Superintendent Last wanted them all to travel over to the Capitol Hill residence later this morning. He'd been there at five this morning, shortly after the daughter of the deceased had managed to free herself from her restraints and telephone for help. Physically uninjured, she remained in hospital, heavily sedated. Her father's legs, head and arms had been severed from his torso. His safe, containing ammunition and nine registered firearms, had been cleared out.
Almost incoherent, the survivor had managed to let the arriving officers know that she'd heard the whole thing.
Jill imagined that the sound of her father's screaming would have been less horrific than the chopping and sawing sounds that had continued when he stopped.
The taskforce members had been silent during the briefing, transfixed by Last's measured, careful account. Jill and David Tran scribbled notes. During the introductions, she had learned that David Tran and Derek Reid were detectives from Sydney's southwest. Gabriel Delahunt was the surprise – an Australian Federal Police officer, he had most recently been stationed at the police headquarters in Surry Hills, but like Jill, had moved around a lot for his previous big cases. She knew that the AFP often worked major crime investigations with community police, but she'd never worked a case involving them.
'Before we get moving on this thing,' said Last, 'there are two other important matters. First, we'll be looking into a couple of additional home invasions committed prior to the six we have been actively assigned. They occurred late last year, and there are some similarities which suggest that one or more of the same perpetrators may be involved.'
He cleared his throat, sat a little straighter in his seat.
'The second matter we need to discuss involves the media.'
Silence for a few beats.
'I am sure you heard the news this morning.'
Jill did a mental head slap. She'd been too busy figuring out how to get there to listen to the radio.
'I don't know whether any of you listen to talkback, but it seems that eighty per cent of callers want to know why we haven't caught these guys yet. They're talking about being too scared to turn the lights off; complaining that they've spent thousands on new security. Last week, one woman said she'd moved all of her family's beds into the loungeroom, where they plan to sleep every night until the offenders are caught. The idea seems to have caught on, and other listeners report doing the same thing.' He stopped to take a sip of water.
'The news this morning was all over the murder in Capitol Hill. Neighbours must have tipped them off. In fact, channels Nine and Seven and a couple of radio stations held special broadcasts this morning, dedicated to the home invasions. It is now the major national issue. Even the premier's been wheeled out to talk about it.' He paused again and scratched at an island of grey stubble on his face, as though surprised to find it there. Hasty shaving had clawed other patches of skin.
'The pissing contest has begun,' he said. It was the first time Jill had heard him swear.
'I don't know whether any of you have worked a headline case before,' he continued. 'I am sorry to tell you that you are caught up in one now.' He seemed genuinely apologetic. 'The pressure is horrendous. You will work ridiculous hours and be criticised constantly for doing nothing. You can expect no support from above me should things go wrong. Expect hysteria, propaganda and even lies in the media. I can't say it more clearly than this: do not speak to them. Come to me with everything. I will do my best to watch your backs.' He paused again. 'Please. Don't speak to the media. They will be everywhere.'
The superintendent unfolded like a giant pair of compasses.
'David, Derek. If you could ride with me please. Jill, would you come behind us with Gabriel? Please follow my vehicle. If we become separated, Capitol Hill is off Elizabeth Drive. You've a map in your folder there . . . ah, Appendix C.' He flicked through the folder to show them. 'We'll enter the house together. Expect crime scene, the coroner, and of course the media. Thank you for your attention this morning. I'll set new directives following our meeting in situ.'
Back in a tick, he'd said.
Jill sat in the Commodore out the front of the police station, motor idling. She stared at the backs of the four heads in the car in front of her, its engine also running. A uniformed officer was in the driver's seat, Last in front, Reid and Tran in the back.
She thrummed her fingers against the wheel, felt like she was doing something wrong. Where the hell was Delahunt?
At last he bounded through the front doors of the station, swung into the passenger seat.
About bloody time, she thought, irritated. She ignored him completely and pulled out, indicating to enter the traffic. Delahunt sat silently, hands in his lap.
She stayed with the car in front, watching for the street sign. Elizabeth Drive. There it was. Straight now to Capitol Hill. She relaxed a tiny bit, rubbed at her neck.
She became more aware of her passenger. Was she supposed to say something? She widened her senses, listened to him moving, tried to learn more about her companion in the quiet car. Her perceptive skills had been sharpened through years of fight training blindfolded, and she could tell a lot from others' barely perceptible movements, the way they breathed. His breathing was even, composed. She felt no tension, but he was not especially still. His active attention was directed to the road, outside the car. There seemed to be no awkwardness or tightness in his silence. She chanced a glance sideways. He'd donned a trucker's cap, the brim pulled low. No sunnies. His eyelashes were ridiculously long. Mediterranean skin, strong nose, generous lips.
'Best way to cook it is with lamb,' he said.
Jill over-corrected the steering a little. 'Sorry?'
'You gotta use heaps of garlic, like a whole thing. A big onion. Then brown the lamb with it. You can use lamb mince if you want, but it smells like shit. Better to use chops, or you could cut up a leg of lamb.'
Was this guy for real? After what they'd just heard? What they were going to see? Regardless, he was on a roll. She sat back and listened, finally realising that he was explaining to her how to cook the okra.
'You gotta have boiling water ready, or you can use stock if you want. Salt and pepper and plenty of tomato paste in with the meat. Add some sugar. A big spoonful. Then you throw the bumya in – you know, the okra – and cover it all with the water. And you have to cook it for an hour. You eat it with rice. But don't do that crappy boiled rice. You've gotta cook it absorption method. You can put lemon and chilli in at the end if you want.'
Was he done? Jill waited.
'Some people eat it with yoghurt,' he said.
He sat silently. Seemed satisfied.
'Right.' she said. 'Um, thanks.'
There were trees on both sides of the road now, large houses thrown around the hills surrounding them. The scrub grew more dense as the car ahead indicated right. Within a kilometre they were on a wide road, sealed, but without curbs and gutters. Jill was amazed at the rural outlook – they were so close to built-up suburbs, but around her were bushland, orchards, grazing cattle and sheep. On the horizon, the Blue Mountains shimmered, opalescent; the sky beyond stretched away forever.
Delahunt was taking everything in, head moving from side to side; at one point, hands on the dash and face pressed against the windscreen, he seemed to stare at something directly above the car. He wound the window down, sniffing the air outside. Jill watched him from the corner of her eye.
She braked with the sudden red lights of the car ahead. They were turning right into a gated roadway. A sign ahead indicated their arrival in Capitol Hill, also announcing that there were acre lots still available for sale.
Jill stared when the first house came into view. It looked like it had been dropped there from Vaucluse, or Hollywood or something. Despite one of the worst droughts in the state's history, manicured emerald lawns and verdant foliage surrounded the gated property. There must be two hundred rose bushes lining the drive, she thought. As they rolled though the suburb, she swivelled
her head from side to side. Each home competed with the next for opulence, size, lushness of the gardens.
'Can you believe this?' she asked as they passed a walled two-storey mansion with single-storey wings either side, each annexe as big as a large home in its own right.
Gabriel murmured something, totally absorbed.
'What do you reckon these people do for a living?' she wondered aloud.
'Tradies, a lot of them,' said Gabriel. 'We've passed electrician vans, building trucks . . .'
'Mercedes, Ferraris. We're in the wrong job.'
'So, that neighbour who noticed the white van at the victim's house last night wouldn't have thought it out of place at all,' he said. 'Most of these people would contract out their cleaning and gardening.'
'Looks like most of them would have live-in help.'
They heard the circus before they saw it. As they rounded a wide bend, the Superintendent's vehicle came to a sudden stop, and Jill hit the brakes hard. Cars and media vans lined the road. Clutches of people stood talking and smoking. A television crew filmed a suited woman gesturing gravely behind her as she spoke. A news chopper droned in the sky up ahead.
The lead car began rolling again, gestured forward by a uniformed officer. Jill buzzed down her window to speak to show him her ID, but he waved her through. The film crew turned cameras in their direction and Jill gave them the back of her head as she motored past the uniformed cop.
A hundred metres in front, unmarked and regular police vehicles indicated the victim's home. Jill pulled up in front of the next-door neighbour's house; behind a wide circular driveway, a curtain moved back into place when she glanced in its direction. She stared at the window a moment longer, then followed her colleagues towards the crime scene.
Nobody bothered to speak; a descending chopper thumping overhead drowned all other sound. The morning was heating up already. Record temperatures were predicted for Sydney this spring and summer. Global warming. It made Jill feel guilty; she loved the heat.
An elaborate intercom system stood beside the open motorised gate and around fifty full-sized palms lined the sandstone drive. A circular fountain the size of Jill's bathroom fluted jets of water into the air. When they reached the open doors, twice as wide and tall as doors on any house Jill had ever entered, she noticed that Delahunt was no longer by her side. She looked back and saw him at the gates, squatting by the fence line, rifling through the dirt with his hands. She followed the others into a marble foyer two levels high.
The cacophony from outside was instantly muted. Jill felt her edginess dissipate slightly. What would it be like to actually live here, she wondered idly, looking around at the opulent furnishings. Given the horror that had unfolded here, she wondered how it could feel so serene.
The superintendent herded them into a room off the foyer, a library. They gathered around him, waiting. David Tran leaned on his walking stick, his face pale. He seemed to be in some pain. Derek Reid, in contrast, almost vibrated with fitness. He brushed unnecessarily close to Jill and she thought she caught the sweet steroid smell body builders often emitted. He gave her a smug smile when he caught her looking.
'The murder took place in the media room.' Last spoke in his usual hushed tone. 'Of course, the body is no longer here. Video footage and photos will be available by the time we get back to the House,' he said, referring to the police station back in Liverpool. He glanced at his watch. 'The autopsy is in progress right now. I wanted you to be here, rather than there.'
Last looked around the group, and finally seemed to notice Gabriel's absence. He did not comment.
'I have no set objective for any of you this morning. Forensics are still collecting prints and trace. Just do what you do. Get a feel for what happened. Take notes.'
From a manila folder, the superintendent handed each of them a three-page photocopied floor plan of the home. He pointed out the murder room.
'We'll meet back here at 1200 hours. If anyone questions your presence, please refer them to me. Good luck.'
Last moved away from their group and Jill was left staring at Reid and Tran. David Tran seemed about to say something. Reid grinned at them and left the library before he could speak.
'Jill,' said Tran, 'you may be best off without me this morning.' He seemed to be still out of breath. 'I'm afraid that walk has already taken a lot out of me. I'll be moving at a slower pace.'
'Sure,' said Jill. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but wasn't sure of the words to use, didn't want to offend.
He seemed to sense her unease. 'I'm supposed to still be at home,' he said. 'Sick report. HOD.'
Hmm. Hurt on duty. She wondered what had happened. Well, this would be the time to ask, Jill, she told herself. But the moment passed while she was thinking of something to say. She nodded at Tran and left the room.
Jill figured Reid would go straight to the crime scene, so she made her way to the garage. She didn't want to see the murder room with Derek Reid.
The MO in three of the home invasions had been access through the garage. Donna Moser, the victim's daughter, had been asleep when her father arrived home. She'd awoken to a black balaclava. So far, she hadn't been able to give the police anything about how the offenders had gained entry. Jill figured if the offenders were onto a good thing, they'd probably stick to it.
Orienting herself using the map in her hand, she walked across marble, granite and thick carpet until she reached the internal entry to the garage, in a room next to the kitchen. The room held a plush couch and large television, and Jill glimpsed a bright, gleaming expanse where a door opened out to a backyard entertainment area and pool.
The door ahead of her stood open; beyond was the darkness of the garage. Jill realised that her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Maybe she should get some water before going in there.
She was halfway back to the brightness of the kitchen when she forced herself to turn around. It's not the basement, stupid, she told herself. This place is crawling with cops. You're okay. Dark rooms always reminded her of the place she'd been held captive as a twelve-year-old, and it was only six months or so ago that she'd been locked in the same basement, this time fighting for her life.
She stepped down from the living area into a black, cavernous room. Despite its size, it was warm and airless. Her shirt stuck to her back – the air-con obviously didn't reach this room. She smelled fuel. A dark four-wheel drive squatted ahead of her, ghostly smudges glowing from its panels in the gloom. She couldn't see beyond the car. Anyone could be there. Memories of waiting in the dark for the pain to begin crawled from her stomach into her mouth, and she closed her lips tight to keep them there. Heart thudding, she walked backwards until she felt the wall behind her; she slid her hand upwards, seeking the light switch, eyes always focused ahead.
Scrabbling at the wall now, her hand brushed the light panel, and she stabbed the switch on. The lustrous smudges on the Porsche Cayenne were just the chalky residue left behind by the fingerprint team. She stood against the wall a moment, blinked away the memories, already scornful of her weakness. Her contempt gave her the impetus to push away from the wall, and she moved towards the car.
If it had gone down like the others, she thought, Eugene Moser had stepped out of this vehicle into his garage and the point of a machete. The masked man would have led him back into the house, threatening to kill him if he did not comply quietly, and from there would have let in the rest of the crew. Jill imagined the man's terror, the impossible choices: Should I scream, stay here and fight? My daughter's inside – I can't let this man in! But if he stabs me now, he will get in anyway. I have to be in there with her. Maybe he'll just take what he wants and leave us alone. The options would have raced through his mind; his captor aggressive, masked, would have left him no time to think. Ultimately, he would do what he had to do to keep the knife from his throat, to try to placate his assailant.
On tiptoes, Jill peered through the tinted windows into the car's interior. Would they get
any prints this time? To date, no fingerprints had been found at any of the crime scenes, and the DNA testing of hair and fibres was still jammed up in a queue with other cases. They'd prioritise everything from this case, she thought.
She walked through the rest of the triple-car garage. Along one wall, a floor-to-ceiling shelving system held every type of tool she could imagine. Drawers and cupboards were labelled and colour-coded; hooks held spades and small shovels, brushes and trimming shears. Each had been stencilled in paint onto the backboard. Jill appreciated the order, opened some of the drawers. Suddenly, she stopped walking. A tool was missing. A circular stencilled shape the size of a basketball signalled the outline of the tool that should be docked there. Close by, the hand saw's hook was also empty. She took out her camera, her lips a thin line. Along with the horrendous machete wounds found on a few of the previous victims, Eugene Moser had been dismembered with some kind of saw. Or maybe more than one kind, she thought, figuring a power saw would fit the first stencil perfectly.
The mechanised whirring of her camera droned through the stuffy silence as she snapped the rest of the tool shelves. There was no fingerprint dust on the shelving. She wondered whether the others had noticed that the saws were missing. No weapons had been left at the scene. She turned and stepped straight into Gabriel Delahunt's chest.
Her sharp intake of breath muffled a yelp. You scared me, she wanted to bark, but instead she just glared at him, not wanting to give away more than she already had.
'The others were waiting up the road,' he said.
If he had noticed her alarm, he gave no indication.
'Who?' Jill tried not to convey her irritation. Did this man ever speak in full sentences?
Gabriel held up a sealed evidence bag. 'Forensics missed these.' The bag held cigarette butts.
'Why do you assume they belong to the perps?' Jill stared into the bag.
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