Hastily dropped in East Sydney by Angie, with a promise she’d call soon, Gemma hurried back to her car and climbed in, taking some time to write out her notes more fully. In that outpouring of pain, Natalie had relayed vital information. Findlay Finn, Gemma printed, then underscored the name. She’d need to talk to Bryson Finn’s artistic brother. And when Natalie had regained more composure, Gemma thought, she’d reinterview her, ask her what her suspicions might be. Angie’s earlier request that Gemma become a registered informant was starting to make sense. With the unwritten contract between Natalie Finn and herself, she was now very much a part of this investigation .
.
.
Gemma’s next stop was a small lane behind Bayswater Road, where Gerda the trannie lived in a unit in a white-painted block of four with bijoux balconies surrounding narrow French doors. The ground-floor balconies had been completely caged in and the main entrance was barely set back from the street. Gemma pressed the intercom and after speaking to the deep-voiced Gerda, pushed the front door open and walked up the flight of stairs to where one of the doors was already opening.
Gerda, all six feet of her, eyebrows plucked into two new moons over shrewd black eyes surrounded by lashings of mascara and kohl, sized Gemma up with an appraising look.
‘Come in, come in to the humble home,’ she said. ‘I feel I know you already. Young Hugo admires you, I know.’
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ said Gemma. ‘You were very kind to Hugo.’
‘He’s such a lad, that one,’ said Gerda, flinging her luxurious jet-black hair back from her face as she closed the door. ‘He was getting into all sorts of dangerous company.’
Over the years, Gemma had been inside many homes and she was often astonished at the huge variety of furnishings that human beings found comforting or beautiful. Lavender air-freshener and the smell of stale cigarettes mingled in the air, even though the glass-panelled door to the tiny balcony stood wide open and sunlight streamed in and glowed on the carpet. Fat couches and armchairs, ottomans and rugs in various ruddy hues and a low glass-topped coffee table took up all the available floor space. It was obvious that Gerda had a passion for that particular shade of purplish red known as cyclamen.
‘Do sit down, dear,’ said Gerda, sounding like a friendly aunt. ‘I’d offer to make you a coffee but I’ve just run out. In fact, I was on my way out to go shopping when you buzzed.’
Gemma sat on one of the cyclamen armchairs, placing her briefcase on the dark red carpet, almost invisible because of the amount of furniture crammed into the room. Glamour shots of Gerda in her heyday covered the walls; framed photographs of younger people and kids clustered on a small, mirror-backed mantelpiece over the old-fashioned gas fire.
‘My nieces and nephews,’ said Gerda, noticing Gemma’s gaze. ‘I come from a very large family. You’ve no idea what it’s like remembering all those birthdays. You got kids?’
Gemma shook her head. Then, with a shock, remembered that if she didn’t take the appropriate action, she would be a mother in a little over six months.
‘Naomi from Baroque Occasions suggested you might be able to help me,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m looking for a girl. This one. Have you seen her around here?’
Gerda took the photograph and frowned at it. She handed it back to Gemma. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Her father,’ said Gemma.
Gerda took the photograph again and studied it closely. ‘I’ve seen her,’ she said finally.
‘Where?’
Gerda pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking the couple of steps necessary to cover the room, and then stood half in, half out of the balcony, directing the stream of smoke outside past a dainty table and chair setting, their woven arabesques of steel wires adding a Parisian touch to the tiny area.
‘She doesn’t look like that any more,’ said Gerda. ‘But yeah. She’s working round here.’
‘Working round here?’ Gemma repeated.
‘She’d have to be,’ said Gerda. ‘She wouldn’t be paying for the habit she’s got on the dole.’
‘I take it you mean “working” as in sex worker?’
Gerda nodded and Gemma scribbled down ‘sex worker – user’ in her notebook.
‘You seem to know a lot about her,’ said Gemma.
‘This is my patch,’ said Gerda. ‘Not much goes on round here that I don’t know about. Lovely day out here.’ She stepped onto the balcony and deftly ashed over the ledge. ‘I used to be a worker myself,’ she said, looking down at the lane below.
‘And now?’ Gemma asked.
Gerda came back inside, reached for a heavy book and passed it over.
Gemma flicked it open. ‘
A History of Tudor England
,’ she noted, thinking that higher education seemed to be very popular in this area. ‘You’re studying history?’
‘Even better. I’m writing a book. On Lady Jane Grey. You look very surprised.’
‘It’s not every day you meet someone who’s writing a book,’ said Gemma.
Gerda gave her a hard look. ‘I don’t think you’re being quite honest, dear,’ she said, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. ‘Own up. You’re surprised that a great big girl like me is writing a book.’
‘That too,’ Gemma conceded, feeling caught out.
‘Don’t feel too badly,’ said Gerda. ‘Most people find it unusual.’
‘Where might I find Maddison?’ Gemma asked, keen to get back on track.
‘Last time I saw her,’ said Gerda, ‘was in a shooting gallery in Macleay Street. On top of Pussycats.’
‘When was that?’
‘Couple of weeks ago. I saw her in Kentucky Fried once too. And hanging near the station. She sometimes stands around there with some of the other kids.’
The station she’d travelled to instead of getting out at Strathfield for school, Gemma remembered, noting down Gerda’s information.
‘Talk to Karen Lucky,’ Gerda was saying. ‘The sex workers liaison officer from Kings Cross cops. She might be helpful. She was a great support to me a while back when I was assaulted.’
Gerda returned to the balcony and looked up the lane, the sunshine absorbed by the inky hues of her thick hair. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, turning back towards Gemma. ‘There’s Karen! I’d better not litter while the police are looking!’ She laughed and crushed her cigarette out in the pot plant and came inside, making room for Gemma to peer over the balcony. On the corner, she saw two women deep in conversation. One of them she knew: Julie Cooper from the forensic services group, talking with a uniformed policewoman.
‘I have to go out, dear,’ Gerda was saying. ‘Nearly out of ciggies as well. Come down with me and you can catch Karen now.’
Gemma followed Gerda downstairs. It wasn’t only Karen she wanted to catch. Julie would know where Steve was – if he wasn’t somewhere on a job. She realised that she was at least beginning to consider telling Steve about the baby.
Outside the front door, the tall transsexual turned to her, putting out her hand. ‘Sorry to rush off like this, dear. I do hope you can do some good with that little girl. They come here, and then God knows where they go. After a few months or so, often in even less time, they seem to drop off the screen. I don’t know what happens to them.’
Gerda waved goodbye and walked towards the little shop at the other end of the lane, hips swaying, tossing her regal head. Gemma watched her progress for a moment, smiling.
‘Hey, Julie!’ she called, turning back and waving to the approaching pair. Julie paused in her conversation and looked straight at Gemma. But instead of smiling a greeting or waving back, Julie dropped her gaze, touched Karen’s arm in a farewell gesture and abruptly turned in the opposite direction, hurrying away, hands in her jacket pockets, until she vanished round the corner.
Gemma stopped dead. What on earth had made Julie snub her like that? She and Julie weren’t close, but they were amiable acquaintances who’d met socially on several occasions.
Hesitantly, she continued towards Karen, a small woman who appeared weighed down by the equipment hanging from her belt. As Gemma approached, Karen Lucky frowned, wondering what she might have to deal with next, only lowering her eyes briefly when Gemma passed her business card to her and introduced herself.
‘Julie certainly seemed to be in a rush,’ Gemma said, trying to make the remark sound bright and casual, as the hazel eyes lifted once more and looked into hers.
‘You know Julie?’ Karen asked.
‘I do,’ said Gemma. ‘I know most of the Central Area forensic services people and some of the detectives. I used to be in the job and Angie McDonald is a great friend of mine.’
‘I know Angie,’ said Karen, relaxing. ‘Julie suddenly remembered an urgent appointment. You know how it is. Understaffed, overworked.’
‘Keep my card,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m working in the area.’
‘What are you working on?’ Karen asked.
‘A missing girl. Maddison Carr. I’ve got a photograph.’
Karen waved it away. ‘I don’t need a photograph. I know the girl you mean. I’ve been dealing with her father over the last month. He’s employed a private investigator now?’
Gemma nodded. ‘That’s me,’ she said.
‘Better you than me,’ said Karen. ‘I mean, I feel sorry for the man, but he just won’t face the facts.’
‘Which are?’ Gemma prompted, although she knew already.
‘You know how it is. We had Missing Persons leaning on us until one of them came out from Parramatta and had a talk to Maddison. Then they got the picture too.’
‘She doesn’t want to go home,’ said Gemma. ‘And her father doesn’t want to know about that.’
‘That’s right. The girl is adamant. She says no way will she go home again. When we asked her how she was supporting herself, she told us she was waitressing.’ Karen shrugged. ‘Maybe she is. And I’m Jemima Puddleduck.’
Karen pointed to a youth and girl, both wearing jeans and polar fleece hoodies, holding hands as they dawdled up the lane. ‘Here come Romeo and Juliet,’ she said. ‘Another pair of runaways. Watch this. As soon as they see me, they’ll bolt.’
Gemma watched as the two youngsters looked up from their conversation, saw Karen and took off back down the lane, disappearing around a corner.
‘You get to know the faces on the street after you’ve been working round here as long as I have.’
Her portable radio suddenly said something that changed the atmosphere. ‘Good luck with Dr Carr,’ Karen said, turning to deal with the call. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Back in her car, Gemma entered her notes into her laptop. She paused and looked up, distracted by a couple arguing near the entrance to some flats. What a weird day it had been, she thought. The failed celebration dinner and the shocking homicides of the night before; Natalie Finn in a daze of grief and rage; Angie wanting to register her as an official informant; Julie Cooper snubbing her in the street. Feeling like she was going to start crying at the slightest provocation. Is everyone going crazy, Gemma wondered. And does that include me? Or is this what being pregnant does to you?
She wanted to talk to Maddison Carr herself, she decided, and establish the truth of what Karen had told her: that Maddison did not want to go home.
Gemma started the car and drove slowly into the late afternoon traffic, finally parking just around the corner from Pussycats.
At this hour, the club wasn’t open and no one was answering her knock at the front entrance. Maybe there was a back door, Gemma thought, walking along Macleay Street, thinking of the days when shops with elegant clothing and swimwear could be found there, not the present muddle of opportunistic clip joints selling Made in China souvenirs of Australia.
She turned into the lane Pussycats would back onto. Garbage bins and an abandoned car took up a lot of space and Gemma found herself stepping over rubbish and plastic bags. But there was activity outside the club’s back door. Two girls in short skirts, tank tops and fake-fur jackets – one a solidly built Islander, the other thin and fair – leaned against the wall in the weak sunshine, sharing a smoke in silence. Older and thinner than her photograph, the fair girl, Gemma felt sure, was Maddison Carr.
From the other end of the lane, a man was approaching, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his jeans, surreptitiously eyeing the girls. He moved close to Maddison, speaking in a low voice. Wordlessly, without looking at him, she exhaled a cloud of smoke, threw her cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. Then she nodded towards the door, stepped back to allow the man to enter first, and disappeared inside, followed by the other girl.
Gemma hurried towards the open door, but before she could follow them up the flight of stairs revealed inside, a huge man bounded down the steps and stood in front of her, blocking the way.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘That girl,’ said Gemma, trying to get past him. ‘I want to talk to her.’
‘She’s busy.’
‘What time does she finish?’
‘Later.’
And before Gemma could argue with him, the giant had slammed the door closed.
Frustrated, Gemma bought herself a Danish ice-cream and sat in the car, adding this incident to her notes on Maddison Carr. Angie called to tell her she was heading over to Lane Cove shortly to interview Natalie Finn, who’d finally been persuaded to go home, so Gemma discarded the half-eaten ice-cream and drove to the Lane Cove address that Angie gave her. She needed to confirm her contract with Natalie, and didn’t want to miss a moment of her interview with Angie.
Gemma locked her car and walked up to the house, noting Angie hadn’t arrived yet. She checked out the property’s serious security system. A heavy-duty domed lens above the steel grilles covering the narrow leadlight panes on each side of the front door had the entry area under surveillance.
From inside the house came the sound of screaming.
‘Natalie!’ Gemma called through the locked door. ‘Open up! What’s happening?’
The screams continued so Gemma ran around the side of the house, but found the two large windows there too high to afford any view inside.
‘Let me go!’ a girl was screaming. ‘You can’t make me!’
This was accompanied by the sound of thudding feet and the slamming of an inside door so hard that the window near Gemma rattled.
Gemma ran back around to the front door and pounded on it again. ‘Natalie! Open the door!’
Finally Natalie, her square face flushed in feverish patches, arrived to let her in, smoothing her hair back behind her ears as she did so.
‘Sorry about that. Have you been knocking long? I haven’t been able to hear anything with Jade going on like that.’
The teenage daughter, Gemma guessed. She followed Natalie down the hall to the lounge room, stepping over an electronic toy car on the way. More toys were strewn about on the carpet of the large lounge room. Bundles of expensive flowers were piled on surfaces, little commercial ‘Sympathy’ cards attached. Natalie clearly had neither time nor inclination to hunt out suitable vases for them.
‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ Natalie continued, sitting down on a long L-shaped lounge that ran along two walls. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do about my daughter. She simply will not talk to me. She’s refusing to eat anything. Nothing I do or say helps. In fact, it only seems to make her worse.’
‘I guess she’s very distressed about her father’s death,’ Gemma offered. She was surprised at this insensitivity in Natalie. Jade’s father had been murdered the night before. Her little brother was lying at death’s door.
As if reading Gemma’s mind, Natalie spoke. ‘This behaviour started a lot earlier than last night! It’s been going on for a couple of months. She locks herself in her room and won’t have anything to do with me or anyone else. She hasn’t been to school in weeks. I don’t think what’s happened has sunk in yet. That her father is dead. That her little brother .
.
.’ Natalie’s voice caught and she paused a moment to gather herself. ‘I’m forced to leave plates of food outside her door – as if she’s some sort of wild animal!’
Natalie’s body was shaking and the effort she was making to control herself suddenly failed. Covering her face with both hands, she sobbed harshly. Gemma went to the drinks cabinet with its handsome mirrored back wall and pulled out a bottle of brandy, pouring Natalie one.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘You need a drink.’
After a few minutes, Natalie straightened herself up and wiped her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about that. It’s just been hell here for the last couple of months. I understand she’s lost her father. I do. But I just can’t deal with this.’
Just then there was a knock at the door. Angie, Gemma thought and said so to Natalie. Natalie didn’t move off the lounge but gestured so Gemma went and let Angie in.
Almost as soon as she said hello Angie went into the kitchen and soon the aroma of coffee filled the air. Gemma settled on a chair opposite Natalie.
‘I probably wasn’t making much sense at the hospital. Don’t know if I’ll do any better now,’ Natalie said, huddling into the corner of the luxurious sofa, her arms around her knees. She leaned her head forward and flicked her long fringe to one side, and, briefly, Gemma saw the bright achiever of years ago.
‘Here we are,’ said Angie, coming from the kitchen with three steaming mugs. ‘Coffee’s ready. I made you one too, Gemster. You look like you could do with one.’
Gemma hesitated only a moment before taking the mug. Sorry, baby. Just this once.
Natalie, who’d finished the brandy, took her coffee gratefully, holding it as if it was holy communion, pressing the mug against her body. Gemma remembered how shock could leave a person feeling chilled to the bones.
There was a lot of money in this house, she thought, wondering what sort of annual income a superintendent and his solicitor wife might be making between them. Sofas and armchairs upholstered in creamy leather were piled with brilliant silk cushions, and expensively framed paintings hung on the walls. But the room looked as if someone had run around grabbing things, omitting to close cupboard doors and drawers. A pile of clothes lay near the door to the hall, and a deck of playing cards fanned across the floor in disorder. Life had been shockingly interrupted in this house.
‘We can do an initial interview here,’ said Angie. ‘Although it probably won’t be the last time we’ll need to talk with you, Natalie.’
‘I never thought I’d ever be on the other end of a police interview,’ Natalie said. ‘This is the first chance I’ve had to stop for just a little while. And then I had this scene with Jade.’ Tears welled in her grey eyes. ‘I don’t know how she’s going to deal with this when it finally dawns on her.’
‘Take your time,’ said Angie, perching on the edge of a huge, square armchair and placing her coffee and electronic notebook on an inlaid timber and granite table in front of her. ‘I want to make this as easy for you as possible.’
Natalie buried her head in her hands for a second, took a deep breath, then tossed back her head, pulling her hair back from her face, tautening the skin.
‘When you’re ready,’ Angie continued, ‘I want to start getting an idea of what happened yesterday: where everyone was during the day; what they were doing; and then how the three of them – Bryson, Bettina and Donovan – all came to be together at Killara last night. Okay?’
Natalie nodded. ‘Where should I start?’
‘What happened yesterday morning? Did the day start in the normal way?’ asked Angie.
A deep sigh, then Natalie said, ‘I took Donny to school on my way to work. Bryson used to drive the kids, but since he left I’ve taken it over. He’s done it a couple of times since we separated, just to spend time with them. Jade refused to go to school. Again.’
‘Then where did you go?’
‘I went on to work as usual, at Seaforth.’
‘You work there in a law firm?’ Gemma asked.
Natalie nodded. ‘As a solicitor. I’m a partner now. With Greig and Yeo.’ She fished around under some papers on the table and gave Gemma her business card. Gemma noted the address and passed it over to Angie.
‘I spent all day at work and then I left at about .
.
.’ Natalie hesitated, lifting her gaze to the ceiling as if she was trying to remember the time. ‘It was about eight-twenty or twenty-five. Maybe eight-thirty by the time I left.’
‘That’s late to be leaving work,’ said Gemma.
‘Not in my game,’ said Natalie. ‘It’s not unusual for people in our practice to still be at work after midnight.’
‘Were you the last person to leave?’
Natalie nodded. ‘I’m lucky. Bettina loves Donny and she looks after him after school. Jade goes home.’ A tear rolled down Natalie’s face as she spoke Bettina’s name.
‘So you would have rung Bettina?’ Angie asked.
‘Of course,’ said Natalie. ‘I’d always ring and let her know my ETA.’
‘What was your normal practice when it came to picking up Donny?’ Gemma asked, wanting to know the rhythm of the family’s daily routine. She remembered something Natalie herself had stressed years ago in a lecture: a good investigator learns that the job is not just a matter of asking questions, she’d said. It’s about asking the
right
questions.
‘Most days, I generally duck out around three, pick up Donny and drop him over at Bettina’s, then go back to work. Other days, Bettina picks him up and takes him home with her, then I get him around six. Occasionally Bryson picks him up .
.
.’ Her voice trailed off.
It still hasn’t properly sunk in, Gemma thought. In her memory, her husband still lives.
‘But you were very late last night,’ said Gemma.
‘My workload has been shocking lately.’
‘Okay,’ Angie continued. ‘So at about eight-thirty last night you drove to Killara to pick up your son, after first calling your sister-in-law.’
Natalie nodded.
‘But your husband was already at the house,’ Gemma said, looking at Angie. ‘Surely he could have dropped Donovan over to your place?’
‘I didn’t know that Bryson would be there!’ said Natalie. ‘There was no reason he should have been. Bettina didn’t say anything when we talked on the phone. I had no idea!’
‘Why do you think he was there?’ Angie asked.
In the silence that followed, Gemma and Angie looked at each other. Hanging in the air between them was an unspoken question.
‘I can only guess that he wanted to see Donny,’ Natalie said. ‘Or maybe Bettina was tired or unwell and wanted Donny off her hands earlier, knew I was tied up till later and rang Bryson. Or maybe he was there to see Findlay.’
‘Did Bryson often visit his brother?’
Natalie paused. ‘No,’ she said, ‘he didn’t.’ Again she paused. ‘But Bryson has been talking to Findlay more lately because of the death of their mother, my mother-in-law.’
‘Natalie,’ said Gemma, deciding to cut to the chase, ‘do you have any idea who might have done this? Or why?’
There was an imperceptible pause. Then Natalie shook her head. ‘No. I have no idea.’
Her mobile rang and she jumped to answer it. From the way she listened, with the phone clenched against her ear, it was clear it was an important call.
‘Yes,’ she said to the caller. ‘Thanks.’ She rang off, her face worried.
‘The hospital?’ Gemma asked.
Natalie nodded.
‘How is he?’ Angie asked.
‘That was the neurosurgeon. He said he’s pleased with Donny’s progress – that he’s a little more hopeful than he was. He said I can have just a little more hope too.’ The relief on her face lit her tear-filled eyes, and again Gemma saw the good-looking woman she still was.
‘Natalie,’ Angie picked up the thread of the interview, ‘you used to be in the job. You went through the ranks faster than most women – faster than most men too, for that matter. You must have some instinct about this incident. Do you think it’s related to the drug operation your husband was involved with?’
‘You’re not suggesting that Bryson was somehow involved in a corrupt way?’ Natalie asked, eyes blazing.
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Angie. ‘There are other reasons why a police officer who gets too close to certain people in the course of an investigation might be targeted. What’s your gut feel about this? At the moment, we haven’t got anything much to go on.’
‘I don’t believe he died because of Skylark,’ said Natalie, in a steadier voice. ‘If someone from the underworld wanted him dead, a professional killer would have been used. I don’t know any professional who’d use a rifle and then leave all the ballistic evidence lying around.’
Gemma recalled the case of a federal police officer who’d hired two heroin addicts to murder his wife. ‘Someone could have delegated the job to an incompetent third party,’ she suggested.
‘That’s possible, I suppose,’ Natalie said. She clutched the cushion closer. ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. I can’t believe I’m talking about the murder of my husband. And the attempted murder of my son.’ Her face crumpled and she blew her nose hard.
From somewhere deep in the house came the sound of a toilet flushing. Jade, Gemma thought.
‘Was the fact that you and Bryson had separated widely known?’ Angie asked.
Natalie shook her head. ‘Only our close friends knew about it. I don’t think the people at Bryson’s work knew. But if a professional was used, he’d have run surveillance on Bryson for some time. It would have become clear within a day or two that he was no longer living here.’ She frowned. ‘Really, it
couldn’t
have been a professional because the best place to remove Bryson would be at his new flat. That would have been a shoo-in. Maybe the killer was after Findlay or Bettina.’
Angie made a note before speaking again. ‘We’ve already had a look at the flat where Bryson was living.’
‘Then you know that it’s not secure like this place.’ Natalie waved a hand, indicating her house. ‘Bryson had this place specially designed for security. Then he walks out – I throw him out,’ she quickly corrected herself, ‘and starts renting somewhere that relies on intercom. There’s no real security there. Anyone could get in.’ She put her coffee down and briefly closed her eyes. ‘I can’t think properly just now. I still haven’t taken it in. I haven’t begun to think about Bryson dying, or Bettina. It’s a terrible thing to say but I’ve hardly thought of them. Or anything else except Donny and whether or not he’s going to survive. And there are going to be funerals to organise.’
She shrank back against the couch like a frightened child.
If Bryson Finn was the target, Gemma thought, someone knew enough to know where he was last night. Someone had been right on his tail; Natalie stating she’d arrived only moments after the shooting.
‘Bryson’s brother, Findlay,’ Angie said. ‘The detectives interviewed him early this morning, and according to his statement he was out painting all day and didn’t return until late at night. So clearly Bryson hadn’t arranged to visit him. Does he often go off on all-day painting expeditions?’
Natalie shivered. It wasn’t cold in this well-appointed room, thought Gemma. She was still in deep shock.
‘Findlay sometimes goes out like that for the day. Packs up his paints and an easel, grabs some fruit and biscuits and off he goes. Then drives somewhere – Blue Mountains, South Coast. Comes back with a stack of sketches and roughed-out landscapes. I went with him a couple of times in the old days.’