Gemma rang off, something still nagging at the back of her mind—something about the way Brissett had moved in the file footage she’d seen on television. Angie too had remarked on Brissett’s limp. But whatever was troubling her didn’t reveal itself. She did some music practice before tea and then headed off for her rescheduled music lesson, hoping that the Ratbag would be home by the time she got back.
•
A ribbon of silver glittered on the sea under the waning moon. Gemma got out of the car and walked down the steps, collecting the mail as she went. She hadn’t had a chance to check it for a couple of days so there was a pile of junk mail too. The shadows seemed darker than usual in the front garden when the automatic light came on and she smelled the strong odour of Dior’s perfume Poison. A shiver ran through her. Someone she knew used that scent although she couldn’t for the life of her remember who it was. All she knew right then was that the association was not a happy one. Some long past senior officer? A difficult client? She glanced up to the second storey. The new tenant must be entertaining, she thought, tracing the scent and seeing the flickering goblin light of television on the white curtaining. Again, she wondered when she’d meet her upstairs neighbour.
There was still no sign of Hugo when she got inside but she found a fax from Angie. This came through to my home fax—you might find something helpful, she’d scribbled on the cover page. I shouldn’t be doing this. And I didn’t, okay?
Gemma flipped through pages detailing results from the DAL scientists who’d analysed the physical evidence from Tasmin Summers’s post-mortem. She was about to file it away with her other case notes when, on the last page, she found a copy of the profile developed from the blood in Tasmin’s mouth. Doctor Chang hadn’t been able to say very much about the blood when they’d spoken, Gemma recalled. But now the results were in.
Gemma looked at the blood profile again, noticing the peaks at the first locus on the chart: the sex marker. She frowned and put the fax down, then picked it up, looking again at the DNA profile. Could Scott Brissett’s limp be telling her something? She clipped the fax to the relevant file and allowed herself just a little hope. There was a tiny chance, she told herself. And if she was right, there might be a way to nail this bastard.
She rang Naomi. ‘Still looking for a girl for the Scott Brissett twosome?’ She explained what she had in mind and after overcoming Naomi’s initial surprise, organised to meet her later. ‘Any sign of Hugo?’ she asked; there hadn’t been. She rang off and called Spinner.
While she was waiting for him to arrive, Gemma removed the pendant from round her neck and opened the drawer where she’d stowed the micro camera. She matched it against the oval space left by the lost onyx. The tiny domed lens housing was a little smaller than the empty circle of Celtic dragons but with a little adjustment she hoped Spinner could rig something up.
She picked up the mail she’d dropped on the hall table and flicked through it. There was an invitation addressed to her and Steve to attend an engagement party. She binned it, biting her lip. One of the envelopes was handwritten. As she opened it, a cheque for five hundred dollars slipped out. Daria Reynolds.
Dear Miss Lincoln, she read. My pastor has suggested I send this to you even though I don’t feel I owe you any more money. Bugger you, Gemma thought. She read on. You were specially recommended by a psychic I visited who said that the best way to stop my ex-husband’s harassment of me from the other side was to bless the house in the company of a woman whose mother had been murdered.
Gemma put the letter down. Anger at Daria Reynolds started building. Why hadn’t Daria been honest with her? Told her her ex was dead? Had she feared Gemma wouldn’t take the case on if she’d known? Would she have taken the case on if she’d known? Probably not. She’d have referred her to Kit. Gemma returned her attention to the rest of the letter. My new pastor has been successful to a degree in keeping my ex-husband away. Please find enclosed a cheque for five hundred dollars which will bring the total amount paid to you to fifteen hundred dollars.
Gemma put the cheque in her purse, thinking of the expenses Daria had cost her—the installation of spycams, the hours of physical surveillance. It all came to at least three times the amount Daria had paid. But it wasn’t worth pursuing the woman through the small debts courts. Put that one down to experience, she decided.
She glanced up to see movement on the CCTV. ‘Spinner,’ she said when he came in. ‘What are your feelings on ghosts?’
Spinner shrugged. She passed him the tiny camera. ‘I want that camera in this pendant,’ she said. ‘Can you do it?’
He took both items, turning them over in his hands. ‘Can’t see why not,’ he said. ‘I might have to cut through the silver though to fix the lens in place.’
‘Do whatever you need to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll need the finest lead to the battery pack. How long will it take?’
‘I’ve got all my gear in the ute. Not long.’ He looked at her. ‘What are you going to photograph?’
‘Something,’ she said, ‘that I’m hoping to find. Something that will otherwise be lost for ever.’ He shook his head and sighed.
While Spinner fitted and tested the camera through its automatic range, taking different shots, plugging it into his laptop and downloading the captured images, Gemma got dressed. Last time I dressed for this sort of work, she recalled, the evening had a very nasty outcome.
She chose an orange halter top teamed with a tight black skirt, her impossible diamanté sandals and a pair of blood-red garnet earrings. Around her waist she threaded a smart leather belt. She checked herself in the mirror, smoothing a deep bronze eye pencil around her eyes, finishing her lips in gloss. She pushed her hair back on either side with tortoiseshell combs; thought again, took them out and let her hair fall softly. At the doorway of her bedroom, with her jacket hooked over her shoulder, she looked back at herself to the long mirror on her wardrobe. It all seemed satisfactory.
When she walked into the lounge room, Spinner looked up and nearly dropped his pliers. ‘Holy Ghost, look at you!’
‘Don’t say a bloody word. And didn’t you just blaspheme?’ She came up to him. ‘Have you got it working?’
Spinner held it up for her to see. The pendant, now fitted with the domed lens, hung innocently at the end of its chain. She took it from him, examining it closely. ‘That looks great. Does it work?’
He showed her his laptop. ‘It’s not bad,’ he said, indicating the slide show images on the screen: Gemma’s living room, the sideboard with the decanters, Taxi curled up on the lounge. ‘It’s designed for very good resolution even in poor light.’ He turned to her. ‘So what’s this all for?’
Gemma slipped the pendant around her neck, noticing how Spinner had woven the fine lead in and around the heavy chain. It was almost invisible.
‘Scott Brissett’s got a limp. And I think I know what might be causing it.’
She held the back of the halter top away from her as Spinner pulled the wire under the fabric down to its port in the small battery pack tucked under her belt at the back. ‘I’ll tape that in,’ he said. ‘Just so it stays put.’ Gemma waited.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘How’s that?’
She turned around; by craning her neck she could just see the small battery pack nestled against the back of the belt. ‘You’d hardly know it was there,’ she said.
Spinner started folding up his laptop. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What’s the job?’
•
The waning moon had sunk lower in the west when Gemma climbed into the Fletcher Brothers van clutching her small beaded purse for the drive to Watsons Bay via Baroque Occasions.
‘You sure about this?’ Spinner was worried; she could see it in the furrows of his face. ‘You know what this man is capable of doing. What if he turns nasty? What if he finds the camera?’
‘
He’s not going to find the camera,’ she said.
‘You’re no hooker. He’s going to smell a rat.’
‘I’m new to the game,’ she said. ‘My script is simple because it’s the truth. I’m a new girl and Naomi is training me.’
Spinner threw her a look—she could see he was far from convinced. ‘This is Scott Brissett,’ he reminded her. ‘Ugly mug supremo. Murder suspect. Do I have to say more?’
‘Spinner, I’m just doing my job,’ she said, starting to feel angry.
‘But what about the camera? You can’t do the business without getting undressed! That’s okay on the streets but not in an outcall to a private home.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing,’ she said.
‘I did what I did before love came to town,’ he said. ‘Does Angie know you’re doing this?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You mean not at all,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This is dangerous, Gemma.’
Her mood, elevated by her sense that she was taking action that could put Brissett where he belonged, deflated and she suddenly felt very unsure. She’d based this entire operation on a certain conjecture. What if she was wrong? She might not get the information she needed; and her planned actions would definitely compromise her. If this didn’t come off, if it went bad, her future as a licensed investigator was in great jeopardy. What she planned to do was a breach of boundaries, both professional and personal. She was a licensed investigator, not an unlicensed sex worker. She heard her sister’s voice warning her about the dangerous situations she seemed to seek and was silent all the way to Baroque Occasions.
Naomi, gorgeous in a scrap of a dress, hair in pigtails, white hoop earrings dangling, legs encased in thigh-high pink leather boots despite the heat, carrying a white straw bag, was keeping an eye out for them and ran outside. Spinner averted his eyes as she climbed into the Rodeo. Turning to Gemma, she patted her pigtails. ‘He likes these.’ With her skimpy dress and childish hairstyle, Naomi looked fourteen.
‘But what about me?’ Gemma was alarmed. ‘No way I’ll pass as an adolescent.’
‘That’s okay. Rob’s a lot older than me and he’s cool with that. But you’re a real turn-on, honey, because it’s your first day on the job.’ The way she spoke reminded Gemma of Naomi’s late mother, Shelly.
‘Hey,’ said Naomi. ‘What’s your working name? We all have a working name. Mine’s Carla.’
Gemma thought about the woman who’d humiliated her last year. ‘Lorraine,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to show me what to do.’
‘Sure,’ said Naomi. ‘Just follow me.’
‘But what do I do?’ Gemma realised she was very nervous.
‘Gemma,’ said Naomi, ‘I’ve already told you. You tell him he’s wonderful, that he’s the best in the world—’
‘It’s not the talking part that worries me,’ said Gemma.
‘Relax,’ giggled Naomi. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’
Spinner refused to drive any further until they’d put the camera through another test run. ‘We’re not leaving until I’m a thousand per cent sure you’re online,’ he said.
‘But we’ve gotta go,’ said Naomi, concerned. ‘He gets really pissed off if we keep them waiting.’
But Spinner insisted, making Gemma activate the micro camera. She heard the tiny beep that indicated it was functioning and watched the jumbled images of the Rodeo’s interior: looming close-ups of Naomi or her boots and the upholstery depending on how Gemma and the pendant moved.
‘Okay,’ said Spinner, satisfied.
In no time they were driving along the dark laneway that ended with the gateposts Gemma remembered from the previous visit. Spinner pulled up near them.
‘Off you go. But the second I think anything’s going wrong,’ he said, ‘I’ll be bashing on that door.’
His radio crackled and he picked it up, still with the laptop on his knees.
‘Mike,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘You’ve got Mike on this too?’ Gemma felt abashed—she hadn’t wanted this, although she had to admit to the common sense of it.
‘Of course I have,’ said Spinner. ‘You don’t think I’d do this without back-up? I’m not a big bloke. He’s on his way.’
‘Come on,’ said Naomi. ‘Don’t make him any meaner than he already is.’
Gemma gave Spinner a ‘you wait’ glare, turned to Naomi, and together they went to the security buzzer on the gate. Gemma realised she was holding her breath. She told herself to breathe, deeply and steadily, and that had a calming effect.
It was then that the first wave of terror shivered through her. She knew Scott Brissett’s capabilities. She almost jumped when the door opened and there he was, his heavy body concealed in a terry-towelling bath robe, tied around his waist, feet pushed into scuffs. He stood back in silence, a grim expression on his face, perfectly in command of the situation. The big man, used to having his way in all things.
‘Come in, girls,’ he said, peering at Gemma. ‘You’re new,’ he added, looking her up and down as she walked past him. He turned to Naomi. ‘Where’s the other girl who usually works with you?’
Naomi followed Gemma, putting her bag down on a table. ‘She’s away,’ she said. ‘This is my friend, Lorraine.’
Gemma, who’d been wondering if Brissett’s robe was tied in a thief knot, took a quick look around. Sure enough, there were the two huge paintings on either side of the large hood and flu of an oversized heater that fitted the erstwhile open fireplace: the trophy wife and the trophy cruiser. In front of the fireplace spread a large black bearskin.
‘You like boats?’ said Brissett, noticing Gemma’s gaze. ‘We should all go out on her one day. Have some fun.’
‘Where’s your friend, darling?’ Naomi asked. ‘Or is it just you tonight?’
Gemma felt nauseous. She couldn’t imagine how she was going to go through with this.
‘What’s up with the new girl?’ Brissett asked, going to a cabinet, returning with several chilled bottles of beer. ‘Drinks, girls?’
He glanced at Gemma and frowned. ‘You’re nervous,’ he said. ‘You’re scared. Why are you so frightened of me?’
‘This is Lorraine’s first time,’ said Naomi. ‘I guess she’s feeling nervous. You okay, darling?’
Brissett put two bottles down, wrenched the top off one. ‘Come here,’ he said. Gemma walked over. ‘You’re a bit old to be starting a new career, aren’t you?’
He thought that was very funny. Gemma didn’t. Maybe I’ll be doing just that, she was thinking, if word of this gets out to the wrong parties. She smiled, remained silent, thinking that was wisest.
‘It’s just not the same without your nice friend here,’ cooed Naomi, looking around. ‘We can’t play our little rape game. Where is he?’
‘My friend has other commitments,’ Bissett said. ‘So it’s just us—me and you two.’ He lowered himself into his chair, signalling with his beer bottle, like a Roman emperor. ‘How would the new girl feel about being raped?’
Gemma froze. Is he just trying to frighten me, she wondered, or does he know who I am?
‘Let’s sort out the money first,’ said Naomi. ‘We get that out of the way and then we can relax and enjoy ourselves.’
‘Get your gear off first,’ said Brissett. ‘Put me in the mood.’
‘You know the house rules,’ said Naomi the professional, wiggling her nose at him. Brissett pulled a roll of notes out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. Naomi picked it up and peeled notes off, all the time keeping an eye on Brissett.
‘Hey,’ he said, snatching back what was left. ‘That’s more than last time.’
‘You’re getting a virgin,’ said Naomi. ‘Lorraine is fresh. You don’t get that every day.’
/> Naomi recounted the money, turning away and stashing it in her white bag. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s get in the mood, darling.’
She selected a CD from the pile and, as the music started throbbing, walked straight over to Gemma and seized her in a violent kiss. In Gemma’s mind, two ideas collided. The first said, this is Naomi whom I’ve watched grow up, this is practically incest; the second, this is necessary subterfuge, be professional. It took a long second for her to respond.
‘Just pretend it’s Steve,’ Naomi whispered in her ear, curling her tongue around Gemma’s lobe. At those words, Gemma relaxed, closing her eyes, winding her arms around Naomi, trusting that the young woman knew what she was doing, letting her do it, while all the time reminding herself that this was a performance that would put her in the right position to do the job she’d come to do. Imagining and willing it to be Steve in her arms helped to overcome the alien strangeness of a sexual embrace with another woman, of Naomi’s female odours and small soft breasts pressing tightly against her. Memories of Steve vanished as she struggled to relax, pretending a passion that she could not feel, pressing herself into Naomi’s caresses, watching Brissett through half-closed lids as he lounged on the chair with his robe half open, drinking beer. His eyes were on Naomi as she stepped away from Gemma to wriggle out of her dress, swing it a few times like a stripper then kick it away from her.
‘Want some Puss in Boots, darling?’ Naomi said, turning to Gemma. ‘Take some gear off, darling,’ she suggested, ‘or I’ll take it off for you.’
Knowing she needed to keep her halter top on, Gemma loosened her belt, watching as Naomi dragged the bearskin over and positioned herself on it, rolling round a few times, then, for Brissett’s delectation, running her hands up and down her body, her legs in their boots opened wide. It was a gorgeous sight, Gemma thought. If you were a man.
Spiking the Girl Page 35