Spiking the Girl

by Lord, Gabrielle

  Angie started to say something then stopped.

  ‘No, go on,’ said Gemma. ‘Say it.’

  ‘I was going to say I think you’re being too hard on Steve. No, don’t blow up at me. He’s not out screwing other women, Gemster.’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to talk about it,’ Gemma repeated.

  ‘Sometimes the boundaries get stretched,’ said Angie, ‘with undercover work.’

  Gemma picked up the notebook and opened it, pen ready. ‘Tell me about this other girl who’s gone missing from Netherleigh Park,’ she said, determined to change the subject. Then she noticed something as Angie searched through her own notebook.

  ‘You’re actually wearing make-up to work, Ange!’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘Eye shadow. And is that mascara I see?’

  Angie blushed as she changed the subject. ‘How did you know Tasmin Summers’s name?’

  ‘Answer the question, Angie!’ Gemma started laughing. ‘Ange! You’re blushing! You’re wearing make-up and you’re blushing! Hey, you’d better tell your girlfriend what’s going on. And I want to know everything.’

  Angie looked up at the waitress arriving with their coffee and Angie’s raisin toast. ‘I’m starving,’ she said, grabbing a piece and pushing the plate towards Gemma.

  ‘What’s his name, Angie?’ Gemma insisted.

  ‘His name’s Trevor.’ She dropped her voice to a tremulous whisper.

  Gemma blinked. ‘Please!’ she said. ‘Not Trevor.’

  Angie’s eyes flashed. ‘What’s the matter with Trevor? You’re such a snob, Gemster. It’s a loyal, devoted, down-to-earth man’s name.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Although imagining a gorgeous Trevor is straining my brain. So who is he?’

  ‘Trevor Dawson. One of the tactical guys.’

  ‘Oh, that Trevor.’ She also remembered something else. ‘You said never again, Angie. No more muscleheads, you said. You pleaded for me to remind you about it if you ever so much as looked in that direction again!’

  Angie wasn’t listening. ‘He was my protection last week, when I was negotiating. Would you believe—a crazy Cypriot, a knife-wielding eighty-one-year-old grandmother and a 280-kilogram bloke who wouldn’t take his medication.’

  ‘All in the one house?’

  ‘All in the one week. One after the other, smartarse.’ Angie couldn’t stop smiling. ‘It kind of went from there.’

  ‘I’m already worried about where it went! “Bloody mongrel bastard dickhead” were some of the kinder names you called the last guy.’

  ‘Trevor’s not like that. He’s really sweet. He’s sensitive. He writes poetry.’ Angie grabbed another slice of raisin toast. ‘Gemster, you’ve gotta love him.’

  Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘Ange, I don’t think loving a poetry-writing special weapons operative called Trevor is in my repertoire.’

  ‘You just have to start learning,’ said Angie and sipped her coffee, all misty-eyed. ‘Gems,’ she said, ‘I’m hopelessly smitten.’

  ‘Ange. It’s only been one week. Can’t you get unsmitten?’

  Angie pulled out a folded piece of paper and passed it to Gemma. ‘Take a look at this. This is the first poem he wrote to me.’

  ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more gorgeous. Rough winds shake the darling buds, but you are a bud, darling, that I want to shake, rattle and roll.’

  Gemma looked up from her reading to see Angie’s starry eyes. ‘Isn’t that just so sweet?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve heard something like it somewhere before.’

  ‘Oh, you!’ Angie snatched it back. ‘Your problem is you’re too cynical.’

  Gemma was astounded. ‘Me, too cynical? Compared with you, I’m bloody Mother Teresa!’

  Angie’s mobile rang. She picked it up, listened for a moment and hung up. ‘I’ve gotta go. That was Eastern Beaches. Someone’s just found some skeletal remains in a bushland reserve near Botany. They’ve secured the place and they’re waiting for Merv. I’ll go with him.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Gemma couldn’t resist. ‘Trevor’s evil twin?’

  ‘Major incident response vehicle.’

  ‘Let me come. Sneak me in. This could be related to the Netherleigh Park case.’

  ‘I can’t. You know that.’

  ‘I could be a SOCO from the bush. Getting city experience.’

  For a second, Gemma could see her friend was considering it.

  ‘You’d never pass the ID check,’ Angie said. ‘Someone would pick up your name somewhere along the line, there’d be questions asked and I’d be shot. I’d end up in the bush. It’s not like the old days, girl. You know that.’

  Angie put her briefcase on the table and waved away the money Gemma proffered. ‘I’ll get this,’ she said. ‘You mind the bag.’

  Gemma couldn’t resist peeking. Inside was a folder with the name of the missing girl, Amy Bernhard, printed down one side. She slid it out and teased out some of the contents. She started to read the printed-out statements.

  My name is Claudia Zahra Page. I am a Year 10 student at Netherleigh Park in the same class as my friend Amy Bernhard. I last saw Amy on the morning of the second of December when I was on the bus going to school. Tasmin and I were down the back and I saw Amy at the front of the bus . . .

  Claudia had been the name of the student playing those high-velocity scales during her visit to Beatrice de Berigny, Gemma remembered. She wondered if it was the same Claudia she’d organised to interview later today.

  ‘Hey,’ Angie said, coming back to the table. ‘You shouldn’t be reading that.’

  ‘But, Ange, I can help. Now that there’s a second girl missing, you’re going to be stretched as buggery.’

  ‘Too true, but I’m also brief officer at the moment. I’d be fried if any of this goes astray. Give it here.’

  Gemma relinquished her hold on the statement from the Amy Bernhard folder and watched while Angie stashed it back in her briefcase. They stood up to go and Gemma lowered her voice. ‘Angie, listen to me. I’m offering you the sort of corruption that can be really helpful. You need me. This overzealous squeaky-clean stuff is interfering with ordinary, decent law enforcement.’

  ‘I know, I know, but you want to complain, you join the queue.’ Angie’s phone rang again. ‘Bloody phone!’ she said and grabbed it. ‘Okay, okay!’ she muttered into it then looked around for somewhere to put her briefcase. ‘Hold this for me?’

  Gemma obliged as Angie wrote down information and rang off. ‘You can mind my bag while I’m gone,’ she said, looking over the top of her sunglasses. ‘I’ll come by your place and pick it up when I get back.’

  Gemma gave her a grateful nod.

  ‘Just be discreet, honey. Not that the living dead I work with would notice.’ As they stepped back onto the street, Angie added, ‘If you get caught, I’ll deny everything and say you nicked it. Okay?’

  •

  Before driving home, Gemma called in at a print shop and spent a small fortune copying the contents of Angie’s briefcase. She worked quickly, and noticed that most of the papers were printed-out witness statements.

  She made good headway through the traffic back to the flat, but couldn’t shake the shadow that seemed to have penetrated her spirit. Angie’s excitement over her new man served to highlight Steve’s loss. The huge ache in her heart felt even worse than yesterday. Even the bright sunlight seemed only to make the dark shadows under trees and buildings more intense.

  Maybe it would be nice to have Mike move in upstairs, she thought. But no, there was something in the way he looked at her, and it just wasn’t a good idea to get involved with a colleague, not to mention an employee.

  Her mobile rang and she prayed it was Kit, though it turned out to be one of the insurance companies. Cou
ld she take on another job? They’d fax the case notes. It involved a man who claimed he’d lost his sex life forever. Gemma pulled up outside her house wishing she could afford another roadie. Last year she’d had three employees and she’d been pretty well able to stay at home base. There’d been enough to do to keep her safe, dry and warm in her own office which she enjoyed. But one of the three had betrayed her, she remembered. Not so safe, after all.

  Inside, Gemma tried to ring Kit but just got the same message. Sighing, she poured herself an orange drink and took it out to the deck. It was a perfect blue and gold Sydney coastal day, with a white-tipped sea and gulls celebrating in spirals over a distant fishing boat. Her restless mood made a run attractive so she went off, heading towards Phoenix Bay. On her return, she was drying herself after a shower when she heard a sound near the front door. Swearing because she was still half-naked, she was relieved to see it was only Taxi playing one of his favourite games: lying on the doormat outside and pushing his paw under the door, hoping to find something exciting on the other side.

  Later, dressed, with the towel wrapped around her wet hair, she glanced up to see Mike walking towards the front door on the CCTV monitor.

  ‘You smell good,’ he said, going into his office and putting his bag down.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gemma, wondering why she’d never really noticed just how good-looking Mike was. ‘Want some coffee?’ she called out.

  ‘That would be great.’

  She carried a mug in to him and he turned on his swivel chair and smiled up at her. ‘Thanks heaps.’

  For a moment, she felt awkward and self-conscious. ‘No bother,’ she replied, laughed and hurried away. She towelled her hair on the timber deck in the sun while Taxi pestered her about her sandwich. The phone rang as she got into a game with Taxi; it was Mrs Snellgrove, who was about to visit her mother.

  Gemma and Mike picked up Mrs Snellgrove and drove to her aged mother’s apartment. Despite her impressive age, Mrs Annie Dunlop proved to be as able as her daughter had described, insisting on making afternoon tea for everyone and offering slices of home-made date and walnut loaf. She made her way round her small apartment with great agility and, like her daughter, wore numerous rings and brooches.

  After chatting for a while, they fitted the camera in a corner so that it could take in the whole room and the doorway through to Mrs Dunlop’s bedroom.

  ‘It’s movement-activated,’ Gemma explained. ‘It has a little memory and can store pictures.’

  ‘I don’t want that animal here in my flat. I want my little cat back. Little Pusskin. I was used to little Pusskin,’ Annie insisted.

  ‘We’ll check up in a week or so,’ said Gemma, noticing the old lady feeling around for the plate of slices on the table and only then remembering that she was almost blind. She clearly knew this flat like the back of her hand.

  When they left, Mrs Snellgrove gave Gemma a hug. ‘Thank you so much. What do I owe you?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ said Gemma. ‘When we find out what’s going on.’

  She and Mike drove back to her place and she went down the hall, leaving Mike in the operatives’ office while she attended to household chores. A little while later, over the spin cycle, she heard Mike call out.

  She came out of the bathroom to see him hesitating on the hall side of the door dividing her apartment from the front office area.

  ‘I thought you said you were going on another job,’ she said. ‘An hour ago. Don’t stand there. Come in.’

  He came into her living room and passed her the empty plate and mug. She took the things into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink.

  ‘Gemma?’

  She swung round.

  ‘I’d better be on my way.’

  She watched after him as he disappeared out the front door, wondering why she felt so disappointed. What had she expected him to say?

  Turning, she checked her office to find a fax in the tray. She glanced over it. It was about the new job from the insurance company. Mr Gordon Pepper was seeking huge amounts in compensation after a work injury had left him completely impotent. He claimed he couldn’t achieve an erection let alone climax; that his sex life was finished. Poor sod, Gemma thought. She felt for him. She took the fax across the hall and put it on the desk Spinner used.

  Trying Kit again, she went straight through to voice mail once more. Maybe she’d gone down the coast for a couple of days. Come home soon, Kit, she prayed.

  Household jobs done, invoices ready to send, Mr Dowling’s file in her bag with the pile of copied witness statements to read whenever she had a spare moment, Gemma drove to Forever Diamonds. On the way, her mind kept wondering about Rowena Wylde’s information concerning her family—Gemma definitely needed to speak to Kit before her appointment with Rowena Wylde the following day.

  She stopped off at the post office, then drove to Trafalgar Street, Newtown, and parked opposite a white goods warehouse. She walked over, pretending interest in a marked-down freezer, chatting with the young salesman.

  Forever Diamonds, she discovered, had started up eighteen months ago and, despite the locals’ initial scepticism of such a business having any takers at all, seemed to be doing good trade. She said she’d think about the freezer, thanked the young man and left, hovering outside the Forever Diamonds shopfront. Taped to the glass of the door, on a piece of stationery with silver-embossed edges and the stylised diamond logo she’d already seen on the card Mr Dowling had shown her, was an advertisment: Part-time Receptionist required. Experienced, reliable people-person. Sensitivity a must. Hours to suit. Must show good refs. For a split second, Gemma considered the position herself.

  She pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open, revealing a front office decorated with red velvet curtains and matching plush chairs. It reminded her of an undertaker’s premises or the foyer of an old-fashioned theatre. A perfectly groomed young man in a dark suit behind a long polished counter looked up at her arrival. He stepped out and proffered his hand.

  ‘Raymond Gardiner,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment. Please make yourself comfortable. Perhaps you’d like to read a little about the wonderful work we do here?’ He handed her a glossy brochure and indicated a red plush seat.

  Gemma took the brochure and sat, while Mr Gardiner disappeared. She started reading.

  Forever DiamondsTM understands that burials and cremations are usually very sad occasions. Our service provides a beautiful, irreplaceable reminder of the past, a keepsake to remember the love shared between yourself and your dearly departed one. As almost a quarter of the human body (by weight) is carbon, Forever Diamonds will take a portion of that carbon (perhaps the heart, in case of burial, or the ashes released after the crematorium process) and reduce these to their essential carbon. Then, using our unique and internationally acclaimed techniques, a genuine diamond is produced. This is then cut by our qualified tradesmen in traditional ways that best enhance the shape and quality of the resulting diamond. You can choose from a range of tasteful designs to have your beloved’s diamond mounted as a ring, necklace or tie-pin. Now, love really is forever.

  Gemma’s reading was interrupted by the reappearance of Mr Gardiner. ‘Please come through. I’m trying to do everything today.’

  ‘Including compressing remains into diamonds?’ Gemma smiled.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, then realised she was joking. ‘Actually, we prefer to call them “cremains”. It sounds more dignified somehow.’ He ushered her through, without breaking his commentary. ‘I was hoping you were here to enquire about the job?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Gemma as she followed him into his tiny office, a cubbyhole to the right of the counter. On its wall was a series of glossy framed photographs showing the sizes of diamonds available, from a quarter right up to a full carat, depending on the amount paid and the am
ount of carbon used. Tasteful italic printing explained the process she’d read about in the brochure.

  She noticed a small diamond flashing on Mr Gardiner’s little finger and pointed. ‘A relative?’

  He nodded. ‘My dear mother, actually.’ He stared at the jewel for a few moments. ‘I was very pleased with the way she transformed. Although I had to have her remounted on a larger setting after nearly losing her down the plug hole.’

  Mr Gardiner gave Gemma his full attention. ‘So, you are wanting someone transformed? Please sit down.’

  Trying desperately to keep a straight face, Gemma pulled out her business card and handed it to him before sitting opposite in the cramped space. ‘I’m acting on behalf of a gentleman, Mr Bertram Dowling,’ she said. ‘Who had the remains—I mean, the cremains—of his wife Shirley . . .’ she hesitated, ‘transformed by your business.’

  Raymond Gardiner hit a few keys on a laptop on a tiny cedar table beside his chair, then nodded. ‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘Mrs Dowling. It was only a month or so ago. His wife came up really nicely we all thought.’ He frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Mr Dowling feels very strongly that it isn’t his wife. In the diamond.’

  ‘What?’ Raymond Gardiner’s surprise was evident. His narrow eyebrows arched. ‘Not his wife? Of course it’s his wife!’

  Gemma waited while he studied the computer screen. ‘There she is. Lovely. Point 25 carats. Good colour too—lovely grey-white. We call that shade Twilight Mist.’

  ‘Is it possible there could have been a mix-up somewhere in the process? Could someone else’s cremains have been processed and wrongly attributed? Could he be wearing someone else’s wife?’ Gemma said, having to remind herself that she was a professional acting on the behalf of a client, and if the job was a bit out of the ordinary—well, so was a lot of life.