Fetish (6 page)

There was no such thing as an “unintrusive” search, Makedde decided. The flat still felt like a crime scene. Any attempt the police had made to return the place to its original state had not been at all successful. Every object in the room was just a few precious inches out of position, the dark coffee table was grimy with white Lanconide and the cream-coloured kitchen cupboards were still sooty with carbon powder. Makedde was grateful that the flat wasn’t her own. Cleaning it up would have been a far more traumatic process.

Mak set about rearranging the place and packing up Catherine’s belongings. She started with the walls. One by one, she tore the magazine pin-ups down. Sticky tape ripped off in loud strips, leaving a tacky residue in their wake, the airbrushed faces of starry-eyed models shredding into meaningless ribbons of colour.

Catherine had naïvely aspired to become a “supermodel”. Of the many that tried, few lasted very long on the international scene, and even fewer made
it to the big time. Mak had been the flavour of the month in Italian
Vogue
at one point, and enjoyed fleeting moments of fame as the face of numerous fashion and cosmetic campaigns, but she’d never quite fit the title of “super”.

With the exception of Carmen, and perhaps Lauren Hutton, who both continued to do the occasional photo shoot several decades after they began in the business, a model’s career was spectacularly brief. The transformation from fresh-faced fourteen year old to jaded twenty-five year old was as cradle to the grave to most in the industry. Makedde had seen countless girls come and go. In their fleeting time, some sacrificed more than others, and some achieved more than others, but for most the trip was ephemeral, and the fickle industry moved on. The trick was to take the money and run, but it was a strategy few young models understood.

Makedde reached up and tore another face from the wall.

When fifteen-year-old Catherine reached five-foot-nine, she had wanted to give international modelling a try. Mak had mixed feelings about her friend’s aspirations. It would forever be a misunderstood lifestyle, reinforced by movies like
Prêt à Porter
and
Unzipped
, which portrayed the industry about as realistically as
Pretty Woman
portrayed prostitution. The international fashion scene could
be harsh and confusing to a teenager, and the combination of a mismanaged career and a misguided soul could be disastrous. Everyone knew a horror story—sixteen year olds gliding down the catwalk zoned out on heroin; cigarette and coffee dieting anorexics; bulimics; chronic diet pill—laxative pill—diuretic pill—upper—downer—
everything
pill poppers. The casting couch. It could become a deadly obstacle course for unchaperoned kids with poor self images or little self control.

On the flip side, many models enjoyed great experiences—travel, culture, new sights, new languages, new people, and occasionally, lots and lots of money.

Knowing all that, what do you do when someone you know wants to give it a shot?

In Makedde’s case you help in every way you can, and try to guide them away from the pitfalls. With a six-year gap in age and experience, she showed Catherine the ropes, leading her through the bizarre maze of international modelling. She bailed Cat out of trouble on several occasions, but it seemed she wasn’t there for her when it really mattered.

One day too late
.

She crunched the magazine photos tightly in her hand, shoved them into a large garbage bag and walked over to the neat stack of Catherine’s clothes.
The Unwins, Cat’s foster parents, had made it clear that they had no use for the clothes. The police had no use for them either. Mak would take them to a women’s charity and ship the remainder of the belongings back to Canada.

She had never met Catherine’s birth parents, and was thankful they never lived to see their only child cut up like that, cold and lifeless on a morgue tray. With her eyes closed, Makedde placed the stack of garments into a fresh garbage bag. She didn’t want to see any familiar clothes. One glimpse of a moss green jumper had brought memories flooding back of Catherine smiling and laughing in Munich, treating herself to a shopping spree for landing her first big hair commercial.

With the clothes ready in bags for charity, she turned her attention to the ornate, antique jewellery box that sat beside the mirror. Catherine’s cherished jewellery box. It was made of wood, intricately carved and embellished with swirling designs and bright, luminous semi-precious stones. It was a sentimental reminder of Catherine’s true mother, one of the few tangible things which had remained of her. It was small, and Catherine had travelled with it wherever she went. Alison Gerber had given it to her daughter only months before she and Catherine’s father drove over the Malahat to visit a friend. The Malahat cuts for miles through the mountains of Vancouver Island in a
steep and winding highway. Sometime during the night, as they made their way home, their car hit black ice and slid off the road, rolling down the mountainside for five hundred feet before lodging in the pines. Both parents died before the wreck was discovered. Catherine was being baby-sat at home. She was five.

Makedde sat cross-legged on the hard wooden floor, placed the jewellery box in her lap and opened it. It was small, and its contents few. Some thin necklaces, silver and gold, were tangled inside. A pair of delicate, diamond stud earrings, and a turquoise and silver ring were jumbled underneath. But it was the thick diamond ring that immediately caught Mak’s attention.

She fished the ring out. It was a chunky men’s style, with a pattern of diamonds set in its square design. The gold was smooth and unmarked. It couldn’t have belonged to Catherine’s father; it was too new. Where else would she get a ring like this?

The lover.

The lover’s ring. A souvenir. She turned the ring over and looked inside its band. She couldn’t believe her luck.

JT.

The initials were engraved on the inside of the ring. She recalled the notepad message she had seen when she first arrived.

JT Terrigal

Beach res

16

14

Makedde slipped the ring on her thumb. It was solid proof of the relationship, but she was no longer sure that she cared to share it with Detective Flynn. She placed the jewellery box on her bedside table and leant her favourite photo against it. Makedde’s face smiled out from the photo, standing beside a happy, living Catherine.

He licked his lips distractedly, one hand flexing slowly while the other held the photograph.

Makedde Vanderwall.

Makedde.

Mak.

She was the blonde in the photograph. Beautiful. Special. She was the one who’d written the letter. The one who had found his handiwork at the beach. Her eyes were light, although from the photograph he could not tell if they were green or blue. Her nose was slim and straight, her body curvaceous, and she was
so
familiar.

And her skin. Her skin looked so…perfect.

Utterly perfect.

He was annoyed that he couldn’t tell what her feet looked like from the photo. She was cut off at the hips. But she looked so tall standing next to Catherine that he convinced himself she was wearing high, vermilion stilettos. He just knew her feet would be as perfect as the rest of her.

Her familiarity drew him in; she was magnetic, more special and important than any of his other girls.

Makedde was the one.

He traced his finger slowly over the face of the photograph. Destiny brought the dark-haired whore to him. Destiny brought Makedde with her.

Makedde held a black skirt in front of her at the full-length mirror, trying to decide what to wear to The Space nightclub. She cocked her head to one side and eyed the hem.

Too short?

If she wore opaque stockings with it, the skirt would be fine. With a miniskirt and her shimmery, deep blue top, she would blend into the clubbing atmosphere. She slid dark stockings over her bare legs, careful not to catch them on her nails, and pulled the skirt over her hips. To complete the look, she chose a pair of comfortable, mid-heeled boots that laced up to her calves. She threw a coat on, checked her pockets for cash and switched the lights off. Venturing into the night alone made her a little nervous. She would have liked a good can of Canadian Bear Spray to carry with her, but that was illegal in Australia. She’d have to rely on quick thinking or a wicked snap kick.

Makedde followed the thundering dance music from almost a block away, arriving outside The Space
close to midnight when things were just starting to heat up.

The hip and nocturnal had come out of the woodwork, rowdy and ready to play. Leather, PVC, micro-minis and fish-nets appeared to be the uniform of the moment. Mak felt pretty tame in her carefully chosen apparel.

A queue of about thirty clubbers snaked away from the entrance. As soon as Makedde joined the end of the line, a tall hulk of testosterone with a buzz cut called her up to the front. After glancing around to confirm that it was indeed her that he was motioning to, she sashayed up to the door and gave him a sultry smile. There was no sense in waiting in line if it wasn’t necessary.

“You a model?” he grunted. He stank of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

“Yes.”

He eyed her approvingly, which made her skin crawl, but her smile never faltered.

“Which agency?”

“Book,” she replied.

With the magic words spoken, he opened the door. As she stepped cautiously into the smoke-filled nightclub, he mumbled something incoherent and shut the heavy door behind her. Her senses were immediately assaulted by a high decibel pounding dance mix and a throng of sweating bodies grooving to its beat. A long, neon illuminated bar held four,
busy, steroid-inflated bartenders in skimpy black leather vests. She wondered for a moment whether she had stumbled upon a real S&M party, but on surveying the dancing crowd she determined that it was probably just a trend, and she would not at any moment be whisked away for a spanking.

Squinting through the smoke she spotted what she had come for—the photos. A display area towards the back presented large black-and-white prints. She weaved through the whirling crowd and made her way towards them. When she looked down to pull her skirt further down her thighs, she caught a flying elbow hard in the jaw. It could have been any one of a number of the flailing limbs of several people crushing against her. Fists up at her face in a protective boxing position, she continued towards the far wall. When she finally broke through the other side of the dancing mob she discovered more people, seated at a series of tables, attempting conversations that consisted of little more than hand movements. It was a relief to stop moving, so she simply stood still for a moment, and instantly regretted it.

Someone grabbed her by the shoulder.

Makedde inhaled sharply at the surprise and spun around to look down at the man’s face. Her fist was clenched and ready in case she needed it, her whole body tensed. It took several seconds to register who it was.

“Oh, Tony. How are you?” She hoped she managed not to sound frightened by his sudden appearance.

“Good. How ya goin’?” he shouted above the din, sending a cloud of stale beer breath into Mak’s nostrils.

“Fine. I heard about the exhibition. The agency’s raving about it,” she said.

“Really?” His face lit up. “Have you seen it all?”

“No, I just got here.”

“Let me take you through it.”

She managed a smile, and he led her by the hand to the first of the photos. Makedde felt decidedly uncomfortable. She wanted to know why Tony’s exhibit had caused such suspicion, but she hadn’t expected a personal tour.

She ran through a series of excuses in her head:
I have friends waiting? I have an early morning photo shoot? I’m allergic to smoke?
Then why had she come here?
Good question.

The first photo immediately answered her questions about his exhibition. It depicted a young, naked woman, trussed in thick rope. Her long brunette hair was brushed forward over her face, and ropes circling her head held her mane in place. The faceless body was so tightly bound that the rope bit painfully into the woman’s flesh.

Makedde was at a loss for words.

“That’s Josephine. She’s a professional dancer,” Tony boasted.

She answered his questioning look with a neutral smile. He led her to the next print.

“This one is Josephine, again.” He stared at Makedde’s expression as she studied the print. It featured the same faceless physique, hands tied behind the woman’s back, bound in a restricting, leather corset and impossibly high stilettos. Her feet were so arched with the shape of the shoes that her ankles seemed to bend over her toes. The woman’s breasts were popping out over the top of the leather, and her naked hips bulged under the strain of the tiny corset. The body was contorted into an agonising, silent struggle with its bonds. Rather than arousing, the effect was disturbing. A little playful bondage didn’t trouble Makedde. But this clear depiction of deliberate pain was troubling.

Sadistic fantasies. How far does he take it in real life?

“I love what you’ve done with the developing,” she commented vaguely. “The sepia and tobacco tones complement the mood nicely…”

“Thank you,” he exclaimed proudly. “I felt that it brought out the texture of the leather in this shot.” He slurred his words slightly, turning the word “texture” into “testya”. He didn’t bother correcting himself.

The police were giving Tony trouble for good reason. He had arranged the location for the
La Perouse shoot and may have known Makedde’s connection to Catherine. He also had a definite predilection for paraphilia. She needed to know more.

After perusing the stylishly displayed images of bondage, dominance, and sado-masochistic sex which made up the remainder of the exhibition, she sat down with him at one of the tables. With a fresh beer in one hand Tony loudly went on about how the police “wouldn’t know art if it crept up their trouser legs and bit them where it matters”.

“Tony, I remember you were arguing with a detective after Catherine was found. He was holding your camera. What was that all about?” she asked him casually.

“What a prick. Detective Wynn—”

“Flynn?”

“That’s right. That wanker took all my film from the shoot as evidence. The client freaked.”

“No kidding? Why would he want the film?”

Tony was obviously still upset about it. “Fucked if I know.” His face twitched as he spoke. “What a fuckin’ prick.”

What are you hiding, Tony?

“Are they still on your case?”

“Yeah.” He changed the subject. “So you’re from Canada,
eh
?”

“
Eh
. That’s very good.” If she had a dollar for every time someone had made a joke about a Canadian
expression, she’d be a very rich woman. “So, did you see much of Catherine before she…died?”

“Nah. You out here with anyone?”

Makedde could see it coming.

“No,” she said honestly.

“Hmmm,” he murmured. She could see his inebriated mind slowly clicking over. “Would you be interested in doing a test sometime? We could shoot whatever you wanted; head shots, body shots, whatever.”

“Oh, no. I have plenty of shots in my book at the moment. Thanks anyway.” Makedde pushed back her chair. “I’ve gotta get goin’, uh…early shoot tomorrow morning.”

“Want to go out sometime? Maybe—”

She swiftly cut him off. “I’m involved with someone.”

Myself.

“We could just go for coffee or something,” he persisted.

She was up and walking away as she repeated, “No thanks.”

From behind her she heard him say, “I didn’t kill the stupid bitch, for fuck’s sake.”

She shot him a hard look over one shoulder, and hissed, “I’m leaving.” She forced her way through the crowd. Behind her, she could hear Tony shouting, “I’m sorry, Macayly! I didn’t mean that! I’m sorry!”

“It’s
Makedde
, you jerk,” she mumbled, pushing past the mass of dancing bodies. “Ma—kay—dee.”

She hurled herself out the front doors and into the crisp, night air. The cool wind whipping down the street was a welcome relief. She shook her head and hailed the nearest taxi. In under an hour, Tony had managed to insert himself at the top of Makedde’s growing “arsehole list”.

Just after 2 a.m. the taxi deposited Makedde outside the block of flats on Campbell Parade. She tipped the driver and dragged herself out of the taxi, still brooding over Tony’s flippant comment. She was too tired to think straight. Whether it was jet lag or the hour, she was running out of battery strength like an old toy winding down.

She noted the ugly odour of stale smoke hanging in her hair as she opened the door from the street and stepped inside. Wearily, she stomped up the steps, intent on the thought of her warm bed.

Wait—I didn’t leave the lights on.

Makedde backed up, nearly tripping over her feet, then froze flush against the wall. Someone was in her flat. She could hear movement. Silently, she covered her mouth, as if it would somehow silence her breath. She listened.

Someone was in there.

Killer.

Who? It didn’t take long to decide that she didn’t want to meet her intruder alone and she tip-toed back down the creaking stairs as quietly as she could manage. What if the intruder heard her? What would he do to her? Did he expect that she’d be out this time of the night, or did he want her to be at home, sleeping?

She started to run.

Makedde burst out onto the street and ran full tilt towards the public phone booth. When she reached it she decided it was too close, and she kept on running.

At the far north end of Bondi Beach, Mak nervously dialled Detective Flynn’s mobile number. She didn’t feel like explaining her life story to some triple “0” operator, or perhaps she enjoyed having an excuse to wake Flynn up in the wee hours. Either way, after two rings his phone was answered. For a moment there was no voice, then a coarse, sleep-fuggy sound filtered through the line.

“Flynn.”

“Detective Flynn, I’m sorry to wake you,”
or not
, “ I have an emergency. Uh, the detectives didn’t come back to search some more, did they?”

“What? No.” He paused. “This is Makedde, right?”

“Yes. I didn’t think they’d come back at such a weird hour,” she said stupidly. “Someone has broken into my flat. They’re in there right now.”

He suddenly sounded more awake. “Where are you? Are you OK?”

“Yes. I didn’t go inside. The lights were on when I came home a few minutes ago. I ran to a phone in the street.”

“You did the right thing. Tell me where you are and I’ll have someone there in a few minutes.”

Mak explained her location and hung up. She slid down the booth wall and sat on the cold, concrete floor. Her dark stockings had a long gash up the thigh. Smoky grit seemed wedged under her fingernails and embedded in her skin.

Within minutes a police cruiser pulled up. The driver was a sharp looking female cop with short blonde hair and thin lips. Her partner was a beefy young officer with a face like a meat lover’s pizza. He looked like he would be quite tall and foreboding when he stood up, which made Mak feel safe under the circumstances. She climbed into the back and the officers asked her what happened. Briefly, she explained the situation and mentioned her involvement in the Gerber murder case.

Makedde scanned the road. The streets were deserted, as one would expect after 2 a.m. on a Monday night in the middle of winter. She nestled deep into the back seat as they drove towards her building, and when they got close she saw that the lights were still on.

“Which flat is yours?” the male officer asked.

“The only one with the lights on. Number six.”

“Could we have your keys, Miss?”

Makedde handed them over, and the officers locked the car and walked across the street while Mak sunk herself as deeply as she could into the seat. She rested her nose against the window and stared out, watching the two uniformed cops enter her building. The lit window revealed no figures, and she could hear no sounds of struggle. Eventually, the street door opened and the female officer stepped out. She came up to the car while Makedde got out.

“There’s no one in the flat, Miss. It may have been rifled through, though. It’s hard to tell.”

Makedde was almost sorry that they hadn’t found anyone. She felt a bit embarrassed, as if she might have been tired enough to forget whether she had left the lights on or not. She was sure she’d heard movement.
Wasn’t she?

Exhausted, she climbed the stairs, aware that the run in her stockings had ripped up another few inches. Door number six was open, and just as she was about to chastise herself for overreacting, Makedde caught a glimpse of the flat.

The place had been turned upside down.

All the bags of clothes she’d packed up were emptied out on the floor. The beds were ripped apart and every drawer and cupboard was open. Catherine’s
jewellery box was overturned, and it looked broken. Sweaters, jeans and underwear were scattered everywhere, strewn about with papers and jewellery.

“You weren’t sure if I’d been broken into?” Mak asked in disbelief.

The blonde cop turned to her and said, “We couldn’t be sure. You’d be surprised the way some people live.”