The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  Imagine if all of the acid had spilled across your hand, instead of a drop?

  She had been very lucky. And Adam had certainly been lucky as well. What if she had not acted so impetuously? He was seconds away from having his lover, Bijou, unknowingly disfigure him for life. If Mak had not seen the man—the contortionist Arslan as it turned out—acting suspiciously near the props before the show, she would not have figured it out in time, and the acid would have covered Adam’s face. Nothing could have stopped it once it made contact with his skin. No more handsome face. No more chance for normality. His mother, Glenise, would have welcomed home quite a different son.

  ‘Makedde?’

  ‘Yes, Adam?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and embraced her childishly.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, dismissing him, and waving him towards the gate. ‘Bon voyage. Fly safely.’

  Adam waved as he disappeared down the gangway to his plane. She stepped away, ready for the trip back to her hotel, feeling sorry for the young man. Though it was Mak who had been burned, he had learned a painful lesson. She hoped his reunion with his mother was a good one. They had both been through a tough couple of years. After all that suffering, they deserved to find some happiness.

  With a fresh dose of caffeine pumping through her and a stomach happily digesting one of the best croissants she had ever eaten, Mak slipped into the elevator at the Hotel des Grandes Écoles with the satisfaction of a job complete.

  Done. You did it.

  The elevator door shut with a squeak, and the cramped, rattling lift ascended to her floor. She stepped out into the narrow hallway and flattened herself against the wall to let a maid in a traditional black-and-white uniform, carrying a feather duster, pass her. The corridors smelled of scented cleaning products.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she offered as the woman brushed past her chest.

  Mak could not understand the smiling woman’s rapid-fire reply.

  She opened the door to her room with a large, old-fashioned key, stepped inside and locked the deadbolt behind her out of habit. She threw herself on the hard bed, grinning wildly, her arms and legs flung out in her preferred starfish pose. It was not just the café au lait that was buzzing pleasantly around her system, but the excitement of having completed her case, and completed it well. Adam would soon be home safe in Australia, unharmed, apologetic and reunited with his grateful mother, Glenise. And he would return with her pearls, too. Mak was relieved. She had felt an increasing foreboding, fearing something terrible would happen to him. Thankfully, this was one case that would not end in the kind of violence and tragedy that seemed always to plague her.

  She rolled over and grabbed her phone. It would be evening in Australia.

  It rang four times. Don’t get too giddy.

  A warm voice came on the line, full of concern about her injury. Bogey. She’d just managed a thirty-second call to him the night before to let him know the case was wrapped up and she was okay.

  ‘Hi there.’ She laughed nervously, hating that she was so girlishly enlivened by the idea of talking to him. She hoped he couldn’t tell over the phone. The case was over and the first thing her mind had seized upon was romance.

  There was silence for a few seconds. ‘You sound so far away, Mak,’ he said.

  ‘I am!’

  ‘What’s the hotel like?’

  ‘It’s not bad. The room’s tiny, but I think all rooms in Paris are the size of a closet. But why would anyone spend time in their room when there’s Paris to explore?’

  As soon as she said the words, Mak regretted them. Her mind immediately went to one very compelling reason to stay indoors. She imagined Bogey in her bed, perhaps lying across the crisp white sheets with his tattoos spread on his naked skin like fascinating constellations to be explored in minute detail. Every centimetre of skin, every tiny hair, every pore…

  ‘Are you boarding soon?’ she asked excitedly.

  ‘Yes. I’ll be in London in about twenty-four hours. I can come across on the Eurostar as soon as you’re ready for me.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘You are? Great! Congratulations, by the way, on another case solved.’

  Mak smiled. ‘Well, it is nice to get a happy resolution.’

  ‘You know, your work on the Murphy–Wallace case was pretty impressive too.’ He had followed her progress carefully on that one. When they had first met.

  She had been feeling elated, but at the mention of the troublesome Cavanagh case, her mood darkened. ‘Don’t…really, don’t get me started about all that,’ she said, perhaps a bit too sharply. ‘Tobias didn’t end up doing time for a crime he didn’t commit, but other than that, there’s not too much positive I can say about that case.’

  Just like that, the Cavanaghs were back in her head. When she got back to Sydney she intended seeing what she could do about tracking down that incriminating video. The police had it, and she wanted to see it again. She even had wild ideas about leaking it to the press, or maybe onto YouTube. Perhaps the only way to circumvent those who were holding back the investigation was to go public. If the Cavanaghs really were innocent of her every accusation, if there was some other explanation for what happened…well, they would have no trouble clearing themselves and they certainly had the money to secure top legal representation. They should at least be put under scrutiny. If they weren’t, it made a mockery of the justice system.

  ‘Mak, I’m glad you’re over there right now. You’re probably safer.’ A touch of concern had entered Bogey’s voice. ‘There was an article in the paper yesterday about the Cavanaghs. Apparently the name “Cavanagh” and some employees of theirs came up on a database in some raid on an international organised crime ring. It’s a big scandal, as you can imagine.’

  An edgy electric current slipped up her spine and she shivered. ‘An international crime ring?’

  ‘Apparently. There wasn’t a lot of detail. Something about a crime ring with some connection in Queensland. That’s all the article said. And everything was prefaced with “allegedly”, of course.’

  Andy. He’d said the feds were onto them.

  Mak wanted to call Karen and find out if she knew anything about it. ‘How is it that you read this in the paper, but no one told me?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sorry,’ Bogey said. ‘You really don’t need to be thinking about those issues right now. You’re in Paris. Are you going out sightseeing today?’

  ‘Naturally,’ she answered, her mind only half on the conversation. ‘Eiffel Tower, Champs Élysées…the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe…’ She reeled off the destinations, feeling far away, her thoughts in Sydney, not Paris.

  The line was silent for a moment as Mak gripped the phone too hard, and stared blankly towards the hotel window, not seeing the charming drapery or the Paris sky beyond.

  An international crime ring. Corruption. This could be it. They might actually get their just deserts.

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ she went on. ‘I want to know more.’

  ‘I’m sure the police are onto it,’ Bogey replied, trying to reassure her. ‘Tell me about what’s happening over there. Have the police found the contortionist? How is what’s-her-name …Bijou? How’s she coping?’ Bogey was clearly trying to get her off the topic of the Cavanaghs.

  He was right—there was nothing she could do about the Cavanaghs over here in Europe. Still, the idea would stay with her until she knew more.

  ‘Arslan is still missing, and wanted for assault. I’ll tell you more about it when I see you.’

  Mak felt a little thrill of desire, thinking about seeing Bogey in only another day or so. How wonderful.

  ‘I wonder where he’ll turn up?’ Bogey mused.

  ‘I think I mentioned before that one of Bijou’s lovers was attacked under similar circumstances about five years ago. That assault is still unsolved, but the police now believe that it might have been Arslan. The victim was only twenty at the time, around the same age as
Adam Hart.’

  ‘And they say Arslan is her son? Weird.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ she said. ‘It seems that Arslan must have been overcome with jealousy of these young lovers, and I think that the only way he could get his mother’s attention back was to maim the competition, or even try to murder them. Who knows if Adam would have even lived?’

  There was such a strange dynamic amongst the troupe. It seemed they lived out of each others’ pockets twenty-four/seven, and had done so for years. Anyone could be driven crazy living like that.

  ‘It’s hard to understand exactly how it works, but from all I’ve seen the loyalty within the troupe is fierce. When the first kid was attacked they probably swung into action to cover up what had happened and make sure none of them was implicated, guilty or not. Keeping the troupe together was a matter of survival for them, and loyalty. It does seem Bijou was devastated. But the theatre is all she knows. And with her Grand Guignol performances she’s become a bit typecast—she isn’t offered other roles. This is it for her. Her life is that troupe.’

  Mak wondered once more what Bijou would do now. She probably wouldn’t be charged with any crime. But surely this would be the tragic end to the strange nomadic lifestyle of the Théâtre des Horreurs? What would she do without her children? Would she find a new toyboy to replace Adam? Would she support her son if he was found?

  ‘I think one of the strangest things is that all seven of the performers are blood relatives, half-siblings and such, but they were never billed that way because of Bijou’s vanity. She didn’t want to be seen as the mother of the other performers, but as more of a queen. An ageless queen. Even now that her history with her son Arslan has been found out, it is not technically a crime in France. Did you know that? Socially it is totally unacceptable here, definitely, but not a crime.’

  ‘You mean the incest?’ Bogey asked, puzzled. ‘Incest is a crime.’

  ‘Not in France. Napoleon made incest legal a couple of hundred years ago, for uncertain reasons, and the law was never changed back. Once Arslan was old enough, Bijou could take him as her lover without fear of legal repercussions. And she did.’

  ‘Incest is legal? Are you kidding me?’ There was notable shock in his voice, and Mak was not surprised.

  ‘In France it is legal. Probably in some other countries too, I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘Well, they hid their relationship for good reason. It isn’t exactly the done thing.’

  Mak wondered if Bijou denied her maternity of the troupe more for the sake of her professional image, her vanity regarding her age, or to protect her on-and-off sexual liaisons with her son Arslan? Probably it would be for all three reasons.

  ‘Anyway, enough rabbiting on about work. You’re coming to Paris, and that’s much more exciting right now.’

  ‘I was wondering…have you ever wanted to go to the Moulin Rouge?’ Bogey asked.

  ‘My whole life,’ she answered.

  ‘Would you like to go with me?’

  She grinned broadly. ‘Yes, I would,’ she exclaimed, a little uncomfortable with just how much joy the thought of seeing him gave her. ‘I’d love to go to the Moulin Rouge with you. Actually, there are some beautiful places I’d like to show you. Have you been to Paris before?’

  By the time Mak hung up her heart was pounding with excitement. He was more than just an excuse to enjoy Paris for a few more days. A romantic week with Bogey Mortimer was a destination in itself.

  What a splendid reward for a case solved.

  Mak slipped on a coat and a pair of gloves to brave the winter cold, and before long she was able to forget all about the bandaged wound on her hand, and the close call that had caused it.

  Today is a great day to be in Paris, she thought and, with optimism lacking in recent years, set out for some sightseeing in the city of love.

  CHAPTER 46

  Paris. Paris!

  Grinning like the tourist she now was, Mak took several steps from the kerb, and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she looked up.

  Wow!

  She was directly under the Tour Eiffel, its mighty beams weaving symmetrically into cool, overcast skies above her, a tower of intricate iron lace. A small breath of appreciation escaped her.

  ‘Mademoiselle! MADEMOISELLE! One euro!’

  Mak could not take the time to appreciate the beauty of the famous French monument from that position for long. In seconds she was being hassled by a young North African man selling tiny glowing Eiffel Tower replicas. And then another one. And another one. She had no interest in a 10-centimetre-high flashing Eiffel Tower. But it was a cloudy midweek day, and the young hawkers did not have many other potential customers.

  ‘One euro!’ came the cries, ever more insistent, and a swarm of souvenir sellers gathered round her, many only reaching the level of her chest.

  Mak quickly spotted a short queue for the trip to the top of the tower from the closest pylon. ‘Non, merci,’ she told her unwanted friends, and quickly broke away. Framed by the giant structure, she strolled purposefully through the scattered crowd, ignoring the pushy young men and their gaudy trinkets.

  Once in the queue, she quickly relaxed again, safe. She paid her 11 euros, and stepped through the doors of the elevator that would pull her to the top of the structure. A couple was already inside. She smiled at them, and they nodded. Then kissed.

  Mak had not been up the Eiffel Tower since she was a teenager modelling in Paris, and it seemed little had changed.

  Buttons were pushed on a control panel by a solemn attendant, and the elevator began to move, rickety and slightly off-kilter, the four of them raised rung by rung up the giant structure in the little cubicle to the rhythmic sound of gears turning, catching ever more thrilling glimpses of the city through the webs of iron, enough to feel something like vertigo.

  ‘To top? Top closing twenty minutes,’ the attendant told them in broken English. ‘Weather.’

  They arrived at the first level of the tower, and were escorted to a second elevator. The kissing couple joined her, along with a second, older couple who had been waiting on the lower platform. A very tall man slipped in last, seeming almost to fill the rest of the carriage on his own. The elevator doors closed and they ascended. This elevator seemed smaller, and more fragile. Hundreds of metres in the air, it turned slightly on its side, perhaps only a few centimetres off balance, but enough to make Makedde hang on.

  The doors opened at the top, and the little group of tourists spilled out. The platform was nearly empty. Mak had expected tourists at every turn, but then it was February, and a windy, overcast day. As she walked straight to the railing, she felt almost as if the view—what there was of it—was for her, and her alone. The wind was biting, and she had to pull her collar up over her chin while she gazed through swelling cloud at the fast-receding vista. It seemed this was probably not the day to take in the visual splendour of Paris, but she still fed a coin into the binoculars bolted to the viewing platform, and bent to take in the magnified view. She wondered if she’d be able to pick out the Moulin Rouge, perhaps even the Cité Chaptal and the historic little theatre.

  Dammit.

  The glass was fogged up.

  In the distance dark clouds were moving in, a blur of approaching rain visible. The weather would soon turn.

  I am being watched.

  Makedde felt eyes on her, and the power of the gaze made her look up from her inspection of the fogged eyepiece.

  Several paces away stood the very tall man from the elevator. He wore a hat, scarf and wool coat of black, and small clouds of mist formed just beyond his lips in the icy air before being whipped away by the winter wind. Yes, he was watching her. Mak had a trained eye for detail, so that even with his hat pulled low across his brow, it was obvious to her that the man had some unusual disfiguration of the face; a kind of pulling of scarred skin, which suggested an unsuccessful procedure by a shonky plastic surgeon. Usually such unnatural pulling around the cheekbones and eyes was to be fou
nd only in wealthy older people of certain circles. She had seen it often enough in the fashion world on socialites and designers. But this man was no older than forty and did not look the part. Far from it. Perhaps, she thought, he was a boxer or a fighter of some kind, or had suffered in some sort of accident. His nose was crooked.

  Feeling expansive and unthreatened, now on holiday in beautiful Paris, Mak smiled politely at the stranger and began a slow stroll around the railing, bracing herself against the wind and the approaching storm.

  She looked right at me. She smiled at me.

  Luther Hand stood on the viewing platform at the top of the Eiffel Tower, baffled that he had been locked momentarily in a gaze with the woman he was hired to kill.

  Makedde Vanderwall.

  Appearing unperturbed and only mildly curious about his scrutiny, she had offered an easy smile and turned her head to continue her appreciation of the clouded view.

  She isn’t scared of me.

  Luther had instructions to eliminate Makedde for an Australian client who could not risk her return to Australian soil. Madame Q had wired a payment to his account and made available a new black Mercedes containing a case of money and the tools necessary for the operation. The car was parked a couple of blocks from the base of the famous tower, ready for her. He would need to dispose of her body discreetly.

  She looked right at me and was not alarmed.

  Luther wandered the platform, watching Mak in his peripheral vision and pretending to take in a view that he had seen many times before. Paris was not a romantic place for him. It was a place for work, like everywhere else. After a few minutes Mak walked back towards the elevators. She would be heading back down the tower with everyone else. The top level was closing.