Spiking the Girl (32 page)

Her desk phone rang and she picked it up. Sandra Samuels.

‘I got the job,’ said Sandra. ‘Receptionist handling cremains and grieving relatives. In fact, I’m working here now. There’s quite a backlog of paperwork so I won’t talk for long. Mr Gardiner was knocked out by my references.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Gemma. She gave Sandra Mike’s name and number. ‘Someone else on my payroll,’ she explained. ‘If anything comes up and you need back-up or a helping hand and you can’t raise me, ring Mike.’ Sandra said she would.

‘You still feel okay about having a look around that place?’

‘Gemma,’ Sandra said, ‘I’m really grateful to you. Not just for taking what happened to me seriously, but for everything you’re doing. I’m happy to help out. Makes me feel like I’m joining the human race again. I’ve been in hiding for too long in refuges—one way or another.’

‘Don’t forget to call Angie McDonald,’ Gemma reminded her.

When Sandra rang off, Gemma considered the way the gang of men had organised their attack, using the handsome, outwardly courteous youth as bait to catch their prey. Then, once they’d caught her, they all converged on the wasteland, like hounds tearing apart the quarry.

She glanced out the window and saw Spinner coming down the steps from the road. Gemma opened the front door for her much-valued colleague. ‘Welcome back,’ she said as he came into the operatives’ office and threw down his overnight bag. He slung his computer bag onto the desk looking slightly less miserable than when she’d last seen him.

‘Here are the names of the people I spoke to about Mr Romero,’ he said, digging a small notebook out of a pocket in the camera bag.

Beatrice de Berigny will faint, Gemma thought, when she hears that the senior History teacher at Netherleigh Park Ladies’ College is the sort of man who’d run away with a student half his age.

‘Then there’s Mr Pepper,’ said Spinner. ‘Claiming the end of his sex life.’

Gemma came up close and watched while the video fast-forwarded. Spinner stopped it at the relevant section and played it. ‘Cop a look at this,’ he said. There was Mr Pepper somewhere in bushland, digging furiously around the base of a Gymea lily, the densely packed petals burning like an eternal flame high above him.

‘Talk about nimble,’ said Gemma as the busy little figure on the camera’s tiny screen dug into hard soil around the plant. ‘But he wasn’t claiming crook back syndrome.’

‘Wait,’ said Spinner. ‘Keep watching.’

Mr Pepper stopped labouring, wiped his brow, scratched his balls and walked towards a large tree, pulling his penis out of his shorts.

‘Do I have to watch him taking a leak?’

‘He hasn’t got it out for a leak,’ said Spinner.

Spinner was right. Mr Pepper started fondling his dick and was soon going for his life. After a few seconds Spinner hit the stop button. ‘You don’t need to see the rest of that,’ he said primly. ‘You get the picture.’

‘Nothing wrong with his sporting gear,’ said Gemma.

‘You can take my word for it, Boss.’ Spinner switched the video camera off. ‘Imagine how he’s going to feel when the insurers invite him in to discuss his case and then put this on the VCR.’

Gemma almost felt sorry for the cheat.

‘Oh,’ said Spinner. ‘I’ll be starting that new Mandate check.’ A man, away on business, wanted the marital house watched overnight, certain that his wife was bringing a man there in his absence.

‘It’s just down the hill at Bronte. I won’t be far from you,’ he said, grinning. ‘You could bring me a nice cup of tea.’

‘I might even do that,’ said Gemma.

They both fell silent as the radio news began. The first item was the search for Claudia Page and her boyfriend. ‘
Police now hold grave fears for their safety
,’ the newsreader said.

Spinner started to leave then turned back, pulling a small flat gift-wrapped parcel out of his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, awkward. ‘I thought you might like this.’ He hurried away, embarrassed at his own generosity, and Gemma had to chase him to thank him.

She opened the little packet. In spite of everything, the softness and beauty of the purple, aqua and blue painted silk caused her a soft, involuntary ‘oh’ of pleasure. It would be too hot for summer wear, but the scarf would look stunning draped across a black jumper. She tried it against her skin in the hall mirror. It was perfect for her colouring. As she fiddled with it, her mind empty of everything except the colours and fall of the exquisite silk, something in her mind flashed on. The scarf! Sandra Samuels’ scarf. She’d used it to clean herself up; the rapist had used it to tie her hands. Enough of it had been saved for Colin Roper to identify the thief knot. She ran to her office and scrambled to find Sandra’s phone number.

‘Yes?’ The hesitant response at the other end of the line.

‘It’s me, Gemma. That scarf! What colour was it? The one you wore that night?’

‘Pink and red,’ she said. ‘Why?’

Gemma told her.

•

At Strawberry Hills, Gemma waited outside for Angie. She’d pulled the crime scene envelope containing the old blood-streaked fabric from where it had sat for years in a plastic sleeve, mixed up with old VMO files. As well as providing them with the thief knot, that scrap of torn fabric could provide evidence of every person at that crime scene—Sandra’s blood and epithelial cells together with the rapists’ semen. It was better than a photographic record of the crime. And one of those profiles would match the sporting legend, Scott Brissett.

Gemma and Angie drove to the Division of Analytical Laboratories at Lidcombe. ‘We want this yesterday,’ said Angie to the clerk at the counter.

‘They all say that,’ said the clerk as she numbered the job and gave them their receipt. ‘You know it takes at least twenty-four hours.’

‘If I say the names Amy Bernhard, Tasmin Summers and possibly Claudia Page,’ said Angie, ‘would that help speed things up?’

It would.

‘While I’m here,’ Angie said, ‘would you mind checking on another job for me? It would have gone through Melissa Grey from Parramatta Crime Scene for the forensic anthropologist, Francie Suskievicz. Multiple human remains out Richmond way. Including a lot of teeth. I’m very curious about that case.’

The clerk raised an eyebrow. ‘I remember that job coming in because it was so weird. Hang on. Linda Shipper was doing that one.’

The clerk vanished through a door in the back wall of her office and Gemma and Angie waited. Gemma was halfway through reading a poster about evacuation drill in case of fire when the clerk returned. ‘That job was dispatched a little while ago, Angie. The results have been sent back to the investigating police.’

‘Good, I’ll call Melissa.’

They drove back to Strawberry Hills where Gemma had left her car. Sean was waiting for Angie, having been delayed at ASIC headquarters. ‘I’ve got what you want,’ he said to her. ‘Guess who’s Vernon Kodaly’s sleeping partner?’

‘Ned Kelly?’

‘Scott Brissett.’

He told Angie Brissett’s address and Gemma noted it too, working out her plan of action. Angie disappeared upstairs, returning within minutes.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

Gemma didn’t want to push her luck so she hung back as Angie and Sean got into the car. As Angie buckled her seatbelt, she looked up at Gemma. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I had quite a conversation with Sandra Samuels, over the phone. She’s pretty convincing.’

‘I knew she’d contact you,’ said Gemma. She hurried to her car and followed Sean and Angie to Watsons Bay and then in and around a maze of little streets until they found Brissett’s house hidden away at the end of a shady driveway. The heat beat down furiously, cicadas shrieking, and a wisp of high cloud visible through the leaves. It was one of those days, Gemma thought, that just keeps getting hotter.

‘A few quid here,’ said Sean, looking through the wrought-iron gate, taking in the formal front gardens, the pristine beds of summer flowers, the mature cycads in pots moving stiffly in the ocean breeze.

‘Okay,’ said Angie, looking at Gemma. ‘You’d better make yourself scarce.’

‘But I want to go in there. See what his place looks like.’

‘You
are
joking. This is an official visit. No way.’

‘What about my student “visitor” ID?’

‘Go home,’ said Angie. ‘Now. You shouldn’t even be here.’

‘I’m part of this! You wouldn’t have had the Deliverance connection without me. You wouldn’t
be
here without me!’ Even Gemma was surprised at the passion of her defence.

‘I’ll fill you in later, okay?’ Angie hissed. ‘Now go.’

•

‘He was very relaxed,’ Angie said later, referring to her visit to Scott Brissett. ‘Confident that whatever business the police had with him, it could only work to his benefit.’

‘What’s his place like?’

‘Ritzy. Lots of leather and chrome. Cedar plantation blinds, ceiling fans. Very resort. A huge nude portrait of his wife—she was a model—letting it all hang out. She was posing on a cane chair. Imagine the indentations that’d make on a girl’s bum. And beside that, another painting of a million-dollar cruiser.’

‘His two trophies,’ said Gemma.

‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ said Angie. ‘Lots of trophies.’

Naomi had mentioned those, Gemma remembered, sporting trophies with engraved initials.

‘He’s a pantsman, for sure,’ Angie said. ‘And he’s the sort of man who talks about his wife as “The Missus”. His sporting injuries must be coming home to roost,’ she went on. ‘He’s walking with a slight limp and stooping over just a little. I noticed him wincing a couple of times at sudden movement.’

‘Me too,’ said Gemma, remembering the TV footage of Brissett getting into a car. It’s in the fifth decade, she’d heard someone say, that sportsmen’s injuries really start taking their toll. Especially groin injuries.

‘When I told him about the nature of the complaint he went all quiet and wary,’ said Angie. ‘Then when he heard how old the allegations were, he hit the roof. I told him we were just doing our job—checking it out.’

‘So?’ asked Gemma. ‘His response?’

Angie pulled out her notebook and scrolled down. ‘
I’ve never heard such a load of garbage in my life! Who is this little low-life?
’

‘Charming,’ said Gemma. ‘His counsel will have to straighten him out about a few things.’

‘When I asked for his official response to my question concerning his whereabouts on the evening of 18 November 1983, he really got pissed off,’ said Angie, glancing down at her notebook. ‘Listen to this.’

She summarised her notes. ‘He reckons this is happening all over Australia—reckons it’s becoming like some fashionable blood sport. Decent men, family men, who’ve made a name for themselves becoming the targets for any emotionally disturbed little scrag—’

‘He said “scrag”?’

‘You bet he did. Any emotionally disturbed little scrag,’ she repeated, ‘who needs to draw attention to herself and her pathetic life. Anyway, when I offered to jog his memory and reminded him it was the night of the Picton District Show and mentioned the name of his fifteen-year-old companion, he started to get uncomfortable. He went a bit pale at the mention of that rubber snake at the end of a cane.’

‘He remembered that detail,’ said Gemma, ‘and that night. What happened after the Picton District Show.’

‘Then I told him we were in possession of an emailed photograph,’ she said, ‘transmitted by mobile phone from the Black Diamond Room at the nightclub called Deliverance. I told him we knew he was a partner in the business. And that image was the last contact we’ve had with another young girl who’s gone missing, Claudia Page.’

‘And what did he say to that?’

‘He went straight into the attack,’ said Angie. ‘Said he’d be advising his solicitor to sue for damages. Malicious prosecution. I suggested he calm down, that no one was prosecuting him.’

‘Yet,’ said Gemma.

‘Then he clammed up and got on the blower to his legal people,’ Angie continued, ‘and I invited both him and his lawyer to meet us at Strawberry Hills. I said there were some other matters we wanted to clear up.’

‘Did he ever say, “I didn’t do it”?’ asked Gemma.

Angie shook her head.

Back home, Gemma was about to ring Sandra to keep her up to date when Angie rang to say that Damien Wilcox had
turned up and was this very moment undergoing surgery to relieve subdural bleeding from a fractured skull. He wouldn’t be available for conversation for some time, according to the doctors. In fact, he might never speak again.

‘It gets worse,’ Angie continued. ‘Those images from Claudia’s mobile—the ones you received—weren’t sent from anywhere near Deliverance.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Just that. Wherever she was, she wasn’t at the club. Or anywhere near it.’

‘But you saw it!’

‘In any case, those photographs weren’t transmitted from the inner city area. The techies are working on the embedded information, trying to locate the position those images were transmitted from.’

It could be anywhere in Sydney, Gemma thought, with sinking heart.

‘It gets even worse, Gemster.’

How could it?

‘We can’t charge Brissett.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘What with? We haven’t got anything on him! He’s denying everything.’

‘Well, of course. It’s his job to deny everything!’

‘Everything is circumstantial, Gems. There’s nothing to lock him in.’

‘Naomi saw him with a young girl hanging off him, talking to Kodaly.’

‘So? He might have been going to take her to de-tox.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Angie was right. ‘We need the DNA,’ Gemma said.

‘Brissett reckons he’s going to make life impossible for me,’ Angie said. ‘He’s got mates in the job. You know what the cops are like once they get it in for someone. And if he gets wind of your involvement, you’d better look out. You’ve got a licence that needs renewing.’

‘It’s just rumours, Angie. You know what it’s like. Bullies’ talk.’ Gemma wondered why her words sounded unconvincing even to herself. She remembered the vicious, spiteful harassment of people who’d fallen foul of certain police officers. She didn’t need that. This year had been painful enough without any threat to her licence.

‘But we can still get him,’ she reminded them both. ‘That old crime scene evidence. The DNA on Sandra’s scarf. Once we’ve got that—’

‘And that won’t be ready till tomorrow morning,’ said Angie. ‘At the earliest. Look, even if we charge him, he’d be bailed in ten seconds flat. And that gives him time to start rounding up support among the old boys’ network, the sporting hero circuit. The media will go crazy. Commercial radio gurus and their mob. Newspaper stories. Interviews.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to get this bastard?’

‘You know I do!’

‘Okay. So let’s not do anything premature that might end up in a media circus and then go on to being no-billed.’

‘But, Ange. You let him go and Claudia’s still being held somewhere—’

‘I know what you’re saying. He’s got nothing to lose by killing her. And everything to lose if he lets her go.’

Heavy silence on the line.

‘We’re watching every move he makes and there are warrants out to search all his holdings,’ said Angie. ‘We’re doing everything possible. If he moves, every satellite in the area will be tracking him.’

‘Surely there’s something!’ Gemma felt keen disappointment.

‘Gemster. We still have no proof that Brissett’s involved in the disappearance and deaths of Amy or Tasmin. He’s denying any connection with the club apart from a financial interest.’

‘But we already know he’s a violent rapist!’ shouted Gemma, losing her cool.

‘Sandra Samuels
alleges
he’s a rapist,’ Angie corrected her.

‘But the thief knot!’ countered Gemma.

‘Doesn’t prove anything. It’s a similarity, that’s all,’ said Angie.

‘We need to find that fancy green and white cord in Brissett’s possession, maybe at one of his properties—’

‘Even if we do, it still wouldn’t prove anything. Just that he has similar cord. This little chat we’ve just had with him,’ said Angie, ‘that’s going to put the pressure on him.’ She paused. ‘Gemster. When the DNA results are in we’ve got a better chance.’

Gemma rang off and a deep unease settled on her. Catching a rapist was always going to be hard work, especially with someone as wily and popular as Brissett. Angie was right. There was nothing to tie him to the two dead schoolgirls. Scott Brissett, footie hero, brilliant in the light projected from the hearts and minds of millions of Australians, had been endowed with god-like stature. Gemma knew her countrymen and women: even if they eventually cut down every other public figure, they canonised their sporting heroes and heroines.

Feeling dejected, she made a snack and found herself worrying about the Ratbag. She should be looking for him. If Eddie found him, God knows what he might do to the poor kid. She turned on the radio and listened to the latest news. Scott Brissett, saying he was considering legal action against those people who were making false and malicious allegations. The search for missing teenager Claudia Page was continuing as her boyfriend lay in an ICU fighting for survival.

Gemma was preparing a salad when she heard someone outside. She glanced up at the CCTV image: Angie was running down the path.

‘What is it?’ she asked, alarmed, as she opened the door.

Angie pushed past her, threw herself on the sofa, startling Taxi. She looked shocking.

‘What is it?’ Gemma said again.

‘The Assistant Commissioner is good mates with Brissett,’ said Angie. ‘I’ve been told that my career in the New South Wales police is as good as finished. Just because I did my job and interviewed Brissett.’

‘But that’s crazy,’ said Gemma. ‘They can’t just throw you out. Not for having a chat to someone! It’s just the bloody rumour machine. It’ll blow over.’

‘If they want to throw me out, they’ll find something. Or they’ll send me to places I hate, give me jobs I’m no good at. You know how they can wear someone down.’ Angie hunched over. ‘I’ve only ever wanted to be a good cop. What the hell would I do with the rest of my life?’

‘Ange, Ange, it’ll be okay.’ Gemma dropped to sit beside her friend. Angie threw her head back. ‘How will it be okay? First Trevor, now this. This is the worst fucking year of my life!’

‘Do you want a drink?’

Angie nodded. ‘And pour yourself one. You’re going to need it.’

Gemma went to the decanters and poured a scotch for Angie and a brandy for herself. ‘Why?’ She felt dread clutch at her. What new blow was Angie bringing?

She carried the drinks over to her friend who sniffed and pushed her hair off her damp face, looking up with red-rimmed eyes.

‘Tell me,’ said Gemma. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The DNA results,’ Angie started.

Please, no, Gemma thought. Don’t let this be happening. But as she was making the desperate prayer, Angie’s words hit her like a kick in the heart.

‘Just after we’d been speaking on the phone,’ she said, ‘Linda Shipper got back to me.’

Gemma could feel her blood pulsing in her ears. ‘What? What did Linda say?’

‘The genetic material extracted from Samantha’s old bits of scarf—’

Gemma held her breath.

‘It’s UN,’ said Angie.

Gemma stared, uncomprehending.

‘UN means unsuccessful,’ Angie continued. ‘No result possible. Degraded to absolute buggery.’

‘Oh shit!’ Gemma stood there a moment. She couldn’t believe all the possibilities were just blowing away like this. ‘But what about the vaginal and oral swabs from Tasmin Summers’s autopsy? Dr Chang told us about those. The DAL could surely get a match from that. Remember the preliminary report? The doctor got a positive for semen.’

Angie shook her head. ‘I thought of that too. I rang Dr Chang. I didn’t understand everything she said,’ Angie put her drink down, ‘but I don’t think there’s much hope there.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Apparently there were too many shared peaks. Nothing clear to convince a jury.’ Angie paused. ‘The best they could do would be to use statistics. But the profiles themselves are a nightmare of similarities.’

Gemma wanted to cry. ‘I can’t believe this! I thought we had him both ways. Now you’re telling me we haven’t got him at all!’

Angie threw herself back against the leather sofa. ‘Can you imagine the damages claim? Scott frigging Brissett is on the cards to score squillions out of this! And I’ll be hung out to dry.’

Gemma sank to a seat, the drinks still in her hands. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

The question hung in a long silence. From somewhere beneath the cliffs, a startled plover shrieked.

‘We do what we always do.’ Angie’s voice sounded hopeless.

We start again, Gemma thought. We go right back to square one and we start again. We go over everything one more time.

‘I’ll go back over the statement Sandra Samuels made when she was fifteen,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll go through those VMOs one more time. I’ll check every goddamn thing that Scott Brissett has ever done in his life, everything he’s ever owned, ever bought or sold. Anything he’s even pissed up against, I’ll check out.’

‘Bring it all back here,’ said Gemma. ‘I can help you. And that way, when they come to kick you out, they’ll have to track you down.’

Angie left to collect the rest of the VMO files and Gemma poured away the drinks and went into the kitchen. Strong coffee, she thought. That’s what we’ll need.

•

Angie and Gemma sat on either side of the dining table with a pile of files on both sides of them—the one on the left slowly decreasing while the one on the right became taller with every re-reading. Gemma went through her pile thoroughly and slowly—it helped to keep her focused. But there were no more thief knots. No more fancy green and white kite-flying cord.

Angie was looking for anything that might cast light on Scott Brissett. It was so quiet, apart from the gusting westerly flattening the ocean. They worked in silence, each of them depressed by the way things were going. It was late by the time they’d finished.

‘There’s nothing new here,’ Gemma finally said.

‘I’m whacked.’ Angie stood up and stretched. ‘Time to call it a day. Oh, I nearly forgot. Francie Suskievicz faxed over her initial findings on the multiple human remains. Remember those polystyrene boxes in the bush not far from where most of the teeth were. They’re trying to find out where they came from. They’ve got names and dates on them.’

‘Are they old file boxes?’

Angie shrugged.

From the rocks below came the thump of a big breaker. Gemma registered it through the soles of her feet. ‘No one’s come to kick you out yet,’ she said.

‘No one’s awake is why.’

‘Go home, Ange. Get some sleep.’

She put Angie out the door and stood awhile in the garden. It was still hot and through the white curtains of the upstairs flat she could see the bluish flashing of a television.

Back inside, she printed off two more copies of the photo of the room Claudia had sent her. She wished she had a picture of the Black Diamond Room at Deliverance so as to compare the two. Apart from the drinks trolley near the black draped bed, they looked to be identical. She felt sad and exhausted and, although dog tired, she couldn’t shake the awful images of Tasmin’s last moments of life. She’d had blood in her mouth, she remembered Dr Chang saying.

She left the prints of the picture lying on the dining room table, too tired to think. Her mobile rang and she was about to switch it over to voice mail when she saw it was Mike.

‘Sandra Samuels rang me. She’s got a key to the premises of Forever Diamonds. I suggest we move now. What do you think?’

‘Great,’ said Gemma, forgetting how tired she was.

‘If you want to come along, I’ll pick you up,’ Mike added.

Gemma hesitated. She should be getting to bed but this was another chance to put things back on a business-like footing between them.

While she waited, she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, changed into jeans and a dark shirt and put on fresh lipstick. Taxi, cranky that she wasn’t settled on the lounge or going to bed, sulked around her ankles. When she heard Mike’s car up on the road, she grabbed a jacket, her torch from the office, picked up her video camera, locked up and ran up the steps. For a second, she was overcome with the memories of what had happened last time she’d been in this particular vehicle, but she gamely put those thoughts aside and climbed in, slamming the door.

There was little conversation in Mike’s car on the way to Newtown. The traffic was light at this hour and they soon turned into the back lane behind Forever Diamonds and parked a little way from the cyclone fencing. Gemma recognised the woman coming towards them as Sandra Samuels. ‘I’ve got a front door key,’ she said. ‘It’s my job to open up in the mornings and sort the mail.’

The side street was deserted, but only a few metres away King Street still buzzed as the three of them walked towards the front entrance. Sandra opened up, disarmed the alarm, switched on the soft floor lighting and Gemma and Mike followed her in. The scent of yellow and white lilies perfumed the small space. Gemma noticed several bills on the counter, including one from Energy Australia. She remembered Raymond Gardiner mentioning the huge costs involved in the transformation process and Kevin too had said it was a costly business. Sandra unlocked the door to the small office to the right of the coffin-like counter, and walked over to a locked key cupboard, unlocked it and selected a security key from its hook.

‘What are the kids at the refuge doing while you’re here?’ Gemma asked, following Sandra as she opened the security door that led to the factory area behind the shopfront.

‘Sister Dorothy from Youth Off the Streets said she’d keep an eye on them for me,’ said Sandra. ‘Most of them don’t come in till later anyway.’

Mike switched his torch on, keeping the powerful beam low as the three of them went inside.

‘We probably shouldn’t be here,’ he said.

‘We’re with a key-holder,’ Gemma reminded him.

‘What are we looking for?’ Sandra asked, as Mike played the torch around the walls and ceilings. The place smelled like a mechanic’s shop.

‘We’re looking for their system,’ Gemma explained. ‘Not so much computer files, but the way they physically log the different jobs, the different containers of carbon. The way they receipt and track the ashes through the process that changes them into diamonds.’ She delivered a short lecture on the manufacture of artificial diamonds.