Spiking the Girl

by Lord, Gabrielle

  Gemma was spooning ground coffee into the percolator when she heard Angie arriving. Her girlfriend’s eyes were red-rimmed and she sniffed as she came inside.

  ‘Angelface! You’ve been crying!’

  Angie flashed her a look. ‘Crying! No way. They were having Officer Survival training and I got roped in. I crept into the office to grab some things and got caught as a volunteer for capsicum-spray training.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Some of the guys stepped forward. I had to. The honour of my sex was at stake.’

  ‘Bugger that. You’re supposed to be put in the lifeboats first.’

  ‘Not in the New South Wales cops, believe me. I copped a spray. I couldn’t see for ages and there I was, trying to do baton strikes in braille.’

  The two friends sat under the stars on Gemma’s deck, a piece of chocolate mud cake and a peanut toffee slice glistening under the spotlighting, fresh coffee steaming in two mugs. Gemma fetched the folders of purloined witness statements and plonked them down on the table.

  Angie pulled out an envelope. ‘It’s such a nice thing, to breathe,’ she said, blowing her nose again.

  ‘I thought you were going shopping, not capsicum training. So what’s happening?’

  ‘Trev didn’t wake me when he left earlier. But he wrote this beautiful poem.’ She passed it to Gemma. ‘I found it on the bedside table when I woke up. With a single rose across it.’ She blew her nose loudly.

  ‘Farewell,’ Gemma started reading. ‘Thou art too dear for my possessing, but I will gladly give top dollars for you. You are so gorgeous, too good to be true. I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I’m so lucky for choosing you.’

  Gemma passed it back, frowning. To her, it seemed to contain a lot of conflicting ideas. Not to mention sounding plain silly.

  ‘Well?’ Angie demanded. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘Poetry isn’t my thing.’

  Angie looked at her more closely. ‘You still brooding over Steve?’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ She told Angie about the incident in the front of Mike’s car.

  ‘Hell, Gemster girl. We all do silly things from time to time. You remember me and that beast of a weapons instructor?’

  Gemma tapped the folder of papers. ‘Remember that Mr Romero, the History teacher, was late for class the morning Amy went missing? I want to know why. Not only that, but he also had a meeting with Tasmin Summers the morning she disappeared.’

  ‘I’ve got Julie chasing up the employment histories of Netherleigh Park’s male teachers, with Romero top of the list.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gemma. ‘I hope he’s back on deck tomorrow night. I want to check up on his alibi for the morning of December second in person—the morning Amy went missing.’

  Angie frowned. ‘Surely that would have been checked out when she first disappeared?’

  Like kids playing a game of Snap, their eyes met and both spoke at the same time. ‘Bruno!’

  ‘How he’s got himself promoted to inspector is a bloody miracle. That’s why I need all the help I can get. Here, skip through this. As long as you promise discretion.’ Angie delved into her briefcase and fished out a large manilla envelope. ‘Here’s Mr Roper’s report on the cord and the knot found on Amy Bernhard’s body.’

  Gemma took the contents out of the envelope, pulling the photographs away from the paper clip so she could read the report, skipping a lot of the technical language. She looked at Angie. ‘What’s this S-laid and Z-laid business mean?’

  Angie grabbed the report back, frowned. Then passed it over again. ‘He explained it to me over the phone,’ she said, doing a quick scribble on the margin. ‘See how the letter Z starts on the left-hand side . . .’

  ‘And S starts on the right. Right?’

  ‘Right. Z-laid means the rope strands twist from the left and S-laid means they twist from the right.’

  The cord that tied Amy wasn’t nylon as Gemma had assumed from the photograph, but one of the new generation of fibres, lighter and stronger than the old natural fibres or the nylons and polymers. And expensive.

  ‘He says it’s an uncommon rope,’ Angie summarised. ‘They call them exotics. This particular one, Vectran, is imported by a mob called Tektanika.’ She glanced at the report again. ‘Most commonly used in quality fishing lines. And kite lines.’

  ‘So we’re looking for some guy who abducts girls to go fishing and fly kites?’ Gemma poured herself another coffee. ‘Still, it’s something to get started on. I’ll find out where the importers have sold it, which retailers carry it.’

  Angie sipped her coffee and put it down. ‘Oh, by the way, I checked out that fellow for you—Alistair Forde.’

  ‘The Bernhard family’s next-door neighbour?’ Gemma had all but forgotten him.

  ‘He seems to be a clean-skin,’ said Angie, turning her attention back to the forensic knot man’s report. She picked up one of the photos of the knot in the cord. ‘Mr Roper says the knot is an odd one.’ She turned the photograph around to show Gemma.

  ‘That’s just an ordinary old reef knot,’ said Gemma. ‘What’s funny about that?’

  ‘It looks like an ordinary old reef knot. But it isn’t. It’s like a mirror image of one. Mr Roper says it’s what ships’ chandlers and provisions merchants used in the old days to trap pilferers. They’d tie this special knot, and the thief, not noticing the subtle difference, would retie using a reef knot.’

  ‘So what is it?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘We should be looking for someone who can tie a thief knot.’

  Eight

  Friday morning Gemma spent at Netherleigh Park, first talking to the girls in Tasmin and Amy’s classes, with private interview time allocated to their closest friends, then interviewing the teaching staff, as she’d requested. Except for Mr Romero, who was ill, they were all happy to discuss the two girls with her. None of them were able to add anything to their original statements. Apart from a few more girls who claimed they’d heard about the secret, no one had been able to shed any light on what it might have involved.

  She also talked with Amy and Tasmin’s friends and relatives, following up suggestions made by schoolfriends. None had any further information to offer.

  In the afternoon, Gemma hurried off to her piano lesson, which Mrs Snellgrove had kindly agreed to bring forward a couple of hours. She scolded Gemma for not practising and Gemma promised to mend her ways.

  Friday evening arrived with Gemma not looking forward to having to go back to Netherleigh Park. Dressing with one eye on the time and another on the television news, she took in the car bombs, people screaming, paramedics running. Business as usual in the world, she thought. She was zipping her skirt when the sports segment began, showing file tape of Scott Brissett—identified by the name under his handsome face—laughing with a couple of huge Spaniards, contenders for the Boyleford Cup. As Brissett dealt with the interviewer, the deep scar running through his eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose somehow appeared more interesting embellishment than blemish. He looked triumphant. The newsreader announced that the woman who had named Brissett as a rapist had publicly withdrawn her accusation and file footage showed the ex-footballer and his wife holding hands and fending off reporters as they hurried to a car. Brissett seemed to have some difficulty stepping down to get into the car, Gemma thought, noticing him wince. He was going to sue the woman for damages, the newsreader concluded.

  She arrived at Netherleigh Park a bit before eight o’clock, thinking of the unknown killer who had tied a thief knot and dumped a girl’s body near an industrial area. ‘Hollywood nights, those Hollywood nights!’ Bob Seger mourned on her car radio. This would be no Hollywood night, Gemma thought, parking on the street some distance from the school’s grand gates. Walking up the driveway, the sun bright and lo
w in the western sky, Gemma picked her way through the fermenting meal of squashed figs, their yeasty scent mingling with that of star jasmine. In another hour or so, the bats would be busy in the huge Moreton Bay figs overhead.

  Already, people were heading towards the main entrance—where Gemma noticed a police car parked—in family groups or as singles. Prefects wearing their badges practised their meet-and-greet skills, ushering Gemma and the rest of the arrivals along a hallway decorated with sporting shields and portraits of past principals wearing academic robes and bad haircuts.

  The school hall was huge. Its wide foyer area was already crowded with parents, students, friends and teachers streaming through the tall folding doors into the main body of the hall. Gemma followed them in. She saw Angie near the wide steps to the curtained stage, her briefcase beside her, deep in conversation with Miss de Berigny who was elegant in a navy sheath dress and large pearls. The hall filled rapidly.

  Gemma turned to a tall girl standing near the doorway—every inch the prefect except for one fluorescent orange lock of hair pinned back behind her ear. Things have changed, Gemma thought. ‘Is Mr Romero here yet?’ she asked.

  The girl shook her head. ‘He’s been away the last couple of days.’

  ‘Is he a popular teacher?’ Gemma asked.

  The girl gave a small shrug. ‘He’s okay, I suppose. I wouldn’t call him popular.’

  Gemma recalled the man and his eccentric cravat and diamond pin. She supposed he’d be more a figure of fun than a heart-throb. She made her way over to Miss de Berigny who was now heading up the stage steps.

  ‘Miss de Berigny?’ Gemma called.

  The principal turned, brows raised in two perfect arcs.

  ‘After I’ve spoken,’ Gemma continued, ‘I’d like to have a look around the school as we discussed on the phone. Perhaps while Sergeant McDonald is speaking? That would save time.’

  Miss de Berigny hesitated. For a second, Gemma thought she might change her mind, but then she nodded, beckoning the tall prefect over. ‘Katie, will you please show Miss Lincoln around the school? The classrooms and staffrooms? Here are the keys.’ She handed them to Gemma. ‘Return them to me when you’ve finished.’

  The chatter in the hall died down as Beatrice de Berigny took the stage and began her introductions, smiling at her audience.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming tonight. I want to reassure you all that everything that can be done regarding the disappearances of two of our students is being done. Tonight, Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald will talk to you about how the investigation is going and in what way the public might be of assistance. You can ask any questions you might have. I’ve also asked Miss Gemma Lincoln, who is helping with a private investigation on behalf of Netherleigh Park, to speak to you all.’ Miss de Berigny looked around. ‘Miss Lincoln?’

  Gemma stepped up onto the stage next to Miss de Berigny, aware of the silence, the attention of everyone on her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking around at the hundreds of faces. ‘What I have to say won’t take long. I’m here to ask every one of you to go over what you recall, what you’ve heard, or what you might know about Amy Bernhard and Tasmin Summers. Anything about their lives and interests. And I want to make a point. If anyone comes to me with information that they’ve so far been withholding—perhaps because they didn’t want to be seen as betraying a secret, or feared that any police interest might expose certain things they didn’t want exposed—I want to reassure them. You would be protected.’ She paused and looked around, searching the faces. ‘Information can be given to me anonymously. Either by phone or at my email address. Okay?’

  She took out a solid wedge of her business cards. ‘Cards are going to be passed around the hall. These have all my contact details, so please, everyone, feel free to take one. You can ring me, visit me or email me at any time.’ Gemma passed the cards to Miss de Berigny who started distributing them along the rows of seated people.

  ‘I’m quite separate from the police and I can guarantee privacy,’ continued Gemma. ‘Please help. One of your friends is already dead. The police hold grave fears about the safety of the other. Let’s work together to put a stop to whatever’s happening to the students of this school. I’m asking you all to help me. To help them.’

  As Gemma stepped down and made her way to the back of the hall, buzz and chatter started again. Miss de Berigny climbed back onto the stage. ‘Thank you, Miss Lincoln.’ Polite applause died down and Miss de Berigny introduced Angie to the assembly. Gemma hurried from the hall, beckoning to Katie, the tall prefect, to accompany her. Once they were outside the hall, Gemma looked back through the double doors to see Angie on the stage, beginning her talk.

  ‘Do you want to see the classrooms first?’ Katie asked.

  ‘I think I’d like to start with the History classroom,’ said Gemma. ‘Where Mr Romero teaches.’

  Katie led her along the downstairs corridors until they came to a closed door. ‘This is the History room that Mr Romero uses,’ she said.

  Gemma opened the door and switched the light on, immediately assailed by the smell of school room—that unmistakable mix of young humans, school furniture, grubby books, the ghosts of packed lunches, chalk, and government-issue polishes and other cleaning materials. Under the flickering fluorescent tubes were twenty-five plastic chairs and wooden tables maps, posters pinned to the walls and, out the front, a large blond wood desk with an overhead projector on it. She paused, looking round, imagining the room filled with lively girls and their teacher. In more than ninety per cent of murders, Gemma recalled, the killer and the victim knew each other. This was the room where Amy Bernhard, according to Mr Romero, had failed to arrive for her pre-school meeting. But even if she had turned up, Mr Romero wouldn’t have been here to meet with her, Gemma remembered from his statement, because he’d been ‘late’. There was another, more ominous explanation of why Amy had failed to appear and Mr Romero’s lateness.

  Gemma noticed a drawer in the teacher’s desk and tried to open it. Then she saw it was locked. Mr Romero must have the key.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gemma, switching off the light and closing the door. She didn’t want to betray too much to Katie. ‘What about the staffrooms? And the teachers’ offices?’

  ‘Only the head teachers have those,’ said Katie. ‘You want to see the History office?’ She was catching on.

  ‘I do,’ said Gemma.

  Katie headed for a flight of stairs at the end of the corridor and Gemma hurried after her, walking past many classrooms until they came to a door at the end with Mr Romero’s nameplate and discipline displayed.

  ‘You’ll need the keys for this one,’ said Katie. Gemma sorted through the bunch until she found the relevant one. Opening the door, she felt around for a light switch and went in, while Katie stood deferentially by the door. Gemma looked around. It was a small, windowless room, much of it taken up by the large desk and typist’s chair, crowded bookshelves lining the walls and a couple of plastic stacking chairs sitting on top of each other. Above the desk, pigeonholes and shelving held exercise books, the occasional clay artefact and a closed laptop. Gemma reached over and took down Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars. A postcard fell out of the paperback and onto the desk—a Pre-Raphaelite painting of Ophelia drifting down the river to a muddy death, clothes transparent and suggestive, her gleaming young body boldly revealed, hair streaming in graceful arabesques against the dark flow of the river and the clutching willows.

  Gemma studied the disturbing image a moment, then poked it back into the book. She quickly checked the contents of the two desk drawers; stationery supplies, a letter addressed to Mr Romero at the school and a couple of novels. She kept the letter and closed the drawers. Footsteps approaching heralded the arrival of Angie and Miss de Berigny. Katie had gone back into the corridor and Gemma slipped the letter into her briefcase. From
outside came the sound of voices, car doors slamming and engines revving. The formalities of the information evening were finishing.

  Beatrice de Berigny said with her brightest smile, ‘Thank you, Katie. You may go now, dear. Your mother is waiting.’ She turned to Gemma. ‘Have you seen everything you wanted to see?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Gemma smiled back. ‘There’s a drawer in Mr Romero’s desk in the History room,’ she said, ‘but it’s locked.’

  The principal shrugged. ‘Then you’ll have to wait till he comes back. I don’t have a key for that.’

  ‘I’m sure someone could drop by his place and pick it up if we need it,’ Angie said, alerted by Gemma’s interest. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Back in the classroom, Gemma and Angie went to the table while Beatrice de Berigny, pale and drawn underneath the ivory make-up, stood watching from the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she called, alarmed at the way Angie was now tugging at the drawer with all her considerable strength.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Angie, grunting with the effort, ‘these old drawers get stuck.’ She gave a final tug and the drawer flew open, splinters flying. ‘See? The wood warps.’

  Gemma drew closer to look over her friend’s shoulder as Angie pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and rifled through the pens, pencils and bits of chalk and paper—just teacher’s junk, Gemma thought.

  Miss de Berigny took a step into the room, frowning. ‘I think you’ve just broken that lock,’ she said sternly.

  Angie, ignoring Miss de Berigny’s remark, pulled the whole drawer right out, carefully examining its contents. Under a packet of whiteboard pens at the back of the drawer lay a stiff white envelope. Angie’s gloved fingers opened and unfolded it, smoothing it flat.

  Inkjet print, Gemma noted, although she couldn’t quite make out the words. Angie quickly read it and shot a look across at the principal who had come closer. She carefully refolded the paper and dropped it and its envelope into a self-sealing plastic bag. ‘I think I’d better take this, Miss de Berigny.’