Death by Beauty (28 page)

‘I don’t know how to thank you for this,’ said Steve, grasping her hand.

She almost said, ‘I do,’ but bit it back. Not in front of Spinner. Not in front of anyone. In fact, such sentiments should
not be in her mind at all.

She and Steve were over.

Mike was waiting for her when she got home, sitting in the lounge room, holding Rafi.

‘What’s that baby doing up at this hour?’ She tried to smile, but the atmosphere killed her joke.

‘He wouldn’t settle. He’s dribbling a lot; I think those top teeth are trying to come down. But I think it’s more than that.’

Rafi jigged excitedly at the sight of his mother, lifting his arms up towards her. Gemma took him from Mike, holding him close
to her heart, patting him on the back. ‘Poor baby with sore gums. Maybe some apple juice?’

‘I think he needs more than juice. I think he needs a mum who’s here more often in a quiet house that’s not so crowded. I
think he needs things to settle down.’

Gemma turned. ‘Are you sure you’re talking about Rafi and not yourself?’

Mike stood up. ‘Maybe I’m speaking for both of us.’

‘Mike, you’re a grown man. You’re still angry with me for helping Steve, aren’t you?’

‘It’s not only that. It’s the danger that you’re putting yourself in.’

Gemma walked to the sliding doors and opened them, carrying Rafi out to the deck where black clouds showed along the horizon
and the moon had deteriorated to a fading sliver.

Mike followed her out, his tall bulk filling the doorway, the frown disturbing his good-looking features. ‘I know you have
to make your own decisions, but I’m here to remind you that your decisions impact on other people too.’

‘But, Mike, I have to—’

He sighed wearily. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up just now. Let’s talk about this another time when we’re not tired.’

Gemma stayed a moment longer then came in shivering as a sudden gust of chilly air rustled in the scrubby bushes at the cliff
edge.

After settling Rafi down, she flopped into a lounge chair. She had to concede Mike had a point, but why couldn’t he understand
that she had to help Steve, and she had to stay focused on her other cases? These people also needed her. Competing priorities.
She dragged herself up and went into her office to check her
emails. Among the messages was one from Spinner attaching the footage from Steve’s bedroom and several stills. Gemma sent
one of the stills to Litchfield with the text message: ‘
Lots more where this came from. Call me to organise a deal or your boyfriend gets the lot
.’

There, she thought. The bait is laid, the trap is set. Will the fox be snared?

She reviewed the footage one more time and found herself thinking of times when she’d been in Steve’s bed, and other places
– in the magic twilight of Phoenix Bay, secluded under the rocky overhang, the leisurely days and nights of holidays at Nelson
Bay, swimming with dolphins, making love with him.

On the way to the police centre the next morning, Gemma tried to contact Delphine Tolmacheff. When there was no answer she
called Beecham House and spoke to the receptionist, who informed her that Mrs Tolmacheff was not in her room but she couldn’t
say whether she had been out all night. Gemma called Spinner. ‘I’m worried about this client,’ she said. ‘Can you swing by
Beecham House and see if you can find out anything more? I’d do it myself, except—’

‘It’s okay, boss. I can do it.’

Angie met her at the station and they caught the lift up to the offices currently being used by the strike force.

‘I found what you were looking for,’ Angie said, ‘in the autopsy report on Phoebe Wilson. It confirms what you suspected.’

‘Suspected? I’m sure of it now,’ said Gemma. ‘Any more from DAL about that new technique for lifting fingerprints off cadavers?’

‘Nothing. And nothing from the palynologist, either. I’ve emailed Andy to put it through as an urgent matter. Bob Stein’s
promised to call the minute he gets a result. Let’s go and talk in my office.’

As Angie shepherded Gemma past the detectives’ desks, a couple of people looked up, but most took no notice of them.

On the office wall, a chart with photographs and the details of the two murdered women – Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier
– now had a third name and photo added to it: Phoebe Wilson. A large black question mark had been scrawled to the side of
the photograph and Gemma recognised Angie’s handwriting: ‘
Could this have been an earlier murder by the same killer?
’

‘I had to read through a lot of routine comments,’ Angie said, picking up a copy of one of the autopsy reports. Now, bright
yellow highlighter lit up a short comment on the fourth page of the notes: ‘There was a five by ten millimetre abrasion over
the lateral malleolus of the right ankle, which showed minor puckering of the surrounding skin and scab formation over its
surface, consistent with having been sustained a number of days to a week previously.’

‘That’s it, Angie! That confirms what Phoebe’s father told me.’

‘Oh, and I found that name I’d mislaid earlier,’ Angie said, passing her a printed page. ‘The owner of the pale green Peugeot.
It was there all the time, underneath my leave application. Here.’

Gemma scanned it quickly. The registered owner of BAW 06Z was Elizabeth Mary Winchester of 66 Hadley Street, Belambi.

‘I’m calling her right now,’ said Gemma, pulling out her mobile.

‘Hi,’ said the voicemail message. ‘I can’t come to the phone
right now but please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

Gemma left her details.

‘We should have done this as soon as we got the rego number,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this friend who suddenly
appeared just at the right time.’

‘I have a police mate who works at Wollongong,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll ask him to call round to the Belambi address and have a
chat. I think you’re worrying unnecessarily. Mischa’s probably staying down there and Elizabeth is her friend.’

Gemma’s mobile chimed. ‘Yes?’

There was a pause at the other end and then a deep intake of breath followed by words that came out in a rush. ‘Are you trying
to mess with my head, bitch? Sending me this shit?’

‘Lorraine,’ said Gemma as calmly as she could, despite her racing heart. She was aware of Angie’s eyebrows practically hitting
her hairline and the look of wide surprise on her face. ‘Litchfield?’ Angie hissed.

Gemma nodded. ‘Calm down, Lorraine, and listen to me. We need to talk.’

‘No,
you
need to listen! You expect me to take any notice of a blurred photo? That could be anybody! I’m planning to fix you good
and proper!’

‘Meet me this evening on the old jetty at Phoenix Bay. It’s private there. Nine pm. Be there. Or I send everything I’ve got
straight to Raimon Fayed.’ She rang off.

Angie jumped to her feet behind her desk. ‘Did I hear right? You’re meeting that snake Lorraine Litchfield tonight?’

‘You heard right. I’d better explain.’

A few seconds later Angie was seated again. ‘You’re not going alone. I’ll be there as back-up. Out of sight, of course. But
if that Litchfield woman puts one toe out of place, I’ll come out, blazing.’

Gemma smiled. ‘That’s my girl.’

Gemma spent the rest of the day bringing her records up to date. She called Angie mid-afternoon. ‘Have you heard anything
from your mate at Belambi?’

‘Not yet. I’ll call him again and get back to you the minute I hear anything.’

She decided to collect Rafi early from daycare and take him to the nearby playground. He shrieked with joy as she guided him
down the small slippery dip. When they got home they found Hugo and Mike in close discussion at the dining table, working
out how Hugo was going to make up for the damage to Mike’s bike.

‘But it’s a really old bike,’ Hugo was saying as she took Rafi into the bedroom to get him ready for his bath. ‘Just chuck
it out.’

‘That’s not how I do things, mate,’ said Mike. ‘My job is to fix things, not chuck them out.’

The discussion kept going over dinner and Gemma decided that neither side was winning.

When she walked out of the bedroom, gently closing the door after checking on Rafi, the Glock 27 was stashed in her handbag.
She didn’t put it past Litchfield to start waving her M1911
around, and although Gemma wasn’t sure of the current status of her gun licence, now wasn’t the time to worry about it.

‘I’m going out for a while,’ she said.

Both Hugo and Mike looked at her. ‘Where? Meeting Steve?’ Mike asked.

Hugo’s eyes under their heavy brows darted between Gemma and Mike’s faces, frowning, reacting to the tension between them.

She shook her head, knowing he’d freak if she told him. She decided on part of the truth. ‘I’m meeting Angie.’

‘Are you busting someone?’ asked Hugo, trying to read the situation.

‘Could be,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

The skinny moon was low behind her in the west when Gemma drove down the hill to Phoenix Bay. As she turned left to park across
the road from the beach, the wind lashed the pine trees and chilled the air.

She stayed in the car for a few moments, scanning ahead. The beach was deserted, the surf boiling with dangerous cross-currents
and the notorious Phoenix Bay rip was clearly visible, rushing oceanwards through the turbulence.

The locked-up cafe was a dark black silhouette against the rolling sea, and the grey horizon was barely visible. Clouds blocked
any starlight and a heavy fog was moving in from the water. Gemma hoped that somewhere behind the dark shapes, Angie was in
position.

Pulling her coat closer against the wind, she shrank against the cafe wall as she heard footsteps approaching.

‘Stop right there,’ someone called, stepping out from the shadows and blocking the path. She could see enough to identify
Lorraine Litchfield, wrapped in a trench coat, fairy-floss blonde hair whipping in the wind.

Here we go, Gemma braced herself.

‘You think you’re so clever,’ Litchfield sneered as she approached. ‘You think you’ve got something over me. Well I’m here
to tell you, bitch, you don’t know jack shit! Your double-crossing, cheating, crooked boyfriend Brannigan couldn’t wait to
jump into bed with me. And that picture he managed to take of us could be anybody. But I’ve got something planned for you
that’ll make you think twice about ever getting in my face again!’

Gemma pulled out her mobile.

‘You’re not going to show me that stupid photograph you sent me! You think I should be scared of that? Your idiot boyfriend
couldn’t even do a decent job. He can’t get it up. He couldn’t even take a good blackmailing photograph. That woman in the
photo could be Little fucking Bo Peep!’

Gemma pressed the ‘Play’ button, starting the footage Spinner had captured.

‘Ooh!’ squealed Lorraine. ‘I’m
soooooo
scared!’

Gemma shoved her mobile closer to Lorraine Litchfield’s beautiful face. ‘You might be when you see this.’

In the slight glow of the mobile’s screen, Gemma saw Lorraine’s eyes widen and her face drain.

‘That’s not Little Bo Peep,’ Gemma said, holding on tight to her mobile as the two tiny figures went through their motions
on the screen. ‘That’s you, Lorraine. What do you think Raimon “Sulphuric Acid” Fayed will make of this? And if you’re thinking
of using your M1911, don’t. This has been copied and if anything happens to me, it goes to Raimon.’

Lorraine’s mouth opened and closed as if she were trying to say something but no sound emerged.

‘Raimon really is a conservative guy. Very touchy about female infidelity. And just in case you need a reminder,’ said Gemma,
pulling up the photograph of the acid-melted face of Fayed’s wife, ‘this is what his ex looked like after he’d tracked her
down. No doubt you’ve heard how he responded when he heard she’d been playing out-of-school?’

An audible gasp burst through Lorraine’s perfectly glossed lips. ‘No, you can’t! You can’t show that to Raimon!’

All the brassy bravado had gone, and only a terrified little girl remained shrinking in the trench coat. In the darkness,
Gemma could feel her desperate eyes, darting from the dreadful image on the screen back to Gemma’s face.

Gemma left her with it for a few moments before she spoke. ‘Here’s the deal, Lorraine. I don’t show this to Raimon – on condition
that you drop all allegations against Steve Brannigan. You must retract your statement that you saw him taking bribes and
counting money. And you must convince Raimon to withdraw his allegations, too. The minute I hear that you’ve done this, I’ll
destroy this footage forever. I don’t want anything like what happened to this unfortunate woman to happen to anyone else,
not even to you.’

‘Why should I believe you? How do I know you’ll do what you say?’

‘You don’t. You’ll just have to take my word for it. And that probably doesn’t mean anything to you.’

‘I
can’t
withdraw the allegations! I’ll be charged with perjury or conspiring to pervert the course of justice. I can’t do this! I’ll
just be in more trouble.’

‘I don’t think there’s any worse trouble than this, do you?’ Gemma asked, holding up the horrifying ex-face once more.

‘It’s up to you, Lorraine. Tell them you made a mistake. Tell them you confused Steve with someone else. Tell them you’ve
gone mad. I don’t care what you tell them, but take back everything you said and say you’re no longer able to act as a witness
against Steve.’

‘But Raimon said we should—’

‘Should what? Collude in perjury? You’d better uncollude quick smart. Tell Raimon it’s not working. Tell him the cops aren’t
buying it. Tell him any bloody thing. Tell him
he’s
under investigation because of the allegations. You’ll think of something. But if you go ahead with the allegations, then
I go ahead with emailing this to Fayed. That’s the choice you have.’

Lorraine backed away from the terrible image glowing from the mobile screen.