Rick walked into the room and partly shut the door, one beady eye still keeping watch over his prey. He turned from her for a moment and she saw her chance. Lunging forward, she slammed the door shut and swung a chair beneath the knob.
“Hey!” he yelled. “You bitch! Open this up!”
There was no time to waste. She ran towards the stack of folders sitting under the light-table and frantically searched them.
Damn!
Just forms and papers.
“Bitch!” he yelled again, and she could hear the chair creak dangerously, about to break.
She had no time. Shoes in one hand, she took the steps two by two, the sound of his shouts fading as she reached the street. She started to run, then out of the shadows came a neon blur.
“Sweetie! What happened?” Loulou exclaimed.
“Quick!” Mak said, breathless and still running. Loulou took her cue and followed. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
They ran for blocks before they reached Loulou’s car, fresh out of the repair shop. Bored drug-addicts and street-walkers watched them pass with disinterest. Loulou started the engine. “What happened? Wasn’t I supposed to barge in and act like some jealous lover or something?”
Makedde felt sick. “Things got a little out of hand,” she admitted.
“I can see that. Did you get what you wanted?”
“Well…yes and no,” Mak said. “He’s got some weird shit goin’ on, but I didn’t find anything directly linking him to Cat.”
“Where’s my red boob-top?”
“In the bag.”
“Where’d you get the leather thing?”
“The S&M dungeon from hell. You can have it. I won’t be wanting any souvenirs.”
“Groovy,” Loulou said, admiring the studs before they sped off.
He lay on top of the bedsheets, eyes closed, curtains drawn. He wanted to rest, to clear his mind, but he couldn’t. There were sounds coming through the wall, depraved noises disturbing his quiet. He picked up some cotton balls and stuffed them in his ears, succeeding in blocking out only a fraction of the din. In the dim room, he squinted at the photograph tacked to the wall.
My girl.
Makedde.
She was perfect; long, slim, elegant legs barely concealed beneath a short leather dress. Deliciously high heels forced her slender feet to arch, calves flexed.
Whore.
It antagonised him that the photograph wasn’t clear enough. He couldn’t see the tiny, blonde hairs on her thighs. He couldn’t see the small, bluish veins of her feet, pumping sweet blood back towards her heart.
She’d left the photo there for him. She wanted him to cure her. She’d even led him to her new flat, where she lived alone.
Don’t worry, I’m coming for you soon.
But the noises wouldn’t stop, they were breaking into his thoughts. They became louder. He could hear them right through the walls; groans like animals, the bed squeaking.
Mother!
He covered his head with the pillow. He was a child again, just a little boy; his pillow a teddy bear, covering his ears to that terrible racket. He was back in that house, trying desperately to block out the sounds, stuffing his school clothes under the door.
Mother! Mother, stop it!
Days and nights it had persisted. For years it wouldn’t stop; sinful debauchery, and the smell. The loathsome odour of lust and profligacy had filled the house, filled his young nose.
Mother!
Only
he
stopped it. He cleansed her in the white-hot flames of hellfire, burning away her sin, the house a pillar of bright heat. He had watched it from down the street, watched the flames lick the sky.
Now he tried to ignore the persistent noises coming through the wall. He pretended it wasn’t happening again. After all these years, it
couldn’t
be happening again.
Mother can’t be a whore now. I cured her.
Makedde wanted his special punishment too and he would take great pleasure in giving her what she
needed, once the time was right. He’d watch her until then; follow her through the streets, watch her in her new lodgings and above all exercise patience.
It was meant to be.
But first, preparations had to be made.
On Thursday afternoon, Makedde walked towards Book agency feeling stupid, but glad to be alive. She still hadn’t shaken off the previous night’s horrors. How long would it have taken Rick Filles to escape his little romper room? She didn’t even want to know. She never wanted to face those beady eyes again. She longed to tell Andy about her find but he still wasn’t returning her calls. And Jimmy, what a prick! She didn’t want to talk to him again.
She strolled into Book agency with a casual wave to the receptionist, forcing herself to walk tall and smile. Charles was busy on the phone with someone, as usual. Mak glanced around the room, admiring the composite cards on the walls; Christy’s impossible cheekbones, Ester’s awe-inspiring lips. It was enough to make any mere mortal feel like a mutt. Book had a lot of top editorial models, but perhaps Mak would have been better off at the other big agency in town. They represented Elle, Rachel and Jae Jae, among others, and they were more established.
To her surprise she spotted her portfolio on top of some papers on the booking table. “Oh my God!” she screamed with relief. “My book!”
Skye smiled. “We got it this morning. You’re awfully lucky.”
“Who found it?”
“I don’t know. It was on the doorstep when we opened.”
Makedde felt as if a ten-tonne weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She couldn’t have imagined tracking down all her vital magazine clippings from Paris to Vancouver and then trying to locate all the photographers. She quickly flipped through it to check that everything was intact. Halfway through the book, she came to a blank page. A photo was missing.
“Damn. There’s a shot missing.”
“Are you sure?” Skye asked.
“Yes. Every page was filled before. Look,” she said, holding it open, “there’s an empty one.”
Makedde wondered why anyone would want to steal just one photo. Bikini shot? Something sexy that a young guy might want to keep as a memento?
Memento.
She remembered Loulou.
Those shoes are divine.
With horror she realised which photo was missing. Mak flipped through the book one more time to check. Yes, it was the photo from Miami with the high, stiletto shoes.
“Skye, I really need to know who returned this book.”
She looked at Makedde, puzzled. “Well, there wasn’t any note.”
“Could anyone have seen them? The building janitor? The receptionist, anyone?”
“She told me it was just there when she arrived.”
“What time does the building open?”
“Eight, I think. Now, don’t panic. It’s just a photo. You have enough other shots to balance your book.”
No,
Makedde thought on her way out the door,
it’s more than that.
Makedde called the cleaning company just before they closed. As the Book agency receptionist understood it, the cleaners had someone come in every Thursday from five to eight in the morning to vacuum the halls and stairwells and clean the toilets. They would have been there when her portfolio was left. She had to know who this person was, and what they’d seen.
An older woman answered the phone.
“This is Detective Mahoney calling from Central Homicide,” Makedde said. “I’m investigating a complaint about some stolen property in a building your company cleans. Can you tell me which of your
employees was working in the High Tower building in the city this morning?”
“That would be me,” she said apprehensively.
Makedde tried to sound as professional as possible. “And your name, ma’am?”
“Mrs Tulla Walker.”
“Mrs Walker, I would like to ask you some questions about this morning.”
“Yes. I’ll help in any way I can,” she replied eagerly.
“That’s much appreciated. What time did you arrive at the High Tower building this morning?”
“Five.”
“Did you notice any packages at the door of the building, or inside the building?”
She took a moment to answer. “Yes…I did. I saw a parcel addressed to the model agency upstairs. I brought it right up and left it at their door. I promise.”
“And where did you find this parcel?”
“Leaning against the front door.”
“Inside the building?”
“No. Outside.”
“Did you notice any forwarding address or note attached to the parcel?”
“I don’t think so.” She paused. “No note. I think it had a single address…just to Book Model Agency. I didn’t notice anything else.”
Damn.
“Thank you for your time Mrs Walker.”
“I swear I didn’t take it! I left it at the agency’s door. I swear!”
Makedde felt a twinge of guilt at the woman’s panic.
“I believe you, ma’am. You’re not under suspicion,” she assured her. “Thank you for your time.”
Feeling a bit sheepish, she hung up the phone.
Night fell, chill, dark and windy. The trees bent, bushes rustled. Every preparation had been made. There was nothing left to do but wait. Minutes ticked by. Hours. The leaves whispered in the darkness.
Her car pulled up around ten. It looked shiny and freshly polished, glinting glossy red in the street light. She parked in her driveway and he watched as she cut the engine and went around to the boot. She was alone.
High heels.
He smiled.
He was well camouflaged within the bushes, and watched her gather up an arm load of groceries, shut the boot and walk up to the house. Her hair was swept into a neat bun. She wore a dark business suit with a skirt that rode above the knee. Sheer nylon stockings shimmered as she walked.
He would give her the surprise of her life.
He removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on. When he heard the front door unlock as she entered her house, he made his way swiftly to the sliding balcony door at the side, quietly
letting himself in. Hours earlier, it had taken mere seconds to release the lock. The house had no alarm.
It felt exhilarating to be inside with her so close, the waiting nearly over. He heard her walk down the hall towards the kitchen just beyond him, and place the groceries down on the kitchen table. She turned and started to leave the room, and for a moment he thought she would come right into the dining room where he stood. His grip tensed on the hammer. But no, she was going the other way, into the living room.
The stereo came on.
He smiled again.
She played with the radio dial for a few seconds, settling on a she-done-me-wrong country tune before walking back to the kitchen. Silently, he placed his bag on the floor near his feet. He stepped into the open doorway. She was bent over the grocery bags on the table. She had taken off her suit jacket and was wearing a thin, silky blouse. Her beautiful dark hair had been freed from the bun. He moved towards her undetected; she was still preoccupied with her purchases. He could smell her intoxicating, expensive perfume.
He raised the hammer.
At the very last instant she sensed something and turned. “What—”
The hammer came down with a deft thud upon the crown of her skull. The sensation of impact was
an incredible release. The thrill of it spiralled down like a current through his muscles and back up to his head, making his temples throb with pleasure. The blow sent her sprawling backwards onto the linoleum and her head hit the cupboard with a crash.
He bent over her.
“You wore my favourite shoes,” he whispered appreciatively. “Thanks for making this easy for me.” She was nearly unconscious. She didn’t try to fight; just moaned incoherently. He knew she wouldn’t resist him. She had a petite body. It was easy to drag her up the carpeted staircase. He felt so strong, so powerful. He pulled her to the bedroom and lifted her onto the bed. He removed the twine from his back pocket and with expert hands rolled her on to her stomach and tied her wrists and ankles together. He then turned her over to face him. Her legs were forced under her, the blue skirt pulled up over her thighs to reveal lacy panties. Her sheer stockings had ripped, leaving a long spidery ladder up the inside of her thigh. The skin showing through was the colour of ivory. Her eyes were dull, rolling in her head, but she was breathing.
He left her for a moment and fetched his duffel bag from downstairs. Entering the bedroom again a moment later, he saw that she was becoming more lucid, her moans becoming words. But she wasn’t screaming.
In a wavering voice she asked, “What do you want?”
He placed the bag on the floor by the foot of the bed and reached down to it. He unzipped the bag and removed the knife.
She screamed.
He couldn’t have that, not in this neighbourhood. He forced his hand over her small mouth, smearing red lipstick across her cheek and muffling her cries. The lovely sharpened blade mesmerised him. Such peculiar beauty in that perfect moment. He felt her struggle under his body.
Finally he answered her.
An hour later he emerged from the bedroom, removed his gloves, carefully deposited them in a sealable plastic evidence bag and put on a fresh pair. He would make a quick tour of the house before he left. He entered the study and examined the large, leather-lined desk. Overpriced antique. There were real estate brochures stacked on top, an English dictionary, travel books. He spotted a labelled folder sitting to one side.
Divorce.
He carefully opened the folder and flipped through the pages. The lawyer’s fees were high, but she’d got her money’s worth. There were property
appraisals and forms, and a letter written in legalese regarding a property in Lane Cove
.
He read it twice and pocketed it.
Satisfied that he had all he wanted, he grabbed his duffel bag and left.
James Tiney Jr wasn’t going to stand for it. They didn’t have anything on him. How could they drag him down here? By the time he was finished with them, the police would be very sorry they had treated him in this manner.