, as if stepping into water. She was dressed in the corset, fishnet stockings and top hat of burlesque tradition, her chapeau set at an artful angle atop a wavy platinum-blonde wig: a nod, perhaps, to the nearby Moulin Rouge. The eyes of each silent audience member followed the fragile beauty as if mesmerised. She held aloft a painted placard, which in elaborate script declared the final ghoulish act of the evening’s program:

  Le Baiser Dans La Nuit

  With a wink for the tourists, she turned the placard over to reveal the English title printed on the other side:

  The Final Kiss

  In moments the young woman had vanished, and the red velvet curtains parted. The audience found themselves peering voyeuristically at a small lounge room in the centre of which a male character—ominously bandaged from chin to forehead—sat grimly while a doctor and a nurse changed the dressings on his face. The young man’s back was to the audience, fists clenched at his sides. His laboured breathing communicated wordless agony.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything as appalling as these injuries,’ the doctor was saying to his nurse. ‘And I hope I never see anything like them again. Sulphuric acid.Vitriol. That’s what caused this. An acid attack…’

  Acid.

  With the patient’s back still to the audience, the extent of his wounds was left to their imagination, by now active with horror.

  ‘They happen too often, sir,’ the young nurse replied through a voice half swallowed by
revulsion. She was dressed in the black-and-white uniform of her profession, a Catholic red cross emblazoned on her cap. From her unnerved expression, it was clear she was deeply troubled by the patient’s appearance.

  ‘Light…light burns my eyes,’ the man complained sullenly, naked of his bandages. A number of audience members craned their necks in hope of a better view.

  ‘It was so calculated,’ the doctor continued, addressing the nurse as if his patient was not there or perhaps was not even fully human. ‘Often with this kind of attack, the perpetrator throws the acid from too far away or too quickly, or they lose their nerve and their hands shake. But in this case, it was done with absolute precision.’ The doctor stabbed the air with a quick, violent motion, and one could clearly imagine the acid’s terrible trajectory. ‘Every drop hit the intended target—Henri’s face.’

  The young man’s hands clenched again. Still he did not turn.

  ‘The attacker had a very cool head. Exceptionally cool,’ the doctor finished.

  ‘He wanted to maim him,’ the nurse commented nervously.

  ‘He?’ the doctor rebuffed. ‘It was a lady.’

  Low murmurs rippled through the audience.

  ‘Our patient Henri’s estranged fiancée,’ the doctor explained with disgust.‘Should’ve given her the death penalty …a great performer in court, so I hear. She got off lightly…probably free already. He forgives her. If anything, he helped her get a light sentence.’

  The nurse appeared moved. Her mouth hung open as she considered Henri’s magnanimous response to his attacker.‘Love!’ she declared, and looked off into the distance melodramatically, her gaze above the audience, her large eyes catching the light. ‘To forgive like that! No desire for revenge. Just forgiveness! Underneath the pain, you must have great peace to forgive like that…’ The admiration was clear in her voice.