Death by Beauty

by Lord, Gabrielle

  Gemma tried to absorb all this information as Dr Evans’ phone rang again. Russian doctors? Was that the connection with Tolmacheff and the vampire? The Russian mafia in Australia? Is that what Janet had stumbled on?

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Evans was saying with impatience. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  She rang off and turned to Gemma. ‘I have to go. Please just wait here. I’ll only be a minute or two. Then we can talk without interruption.’

  Gemma put her bag down and looked at the folders Dr Evans had hastily dropped on the table, with the one she’d been reading on the top. Gemma immediately recognised the crest and the two swans. This was the same folder she’d found in Tolmacheff’s study, moments before he discovered her.

  She pounced on it, opening it as her mobile rang. Lance.

  ‘Gemma? Sorry for ringing so late. But I’ve got a very brief interim report on those medical records. I thought you’d be interested.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said, opening the Maxine Wentworth file.

  ‘I was right: these are human leucocyte antigen tests. But it’s rather puzzling because in this context, the test is related to tissue typing. It can be used to determine parentage, as in paternity tests.’

  Why on earth would they be doing paternity tests here, Gemma thought as Lance continued. ‘There’s a whole lot of very complicated material here about the sites of genes on chromosomes, but basically it’s about matching antigens from an organ recipient to those of an organ donor. It’s also used to ascertain compatibility for transplants. The greater the number of identical HLA antigens between donor and recipient, the greater the possibility of successful transplant, with a decreased risk of rejection.’

  ‘How’s it done?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘Either by using DNA methods or serologically,’ Lance replied.

  ‘Like a blood test?’

  ‘Usually by blood test. Blood is drawn from a vein. A bit of pressure applied to the puncture site until the bleeding stops to reduce bruising. That’s the usual way of doing it.’

  ‘Thanks, Lance.’

  She rang off. A puncture wound matched the wound the women had spoken about, she thought. She quickly started to flick through the folder. Its dense medical and scientific terminology made it difficult to read, let alone understand.

  She turned to the back of the Maxine Wentworth folder, to the attached Phoebe Wilson file, then back to the main file on Wentworth, studying them carefully. The back page seemed to be a colour chart of some kind in shades of pink to camel. Gemma turned to the text. Were these compatibility tests concerned with blood transfusions? It didn’t make any sense. Recipient. Donor.

  She leafed through the swan folder, trying to decipher the text, but after a few moments she had to stop, disappointed. To her it was incomprehensible, a long scientific paper describing improvements to something called the Pittsburgh Protocol. She recognised some phrases, but most of it was about specific antibodies, again using the medical shorthand of HLA but this time with additional letters DQ together with the word ‘alleles’, which she knew concerned DNA testing. There were, apparently, ‘six loci on chromosome 6 where the genes that produce HLA antigens are inherited’. Other words she recognised from her conversation with Lance: ‘transforming growth factors – TGFs’, ‘collagen’, ‘interleukin’ and ‘successful immune privilege’ which ‘radically surpasses anything so far’. She guessed it was possibly the scientific basis for DiNAH – the tailor-made DNA medications that were part of the new therapy.

  Frustrated, she put the folder down, wondering why Tolmacheff had been so concerned about the possibility of her seeing its contents – the medical information it contained was as good as encrypted. She pulled out her phone and keyed in ‘Pittsburgh Protocol’.

  She scanned it quickly. The Pittsburg Protocol appeared to be something developed by the University of Pittsburgh Medical Centre concerning antibody therapy – donor bone-marrow cell infusion to reduce toxicity in patients. Donors? Gemma looked up from the screen. Was Sapphire Springs Spa doing illegal organ transplants? Maybe Dr Evans had discovered what was going on in the highly secured medical centre. Is that why she’s called me out here tonight? Gemma wondered.

  Puzzling over this, but aware of the late hour and anxious about her son, she rang Steve.

  ‘He’s sleeping like – like a baby.’ Steve laughed. ‘I’ve made him comfortable on my bed and don’t worry, I’ve built a wall of pillows and cushions around him.’

  ‘I’m impressed that you knew to do that. But do watch him. He’s learned how to get past pillow security.’

  ‘Hey, I’m an uncle – not a very good one, but I’ve learned a few things.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be much longer,’ she said. ‘Dr Evans wants to see me. She’s just been called away.’

  Gemma moved to the reception area of the medical records building to see if Dr Evans was on her way back, and in the bright security light outside she noticed something: it seemed like the heavy security door to the medical centre wasn’t quite closed. She stepped back into the hall. ‘Steve! Gotta go. I’ll call later,’ she said quietly.

  Gemma walked out again and glanced at the security guard. He was sitting with his back to her as he rocked from side to side in his swivel chair talking loudly on his mobile. Flattening herself against the wall, she edged her way past him, crept to the door and, praying that it wouldn’t make a sound, cautiously opened it. She was outside and safe in darkness before she breathed again. Keeping low, she made her way to the heavy door of the supercentre, flinching as the brilliant automatic light came on.

  She pushed the door slowly, cautiously, peering around and then stepping quickly inside, into a dimly lit room. Two corridors led off it, one to the right and the other stretched directly in front of her; this was the one she chose. It was eerily silent and she wondered where Dr Evans was and who had summoned her.

  As she walked further down, her instincts warned her of danger. With a gasp, Gemma saw that lying on the vinyl floor, halfway through a doorway, was the supine body of Dr Evans.

  She ran to her and knelt down while scanning the rest of the corridor.

  ‘Dr Evans!’ she hissed. ‘What happened? Wake up!’

  The woman stirred and her eyelids flickered. ‘Got to stop them …’ she whispered. ‘Please, stop them.’

  ‘Who? What’s happening?’

  ‘Dr Egmont … I threatened … the authorities … jabbed me … something … can’t move – barely speak …’ Dr Evans opened her eyes, desperately fighting whatever sedation she’d been hit with. ‘… surgical team,’ she struggled to speak, ‘… here any moment … leaving – all flying out … one last surgery … Harlow Hadley … the Bloomfield girl … help her! … my security card … Get her out of here. I hadn’t realised. I thought they were only breaking … medical protocols – I had no idea … no idea … what was going on in here. It’s too late for the other one …’

  Her voiced faded and her eyelids closed. Gemma shook her, hard.

  ‘Where’s Mischa Bloomfield? Talk to me!’

  But it was no use. April Evans had plummeted into deep unconsciousness, her heavily sedated breathing barely there, the drug in her system completely claiming her.

  Gemma gently removed the swipe card from around Dr Evans’ neck and scrambled to her feet with just one thought: Mischa.

  With every cell of her body braced for action, she crept along the corridor. Two doors, both closed, stood opposite each other, with another exit at the end of the long hallway. Gemma was heading for the exit when she heard a sound and froze. Had she imagined something? She strained to listen. There it was again. A weak moan. From somewhere close. From behind one of the closed doors; the one on the right. Gemma’s blood iced with fear.

  As she approached, feelings of dread rose up. The white door stood like a threat and she hesitated before using Dr Evans’ card. She swiped downwards, and heard the click as the electronic lock released. Quietly she pushed the heavy door open and peer
ed into the dim room.

  Someone was lying on a trolley, a young woman who turned towards Gemma as she approached.

  ‘Mischa?’

  Mischa stared at her with glazed eyes. Her pale face was expressionless, her mouth slack. She tried to speak but all that came out was the shapeless moan Gemma had heard from the corridor.

  ‘Mischa, what have they done to you? We’ve got to get out of here. Can you get up?’

  Mischa attempted to sit up, but fell back helplessly. Gemma hurried to the door and listened. Any moment now they could be discovered. She pulled out her mobile and called Angie. ‘Where are you? You should be here by now!’ she hissed to the message bank. ‘I’ve found Mischa! We’re in the medical supercentre.’

  Using all her strength, Gemma hauled Mischa to her feet, dislodging two folders that were hidden beneath her on the trolley, one with Mischa’s name on it. Gemma noticed the name on the second folder as it fell to the floor – Harlow Hadley, the actor. She tightened her hold on Mischa. Was Harlow Hadley here too? Was she awaiting DiNAH surgery?

  With Mischa leaning heavily on her, almost a dead weight, Gemma staggered to the doorway. She prayed that no one was coming; that she could get out before the surgical team arrived.

  Where the hell was Angie?

  Half dragging, half carrying Mischa, she made it out into the corridor. Dr Evans lay where she’d left her, on her back, arms outflung. There was nothing Gemma could do for her right now.

  It was hard work dragging the semi-conscious woman towards the medical-records room, but fearful desperation gave Gemma the strength she needed. Only a little way to go, she urged herself: Come on, Gemma; you can do it, girl.

  Suddenly, voices. Male voices. Desperate, Gemma looked for a hiding place, but there was none. She and Mischa were exposed in the corridor. Opposite them was another locked door. She hauled Mischa over to it and swiped it open. The hum of the airconditioner didn’t quite cover the sounds of the approaching voices as Gemma strained to listen, propping Mischa on a bench just inside the room, before frantically looking for somewhere to hide. The room was empty except for glass cabinets filled with specimen jars.

  Gemma stared, then attempted to refocus. For several moments, her brain couldn’t take in what she was seeing; her mind was trying to make sense of the impossible. At first, she thought she was looking at a sculptured mask, hanging in front of her. She’d seen this beautiful face before, in a sketch made by Nicole.

  Brie’s face.

  Brie’s face, completely removed from her head, hanging, suspended in dense fluid, floating in laboratory glassware, the half-closed eyelids and their eyelashes surrounding vacant spaces where the eyes should have been.

  Gemma froze in horror as the realisation set in. A scream choked back in her throat.

  The peeled-off face of Brie, the young sex worker who had vanished.

  Just beyond Brie’s face, separated by a wall of glass, floated another. This face, also as fine, was suspended like some appalling theatrical apparition. This face, too, she recognised; from the photograph Angie had shown her of the beautiful graduate with her mortar board worn at an impish angle.

  She was staring at the peeled-off face of Marie-Louise Palier.

  Like the grouping of shots on a target, the truth about the vampire killings started to come together. Gemma understood. Seemingly disparate incidents locked into place as she grasped why the vampire had attacked, then shortly after come back for Phoebe Wilson, Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier but not Annabel Carr. Gemma understood why he had attacked Mischa then relentlessly pursued her. She understood the colour chart at the back of Maxine Wentworth’s folder.

  She understood now the importance of the first, minor assault on the victims – the puncture wound; she grasped why the medical records held information about the HLA components. She realised now why Annabel Carr had not been the victim of a second, fatal attack. Even though the destruction of the lower bodies remained a mystery to her, it became clear there was a need for those catastrophic post-mortem injuries to the heads of the young women—to hide the unthinkable, the reason they had to die.

  Slowly, the long chains of letters and numbers underneath Phoebe Wilson and Maxine Wentworth’s names started to mean something. There had been many identical letters and numbers, Gemma recalled. These suggested compatibility. Phoebe Wilson shared great compatibility with Maxine Wentworth.

  Just as the long chains of letters and numbers underneath Annabel Carr’s name must have delivered the opposite information: incompatibility.

  That’s why she was still alive. Despite having all the desired qualities, when it came down to the nano level of the sixth chromosome, Annabel Carr had proved unsuitable. Gemma recalled Mischa’s description of the vampire’s interest in her skin tone. The chart at the back of Maxine Wentworth’s folder was a colour chart, all right, matching skin tones from donor to recipient.

  Gemma felt the energy draining out of her as she stared at this cabinet of outrageous evil. Limp with shock, she slumped against the door, forgetting for a moment that she and Mischa were in great danger, that Dr Evans was threatened too. She forgot that Tolmacheff, Dr Egmont and the vampire could discover them at any moment.

  This was what Janet Chancy had discovered; this was what she wouldn’t talk about on the phone; this was why she was murdered.

  ‘Puncture site,’ Lance had said, referring to blood sampling. In the first minor assault the vampire had taken samples from the targeted victims, for tissue typing, to check against the recipients of the ‘facelift’ to ensure there was enough compatibility before the final, fatal onslaught. Girls were chosen for their outstanding beauty, their skin tone and flawless complexion. Did Sapphire Springs have a catalogue for recipients to choose from? Is that what the catalogue with the swans contained? Could the women who desired an entirely different face pick their new look from an album – a catalogue of murdered girls? They’d matched the skin tones. They’d matched the HLA compatibility.

  She pulled out her phone as the voices became louder, closer.

  ‘Angie! For God’s sake get here fast! Those women were murdered for their faces!’

  CHAPTER 35

  The voices outside the door came closer and Gemma ended her call. I’ve gotta get us out of here, came the voice of survival deep in her guts.

  She could now hear words, phrases: ‘… flying out … getting too hot … Manila in the morning … as soon as the Hadley woman delivers the cash …’

  She held her breath, willing them not to come into the room, praying that they’d walk straight past. Praying that Angie would arrive with the cavalry.

  But the voices came closer and closer, and Gemma readied herself, deciding on a surprise attack. There was the barest chance that with the element of surprise, she might just get away with it. There was no alternative.

  The door opened. Gemma crouched. For a nanosecond Tolmacheff didn’t see her. She flew at him and they went down hard on the floor, Gemma on top. Swiftly, she twisted his right arm back, attempting a vicious come-along hold, but as she did and Tolmacheff roared in pain, something slammed into the back of her head, sending her sprawling along the corridor. She attempted to get to her feet, dazed, trying to keep the momentum going, but the man who had kicked her in the head stood over her, grinning, wrinkling the smeared birthmark under his left eye.

  ‘Good one, Volk! Now the bitch is in the right place,’ snarled Tolmacheff as he clambered to his feet. ‘This is the last time you’ll get in my way. I know who you are. I got your rego number the day I caught you spying in my study, Gemma Lincoln!’

  Gemma swayed then steadied herself against the wall, her eyes focused on the pistol Tolmacheff pointed at her.

  He gestured with the squat weapon in the direction of Mischa, collapsed on the bench. ‘Take her to the theatre. I’ll deal with this one.’

  The theatre. Where she would be murdered and her remains dumped. Ted Ackland had almost got it: the parts missing from the faces
of the murdered women were not trophies. Gemma was shocked back into full consciousness at the sight of the vampire half carrying, half dragging the heavily sedated Mischa away.

  ‘What sort of doctors do this? How is it possible?’

  ‘Everything is possible. All it takes is finding out someone’s weakness. Some people call it blackmail. I call it insurance. Walk, bitch. Make any attempt to get away and that’ll be the last thing you do.’

  Gemma stumbled in front of Tolmacheff, her brain racing despite the ache now spreading from the base of her skull. Her dazed thoughts centred on one plea: for God’s sake, Angie, get here now!

  Tolmacheff pushed her towards the exit and Gemma started to walk, constantly looking around at him, terrified that he would shoot her. The thought of Rafi crying for her and she not able to come to him surged through her so strongly that she realised her fingernails were cutting into her clenched palms.

  ‘You can’t do this!’ she cried. ‘The police are on their way. Get out now while you can!’

  His only reply was a vicious jab into her kidneys with the business end of the pistol.

  They’d reached the exit.

  ‘Open the door. Step outside, then take one step ahead and stop. Put your phone on the ground. Slowly, now. No, don’t turn round.’

  The night was black and no stars were visible. Slowly, Gemma reached into her pocket and took out her phone. Her hands were shaking but she was able to thumb Mike’s speed-dial number before lowering the mobile to the grass.

  He would know she’d called even if he wasn’t able to contact her.

  ‘You think the police are coming?’ Tolmacheff laughed as he kicked the mobile aside. ‘They’ve been and gone. They sent some little girl out here and I dealt with her – sent her happily on her way. She thinks you’ve already left the premises.’

  Despair crushed Gemma as Tolmacheff continued bragging. ‘Just like I handled that interfering journalist who’d seen something she shouldn’t have and thought she’d race off and report it. Should have chucked her in the incinerator after her notebook. But she didn’t get very far. And now it’s just you and me, sweetheart.’