Voodoo Doll

by Leah Giarratano

  Reid turned away, but not before Jill caught him giving his partner a foul look.

  Lawrence Last walked in, looking as haggard as ever, but this morning there was a light behind his eyes. Gabriel Delahunt followed him into the room.

  'We've had the biggest breakthrough so far,' he told them as soon as everyone had taken a seat. 'Forensics came through late last night on the evidence collected at two of the crime scenes. Both names are in the system. The organic matter collected at Capitol Hill belonged to the stomach contents of a Dang Huynh, AKA Mouse. He last did time at Junee for an aggravated rob. Time before that at Parramatta for vehicle theft. He's got a bit of a juvie record. He's thirty-four now.'

  'We don't know for sure that this bloke's got anything to do with the murder, do we?' Reid wanted to know.

  'No, Derek, we know nothing about why Huynh was at the property. Jill and Gabriel haven't yet been able to speak to Donna Moser, the victim's daughter. He could have been there for some other reason, but we know that there was an eight- to twenty-four-hour window during which this man vomited at the residence. Beyond that, we don't know any more about the suspect than what I've just told you.

  'The second piece of remarkable news, folks,' he continued, fixing each of them with an intent look, 'comes from the Rice crime scene. The lab has analysed the semen and blood sample collected on the towel by Justine Rice. It belongs to Mr Henry Nguyen.'

  Jill gasped and turned to Gabriel. He raised his eyebrows at her, his face otherwise impassive.

  'Yes, the name should be familiar to each of you,' Superintendent Last continued. 'On Wednesday afternoon we received an anonymous call from a woman claiming that Henry Nguyen, AKA Cutter, was the leader of this gang. I believe some of you have listened to the tape. I have arranged for a copy of the sound file to be emailed to each of you this morning. It appears that this caller does know what she is talking about, and we need very much to speak to her again. We issued a media release first thing today, indicating that we want the caller to contact us again.'

  'What do we know about this man so far, sir?' Tran asked, as Last took a sip from his coffee.

  'Nguyen's last known address was John Street, Cabramatta,' said Last, 'excluding, of course, his time spent in prison: Parklea, Parramatta and Long Bay. Ah, hold on a moment.' He looked down at his notes, and then read, 'Maliciously destroying property; break, enter and steal; take and drive conveyance; assault occasioning actual bodily harm.

  'As a child,' he continued, 'Nguyen also appears to have been locked up for more time than he was at school, including in Minda, Mount Penang and Dharruk. Let's see . . .' – again he bowed his large head to his notes – 'charges whilst an inmate include fighting; threatening language; assault; and damaging property.

  'And people,' Lawrence Last paused to ensure they were all listening. 'Apparently Mr Nguyen likes a knife – hence the nickname, Cutter. He's had multiple self-harm attempts in every lock-up, and most of the time he did not report them. In fact,' he cleared his throat, and then continued in the same measured tone, 'he was transferred to the hospital at Long Bay when his cell-mate went to the guards for help. Apparently Mr Nguyen had opened a wound in his stomach, and under his covers had been manipulating the area for over a week. The cell-mate informed the guards when he could no longer bear the smell.'

  Jill unconsciously smoothed her hair when Joss Preston-Jones's wife, Isobel Rymill, opened her front door. A dark, glossy ponytail snaked around one side of the tall woman's neck, contrasting with her simple white shift dress. She welcomed them into her home with a smile, but hugged her arms around her slim body as they walked together towards the kitchen. Her face was shiny and clear, but her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips slightly swollen.

  Superintendent Last had insisted that the taskforce continue with the witness interviews today, despite the developments. He had four officers collecting further intelligence on their two suspects, and would not hear of any definitive action being taken until they had done more surveillance to better determine their whereabouts. He was adamant that no one went anywhere near the suspects' families, or their last known addresses, until they knew exactly where the two men were. It was important not to tip them off in any way.

  So Jill and Gabriel sat sipping orange juice at the breakfast bar of the terrace house in Balmain for the second time in as many days.

  'How was Joss after yesterday's interview?' Jill asked Isobel Rymill. Despite the evidence on the tape that he was holding something back, Jill had instinctively warmed to this woman's husband, and she couldn't help but wish that this family had not come into their investigation in such a brutal way. She felt guilty that she and Gabriel would this afternoon be finding out everything they could about Joss Preston-Jones. This was not the way she was used to working with victims.

  As Isobel told them that her husband was bearing up relatively well, Jill couldn't help but notice the aversion behaviours she displayed – the 'liar's lean', Gabriel had called it – her body angled sharply away from Jill, almost toppling her off the back of her stool. Her eyes darted around the room like a small bird, and she twisted her fingers together in her lap.

  Isobel's account of the home invasion was just as harrowing as her husband's. Jill liked to think she had a sense for detecting offenders, and Joss and Isobel did not fit the pattern. She noted the carefully maintained furniture, the mementoes, the photographs on the walls. It was a family home, an ordinary home. She had to agree with Gabriel, though. Joss and Isobel definitely seemed to be keeping some-thing back from them. This did not necessarily mean that they were hiding something related to this case; Jill had seen this kind of behaviour before. Sometimes police involvement in the life of a victim of a particular crime unearthed their involvement in a completely unrelated matter.

  Are you up to something? Jill mentally questioned Isobel, as she was tearily finishing her account for the camera.

  By the time the interview was over at two o'clock, Jill was already regretting that she'd agreed to analyse the tape at Gabriel's apartment in Ryde. His suggestion that they use her flat yesterday had caught her by surprise, but in bed last night she had mentally kicked herself for not suggesting they use the police station in Balmain, or even in the city, rather than her unit. And when Gabriel had suggested his house today, she'd agreed immediately. What was going on with her? Breaking her own rules, backtracking on decisions. She was lowering her guard too fast. The thought bunched her shoulders. Still, she told herself, they were achieving a lot together in this case. Just let it go at that.

  20

  CHLOE HAD BEEN extra careful with her makeup this morning. With her first pay cheque as a journalist, she'd been able to buy some serious-looking suits. The dress she chose this morning, however, she had purchased for eveningwear. Perhaps for a date with some fascinating scientist or a doctor she'd have interviewed, she'd thought at the time. Although it wasn't at all low-cut, and dropped to her calves, the caramel jersey clung to her breasts and hips, and she felt more sexy in it than in her skimpiest sundress. It had not even been on sale. This morning, she'd twirled, delighted, around and around in front of the mirror, just as she had in the change rooms of the boutique in which she'd bought it. The snooty salesgirl had actually smiled at her. A woman from the next stall had come out of her cubicle just after her, wearing the same dress. Chloe, four inches taller than her in her bare feet, had given her a big smile, but the other woman had stared briefly at both of them in the communal mirror and ducked back behind her door. Chloe had bought the dress and a pair of knee-high, chocolate brown boots. The boots were the same shade as her eyes and hair.

  She stood now in George Street, Liverpool, regretting her decision this morning. A group of four workmen in the Spotlight carpark behind her had been making comments since nine a.m. and it was now after twelve. She'd seen the same man in a suit walk past her and the cameramen three times. She knew he was working up the courage to come over to her. His smile lingered longer with each trip. Keep walki
ng, she tried to tell him with her eyes.

  Thing is, the guy behind the counter in the copshop had been the reason for this dress this morning. Constable Andrew Montgomery. He'd asked her if she'd be back today, and yep, here she was, but she hadn't yet been in to say hi.

  Yesterday, she'd entered the station full of confidence, given her name and implied that she was an important investigative journalist working on the home invasion cases. The female police liaison officer had tried to blow her off with the standard spiel for the media, but Chloe, undeterred, had said that she'd wait to speak to someone for as long as it took. The dark-eyed girl behind the counter had just smiled sardonically as Chloe settled in for the wait, somewhat dispirited.

  She had spotted him first, sat a little straighter on the rigid plastic bench seat. He was looking for something behind the counter, flustered, in a hurry. Two high spots of colour stood out on the smooth skin of his face. Along with Chloe, the dark-eyed girl tracked every move he made. He seemed to spot what he was searching for and moved to pick it up from under a counter. Chloe caught her breath when his shoulders flexed in the short-sleeved police uniform. She'd never realised until that point how much she liked uniforms. At that moment, when Chloe was midway through a slow, secret smile, he seemed to realise that there was someone else in the room and his eyes cut to hers.

  She dropped her notepad.

  'Here, let me get that for you.'

  He was out from behind the counter and by her side in a heartbeat. He passed her the writing pad and she felt compelled to stand: he was so tall from her vantage point on the bench. Chloe was as good as six foot without the kitten heels she was wearing. He stood a head taller. His dark hair was closely cropped.

  'Thanks,' she said. Then cleared her throat.

  'Is someone looking after you?' he asked.

  'It's okay, Andrew,' the liaison officer called from behind the counter. 'She's with the press. I already told her there are no updates this morning.'

  'Ah, a journalist,' he said to Chloe. 'Here to keep us on our toes?'

  Chloe figured that she should use this opportunity to try to get some kind of quote from one of the officers working here. Any comment could be useful when her bosses were demanding fresh input for three news programs and eight updates a day.

  'Actually,' she said with a smile, 'have you got a minute?'

  'Is that all you need?'

  Chloe laughed. She couldn't help it.

  'What I need is some information about the progress being made on the home invasion gang. Have you guys interviewed any suspects?'

  He looked uncomfortable.

  'What's your name?' he asked finally.

  Chloe withdrew a card from the top pocket of her shirt and handed it to him. He read it, and then held out his hand. She shook it, briefly. He smiled into her eyes.

  'Well, Chloe Farrell, my name's Constable Andrew Montgomery, and all I can tell you is that we are unable to provide the media with any new information at the present time. We will release further statements as facts become available.' He used a mock-formal tone to deliver the standard line.

  'Thanks a lot. Very helpful,' she said with a pout, gathering up her bag.

  'Hey,' he said. 'Things change every day. You never know what's gonna come up. Are you coming back tomorrow?'

  'You never know, Constable Montgomery,' she said, turning to leave. 'Things change every day.'

  Now, on the pavement opposite the station, Chloe had half made up her mind to cross the road and enter the building again when she spotted an unmarked vehicle leaving the parking area under the police complex. She nudged her colleague with the camera.

  'Another one,' she said. 'Could be one of the taskforce.'

  She was correct. It was Sergeant Jillian Jackson, the woman she'd photographed on Wednesday, driving with the dark-haired man in the trucker's cap that she'd been unable to identify. Even Deborah Davies hadn't been able to get the guy's name. I wonder who he is, Chloe thought.

  When the car was out of shot, Chloe guessed that these detectives leaving the building would be the most exciting thing that would happen in the next couple of hours. She thought it might be time to try to get something from someone behind the desk. She combed her fingers through her hair and strode across George Street.

  Chloe smiled deliberately at the one-way mirror directly behind the liaison officer before stating her request. Constable Andrew Montgomery skidded out from behind the panel before she'd even finished her sentence.

  'Chloe Farrell,' he said. 'It's lunchtime. Hungry?'

  'Starving,' she said.

  21

  'EVA!' KAREN MICEH dropped the platter she was drying, and it smashed into pieces on the tiled kitchen floor. Her two-year-old daughter, Eva, began to cry at the noise and the shock of Mummy yelling at her.

  Within three lurching strides, Karen had reached the child sitting cross-legged under the dining room table and removed the pointed filleting knife from her lap. Eva howled more loudly.

  'Oh my God, Eva! How many times have I told you, you mustn't play . . . owww!'

  Karen banged her head on the table as she bundled wet-faced Eva up from the floor. She held her close, stroking her back, automatically jiggling her little body up and down. Manoeuvring one hand out from under her daughter's chubby legs, she glanced at her watch. Oh for heaven's sake, she thought. How am I going to get everything done on time?

  For the third time already this morning, she cursed her ratbag husband, Eddie. Ex-husband, she reminded herself, and good riddance. She didn't miss his lazy, bludging friends calling at all hours of the night; she didn't miss his subtle putdowns and the way he leered at other women. She certainly didn't miss the bong under his side of the bed. When she'd found her daughters, Maryana and Eva, giggling and grimacing over its stink one morning, she knew her fool husband would never grow up, and that her marriage was over.

  Actually, in some ways life had never been so peaceful for Karen as it was now – just her and the girls, homework and shopping, and her part-time work as a sandwich hand at Castle Towers. The one thing she couldn't do without, though, was Eddie's pay cheque.

  She walked the sniffling Eva back to the sink and settled her into the highchair she'd set up so her little girl could 'help' with the dishes. This time, though, she pushed the chair further from the sink. How had she missed Eva grabbing the knife?

  She sighed tiredly and looked into the loungeroom of her Baulkham Hills home. This place is perfect, she told herself again. I can't move the girls now, they're just settling down after the separation. She bent to pick up the shards of the ceramic platter. One of her favourites; her brother, Ken, had bought it for her in Spain. She turned to frown at Eva, but her daughter's self-occupied chortling over her tea-set left her smiling instead.

  It was her brother who'd given her the rental idea.

  'This is really a great room,' Ken had said to her the previous month, when he'd come to install the above-ground pool he'd bought for his nieces – getting it ready for Christmas, he'd said. He always spoiled them.

  'Yeah, the girls love to play in there,' she'd said around a peg, as she hung out the washing on the hoist next to the lemon tree.

  'You could rent that out to another family,' he'd laughed.

  Karen didn't know anyone who'd ever taken in a boarder, but actually it was the perfect solution for her. With the extra income, there'd be no need for her and the girls to find a cheaper place to rent. Of course, the self-contained space under the large balcony couldn't actually house a family, but a single person would have plenty of room.

  The problem, the real-estate people had warned her, was that her house was some distance from public transport, and the sort of people wishing to rent a single room typically didn't have their own car. This would reduce the number of applicants, they told her. Karen was not daunted. She knew she might be idealising it, but she had an image of herself selecting from a few young people first moving away from home, preferably a girl – Karen wo
uld be her mentor, a friend; she'd really enjoy the company. Maybe her tenant would be from the country – here for her first year at university. She could imagine how the girl's family would appreciate the family home away from home that Karen would provide. Macquarie Uni was not too far from here, she reasoned.

  Six months had passed with just a single application submitted. The couple had been young, but that's where her fantasy tenants ended. They'd pulled up to Karen's house in a car she was certain was their home at the time. Even had there not been boxes and clothes piled high, the driver would have been hard pressed to see through the grime that covered the windows. The occupants didn't alight for a good five minutes, and from behind the curtain in her loungeroom Karen watched them screaming at one another. At least their windscreen was relatively clear. From this vantage, she could also see the drapes moving surreptitiously at number nineteen. Mrs Robotham. What would she have made of Jackie and Troy as new neighbours? Jackie picked at sores on her arms while Troy did the talking. Neither of them really made eye contact with Karen. As soon as they crossed the threshold, she was planning their exit. Troy smelled like Eddie's bong water and Jackie couldn't negotiate around the furniture. Karen couldn't be certain, but it seemed Troy's interest lay more in her electrical goods than the room for rent. His eyes lingered on the microwave, the DVD, the clunky laptop she used to play Solitaire.

  Karen had resignedly begun searching for less expensive properties for herself when someone else had answered her ad.

  Now, she threw the last of the scatter cushions onto the couch and kicked one of Maryana's rollerskates back under a chair. Maryana, her six-year-old, was at school. Karen bustled back to the kitchen to grab Eva – couldn't leave her near the knives again – and hurried over to respond to the doorbell.