Malicious Intent (35 page)

Anya began to search the Internet for speakers and companies who made them. Someone had to know where those bloody fibers came from.

48

Kate Farrer sat on her lounge room floor wading through printouts of phone numbers. If something didn’t turn up soon, she’d be in deep shit with her commanding officer. With the end of the financial year less than three months away, spending had to be cut to make budget. That meant cutting casual staff and every expense that wasn’t vital to a case. Nothing got on Kate’s nerves more than money-obsessed COs. Solving homicides didn’t get cheaper this time of the year just because money dried up. It just meant that fewer resources were allocated so the numbers would all look good come the end of June. That’s all the pricks cared about.

The number of homicides this month was double that for March. With fewer staff, that meant more unpaid overtime, or more unsolved crimes. Despite giving her half-a-dozen cases to

‘consult’ on and a full caseload, the CO was riding her for results. By God, she’d give him one on the case with the dead women. They had the DNA already. What good was expensive technology when you needed a perpetrator to compare it with?

Her last hope was finding a link between the women, before they had disappeared.

She’d spent the whole weekend sifting through phone records, trying to find two numbers the same from the 284

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Merrylands surgery, from the shifts Fatima Deab worked, the Blakehurst and Finch houses, and the convent in Rouse Hill.

She looked again at the convent’s incoming calls in the six months prior to the fall off the cliff. She arched her back and rubbed her neck, numbers swimming in her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, digits flashed across her eyelids.

Shoving the last mouthful of reheated butter chicken into her mouth, she dripped grease onto a page.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

With a tissue from her pocket, she cleaned the page and doublechecked that the numbers were all visible.

She turned back to the second-last page of Fatima’s printout. The third number down seemed similar to the one the grease had almost hidden.

After wiping her fingers on her trousers, she grabbed both pieces of paper and compared them: 9,9, 8,8 . . . All the numbers matched. She took the papers, went into the kitchen and checked again, under stronger light. No doubt about it, someone at the surgery had called the same number as someone from the convent. She checked the time with her own notes from the interviews. The call from the surgery was made at 1:00 pm, on a Wednesday, when the doctor was out doing house calls. Fatima had been alone.

The one from the convent was made at 7:30 am on a Monday. Clare didn’t catch the train until 8:00 am so would have had time to make the call. Not many businesses were open that early, which heightened the chances the link was more than a coincidence.

Buoyed by having a number to chase, Kate dragged out the pages from the other two cases, and two and a half hours later, found the number again. This time, on the list from Alison Blakehurt’s mobile phone.

She grabbed her own mobile and dialed the number for the duty operations inspector in charge of Police Radio.

‘Detective Sergeant Kate Farrer. I need a subscriber check on a number . . . Yes, it is urgent.’

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She waited for the inspector to come to the phone. After hours, he wouldn’t give it to her unless it involved a life-threatening emergency. She decided to lie to her senior officer and face the consequences later.

‘I believe a woman has phoned the number, gone there and is in grave danger.’

She gave her mobile phone number and hung up. In about an hour, she’d know who the women had in common.

Feeling recharged, Kate stripped and indulged in a long, hot shower, using the water to massage her aching neck. She threw on her favorite tracksuit and combed her hair. Out of reflex, she went to phone Anya but put the receiver down.

By tailing Anya, she thought she’d done the right thing, but Anya didn’t see it that way. Doctors and their ethics gave her the shits. Talking to the Lovitt woman was necessary for the investigation. Why couldn’t Anya understand that?

As her mobile played the theme from
The Magnificent Seven
, she slipped on the unopened weekend papers lying on the floor, tearing the front pages.

From a sitting position, she grabbed the phone, feeling the impact of the hard floor on her tailbone. The inspector had identified the subscriber. The phone was listed under the name of a crisis center in town.

Now it made sense. The women had problems in their lives, and had obviously sought counseling. First thing in the morning, she’d find out who answered the phones when the calls were made. If the DNA from any of the counselors matched, they’d have the bastard who screwed the women and probably killed them.

But how did Debbie Finch and Briony Lovitt fit into the picture? Kate felt uncomfortable not being able to link them to the center. She rummaged for the white pages and flicked through the ‘C’ section. Central Crisis Center had two numbers listed. She scribbled down the alternate number and searched through the phone records again. Debbie Finch had called the other number twice. By midnight, Kate had the 286

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answer she’d wanted. Briony Lovitt had called the center a week before she disappeared.

Unable to sleep, she decided to e-mail Anya and tell her about the calls. She’d investigate the Crisis Center in the morning, and find out what she could. She finished off the e-mail saying that Briony’s death won’t have been in vain and sent it.

At 2:00 am, she crawled under her blanket and fell asleep, fully dressed, having forgotten to turn off the light.

Kate woke up and heard a car revving its engine outside her bedroom. The vehicle sounded badly in need of a tune-up. She turned off the light and peered through the window. She could make out a blue Corolla, exactly like Anya’s. Maybe Anya had read the e-mail and had come over to talk, but was having second thoughts.

‘This is stupid,’ Kate said aloud. ‘We need to sort this out.’

She pulled on sandals and, huddled against the morning chill, went outside and approached the driver’s side.

It wasn’t until she reached the window that she realized Anya wasn’t driving.

49

Anya didn’t notice Elaine arrive.

‘No, I don’t attend S and M clubs! If you phone here again, I’ll call the police.’ She slammed down the receiver.

‘Not a good morning?’

‘It’s five past eight and feels like midnight.’ Anya slumped into Elaine’s chair and rubbed her temples. ‘So far we’ve had calls from radio, print and TV outlets, talk shows, colleagues and, of course, there are the cranks wanting to meet the “fatal attraction” mentioned in the weekend paper.’

‘Once it’s out of their system, they’ll leave you alone. This is just your fifteen minutes in the spotlight.’

As if regretting her comment, Elaine quickly left Anya to answer the door.

‘No, she doesn’t give out autographs. Good day.’ Less than a minute later the bell rang again. ‘Oh . . . Good morning . . .

Thanks, if you would we’d appreciate it. But I’ve told you before about the testing lab.’

Anya lifted her head from beneath her hands.

‘Sperm Man’s standing guard for a while. Doesn’t want you getting distracted from his wife’s underwear.’

Anya groaned and retreated upstairs with her laptop. ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’ll finish a couple of reports and that’s it.’

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On her bed, she struggled to concentrate, repeatedly typing the same line about injuries sustained in a domestic violence incident. Sabina Pryor could always find another expert.

Within minutes, the incessant ringing made her disconnect the phone from the wall.

After stretching her legs and taking two aspirin, she sat cross-legged on the bed and drafted a letter offering Sabina alternative forensic physicians and their contact details. By midday, that’s all she’d managed.

Elaine ventured upstairs with coffee and a sandwich, but Anya’s stomach felt like acid had eroded the lining.

‘I’m not hungry. Thanks anyway.’ Elaine appeared tired. It couldn’t have been easy dealing with the fallout from the weekend. ‘How are you coping?’

‘Well, you, or should I say, we, have had two marriage pro-posals, and an obscene caller to round off the morning. Three people want to see what a murder magnet looks like.’ She put the tray down on the dressing table. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.

The answering machine’s on now so we can have a break. What about you and Martin?’

Anya stood and looked out her small window. ‘He took Ben away on Saturday morning. He was so angry, Elaine, he scared me. Ben couldn’t stop screaming for me. God, it broke my heart.’ She swallowed hard.

Elaine nodded silently. ‘You can understand his shock. He’ll calm down. He always does.’

‘I’m worried what this will do to Ben.’

‘That little boy is incredible. I’m sure he’ll cope. Still, why don’t you phone him if it’ll put your mind at ease.’

Anya plugged the line back in as Elaine left.

Nita answered the phone and whispered that Martin didn’t want to speak to anyone. Ben had cried until he’d fallen asleep in the car and hadn’t said much yesterday morning. He was lying on the carpet with the blue dinosaur, watching a cartoon. In spite of avoiding Nita until now, Anya found herself grateful for the information about her son. This woman sounded as though KATHRYN FOX

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she genuinely cared about Ben and Martin and appreciated Anya’s concern. Nita suggested calling back when Martin went for his afternoon surf. That way, they could avoid another argument and Anya could talk to Ben for as long as she wanted.

By four o’clock, the phones had stopped ringing and Elaine called out that she was about to lock the front door. Anya left her upstairs confinement and wandered downstairs, just as her drum teacher arrived.

‘Hi. Ready to play something new this week?’ Mick Hayes appeared with a pile of sheet music.

Anya had forgotten all about the lesson. The weekend drama put everything else out of her consciousness.

‘It’s not really a good time. I’m sorry, Mick. I’ll pay for your time today, of course.’

‘You okay? You look . . .’

‘I know, like shit. You can say it. Didn’t you see Saturday’s paper?’

‘No. Played in a gig on Friday night and after that was a write-off.’

Judging by the dark rings under his eyes and the three-day growth on his chin, Friday probably lasted the whole weekend, she thought. Mick played in a band that had sold a number of CDs at venues around town. As he spoke, it occurred to her that he might know someone who knew about sound engineers and speakers.

‘Actually maybe you can help me with something. I need to know a bit about sound speakers. So far I know they contain magnets, cardboard and not much else. How can you tell whether a speaker is good or bad quality?’

‘That’s easy. If it’s made by one of the biggest sellers, chances are it’s good. Stick to well-known brands and you should be right. You can get some good bargains secondhand, if you know what you’re looking for.’

‘I’ll remember that.’ Anya smiled for the first time that day.

‘By the way, what is it that makes a good speaker? I mean, how would you know if you were making one?’

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‘Never thought much about it.’ He flicked a long fringe out of his eyes. ‘But I know a guy who had some stuff tested at a special chamber at the place that does research into acoustics and hearing. Where was it? Lindfield, I think.’

Anya had the spark of an idea. ‘Do you know what sort of chamber that is?’

‘Kind of like a recording studio, I reckon. With padding to absorb sound.’

Anya had assumed all along that the fibers were contained in the speakers. But it made sense that if the sound engineer had been trying to build the perfect speaker, he would have tested them, perhaps in his own recording studio. Her mental image of a room like the one Mick had described had foam-padded walls to minimize unnecessary sound appearing on recordings. Unintentionally, Mick Hayes had mentioned another possible source of the unidentified fibers. What if they were never in the speakers but in the testing room instead?

‘Thanks, Mick. Let me get my purse and pay you for today.’

He flicked the fringe that Anya would love to have cut or pinned out of his eyes. ‘Sure you don’t want a lesson?’

‘You just taught me more than you realize.’

Kate Farrer dreamed she was a child again, scared and alone.

Curled up, her hand groped around for bedclothes to pull up and snuggle under, to protect her from the world. Cold air brushed over her body and each hair stood to attention. Shivering, she opened her eyes to pitch black. Blinking again, she searched for the red glow of the alarm clock by her bed. It wasn’t there. Moving her arm, she felt nothing but a chilling hardness underneath.

‘What the . . . ? Where am I?’ she tried to say, mouth too dry to form the words.

Sitting upright, she ran a hand over a metal grid. Between the steel were holes, big enough to fit her fingers through.

Kate’s heartbeat drilled in both ears, the only audible sound.

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Running icy hands over her body, she tentatively moved her legs and feet. Nothing was broken or hurt. Then she realized.

Her hands touched nothing but skin. Naked flesh.

‘Christ!’

She clutched her belly and dry-retched. The skin above her crotch had been shaved.

Kate screamed with despair and panic until her voice croaked. Too frightened to accept what else he might have done, she tried to focus on exactly where she was.

Think, Kate, think
. It took all her energy to concentrate. She remembered looking at the phone records and falling sleep.

What happened then?
Fuck, why can’t I remember
? Drugs. He must have used drugs. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.

‘Help me! Someone help!’ she screeched.

No matter how loud her cries, no one answered. The blackness enveloped her and she shivered uncontrollably.