Death by Beauty (6 page)

‘What are the chances that this was done by a woman?’ asked Gemma. ‘Who tried to make it look like sexual assaults?’

‘There’s always the chance,’ said Kit, ‘but statistically it’s unusual and I wouldn’t be backing it. But I suppose it’s possible
– destroying the beauty of a hated rival as well as eliminating them from the competition.’

‘Any other leads?’ asked Gemma.

‘The fact I want to stress,’ said Angie, putting the photographs into an envelope and back in her briefcase, ‘is that in Rachel
Starr’s case the massive injuries were inflicted sometime
after
death. Likewise, the medical evidence indicates that Marie-Louise’s head and pelvic injuries – not counting the post-mortem
damage by fish – occurred hours after her death too. Because of the injuries to Rachel’s head and throat the actual cause
of death hasn’t been properly determined – bludgeoning, strangulation. We just don’t know the finer points at this stage.
Same thing with Marie-Louise.’

‘Do you think it was done to hide their identity?’ Kit asked.

Angie shook her head. ‘No. Rachel’s bag was in the wreckage near her body. Marie-Louise’s stuff was left at The Gap.’

‘Maybe he kills them first and then he gets scared so tries to destroy their identity,’ Gemma ventured. ‘If that’s the case,
it certainly points to a personal relationship with the women.’

‘I’ve got a somewhat different take,’ said Kit. ‘Could it be that this killer is so passive when it comes to women that he
can only attack them – I mean really attack them – when they’re dead?’

‘A bit like necrophilia – except in this case, he’s substituting homicide for … how can I put it … romance?’ Angie suggested
in her driest manner, green eyes narrowed.

‘Something along those lines, yes. My guess is that he kills them in a really passive way – something toxic, some kind of
poison, drugs them. Then when they’re dead, the raging attack takes place.’

Angie nodded slowly. ‘We’re still waiting for the toxicologist’s report for Marie-Louise Palier,’ she finally said, ‘but Rachel
Starr’s autopsy didn’t turn up anything like poison. I’d better get out of here,’ she continued, stowing her laptop in her
briefcase. ‘I’ve got so much work on my desk at the moment – I might as well stay there all night. Except I can’t.’ She looked
at her watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got the sex workers meeting in a couple of hours.’

‘Angie is liaison officer with the sex-workers outreach group,’ Gemma explained to Kit, adding, ‘I’ll talk to Naomi, too.
She’s running Baroque Occasions now, the brothel my old mate Shelley bought. Naomi always knows what’s going on in town, and
if she doesn’t she has the network to find out.’

‘I’ve got loads of people to interview about the two dead women,’ said Angie, ‘second interviews with their families, friends
and acquaintances, just in case they’ve remembered something. I’ll be calling on you for help, Gemster. What do you say? How
about helping me with getting witness statements? They’d all have to be done officially by me or someone else on the team
later, but you could help the interviewees get their facts marshalled?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s so long since I exercised my mind with a complicated case like this.’

‘I can pay you by doing a lot of overtime and quietly slipping something extra your way.’

‘Deal,’ said Gemma.

‘Good,’ said Angie, handing Gemma a list of contacts for Marie-Louise Palier. ‘So, what’s the grim smile all about?’

‘I thought I was going to work part time for a while. You know, start back slowly. Let Rafi and I both get used to the idea
of leaving him at daycare. Then you come and tempt me.’

‘Crime never sleeps, Gems,’ Angie quoted, with her cheeky smile. ‘And it doesn’t work part time. Rachel Starr’s murder doesn’t
strike me as a first attempt. With this sort of violence, the killer has to have committed previous serious assaults. Maybe
he’s even responsible for earlier, unsolved murders. If we can find
any
physical evidence, I feel sure we’ll get a match from the Crimtrak database. This is not the behaviour of a newbie. Sonia
at DAL suggested calling in the palynologist to see if he can get anything botanical from the clothes. So I’m doing that.’

Gemma walked with Kit and Angie to the door, then watched as they walked up the stone stairs that led to the road above. Just
as she took the first step, Kit called back: ‘There’s always a reason for an obliterating attack. There’s always a logic to
it. Find the reason and you’re over halfway to finding the killer.’

Gemma collected Rafi from daycare and fed him a sandwich, then played with him on the rug in the living room. He giggled with
pleasure, his plump starfish hands reaching out for her, grabbing strands of hair and yanking them. ‘Ouch!’ she cried, wincing
and untangling the strands from his strong little fingers, while he shrieked with joy and bounced his fat, nappy-covered bottom
on the rug before rolling over and breaking into a high-speed escape. He was recovering from his heartbreak at being left
in the mornings at the daycare centre. Gemma wondered whether the wrench to him was as bad as the ache in her heart, as she
turned her back on him and hurried away those first few mornings, to the sound of his distressed crying, ignoring the powerful,
hard-wired impulse to run back and pick him up. His carer reassured her that he was settling in well.

With Rafi playing around her, she put on a load of washing and cleaned up in the kitchen, setting the table in the living
room to be ready when Mike came home.

When she finally put Rafi to bed, he grizzled for a while, but the sounds became quieter and then finally there was silence.
She sneaked in and looked at him lying on his back with his head turned a little towards the door, one hand near his face,
the other stretched out. She kissed him softly.

She tiptoed out and walked onto the deck, breathing in the evening air, then jumped in fright as Taxi collided with her legs
before racing inside. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’ she called after him.

Gemma peered into the darkness, uneasy. In the south-east the sky brooded, the line of the horizon and ocean indistinguishable.
She shivered and went inside.

‘What’s wrong, Taxi?’

The cat was standing on the coffee table, fur erect, doubling his body size and tripling the girth of his tail into a furry
bottlebrush. She hoped it was only a stray tom invading his territory and she looked out, restless and on edge.

Half an hour later she heard Mike come through the front door, and she felt relieved and pleased. When he walked into the
living room she threw her arms around his neck in welcome.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said, kissing her. ‘I bought some takeaway from the Thai place you like.’

‘Thanks, Mike,’ she said. ‘After dinner I need to go out for a while. Would you listen for Rafi? He should be right for a
few hours. There are a couple of things I’d like to do. I want to cruise past the Tolmacheff household; get a sense of the
place, some SA.’

‘Situational awareness is a good idea, but a better one is spending the evening at home with me.’

Gemma looked contrite. ‘Tomorrow night? I need to catch up with Naomi at Baroque Occasions – see if any of the girls have
heard anything about vampires in the city. The Tolmacheff house is on the way.’

‘Okay,’ said Mike, but she could see his disappointment. She knew he liked to have her company. Now he’d be spending most
of the night on his own.

‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ she said, putting her arms around his neck again, kissing him again.

‘Hey! Come back here!’ He grinned as she disengaged, pulling her back to embrace her. ‘I’ll hold you to that promise,’ he
said quietly.

After dinner Gemma jumped into her car, and with AC/DC thumping out she headed for the address that Delphine Tolmacheff had
given her. Despite her intense love for Rafi, she felt refreshingly free driving alone in her car. She sang along with the
band at full throttle, elated at once again being Gemma Lincoln, PI.

It took less than twenty minutes to reach Delphine Tolmacheff’s address in Bellevue Hill. The marital home stood well back
from the road in one of the grand boulevards, a two-storey Tuscan-style villa, angled north-east, complete with a vine-covered
colonnade wreathed with twinkling fairy lights that ran the length of the front terrace. The pergola continued at a right
angle along the fence line.

Gemma parked across the road, switched the lights off, turned down Acka Dacka and settled back to watch. She got lucky almost
immediately: headlights approached and one of the double garage doors at the end of the driveway next to the house started
to open.

A few moments later, the same dark blue Mercedes she’d lost on the Liverpool highway swung in from the road and drove up the
driveway, briefly illuminating Delphine’s Audi parked on the left-hand side of the garage.

Gemma got out and crossed the road. She was too far away to see or hear anything going on in the house, but noticed the lights
going on downstairs.

She looked at her watch: 8.20 pm; time to head into the city to Naomi’s place before it got too busy.

Her mobile rang and she answered it, still watching the house.

When she heard his voice, a tremor went through her body and she leaned against the stone retaining wall of the Tolmacheff
property. ‘Steve! What’s happened?’

‘I’ve got to see you. Where are you?’

‘What is it?’ At the sound of his urgent voice, she pushed herself away from the wall, alert.

‘Can you meet me?’

‘Yes. Of course. When?’

‘Now. The cafe at Phoenix Bay?’

Gemma didn’t hesitate. ‘Give me twenty minutes.’

As she drove off, she was overwhelmed by her memories of meeting Steve at the deserted, wintering cafe last year, with him
pacing like a leopard, desperately remorseful about getting Julie Cooper pregnant, wishing things were otherwise. Julie hadn’t
been pregnant, but by the time they found out, the damage was done. Gemma’s heart beat fast with agitation. I shouldn’t be
feeling this, she told herself. Steve is in the past. Mike has stood by me and Rafi; I’m making our future with him. Steve
let me down.
She repeated the four words in her head like a mantra, but they couldn’t dispel the rush of memories of their six years together;
the passionate love-making, the crazy jokes, the quarrels, the quiet, contented times just being together, their deep heart
connection.

Steve had sounded scared, perhaps even desperate, and her thoughts were a confused mix of anxiety about his safety and concern
about how she was going to feel, seeing him again after all this time.

She drove down the hill towards Phoenix Bay. It was that moment in the evening when the last of the squealing black cockatoos
flying to roost intersect with the first of the bats winging silently in for a night’s work among the city’s palm trees and
new figs. The night-shift handover.

A few moments later, she parked near the path that ran down to the bay and the boat shed that had been converted into a cafe.
She saw Steve’s figure in the distance and her heart began to race foolishly. She had to take deep breaths to steady herself
before getting out of the car. A soft, chill wind had risen from the sea, and Gemma wrapped her coat around herself more closely.

She could see Steve in his familiar stance, leaning back against the pier railing near the entrance of the cafe, one leg crossed
over the other, arms folded, wearing jeans and a windcheater. She hurried down to join him, trying to control the surging
emotions and the smile that wanted to break out. Steve swung himself forward off the fence and came across to greet her. For
a few seconds they looked at each other, both unsure about what to do next. Somehow, Gemma found herself in his arms, and
she held him close, her lips against his neck, swamped by his familiar scent. Without even thinking about it, and feeling
completely at home, she kissed him, then drew back in dismay. This was
not appropriate behaviour, she thought, no matter how familiar and easy it seemed. She collected herself, asking, ‘Steve,
what is it? What’s happening?’

His arms stayed locked around her and she looked at him, searching his face for the answer. He seemed tired, his boyish good
looks strained under the street light.

‘Gems, it’s so good to see you. How are you? How’s Rafi?’

‘We’re both fine,’ she said, swallowing. ‘And thanks for your financial contribution. I mean, you’re always on time.’

He shrugged as if to dismiss her words. ‘The bank does that, Gems.’

‘But what’s this about? And how are you?’

‘Pretty ordinary. And I’m feeling lousier because of what I’ve got to tell you.’

‘You’re frightening me. Are you ill or something?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing like that.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s about Lorraine.’

Gemma felt her heart clench in fear and remembered pain. Lorraine Litchfield, the glamorous widow of crime boss Terry Litchfield,
had been jailed some time back. Steve had worked with her in an undercover operation, adopting the role of her new boyfriend
with Lorraine’s complicity, together setting up a drug sting that had netted several big criminals and later, Lorraine herself.

‘If you only knew how often I’ve kicked myself for having crossed the line with that woman. I must have been crazy. Every
time I think of her, I want to rewrite history.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ Gemma said softly as the deep regret bit. ‘At least you didn’t get
her
pregnant.’

It was supposed to be a joke but it fell over dead. ‘I’m the one who was crazy, not letting up about it, going on and on with
my stupid jealousy,’ she continued.

Her regret sharpened. Was the break-up my fault? she wondered. Or do I just tell myself that so that I can feel some sort
of perverse control over it all?

They looked at each other and a rueful smile played on Steve’s lips. ‘We both misbehaved, Gems.’

‘We had something good, Steve.’

‘I didn’t help any. But I’m not here to rake over that.’ In the silence between them, the sea surged in long luminous breakers,
a low surf sweeping up the beach in scalloped wavelets beyond the pier.

‘Lorraine Litchfield. She’s wangled an early release,’ Steve said in a low voice. ‘I now have a fair idea how she did it.
Conspiracy to murder is a serious charge, but she’s out already, which means—’

‘—she’s cut a deal,’ Gemma finished. ‘She’s traded something.’

‘Yeah. And I’m pretty sure that what she’s traded is
me
. A mate called me earlier. He’d been in on a conversation with a guy who works with the Police Integrity Commission. Lorraine’s
been talking to them; she’s made a sworn statement and she’s given up a couple of the big crims. She used to hang round her
husband’s meetings with the big boys, serving drinks and flirting, and all the time she was keeping records of what was going
on – concealed camera and mike.’

Insurance, Gemma thought as Steve continued.

‘My mate overheard the Police Integrity guys describing someone they’re about to charge – an undercover cop who worked
with Lorraine in a drug-bust operation two years ago. That’s got be me.
I’m
the guy he was describing.’

‘But Steve, that was a legitimate operation. You were meant to work with Lorraine.’

‘That’s not the problem. There’s supposed to be a video of me taking bribes from George Fayed’s cousin, Raimon. He and Lorraine
are a very hot item now. She left her last boyfriend and attached herself to Raimon.’

‘Raimon Fayed?’ Gemma said, shocked. ‘He’s the charmer who threw acid in his ex-wife’s face!’

‘Lorraine probably supplied the acid,’ Steve said bitterly. ‘They’re made for each other, those two. His ex-wife was a decent
woman.’

‘How come Fayed isn’t in prison? He should be serving fifteen years.’

‘One of his bodyguards took the rap for him and confessed to the acid throwing. Fayed had discovered he was an informant for
the Feds, so it was take the rap and be looked after in prison or he would publish this information and the guy wouldn’t have
lasted twenty-four hours.’

‘Steve, we need to get them both off the streets.’

‘Lorraine lost all her money when her late husband’s property was confiscated as being the proceeds of crime. So she made
a beeline for a rich and powerful benefactor, and Raimon Fayed is crazy about her. Totally smitten. For the moment, at least.
He provides the cash. She provides the – well, what women like Litchfield provide: sex and a lot of expenses. How often does
a fat, balding ex-jailbird get to flaunt a gorgeous blonde on his arm?’