A pang of envy stung Gemma and, briefly, she thought how comforting it must be to have a partner to share work with, as well as the burdens of life. In her mind, the scales tipped the other way.
‘Sorry about that interruption,’ said Heather, returning. ‘You were saying you haven’t made that decision?’ she asked.
Gemma nodded her head.
‘You’d better apply yourself to that pretty smartly then,’ said Heather. ‘You haven’t got much time.’
‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a termination,’ said Gemma, surprised at hearing the words. It was the first time she’d verbalised this.
‘Then you’ll need to see Family Planning,’ Heather said, reaching for a pen.
Again, Gemma nodded. ‘Heather,’ she began, ‘in a couple of years I’ll be forty. Like I said, I’ve broken up with Steve. I’m not sure about my future – business is really quiet at the moment. I don’t know how I’m going to manage financially unless work picks up. To have a baby by myself simply sounds impossible under the circumstances. And .
.
. there’s something else.’
A long silence ensued. Heather waited, leaning back in her chair.
‘I’m not sure about my capacity to .
.
.’ Gemma finally said, groping for words, ‘.
.
. my capacity to love. I come from a family where love wasn’t a big part of the equation. I don’t have that automatic I-love-kids thing I’ve noticed in other people.’ She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. ‘I think I’ve got a problem.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know if I could love a baby.’
Gemma was relieved to see that Heather didn’t seem shocked by her admission. ‘You’re not the first woman who’s said that to me,’ she said. ‘In fact, it’s not an uncommon attitude. I think it comes from anxiety rather than any sort of psychopathology.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled at the long word. ‘But before you make up your mind about termination,’ Heather continued, ‘think about it carefully. If you only knew how many women patients I’ve had over the last few years – women your age and younger – desperate to get pregnant.’ She put her pen down and focused her steady grey eyes on Gemma’s. ‘I don’t really want to influence you one way or the other. But I feel I’d be failing in my job as your doctor if I didn’t remind you that falling pregnant at your age has a lot of statistical odds against it, and that this could be the only chance you ever get to have a baby.’
Gemma considered this. Why did it have to happen just now? Why couldn’t it have happened last year, or the year before, when Steve was around and business was strong? Why now?
‘The other reason I’m saying this,’ Heather went on, ‘is because some of those same women told me they wished that a doctor or someone had told them that before they went for a termination. This could be your one and only chance. Do think about it.’
Gemma glanced at her watch. She jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve got to rush,’ she said.
She left the surgery feeling envious of her GP’s settled, comfortable domestic arrangements. It was okay for someone like Heather Pike, with a hard-working doctor husband to share the domestic rounds and the child-care, plus a large shared income, to have kids. But could she give a child the same security, the same stability? The same love?
•
Back home for a quick shower, she wondered about Natalie Sutherland’s connection to the fatal shootings. Smart, pretty, able to deal with the dickheads and stay smiling, Natalie had been the youngest trainer at the academy. Some years later, Gemma heard she’d married a senior police officer, had left the job and was now practising law somewhere. Why didn’t I do something smart like that, she asked herself, stepping out of the shower and rubbing a clear spot in the mirror to examine her body. Despite the weight loss from the constant vomiting, her breasts were rounder and heavier than they’d been a month ago, but her stomach seemed the same as it had always been.
Gemma made a quick snack of plain crackers, and was taking the plate into her office when she saw through the window a tall, lanky man coming down the steps from the road. She knew it would have to be the new client who’d phoned yesterday. She put her plate down and pulled out the fresh file with his name on it.
‘The police aren’t taking it seriously at all,’ Toby Boyd said once he’d got settled, fiddling with a tiny edge of unstitched leather on the arm of the old club chair in Gemma’s office. He scratched his halo of frizzy gold hair, both hair and startled expression reminding Gemma of a Fra Angelico angel on a fresco in one of her art books.
‘They think my sister just got cold feet and ran away from the whole business. It’s hard being part of a reality television show. And her ex is her agent, an entrepreneur – or so he thinks – and I’ve always had severe reservations about him. But the producer and the station manager are both giving me the line that Steffi must have lost confidence after shooting the last episode. It
was
particularly revolting, she said,’ and the anger on his face made him look older than the late twenties Gemma had estimated. ‘The girls were humiliated by the compere, though some of them didn’t recognise what was happening. Steffi did. They’re saying she’s bolted because of that – that she can’t take the flak. I think that’s bullshit. They haven’t even filmed the semi-final episode yet. Steffi is absolutely determined to win.’
Gemma was vaguely aware of the popular television program about finding an Australian bride for a European nobleman who was living in Australia for the duration of the series and allegedly in need of a wife.
‘And Steff would have told me if she was going to chuck it in,’ Toby continued. ‘I was doing everything I could to talk her out of it. We’re very close. We’re twins, actually. We tell each other everything. And I know there’s no way my sister would just go off like that and leave everything – her family, the series. She’s a really responsible person, and she’d already won the first round and the long weekend in Venice with his royal highness.’
Again, Toby Boyd fiddled with the arm of the large leather chair. ‘Steff’s been gone for nearly three weeks now and Mum’s going round like a ghost. She can’t sleep; can’t eat. Mark Simons at Missing Persons has listed Steffi, but they’ve got hundreds of cases to deal with state-wide and a staff of twelve to do it with. The local area command is overworked, understaffed and basically not very interested. So I can’t just leave it to them. That’s why I’m talking to you now.’
‘What do you think’s happened?’ Gemma asked.
‘I’ve never trusted that ex-fiancé of hers. There’s something .
.
. I don’t know how to put it .
.
. something really off about him. Anyone who really loved her wouldn’t have let her go into this contest. Prince Heinrich is not only a fool but also a drunk. Unfortunately, my sister is very stubborn and she’s got it into her head that if she wins this and becomes Princess Stephanie, she’ll be able to do all the things she wants to do.’
‘So she’s not looking for a love match,’ said Gemma, drily.
‘She’s in love with the ex-fiancé. But she’s also a practical girl. She said she’d make the situation work for her.’
Toby Boyd stood up, restless. ‘Mary Donaldson has a lot to answer for,’ he said. ‘What did my sister think she was doing, trying to marry this jaded old drunk? She’d be stuck on his country estate while he flies around the world, living on borrowed money, snorting coke and screwing cheerleaders. Please, Miss Lincoln. I’m really worried. Something’s happened to Steffi.’
‘You’re
sure
it hasn’t got something to do with the television series?’ Gemma asked.
‘Absolutely sure. They’re angry. They think she’s reneged on her contract. Steffi’s desperate to become an actor. No way she’d throw it in. She’s auditioned for NIDA twice now and twice they’ve sent her away. So when this princess bride business came up she was crazy about the idea. I did everything I could to argue some sense into her, but she’d made up her mind. Think of all the exposure it will give me, she kept telling me. It’ll make a path for me to get where I want.’
‘Stress can do strange things, you know,’ Gemma told him gently. ‘She might have just run away from the pressure of it all.’
‘No way,’ said Toby vehemently. ‘Not Steffi. Ever since she used to put on plays for her dolls and the snails in the garden, she’s wanted to act. She loves the rush of adrenaline.’
‘What’s the name of the ex-fiancé?’ Gemma changed tack.
‘Martin Trimble. I feel certain he’s got something to do with her disappearance,’ said Toby.
‘And why is he an
ex
-fiancé?’ Gemma asked.
‘Trimble saw this show as a way for Steffi to stand out, to give her a profile, but the girls who auditioned had to be single and unattached. That’s why he called the engagement off. I might just be a jealous brother, but I think he’s a real loser. He’s backed very bad rock bands, and lately a surfer who would’ve probably got a place in the world championships except for a liking for cocaine. I can’t talk to him. He just hangs up on me.’ Toby shrugged. ‘God knows why, but Steff loves him! She was heartbroken when he called off the engagement, even though she knew it was necessary. She’s paid a fortune for this wedding dress, over two thousand dollars – being Steff, it has to be a bit idiosyncratic and it is. No one was supposed to see it, but I noticed it one evening when I visited her – she shares a house with Trimble. It’s got tiny red, blue and yellow dots on the fabric, like confetti.
‘I don’t know why women seem to go for those sorts of guys. Trimble makes you feel he couldn’t care less about anything – except money.’ His voice faltered. ‘I’m scared to think what might have happened. Twins feel each other’s pain and something’s happened to Steff – I can feel it.’ Strain and tension showed on his angular, mobile face.
For a moment, Gemma felt unequal to the task of dealing with these people and their problems and muddles. She had enough of her own. But she was a professional investigator with bills to pay, she reminded herself, as she duly took all the details about Stephanie Boyd, the television series
Search for the Princess Bride
and the manager–agent, Martin Trimble. Toby had thought to bring photographs with him. Gemma studied the portrait of the heavy-eyed prince. She’d always distrusted men who wore cravats, even cravats pinned with an embossed coat of arms, and the cool, superior expression on the prince’s face gave her little reason to change her original judgment.
‘That’s the photo he gave all the contestants,’ said Toby. ‘And here’s his pedigree.’
Gemma put the prince’s autographed photo down and studied the genealogy. It was extremely long-winded and confusing, culminating in a massive spreadsheet of foreign nobles and princelings. ‘Very impressive,’ she said, passing it back.
‘I don’t know,’ said Toby, with the first hint of a smile. ‘My Russian Blue has something very similar. And about the same amount in the bank.’
‘How do you know that?’ Gemma asked.
‘The prince did an interview with one of our tougher journalists. It wasn’t spelled out, but to anyone who could read between the lines the fellow practically admitted that he’s only involved in the program because of the huge fee he’s being paid. Personally, I think he’ll end up choosing anyone with money – as long as she’s female and disease-free.’
Gemma smiled. ‘I’m sure your sister is a lot more than that.’
Toby nodded. ‘But it’s true that we both stand to inherit a lot of money when our grandmother dies. And I hope that’s not for a very long time. But it’s something that Prince Heinrich probably knows about already.’
‘How much money are you talking about?’
‘I’m not sure of the exact figures, but it would definitely be in the tens of millions.’
He fished another envelope out of his pocket. ‘These are the names of Steff’s closest friends. Talk to them, please, although they haven’t got a clue where she’s gone and she hasn’t contacted any of them.’
Gemma took the envelope from him, then made a quick estimate of the costs of interviewing the people concerned, chasing records and checking alibis.
‘Hell!’ Toby said, taken aback, when she gave him the figure. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘That’s a lot of work,’ said Gemma, ‘and a very dedicated agent on the job.’
After Toby Boyd left her office, Gemma studied the picture of his twin. Steffi Boyd had the same frizzy blonde hair and tall frame, but in this photograph she’d piled her hair up into a lacquered meringue, topped with flowers. She looked very sweet, Gemma thought. And, with the addition of a tiara, sash and heraldic brooch, would make a more than credible princess. She wondered if Toby Boyd had done away with his sister, so as not to split the twins’ inheritance, but dismissed the idea as coming from IUP – investigator’s usual paranoia. Her instincts told her Toby was genuine. But then again, she thought, her instincts had never been pregnant before. And there was, as was daily evident, no end to human greed.
Gemma propped up the photograph of the would-be princess’s ex-fiancé and studied it closely. Half the age of Prince Heinrich and with a shrewd, almost suspicious expression, Martin Trimble, floppy-haired and handsome, stood beside a tall surfboard. On the back, Toby Boyd had written his and Steffi’s address in Maroubra.
She gathered up the photographs, photocopied them all, and placed them in the Toby Boyd file, then tidied up other administrative jobs, attempting to clear her desk. She couldn’t lose the feeling of hurt that Grace didn’t want to join them; that she preferred to be with another group of people. Gemma felt angry with the half-sister she’d never met. Unlike Kit, whose profession as a psychotherapist was satisfying and constant, and whose son, Will, was studying at university, Gemma felt her life lacked something. Now that the mysterious sister seemed set on withdrawing from contact, this baby might fill the void. Kit’s life seemed calm and ordered; Gemma felt hers was too often in turmoil.
It was cold in her office on the western side of the apartment and she switched on the small heater near her feet, then sat in front of her monitor, finally eating some crackers as she flicked through her email in-box until she found Grace’s last email:
I’ll ring in the next few days and make a date. At the moment, I’m going through a really difficult time but hope to have the problem sorted out soon. I have some business things to attend to here in Mittagong then I’ll be free to travel to Sydney. Looking forward so much to meeting you and Kit. You can’t imagine how important it is to me, to be part of a family.
As Gemma read the last few words, she caught her breath. So what had happened in the meantime? Grace had been so positive, so excited in her early emails. What had changed her mind? Maybe the ‘wonderful man’ she’d met had prevailed on her not to meet up with her family. The email posed more questions than it answered and Gemma realised she didn’t even know what Grace’s ‘business’ might be.
Maybe this was all for the best, Grace’s change of heart. This ‘Group’, whatever it was, had certainly turned her around, Gemma thought. Maybe she would only have brought tension and heartache to her and Kit.
Her mobile rang, interrupting this disturbing train of thought.
‘Mike!’ she said. ‘Good to hear from you. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘I’m still pregnant,’ Gemma said, aware that the biscuits had stayed down. ‘But I haven’t thrown up yet today.’
‘That’s gotta be a good thing then,’ he said. ‘How’s business? Anything for me?’
‘I thought you had plenty of work with the other security firms.’
‘I do. But you know I’d always give you priority.’
‘And you know I’d call you like a shot if I was suddenly swamped.’
‘You don’t have to be swamped to call me, Gemma,’ he said. ‘You can call me any time for a chat. Or a shoulder to cry on.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ she said. Then there was a silence that she cut short. ‘Bye,’ she said, calling off, her voice sounding overbright to her ears.
She was still a moment, wondering why it was that in her dealings with Mike she’d begun to feel more rather than less self-conscious.
Turning back to her computer screen, she googled The Group.
‘Why are terrorists and suicide bombers murdering the innocent all around the world?’ announced a banner as Gemma opened the site. ‘We can tell you why. The truth of why these cataclysmic events are happening now, when revealed, will shake and terrify all those who are not steadfast in their faith. Archangel Reziel reveals all when the time is right. The Group invites all seekers of the Truth to join us as we discover why our lives have suddenly become so fear-filled. And discover how you can be safe during the approaching End of Days. Join us and hear Archangel Reziel’s teachings. Learn AA Reziel’s personal message just for you!’
The website was adorned with images of a towering archangel hovering above an idyllic neo-classical scene of men, women and children dressed in tunics, veils and sandals, frolicking with lions and lambs amongst vines loaded with both red and white grapes. Beyond this merrymaking, a city lay in smoking ruins. Gemma peered at the destroyed city and recognised the Centrepoint Tower crashed across other iconic Sydney buildings.
And she thought she had problems. Gemma leaned back in her seat then clicked a hyperlink to find more. It seemed The Group could be visited at its property, Cana, inland from Gosford, on the Central Coast north of Sydney, and for a fee the visitor could enjoy a shared meal and a group session listening to the channelled teachings of the archangel. Personal sessions with the archangel cost considerably more.
‘Trade your anxiety for God’s certainty,’ she read. ‘If you’ve had enough of 21st-century life, with its vicious technologies, corporate greed, violence, terror attacks and pornography, join us at The Group and return to the clear guidelines of Archangel Reziel’s teachings. Find out how your life can change. Read God’s word as revealed in the Book of Revelation. As you move through the levels of teachings, you will discover how you and your family can be kept safe, no matter what calamity might befall during the coming period of the End of Days.’
Maybe Archangel Reziel, whoever that was, had put Grace off meeting her sisters. Gemma tried googling Grace’s name next. She’d got nowhere last time. Nothing now either. Then she tried Grace’s mother’s name: Beverley Kingston. This time she was successful, but the entry only referred to the old news account of the events that took place when Gemma was only five. Even now, more than thirty years on, reading of the death of her mother and the arrest of her father caused a clenched feeling in her body. She read of the suicide around this time of Beverley Kingston, one of Dr Chisholm’s patients. But there was little else. Only that Beverley’s baby was being cared for by relatives. It hadn’t added to the information she’d already gathered concerning Grace – and that was mostly half-remembered local history passed on by her music teacher, Mrs Snellgrove. No wonder Grace felt abandoned by both her parents.
Gemma sighed. Music lessons, sculpting – all these creative pleasures had been put on hold for the time being while she devoted all her energy to work, to survival. Only a few months ago, she remembered thinking all she wanted was a nice, simple life. Things had never been so complicated.
Gemma printed off The Group’s material, deciding to read it later. Already she was feeling unduly hostile towards these people who’d caught the attention of her sister.
Grace’s defection reminded her of Jaki Hunter and she rang her number, annoyed that Jaki hadn’t even realised her misdemeanour, or worse, hadn’t bothered to ring to apologise. After several rings, the phone clicked onto voice mail and Gemma left a message.
To focus herself, she picked up the file of the other missing person case she’d taken on recently – a young girl, Maddison Carr. Gemma unclipped the photograph of the girl that Maddison’s father, Dr Leon Carr, had given her, then made some copies of it on her printer.
Gemma had decided to start looking for Maddison locally. She’d called the youth refuge in Kings Cross, but the number had rung out and she wasn’t sure if it still operated. So she’d called Naomi Glover, the daughter of her late friend, Shelly, now young mistress of the East Sydney brothel, Baroque Occasions, and arranged to drop in on her that afternoon. Taking it to the street was often the most fruitful method with runaways. Gemma glanced at her watch. Time she left for her appointments. She slipped the copied photographs into an envelope.
As she unlocked the security grille, she noticed an ice-cream container on the doorstep with an envelope attached. Curious, she stooped and picked it up, tearing it open. She hadn’t heard anyone pull up.
Inside the envelope was a note: ‘Don’t know if these might help with morning sickness. But anyway, I hope you like them. Mike.’
She prised the lid off the container to find a batch of homemade biscuits. She took them inside, smiling. He must have crept down and delivered them in person. She’d forgotten how Mike was working his way through the cookbooks abandoned by his ex-wife, tackling – in his methodical way – one new recipe every week. She put them in the fridge and took one with her, eating it on the way. It was delicious, and it stayed down.
•
As she knocked on the door of the terrace house and brothel that Naomi Glover had inherited from her mother, Gemma glanced along the street. She was well aware that a large percentage of missing youngsters ended up around Kings Cross, drawn by some dark glamour that still inhered, despite the squalor and the traffic of the area.
After a moment or two, the door opened to reveal Naomi in jeans and a polar fleece vest, her hair tied in a high ponytail, her scrubbed face shining with perspiration.
‘Aunty Gemma!’ said Naomi with a laugh. ‘Great to see you!’
Gemma followed Naomi right through the house and out again via the door in the kitchen, down a small set of steps and into the tiny square of garden at the back. Naomi pulled her gardening gloves back on; it was clear she was working on a raised garden bed of heaped-up potting mix. Sections of the mound were already planted with green seedlings.
‘What are you growing?’ Gemma asked, bending to pull out a grass runner as Naomi picked up her trowel again.
‘Don’t know,’ shrugged Naomi, digging around the base of the mound. ‘I got them half price because there was nothing on the punnet.’
They worked together for a few minutes. ‘So how’s business?’ Gemma asked.
‘Okay,’ said Naomi. ‘But nothing to bring the house down. Enough work for me, and Robyn comes in a couple of times a week.’
‘Same as me,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m pretty well running my business myself these days.’
‘I’m still studying,’ said Naomi. ‘Fine Arts part-time. Degree course. I can’t believe I got my HSC finally.’
‘Congratulations. I know you studied hard.’
‘Heard from Steve?’
Naomi, whose ability to read silences had undoubtedly saved her life on occasion, got it in seconds.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still not seeing each other?,’ she said, sitting back on her heels.
Gemma nodded.
‘Oh, Gemma. That’s so sad!’
‘I didn’t handle things well. I was jealous. We had a fight. Or rather, I couldn’t stop having the same fight with him, over and over. Eventually, he had enough.’
‘But we’ve had this conversation before,’ Naomi pointed out. ‘And didn’t he come back last time?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s not quite true. We did go out for dinner to talk things over, but I started on him again. I can’t seem to help it. It just takes me over.’
‘That’s crazy,’ said Naomi, shaking her head slowly. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder, a wave of golden brown reminding Gemma of her dead friend, Shelly.
‘You straight girls,’ Naomi was saying. ‘You just don’t – or won’t – get it. Going to bed with a woman can mean absolutely zero to a man. And a woman too. I should know! You were way too tough on him!’
‘Steve was too tough on me!’ Gemma snapped, aware of tears not far beneath her words. Abruptly, she pulled out the envelope with Maddison Carr’s school photograph in her pocket and opened it.
‘This is the photograph you wanted to show me?’ Naomi asked.
‘Yes,’ said Gemma, passing it to her. ‘Have you seen this girl anywhere round?’
Naomi wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her glove, smearing a line of dirt across her nose, then she frowned at the photograph of the tall, fair schoolgirl, hair tied back, wearing a prefect’s badge on her collar, squinting against the sun in her green and white uniform complete with blazer and hat, a slight frown hiding her eyes under heavy brows, the habitual downturn of her full lips already in evidence. It was clear to Gemma that Maddison Carr was not a happy seventeen-year-old.
‘Who is she when she’s not being the good little prefect?’
‘Maddison Carr,’ said Gemma. ‘That’s about all I know of her. Her father is a doctor, a cardiac specialist. He’s a difficult man – very superior, authoritarian. Reminds me a bit of the Duke of Edinburgh. According to him, she was living this perfectly happy, idyllic life until one day on her way to school – where she was top of the class in every subject – she got off the train at Kings Cross and never came home.’
Naomi peered closely at the photograph. ‘Perfectly happy and idyllic, eh? She does look kind of familiar with those Brooke Shields eyebrows. And is that all the information you have?’
‘Yup. The railway security cameras picked her up getting off at Kings Cross. She used an ATM and the last sighting anyone had of her was walking down Darlinghurst Road towards St Vincent’s. Then she seems to have dropped off the screen.’
Naomi studied the photograph a little longer before holding it out to Gemma. ‘I could have seen her around. But I can’t be positive. Girls come and go.’
‘You keep that,’ said Gemma. ‘Show it around and see if any of the girls have seen her.’
‘Sure,’ said Naomi. ‘And I’ll mention it at our next precinct committee meeting. The sex workers liaison officer might be helpful. She’s cool and she’s on the street a lot.’
‘Social worker?’
Naomi shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. We’ve been assigned a cop who liaises with us – takes complaints if anyone’s ripped off or bashed.’
‘What’s her name?’ Gemma asked, remembering that some time back Angie had acted in that position.