by P. J. Nash
Sandersen had got straight off the plane and into an unmarked police car driven by Jezek. After checking in through the secure area, she had left her suitcases and carry-on bag on the other side of the metal detectors. She sat at the bolted down table on a bolted down chair. The door swung open. In came the slight figure of Katerina Manes followed by an orderly. Dressed in hospital green, Katerina took a seat on a bolted down chair and place her hands on the table. She was still handcuffed. Sandersen noticed that despite her diminutive size, the woman on the other side of the table of was lithe and fit, carrying a physical power that belied her stature. Her short dyed black hair accentuated her oval face her blue eyes blazed with an intellectual curiosity.
‘Good Morning, Miss Manes, I’m Dr Jessie Sandersen,’ said Sandersen in halting Czech.
‘I speak English Okay, Doctor,’ replied Manes.
‘Okay, that’s fine,’ said Sandersen.
‘You are a doctor? I think it’s too late to make me better,” said Manes with a bitter laugh.
Near Watson’s Truck n’ Tow, Melbourne
‘We know your slinging Ice. What you got on you, plus what I bought, is enough to make an intent to supply charge stick? That’s five to seven years inside. If you’ve got priors, then you can make ten,’ said Toohey.
The young drug dealer, Noah, looked non-plussed.
‘We got us a hard man here?’ said Johnson.
‘Yeah, a real gang banger. Are you sure you searched him properly?’ asked Toohey.
‘Not sure I did,’ replied Johnson, frisking Noah again and pulling something from his waistband. ‘Well, it’s your lucky day, you just won the fucking lottery, old chum,’ said Johnson, holding up a .38 revolver.
‘What the fuck man?’ the young guy said.
‘Possession of a deadly weapon and dealing ice. You’re going to get twenty in a Super Max old friend,’
Noah wriggled in the car seat, hampered by the fact his hands were cuffed behind his back. ‘If I spill about Watson, he’ll kill me,’ he said.
‘Twenty years in Barwon makes death look a safe option, if you ask me,’ said Johnson.
‘Plus, do you think someone like Watson will believe that you’ll do your twenty without opening your sweet little mouth. You’ll get a shiv in the guts, even if you stay stum,’ he added.
Noah began to shake and cry.
‘Check fucking mate,’ said Toohey.
‘Ok, I’ll tell you everything I know about Tucker Watson’s operation,’ Johnson swore under his breath.
‘Don’t waste our time. We know that Tucker’s just the front man for some Mr Big. We need a name,’ Johnson snarled.
‘I’m like a mushroom; they feed me shit and keep me in the dark,’ he sobbed.
‘Well, mushroom, you better start finding us a name, or you’ll be in the dark for about twenty years,’ said Toohey.
Alchemy Investigations Office, Melbourne
Leaning back in his chair, Mal Tierney stretched and dreamt about bombing down the blacktop of the Northern Territory. How had he, a copper through and through, ended up a jumped-up office monkey? He’d imagined being an investigator would be glamorous, tailing suspects and some rough stuff. That’s why he’d moved from the NT Police to join Alchemy.
Johnson and Toohey had gotten the sweet deal. Tierney’s thoughts were drifting towards lunch. Typical office monkey, he thought. But first, more coffee. He stood up and went over to the kitchenette coffeemaker. A strange smell caused his nostrils to wrinkle up. Had the printer overheated? The acrid smell got stronger as he made his way towards it. A cloud of light grey smoke was issuing from it. He switched off the printer at the wall socket, picked up a magazine and began wafting the smoke towards the open window. It was getting worse. Coughing and spluttering, he decided he needed to get some air flow going. It was against office security protocol, but he swung the heavy security door open. The smoke started billowing out. At the same time, the smoke alarm hammered away in a high pitched staccato squeal.
‘Ah fuck!’ he exclaimed and jogged back into the office. He picked up the magazine again and began wafting. A shadow fell across the wall, and he quickly spun around. A figure wearing a gas mask stood before him. As he tried to figure out what was going on, a jet of noxious liquid hit him straight in the face, blinding him. He fell over an office chair and landed on the floor. As he struggled to get back up, a strong hand pushed him back down. With the other hand came a knife, and a flurry of savage blows punctured his chest. Tierney lay on the floor, expiring like a landed fish. The fire alarm continued its cacophony as the gas-masked figure turned around and left the office.
Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague
The word “fuck” didn’t really quite hold enough resonance for what James was feeling as he sat in his wheelchair. Marsh had just broken the triple whammy of bed news. Alice Havilland had disappeared from a bail hostel and Tierney had died on the operating table.
‘Someone’s declared war on us,’ said Marsh, bristling with rage.
‘Agreed, but we fucked up. Tierney should have never been in the office on his own,’ said James.
‘Well, it’s no good crying over spilt milk,’ said Marsh. The two men sat in silence in silence for a minute. James fixed Marsh with a glare.
‘Come on, Adie, spill the fucking beans. I’ve had plenty of shit news lately. I’m not going to top myself over a bit more,’ spat James.
Marsh smiled wryly. ‘There was a burglary from Vic Police Property Stores…and then, a building contractor turned up dead up in his Ute, two in the head, two in the heart,’
‘Which fucking means what?’ said James in his exasperation.
‘Well, the stuff that was nicked from the stores was the personal property of Bain. Remember his fucking fish pond dreams?’
James nodded in affirmation.
‘Well, Bradley Hughes was found dead in his Ute with a copy of the plans. He also had receipts for materials likely used in the building of the said pond,’ added Marsh.
‘But why off a builder for nothing?’ said James, before taking a drink of water and a handful of his medication.
‘Hughes had been a cokehead for some time and got into serious trouble with the Redbacks. One of your chaps from the Armed Offenders squad paid off his debts in return for some inside information,’ said Marsh.
‘Jim fucking Davenport,’ screamed James, smashing the plastic beaker on the floor.
‘Exactly. Watson gave him the intelligence on the crack house we raided where Bain shot you. What you probably don’t know is that the five million worth of dope disappeared in the kerfuffle after you became a casualty. Somebody scooped it up.’
James wrinkled his brow, jogging his memory. ‘Davenport was one of the first through the door with me on the Fast Entry Team. It was him,’ he said.
‘So, have you joined the dots yet?’ asked Marsh.
James looked puzzled.
‘Someone’s taking out our people and Melbourne is awash with top quality glass,’
James picked up the shards of plastic off the floor and toyed with them. He stuck a shard in his hand, and it drew blood. The pain felt good. ‘I think that what we can conclude is that Cyrus fucking Bain is very much alive and fucking with us,’ said James, sucking the blood from his bleeding hand.
‘I’ve booked us flights to Melbourne next week. It’s time to get fucking even, Ironsides,’ said Marsh.
Katherine, Northern Territory
The coach door wheezed open, and the Northern Territory heat spilled in, quickly overwhelming the air-conditioned cocoon of the interior. A young woman got off the coach carrying a holdall with a rucksack. When interviewed later, the driver told the police he thought she had a vague British accent, but had had a great arse. Having disgorged its passenger, the coach closed its doors and turned for Darwin.
Casey Jones looked up and down the street. She couldn’t say it was good to be back. But business was business. She checked her directions from a text messag
e, memorised them and then pulled the SIM from the phone and snapped it into several places before setting it alight with her Zippo. Somehow, she’d managed to keep hold of it. On the reverse was an inscription, “To Alice, lots of love from Dad X”. It triggered a memory of lighting a cigarette for a young British girl outside a bar. A smile crossed her face. They had had good times hunting here. Then, that smarmy shrink bitch and the Brit cop had ruined things. It was ironic, she thought, that another shrink had been responsible for getting her out. Shrinks, cops, politicians, they all had a price. If the price was right, they showed that their morals were no better than a second-hand car salesman. All her early life, she’d been let down by people, especially men. Her dad had come along and saved her. Then, just as things were getting good, he’d been snatched away. It had been the darkest time of her life after that, locked away in a nuthouse, dosed up on meds. Being prodded by shrinks like some kind of rare sample.
‘Like a fucking octopus in a lab,’ said Geoff. But as Geoff said, octopuses were intelligent, masters of disguise and escape experts. So that’s what she’d become; an octopus. And like everyone knew, octopuses were lethal predators. The tattoo of one she’d had done a week ago in a back-street tatt studio still scratched. But it reminded her of what she’d become and what she needed to do.
Fullilove Ranch, Northern Territory
The Ute bounced along the rutted, dusty track. Casey Jones had her rucksack pinned between her legs, desperately trying to keep her knees from the grasp of the sweaty ranch hand who’d picked her up. The denim cut-offs had been a bad choice in retrospect. If she hadn’t needed to keep a low profile, she’d have gutted him with her K bar knife ten miles back. He was a very lucky man. Getting a job on the ranch had been a doddle. But there was always a role for a female skivvy for the kitchen work and general housekeeping. Most women arrived believing in some Western film style naivete that they would be surrounded by rugged, handsome cowboys. But washing the pants of thirty ranch workers and avoiding their wandering hands soon took the shine off things. The truck pulled up.
‘This is your stop, Stow your stuff and head up to the main house after. Of course, the guy’s bunkhouse is where all the fun happens after dark,’ he said, slapping her thigh accompanied with an oily smirk. Her hands shot up, and his smile soon disappeared turning into a low groan. Her fingers were expertly placed as she pushed into the vein on his neck, the others placed under his lower jaw. Three seconds hurt, any longer was real pain.
‘If you, your hands or any of your mates’ hands come anywhere me without an invitation, I’ll show you what real pain is,’ she said, releasing her grip.
He collapsed forward on the dashboard, gasping for breath. ‘Jesus, what the fuck was that?’ he asked.
‘That,’ she let the word linger, ‘was a friendly warning,’ She picked up her rucksack and headed for the women’s quarters.
Mental Health Unit, Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague
As Katerina had predicted, it was too late to make her better. But the sessions had a two-fold aim. The first was to gather whether Katerina had committed the killings while suffering a psychotic episode bought on by the trauma of the rape and forced abortion. Or if she had been in layperson’s terms “sane” and therefore culpable in the eyes of the law as a murderer. For sure she had planned the murders, sought victims and systematically contacted the media to pursue her perceived cause. But whilst she had been calculating and avoided detection, it could be argued that this had been expressed as a form of extreme personality disorder. It took a lot of teasing out, and at the end of the day, a psychiatrist, however well qualified, could make a professional guess. Finally, despite being a confessed serial murderer, Katerina was also a victim of sex crimes against her. How much of a catalyst these had proved was a key issue.
A good defence team would suggest that her attempted suicide was a form of showing contrition for her crimes.
The second strand was for Sandersen to take a step back and look at Katerina from a cold, professional view. Few serial killers were women, and even fewer were caught. Most women convicted of violence did so only in extremis in the face of domestic violence or if their children were attacked. So, to flip to calculated and planned extreme violence was rare. Sandersen’s only previous experience had been Alice Havilland. And as the daughter of “The Dingo”, she had been effectively co-opted. Additionally, she had been sexually abused by her adopted father.
Sandersen and Katerina Manes had settled into a familiar if less than comfortable routine. The cuffs had come off, and coffee was provided, which had helped a lot. Sandersen had established a pattern of mostly listening. The sessions were being covertly filmed and recorded, so she didn’t take notes. The morning’s session had been the most productive so far. Manes was on a large dose of psychoactive drugs, so was lucid for only short periods. Katerina sat back in the chair, her eyes glazed. ‘I know you want me to say my family life was bad. And I was abused by my daddy.’
‘I’m not suggesting you tell me anything. I just want to get to the reasons behind you killing these young men.’ said Sandersen.
‘It’s simple. I was trying to make a good life for myself. To make money. I let them fuck me for money. Then, that’s not good enough … they want it for free.’ Her eyes flared. ‘Then, they take my baby and fuck up my insides. I cannot give life, so I will take it. Those young men they are worse than Vasily and the other pimps. They choose the gangster life, and we know they are evil. But those British men coming to fuck me, they pretend they are good people with their little wife and children. They think if they do the dirty things here, it will wash off, and they can go back clean. Well, I showed their dirt to the world.” She sat back exhausted, the glaze returning to her eyes.
Undisclosed House, Melbourne
Noah Hudson had an eye for architecture and interior design. The stripped wood floors and steel beam and glass-walled extension rolled out onto acres of decking and an ornamental fish pond, over which arched a wooden bridge. He’d have been able to appreciate it, if he hadn’t been cable tied to a wooden chair. An hour earlier, he’d walked out of his chic apartment in Lygon Street straight into an ambush. Two guys dressed like office workers had grabbed him and shoved a cloth over his nose and mouth. After collapsing like a ragdoll, they bundled him into back of a SUV and driven off. He’d woken in this mixture of heaven-meets-hell. It looked like urban chic heaven, a place he’d die to own and live in. Even as a low-level ice slinger, he knew that anyone who saw the pond never came back alive. No one knew where it was, but it had taken on a mythical status amongst the Melbourne underworld.
Just as Noah was taking in the surroundings, the vision of hell was completed by the arrival of the devil himself, Cyrus Bain, looking a little rougher looking around the edges than his press pictures and sporting a bulge under his shirt. But it wasn’t that that Noah’s eyes were focussing on. It was on the large and very sharp Sabatier kitchen knife he was holding.
‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ Noah pleaded.
Bain ignored his cries and grabbed him by the shoulders. He deftly sliced off the cable ties and walked off to replace the knife on the magnetic rack. Noah got shakily to his feet and went to open his mouth. Bain raised his hand to indicate silence from the supplicant.
‘Two things before we get down to business.’
Noah didn’t have time to reply when an open-handed slap from Bain set his head snapping back. As his hands went up to protect his face, Bain planted a gut punch right in his prone stomach. Noah doubled over in pain but didn’t fall. Bain stood back and clapped his hands in mock applause.
‘Well, you might squeal like a bitch, but you can take a punch,’ he said in genuine admiration. Regaining his breath, Noah looked on in shock. ‘The slap was for being a squealer, the punch a small reminder that you don’t mess with me, ever,’ said Bain. He stepped out on to the deck and waved for Noah. Grudgingly, Noah followed.
‘Take a seat, fella. No one’s going to do yo
u any more damage. You think I’d waste face to face time on someone who’s going for a drive?’
Noah sat down and tried to get his breathing under control.
‘Drink?’ offered Bain, pouring a large slug of Remy Martin into a glass.
‘That’d be good, please, sir,’ said Noah.
Noah took the glass unsure what was coming next. Bain raised his ‘Cheers’. Noah replied in kind and took a good swig.
‘Cigar?’ asked Bain, pushing a wooden box across the table.
‘Yes, please,’ said Noah.
Bain took one, nipped the end off it and passed the cigar to Noah. Both men lit up from a box of matches and smoked in silence for a few minutes. Bain broke the silence. ‘It’s a two-way street you know?’
‘What is?’ asked Noah.
‘This firm. Indeed, as you know, we punish transgressors, but we also reward loyalty,’ Bain said.
Noah thought it best to keep his mouth shut and took another swig of cognac.