Makedde Vanderwall.
Suzie stood on a corner directly across from the seedy-looking bar Ed had disappeared into. She’d heard the front door close when he had left the apartment, and quickly followed. Her boyfriend
was after this girl Makedde, and here she was, right in Suzie’s sights. It was her. And Suzie had found her.
With violence bubbling over in her heart, Suzie walked briskly towards the woman who was the cause of all the uncertainty in her relationship. Makedde was the reason she did not have Ed’s true devotion. Makedde was his distraction. Makedde was the one thing that could bring them down. Makedde stood in their way. Makedde was the enemy.
Makedde Vanderwall.
Only a few feet away now.
Suddenly she turned and looked right at Suzie. She had bright blue-green eyes that took in Suzie’s face with surprise and some alarm. Did she recognise her?
‘Oh, here!’ A taxi pulled up in front of them and the back door opened automatically with a strange little hydraulic lever. Makedde and the other girl quickly climbed in. Suzie lunged towards the cab but missed the door as it swung shut again.
Dammit!
‘Did you see that woman?’
‘Who?’ Jen asked.
‘That woman with the crazy eyes. She was staring at me.’ Mak was shaken.
Jen turned around and looked out at the street. ‘She wanted this cab pretty bad. Look, she’s trying to hail one now.’
Mak turned too. The woman was trying desperately to hail a cab but none were stopping for her.
Makedde’s heart pounded from the unsettling encounter. ‘Mid Levels,’ she told the driver and settled back into the seat. ‘I’m glad we found a cab. I think that area creeped me out a bit.’
‘Wake up, Andy. We got something.’
Through his congested thoughts he managed to croak, ‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ though truly he wasn’t. With one eye open, he saw the bedside clock indicating ten minutes to six. He rolled straight out from between the sheets clutching his mobile phone to his ear.
‘Don’t tell me you fell asleep at your desk again and didn’t get home until late?’
‘Just tell me what it is, Mahoney. Is it good?’ He grabbed a shirt off the floor and started to put it on.
‘There’s a homicide in Seven Hills. Probably related. Want me to pick you up?’
Oh damn. A body.
Andy had been wondering how long it would take. Who was she? Whose life had Ed cut short this time?
‘Only if I get to drive,’ he said.
‘No way. I mean, yes, sir. Whatever you say, my superior. Local police got a call last night from the wife of the brother of our Long Bay guard, Suzie Harpin,’ Mahoney explained. ‘She said that
someone had moved into her husband’s house. That he was missing. And there was a human arm in the kitchen sink.’
‘An arm?’
‘I’ll explain the rest on the way.’
‘Are you okay?’
The words came through the bathroom door in a whisper. Mak looked up with a start. It was barely four-thirty in the morning. She opened her mouth to answer, but felt another wave of nausea take over.
‘Blaaaah,’ was the noise she made instead of speech.
‘Makedde?’ Another whisper, and a thump, as if someone were now pushing against the door.
Go away, please…
‘Just a…uh, minute,’ Mak groaned. She wiped her mouth and rose from the toilet bowl. ‘Yes?’ she said through the locked door.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah sure,’ she replied.
Yeah right.
‘I’ll be out in a sec.’
Mak found her toiletries bag shoved into the back of the bathroom cupboard, behind someone’s cosmetics and bottles of Dior fake tan. She brushed her teeth and spat into the sink. She splashed water on her face.
Apart from her episode the night before the trial, Mak couldn’t remember the last time she had
been sick. She hoped this wasn’t going to become a regular occurrence. Puke for worry. Puke for excess alcohol consumption. Puke because you love Hong Kong. All this vomiting was a sure sign that her life was going down the toilet.
Feeling slightly less nauseous, she opened the bathroom door and found Jen sitting on the arm of the couch, gazing at her with worry. She wore boyish pyjamas, her face clean and shiny, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Without make-up, she looked about twelve.
‘It’s all yours,’ Mak managed to say.
‘You aren’t fat, you know. You’re just tall,’ Jen replied.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m just saying…you know…’ Jen looked sheepish. She was sitting on her hands, Mak noticed. ‘I’m just saying that you aren’t fat.’
Mak was confused.
Why is she saying this to me now?
‘I know I’m not fat,’ she replied.
Then Jen looked towards the bathroom and back to her, and Mak got her meaning.
‘Oh, no, no. I’m not bulimic!’ Mak exclaimed. ‘No. Thanks for your concern, but no.’ The chucking up was probably something Jen had seen before. ‘I’m just, well…
sick.
It might be something I ate last night, those conpoys I ended up trying, or that abalone thing.’
Jen nodded, partially reassured.
‘You ought to go back to bed,’ Mak said. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you. It’s so early. And you have that test today.’
For Mak it was 6.30 a.m. Sydney time, so she doubted she would be able to get any more sleep. This would be the start of her day, and what a start it had been.
Jen’s sheepish look had appeared again. ‘I don’t have any test,’ she admitted. ‘I just…wanted Shawn off my back. He’s a bit of a party animal.’
Makedde laughed. ‘I see. Do you usually get free drinks?’
Jen nodded. ‘At some places they offer free drinks if we bring our composite cards.’
In any fashion capital there are plenty of places willing to offer free drinks to models who frequent their establishment. When Mak was starting out in Milan, some of Italy’s richest playboys were known to pay top dollar to club owners to lure young models. Some clubs even had agreements with model agencies to encourage the new girls in town to party with them. Most of the new models were unsuspecting of the set-up, and their being underage and impressionable was not considered a problem to certain powerful men. Mak had only managed to escape one slimebucket’s attentions by being, as the man described, ‘
intimidazione
’—an almost six-foot-tall fifteen year old who commanded an impressive right hook.
‘Um, please don’t think I’m rude, Jen, but can I ask…how old are you?’
Please don’t let her be fifteen.
‘Seventeen.’
Mak was relieved. ‘I’ll be twenty-eight this year,’ she said, by way of sharing. In Europe at fifteen,
she’d been invited to all kinds of wild parties. Hamburg, Munich, Milan, London, Paris, Barcelona, Madrid. Wherever there was work, there were parties. She very quickly decided not to go to any of them. The early nights had probably added eight years to her model resume.
‘You have beautiful skin, you know,’ she told Jen. ‘Don’t ever bake it in the sun.’
My God Mak, you are beginning to sound like someone’s mother.
With that thought, she rushed back into the bathroom to be sick once more.
A dismembered arm…?
‘We’ve an absolute goldmine here, Detective Flynn.’
Andy Flynn and Karen Mahoney were met by a young constable who explained as much as he could as they got out of the car and walked towards the pleasant suburban house.
It looked to Andy to be a family-oriented neighbourhood. Nice green lawns. A tricycle on a driveway. Sprinklers. A basketball hoop in the garden next door. Some chalk lines drawn on the bitumen for hopscotch, or something similar. The house that had been blocked off as a crime scene was one of the larger, newer ones on the block. It looked well kept, although the garden was a bit of a jungle. If this was one of Ed’s victims then why was the lawn so overgrown? Ed had only been out a few days.
Some of the neighbours were standing around, gawking. One woman was actually in a robe and hair curlers, like an extra in an old Doris Day film. An elderly man watched from his yard several houses down through a pair of binoculars. No kids
about, thankfully. No one screaming and carrying on. Yet.
They stepped over the blue-chequered crime-scene tape and followed the constable towards the front door of the house.
‘Detective Flynn!’ came a loud voice from the street.
They turned in unison.
‘Pat Goodacre. Oh shit. Media’s here guys,’ he said under his breath.
Andy walked calmly back across the lawn. ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he greeted her.
‘So what have we got?’
He kept his smile. She was annoyingly good.
‘We don’t have anything of interest for you at this time, Pat. Sorry I can’t help you out.’
‘Oh, I think you can.’ Pat smiled back unflinchingly through her pearly whites, her keen eyes searching his face. ‘What has been found in this house, Detective? And how is it related to the Stiletto Murders?’ She brandished her tape-recorder like a weapon. Mightier than the sword, indeed.
‘We don’t have any reason to believe that anything here is related to the Stiletto Murders. Sorry, Pat. There’s no story here. Our media liaison will be able to let you know if there are any developments.’
The journalist smiled. ‘But Andy, you and I both know that the story is wherever you are, and you are wherever the story is.’
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Pat,’ Andy said, walking away. Pat stayed put at the edge of the
barrier. She wasn’t budging. She knew a story when she saw one. Andy Flynn wouldn’t be house-hunting in Seven Hills right after Ed’s escape unless there was a bloody good reason, and they both knew it. The only saving grace with someone like Pat was that she was so good at getting her scoop that it was possible that not even her boss knew where she was or what she was chasing. If anyone else caught wind of it, the news helicopters would be tipped off in no time and then they would find themselves on the morning news.
Following Mahoney and the constable into the house, Andy was relieved to leave the crowd outside and close the door.
‘Hey, Flynn.’ It was Sampson, a junior task force detective. He was at the top of the stairs next to an officer dusting for fingerprints. The white railing was sooty with carbon powder. The black rim of a frame was cloudy with Lanconide.
‘It looks like our man has been spending a lot of time here,’ he said. ‘There are some
bee-yoo-tiful
prints all over this place. We ran them and the initial analysis says we probably got a pretty damn good match. Bloody brilliant.’
Bingo. A lead. Finally.
And this Suzie Harpin was related. As hostage, or accomplice?
‘We got prints in the kitchen, the bathrooms, bedrooms everywhere. Our man hung around here for a while. Got real comfy. He even cut out some press clippings about himself,’ the officer said between dusting spots.
‘Tell me about our John Doe,’ Andy said. ‘Or John Arm. Who does it belong to?’
‘Oh, we found the rest. The woman who called us, a Lisa Harpin, is going to try to ID the head. It was well preserved. Probably her husband.’
‘Yeah, wrapped like a frozen turkey,’ the young constable commented, and picked his teeth with a hangnail.
‘Thank you!’ Mahoney said and shook her head, curls bouncing in every direction.
‘So the victim is…male?’ Andy said.
A nod. ‘You’re going to want to take a look at the basement first up, then I’ll take you through the rest.’
What are you up to, Ed? Coming here and killing a man? You wouldn’t bother killing a man unless he got in your way…like Jimmy. And since when have you wrapped and frozen your victims? That’s not your style at all…Who is helping you—and why?
Wednesday morning, still bright and early, and Mak was seated on the deck of one of the famous Star Ferries, leaning her elbow on the rail and admiring the impressive view as the ferry bobbed along through the darkly polluted water of Victoria Harbour. Gleaming skyscrapers of glass and steel rose from Hong Kong Island behind her, offset by blue skies and lush green hills in the distance. She had already snapped half-a-dozen photos with her digital camera, and she raised it now for one more. She was on the way to Kowloon, along with the local rush hour crowd, mostly businessmen and shopkeepers on their way to work. She planned to do some sightseeing on the other side, and perhaps a bit of shopping, though she knew that earrings and handbags would be the only things that would fit her.
Snap.
She checked the image on the tiny digital screen. The city looked gorgeous. Small boats bobbed through the water, bathed in morning sunlight. She was having a great run of luck with the weather.
They were halfway across the harbour to Kowloon now. The ferry rolled in the wash of a passing tug.
Lurch.
Thoughts of the weather vanished as Mak felt her stomach churn.
The boat swayed.
Her mouth started watering.
Her tongue squirmed.
Makedde gripped the rail. A cold, clammy sweat broke out over her whole body.
Oh no.
The early morning queasiness had not yet passed. She had been a fool to take a ferry. She felt sick. She felt like she might…
With a buzzing in her ears and an uncontrollable urgency in her belly, Makedde began vomiting into Victoria Harbour. She gripped the rail and leaned out over the side, the rocking motion and the direction of the wind leaving a line of brown and yellow sick across the side of the ferry.
Oh God, how mortifying.
No one bothered her, or tried to help, for which Makedde was grateful. There was nothing anyone could do anyway until her body decided that it was through.
At last the ferry docked at Kowloon. Pallid and shaken, Makedde followed the other passengers towards the gangplank, wishing the line would move faster so she could escape this crowd of strangers who had witnessed her embarrassing display. As she passed a rubbish bin, she tossed away a still full styrofoam cup of latte. The very thought of drinking it brought the bile to her throat once more. Paper napkin at her mouth and
her head down, Mak stepped gingerly onto solid ground.