Death by Beauty

by Lord, Gabrielle

‘Busy. Paternity tests. Couple of incest cases. The usual.’

  ‘Can I drop something by? I’d like you to test the contents.’ Briefly, she outlined the circumstances in which the capsules had been handed over to her, and the suicide of Magda Simmonds.

  ‘You mean you’ve got hold of the DiNAH therapy complex? The top secret breakthrough?’ He laughed, quoting a recent news article. ‘Would I like to have a look at that! Just about every medical scientist in the world wants to get their hands on it. If my mass spectrometer isn’t up to the job I’ll see what I can swing with contacts at the university’s School of Chemistry.’

  ‘I’m particularly looking for some component that might cause mood swings, depression, something like that?’

  ‘Mmm. There are often quite negative side effects to drug therapies. Any indications of this?’

  ‘A very unexpected suicide in a seemingly well-balanced and happy woman. Oh, and she was reportedly slurring her words.’

  ‘Sedatives, alcohol?’

  ‘According to people close to her, she didn’t drink.’

  ‘Could have been an idiosyncratic reaction. Her system could have been adversely affected by a depressive agent. It will be interesting to see what she might have been ingesting.’

  ‘Strictest confidentiality,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Goes without saying. Bring it over now.’

  ‘I’ll be there within the hour. Thanks, Lance.’

  On her way she phoned Angie. ‘Any idea yet about who drives the Peugeot that picked up Mischa?’

  Gemma could hear the sounds of shuffling paper down the line. ‘Yes. It’s here somewhere. I had a name. I seem to have mislaid it just now but it’s definitely here somewhere. I’ll get straight back to you when I find it. But in the meantime, I’ve found the address of Phoebe Wilson’s father. I told him you’d visit him sometime today.’

  Phoebe Wilson, Gemma thought, the twenty-two-year-old who’d ended up dead in the harbour three years ago, her body mangled by a speedboat’s propeller.

  Gemma dropped the pills off at Paradigm then drove over to interview Eric Wilson.

  She pulled up outside a small bungalow in Marrickville and when the door opened, she saw a stooped, bearded man, with bags of grief under his eyes. As she walked into the living room Gemma was immediately drawn to a huge portrait of a beautiful young woman taking pride of place over the mantelpiece.

  ‘Eric,’ said Mr Wilson as Gemma introduced herself. ‘Please call me Eric.’

  ‘That’s Phoebe?’ Gemma asked, indicating the portrait. Eric nodded and once again Gemma was struck by the extraordinary beauty of the young girl. Standing next to a piano in an off-shoulder evening gown, Phoebe Wilson turned a three-quarter profile to gaze at her admirers with her large, clear eyes.

  ‘After her … death, I commissioned this from a photograph.’

  ‘She was beautiful, really beautiful,’ said Gemma.

  ‘And so was her spirit,’ said her father. ‘Everything about her was beautiful. Three years have gone by and I still miss her every day, every hour.’

  ‘Eric, I know this must be distressing for you, but I have to ask you some questions about events prior to Phoebe’s death.’

  ‘I understand. Please sit down. The police officer who called me before explained that there wasn’t any new information about her death as such.’

  ‘That’s right. But the case is being looked at again in the light of some other incidents.’

  ‘That surprises me. We told the police everything we knew. We went over and over everything. I still don’t understand how she came to be in the water. She was a strong swimmer, and I don’t understand why, even fully clothed, she didn’t just climb out of the water … Unless she was unconscious. But that doesn’t make sense either. Falling into water makes you wet, not unconscious.’

  ‘Eric,’ Gemma began after a pause, ‘this might seem like a strange question to ask but did Phoebe mention anything peculiar happening in the week or so before? Any accident? Injury of some sort? Any minor wounds to her arms or legs?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Eric asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Yes, she did mention being hurt on the ankle.’

  ‘Under what circumstances?’

  ‘She told me that she was trying to get on the Kirribilli ferry and she thought somebody had kicked her ankle. She turned around but couldn’t see who it was because there was such a crowd of people. When she got home, she found an ugly scrape mark on the outside of her ankle.’

  Gemma forced herself to remain calm, professional. This is our man.

  ‘But what’s that got to do with my daughter’s death?’

  ‘There have been some other deaths – young women like your daughter, and in some cases, there had been an earlier minor assault.’

  ‘Do you know something more about Phoebe’s death?’ His eyes anxiously searching her face.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Gemma. ‘But as I said, the police are having another look at it.’

  Eric stood up and walked over to the portrait of the beautiful girl, looking up at it, before turning back to Gemma.

  ‘If it was murder, I hope they get him and lock him up for the rest of his life. I’m locked up here, with my grief. It killed my wife.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eric. If I find out anything more, I’ll let you know.’

  He accompanied her to the front door. ‘Please help me. Find justice for my daughter.’

  Gemma drove away, still carrying some of Eric Wilson’s pain.

  When the traffic thinned out, she found a park and called Angie and left a message: ‘Can you please pull out the autopsy report on Phoebe Wilson and look right though it? There should be a reference somewhere to an injury on one of her ankles.’

  She then called Hugo. ‘How’s everything?’ she asked. ‘No one delivering anything suspicious?’

  ‘All quiet here. What are my chances of a pizza? I can pay you back.’

  Gemma smiled. ‘Pretty good. I’ll see you soon.’

  After leaving a message for Spinner she pulled out when it was safe to join the traffic again and, looking in the rear-vision mirror, she noticed a dark blue Mercedes. From where she was it was impossible to work out who was driving it or see the registration. Tolmacheff?

  Relax, she told herself. There are lots of dark blue Mercedes cars on the road. But she couldn’t take any chances. Without indicating, she made a sudden left turn and sped up a small street, relieved when she saw the car travel straight past the turnoff she’d just taken.

  Just to be sure, she waited, then turned and drove back to rejoin the traffic; there was no sign of the Mercedes ahead of her.

  At the next set of lights, she made a right turn and took the long way.

  She arrived home, her mind turbulent – and not just because of the threat of Tolmacheff discovering her identity. The discussions with Mike that morning pointed to a looming crisis. She felt overwhelmed. She sat in her car a moment with her head resting against the steering wheel.

  ‘Hey. You okay?’

  It was Hugo, who had come up the steps to meet her. Seeing him jolted her back to the present. ‘Hugo! Hi. Let’s go pick up Rafi and get that pizza!’

  After collecting Rafi and a pizza, Gemma and Hugo sat around the table eating. Rafi wriggled in Gemma’s arms until she put him on the floor and he took off towards the kitchen where he opened the cupboards himself and pulled out the pots and pans.

  ‘Man, that baby can go!’ said Hugo, pulling away a strand of melted cheese from the side of his mouth. ‘The fastest kid in nappies on the planet. Crazy!’

  Mike walked in just as Hugo was about to demolish the last large slice. With a deft swipe, he intercepted the slab of pizza. ‘Mine! This makes up for my stolen tart. Okay? And I haven’t even started on what you owe me for the damage to my bike!’ He turned to Rafi. ‘Are you making all that noise, Mr Rafi?’ Mike picked Rafi up and hugged him, placing a small saucepan on Rafi’s head. ‘Nice hat,’ Mike said, putting
him down again, laughing with Rafi.

  ‘I’m still hungry,’ said Hugo.

  ‘I think there’s some ice-cream in the freezer,’ said Gemma.

  She retrieved Rafi from the kitchen floor and, despite his howls of protest, carried him away for a bath. As soon as he saw the bath and his rubber duck and tug boat, the yelling stopped and he stretched out his arms, ready to get in.

  Spinner called and Gemma took it in her office, aware of Mike and Hugo arguing about football teams in the living room and Rafi joining in with excited squeals.

  ‘I think the gas man is probably the best idea – evacuation because of a gas leak nearby. I’ve got the uniform and ID.’

  ‘Spinner, you’re a genius. But isn’t that dishonest?’ she asked, teasing him.

  ‘It’s in a good cause. I’m preventing fornication,’ he said. ‘Especially fornication with that woman.’

  Gemma collected everything she’d need for an evening in Spinner’s van: a bottle of water, some nuts and dates in case they got hungry, a cushion to make the long surveillance hours more comfortable, a large glass jar to pee in if things got desperate. Hugo observed the preparations with much interest.

  ‘No, Hugo. You can’t come,’ she said in answer to his inevitable question. ‘Another time.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No deal, Hugo. This is a vital operation.’

  ‘What operation is that?’ Mike asked. ‘What’s on tonight?’

  It’s time to come clean, she thought.

  ‘Mike, I’ll be in Spinner’s van – the one he uses for surveillance. We’ve set up a couple of cameras in Steve’s flat.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m working with Steve to get footage of him and Lorraine. We’re going to use it to lean on her so that she’ll withdraw her false allegations.’

  Mike frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Lorraine is Raimon Fayed’s girlfriend. If he thought she was playing up behind his back …’

  ‘Okay. Steve with Lorraine. That’s what you’re hoping to get.’

  A long moment passed while Mike stood there, silently looking at her.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Say it. Say what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I don’t like it. I’ve already said I don’t like you getting so involved with Steve again. I know the company he’s forced to keep as an undercover cop, I don’t want that shit coming home to our place. Not here, not ever. Now I find you’re right in there again, trying to save him.’

  ‘Mike, be reasonable. This is hardly “getting involved”. And as for “saving” him …’

  ‘You’re rescuing him, involving yourself with him again. What’s going on, Gemma?’

  ‘This is a professional job. To help out a friend. Surely you’d do the same?’

  He didn’t answer, so she went to the door, looking back over her shoulder hoping he’d say something.

  He didn’t.

  She hurried to the car. Bloody Mike, she thought. But she couldn’t maintain her self-righteousness for very long. Mike was an intuitive man. Had he sensed that somewhere in her heart, Gemma was still in love with Steve Brannigan?

  Spinner had selected a magnetic strip to run along the side of the white van. This evening he was ‘Ackroyd’s Gas & Plumbing Services’. The mobile phone number accompanying this went to a message bank with the greeting, ‘You have reached Ackroyd’s Gas & Plumbing Services. Please leave your name and number and we will get back to you as soon as possible.’ Of course, no one ever did get back, and no doubt disappointed citizens cursed the unreliability of tradesmen.

  They found a parking spot across and down the road a little way from Steve’s flat and settled in, Spinner setting up his laptop to receive the live feed as soon as Steve came on line.

  ‘Once I’ve knocked on the door and got them out of there,’ said Spinner, turning to Gemma, ‘you make a call to Steve. A call he’s gotta take. You’re the solicitor who’s helping him with his legal defence.’

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  ‘You have to meet him straight away. Okay? His whole future depends on it.’

  ‘Got it.’

  At ten to eight, Steve called. ‘She’s on her way. She’ll be here in about ten minutes.’

  ‘That’s okay. We’re in position,’ said Spinner. ‘Everything right at your end?’

  ‘Yes. Is Gemma there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said taking Spinner’s mobile from him. ‘Everything’s ready this end. And Steve, break a leg.’

  There was barely a second’s hesitation. ‘It’s not my leg I’m worried about.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,’ she said, her voice light and innocent.

  She smiled. This is a crazy situation, she thought. Here I am, about to watch my former boyfriend making out with a woman who tried to kill me.

  With that thought she grew anxious and restless. She wriggled in her seat, adjusting the cushion, taking unnecessary sips of water, eating dates and nuts she didn’t even taste. Finally, sound and action lit Spinner’s laptop screen. Gemma sat bolt upright, staring. Even in black and white, Lorraine Litchfield looked good: her long legs swaying on six-inch heels, big blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her sinewy figure wrapped in a tight-fitting sheath, the front of the dress plunged to her waist, almost completely revealing perfect and impossibly firm breasts.

  Gemma scrunched her toes as Litchfield strode into the bedroom, placed her jewelled evening bag on the bedside table, then changed gear to turn and grab Steve, hauling him against her, fastening her lips on his, rubbing her hands up and down his back, seizing his hair, pushing his buttocks into her body. She sure wasn’t wasting time, Gemma thought. Steve reacted with similar vigour, grasping her hair, pressing hard against her, turning them both around so that they fell backwards onto his bed, Steve on top, still kissing her, grabbing at her dress while Lorraine tried to help wrench it from her shoulders. Steve buried his face between her breasts, and Gemma had to blink and look away for a moment. Then she looked again, frowning. The breasts were standing up on their own, like two round balls with nipples, defying gravity. Surgically enhanced.

  ‘Hey, boss,’ said Spinner, drawing on memories of his racing days and riding the gallopers, ‘remember this is like crooked racing: it’s making sure you look like you’re riding for a win when all the time you know the instructions are to pull up well back in the field.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like pulling up well back in the field to me,’ she said in a voice she didn’t recognise.

  ‘It’s okay. Steve’s doing a job. So are we. Come on, things are hotting up in there. Time the gas man called, I think.’

  By now, Litchfield was naked from the waist down. Steve had pulled off her shoes and thrown them to the floor, interspersed with ripping off his shirt, and climbing all over her, kissing her wildly, imprisoning her, his hands pressing down on her outstretched arms.

  ‘Right. That is quite enough. Time to go,’ said Spinner, taking off his polo shirt to reveal the businesslike overalls underneath with their tradesmen’s logo on the pocket.

  ‘I’m wired too.’ He winked at Gemma. ‘You can hear my progress. Okay? Use those headphones.’ He indicated the headphones attached to his laptop, grabbed his wallet from the console with the fake ID and was out of the van in a flash.

  On the screen, Lorraine had managed to free herself from Steve’s pinioning embrace and was grabbing at the front of his trousers. The two writhed together on the bed, Lorraine’s legs wrapped around Steve’s, clawing his back, looking as if she were trying to dissolve him into her body.

  Gemma was aware of how fast and hard her heart was racing. The scene was rousing all her denied desire for Steve, enhancing her deep regret that she was not the woman on the screen with him.

  Just when she thought she could stand no more of it, she heard Spinner banging on the door of Steve’s flat.

  Back on the screen, the couple on the bed stopped wrestling. Stev
e sat up, dishevelled, hair falling across his forehead, and hurriedly did up his trousers while Lorraine, tousled and panting, adjusted her dress down over her hips and up over her breasts, her angry face turned to stare after Steve. Slowly, unwillingly, she slid off the bed, grabbed her shoes, picked up her evening bag and smoothed over her wild hair. She gave herself an approving glance in the mirror before moving out of camera range.

  It was easy for Gemma to imagine the rest of the scene with the audio coming through, loud and clear as she held one of the headphones against her ear.

  ‘What gas leak?’ Lorraine demanded, her high-pitched voice edged with anger and frustration. ‘I can’t smell anything!’

  Gemma strained to hear Spinner’s reply.

  ‘No need to panic, ma’am. Just a precaution. We want everybody out of this block. One of the mains has been leaking badly and there’s been a suspected build-up in the pipes under this area. Better be safe than sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, baby.’ Steve’s voice. ‘Better drive you home.’

  ‘Just like that? Right now? You’re just going to drive me home?’

  ‘I’ll call. Soon. Come on, baby. Don’t punish me for a gas leak.’

  ‘It should only be for about half an hour,’ said Spinner.

  Lorraine’s voice was harsh. ‘I’ll get a taxi, thank you very much.’

  She doesn’t want to take the chance Raimon might see her in a car with another man, Gemma thought.

  ‘Baby, I promise I’ll call you.’

  ‘Don’t bother!’ said Lorraine.

  ‘Don’t torture me, baby!’ said Steve. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.’

  Then Steve’s voice again. ‘Taxi!’

  Spinner’s voice. ‘I’ve got five other buildings to alert, sir. I’ll let everybody know when it’s safe to go back inside.’

  Back in the van, Gemma and Spinner were reviewing the footage taken from Steve’s bedroom when Gemma’s mobile rang. Steve.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ said Gemma, ‘as the solicitor who’s going to try to save you.’

  ‘Spinner saved me. Thank God for the gas man,’ he said. ‘I was terrified she’d make a lunge for me and discover that – well, the hydraulics weren’t kicking in.’