Covet (5 page)

Andy knew what most of them were thinking as they awkwardly sipped their drinks.
How is she holding up? How will she fare in the witness stand? How will Granger present his defence?
He guessed that Gerry might be thinking of something else altogether.

Mak was speaking to Mahoney. ‘Thanks so much for coming to get me at the airport.’

‘My pleasure, Mak. No probs at all.’

Senior Constable Karen Mahoney, a young detective in training, had been one of the first at the crime scene after Mak had found her friend Catherine sliced up in the grass at La Perouse. She was a good cop with a bright future in the police force, and she and Mak seemed to be getting along very well. Perhaps too well.
What has Mahoney been telling her about me?
Andy wondered.

‘I’m glad we won’t be seeing ourselves on the news tonight.’ Mahoney let out a good-natured laugh and pretended to fluff her red curls. ‘I wasn’t looking my best.’

Now Jimmy laughed, and Makedde too. Mahoney was a good icebreaker.

‘That could have been awkward,’ Mak said.

Andy had not told anyone he had been at the airport, and he wasn’t planning to spill the beans now.

‘
Skata!
Those dickheads shouldn’t have known when you were coming in,’ Andy’s long-time police partner, Jimmy, added with his usual candour. He was built like a teddy bear, fur included, and he had a certain unrefined charm that endeared him to Andy, though not always to everyone else. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, looking at the ladies at the table. ‘Pardon my colourful language.’

‘
Scheisse, merde, mierda, skata, crap.
It’s the same substance, no matter where you come from,’ Mak responded, not missing a beat.

Jimmy smiled broadly, clearly impressed that the girl could curse in German, French, Spanish and his native Greek. Gerry, on the other hand, seemed horrified, his fantasy probably shattered. ‘Yes, we should try to keep you as inaccessible to the media as possible,’ he said, at least seeming in control of his English. ‘There is a lot of public interest in the trial.’

When the waiter came over, Mak ordered a bourbon and coke, which made Andy smile and left the rest of the table speechless for a moment. The next twenty minutes consisted of mostly small talk, the alcohol providing the necessary social lubrication. They continued at the hotel restaurant—no one had wanted the responsibility of recommending a place—and surprisingly little was said about the trial. After all, Mak would have a full formal briefing with the prosecutor, William Bartel, QC, the following morning, and there had been no
major changes in the way the case would be presented. ‘The prosecution has watertight forensic evidence and a cogent argument that Ed Brown is indeed the “Stiletto Murderer”—the man responsible for the death of all nine victims, and the same man who attacked you, Makedde,’ Gerry had said with his usual formality. He was a smart kid when all his blood wasn’t feeding the wrong part of his anatomy, though he was definitely a little awkward with personal relations. He’d even reeled off the names of the victims in correct chronological order—including Cassandra Flynn.

Luckily, Andy had been dulled enough by the bourbon and cokes that he had been ordering, one after another on par with Makedde, that he didn’t even wince when Gerry mentioned his late ex-wife. His partner, Jimmy, had given Andy a sideways glance to see if he was alright, and then wisely changed the subject.

Yes, there were many aspects to this case that Andy would rather just finish with and forget about. Many aspects of his life, actually.

Come to think of it, this case had practically
become
his life.

It was past eleven when Andy found himself face to face with Makedde in the hotel lobby, the rest of the group preparing to disperse after dinner.

‘I think Gerry’s in love with you,’ he said, smiling at her and wishing she would smile back.

Makedde didn’t laugh. Her arms were folded and her mouth was held tight. It devastated Andy to see just how unresponsive she was. If he didn’t know better he would think that he was a complete stranger to her.

‘Really,’ she finally replied, incredulous and seeming somewhat less tipsy than he was. ‘I see AA did you a lot of good.’

Oh, right to the bone every time.

‘The odd social drink, nothing more,’ he snapped. ‘You’re no teetotaller yourself.’

‘Not exactly. That’s true.’

Makedde looked past him to the others leaving the hotel. Jimmy was on his way home to his wife, Angie, and the kids. He waved goodbye, glaring in Andy’s direction before walking out the glass door.
Don’t you do anything stupid, Andy
, the look said. Gerry was headed for his car in the hotel parking lot, which he would no doubt drive home to a lonely apartment somewhere in the city, or wherever single solicitors went to lay their heads. Karen Mahoney had gone to use the ladies room, or the ‘sand box’ as she called it, and would probably be back any minute.

‘So, are you okay, Andy?’ Makedde asked. Her tone was flat and there was still no trace of a smile on her soft lips. ‘Is everything going well for you? Life good?’

My ex-wife was murdered, I almost lost my job over you and now you are finally here and you couldn’t be farther from me. What do you think?
‘Been better,’ he replied. ‘But yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Good. Me too,’ she said, and looked at the floor. He couldn’t read her. Damn, he couldn’t read her at all.

Mahoney appeared behind them. ‘Hey? How is everyone?’ Her red Irish curls quivered like springs. She was well aware of the past relationship between Mak and Andy. She had been there when the two first met at the La Perouse crime scene, before Andy’s whole life was turned upside down, and Makedde’s too, he supposed. Mahoney was probably trying her best to keep everything civil in case some emotional battle broke out between them, but Andy wished she’d go away and leave them alone. He wished Mak would invite him for another drink and a chance to talk, maybe invite him to her room the way she would have only a few months ago.

‘We’re fine, Karen,’ Mak said. ‘I should be going.’

‘Yup, getting late for a Tuesday night. Give me a call if you need anything, okay? Even just to chat or get together for a coffee.’

‘Okay, Karen. Thanks.’

Mak said goodnight and strolled off in the direction of the elevators, and Andy watched her walk away, his heart sinking like a stone in his chest. Before he had a chance to chase after her, Mahoney grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards the hotel exit, sensing his mood, and perhaps his blood–alcohol level.

‘I’m driving you home. Come on,’ she said. Andy was too befuddled to protest, and he allowed himself to be dragged away. He found he didn’t
have much fight in him now that Makedde had looked through him as if he were an apparition.

Mak…

He had gone and broken the golden rule, he had mixed business with pleasure and he was still paying for it. It had been an accident at first, but quickly became more than that. Much more. In Andy’s defence, when they first found themselves in each other’s arms he was being dragged through an ugly divorce and Mak was a beautiful unattached young woman peripheral to the Stiletto Murders investigation. But then, of course, she had become much more important to the case—and to him. It had become a Class A fuck-up in every sense. If his superiors had not been so happy that the high-profile case had been resolved, he might have lost his job over the affair. As it was, he’d been kicked off the investigation, temporarily suspended, reinstated and then promoted in a way, thanks to successfully solving the murders and putting Ed Brown into custody.

What if they’d met under different circumstances? Would things have worked out more smoothly? Was Makedde yet another sacrifice for his career? Like Cassandra?

‘You’re never home any more, honey. I feel like I’m widowed.’

He had already sacrificed so much.

Why’d he have to care about Makedde so goddamn much when she clearly had finished with him?

And Ed’s defence team would just be getting started.

Eleven o’clock on Tuesday night, past lights out, and the dark corridors of Long Bay Correctional Centre were peaceful in the wing where those in solitary confinement lay their heads. As peaceful as could be, at least. Robbie Thompson, the convicted paedophile, flinched in his sleep, and ‘Dirty’ Victor Malmstrom mumbled incoherently, conversing in his dreams with someone safe from his violence—for now at least. Luigi Valleto, an underworld price on his head, tossed and turned, racked with insomnia. Half-a-dozen other men dozed quietly in the darkness of their cells, snuggled into the canvas sheets that prevented suicide.

But not Ed Brown.

In his small dark cell, the killer who had not seen physical freedom for eighteen months was wide-awake and deeply immersed in a fantasy of recollection and sadistic desire. He recalled the pinnacle of his free life to date, the moment when he’d had in his possession a young woman he had devoted his time and energy to ensnaring. A woman he believed, from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, must be his.

Yes. Perfect.

‘Perfect,’ he whispered so softly that not even Pete Stevens, who was walking past on his rounds, could hear him.

In his fantasy Ed saw his supplies spread out over the table, as they had been eighteen months before. Supplies he had ‘borrowed’ from his workplace—the morgue.

Scalpel.

Shiny new enterotome with its bulb-ended blade and fierce inverted point.

Toothed forceps.

Rib-cutters laid out like pruning shears.

All of the autopsy instruments were sharp and clean, glistening in the light like a child’s toys at Christmas.

She will be my finest work, my finest possession.

Deep within his fantasy, Ed could see her clearly. He could vividly recall the scent of the young woman’s fear, the texture of her fair skin, the look of absolute terror in her blue-green eyes when she realised that she could not break her binds, could not escape him.

‘Perfect…oh yes…yes…’

The sweet smell of sweat and fear. The smell of blood. Ready for consumption. Ready for dissection.

Under the canvas blanket Ed stroked himself, causing the cot to quietly shake. He could feel his pleasure rise, his heart beating faster.

Mine!

But just as he moved to finish his final act of possession, the fantasy shattered. There was
interference. Things were no longer under his control. His visions of mastery and power faded to nothing, and all that he could see was that cop’s face.

Andrew bloody Flynn.

Ed gasped, overwhelmed by his frustration. A warm tear strayed from the corner of his eye. Even now he could almost feel the searing pain in his shoulder where the bullet had entered his body, signalling his defeat.

The end of his perfect moment.

The end of his freedom.

Nooooo! Mother!

It was predestined, he believed, and no passing of time could change destiny. The defeat had to be temporary. It had to be. And now Ed had a plan that would give him the second chance he needed to fulfil his destiny. That thought was the only thing that kept him going in this foul, stinking place.

She will be mine. My perfect number ten. It’s destiny.

Ed pulled a small, ragged newspaper photo of Makedde Vanderwall out from behind the unframed black-and-white snap showing his mother in her younger days. He kept Mak’s picture taped flat against the back. The corrections officers wouldn’t let him have a photo frame in his cell: too many sharp points. And his original photo of Makedde and her model friend Catherine—
Me and Mak making it big in Munich!
scrawled on the back—was forever taken from him as police evidence. They wouldn’t let him have it back,
which secretly made him furious. But he had this news clipping. He had cut her face out and it was good. Anyone could see the resemblance was remarkable, particularly in grainy black-and-white newsprint.

Mother. Makedde. Mother. Makedde. Mother.

He enjoyed the sight of her for a few minutes, and then carefully taped the clipping back into place. In less than an hour the night-shift woman would begin her rounds, and Ed would give her the final instructions that would see him free in mere days. Everything was progressing better than he could have hoped. Yes, it was destiny. It had to be.

I’m coming for you, Makedde.

At nine on Wednesday morning, Makedde Vanderwall took a seat in the chambers of William Bartel, Queen’s Counsel, and did her best to appear confident and emotionally prepared for what she would have to endure in the Supreme Court in the following days. She was adept at the art of conveying composure in testing circumstances—delivering a lecture at university, grinning and bearing it in a designer swimsuit on a freezing winter coastline, being briefed on what to expect of the multiple-murder trial that had already changed her life forever. Whatever ludicrous extremes life demanded, she could handle them…she hoped. Her life had been laced with plenty of surprises so far, and she saw no sign that the trend was set to end.

Sitting in a creaky antique chair in front of Bartel’s massive wooden table, Makedde willed herself not to fidget. She cast her eyes over the modest prints on the QC’s walls and the impressive view of Sydney from his eleventh-storey windows. Mak had not enjoyed her first night in the beautiful city. Her body clock was still
set to Vancouver time and her nap the previous afternoon had sentenced her to a long restless night in her hotel room, wracked with relentless worry.

‘I trust you arrived safely,’ Bartel said.

‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

The prosecutor was a tall, thin man with a light moustache and beard peppered with silver. He wore an old-fashioned red tie and a navy pinstripe suit that seemed to exaggerate his vertical stretch. The suit seemed as old as the dusty books on his shelves. After referring to some papers, he peered at her with a pleasant smile and intelligent eyes that she imagined would not miss a thing.

‘I understand you are studying forensic psychology?’

‘Yes. If I can ever finish my thesis, I might actually be able to use what I’ve learned.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I think everyone feels like that at some point. I almost quit law school on a couple of occasions. If it were easy everyone would be doing it.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Once all this was over, Mak planned to concentrate on her PhD, and if all went well she would be practising as a clinical forensic psychologist in British Columbia in a couple more years. There certainly had been a lot of distractions lately, but she had come too far to give up, and she was set on reaching her goal.

‘What is the subject of your thesis?’

‘Variables affecting the reliability of eyewitness testimony.’

He nodded. ‘Our eyes can deceive us, can’t they?’

‘And our memories.’

It was remarkable just how much eyewitness accounts could differ, Mak mused. Human nature leads us to colour facts with our own notions, prejudices and perspectives. And human memory, that fragile and ever-changing instrument, could not be fully trusted, as Mak was discovering. She panicked for a moment trying to clearly recall her mother’s face. It was somehow blurry and intangible. Only two years after Jane’s death from multiple myeloma, all Mak could see of her mother’s face was what she knew from photographs.

Her eyes…were they green or blue?

There was a knock on the door and the solicitor Gerry Hartwell arrived bearing steaming styrofoam cups from the coffee shop downstairs. He took a seat near Makedde, handing over her skim milk latte with an eager smile. He was wearing the suit from the night before, but with a pink tie that brought out the ruddiness of his pimply complexion. Though an accomplished, well-regarded solicitor, he brought to mind an obedient lapdog in the eminent barrister’s presence, all ‘yes sir’, ‘thank you sir’, and bowed head.

Sipping his cappuccino, Bartel refocused their attention on the trial. ‘Makedde, I will be calling you as the first witness tomorrow.’

‘Oh…yes,’ Mak responded, somewhat awkwardly.

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Not at all. I was told that was what to expect. I didn’t mean to sound surprised.’

Bartel continued. ‘I have been considering the issue of live-feed video testimony. My instructor,’ he motioned to Hartwell, ‘mentioned that you had concerns about the presence of the accused in the courtroom.’

‘Well, I…yes.’
Ed Brown. In the very same room. Tomorrow.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she managed.

‘That is not an unusual issue in cases in which the crime is of an intimate nature.’

Tied naked to a bed and sprayed down with some kind of weird disinfectant is pretty bloody intimate
, Mak thought.

‘It can be an intimidating experience for many. However, Makedde, my feeling is that the trial would be better served by your physical presence in the courtroom in front of the jurors.’

She had considered this. ‘I thought you might say that.’

‘So unless you feel very strongly about it and you wish to press for that request, I would prefer that we have you in the witness box throughout your testimony.’

‘Okay,’ Mak agreed, without giving it any more thought. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to nail him.’

‘I appreciate your attitude. Frankly, I feel the same way. This individual is an aggressive fetishist and a sexual sadist. Very dangerous indeed. Fortunately, we don’t come across guys like this all that often. Not of his calibre.’

How fortunate.

Makedde reflected on just how colossally bad her luck seemed to have been in recent years. Then again, she was still alive. She had all her limbs and digits—barely. Things could have been much worse for her.

As if on cue, the big toe of her right foot began to tingle, exactly where the micro-surgeon had sewn it back on eighteen months earlier. At first, after the surgery, it had been numb and there was some doubt as to whether she would ever regain feeling in it. But now there was a worse problem, this irritating itch that drove her to distraction. It only ever seemed to itch when she thought about how the wound had been inflicted. Ed Brown had severed her toe with a scalpel during his bizarre ritualistic assault. He had no doubt planned to keep her toes—together with those of his other victims—in the formaldehyde jar that had been found in his bedroom. She wondered how Ed’s defence would try to talk their way around that piece of evidence.

‘You might not have been aware in Canada that there is considerable interest in the trial both here and in the UK,’ Bartel continued.

‘The UK?’

‘Because of Rebecca Ross, one of the last victims. She was in a soap opera.
Neighbours
, I believe. It’s quite popular over there.’

Great.

The responsibility of justice in this case was not just for Catherine, or for what Mak had endured herself, but for eight other women who had lost their
lives to Ed’s sadistic obsession. That responsibility weighed heavily on Mak.

‘We will do our best to protect you as you come in and out of the courts. Remember you are not required to speak to the media. In fact I would prefer it if you did not, at least until the trial is over.’

‘I understand.’ She wanted to get back to the issue of the trial itself. ‘Can I ask, did the defence push to have the cases tried separately?’

‘Yes they did. But they didn’t succeed.’

Good
, Makedde thought. A defence team sometimes tries to obtain separate trials for each individual crime, making it harder for the prosecution to prove its case. The accused might win a couple of the trials because of lack of evidence or due to an unshakeable alibi, and in subsequent trials the defence team can then say, ‘But your Honour, the same man must have committed all these crimes and our defendant has already proved that he did not commit a number of them, so he could not possibly have committed this one.’ It had been done before. It was highly unlikely that any defence team could pull off a stunt like that with the wealth of evidence stacked up against Ed Brown, but still, they would try anything. With the cases tried together, a great deal of damning evidence would be seen by the one jury, and if the prosecution could not prove beyond reasonable doubt that Ed had murdered one or more of the victims, that should not affect the case in respect of the others. That, at least, was positive news.

‘And the insanity plea? Do you think they will try that?’ Mak pried. It was a strong rumour.

‘It is possible. The law stipulates, of course, that we must make full disclosure of our case—and how we will be presenting it—to the defence before the trial begins. But Mr Brown’s team does not need to disclose anything to us in advance. They only need to give us notice if they plan to call new expert witnesses in order that we may have our own experts on hand to refute the defence evidence. Other than that, they could have almost anything up their sleeves. And Mr Granger, well, he usually has a few good tricks at his disposal.’

Mak knew there would be a forensic psychologist on hand for the prosecution to state the Crown’s case that Ed was a psychopath,
not
insane, and thereby shouldn’t be able to plead not guilty on the grounds of insanity. He had known what he was doing to his victims—and knew it was wrong. He was warped and evil, but
not
legally mad.

Her toe began to itch harder and she bent down to pull off her shoe and scratch it.

‘Are you unwell?’ Bartel asked.

Mak felt herself blush. She didn’t want to flash her scarred bare foot but it was impossible to ignore the itch. ‘You can call it psychosomatic, but my toe itches when I, um…when I think about all this.’

‘Good. We’ll use that,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘Does the toe operate fully now? Is your walking or exercise ever impaired?’ He was taking notes.

‘Not any more.’

He seemed almost disappointed. Perhaps he’d pictured her hobbling up to the witness box, a twenty-seven-year-old woman using a cane. Effective.

‘Can I ask another question?’ Mak said.

‘Of course.’

‘How is it that someone like Ed Brown can inspire an advocate like Phillip Granger to put his hand up for the case? Who is this guy? Have you met him before?’ There was a distinctly cutting tone in her voice that took Makedde herself by surprise. She hadn’t intended to sound so bitter.

‘Oh, yes, I know Mr Granger very well,’ Bartel replied. ‘He is a first-class advocate, one of the most respected in Australia. He’s been practising since the sixties and is adept at handling high-profile cases like this one.’ He shuffled a few papers around on his desk, his face grim. ‘What you have to remember, Makedde, is that a man is on trial for extremely serious crimes here. For justice to be served, he must receive the best possible representation. That is the way the system works. It’s not personal, it’s legal. Mr Granger will try to find an alternate explanation for the killings, and he will present it. In the end, once the rival theories are presented to the judge and jury, justice prevails. It’s not the defender’s job to judge his client, only to represent him as best as he is able. And it’s not my job to judge either. It may not be a perfect system, but it is the one we have, and I have dedicated my life to being part of it.’

Mak nodded, feeling embarrassed to have inspired such a defence of the legal system. She
knew he was right, but it was hard not to feel angry that Ed Brown, sadistic and heartless killer of her friend Catherine and so many others, would get his day in court represented by the best. The killer’s defence would try to make the jury believe that Ed was insane, or that the forensic evidence against him was inconclusive, that Makedde was a poor witness, that Detective Jimmy Cassimatis was a bad cop, that Detective Andrew Flynn had acted unprofessionally and had a personal prejudice in the case that made him unreliable. It was not only Ed Brown on trial, but all those who had brought him to justice.
That’s
how the system worked, Mak reflected ruefully. A detective inspector’s daughter could not be naïve about these things. She knew too much.

It was the trial she had dreaded for a year and a half.

And it would all begin tomorrow.