Spiking the Girl (33 page)

‘I can think of a couple of people I’d like to have transformed,’ Mike said. ‘And I’ve got some creative ideas about where I’d like to wear them too.’

‘Just as well they have to be dead,’ Gemma said. She glanced over at his broad figure. I like you, Mike Moody, she thought.

‘I think it’s creepy,’ said Sandra. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone hanging round me like that, even if they were a diamond.’

‘So we’re looking for the place in the process where a mistake can happen?’ Mike poked around with his torch beam, highlighting the corners of the large hangar.

Gemma nodded. ‘Just so Mr Dowling feels he’s got the beginnings of a case to argue. Even if he can’t actually prove anything.’

Mike continued to play the torchlight over counters and workbenches, highlighting a set of tools in an orderly collection on the walls. Sandra had gone a little way ahead of them and they could hear her at the far end of one of the long workbenches opening and closing drawers. ‘There’s nothing much here,’ she called back. ‘Jeweller’s tools. Clasps, fittings. What you’d expect really.’

Gemma joined her, lighting up the counter ahead of Sandra. She saw jeweller’s eyepieces, tiny metal picks and pliers and a rolled-up piece of fabric. A desk in a corner contained nothing except several stacked pastel-coloured crematorium containers for ashes. Curious, Gemma opened one. It was empty but dusty inside. She checked the lid. ‘This was Stanley John Cotter,’ she read, putting the container down. ‘Empty, so he must have been processed.’

‘Transformed,’ Sandra corrected her. ‘Mr Gardiner gets angry if I say anything else.’ Gemma glanced at her. Despite the trauma of her girlhood, Sandra was perfectly focused right now, a slight frown of concentration on her face—not at all the vulnerable woman Gemma had seen on an earlier occasion.

‘These look like the findings for the finished products.’ Mike, pulling out drawer after drawer, indicated boxes and containers filled with gold and silver wires, swivels and other settings. ‘I don’t see how we can gauge their process, Gemma. Not unless we get someone in here to watch the whole thing from A to B.’

Sandra checked other drawers and boxes under the bench while Gemma flashed her torch around. Apart from the desk and the work tables around the walls, the central space was bare. She frowned.

‘Surely there should be something else here,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what, but something more than this.’

‘I’ve found some stones here,’ Sandra called out. She’d unrolled the piece of fabric and Gemma and Mike peered at the dozen or so stones she’d revealed, laid out in three short lines of four. ‘Mr Stanley John Cotter might be among this lot.’ She poked them with a small tool. ‘And how would you know?’

‘If they just mix them up like this once they’re cooked, they all look much the same,’ said Mike. ‘Looks like we got ’em cold on this one. There’s no identification for any of them!’

Gemma picked up one of the diamonds lying on the piece of unrolled fabric and, fixing the jeweller’s eyepiece in place, squinted at the magnified gem while Sandra held the torch on it.

‘Take a look,’ Gemma offered. She could see tiny impurities and lines in its depths. A second-rate stone, even she could see that. ‘Are they real?’

Sandra straightened up and handed Gemma back the torch. ‘Mr Dowling had his examined by a jeweller, didn’t he? And it was genuine.’

Gemma shone her torch on the small glittering stones. No way they could tell one of these stones from its fellows. The old elation at catching a cheat lending her new energy, Gemma tugged her video camera out of its bag and began shooting the area, starting with establishing shots of the Forever Diamonds letterhead and certificate of registration as a business, then turning to take in the workbench and the short rows of uncut diamonds on the piece of fabric. She filmed the interior, as much as she could while Mike and Sandra held the flashlights steadily for her. The lighting wasn’t ideal, but it would do. Then she concentrated again on the stones on the unrolled piece of flannel.

She put the camera down, pulled some latex gloves out of her pocket and picked up some of the stones.

‘How on earth would they know who was what?’ said Sandra, peering at the stone in Gemma’s gloved fingers. ‘Your client was right. He probably hasn’t got his wife in that ring he showed you. God knows who he’s got.’

Sandra searched again in the dark space under one of the workbenches, dragging out a small carton. ‘What’s in that?’ Gemma asked.

Sandra opened it and pulled out a small parcel carefully wrapped in twine and brown tape. She held it up. The postal franking looked like Chinese characters and Gemma videotaped the parcel and the characters in close-up.

‘What
is
this?’ Mike asked. ‘Don’t tell me the Chinese are exporting their ancestors to be processed.’

‘Something here doesn’t add up.’ Gemma pointed to the dark space in the centre of the factory. ‘There should be a huge pressure press here.’ She flashed her torch around again. ‘Where is the press? What are they doing the transforming in? My engineering expert said it would take a huge furnace or a press that could duplicate natural forces 200 kilometres under the earth’s surface.’ She turned round to the others. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘I smell a rat,’ said Mike. ‘A diamond rat. There’s no machinery here. This isn’t a manufacturing space.’

Gemma surveyed the factory area one more time with her torch beam. The facts flew together in her mind. ‘They’re not making diamonds here! They’re not making diamonds anywhere! Old Mr Dowling was spot on,’ she said. ‘It’s not his wife in that ring. It’s not anybody’s wife.’

She indicated the short rows of uncut diamonds on the fabric square. ‘The only thing Forever Diamonds are manufacturing here is bullshit,’ said Gemma. ‘They’re importing low-grade pre-cut diamonds from China. Probably paying no more than a few hundred bucks apiece. Then a jeweller sets them in gold—there’s another couple of hundred. They’re charging people thousands of dollars for a diamond ring that’s cost them maybe six or seven hundred dollars. Maybe a thousand after they’ve paid for the jeweller’s time.’

‘Good profit,’ said Mike. ‘Way to go.’

‘Way to go to a fraud conviction. Put the lights on, Mike. No need for subterfuge now.’

Under the bright lights over the workbenches, Gemma pulled her video camera out and started filming the evidence all over again.

Before they locked up and left the premises, Gemma picked up an Energy Australia bill.

‘Get a copy of this,’ she said, passing it to Sandra who took it to the photocopier in the corner and ran off several copies. They returned the bill to the counter. The amount of power needed to run Forever Diamonds was smaller than for Gemma’s business.

•

Next morning, Gemma was woken by the uncomfortable pressure in her lower abdomen. Immediately, the shadows came crowding in. Angie’s fears about the end of her police career, everyone’s fears for Claudia, the pencilled warning note. Gemma listened to the early news in the shower—the search for the missing teenager was still continuing—giving her stomach a good rub, remembering that the first period after the break-up of a relationship was always hard and heavy. She felt a little better after the shower, thinking about the success of last night’s raid on the cheats at Forever Diamonds. She prayed for a similar result for Claudia Page.

She ate toast with some of Kit’s cumquat marmalade, staring out to sea. She thought of Forever Diamonds and Stanley John Cotter’s empty polystyrene box. Into her mind flashed Francie Suskievicz’s words to Angie: they’d found a number of little polystyrene boxes near the teeth and bone fragments out in the bush. Gemma jumped up, abandoning her toast.

She rang Francie, thinking of the hot day at Richmond and the annoying little bushflies. ‘I’ve had an idea I think you might find interesting,’ she said when Francie answered. ‘On the multiple human remains and teeth.’

‘If what you’re suggesting is true,’ Francie said, after Gemma had outlined her suspicions, ‘we’re going to have to get the names and dates of those involved. DNA reference samples are the way to go.’

‘I can help you with that too,’ said Gemma, thinking of Sandra Samuels.

‘Really? When?’

‘As fast as a phone call.’

‘Great,’ said Francie. ‘We wouldn’t know where to start otherwise.’

‘Put it all through Angie, will you?’ Gemma said. ‘Just so it goes through normal police channels. There’s enough that’s weird about this case without unduly provoking the hierarchy.’

‘Gotcha,’ said Francie.

‘And if the DNA testing works out, this could make a client of mine very happy.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Remind me to tell you about the squirting worm I found in a body cavity one day.’

‘You guys have all the fun.’

Gemma put the phone down. Although she had to deal with people like Bruno, there were also Francies and Melissas, Mikes and Spinners.

After finishing the cold toast, Gemma gathered last night’s results, prepared the video and copies of her notes and totalled the bill for Mr Dowling. He’d been right, after all. Fifty years of living with someone, she thought, must make you very attuned to what that person feels like, even when she’s rendered down to pure carbon. Or not.

Another wave of sadness overwhelmed her as she thought of Steve. Fifty years together was something she wouldn’t be having with the man she loved. She tried to take comfort from the fact that they’d done well last night, that Mr Dowling had not only been vindicated, but he’d been the instigator in revealing a serious fraud perpetrated on grieving, vulnerable people. There was a very strong chance that if he decided to take the matter further, the courts would overlook the unorthodox way in which his evidence had been gathered.
A Current Affair
would love this story, she thought.

‘Mr Dowling,’ she said when he answered. ‘Is it convenient for you to come in later and get your results?’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ he said.

•

Mr Dowling stared hard at Gemma while she told him the story of last night’s raid and what they’d found.

‘It’s all here,’ she said. ‘In my video evidence. I’ve also got two eyewitnesses. You were absolutely right in your suspicions. It is not your wife’s remains in that diamond. It’s not anybody’s.’

Mr Dowling was silent for a long moment. ‘Is that for me?’ he finally asked, pointing to the large manilla envelope with his name on it, in which Gemma had assembled all the reports and the tape.

‘It is.’

She passed it to him and he opened it, glancing down at the account, putting that to one side, briefly skimming through the notes. Finally, he put it all away again, except for the account which he handed back to Gemma together with his credit card. She processed it and he signed the chit.

‘The dirty lowdown mongrels,’ he finally said. ‘The dirty dogs. What a terrible thing to do to people.’ He looked away, sniffed and pulled out a large hankie, blowing his nose. ‘The worst thing is,’ he said, ‘that I don’t even have anything anymore. Not anything. Nothing to bury. Nothing to put in a nice little wall with a plaque beside it. Those people are worse than grave robbers! At least grave robbers only took the treasures. I’ve lost every little bit of Shirley now.’

Gemma sat back in her chair, wishing there was something she could say to comfort the old fellow.

‘Even if I take these frauds to court, I’ll never get my Shirley back.’

It was too early, Gemma thought, to mention her recent conversation with Francie. She didn’t want to get the old man’s hopes up only to dash them again. Instead, she walked with him to the door, a comforting hand on his shoulder. She watched him go up the steps to the road, his heavy tread, and felt a pang in her heart. In some cases she worked, she wondered if discovering the truth was worth the pain it caused, and this case was one of those.

She rang Linda Shipper at DAL and told her about Mr Dowling and his double loss—with reference to her call to Francie Suskievicz. ‘It’s possible to do something with mitochondrial DNA,’ Linda said. ‘We might be able to do it in conjunction with the fraud investigation. But it could be easier for him to go through a private lab. It’ll be expensive, but if his children gave samples, the lab might be able to find something for him.’

•

The heat from yesterday filled the apartment and there was no breeze through the barred windows. Gemma pulled the blinds against the sun and poured a cool drink, then sat at the dining room table staring sightlessly at the printed copies of the image Claudia had sent her from the Black Diamond Room. As she sipped, she went over what she knew about Scott Brissett. She stood up, restless, recalling what Angie had told her about the visit to his house, his two big trophies—his wife and his cruiser. Brissett was a winner—he
had
to win—as testified by all the sporting trophies in his lounge room. And when he was young, Brissett had also liked raping young girls.

Gemma reconsidered her earlier decision and rang Mr Dowling with the news about the possibility of mitochondrial DNA testing. Maybe having some hope for a while was better than not having any at all.

She put her mobile back in her bag. Deep in her mind, something was stirring, something Naomi had said about her work. Gemma searched her memories of their earlier meeting and the discussion of Naomi’s continuing education. She felt frustrated. There was something she knew, something vital, but she’d stowed it away in her memory and now she couldn’t retrieve it.

Damn, she said under her breath, getting up to take her plates back to the kitchen. That was when she freaked. Her front door was wide open. And someone was standing in the doorway. No chance to go for the Glock; her only weapon was a knife and fork. How had this happened? Had she felt so wretched last night, been so exhausted, that she’d failed to lock up after Angie left? It was hard to credit, and yet that’s what she must have done.

‘Are you pissed off with me?’

Gemma dropped the plate. ‘Hugo! You scared the living daylights out of me!’

‘Sorry,’ he said, putting the key to the door back in his pocket.