Andrew was a good man, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her blame, he would have enough for himself in the months and years to come. He would never forgive himself for this, but it wasn’t his fault. She was the one who chose the arms of another man instead of facing the problems of their marriage. She chose her path. It was her fault she’d become the next victim.
Victim. Is that how she’d be remembered? The tenth victim of the Adultery Killer? She wished she’d never heard of him, wished she didn’t know what he did, what he would do to her before it was all over. How many more would there be after her?
Amanda looked down at her fingernails. Two had split when she fought against the man that first day, another broke as she clawed at the chains binding her ankles. As a child she had bitten her nails ferociously, much to her mother’s disgust. They tried everything to break her of the habit, finally succeeding in her teens when vanity won the day. Guys just weren’t keen on girls with bloodied fingers. Now, with three broken nails and the looming prospect of dying in this hellhole, she had taken up the habit again with vigour.
It was hard to look at the photographs lining the walls, but then, it was hard not to. All the same size, perfectly aligned in rows and columns covering the entire surface area of all four walls. Even the door to the ensuite and the back of the small door to the room itself were covered. It was like precision tiling, except when you see a tiled wall or floor usually the last tile of the row is cut to fit the remaining space. On these walls the photographs fitted perfectly, almost as if the size of the photograph had been calculated so no ‘half-photo’ was necessary. The result was an unsettling neatness, which must have taken a great deal of time and patience to achieve.
What did that say about the man who held her captive? That he would spend hours and hours preparing a room like this to make her feel guilty. Who does that? She wondered how long he had been following her. Stalking her. One of the photographs was particularly chilling. It was taken through a gap in the curtains of Mickey’s bedroom. He must have hidden in the bushes outside the house.
The walls were bad, the work of a nutter. They screamed fruitcake. But the floor, that was worse. There was no carpet, no floorboards. This was the kind of floor you see in industrial kitchens and factories, with a special coating and sloped toward a drain in the centre of the room. There were no psychological explanations or diagnoses for a floor like this. This floor had been installed for one reason only — easy cleaning.
This was the room she was going to be butchered in. This was the room she would die in.
Amanda shivered and pulled the thin blanket tight around her body, wondering what day it was. Not that it mattered. Time had started to blend. It was like being stuck in a moment, in another time and place, and the real world didn’t exist anymore. It did, she knew it did, she wasn’t going crazy, but for her there was no other world right now. There was only this room, this nightmare, and no way out.
21
Eva woke early, another nightmare leaving her exhausted and dripping with sweat. She’d asked for some help from a night nurse to change into dry pyjamas, then spent the last three hours drifting in and out of sleep and thinking about the whole mess. The article written by Andrew Fox’s colleague was back in her top drawer, after she’d reluctantly pulled it out to read last night. She was about to start writing in her journal when she was interrupted by the arrival of her father, who handed her a paper bag from one of the local newsagents, grin widening on his face.
“I’ve outdone myself this time.”
Eva opened the bag and fished out the contents.
“Australian Campdrafting Magazine,” she read from the front cover.
Back when Eva first became sick, Alan did his best to bring her books and magazines to read. The books he always got right, as they had similar literary tastes, but he was hopeless at choosing magazines. Eventually, it became a bit of a running joke between them, and now he went out of his way to bring the most obscure magazine he could find.
“You certainly have. What the hell is campdrafting?”
“According to their website, it’s a sport involving horses and cattle. The rider has to herd a cow through a course in front of judges, and they get scored on how well they do it. Obviously there’s a lot more to it than that, but you can read all about it in your magazine there.” Alan was clearly pleased with his latest find, and Eva couldn’t help but smile back.
“I missed you last night, Dad,” she said as he washed his hands then bent down to kiss the top of her head.
“Sorry, love, got held up at the office again. It looks like we’re not going to make budget this quarter, and they’ve got me penny-pinching wherever I can. I don’t like keeping the younger ones back when we can’t afford to pay them overtime.”
“You work too hard yourself, never mind the young ones. Work them, that’s what they’re there for.”
“You’re right, I know. But enough of that. How’s my girl?”
“I’m struggling, Dad. I’m glad you’re here.” And she was. Her dad was the person she’d come to rely upon for objective, rational discussions on any subject. Many a time through her teenage years when their views had differed, they’d argued into the night, long after Brenda had given up and gone to bed. Other times, when they had agreed on a subject, the discussion was based on a mutual thirst for knowledge. Right now it seemed he was her best chance of talking this thing through, so she put all the emotion surrounding the topic aside and jumped in.
“Do you remember before my transplant, how we talked about cellular memory?”
“Yes,” he replied. She caught the hint of caution in his voice. “Your mum filled me in last night. She told me where your new heart came from, and about the guy trying to find his wife.”
Eva was relieved she wouldn’t have to go through the story again. “So you know about the nightmares, then?”
“Yes.”
“They’re so vivid, Dad. Nothing I’ve ever dreamt before has even come close to how real these feel. The woman, she’s reaching out for me. She looks so scared. I feel connected to her.”
“And you think these images are coming from the heart?”
“It’s all so confusing, but yes, I think they are. Here, take a look at this.” She took the newspaper article from the drawer and handed it to him, recalling the details herself as he read. It happened eight years ago. Not long after Georgie Silvester’s transplant, her son started noticing changes in her personality which he attributed to cellular memory after researching it for a school project. Little things, mostly — changes in her taste for different types of food, and the fact that she suddenly became a neat freak after years of avoiding housework. They found her donor’s family, and meeting them confirmed, at least in her mind, that she was experiencing some memories from the donor. Eva watched as her father finished reading and handed the article back.
“It’s certainly interesting, Eva, but it doesn’t mean these dreams you’re having are connected to the heart, to that man. They’re just dreams, after all. You don’t think the drugs have anything to do with it? I mean, once you found out about the heart, your mind could be working overtime and the drugs could be exacerbating the problem.”
“That’s what I thought too, but the first dream happened before I woke from the surgery. I didn’t know about the heart then. My mind isn’t playing tricks. Maybe the drugs are making the dreams more vivid, but they would still be there without the medication.”
Alan sighed. “Okay, so tell me about them.”
Eva leaned forward and adjusted her pillows slightly before she spoke.
“I had another one last night. The woman has no face. Mum told you that, right?” Alan nodded, and she continued. “I walk into this room, and she’s standing there, leaning against something. It could be a bench, or a piece of furniture, I’m not sure, but I don’t remember anything else being in the room. Just her and whatever she’s leaning on. Anyway, I walk toward her, slowly. She starts
reaching out her hand to me. I feel like I know her. I’m drawn to her. I move faster, but at the last minute she pulls away.”
“And you still can’t see her face?”
“No, but that’s not the worst part. When she pulls away I get mad. I get so angry, Dad. I’ve never felt anger like it. It’s him — I’m him when I have these dreams, these nightmares.”
A single tear had escaped, and Alan passed her a tissue.
“Okay sweetheart, try and keep calm. We’ll figure this out. Let’s go back to what we know about cellular memory,” he said. “I had another look into it last night. The general consensus of believers in this concept is that the cells of the whole body, not just the brain, contain memories. So, when an organ is transplanted, the memories that organ has retained are transplanted with it. Right?”
“Yeah. Well, that’s the theory. I didn’t believe it, and neither did you. We even laughed about it. I mean, nothing has ever been proven, it’s all highly speculative.”
“Maybe we laughed it off too quickly. Or we didn’t want to believe you could be affected in such a way. Or maybe, kid, we just had too much else to consider at the time. Your life was at stake. There was little room for speculation on whether the new heart would bring any of its donor with it.”
“Are you saying you believe it now?”
“No, not at all, but I am saying it’s possible we didn’t give it enough attention before. We had no reason to. There were far more important things to consider. Now we’ve cleared the first hurdle — you’re alive. You’ve got a new heart, and so far it’s doing its job. Maybe now there’s time to consider other aspects, such as this one.”
Eva sighed, closing her eyes. Her father was right; it hadn’t been important before the transplant. Now, though, it was overwhelming her.
“Fraser Grant, that was his name.”
“He won’t be forgotten in a hurry, that’s for sure. That name and the pictures of him the media are using will be burnt into our brains for years to come.”
“Thanks Dad, that really helps.”
“I’m sorry, hon. That was stupid.”
“No, you’re right. He was a monster, and now I have his heart. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this, but I can’t just ignore it. I can’t ignore the nightmares, and I can’t ignore the missing woman. If there is even the slightest chance I can help her, don’t I need to try?”
“That’s got to be your decision, Eva.”
Yes, she thought. But she had an idea that at least one person wouldn’t be happy. “Mum’s not going to like it.”
Alan hesitated. “Don’t worry about your mother,” he finally said.
“That bad, huh?”
“She just wants to see you get better, Eva. We all do.” He took her by the hand. “What is the man’s name again? The one with the missing wife?”
“Andrew. He talked to Taylor, mostly. She brought him back in here yesterday, but I still wasn’t ready to deal with it then. Oh, Dad, he looked so desperate.” Eva remembered the pain on his face when she told him she couldn’t help.
“If you really want to do this, Eva, then leave your mother to me. But don’t go into it lightly. If there is anything to this cellular memory, you are potentially opening yourself up to a lot of heartache, no pun intended. What I mean is, be careful, kid.”
“I know, I’ve just had major surgery, I’m fragile, etcetera.” Eva hesitated, then made up her mind. “I have to do something, Dad. I’m not responsible for the things he did, but part of him lives on in me. That’s going to affect me, and I think I need to do this in order to know how.”
Alan nodded. “So what are you going to do?”
“I suppose I have to see Andrew. Tell him about the dreams, and decide what to do from there. Maybe he can put me in touch with this Georgie woman, if she’s still around.”
“Yes, maybe,” Alan nodded. “It could be good for you to talk to someone who has dealt with this issue first hand, if nothing else. I have to go to work now, but I’ll be back tonight. Call me if there is anything I can do, okay? Anything. I’m just a phone call away.” He stood and picked up his coat, then turned back to look at her again. “Eva, something you said earlier worried me. ‘It’s him,’ you said, ‘I’m him when I have these nightmares.’ How can you be so certain?”
Her eyes narrowed in pain. It hurt so much to say this out loud.
“In the last one, last night, I hit her. I hit the woman. And it felt… good.”
22
By the time the morning briefing came around, Cooper felt as though he’d already done half a day’s work. Despite his desperate need for sleep he’d only managed to toss and turn and disturb Liz, who kicked him out of bed at five a.m. He was at the office before six, going back over the security footage from The Ivory Bar, organising teams to start canvassing the area around the bar and reviewing the rest of the tapes. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Quinn arrive shortly before seven, and the two of them spent an hour going over what they had learnt the day before.
Munro walked into the briefing room at exactly eight o’clock. It was a full house. He’d made good on his promise to obtain extra manpower. Not that that was hard — the Commissioner himself wanted the Adultery Killer investigation to finally end on a good note, with Amanda Fox being found alive.
Strike Force Darby had changed many times over the years, but a core group of detectives and uniformed officers had always been on the case. Cooper had been there from the beginning, Davis and Saulwick were also regulars. The size of the strike force had varied depending on the stage of the investigation — when a woman was kidnapped, numbers grew rapidly; when the trail went cold, detectives and analysts were re-assigned elsewhere. Now, the game had changed. The hunt for the killer was over, but they had one last chance to save a woman’s life and at the same time restore the public’s faith in the police force. Consequently, there were more investigators on the case now than at any other time Cooper could remember. They’d had to move the briefing to a larger room in another part of the building, and it was really buzzing.
“Settle it down, people,” Munro began. “The sooner we get through this, the sooner we get out and find Amanda. Now, Cooper, fill us in on what you got last night.”
Cooper spent fifteen minutes discussing their success at The Ivory Bar, and outlining the next steps, which would involve reviewing all the surveillance records they could get their hands on. There were a few questions, but mostly nods of approval. Crews were already out canvassing the area and the technicians were keen to get on with their part.
“Where are we at with finding Grant’s killer?” asked Munro.
“No further at this stage, Sarge,” replied Cooper. “The father is still the main person of interest there.” He thought it best to keep his suspicions about Andrew Fox to himself, at least for the time being.
“Actually, we do have something new,” came a fresh voice from the pack. Detective Senior Constable Sonia Hightower, a recent addition to the task force, stepped forward. She held a mobile phone in her hand, seemingly still on a call. “Looks like we’ve just found the murder weapon. My partner is bringing it in now. He says it’s some kind of trophy for real estate, has Grant’s name on it. Most sales or something. Anyway, it’s wiped clean of prints, but it still has some blood. They found it in a garbage bin in a neighbouring block of flats.”
“How far away, and in which direction?” asked Cooper.
“Third block from his place as you head up the street toward Glebe Point Road. It took some digging, seems everyone put their rubbish in the bins that day, but my partner says it looked like it had been dumped in a hurry.”
“Good work, Detective,” said Cooper. “Anything on Amanda’s bank records?” The question was directed to the crowd, since he couldn’t remember exactly who that task had been assigned to. Sonia Hightower spoke up again.
“No transactions since Friday, confirming the husband’s story there.”
“Davis and I g
ot something on the husband,” said Saulwick, looking at Cooper.
“We’re all ears, Sammy.”
“We interviewed Amanda’s parents yesterday. They confirmed Andrew Fox told them he was on a work assignment in Wagga from Saturday morning ’til Tuesday afternoon. Then we checked with the paper, who gave us the name of the motel he stayed at. According to them, he settled the account Sunday night so he could leave early Monday morning. No-one actually saw him leave, though.”
Cooper straightened his back. This was interesting.
“So there are question marks from Sunday night until he arrived home on Tuesday afternoon?”
“It would seem so. We haven’t spoken to him about it yet. Thought you’d want to re-interview him yourself.”
“Yes, good call, Saulwick. And good work.”
“We finished interviewing Grant’s neighbours,” added Davis. “No-one saw much of him at all, but particularly not on weekends. A couple backed up the sightings of him heading out with an overnight bag early of a Saturday morning. They assumed he had a weekend place, but no-one ever asked him about it. It looks like wherever it is, he went there almost every weekend, leaving early Saturday and returning late Sunday.” There were some shuffles of feet and turning of notebook pages, then Cooper took the floor.
“I want to put some effort into looking for the Sylvia woman from Grant’s past.” Eyes narrowed throughout the room as he continued. “His father seemed to think she was the first significant woman in his life, and he carried her picture in his wallet for thirty years. I think it’s possible she could provide some information that may help us find his hideout.”
“That’s a waste of time.” Davis, of course. “The affair was years ago, before he even went to prison. What do you think she could tell us, presuming you can find her? She could be dead for all we know. I mean, all we’ve got to go on is that old photo and where she worked back then. We don’t even have a real name.”
The Dark Series Page 20