Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (43 page)

He was here. He’d come here, down the phone line, singing into her most private sanctuary. ‘
Baby did a bad, bad thing,
’
she heard, the syncopation jumping ahead of the beat. For a moment, disbelief prevented every other emotion. It isn’t possible, she was thinking. How could he trace her like this? The answer was immediate. He knew her mobile number. Now she remembered the breather and the music in the background. That was the song she hadn’t quite remembered. Mike’s flatmate had rung her at home, claiming to have lost her mobile number.

‘What’s that music?’ asked the Ratbag. For a frozen moment, she stood there as the spidery sound floated out of her mobile. She felt sick. She remembered Mike’s words: ‘
Receivers are transmitters are receivers are transmitters .
 
.
 
.
’ With the right scanning equipment, Roger Hollis could pinpoint her via her mobile phone signal. Maybe, even at this very moment, her number active and lit up on a monitor screen, his scanning program was homing in on this little wooden box on deserted Phoenix Bay. And he was speeding closer to her every second. She punched the call off button and threw the handset down as if it were a poisonous snake. It slid off the bench and fell to the floor. Frantic, she checked the bolt locks, wishing like hell she’d secured the place properly. At least he wouldn’t be able to fit through the windows. But the boatshed was not safe. The whole place could collapse in a strong wind. And why would I want to huddle here like a sitting duck? We’re getting out of here right now, she thought.

‘Who was that?’ the Ratbag wanted to know, pausing his munching.

‘Hugo,’ she said. ‘We need to get out of here smartly because someone’s on his way here. Someone very unpleasant.’

‘Who?’ he said. ‘The singing man?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So it’s best we’re not here, wouldn’t you say?’

‘But what if he’s already out there now?’

‘That’s why I’m going to ring Waverley police right now to send a car down here just in case. Okay?’

No, I can’t ring out, she realised. This mobile’s number will light up on his screen, give him more time to refine his search. She remained immobilised. A triple 0 call could be her death warrant. She prayed that the message she’d left for Angie was being acted on.

‘I’m hopeful they might be just about to pick him up anyway,’ she said. ‘I left a message with his name and details.’

‘But what if they don’t?’ he asked.

‘We’ve still got to get out of here,’ she said.

The Ratbag cocked his head to one side, listening.

‘What was that?’ he said.

She felt fear rising from the pit of her stomach and leaned against the counter for support.

‘Did you hear that?’ the Ratbag asked. ‘There’s someone out there.’

Gemma felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She sensed, rather than heard, the presence outside. She grabbed the caged globe and switched it off, pulling the Ratbag down onto the floor with her. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ she said. ‘We’re ready for him.’

Down on the floor in the dark, her senses were sharpened. Now she thought she could hear the tiny facets of shellgrit scraping together at every stealthy footfall. Was he only yards away beyond the weathered timber of the boatshed?

They crouched in the silence of the night. The waves washed up along the boat racks, tinkling shells on the ebb flow. All was silent and still under the waning moon.

‘What do you think you heard?’ she whispered.

‘Dunno. Something.’

They waited. But nothing happened.

‘Maybe I was imagining it,’ he said. ‘It might’ve been one of those birds.’

They waited a few more minutes in the silence. Gemma slowly stood up and, keeping well back, peered through the frosted panes. In the bluish murk outside, nothing moved. Under the ghostly light of the moon she could see, just past where the sand met the darkness of the rocks, the molten curve of the riptide, cutting an arc through the modest swell. Maybe we could hide under a boat and wait it out till help arrives, she thought, noticing the dim hulls of the overturned fishing boats. The bulk of the old surf club building on the northern curve of the beach offered some sort of shelter.

‘Hugo,’ she said, ‘we’re going to make a run for that building over there, and then, when we’re sure the coast is clear, go around the rocks to the inlet of Tamarama beach.’

Dangerous, she thought, in the dark and over uneven ground, but by the time he got here, we’d be safely away. She tiptoed around to the other window and checked the southern side. Again, nothing. Just the blurred shapes of neglected, waterfilled boats near the higher ground, the pale railing along the path and the dark bush reaching up to the road. If the killer had pinpointed her by way of her mobile, he could be cruising the road above, trying to fine-tune her location, waiting for her to use the mobile again to call for help.

‘Come on, Hugo,’ she said. ‘We’re moving camp.’

She tucked the Glock into her belt. So much for your fancy Bianchi holster, Angie, she thought. She snatched up the box of matches she used to light the gas rings, wishing she’d brought the torch, and unbolted the double doors. She could feel the Ratbag close behind her.

‘The faster we’re out of here,’ she said to him, ‘the better. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

She could feel his body keeping close, and couldn’t tell who was trembling more.

‘Ready?’

He nodded.

Gemma flung open one of the doors, stepped out and started running.

‘Come on, Hugo,’ she hissed, grabbing his hand as they sprinted along the sand.

They were halfway to the surf lifesaving building when they heard a splintering sound and she swung around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise in the darkness. Had someone trodden on a rotten board on one of the old boats? She pushed the Ratbag down next to an overturned aluminium dinghy, dropping down beside him.

‘Stay there!’ she whispered. ‘Whatever you do, don’t move until I tell you. I have to know where you are at all times. Otherwise you might end up getting shot.’ She paused, listening. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ His voice barely audible.

She drew the Glock out of her belt. I’m ready for you, you bastard, she thought. You don’t know about this nice little piece of plastic in my hand. The stink of petrol was strong here away from the wind and the silence seemed deeper, apart from the hum of the surf on the rocks. Maybe the splintering sound had simply been a piece of rotting timber falling away. Gemma raised her head. All was dark and quiet on Phoenix Bay. She tugged Hugo up and hurried across the sand, lit by the fading moon, the Glock in one hand and Hugo’s hand in the other. I’ve overreacted, she thought. There’s no way he could’ve pinpointed me in that time. Even so, she decided, I’ll give my place a wide berth until he’s safely locked up.

They had almost reached the old surf club building. Gemma could see the moon shining on its broken windows. ‘Nearly there, Hugo,’ she said, jollying him along.

And then the shadow struck. Out of nowhere, jumping down from the ramp of the surf club from some dark lair, something pounced and Hugo screamed as he was snatched from Gemma’s grasp. Gemma’s uncomprehending eyes saw that a powerful man now had Hugo viciously around the neck, a knife blade to the boy’s throat. As his arm moved, the slashed jacket he was wearing danced like the strands of a hula skirt.

‘Throw the gun down,’ he snarled.

Hugo struggled briefly then went limp. God, Gemma thought. He’s died of fright.

‘
Do it!
’ Roger Hollis ordered. It was the weird voice, harsh and whispery. In the dim moonlight, Gemma could see the point of the blade pressing hard into Hugo’s soft skin and a thin black stream start to make its way down his neck.

‘Okay, okay,’ she said, not daring to take her eyes off him, throwing the Glock as far as she could away from him. She heard the splash as it hit the shallows. Hollis’s face was in darkness, but there was no mistaking the hatred in his voice. With a shivering thrill, Gemma suddenly recognised the landscape of her nightmare, the waning moon lighting the water. But this was no sacred lake on Delos. Hollis scrambled sideways towards the water’s edge and the weapon, dragging Hugo with him. The boy was crying, softly and hopelessly. You bastard, Gemma thought, her eyes filling with tears of rage. She felt the red surge of anger move up from the base of her spine, firing ideas in her brain. I could tackle him while he’s trying to get the gun, drag Hugo away, maybe disarm him. Hollis continued to back towards the shallows, dragging Hugo with him. But a slight turn of his head as he sought for the dark shadow of the Glock provided Gemma’s chance. She dived, flying at the man, knocking him off-balance, wrenching Hugo away. Now she was running as fast as she could towards the surf club, but Hugo was a handicap. She gave him a mighty shove.

‘Get up to the path!’ she screamed, pushing him towards the dark shape of the building. ‘We have to split up! Get help! Hurry!’

Behind them, Hollis roared. ‘Stop right there, or I shoot the boy.’

Gemma stopped. She saw Hugo scramble to climb up the old surf club’s cement rampart, slip and fall.

‘Both of you,’ he yelled. ‘Neither of you move.’

Gemma turned to face him. Her enemy was now close to them, the Glock secure in his hand.

‘Okay, Miss Private Investigator,’ Hollis whispered. ‘Climb up there.’ He indicated the cement edge of the rampart that had foiled Hugo’s flight a few seconds ago. ‘We’re all going to walk nice and quietly up to my car. To a more private location.’ He dragged Hugo to his feet, pulling him roughly to him. ‘Do it now, or I snap the kid’s neck.’

Gemma considered her chances but a cry from Hugo caused her to wince and move to obey.

Roger Hollis, still clutching Hugo, backed over to the rampart. He laughed and it was a horrible sound. ‘Up there now,’ he ordered. He indicated behind him and Gemma placed her hands on the edge, about to pull herself up, her mind whirling as she searched for a way out of this nightmare.

So that when another figure materialised out of the darkness of the club’s shadows, flew through the air and landed on Hollis’s back, bringing him face-down in a head-high tackle, Gemma threw herself on the downed man with a yell of triumph, kicking the Glock from his hand.

‘Get the kid away!’ a woman’s voice screamed close beside her. Whoever it was had shoved Hollis’s face into the sand and twisted his arm behind him in a wristlock.

Gemma dragged the Ratbag out from under the killer. She recognised the woman sitting on top of Hollis. It was Brenda, Robyn Warburton’s mother, intent on using all her strength to restrain Hollis who was squirming like a snake, getting purchase on the sand, trying to lift his body and throw her off.

Gemma crawled around, searching for the Glock, lost somewhere in the sand.

‘Help me, Hugo!’ she called and he started ducking down between the old dinghies, feeling around in the sand for the gun while Gemma ran back to help Brenda.

Roger Hollis was very strong. Even with the two of them, he was putting up a terrific fight. Gemma, still handicapped by the injuries he’d inflicted on her in the lane, and Brenda, although extremely strong for a woman, was no match for him. The three of them rolled towards the beached launch, kicking and struggling. Hollis was getting the better of them. He broke free from the armlock Brenda had applied with a vicious twisting punch. Brenda’s head jerked back and he jumped to his feet.

Then the world exploded. Gemma turned to see what had happened. To the sound of the echoing shot, blue-gold flames shot up near her, and she scrambled further away. What was happening? A wall of fire sprang up, obscuring the beached launch.

‘Hugo!’ she screamed. ‘Where are you?’

She stared in disbelief. Hugo, limping towards her, was silhouetted against the flames, the Glock held out in both hands. Hollis had regained his feet but Brenda, hurling herself onto him again, blocked him. Again, he punched her aside and jumped into the sea on a running dive.

‘He’s getting away!’ Brenda screamed.

But Gemma’s attention was no longer on him. She realised what had happened. The 9 mm bullet the Ratbag had intended for Hollis had instead struck the fuel-tank of the large launch, its sparks igniting a river of flame that ran from the freshwater channel and into the surf, while along the shoreline, the fuel that had been leaking for days blazed into fire.

‘God, Hugo,’ Gemma said, ‘give me that!’

By the light of flames, Gemma saw his strained, unhappy face. She turned to see Brenda who was leaning against the cement wall near the surf club, head down.

‘Brenda, are you all right?’ she called.

Brenda lifted her head. ‘My nose is bleeding,’ she said. ‘And the bastard got away.’

‘I meant to get him,’ said the Ratbag.

‘Come here,’ Gemma said, taking the Glock from him, tucking it away and putting her arms around the boy. ‘You were fantastic,’ she said. ‘You saved the day, Hugo. You and Brenda.’ The pain in her side seared.

‘How come the water is on fire?’ he asked, sheepish about the hugging.

Gemma let him go and the two of them strained to see Hollis. It wasn’t possible past the glare of the flames, now burning down.

‘Hell,’ Gemma said. ‘The whole launch is going to go up. Quick.’

She grabbed the Ratbag’s hand and dragged him over to where Brenda was now sitting on the rocks near the cement wall. As Gemma approached, she saw a sports jacket lying in the sand. She picked it up and saw that it had been slashed to ribbons. That’s all they’ll need at the Analytical Laboratory, Gemma thought. That and the DNA on it.

‘He’s out there now,’ Brenda said, pointing towards the gap in the wall of fire. Gemma looked out in amazement. The Phoenix Bay rip had drawn the fire into itself, and as the wall of flame died down along the shoreline, a brilliant curve of fire, twice as long as the beach itself, followed the semi-circular current as it ran out to sea.

‘Look!’ she said to the others. ‘The rip is on fire!’

She thought she could just make out Hollis’s dark head, speeding out to sea, carried further and further away as they watched. To avoid the spurting fire, Hollis had swum into the clutches of the rip. The three of them stood mesmerised.