Death by Beauty

by Lord, Gabrielle

  Gemma rang off, also feeling worried. Maybe she has met some hunk, Gemma thought. Some bad hunk. Before she could allow too many frightening scenarios to play out in her mind, however, she heard Angie’s voice calling outside. ‘Gem? Gemma! We’re here!’

  When Gemma opened the front door she saw Angie – scrubbed and polished in her smart navy suit, briefcase in hand, auburn hair gleaming in a knot, looking every bit of her thirty-eight years – and a stunning beauty standing behind her: luminous eyes, perfectly shaped glossy lips, a straight nose, thick ash blonde hair like a mane and a slender figure. But most striking was her pallor, pale skin translucent against the ruby lip gloss.

  ‘This is Mischa,’ Angie said, ushering the young woman through the doorway. ‘Mischa Bloomfield. Mischa, this is Gemma Lincoln.’

  ‘Mischa, Angie, please come in,’ said Gemma. ‘No, not the office, come right through,’ she continued as she led them down the hallway, past the heavy door that connected her professional and private lives and into her living room. ‘I’ll put on some coffee. Make yourselves comfortable.’

  When Gemma returned, Angie was perched on the edge of the sofa, her laptop on her knees, while Mischa sat awkwardly on the seat opposite, her long legs at an angle, adjusting the purple silk scarf around her neck, fiddling with the gold brooch shaped like a tiny arrow that fixed it at her shoulder.

  ‘It was my great-grandmother’s,’ said Mischa softly, noticing Gemma’s admiring glance.

  ‘It’s charming.’

  Gemma set down a tray holding three steaming mugs, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, and there was a silence while they helped themselves. Gemma sat on the other large lounge chair, balancing her mug on its arm. On the other she placed her notebook and pen.

  ‘Mischa,’ said Angie, ‘let me reassure you. As I’ve mentioned to you, Gemma is my oldest and most trusted friend. We served together in the police years ago. Now Gemma runs a successful private security business and she is completely trustworthy.’

  Angie sipped her coffee and then put it down, turning to Mischa again. ‘Can you tell Gemma exactly what you told me?’

  Mischa shifted uncomfortably on her seat, seemingly unwilling to speak.

  ‘It sounds unbelievable,’ she finally whispered, fiddling nervously with the brooch.

  ‘Go on,’ said Angie gently. ‘Gemma will listen to you. It’s okay.’

  ‘I was at the club – Midnight Mirage – and I met this really well-dressed guy, Italian or foreign or something. Here’s his card,’ she said, passing it to Gemma.

  ‘I didn’t know you had that,’ said Angie. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘Jacob Titov,’ Gemma read. ‘Managing Director, Satellite Imports & Promotions.’

  She blinked at the name of the business and stood up. ‘Just excuse me for a minute. There’s a photograph I’d like Mischa to see.’

  She returned with the photo of Angelo Tolmacheff and handed it to her. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  Mischa studied it for a second before shaking her head. ‘No. Who is he?’

  Disappointed, Gemma took back the photo. ‘Someone who appears to work from the same office,’ she said, turning to Angie. ‘I met with a new client yesterday – a surveillance job. I saw the client’s husband come out of an office with this same company name.’

  On the business card was a mobile phone number, which Gemma noted before handing the card over to Angie, who dialled it immediately. After a few moments, she shook her head. ‘Nothing doing here. It’s not working. Could be a dud number. I’ll get it checked later. We want to get hold of this Jacob Titov.’

  ‘You were saying,’ Gemma prompted, ‘about your experience with this fellow …’

  ‘He seemed really nice. He said he was scouting to find girls with a special look to launch a new Australian wine label at the spring racing carnival. And he said he had connections with the leading fashion houses and could get me introductions to the agencies. But it wasn’t just that – he knew a lot about the fashion business, and I didn’t get the feeling that he was trying to hit on me.’

  Gemma didn’t look over at Angie, knowing what her expression would be – her ginger-coloured eyes trying not to roll heavenwards.

  ‘We talked for ages. He practically promised me the job. I told him that I’d have to organise some time off work – I work at a hotel in the city,’ she added, ‘as a hostess. I’m looking for another job, though. I don’t like the hours and I don’t like some of the regular customers there.’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Then,’ she continued, ‘he must have put something in my drinks – I only had two over a couple of hours. I felt myself fading in and out. I was really sleepy – I tried to keep my eyes open but it was impossible. I tried to get up but my legs wouldn’t hold me. And that’s when he – he kind of hauled me out of the place and took me somewhere, somewhere where there was one of those funny old-fashioned cage lifts. Like you see in European movies and in some really old city buildings. I think we were in a hotel.’

  Gemma could see a slight tremor in the girl’s hands as she stared blankly ahead, reliving the experience.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gemma, thinking she could see where this was going – something in the drinks, dragged to a hotel room … waking up disoriented, in disarray, bruised and terrified. At least this girl had been left in the hotel; not a derelict squat or out in the open in a suburban park like some poor women.

  ‘Like I said, I was fading in and out. But I know what I saw,’ she said defiantly, looking from Angie to Gemma. ‘No matter how crazy it sounds. I was attacked by a—’

  ‘It’s okay, honey,’ Angie said.

  ‘I was attacked by a—’ She stopped again, glancing at Gemma. ‘At least that’s what I saw. The big guy had changed into this – this – vampire.’ She whispered the last word, closing her eyes and shuddering in horror at the memory.

  The tremor in her body increased until she was shaking visibly and her face grew even paler. She’s back there, Gemma thought, reliving it. Forget about the vampire bit. Something happened. Something really bad.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy and impossible, but that’s what happened.’ With shaking hands, she pulled the scarf down from her neck and moved closer to Gemma. ‘He came at me with these frightening teeth – just like you see in the vampire movies. I was frozen; I couldn’t move my body, couldn’t turn my head away, couldn’t even scream. It was like a nightmare. But don’t tell me it was some dream or hallucination because of the drug he’d given me. It was real. And I’ve got this to show for it. Look.’

  Mischa moved even closer, baring the side of her long white neck. Gemma could see a bruise surrounding a tiny blue-black puncture mark.

  ‘Nasty,’ she said, thinking the girl must have been reading too much of the Twilight series.

  Mischa pulled the scarf back up to hide the ugly blemish.

  ‘I saw something else in his hand but I couldn’t make out what it was. I thought it was a knife – something thin and shiny. I was terrified. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream.’

  She shuddered, briefly covering her face with her hands. ‘And later I saw this—’ she indicated the wound on her neck ‘—and now I feel infected. Diseased,’ she whispered, taking her hands away.

  ‘Mischa, could the object you saw in his hand have been a syringe?’ Gemma asked. ‘That injury looks to me like a needlestick.’

  ‘It could have been. I tried to tell the people at the hotel when I woke up what had happened. They told me to call the police. I did and the first cop I spoke to just laughed at me.’ She started crying, sobbing into the tissue that Angie passed to her. Clever move, Gemma thought, wearing vampire teeth. Of course the cops would laugh. Just another bad trip.

  ‘Honey,’ said Angie, ‘I’m sorry about that, but don’t let the boofheads get you down. Hell, I have to work with them every day. I know how dumb they can be. It’s just such an outrageous assault – so different. They know how to deal with a run-of-the-
mill, spiked-drink date-rape story. Anything different, well, it taxes them. And you’ve got to admit, a vampire attack is somewhat different.’

  ‘What if he’s injected me with something – like HIV or some other awful thing?’ Mischa’s face was a mask of terror. ‘My neck is aching. I’m so scared.’

  Her fingers pressed against the scarf covering the puncture mark and tears welled again in her eyes, spilling over onto her long lashes.

  ‘The doctor will get back to you on that,’ said Angie, placing a hand on her arm and turning to Gemma. ‘There were traces of Clonazepam in the urine test. It’s an anti-convulsant, and it’s been implicated in other DFSAs.’

  ‘Other whats?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Drug-facilitated sexual assaults. Rohypnol used to be the date rapist’s drug of choice, but it now has an additive that turns drinks a weird colour if it’s used as a spiking drug. So Clonazepam is starting to show up. It doesn’t alter the appearance of the drink and is virtually tasteless. It’s a powerful sedative, and mixed with alcohol its effects become even stronger. It has a lot of nasty effects like depression, memory loss and extreme drowsiness.’

  ‘Any chance you could have run into this man before?’ asked Gemma. ‘Maybe he was a customer at the hotel where you work?’

  Mischa shook her head. ‘I’d never seen him before in my life. But I’ll never forget him. He has a strange, dark birthmark like a smeared mole just beneath his left eye. My mum says it’s where the devil touched him,’ she whispered.

  Then she sat wide-eyed and vigilant, listening intently as Angie told Gemma what the police had discovered so far. ‘We know he used a credit card at the hotel to the account of Access Media Promotions. The signature was illegible. We had a look at this and it turns out Access Media Promotions is a small company in a complicated mess of companies whose principals we’re currently tracking to find out who might really be in charge. There hasn’t been any action on the credit card for a while apart from the hotel, according to the card centre. So, I’m not sure how helpful that line of investigation is going to be.’ Angie turned her attention back to Mischa, patting her arm. ‘The doctor will contact you again soon, Mischa, but in the meantime, try not to worry too much.’

  The young woman looked at her in disbelief.

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’ she asked. ‘I can’t think of anything else! I can still see him – that horrible face – the fangs. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Can you recall any other details about the assault?’ Gemma asked after a judicious pause. ‘Anything at all – it doesn’t matter how small or insignificant it might seem.’

  ‘There is something else. It feels really creepy now. It didn’t when he was talking to me. But he kept going on about my colouring, how good it was, how perfect it was for the photography session he wanted to do for the wine label. He had some kind of photographers’ colour chart, because the models he wanted to use had to represent different skin tones from really dark to very fair – I wasn’t too sure what he meant by that. I hate to think about it. I go back over it now and think he was just looking at me like some object; like the champagne label.’

  The three sat in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Gemma has lots of useful contacts,’ said Angie finally. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind asking around to find out if anyone knows anything about this man.’

  ‘I’m happy to chase down any information about him, Mischa,’ said Gemma, ‘and I’ll pass it on to Angie. I’ll check out Satellite Imports too, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Mischa whispered.

  ‘One more thing, Mischa,’ said Angie. ‘I’d like to run a piece in the press about the attack on you. This clown showed a lot of ease and practice in his manner of approach. I feel sure there have been other similar attacks, but I can understand why someone wouldn’t want to talk about them. If we organised for a story in the press – no names, of course – it might make other women more willing to come forward. I know a journalist who’d be happy to help out with a piece like that.’

  ‘Janet Chancy?’ Gemma asked.

  Angie nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll have to find her first. I’ve been trying to contact her. No luck.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can do any better,’ said Angie, standing up. ‘Let’s run you home now, Mischa.’ As Mischa stood and self-consciously adjusted the scarf covering her neck, Angie turned to Gemma and spoke quietly. ‘I’ll come back. Any chance Kit might come over? There are a couple of things I’d like to talk over with you girls.’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’

  As Gemma opened the front door, Mischa paused and turned to her, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Thank you for believing me. Something terrible happened and I want to know what it was. I want to know why it happened. And I want to know who did this.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Later that day, Angie returned alone and they settled on the couch.

  ‘So, what did you make of Mischa’s story, Gemster?’

  ‘I’m not sure, except that she was attacked by someone who for some reason likes to wear vampire teeth. To make it easy not to believe the victim, I suppose. What do you make of it?’

  ‘I’m not sure either. I’ve never come across anything quite like this. There’s only one puncture mark.’

  ‘And … a real vampire should leave two?’ joked Gemma.

  ‘Just thinking out loud, smartypants. She is a gorgeous looking girl, isn’t she?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘You know she’s already had plastic surgery? She told me all about it in the car. She said everybody’s doing it now.’

  ‘But, Angie, she only looks about seventeen!’

  ‘It’s true. She spent a few days out at Sapphire Springs, “touching up” she told me. She thought her nose wasn’t quite perfect.’

  Gemma heard Kit at the door and let her in, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. With her dark hair swept back from her oval face and her pale skin she looked like their mother; the opposite of Gemma’s tawniness. She greeted Angie and made herself comfortable in an armchair while Gemma made coffee for the three of them and brought it in with a plate of biscuits.

  As Angie briefed her about Mischa, Kit listened without interruption, frowning in concentration.

  ‘Vampire teeth? Puncture marks?’

  ‘Puncture mark,’ said Angie. ‘Only one. What do you think might have been going on, Kit?’

  ‘Something injected?’ Gemma suggested. ‘Or taken out?’

  Kit thought for a while. ‘It’s a big production. And I’m not just talking about the teeth. This girl is really groomed. Lots of bait put out about champagne labels and racing carnivals. The photographic colour chart, hours of chatting, a hotel room booked, the vampire-teeth routine. It’s not just some random assault in a dark alley. This is a full production, smooth and polished. He’s done it before.’

  She put her coffee mug down and reached for a biscuit.

  ‘I think he’s a humorist,’ said Kit after a thoughtful pause. ‘A jokester. He’s doing a job of some sort … but he likes to dress it up a lot. He likes to use props.’

  ‘There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Kit,’ said Angie. ‘Yesterday we had a briefing from the senior pathologist Ted Ackland and I’ve copied the crime-scene footage onto my laptop. I need your assessment. But before we look at it, I’ll give you the run-down on the cases.’

  Gemma grabbed her notebook as Angie continued. ‘Rachel Starr, the first victim, was studying for an Arts degree at Sydney Uni and working as a part-time artist’s model. According to her friends, she was a diligent student and popular in her circle. She had a reputation as a very good life model, punctual and reliable. She worked hard and earned enough money to pay for most of her university expenses.’

  ‘I read that she was killed in a car crash,’ said Kit, ‘but the suggestion was that she was dead prior to that.’

  ‘Ted Ackland called me after he’d done the post-mortem. He said there’d bee
n no vital reactions to the injuries caused by the car crash and she’d been dead for some time prior to the crash. Within minutes of an injury to a living body, there are changes as enzymes and proteins rally to start the healing process. No such changes were found at autopsy.’

  ‘So, someone killed her,’ Gemma said, ‘then went to the trouble of putting her in a car and then crashing it. Why?’

  ‘Good question. I was hoping you could help me out with that, Kit?’

  ‘I don’t have any quick answers, Angie,’ said Kit, shrugging. ‘Your instincts are usually sound. Do you think someone in the life-drawing classes might have targeted her? And then set up the car crash to cover their tracks?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Angie. ‘We’ll be talking to the teachers at the art schools – she worked at three different places – and chasing up anyone they might have noticed taking more interest in the model than is strictly necessary for drawing purposes. The car she was found in had been stolen a couple of days prior to the incident.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Girlfriend,’ said Angie. ‘At this stage, she’s not a suspect. She dropped Rachel off at the inner-city art school where her first job was, and then went on to her own job – night shift at a nursing home. She was at work all night and her alibi is tight. She became worried when she got home at about half-past seven in the morning to find that Rachel wasn’t there. We contacted the art school, and they confirmed that Rachel worked there from seven-thirty to nine o’clock. After that she was supposed to walk to her next job – only a few blocks down from Oxford Street. She never arrived. The local residents have been interviewed and nobody heard or saw anything. There’s a Seven-Eleven on the corner just before the place she was heading for, and their CCTV security video shows Rachel walking confidently east down the street towards the art school, which was about 175 metres away. And that’s the last time she was seen alive. Then she’s found smashed up in a head-on collision with the stone walls of a quarry fifty kilometres from the CBD.’