Spiking the Girl

by Lord, Gabrielle

  ‘That couldn’t possibly happen.’ Mr Gardiner was adamant. ‘Every job is numbered and a strict receipting record kept of the sequence of the transformations. It’s a process that requires great skill and very expensive equipment and energy. We have highly skilled technicians here.’ He indicated a heavy steel door, like a fire door, in the wall behind him.

  Gemma glanced in its direction. ‘I’d like to see it, if I may.’

  Raymond Gardiner actually wagged a finger at her. ‘I’m afraid it’s not possible to go into our industrial section,’ he said. ‘There’s fierce competition in this field. I can’t let our competitors know how we do this at such a manageable cost. It’s a highly secret process, Miss Lincoln. And there are issues of privacy and decorum, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘How often do you do the process?’ she continued.

  ‘We transform once or twice a week. You can imagine our energy bills are enormous. The presses consume huge quantities of power over a long period of time. We are, after all, trying to duplicate Mother Nature.’ He gave a peculiar smile. ‘But each job is very carefully monitored and numbered. It would be quite impossible for there to be a mix-up. We place the cremains in numbered platinum crucibles.’

  ‘So you do it all here?’ Gemma indicated the unseen factory behind the door.

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Everything’s done in the one place. On these premises. So there’s no chance of any mix-up or loss during transfer from one place to another. It’s a foolproof system.’

  Gemma stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Gardiner.’

  If she wanted to get a look in there, she’d have to find another way.

  ‘Please, call me Ray,’ he said, turning to her as he opened the door. ‘I’m sorry Mr Dowling is unhappy with the result. It’s a very sensitive issue. Maybe the old gentleman is still in shock. Still grieving,’ he said. ‘It’s some sort of denial. He can’t believe that his wife is now reduced—or rather enhanced, as I like to think—into a precious stone. It’s not uncommon. I’m sure he’ll settle down.’

  He hesitated. ‘And if there comes a time when you want someone transformed,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ll think of us.’

  Gemma thanked him.

  Before going back to her car, she walked around to the laneway behind Forever Diamonds. A tall wire fence topped with serious razor-wire coupled with a closed roller door and a small grilled window kept the premises very secure, backed up by a discreetly hooded security camera covering the rear yard. As Mr Gardiner had inferred, this firm was taking no chances with industrial sabotage.

  Back in her car, Gemma looked up the number for Kevin, an acquaintance who’d worked in various governmental technical surveillance units and had now retired to make customised electronic knick-knacks for the deeper, darker end of the surveillance and espionage industry. She asked him about the process at Forever Diamonds.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, in answer to her questions, ‘it’s a growing business. Mother Nature uses her own energy sources to do this and it does take huge amounts of power. But the technology’s been around for nearly half a century and it’s getting better all the time. Both the US and the Russians have made synthetic diamonds. The diamonds were all yellow but in recent years there’s been a lot of work done on mopping up the nitrogen particles while the crystals are forming. That’s when the carbon is transformed. To do this, you need extremely high-pressure presses working together for long periods of time. If this firm is charging nine grand or so, my guess is that a lot of it would be recouping their power costs. They’ve got to build up pressure equal to one million kilos per square centimetre. Then run that over twenty-four hours or more. Plus the costs of running a furnace at 1480 degrees Celsius. And that’s not counting the platinum cooking pot they need.’

  ‘The manager mentioned the platinum crucibles,’ Gemma said. ‘When Mr Dowling showed me the ring, it looked like a pretty ordinary little diamond.’

  ‘No doubt it was,’ said Kevin. ‘Probably lots of metal inclusions and poor colour. A manufacturer in the memorial business isn’t after quality stones. He’s just making a keepsake. Different priorities for the clients, too. If they wanted a top-class diamond, they’d have gone to a good jeweller.’ He paused. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Mr Dowling says it’s not his wife.’

  ‘He’s a hundred per cent right on that! It’s only her carbon.’

  ‘But that’s just it. He’s saying it’s not even her carbon.’

  ‘How can he tell?’ Kevin chuckled. ‘All of us are made of recycled materials.’

  ‘He’s adamant and distressed and he wants me to find out if there could have been a mix-up with the resulting diamonds.’

  ‘That might be tricky. People in that sort of business don’t want to disclose their secrets.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ she said, then, noticing the beep of call waiting, said she’d ring back later.

  ‘Guess what?’ Angie’s voice hissed through the earpiece. ‘Those remains at Botany. No good for a visual, and it’s not official. But the bets are that it’s Amy Bernhard.’

  Gemma thought sadly of Lauren Bernhard. ‘So it’s a murder inquiry now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d say so. She was lying on a patch of wasteland. Her mother ID’d a gold chain.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Amy’s mother,’ Gemma said, thinking this was the day Lauren Bernhard had been dreading for a year.

  ‘In a way, she’ll be relieved,’ said Angie. ‘They all say it’s worse not knowing.’

  Maybe it is, thought Gemma. But at least there’s always some little hope until the final ID. ‘Now Tasmin Summers is missing,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope she’s just run away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angie. ‘Let’s. I’ll keep you posted, girlfriend. Meanwhile, I’d better swing by and pick up my briefcase. Call me when you get home?’

  Relief flooding her that she’d already photocopied everything, Gemma tried to change the sombre mood. ‘I’ve just talked to a man who was wearing his mother on his little finger.’

  ‘Love it,’ said Angie, who had a fractious relationship with hers. ‘Can I get mine done too?’

  Four

  The house where Claudia Page lived was a huge grey mansion in Maroubra, built along faux Tuscan lines and surrounded by a garden of spiky bromeliads and cacti. Tinted glassed-in verandahs enclosed the front and sides of the house like huge wrap-around sunglasses.

  Claudia answered the door, still wearing the distinctive tartan school uniform, and invited Gemma inside across a wide expanse of rug-strewn marble. Mrs Page looked up from speaking on the telephone and waved. Gemma perched on a black leather couch, taking in the opulence of her surroundings. Silk Persian rugs were scattered about, textured cream and green velvet curtains partly revealed a glass wall through which a palm-lined swimming pool was visible. Beyond that was the brilliance of the blue Pacific. You didn’t get a place like this for less than five or six big ones, thought Gemma.

  Claudia sat opposite her. She had a classical beauty that relied on perfectly proportioned features, refined eyes and brows, beautiful sculpted lips and a fine chiselled nose.

  A mobile phone sang and Claudia dived into her pocket, pulling it out. Gemma noticed it was the latest model, as smart as her own, with a little screen and video capacity.

  ‘Can’t talk right now,’ Claudia whispered to her caller. ‘Later.’

  ‘Please,’ said Gemma, opening her hands. But Claudia had rung off and the mobile hung loosely in her slender fingers.

  ‘Boyfriend?’ asked Gemma.

  Claudia’s blush revealed the answer. She pressed her lips together, as if to make sure no information about him escaped. Or was it to stop herself from smiling with pleasure?

  Gemma felt a pang of envy, then scolded herself for being jealous of a teenager
. She glanced down at the small screen on the girl’s mobile and craned to see the digital images she was reviewing. But Claudia, after stopping at the frozen image of a good-looking smiling youth, switched the memory function off then slipped the mobile back into her pocket.

  ‘So, tell me about life, Claudia. How is it for you these days?’ asked Gemma.

  Claudia looked away, staring out to sea through the glass wall of the room. Now that the joy of the boyfriend’s call had faded, she seemed infinitely sad.

  ‘Is it hard,’ Gemma asked, ‘being where you are? At school? At home?’

  Claudia nodded. ‘I hate it here. And I hate school.’

  ‘But I heard you playing the piano. I heard how brilliantly you were doing your scales—melodic minors. Things I only dream about. I only started learning last year.’

  Claudia regarded her coolly. ‘I’m good at most of the things I do. I wouldn’t know how to be otherwise.’

  ‘Claudia,’ Gemma began, the name sounding so formal and proper, ‘tell me about Amy.’

  Claudia shrugged. ‘What’s to tell? She’s gone. Life goes on.’

  It sounded tough but Gemma could hear little cracks around the edges of the hard, young voice. She leaned forward, inviting confidence. ‘Hey,’ she said, aware of the need to escape the oppressive richness of their surroundings. ‘If it’s all right with your mum, let’s get out of here and grab a coffee. I know a really cute place.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were walking along the path that led down to the Boatshed Café at Phoenix Bay. Beyond the café, the sea rolled in, waves breaking on a big swell with a few surfers out the back.

  The two of them passed a wedding group—a petite bride in clouds of white, clustering with her fuchsia-coloured bridesmaids for the photographer while the tuxedoed men of the party stood aside. Clouds of heavy perfumes followed Gemma and Claudia right down to the beach.

  Every male eye lingered as they stepped onto the deck that ran along the southern side of the café and took a seat; Claudia had changed into white jeans and a blue and white striped shirt tied in a knot, revealing her tanned belly. Gulls wheeled and squabbled on the beach or glided over the waves and a dog made futile dashes at them. A handsome waiter in a French apron took their coffee orders.

  ‘That’s better,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s good to get out.’

  ‘Things difficult at home?’ said Gemma gently.

  Claudia looked out to sea. ‘It’s coming up to the HSC year and all that. Dad’s always away and Mum’s . . . well, she’s either away too, or she’s on my back.’

  Gemma let that one go for the moment. ‘Claudia,’ she said, ‘I need your help. I need to know anything about Amy that could be helpful.’

  She had decided not to mention that Amy was probably dead. Not until it was official. Claudia was still staring at the sea and Gemma could see the tiny reflections mirrored in her large eyes. ‘Amy’s father divorced her mother when she was little,’ she prompted. ‘That must have been hard for her.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Claudia. ‘But she didn’t know him. He’d left a long time before. It was her stepfather who was giving her a hard time.’

  Gemma wrote that down and underlined it.

  ‘What do you think happened to Amy? Do you have any idea why she might have disappeared?’

  Claudia shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable. This girl knows something, thought Gemma, feeling sure Claudia was running stories through her mind, trying to decide how much to tell, how much to keep concealed. Gemma decided on an ambush. ‘What is it, Claudia? What do you know that you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Stop pushing me! You’re harassing me!’ exclaimed Claudia, moving back in her chair, as far away from Gemma as possible. The body language spoke volumes.

  ‘Claudia, it’s my job to find out what happened to your friend. Part of that is asking questions that you might not like.’

  ‘The police have asked all the same questions and they can’t seem to find out what happened to Amy,’ said Claudia. ‘Why do you think you’re going to do any better?’

  There was something smug in her manner, almost a quiet triumph. You do know something, Gemma thought. Something big.

  The handsome waiter presented the two cappuccinos they’d ordered with a flourish, placing them on the table as if he’d manifested them out of thin air. Gemma stirred her creamy coffee while Claudia emptied two sachets of sugar into hers; the atmosphere eased somewhat between them.

  ‘I don’t mean to harass you, Claudia,’ soothed Gemma, though she wished she could lean harder. ‘But I want to know anything that might help us discover what happened to Amy. She was your friend. You must care too.’ She picked her cup up again. ‘For instance, I want to know about the secret.’

  About to take a sip from her cappuccino, Claudia stalled, mid-air, with the cup a few inches from her lips. Then she tilted it too quickly, spilling coffee down her front. ‘Ouch!’ she cried, awkwardly jumping away from it, flinching at the heat, dashing at the stained blue and white shirt with a paper napkin . . .

  Gemma passed her more napkins. ‘Get some water on it. Quick!’

  The waiter ran to help, and once cold water had been dabbed over the stained area, Gemma continued. ‘I was asking you,’ she said, ‘about the secret.’

  ‘The secret?’ Claudia said, now all blue-eyed innocence. ‘What secret? There is no secret. That was just something we used to tease the others with.’

  ‘I don’t believe that, Claudia.’ Gemma kept her eye contact steady. The earlier flash of fire she’d witnessed wasn’t the spark of outraged innocence, but the clashing of defences. ‘You see,’ she went on, ‘I think there is a secret. And I think that secret is the reason why Amy is—’

  She almost forgot herself and said ‘dead’, then recovered just in time and changed the word to ‘disappeared’ but not without a little distortion to the first vowel sound. Claudia, now alert and sensitive to every nuance between them, pounced on it.

  ‘You were going to say that Amy is dead! Weren’t you? Weren’t you!’ Her voice had an unstable edge and she spoke so vehemently that tiny specks of spittle flew.

  Gemma hesitated, mind working furiously to find a way to smooth this over. Around Claudia’s eyes, shadows gathered like storm clouds.

  ‘Claudia,’ Gemma spoke in a gentle tone, ‘let’s forget about questions. Let’s just enjoy our coffees. Maybe you can tell me a little about school—what interests you have?’

  ‘I don’t have time for interests,’ Claudia snapped. ‘I haven’t got a life, just study. And practice. Especially now.’

  Gemma noted the remark. Why especially now? Now that Amy was gone?

  Deciding she wasn’t going to get much further, Gemma paid the bill, and they walked back up the path to the road. The bridal party was being stuffed into two cars, clouds of tulle and the trains of billowing frocks stowed inside safely.

  ‘I wonder if they’re going to be happy?’ Gemma said, thinking aloud.

  ‘Why should they be?’ Claudia’s voice was hard with contempt. ‘What’s “happy” anyway?’

  They continued up the track in silence, the unspoken looming huge between them.

  Gemma drove Claudia back to her house and parked outside. Claudia hesitated, not getting out, her hand on the car door handle. ‘I’m scared.’ She turned to face Gemma. ‘Tasmin is missing now.’

  ‘Can you throw any light on that?’

  Claudia shook her head. ‘I think she might have just run away.’

  ‘But why now? And where would she run?’

  Claudia gave a shrug.

  ‘And if she had run,’ Gemma added, ‘wouldn’t she have said something to you?’

  ‘Tasmin was much closer to Ames than to me.’

  Claudia threw the car door open and Gemma ex
pected her to get out, but instead she closed it again and remained sitting, staring ahead. Gemma fished one of her cards out of her briefcase and Claudia hesitated, took it, studied it for a long moment, then slid it into a pocket.

  ‘I know Miss de B said you were helping with the investigation—into Amy’s disappearance,’ she said. ‘And that you’re not the police. But how are you different? You sound the same as that red-headed policewoman who talked to me earlier.’

  ‘Detective McDonald?’

  Claudia nodded.

  ‘I worked with Angie McDonald years ago. But now I’m a licensed investigator. Sort of free-range, freelance,’ Gemma explained. ‘I’m not tied up by procedures like the cops are. But on the other hand, I haven’t got the sort of access to things they have.’

  ‘But you’re quite separate from them?’

  ‘Quite separate.’ Gemma saw tears welling and softened towards the girl.

  ‘I’m the only one left now,’ Claudia whispered.

  ‘That’s why,’ Gemma said as gently as she could, placing a hand on the girl’s arm, ‘if there’s anything you can think of, anything at all, please contact me. Or Angie McDonald.’

  Gemma thought Claudia was about to speak, but the moment passed and instead she swung out of the car and hurried to the front door without looking back, pressing the buttons that caused the door to slide open and disappearing inside. Gemma sat looking after her.

  •

  Next morning, Dr Rowena Wylde showed Gemma into the large sitting room of her Pymble house. Gemma was shocked by the change in her appearance. Despite their fleeting acquaintance, she remembered a robust, elegantly suited woman with all the presence of a powerful middle age. Now, dwindled to a pale wraith, her face showing the grey transparency of the dying, she wore a tired dressing gown and a little cap, like a tea cosy. Gemma stood at the window, unsure how to proceed after the initial greetings, while Dr Wylde shuffled to a cabinet in which various trifles and treasures were displayed behind glass. She unlocked the door beneath the display section, and drew out a small framed photograph.