“That’s bullshit. You made that up. He may be a bit volatile, but he is very well respec—”
“Listen to me for once! You’ve got yourself into a mess over there and you should come home,” her father implored.
“I have things I need to tie up first. Trust me. I can’t leave now.”
“You have to!”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“You really are your mother’s daughter. Stubborn as all hell.”
“I’ll be home in a few more weeks, and then it won’t matter. I’m too wrapped up in this—”
“Can’t you see that’s the problem? You’ve put yourself in danger again.”
That stung. If he brought up the whole nightmare with Stanley, she would hang up on him. She wished she’d never even told him she’d been attacked, but she knew one of his cop friends would have blurted it out anyway.
“Hey, I don’t
put
myself in danger, OK? And I’m fine here. Besides, I don’t even see Andy anymore.”
“Really.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Well, you may not put yourself in danger, but you certainly don’t seem to jump out of the frying pan when things heat up.”
“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” she said bluntly. “I’ll be back before the first contraction, I promise.”
She started to put the phone down but he spoke again. “Don’t shut me out!”
“I’m not,” she said, but did exactly that.
Late that afternoon, as dark clouds rolled in from the south, Makedde wandered down to Bronte Park for a brisk walk. She needed a bit of exercise and the fresh coastal breeze to fill her lungs, and hopefully shed some light on the myriad of unanswered questions. She had stayed home all day, too preoccupied and self-conscious to integrate into any populated scene. Fighting with her father had made things so much worse. She hated ending a conversation with him on such a sour note.
She walked back and forth through the park and the damp sand on the beach, contemplating what Jimmy had told her. Andy had an alibi for the other murders. Unfortunately he didn’t have one for the murder of his wife. What Jimmy had told her about Rick Filles didn’t surprise her in the slightest. Apparently he’d preyed on young, impressionable girls as young as thirteen. She hoped they hadn’t been abused in that disgusting little room of his, with those horrible contraptions.
The skies opened up as she walked, and although it wasn’t cold by Canadian standards, there was
certainly a Sydney winter chill in the air. Makedde pulled the hood of her jacket up over her head, and listened to the rain’s pitter-patter on the vinyl. She was alone in the park, except for a romantic couple nuzzling each other under one of the wooden picnic shelters, wrapped tightly in a huge woolly blanket. It was the happiest thing she’d seen all day, but a strange, unexpected sadness came over her at the sight of it. She was deep in thought when the sound of a passing car caught her attention. It was a late model red sportscar, freshly polished. Something about it set off a distant warning bell.
A strong wind whistled through the trees at the edges of the park and she buried her chin into her collar. It was getting dark. Time to head back. Makedde walked with her head down, mulling things over.
One word echoed repeatedly in her mind…
guilty.
“James Tiney Jr please,” Luther snarled into the phone, feeling odd having to hold the receiver to his right ear instead of his left. He stared at his reflection in a small shaving mirror, examining the bandage covering his left ear. A spot of blood was leaking through it.
“Who may I ask is calling?” queried the receptionist.
“Tell him it’s Mr Hand, and it’s important.”
“Oh, I see. One moment please.”
Luther didn’t feel patient. Not at all. JT hadn’t been straight with him. He had some serious explaining to do.
After a few moments, JT’s irritating voice came on the line. “Yes. What’s going on?”
“I’m only going to ask you this once,” Luther stated firmly. “Who else do you have working this assignment?”
“What—”
“Don’t make me ask you again.”
“N-n-no…no one else. Why? What’s happened?”
“I’m dropping the job.”
“You what?!”
“You’re not being straight with me. And here I was about to do you a big favour,” Luther hissed angrily. “You screwed up.”
“What are you talking about? Why did I need an alibi last night? I fought with my wife all night because of you. I’m going through hell here because you didn’t find the ring, and you’re giving
me
grief!”
“You know what I’m talking about. There’s too much heat now. Consider us even.”
“B-b-but…but what about the payments I made?” JT sounded pathetic, stuttering like a spoilt child who wasn’t getting what he wanted. “You didn’t do the job! She’s still in town. The police got the ring and now I’m fucked! You can’t do this to me. What about the money I gave you?”
“Consider it payment for my ear.”
“What? Hey, I want my money back!”
“Have a whinge to Consumer Affairs.”
Luther hung up the phone, ignoring JT’s snivelling protests. Controlling his irritation with deep breathing, he pulled the mirror closer. Blood soaked the new bandage. If the cops found part of his ear at the scene, they could match it. He couldn’t afford to be questioned about anything. Maybe it was a good time to head north again. He could use the sunshine.
There was a surprise waiting for Makedde when she got home. A man was sitting on her stairs, staring at her. One dim light over the front door cast a faint glow across a cheek, the other side of his face was in darkness. He was smiling.
Andy Flynn looked haggard. It was as if he had just stepped out of a tumble-dryer. How long had he been waiting in the cold wind? She wasn’t disarmed by the innocent look of defeat on his face.
“Makedde, I was hoping you’d come home soon. I really need to talk to you,” he said. “I just need you to know that I didn’t do it,” he continued. “I could never do something like that.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet like this,” she managed to say.
Don’t get him angry.
“Maybe we could—”
“No.” He cut her off aggressively. “Please…I
need
to talk, just for a moment.”
“Why don’t we get a coffee then, and talk about it—there’s a place just around the corner. We can get out of this wind.” He didn’t respond for a moment.
She had to get them out of the empty street. She had to get them in public. “Come on, it’s not far.”
Minutes later they were seated at a table in a Bronte café that she had passed on her walk home. It overlooked the now darkened beach through a huge pane of glass. The waves were crashing angrily on the shore. A storm was brewing, but the rain had temporarily ceased. Makedde rubbed her hands to warm up.
“OK,” she said, “why don’t we start at the beginning. One minute we can’t keep our hands off each other, the next minute you won’t return my calls.”
Andy sat there for a moment, silent and hunched.
But then, like a helium balloon that begins to drop and pucker after too many hours, the aggression seemed to leak out of him. He was slowly collapsing in front of her.
“You have a really terrible habit of turning up unannounced. You do realise that, don’t you?”
He offered her a weak, “Sorry.” Then he seemed to come back from somewhere. He chose his words with care, “I fear I…may have put you in danger.”
It was not the kind of reply she was expecting.
“You’ve put me in danger?” she asked the messed up part in his hair.
“Inadvertently,” he added without looking up.
“Inadvertently? Like your wife, you mean?”
He tilted his head. His eyes were sad and weary. “Yes.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take that well, considering what happened to her.”
The waitress placed their drinks gently on the table and quickly disappeared. Makedde watched as Andy cupped his hands around his black coffee and closed his eyes. Perhaps there was no reason to fear him at all. It was time to find out.
“I’m not a murderer,” he declared. “I didn’t kill any of those poor women, and I certainly didn’t kill my own wife. But I believe that whoever did knows how far I am willing to go to catch him, and he’s trying to get me out of the way.”
“You mean the killer tried to frame you?”
“Yes. Cassandra was just a tool for him, a way of getting to me. That’s why you may be in danger…If he knows about us he may try to use you next.”
Was it that simple? A set-up?
“Do you have any reason to believe that he’s after me?”
“Only what you told Jimmy. We can’t know for sure, but it got me thinking.”
“They aren’t going to do anything to protect me though, are they?”
“No. They can’t. Even if they wanted to, there isn’t enough evidence to justify the manpower.”
No surprise there.
Why didn’t I save the mutilated
photo?
“So let me just clarify something here. You had nothing to do with the death of your wife? You were framed?”
“I swear.”
“And where were you when she was killed?”
“I was alone, drunk and miserable in a house at Lane Cove where I went the moment I was suspended Monday morning.” His eyes pleaded for trust.
“But you can’t prove it.”
“No.”
Uh huh.
“What were you doing at Lane Cove?”
“I had to get away. It’s a little investment property. We had a tenant in it at one point.”
Mak was still sceptical. “So, if it was your place then why didn’t the police just contact you there? They were searching for you, you know.”
“It was Cassandra’s place actually, and it’s still in her name. She was going to transfer the title to me as part of the divorce settlement. She got the Woollahra house, which is worth more. I couldn’t stand the thought of living in it, so Lane Cove was fine.”
“And the kitchen knife?” she asked, continuing her interrogation.
“Stolen.”
“The blood?”
He offered her his right hand, and flexed the thumb out as if he were asking for a lift. “See that
cut?” Her eyes rested on a thin gash. “It’s thanks to your lecture on the benefits of fresh fruit and veggies.”
She remembered their first date and her silly comment. She doubted it would have had any effect on his eating habits. “When?”
“Saturday. It’s the only explanation I can think of.”
The only excuse you can think of?
“And that was the last time you used the knife?”
“Yes. I left it in the sink. I was with you after that. When I left for Lane Cove on Monday I didn’t take a lot of stuff with me. I had no idea how long I’d stay. I just needed to cool off. Escape. I don’t know if the knife was gone by then. All I know is it wasn’t there yesterday. It was lying beside Cassandra’s body.”
“Something I still don’t get; if you don’t live at the Woollahra house with Cassandra, and you had to pack some stuff to go to the Lane Cove house, where are you living?”
“I’ve been staying at the Holt Hotel. It’s a crappy little place in the Cross. That’s why I never wanted to take you there. With this case, I haven’t had the time to properly move.”
“Is Jimmy still heading the investigation?” she asked.
“The Stiletto Murders, yes, but they’ve got someone else handling Cassandra’s death. Jimmy thinks I’m innocent, to my face at least, but there are a lot of people who think I used my knowledge of
the crimes to do a copycat. For all I know, some jumped-up little prick is dedicating every spare moment of his time to finding a hole in my alibis for the other deaths, too.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t really know, to be honest. I don’t know how, but I’ve got to catch this guy. It’s the only way I can prove my innocence. They have a new lead on Catherine’s case but they won’t tell me anything about it. I have officially been off the case since Monday. Even Jimmy won’t let on.” He sighed. “I don’t know what they think I’d do. Even if I could find this guy right now and beat a confession out of him, it wouldn’t mean diddly-squat.”
It sounded like something he’d tried before. “Did Jimmy give you the impression it was a good lead?”
“Not necessarily. Just something new. If it was solid enough they would be all over it, and they aren’t.”
“They’re all over you.”
“Exactly.”
They smiled together for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.
“You look tired. You must have had a hell of a week,” she offered.
“You could say that. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you. I have no excuse, but the longer I stayed out there, the more I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Least of all, a woman,” she added, pointedly.
“I guess so,” he admitted.
His manner was so strange. It was like someone had knocked the wind out of his sails. She wanted to say that she understood, but she would be lying. Things could never be the same again. She looked down and saw that her cup was empty. She needed to get home and think about what he had said, without him around to influence her.
“It’s late. I should get to bed.”
“I’ll walk you to your door—if that’s all right.”
“Sure.”
The night was stormy and electric as they walked back, dark clouds moving over them, heavy with rain.
“Thanks for hearing me out,” he said, when they reached her door.
She stepped away from him and wished him a goodnight. He seemed to sense her caution, and respect it. It was good to have talked with him, to have heard his side.
But on which side lay the truth?
Cold rain fell heavily upon him; branches bent and strained in the wind, bowing as he passed silently through the streets. Black-clad, he moved with well-practised feline stealth. His mother’s cat, Spade, who he had studied for so many years, moved with a similar agile grace.
Makedde’s car was easy to find—the words “Lowe-Rent” were printed in tacky blue lettering on a sticker on the rear windscreen. It was parallel parked tightly between two older looking cars a block away from her Bronte flat.
He considered himself a careful planner and there was no doubt that this new scheme would work. All he needed to do was be patient, and he could be very patient when he wanted to be. This time there would be no meddling oaf to surprise him and ruin his moment. Whoever the competition had been, he was sure the man wouldn’t return.