Shattered (34 page)

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ Gemma said. Grace was fragile enough right now without any more stressful discussions. ‘Everything seems clearer by morning light. Maybe between us we can find a way to fix things.’

The sadness in Grace’s face was heartbreaking. ‘There’s no way of saving my house,’ she said. ‘The gardens, the house, the furniture – everything. I’ve signed it all over and I have to be out in six weeks. My house and garden now belong to Sheridan Stark and The Group.’

Gemma recalled the article she’d read. Sheridan Stark had talked of moving to The Group’s new establishment at Mittagong.

Gemma realised that this house was it. She was standing in it.

During the drive back to Sydney, most of the conversation between Gemma and Mike was about Grace. The younger woman had seemed much better after a good breakfast – even hopeful, she told Gemma.

‘I hope there’s something we can do,’ said Gemma as Mike drove steadily north.

‘I’m sure there is,’ said Mike. ‘She’s been robbed by that mob.’

‘I might be able to get Stark to rescind the deal,’ Gemma said. ‘Threaten him with indecent assault proceedings.’ She told Mike about the absurd angel nightie she’d had to wear, the way Stark had groped her.

‘Now I’m more determined than ever,’ said Mike, ‘to fix that bloody fraud of a man. After all, a message from an archangel
has
to be undue influence.’

‘With Grace’s history,’ said Gemma, ‘and the report of a sympathetic therapist, there’s a good chance the case could go her way.’

‘It’ll cost money,’ said Mike.

‘It’ll cost her the bloody house if we don’t do anything!’ said Gemma.

‘Why would Grace do something like that?’ asked Mike after a long silence.

Gemma looked out the window. They were nearly back at her place and the noontide breeze had the scent of the sea in it.

‘Why do people do any of the things they do?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t we always looking for acceptance? A sense of belonging? Of being loved? Don’t we do things that we hope will help us gain all of that?’

Mike considered a while then looked across at her. ‘Is that what you’ve been looking for?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ she said as they turned into Bronte Road.

‘And have you found it, Gemma?’

She looked across at him, his straight profile and thick hair, his bulk in the driver’s seat, his eyes on the road.

‘Have you?’ she asked, turning the question back on him.

‘Yes,’ he said.

As they were about to pull up outside Gemma’s place, her mobile rang and she fished it out.

‘I want to know, Miss Lincoln,’ said a tight, angry voice, ‘why you haven’t contacted me about my daughter. I’ve had no information about Maddison from you and I don’t think this is good service at all. I paid a large advance to you to bring my daughter home. The police have done nothing. And now it seems you’re delivering the same – at a very high hourly rate.’

Gemma mentally chastised herself. She’d been meaning to call Dr Carr. ‘Dr Carr, can we talk about this in person, please?’

‘I don’t want to incur further expense,’ said Dr Carr, ‘visiting your office.’

‘It won’t cost you any extra, I assure you,’ said Gemma. ‘I do have information as it happens, but I’d like to pass it on in a professional manner.’

By the time Gemma had descended the steps to the front garden of her apartment and walked into her office, an appointment for Dr Leon Carr had been organised later in the day.

‘I don’t like leaving you,’ Mike said, finishing his orange juice some time later, ‘but I’d better get back to my place. I’ve got a living to earn.’

‘Me too,’ she said, reaching up to kiss him. ‘I want to have a good look at that photo of Bryson Finn and the unknown woman.’

‘The enhancing program will prompt you,’ Mike said. ‘It’s just a matter of zooming in and printing off anything interesting if you want hard copy.’

‘I can do that,’ she said. ‘But first, when will I see you again?’

‘Tonight?’ he suggested.

Gemma shook her head. ‘I need an early night. I didn’t sleep so well in Grace’s second bedroom.’

‘Tomorrow night?’

She nodded.

‘The thought of that will keep me going,’ Mike said. ‘But next time, no projectile vomiting. Think of something else?’

‘Deal,’ she said.

•

Even though it was Saturday, Gemma called her solicitor and left a message asking him to call her urgently, hoping he would check his voice mail sooner rather than later, then listened to and made notes concerning the messages on her own voice mail. She looked up from her list of jobs pending, caught for a moment in reveries about Mike.

He’d gone back to his place. His place, she thought. And her place. How were they going to work all that out? With Steve, and their separate households, there’d never been any such problem.

She put the question aside for another time and went into the operatives office where Mike had run his specialised Photoshop program and pulled up the scanned image. The events of the last twenty-four hours had eclipsed the Finn murders in her consciousness, but now Gemma was very keen to get a closer look at the photograph Dwight Ashton had given her. Anything that might help her dredge that name up.

She wasn’t overly optimistic – the scanned image was of poor quality. She increased the contrast and that improved the overall greyness of the picture, bringing some details into closer relief. She was already certain that the male figure was Bryson Finn so she devoted her attention to gleaning whatever she could from the personal effects of his companion. First, she studied the room where the couple disported themselves. It was not a space somewhere in motel land. It was very definitely a woman’s bedroom, she deduced, from the mirror and dressing table, the small waisted lamp standing on its surface, the decor. The containers on the dressing table looked like pots of face cream and bottles of nail polish. Gemma felt a growing excitement. If she could only identify the room, the house in which the room existed .
 
.
 
. Not possible, she realised. But the clothes might reveal something.

Gemma zoomed in on the various articles strewn about the floor. A couple of larger items were draped over the chair. She made out bra and knickers, a long skirt or trousers hanging over the arm, and a jumper. She turned her attention to the dark interior of the wardrobe. The door was only partly closed and more clothes showed, packed in a dense row. Slowly, she scanned along the sleeves, stopping at one. She zoomed in even further, to the maximum the program offered. There was definitely some sort of decoration or badge on the sleeve of a dark coat. But the definition was so poor, it wasn’t possible to make out any details.

She picked up the phone and rang Mike. ‘I’ve found something in that photograph. It might be helpful – maybe an employer logo or something. Can we identify it? Anything to give me a line on this woman.’

‘It’s worth a shot, I guess,’ he said. ‘There’s another enhancement program on the laptop, but it can only make graphical suggestions – and some of them will be way off, like in spellcheck. I can come over later, after I’ve finished the job I’m on. Is seven too late?’

‘Perfect,’ she said.

The phone rang. It was her solicitor. Gemma gave him a brief outline of Grace’s situation.

‘I don’t want to get your hopes up too much at this stage,’ said Wally in his measured, lawyer’s way, ‘but there have been previous cases like this and I know of at least two where the plaintiff was successful in getting property returned.’

‘I could also bring an indecent assault charge against him,’ said Gemma. ‘Not the easiest thing in the world to succeed with, but my bet is that Stark would loathe the idea of his groping angel going public. There are bound to be other women who would come forward – with even more interesting stories.’

‘We might be able to do a private deal,’ said Wally. ‘But first, your sister should make an appointment with Ainslie Holbright. She’s the expert on this sort of thing. Hang on, and I’ll get you her number.’

Gemma jotted it down then called Grace to pass on the news.

‘So don’t give up!’ said Gemma. ‘We just might be able to get your house back.’

‘I’ll drive up to see you in the next few days,’ promised Grace. She paused. ‘Mike seems a nice guy.’

‘He
is
a nice guy,’ said Gemma. ‘They say nice guys finish last, but I’m determined that won’t happen this time.’

•

Late in the afternoon, Gemma ushered in Dr Carr, a tall, rigidly upright man wearing a silvery grey suit that screamed expensive. Reluctantly, he sat in the armchair near the window while Gemma pulled out Maddison’s file. Gemma sensed he was the sort of man unused to being on the other side of a desk, especially when the boss’s side was filled by a woman.

‘Dr Carr,’ she said, ‘what I’m going to say now is probably not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. Maddison doesn’t want to come home. She doesn’t want to see you or have you try and contact her.’

‘Nonsense!’ he said. ‘She’s seventeen. What does she know?’

‘She has an addiction to heroin.’

The shock to Dr Carr’s system was clearly visible and Gemma wished she hadn’t been quite so direct with him.

‘How is she supporting herself?’ he asked.

Gemma gave him a look.

In the silence, she saw the rigidity collapse as Dr Carr seemed to fold forward, his head hanging between his shoulders. In that moment, Gemma felt some compassion for the man. After a long exhalation, Dr Carr gathered himself, and climbed to his feet.

‘Thank you, Miss Lincoln,’ he said. ‘As a medical man, I feel sure I’ll find a way to help this situation.’

Good luck, Gemma thought.

‘And I’ll attend to your account in due course. Thank you.’

Gemma watched him make his way up the stone steps to the roadside, then rang Naomi at Baroque Occasions.

‘How’s Jade?’ she asked.

‘She’s not here at the moment. She’s gone to help Maddison pack up.’

‘Pack up what?’

‘There’s this place on the South Coast, run by a couple of ex-workers. A sort of refuge for workers. Maddison’s decided to go down there for a few weeks. She’s going to try and get off the gear.’

Maybe I’ll ring Dr Carr, Gemma thought. Give him this little bit of hope to hang on to. ‘And Jade?’

‘She’s fine. She’s a really smart kid. Helped me with my English assignment. I’ll be sorry when she leaves, actually. She makes a fantastic spaghetti sauce.’

•

Mike was on the doorstep at seven, bearing a covered dish.

‘Yum,’ said Gemma, letting him in. ‘What’s that?’

‘The last of my
coq au vin
.’ He whipped the lid off and the aroma made her suddenly aware of how hungry she was.

‘Let’s set up the photograph, and start the other program,’ he said, following her down to the kitchen. ‘We can eat while it’s running.’

In the operatives office, Gemma sat near Mike while he cut and pasted bits of the photograph, concentrating on the area of the wardrobe and the indistinct decoration on the sleeve of the dark jacket hanging in it.

‘It’ll start playing around with the pixels and make a few suggestions about what it might be. Letters, symbols, that sort of thing. It’s been loaded with thousands of logos and badges. Automobile clubs, gun clubs, you name it. We just might get something.’

‘Great. Mike, I’m starving.’

He watched her as she ate. ‘You feeling all right? Is it staying down?’

‘It’s fine. It’s sinfully good.’

‘So’s this,’ he said, lifting his glass. Gemma had opened a special bottle of pinot noir, treating herself to half a glass, and its smoky elegance gave the meal a festive air, while outside a fine drizzle fell and the waves sounded a low roar.

After they’d finished eating, Gemma cleared up a little, insisting Mike relax on her lounge as he’d prepared the meal.

‘Pregnancy suits you,’ Mike said. ‘You look softer. Your skin is glowing.’

‘Pity about my hair,’ she said.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘this is the first time I’ve really felt like I belong here.’

‘You look good there,’ she said, moving to perch opposite him. ‘Sitting on my big blue lounge. How about you and me have a bath together?’

‘I thought you wanted an early night.’

‘I do,’ she said, smiling. ‘With you.’

They both managed to fit in the bath, sitting opposite each other in a tangle of legs and knees, a few candles illuminating the room with a golden glow.

‘This is very luxurious,’ said Mike. ‘I feel like a pasha.’

When Gemma finally climbed out, Mike admired her before she wrapped herself up in a towel. ‘I’m going to check that program,’ she said. ‘It might have come up with something.’

‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘let’s see again what’s under that towel.’

She flashed for him, and with his pleased exclamation ringing out of the bathroom, she padded down the hall, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the floorboards.

The program had stopped running. Gemma moved closer to see why. Then she understood. It had come up with a series of possible enhancements. It was the third of these that caused Gemma to peer at the computer screen. At first, she thought it must have been the super’s jacket hanging up in the wardrobe, then she noticed the wardrobe itself – the enhancement program had made the low-relief carving in the wood obvious. Then she saw the ranking patch. A whole swarm of tiny facts that had been buzzing around in her mind suddenly constellated. She
knew
that wardrobe, identified the rank, and with that, a name flashed into clarity – the name that had been swimming just out of focus when she lay dreaming and drifting in her drug-induced daze at the clinic. The Lindfield shooting, the transfer out, the heavy make-up, working overtime, a damaged Venetian glass heart, the know-how, the means, the Anschutz .
 
.
 
. the Anschutz 525!

Only one person could pull all that together into a vengeful, homicidal explosion. But she had to be certain.

She grabbed her phone and rang Angie’s mobile.

Angie answered, her voice tired and fed up.

‘Ange! It’s me. I think I’ve got it! The person who murdered Bryson and Bettina Finn.’

‘Gemma, don’t do this! We’ve charged someone. I’m hanging up!’

‘It was an Anschutz, wasn’t it?’ Gemma said desperately. ‘Angie, don’t hang up! At the Lindfield shooting, I mean.’

‘What?’

‘It was an Anschutz, wasn’t it? An Anschutz 525 at the murder at Lindfield the same day Bryson and Bettina and Donny were shot. You know, where the guy killed his wife then shot his own ear off.’

‘So?’

‘Please, Angie. Get a check done on the rifling characteristics of that weapon. You’ll find something astonishing!’

‘Gemma, the guy’s signed a statement. He’s made admissions. He’s pleading guilty. To murdering his wife, not members of the Finn family! What the hell are you going on about?’