Kit shook her head. ‘I can’t make any comment about the panties,’ she said. ‘Obviously, there are things he wouldn’t even tell a therapist about. All I can say is that Clive is not the same as Adrian Adams. Who discontinued therapy, remember? Clive is a completely different character.’
‘Oh really?’ said Angie.
‘Really,’ said Kit, bringing her voice down deliberately. ‘Clive has been working on certain problems with me. He’s had some very helpful insights into himself in a way that Adrian never did. And he saw these things for himself. I didn’t tell him,’ Kit said.
‘What problems?’ Angie pounced. ‘If it comes to it, we can subpoena your case notes, Kit. We can find out.’
Kit looked squarely at Angie, measuring her up as she felt herself come up against the strength and power of the other woman for the first time.
‘I don’t know what things are coming to round here these days,’ said Angie. ‘I bring a dickhead like this in for questioning and he’s got to have a therapist with him! Then we waste over an hour trying to find you.’
‘Angie, I know Clive Mindell better than you and I can say that it’s very unlikely he’s your man,’ said Kit. ‘A man who voluntarily seeks the sort of therapy I can offer and keeps coming back is demonstrating to me that he is changing. Killers don’t do therapy. They act out instead to avoid the very feelings of shame and powerlessness that come up in therapy. That Clive is working on.’
‘I’ll bet I can find a killer who was under psychiatric care when he killed,’ said Angie, her concentrated anger narrowing her eyes.
‘Maybe,’ said Kit. ‘But my work isn’t the same as psychiatry. And I’m not talking in general terms. I’m talking of Clive.’
‘But you admit that violence is a possibility with him?’ Angie pounced again.
‘He’s never mentioned any violent acting out.’
‘Fantasies?’
‘Come on now,’ said Kit, getting angry, remembering Clive’s reverie about himself and a prostitute. ‘That’s unfair. There’s a huge difference between fantasy and reality.’
Angie glared at her. ‘Not for this killer there isn’t.’ She swung the door open and strode back into the room. Clive jumped, startled in his chair. Angie turned to Gemma. ‘Talk some sense into your sister.’
Gemma half lifted her hands from the back of the chair she was standing behind. ‘It’s not—’ She faltered. ‘I can’t put pressure on Kit, Angie. She knows her position.’
Angie grabbed her notebook and pen from the table. Her face was hard and unsmiling. She glared at Clive, who visibly wilted under her green-eyed assault. ‘Okay, Clive,’ she said. ‘You can go. Sandy, walk him down.’
Clive looked around like a hunted animal, then, seeing that he really could go, shot out of his seat. ‘I need to talk to you, Kit,’ he said, turning at the door. ‘They’ve treated me very badly here. Accusing me of terrible things. Trying to frighten me. Threatening to take DNA samples. I’m going to put in a complaint.’
Kit was aware of Angie catching her eye, indicating that she’d better stay. ‘I’ll come straight down,’ Kit said to him as he left the room. ‘Soon as I’m finished here.’
Angie threw her pen into her black leather briefcase with frustration, not looking at the two other women in the room. She swung over to the window, pushing her recalcitrant hair back and this time pinning it. ‘Why wouldn’t you help me out, Kit?’ she demanded. ‘This fellow’s all wrong. Everything points to him. I just needed a little more time and he would’ve cracked.’
‘I can’t do that to a client,’ said Kit. ‘There’s no reason for you to understand the way I work, but that sort of betrayal is simply not possible. I regret your position.’
‘You regret my position!’ Angie blazed. ‘What about yours? What about when this killer strikes again? Think about that, Kit. How are you going to feel then?’
Kit didn’t respond and Angie flung away from the window and swept her notebook and pen up from the table, stuffing them into her briefcase. ‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got enough to charge him at the moment. Any lawyer would just laugh at us. And we can’t keep him any longer without a bail magistrate’s say-so.’ She looked accusingly at Kit before continuing. ‘We haven’t got a damn thing to put him at the scene of the crime. Or crimes.’ She picked up the panties and put them back in the manila envelope. ‘Take those over to the Institute,’ she said, passing them to Colin. ‘Tell them it’s urgent. We might get something.’ Colin took the envelope and left the room.
Sandy Mac suddenly put his head around the door. ‘I’ve got a package for you. Can you sign for it?’ Angie snatched the package from him and scribbled her name, ripping it open, pulling out a letter and two other pages. She suddenly looked up. ‘Where’s Bruno?’ she asked him.
Sandy shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘I need to. See if he’s in his office, will you?’ Sandy disappeared, then she turned her attention to the contents of the manila envelope from the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Kit saw two pieces of paper, each showing a graph plotted to reveal a series of coloured peaks.
‘Here’s the DNA profile of the Maroubra killer,’ Angie said, poking a finger at the first graph.
Bruno suddenly appeared at the door. ‘You wanted me?’ he asked Angie as if it were a huge imposition.
‘Yes,’ she said, flipping through her notes to Clive Mindell’s address. She quickly scribbled it on a piece of paper. ‘I want you to sit on this man. I want to know when he goes out and where he goes to. And I want you to keep in touch. You seem to have a habit of disappearing all the time.’
Bruno snatched the piece of paper out of her hands and went out, slamming the door.
‘Charming,’ said Angie. ‘Now, let’s have a look at these.’ Beside the first graph, she lay the second. ‘That’s the profile of the Tusculum Hotel wanker.’ She looked at Gemma. ‘Your little mate,’ she added, standing back to let the other two women see. Gemma stared. She’d expected it, but actually seeing the two identical charts plotted from the two samples made her weak at the knees. Angie pointed to them. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘all we need is a sample from Clive to match up with these and I reckon I’ve got the bastard.’ There was a silence.
‘It won’t be him, Angie,’ said Kit.
‘You can’t say that.’
‘What did he say when you questioned him before I came in?’
‘He just denied everything,’ said Angie.
‘As you would if you hadn’t done it,’ said Kit.
‘And as you would if you had,’ said Gemma reasonably. ‘And if you weren’t interested in doing twenty years for it.’
Kit looked across at her sister; she was feeling outnumbered. She turned back to Angie. ‘You didn’t get your sample from him. He wouldn’t let you.’
Angie flashed a fast, smart smile. ‘A sample’s on its way to the Institute already,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘And it should be going into the differential extractor about now.’ She looked at Kit, enjoying her bewildered expression. ‘We took a swab from his steering wheel when we picked him up earlier.’
‘Is that legal?’ asked Kit.
‘Sure,’ said Angie. ‘If you drop something you don’t want and I pick it up, what’s the illegality in that? People are always shedding bits and pieces of themselves. On steering wheels, toothbrushes. We just pick it up. Organised a nice parking space for him downstairs. Only had to lean in the window.’
Kit finally broke the tense silence. ‘I’m going home,’ she said, walking to the door. ‘You don’t need me any more.’
Angie shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ she said.
‘It’s not Clive, Angie,’ Kit said. ‘I know him. We’re making real progress.’
‘Who are you trying to convince, Kit, me or you?’
There was a silence. Finally Gemma spoke. ‘Kit knows her business, Angie. What she says needs to be taken into account.’
‘Thank you, Gemma,’ said Angie, exasperated, looking from one to the other. ‘You two sisters. You’re a pair, you are. Both so different but thick as thieves.’ She shook her head.
Gemma suddenly looked up as a light went on in her mind at Angie’s speech. Mrs Moresby’s words came back to her. ‘This all goes in twos.’ Both so different, thick as thieves. The incomprehensible puzzle that had been bothering her about the inconsistencies in both the crime scenes and the offender shifted a little. Maybe there was a way to make it comprehensible.
Kit went to the door and opened it, but before she could leave Angie spoke. ‘On your way home, Kit, just remember this. It’s not the first time a client of yours has demonstrated homicidal tendencies.’
‘It’s not Clive,’ Kit said, turning back to face Angie.
‘I just hope you’re right. Because if you’re not,’ said Angie, ‘a sadistic murderer just walked out of this room.’
Kit kept walking: out the door, down the hall. Behind her, she heard the door open again and Angie calling down the corridor after her, ‘And you helped him walk!’
Twenty
At Kings Cross Police Station, Gemma leaned
across the counter. An impossibly dainty blonde, barely five foot tall with tiny pearl earrings in each ear and pale pink lipstick, turned from some paperwork. The large black Glock in its holster seemed incongruous off her narrow waist, and Gemma couldn’t help wondering what she’d be like in a street brawl.
‘Yes, ma’am, can I help you?’
‘Greg McGovern around?’ she asked.
‘And you are?’ the young constable asked.
‘I’m a classmate of his. We went to cop school together. Gemma Lincoln.’
‘Just a moment.’ She vanished and Gemma waited. Behind her, an elderly woman in a black woollen coat and scarf and with the sunken face of generations of suffering sat huddled in the corner. Gemma smiled as Greg appeared. There was an instant when he didn’t remember her, and then he did and his face opened into its cautious smile.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. Come in.’
She followed him through the partitions and offices until they came to his room. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he said automatically. ‘Take a seat. I can’t offer you a coffee because the hot water system blew up this morning.’ Gemma sat opposite him and Greg leaned back comfortably in his chair. ‘How’s the security business?’
Gemma grimaced. ‘You know. Like life. Has its ups and downs.’
Greg sat forward. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting out,’ he said. ‘Things are very different from how they were when we came through. I sent two of the young fellers down to Wollongong a little while back to have a serious chat with this bloke we wanted to talk to in relation to a break and enter. I told them to bring him back with them. He’s one of our old-time crims. He knows the story. But when they came back, there’s no bloke. So where is he? I say. Couldn’t you find him? Oh no, they tell me. We found him all right. But he said he didn’t do it. So we came back.’ Greg paused, shaking his head. ‘They say sorry for troubling you sir and they come back. He said he didn’t do it. Can you believe it?’
‘Very different from the old days,’ said Gemma.
‘Well, maybe I can help you at least. What brings you here?’ he asked finally.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said. ‘My nephew, actually. He’s been living around the Cross for the last three years. He’s an addict. His mother wants to get a letter to him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Will Westlake.’
Greg got up and walked to the door of his room and put his head out. ‘Any of you wankers heard of a Will Westlake?’
‘Yes,’ a female voice called and the pretty young constable walked in. ‘He’s been hanging around the Wall. Got himself beaten up the other day.’
Gemma felt her heart contract. Beautiful Will, Kit’s darling baby. Gemma had a memory from fifteen years ago of Will at her twenty-first birthday party, helping her blow out the candles and giving her a present of his own making, a lopsided elephant birthday card. ‘This lady is his aunt,’ said Greg hurriedly. The young constable said nothing, just stared at Gemma with her wide blue eyes.
‘Where might I find him?’ Gemma asked.
‘You could try asking at the Landsdowne Centre. Most of the addicts go there for the needle exchange. They might know where he’s been hanging out.’
•
The Landsdowne Centre was located in an old building that had once been a comfortable gentleman’s residence last century. There was a small dispensary, a part-time doctor and various rooms for meetings and interviews. Gemma spoke with Irene, a young D&A counsellor who looked, Gemma thought, as if she’d had a big one the night before. Nearby, a young girl with a close-shaven head printed in a leopard pattern and wearing huge hoop earrings sat and waited on one of the chairs alongside the staircase.
‘Yes,’ said Irene, pushing her hair away from her eyes and wincing a bit. ‘We know Will.’
‘How is he?’ asked Gemma, dreading what she might hear.
Irene shrugged. ‘He’s still alive,’ she said. ‘He talks about going into Rehab. He was all set to go a few months ago, but he didn’t show up at the interview.’
‘I’ve got a letter for him,’ Gemma said. ‘From his mother. Would it be possible to get it to him?’
‘You could leave it here. He comes in quite often. I’ll pass it on to him if I’m here.’
‘But what if you’re not?’
Again, Irene shrugged. ‘I’ll mention it to the others. They might be able to remember.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll try tracking him down myself,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you know where he hangs out?’
‘He’s an addict. Find out who he deals with. The only appointment an addict keeps is with the dealer.’
Gemma was aware of someone standing close behind her. She turned to see the young girl with the leopard-printed head.
‘I couldn’t help hearing you,’ she said. ‘I know Will. I could pass a letter on to him.’ Gemma looked at her. The girl’s eyes were clear and alive and her skin glowed pink and healthy.
‘This is Tasha,’ said Irene. ‘She’s a volunteer with us.’
Gemma made a decision. Hours and hours of thankless footwork might yet be avoided. She pulled Kit’s letter out of her back pocket.
‘It’s from his mum,’ she said. ‘It’s OK. She just wants to let him know that she loves him.’
Tasha took the letter and Gemma wondered what the protocol might be. ‘Do you want—um—something for your trouble?’ she asked.
The girl frowned and shook her head. ‘Heavens, no,’ she said. ‘Will is a friend.’
‘Addicts don’t have friends,’ said Irene tiredly. ‘Only acquaintances they can still use. Tasha is still learning.’
Tasha raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘It’s very good of you,’ Gemma said, pulling out one of her cards. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘This is me.’ The girl studied it and Gemma admired the glossy leopard hair in front of her.
‘Thanks,’ said Tasha, pocketing the card and Kit’s letter. ‘You never know when a PI might come in handy.’
‘I offer a special service,’ Gemma added. ‘Called “Mandate”. If you ever want a man checked out, I’ll do you a good deal.’
‘I prefer to check out my own men,’ said Tasha. Down the hall, a door opened.
‘Tasha?’ someone called.
‘Can I have one of your cards?’ Irene asked and Gemma gave her one.
‘You need your man chucked out, Irene,’ Tasha called out gaily over her shoulder as she went down the hall. ‘Not checked out.’ Gemma left th
em to it.
She was driving down Springfield Avenue noticing the new buds on the plane trees when the sound of a brawl drew her attention. Two men were pushing a third around. Gemma couldn’t hear what they were saying. But the two young toughs now had the third man, who seemed as if he was trying to explain something to them, up against the wall of a corner building. Now they were throwing punches and their victim was making no attempt to defend himself, just standing cowering, trying to protect his face from the blows. She hated seeing that; the old copper in her wanted to interfere, but she kept driving slowly past, taking the assailants’ descriptions more from habit than because she intended to do anything about it. Just another common sight on the streets of Sydney, she thought, so she was amazed to see the wallopers suddenly turn the corner in a paddy wagon and two officers jump out, including the little blonde number with the pearl earrings. They lay into the two bullies very proficiently, pulling them off their prey. In no time the tiny blonde had the taller of the two bullies pressed up against the wall, her riot stick neatly pushed up under his chin.
Gemma wound down her window as she passed by. ‘Well done, officer,’ she called to the tiny policewoman, who turned around in surprise as her partner cuffed the subdued pair. The blue eyes flashed in recognition. ‘They’re always worse when there’s two of them,’ she said. ‘Makes each of them nastier. Come on you two. Into the van. You too, sir,’ she said to their victim, who was attempting to slip away. ‘We’ll need to talk to you.’
Behind Gemma, a car honked; she was blocking the street. But she hardly heard it. That’s what it was. That’s what explained it. Now the driver in the car behind her was leaning on his horn and the car behind him also started. Gemma suddenly came to. Of course! How come I took so long to see it? ‘Always worse when there’s two of them,’ the young policewoman had said. Pieces of the incomprehensible puzzle suddenly shifted to make a picture that was perfectly clear. She accelerated away, her mind racing with excitement, rearranging the puzzling facts about this case. Now they started to fall in order. Now they were making sense. She drove as fast as she could back to the police centre.
Feeding the Demons Page 24