Spiking the Girl (21 page)

The technical people, Gemma thought. ‘I’m pleased to hear they’re keeping you in the loop,’ she said.

‘They found a lot of email from the website’s message board.’

Gemma waited.

‘She had a lot of fans,’ Lauren added. ‘She and her friend Tasmin.’

‘I’m not surprised. She was a beautiful girl.’

There was a silence while Lauren composed herself. ‘They ran a competition called Dickhead of the Week where they’d post some of the messages they got from fans who’d offended them. They got the rest of the fan club to vote which one was the stupidest.’

Another long silence. Gemma knew it was her role to listen.

‘My daughter,’ Lauren finally said, ‘had this whole other life, her own fan club, and I knew nothing about it.’

‘The police who checked her computer,’ Gemma began. ‘Have you got their details?’

Lauren read from the two business cards they’d left with her. One of the names was familiar to Gemma from training days at Goulburn Academy—Tracey Lee, one of the rare Asian women brave enough to join the New South Wales police. Gemma suddenly remembered that it was a Tracey Angie had spoken with in the car on the way back from Richmond to check out the multiple human remains. There was no answer when she called Tracey Lee, so she left a message on her voice mail. Then she called her music teacher.

‘Yes?’ Mrs Snellgrove’s pleasant voice. Gemma imagined the diamond at the base of the fan brooch wobbling as she spoke. ‘It’s Gemma, Mrs Snellgrove.’

‘Mother’s been going on about that animal again,’ said Mrs Snellgrove. ‘Have you seen anything that could account for it on the camera?’

‘We’ve had a bit of trouble with the program the camera runs on,’ said Gemma. ‘But it all seems to be working well now. So far, there’s been nothing untoward.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I’m not ringing about that. Or about music. I’m trying to trace someone who lived in Paddington a long time ago. You might have heard of the Kingston family? A woman called Beverley Kingston?’

‘Everyone knew the Kingstons,’ said Mrs Snellgrove. ‘They were a very well-known family. Beverley’s father was a highly regarded businessman. And Mrs Kingston was very active in the Black and White committee.’ She lowered her voice then, as if she were speaking about something indecent. ‘Sadly, Beverley took her own life.’

‘I heard about that.’ Gemma realised her heart was beating hard. ‘I also heard she had a baby.’

‘Then you know as much as I do. It was a very sad story. The poor soul was under psychiatric care, I believe. Much good it did her. Then she had the baby.’

Gemma lowered her own voice, trying not to hate the memory of her father. ‘Do you have any idea what happened to that baby?’ she asked.

Please, please, she prayed. Please say you do. Please say she was raised by so and so and now she’s happily married with children and living on the Gold Coast. And then I can just leave the whole thing alone.

‘No,’ said Mrs Snellgrove. ‘I don’t. The family moved quite soon after the suicide and that was that. It was over thirty years ago, my dear.’ There was a pause. ‘Why do you want to know about the Kingstons?’

‘Do you know what she called the baby?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you on that, either. It was a big disgrace in those days, to have a baby without a father.’

But that baby did have a father, thought Gemma. My father.

‘Are you acquainted with the family?’ Mrs Snellgrove was asking.

Gemma felt sadness welling up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In a way.’

The moment she put the phone down, it rang and the caller introduced herself.

‘Tracey Lee!’ said Gemma. ‘Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I think you’ve already spoken to Angie about the Amy Bernhard case?’

Gemma explained how she’d been contracted by Netherleigh Park Ladies’ College. ‘I was sent an anonymous email,’ said Gemma, ‘suggesting I check out a website, but when I tried to visit, the website had gone.’

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know Angie rates you very high,’ Tracey said. That might all change very quickly, Gemma thought, mindful of what she might have to tell her friend quite soon. ‘We found a couple of other links connected to the girls’ website. Really ugly ones. What was the name of the site you were emailed?’

‘Extremely cute schoolgirls,’ said Gemma, ‘spelt with three or four Xs.’

‘That’s one of them,’ said Tracey.

‘Involving Amy and Tasmin?’

‘It’s hard to identify the girls in the videos. But we think Amy and Tasmin feature in some of them. I’ve run off copies for Angie.’

Good, thought Gemma, thinking she’d get to see it. ‘There was also something called Dickhead of the Week,’ Gemma continued.

‘That’s right,’ said Tracey.

‘Could an aggrieved dickhead of the week go homicidal and trace the webcam site?’ asked Gemma.

‘We’re checking that out,’ Tracey said. ‘But it’s a slow slog and we haven’t got the resources. I don’t expect the electronic stuff to get us very far in this investigation. These kids spend hours blogging and jumping around from site to site. Even if there was a way to trace them all, which there isn’t, we simply don’t have the necessary people. Or the time. Or the money.’

‘You don’t happen to know where I can get hold of Trevor Dawson?’ It was a long shot, Gemma knew, but sometimes you got lucky.

‘Didn’t he go mad?’

Gemma heard Tracey call out to someone at the other end of the line, then she was back. ‘I’ll ask around for you. Ring me in a day or two.’

She was gone before Gemma could thank her. A day or two could be too late, she thought.

She sat down at the piano and lifted the lid back. She couldn’t face Mrs Snellgrove without practising another week. She started with the newest piece,
Greensleeves
—right hand first, then the left hand. Haltingly, she put them together. It actually sounded a bit like it was supposed to. She repeated the first page, heeding the notes about dynamics, swelling from pianissimo to forte, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Taxi suddenly crash-landed on the base notes, sounding like a thunder clap.

‘Get off!’ she yelled, scooping him up and dumping him on the floor. He stalked away, tail lashing, jet ears swept back, his sure sign of displeasure. She felt a twinge in her lower belly and went to the bathroom to check her tampon supply. Only a few left. She made a note to buy some more and stuck it to the fridge under John Howard’s terrorism magnet.

The Ratbag came in, hungry as usual, and she sent him for some Thai takeaway. He grizzled about the walk involved, but she bribed him by saying she wouldn’t object to him watching a Terminator movie. After they’d eaten, Gemma went to her office while Hugo watched Schwarzenegger deal with baddies.

•

Her mobile woke her just before sunrise. Gemma groped for it. Angie. Gemma’s heart sank. She didn’t want to have to talk to her best friend until she’d dealt with Trevor Dawson. Gemma prayed that Angie wouldn’t mention him this phone call.

‘We’ve found Tasmin Summers,’ Angie said. ‘She’s at the morgue. The water police brought her in.’

There was a silence while Gemma took this in. She thought of the radiant teenager, smiling with her friends in the photograph in Amy’s room. ‘Where?’

‘Floating off North Bondi. Couple of clicks off the beach.’

‘Any cause of death yet?’

‘We’ll have to wait for that. Maybe later this afternoon. You can come in and have a look at the video. Later on, when everyone’s gone home.’

Gemma thought of Jim Buisman’s remarks about a thief knot. She needed to get access to the violent major offender files Angie was sorting. ‘Those VMOs you’re going through—’

‘Was going through. Until this murder investigation.’

‘I need to see them, Ange.’

‘Not possible. You can’t come in here and do that, and there are too many of them for me to lug out in a briefcase.’

‘I have to. This is a pattern. We’ve got two similar homicides: two young girls from the same school, same age, best friends. Both with websites.’

She could hear Angie listening. She hurried on, pressing her case. ‘You know you need all the help you can get. G-for-Gross isn’t going to give you what I can.’

‘I step out of line with records like these and someone finds out, I’m gone!’ Gemma recognised the finality in her friend’s voice.

‘No one will ever know,’ she pleaded.

‘This place has a thousand ears and eyes. I don’t have to remind you.’

‘But Jim Buisman told me something,’ Gemma said. ‘Something important.’

‘What?’

‘Let me look through the VMOs and I’ll tell you.’

‘No! Subject closed. Now tell me what Buisman said.’

‘He remembers someone who used a thief knot,’ said Gemma. ‘Connected to a series of unsolved rapes in the 1980s. A girl tied with her own scarf. Let me go through those VMOs. Please, Ange. There could be something there.’

‘You’ve already been given access to things you shouldn’t have. I plan to retire with full entitlements. I don’t want to be prosecuted under the Crimes Act.’

‘Okay,’ said Gemma. ‘But when you go through the VMOs, remember to look out for the thief knot.’

‘What did Buisman say about his reasons for taking Bruno off the original investigation?’

‘Nothing. He pretended he couldn’t recall.’

There was a silence.

‘Gemster? Are you okay?’

‘Of course I am. I’m just pissed off that you won’t let me at those VMOs. And you were pissed off first.’

‘Sorry.’ Angie’s voice softened. ‘It’s just the pressure round here.’

All Gemma could think of right this moment was Trevor Dawson sharing ice-creams with his wife and kids and how Angie was going to feel a lot more pressure when she found out about it.

‘Look, come in later on,’ said Angie, placating her. ‘Buy me a coffee. We’ll have a chat.’

That was about as good as it was going to get, Gemma thought as she put the mobile down and padded out to the kitchen. Bloody Trevor Dawson. How dare he put her in such an awkward spot.

The sun was already out of the water, blindingly golden across the vast expanse. She drew the blinds against it and put the kettle on. From her living room came gentle snoring. She looked in and saw the Ratbag and Taxi curled around each other in a tangle of fur and legs, the doona kicked to the floor. ‘You tart,’ she whispered, dragging Taxi from his spot, needing his warmth despite the rising heat of the early morning.

With the cat sleepily draped in her arms, Gemma unlocked the sliding door and went outside. It was a beautiful morning with the promise of a perfect day. Yet her heart was so heavy with what she knew about Angie’s lover that she wished she could rewind the events of the last twenty-four hours. If she couldn’t contact Trevor Dawson by the end of the day, she’d have to tell Angie what she’d seen. God almighty, she thought. Why is it all so difficult?

•

Now that Romero had been arrested, there was no need for her to chase up his employment history. The police would do that. She made a note of the schools he’d been employed in for her own records, noticing that he’d left his first job, a state school in Bathurst, because of the workload.

Gemma settled down to reading through several of the witness statements again, especially Tiffany Brown’s. She picked up a pen and circled the bits of the girl’s statement that she wanted to check. She rang Tiffany Brown’s number, introduced herself to Mrs Brown and made a time to visit later that evening, explaining she just needed to ask Tiffany a couple of simple questions.

The gas man came and they decided to put a new bayonet on the southern wall of her living room as well as another one in her office. It seemed odd to be talking heaters when it was building towards a high of 29 degrees outside. The gas man had run out of fittings, due to the popularity of his special rates, but he would come back in the next couple of days, he said, to finish the job.

‘Make sure you ring me first,’ Gemma insisted. Tradesmen had an unerring instinct, she knew, to arrive when a woman is in the shower. He promised he’d call.

She checked her voice mail. No message from Trevor Dawson.

Late afternoon, she drove to Strawberry Hills police station and asked for Angie at the security desk. She was reading a poster about clandestine laboratories when she heard someone approaching. But it wasn’t Angie. Bruno Gross, who seemed to spend
more
time on the job now that he was off sick, had walked out of the lift and was heading for the exit. Gemma could see how his good looks were already being subsumed by extra flesh around his jaw line.

‘I want to talk to you, Bruno,’ she said, catching him up. He looked at her as if she was something he’d found floating under a wharf. ‘I’ve been talking to Jim Buisman, about why he took you off the original investigation into Amy Bernhard’s disappearance.’

Bruno barely paused in his stride. ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he said.

‘Jim Buisman mentioned a situation,’ she said. ‘What situation would that have been?’

That stopped him and he swung around on her; she felt the old anger, the old hurt.

‘That you’re a bloody lazy incompetent officer,’ she continued, ‘who gets other people to do all the work and then takes all the credit?’

‘Get off the premises!’ he snarled. ‘You have no business here.’

She looked past him to see Angie approaching. ‘I’m here to see my friend,’ said Gemma. ‘I have every right.’

But straightaway she saw that something was wrong. Angie’s face, usually alive with her ironic smile, was stern. Bruno gave them both a look and pushed his way outside.

Gemma turned to her friend. ‘Angie!’ she said. ‘What is it?’

Angie turned in silence, called back the lift, which opened its doors immediately, and stepped inside. Gemma followed. Once they were inside, her face white with anger, Angie hissed, ‘What’s going on, Gemma? What are you up to?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Gemma had been on the receiving end of Angie’s infamous temper once or twice before and had never forgotten it. ‘Calm down and tell me what you mean.’

‘You’ve got calls out to people. Diane Hayworth. Lots of others. Urgently wanting Trevor Dawson. And just now Tracey Lee rang and mentioned it.’