The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim

  ‘Why? Call an ambulance.’

  ‘They want to know what she took.’

  ‘It’s on the table. Whatever she took, she washed it down with alcohol.’

  He grabbed the three plastic containers from the kitchen table and disappeared down the hallway.

  I began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation immediately. Her lips tasted like alcohol. I knew it was too late, but I had to try. Something inside me refused to accept she was dead. I began external cardiac massage. One, two, three. Back to mouth-to-mouth. Nothing. Cardiac massage. One, two, three. Nothing. I could feel tears in my eyes. Come on, God dammit! Wake up! I tried mouth-to-mouth again. Nothing. My hands were shaking, and my back was bathed in perspiration.

  ‘Forget it, Katrina. She’s dead,’ Frank said.

  I didn’t even hear him coming back in the kitchen.

  I knew he was right, but I refused to give up.

  Mouth-to-mouth.

  Someone grabbed my arm. ‘Forget it, Katrina,’ Frank said, pulling me away. ‘It’s over. The ambulance is coming.’

  I looked at him and then back at Mrs Noland. ‘She’s dead, Frank. I killed her.’

  ‘You didn’t kill her. She killed herself.’ He pulled my arm, forcing me to get up on my feet. ‘Get yourself together. The paramedics are going to be here any minute.’

  I nodded, wiping tears from my eyes. ‘All right, all right. I’m okay now.’ But I wasn’t. My mind was filled with self-hatred. ‘Why did she do it, Frank?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ He was holding on to my arm.

  ‘Do you think she killed herself because we pushed her?’

  ‘No one knows, Katrina.’

  ‘Do you think she did it because she felt guilty? Maybe she killed Tracy, and she couldn’t live with herself.’

  ‘We’ll never find out.’

  ‘But I need to know. I need to know what happened.’

  He wrapped his arms around my body.

  I was sobbing.

  ‘It’s okay, Katrina. Everything is going to be fine.’

  ‘It’s not going to be fine, Frank. She’s dead. What are we going to do?’

  ‘There’s nothing to do. You just take it easy.’

  I rested my head against his chest, drowning in the comfort of his familiar smell of Paco Rabanne and cigarettes. ‘I didn’t want her to die, Frank. You know I didn’t want her to die.’

  ‘Of course, I know. Nobody wanted her to die.’

  And then I heard sirens screaming down the street.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mrs Noland died from a cocktail of prescribed medication mixed with alcohol. Orphenadrine, mebendazole and flucysine to be exact. All hazardous if combined with alcohol. Flucytosine was used for the treatment of generalised candidiasis, mebendazole for treatment of intestinal worms and other parasitic infestations, and orphanadrine for relief of painful muscle spasm or symptoms of Parkinson’s disease, all which had been prescribed under her name at one time or another. With the amount of tablets she took, combined with alcohol, she had little or no chance of surviving.

  Mrs Noland’s burial was scheduled for Friday afternoon, two days after she died. I felt obligated to turn up since I couldn’t shake off the fact that I felt, if not fully, at least partly responsible for her death.

  I did recover the box of chocolates from her kitchen bench, and, yes indeed, it was a perfect match with the one I’d seen at the lab. All I could be certain of now was that Tracy ate high-priced Turkish Delight before she died. Was the Turkish Delight she ate from her home? More likely than not, I thought.

  Wednesday morning I slept in, unable to face the day. From the beginning of this investigation, I’d known better than to get involved. Now I knew I’d been right. So much for trusting one’s instinct.

  I got up at 10.53 a.m., my head heavy from oversleeping and my stomach grumbling from hunger. For the first time in years, I managed a breakfast of Michael’s Coco Pops and a glass of orange juice. I hadn’t eaten the previous night, and as a result my body’s biological equilibrium was out of whack, sending pulsing signals to my blood-sugar-deprived brain, which would soon suffer from a massive headache.

  After rinsing my dishes in the sink, I crossed to the lounge room and opened the balcony doors. I stepped outside, feeling a warm wind from the ocean slapping my face.

  A green tram rolled up Chapel street, sending traffic into chaos, when my mobile phone went off. I raced back inside and snatched it from the kitchen bench.

  ‘Is this Dr Melina?’ asked a person with an Asian accent.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Mr Nugyen from the pharmacy on Chapel Street.’

  My mind did a somersault before it connected who it was.

  ‘Mr Nugyen...how are you?’

  ‘Good, yourself?’

  We went on about each other’s health for another thirty seconds.

  ‘Dr Melina, my son he goes university, study pharmacology.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He look up zinc stearate for you. He think he also remembers person buying zinc stearate a few months back. You want talk to him?’

  I puzzled over this for a few seconds. ‘Why don’t I come over and see him instead? I’m just down the street.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I think that’d be much better.’

  He hesitated. ‘Sure, but please hurry because he got class this afternoon.’

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  We said goodbye and I punched the end button.

  I parked in a no-standing zone, just near the corner of Malvern Road and Chapel Street in Prahran. At 11.45 a.m. mid-week, I had no chance of getting a parking space, unless I parked in a suburban street or the university car park, which I didn’t want to bother with. Prahran was sandwiched between Windsor and Toorak, along Chapel Street, making it one of the most congested suburbs in Melbourne, other than the City centre. But then any suburb attached to Chapel Street was hell to park in.

  Thuang Nugyen saw me coming into the chemist shop. He waved with his hand to come forward. He called someone, and within seconds a young Asian man stepped from somewhere behind the counter.

  ‘This is my son, Lee,’ Mr Nugyen announced as I approached the counter. ‘He’ll show you information on zinc stearate.’

  Lee greeted me with ‘Hi’ and indicated towards one side of the counter. He wore sand-coloured chinos and a pale blue shirt, no tie. His look was warm and inviting. His black hair was fashionably brushed back and his skin free from acne or pimples, which was uncommon amongst people of his age. He wore round, rimless spectacles, giving him the advantage of looking intelligent even before he opened his mouth.

  ‘I’m Kristina Melina.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘My dad told me.’ His tone was warm but authoritative, and, unlike his father, he had no trace of an accent. He flipped through some hand-written notes he had laid on the counter. ‘I looked up this stuff for you, and this is what I found.’ He read from the notes: ‘Zinc stearate is a compound of zinc oxide with variable proportions of stearic acid and palmatic acid. It tends to be used as a smooth dusting powder. Zinc oxide by itself is a mild astringent agent used primarily to treat skin disorders, such as nappy rash and eczema. It’s readily available in many compounds other than zinc stearate, such as a cream with arachis oil, oleic acid and wool fat, or with ichthammol and wool fat. It’s also combined with castor oil to form an ointment, or with starch and talc to form a dusting powder.’

  ‘So,’ I said, impressed by his research so far, ‘Zinc stearate is basically some form of talc?’

  ‘Not chemically. Talc is a monoclinic hydrated magnesium silicate while zinc stearate is zinc oxide combined with stearic acid, a monobasic fatty acid obtained from mutton suet or by reducing oleic acid. But in physical properties, they’re both pretty similar. The thing is zinc stearate is toxic, so no one uses it these days.’

  I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to digest the mumbo jumbo he’d just thrown a
t me. ‘And you told your father you remembered who bought zinc stearate a few months back?’

  Lee looked up over his rimless spectacles. ‘Well, yes I do. It’s an unusual prescription, and since I’d never heard of it myself at the time, I do recall who bought it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t give you a name. As my father told you, vandals broke into the shop not long ago, and they destroyed the register which held the names and signatures of people who bought poisonous goods. I can tell you what she looks like, though.’

  Our eyes locked. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Kind of a large woman, short dark hair, spiky on top, and dressed in tracksuit pants.’

  I had Mrs Noland in mind, but she didn’t have short hair. ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Yeah, basically. She was kind of average looking, but butch, if you know what I mean.’

  I wrote all this down. ‘You don’t mind if I take these notes with me,’ I said, pointing at the hand-written pages he’d been reading from.

  ‘Sure.’

  I folded the pages in half and stored them in my handbag.

  ‘Well, thanks a lot for your help. And if you remember anything else, make sure you give me a call.’ I handed him a business card.

  ‘Will do.’

  We shook hands, and I did a one-eighty degree turn to leave the chemist.

  Half way down the shop, between the vitamins and facial creams, Lee called out, ‘Oh, Dr Melina?’

  I turned around. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Something else I remember.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She had a tattoo with some flowers on her left arm.’

  The second time I met Linda Coleman was at Mrs Noland’s funeral on Friday the 9th of January. Jason and Lucia were there as well, and so was half the neighbourhood. She fitted the description I was given by Mr Nugyen’s son. Short, spiky hair, butch look and tattoo, which was currently concealed by a black cardigan. This was also how I remembered her when I visited her at the beginning of this investigation. It had dawned on me that this was a woman of great physical strength who could have been capable of anything a man was capable of, that is, in the physical sense.

  The day turned out to be nice, weather-wise, anyway. The sky was clear as far as the eye could see, and there was no sign of it getting worse. The funeral was arranged by Better Funeral Services.

  Frank came with me to the funeral, not really to mourn the loss of Mrs Noland, but to observe who turned up. He thought that the killer of Tracy Noland, if not Mrs Noland, might have decided to come to the service. I hadn’t told him yet how I knew Linda Coleman bought zinc stearate some time ago. I thought I’d leave it until after the funeral for no other reason than the fear of botching the investigation. I’d hate to see him snap and say something to Linda Coleman, revealing what we knew so far.

  After two days at home, I began to surface and realise that there might have been more to Mrs Noland’s death than me harassing her. People didn’t commit suicide for so little. One could argue she was depressed because of the death of her child, but nothing so far showed me she truly loved Tracy. Maybe she was part of a grand scheme with someone else. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered why we’d assumed only one person was involved.

  At the end of the burial, we were invited to the funeral home for refreshments and sandwiches. I took the opportunity to talk to as many people as I could, since everyone more or less lived on Vincent Court or its adjoining streets.

  Jason came to me while I was helping myself to a glass of orange juice.

  ‘How are you coping?’ he whispered, as if we were the only two who knew Mrs Noland had died.

  ‘I’m fine. Not the kind of place someone looks forward to visiting.’

  He circled the room with his eyes. ‘Where’s Michael?’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Didn’t he want to come to the funeral?’

  I turned around, my glass of orange juice in one hand, and spoke straight to his face, ‘Michael’s out with his friends. That’s what thirteen-year old kids do in case you didn’t know.’

  He moved back one step as if I’d just spat on him. ‘All right. You don’t have to be so nasty, Katrina. I was just asking, that’s all. Gee, when did I start becoming the bad guy all of a sudden?’

  His eyes were those of a man who’d been betrayed. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s best if you don’t stay around me today. I’m saying things without thinking.’

  His look softened. ‘It’s okay, Katrina.’ He patted my shoulder. ‘We’re all in this together.’ And then he moved to talk to someone else, but I caught him by the arm.

  ‘Jason, how well do you know your neighbours?’

  His brow crossed and he said, ‘As well as you do by now, I assume.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get to the point. Do you know if Mrs Noland and Linda Coleman were good friends?’

  He seemed to struggle with an answer. ‘Gee, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to say the wrong thing. But, yes, I’ve seen them together. To say they were good friends might be stretching the truth. That they knew each other, that I can confirm.’

  ‘But it’s possible they were really good friends?’

  ‘It’s possible. Anything is possible. I mean, god, what we thought once impossible has happened in Vincent Court.’

  I couldn’t disagree with him. Life was full of surprises, and I knew the Tracy Noland case was still filled with them.

  ‘Okay, that’s all,’ I said and let go of his arm.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught Lucia all by herself. Her mother was busy talking to a man I’d never seen before. Obviously, no one wanted to embarrass themselves talking to a person in a wheelchair.

  When she saw me, she smiled. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she managed to say. I was amazed that I understood her speech immediately, unlike when she first spoke to me.

  ‘Do you want to go outside?’ I asked. ‘It’s stuffy in here.’ What I really meant was did she want to talk in private.

  ‘Okay.’

  I pushed the wheelchair past the entrance door, crossed the foyer, struggled on the thick burgundy carpet, and stepped outside where the sun blinded us.

  ‘How have you been?’ I said, kneeling next to Lucia.

  There was a sadness in her eyes, which broke my heart. ‘Good. Any news on Tracy’s killer?’

  ‘Not at this stage. Say, did Tracy ever offer you Turkish Delight?’

  She puzzled over my question and said, ‘Never.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. She couldn’t stand the stuff, so why would she offer it to me?’

  I wondered if I’d heard properly. ‘Tracy didn’t like Turkish Delight?’

  ‘She hated the stuff. She told me many times.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting because I found a box at her place.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, her mother liked them.’

  I didn’t want to tell Lucia we found Turkish Delight in Tracy’s stomach. I wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard of autopsies and thought I might upset her. ‘Do you know where she got the Turkish Delight from?’

  ‘One of the neighbours sells them down the street now and then. She works for some charity of some sort.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Woman down the street. Don’t know her name.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Actually, she was at the funeral this morning. She’s probably still in there.’ She pointed at the funeral home.

  ‘Can you show me who she is if we go back inside?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I stood straight, stretched my legs and wheeled Lucia back inside the building.

  People were in small groups, chit-chatting in low voices.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked Lucia.

  She circled the room with her eyes, and suddenly stretched her only moving arm in one direction. ‘There.’

  Lucia was pointing at Linda Coleman, who happened to be having a conversation with Jason. Well, I couldn’t real
ly say that I was surprised. Her name had come up twice in a matter of days. I made a mental note to make her a priority in my investigation.

  I thanked Lucia for the information and quickly crossed the room to where Frank was standing. He was talking to one of the funeral director’s assistants.

  I closed in on Frank and whispered in his ear. ‘We need to get together as soon as you’re done. I think I’ve got a breakthrough.’

  He nodded and went on with his conversation.

  I glanced towards Linda Coleman, who was sweet-talking another one of Mrs Noland’s neighbours. I thought I was being discreet, but suddenly, she tilted her head and glared into my eyes. Her lips were tight and her look daring.

  I shifted uncomfortably and began making my way towards the exit.

  But the pain at the back of my skull told me it was too late.

  She knew I knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Frank and I met on the ninth floor of the St Kilda Road Police Complex immediately after the funeral. We were alone in a private room, two mugs of coffee barely touched. My empty stomach was filled with orange juice, causing a heartburn. I was dying for something to eat, but I wanted to get a hold of Frank before he disappeared.

  I detailed what I’d found out about Linda Coleman.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, obviously not wanting to make another mistake.

  ‘I’m telling you. This guy at the chemist described her to the letter. I mean, how many women do you know who wear short hair and have a large tattoo stamped on one arm?’

  ‘Not many, thank God.’ He puzzled for a few seconds, sipping from his coffee mug. ‘So where does that leave Malcom Sternwood?

  ‘As much as I’d hate to admit it, I think we’ve got the wrong guy. Other evidence, like the zinc stearate and the Turkish Delight, points away from him.’

  ‘Damn... I don’t know what to tell you. What are we going to do now?’

  ‘We can go and confront her on the basis of the zinc stearate she bought a few months back.’

  ‘You realise this is only circumstantial evidence. You won’t be able to mount a case with that little information.’