Feeding the Demons (21 page)

‘Great,’ joked Colin. ‘What’s his phone number?’

The tension in the room was broken by the laughter.

‘Okay,’ said Angie. ‘Do you all know what you’re doing?’

‘I’m still working through recent releases from prisons and psych hospitals,’ said blond, blue-eyed Ian, whose movie star good looks were only slightly marred by the barest hint of a lazy eye.

‘Right,’ said Angie. ‘When you’re finished, come and see me.’ She looked around. ‘I’ll break up this list Mr Perrault has given us by suburbs and get the local uniforms involved in the initial inquiry. Bruno, you and Sandy Mac door-knock the whole street. I want you to describe the sort of person we’re interested in. I want every householder in the area thinking. Anything out of the ordinary, no matter how small, I want reported. I want this information, no matter how wild or irrelevant it might seem to be, to get into your notebooks with a name and address attached to it and back into this room. Then I want every name that comes up to be contacted and interviewed. We’ve got a very bad man out there and a lot of frightened women.’ She stood up, smoothing her red hair back behind a clip, and gestured to Gemma to follow her out of the room. ‘We don’t want all the details getting into the press yet,’ she said as they walked towards her office. ‘But there’s something I want to tell you.’

They passed the group from the Strike Force waiting near the lifts. ‘He’s really something, this guy,’ Gemma heard Ian say. ‘He’s gone through a personality change.’

‘This profiling is all bullshit,’ said Bruno pointedly as Angie neared. ‘Just a wank from the academics. And the people who are trying to crawl up their arses.’

‘On your bike, Bruno,’ Angie said as the lift doors opened. When they’d closed again she turned to Gemma. ‘The caller wanted to know about Amy’s pyjamas.’

‘Pyjamas?’ Gemma stopped in her tracks. ‘Whether they had teddy bears on them, too,’ Angie was saying. The two women stared at each other, remembering tartan teddy bears on blue satin stuck together with Bianca’s blood and the buzzing of flies.

•

On the drive home, Gemma’s thoughts about Bianca and satin pyjamas were interrupted as her mobile rang beside her.

‘I’m at the depot,’ said Noel. ‘We got that driver cold.’ Gemma almost smiled at the excitement in his voice. ‘The bust went down just a little while ago. Right now, the driver’s putting his hand up for about forty thousand dollars’ worth.’

‘You did good, Noel,’ she said. ‘Take a break.’ She pulled in at the kerbside, parking outside her apartment.

‘Take a break?’ he said. ‘I’m waiting on you. You’re supposed to be meeting me for the fit-out for Cross Weld.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Gemma, locking the car windows. ‘I can’t, Noel. I’ve got too much happening here. Can you do it alone?’ She got out of the car, checked the mail box, took out a letter with unfamiliar handwriting and walked down the steps, unlocking her front door one-handedly.

There was silence at the other end of the mobile. Noel wasn’t pleased about this. ‘Take Spinner,’ she suggested, hearing the other phone start to ring in her office. ‘It’s only a few cameras to install. And lights with sensors.’

‘It’ll take us all afternoon. Spinner wouldn’t be able to join me till later.’

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She rang off, walked into her office and put the letter on the desk. ‘Mercator Business Services,’ she answered the caller. Speak of the devil, she almost said. It was Richard Cross.

‘I’ve been waiting,’ he said. ‘For a phone call from you.’

‘A phone call?’ Gemma blinked, wondering what he meant.

‘A phone call,’ Richard repeated. ‘When a gentleman sends flowers to a lady, he hopes it’ll induce her to ring him and—’

‘It was
you
!’ Gemma said. She thought of the beautiful arrangement she’d turned out of the house, the blue and white and gold and a whole area of worry and suspicion cleared itself up in her mind as she laughed with relief.

‘I’m sure you have lots of men sending you flowers,’ Richard was saying.

‘No, no,’ she laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She stopped explaining herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘They were beautiful.’

‘You said “were”. Didn’t they last?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. Maybe she should go and knock on Mrs Ratbag’s door. ‘They’re still beautiful.’ She remembered the short message on the card and felt herself blush.

‘I’m teasing,’ he said. ‘I didn’t put my name on the card so I could ring up and confess. I realised you couldn’t possibly know it was me.’

Gemma tried to think of something brilliant and scintillating but nothing came to mind.

‘Can you make dinner tomorrow night?’ he was saying. ‘I know it’s short notice.’

She didn’t even bother with the charade of checking her diary. You bet, she thought to herself. An affair with a nice solid rich businessman with political ambitions is just what the doctor ordered. No more bloody cops. ‘I’m sure I can,’ she said.

‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

‘Yes,’ she said. The pain around Steve suddenly receded. She rang off, momentarily light-hearted. It is almost indecent, she thought to herself, my romance attention span. Something Kit had said to her came suddenly into Gemma’s mind and she found herself thinking of it. Whatever it is that ails a woman, Kit said, the answer is
never
a man. ‘Fiddlesticks, Miss Kitty,’ Gemma said out loud, going into the kitchen, suddenly ravenous. She grabbed a shiny red apple and bit into it. Juice squirted onto the table. She remembered Richard Cross’s sturdy good looks and his broad shoulders, and she imagined weekends in boutique hotels, lazy afternoon lovemaking in rooms overlooking the harbour and the sun shining onto their naked bodies, champagne chilling in silver buckets. Or dawdling down to The Rocks for dinner, walking along Circular Quay and leaning over the wrought-iron rails to look at the oily bottle green water lapping mossy pylons then the ferries reversing engines and churning the water into jade and aqua clouds.

But the empty space on the end of the old lounge where Taxi liked to curl up and pretend to be a big ginger cushion brought her back to earth. She pulled a photo of him out of its frame, glued it to a piece of paper, wrote ‘Missing: desexed male ginger cat’ in big black texta colour print with his name and her phone number under it, looked at it, added ‘Reward’ in even bigger letters and made ten photocopies. It took her nearly an hour in the car to drive around, taping them to telegraph poles at intervals, and sticking one in each of the bus shelters near the beach and one at the shops. When she got back, her street was parked out and she had to leave the car in an adjoining lane.

In her office she picked up the envelope containing the material from Philip Hawker and her father’s statement. She flipped through the retired police officer’s notes again and the name ‘Arik Kreutzvalt’ jumped off the page at her. She booted up and ran the Ozondisc program, punching the name in. The little hourglass icon came on the screen, advising her to wait. Three possibles appeared on the screen, two interstate, one at North Ryde. She scribbled down the number and address and closed the program. It was a long time ago, she realised, since her father had made that house call the day of his wife’s murder. But Kreutzvalt might have something to tell her. Her mind was agitated and she knew she’d have to take a sleeping pill later on. Then she remembered the letter that had come in the mail and tore open the envelope, frowned, recognising the name at the bottom with a start of shock. It was the signature of a dead woman. The letter ran:

Dear Miss Lincoln. Thank you for your phone messages which I collected before I left. I’d like to meet you again but I’m leaving to live with my brother in Queensland, hence this letter. I have had very bad dreams lately and I think the change of scenery will do me good.

We’ve already talked about the noise at the back of your house about half an hour before Dr Chisholm arrived home. But there was another incident which didn’t even get into the courtroom and I want to tell you about it.

Three days before your mother’s death (may she rest in peace) a very agitated man came to the front door. After some discussion, which I couldn’t hear apart from the raised voices, your father let him in. I had the impression that this man was a patient. I told the police all this at the time, but although it was noted down in some constable’s little notebook, it was obviously never taken into account. I have often wondered who that man was and if he came back to the house three nights later, knowing that your father would be out. Your parents had a remarkable collection of silver and it was always displayed on the sideboard in the dining room. Finally, even though you may think less of me for mentioning it, I want to say that I saw a very jagged dark red-black and brown aura around that man, something I’ve only seen once before in a hopelessly psychotic patient when I was a young nurse. There are angry ghosts around you. I pray for your well-being and that of your sister and hope that the dark karma that links us will unfold eventually in a perfect way. May God bless you. Imelda Moresby.

PS This will sound very odd and please don’t be frightened, but I see you involved with an extremely dangerous man—a murderous man in fact. Deliverance comes in a most extraordinary way. Something small, white and lethal. And once again, it all goes in twos. I will pray for you.

There were two scribbled initials under the postscript. Gemma put the letter down. Her head was spinning. It was eerie, this letter from the dead. She poured herself a brandy. It made her angry, all this oogie-boogie stuff. What all goes in twos? Why did the woman even write it in the first place? Who was the murderous man? Did she poison him with a white pill? This is crazy, she thought. Sorry, Imelda, she said to the dead woman. I just can’t deal with you at the moment. I need to make contact with someone who’s real. And who’s alive. Even though she still felt angry with her father, she needed to talk to him. She picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’ His voice hesitant, frail.

‘It’s me, Gemma. I’ve just had a letter from Mrs Moresby, who used to live next door to us.’

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What did she want?’

‘Do you know that she’s dead?’ She continued quickly. ‘She died in a motor vehicle accident on Tuesday.’

‘Is that so?’ he said rather awkwardly.

Gemma had the feeling that he really didn’t remember who she was talking about. ‘In her letter Mrs Moresby says she remembers an incident three days before our mother was killed.’ She was surprised that her voice cracked a little on the last four words. It is still unhealed, she thought, despite thirty years. That night still has power to hurt me all the way down to this present year. ‘And that’s what I’m ringing about.’

‘Oh?’ he said. ‘And what was that?’ Gemma read the relevant lines to him over the phone and waited. There was a long pause. ‘I don’t remember that,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t remember who that might have been. I don’t really remember much about that time at all really.’ He paused. ‘I don’t see that it matters now.’ His voice sounded depressed. Something had happened to him, Gemma was sure. Kit said she’d seen fear in his eyes. There was another long silence. ‘How are you getting on?’ she asked, filling in the silence.

‘Quite well.’ His voice brightened. ‘I’ve just had the last of my medical records and papers delivered here out of storage and I’ve been going through them. I’ll have to find somewhere nearby to store them. Maybe a garage or something. I’m trying to organise the chapters of my book. I don’t know where to start, actually. I want to write an academic text that is also personal.’

‘Sounds like a contradiction,’ said Gemma.

‘Writing one’s memoirs is a very odd experience. I keep thinking about things. About her. That marriage. I sometimes can’t believe some of the things that happened. It’s all so long ago now.’

‘Are you talking about my mother?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am. When are you coming over for dinner?’

She’d forgotten the earlier agreement to do just that. ‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘Dad?’ she asked again. ‘Is something frightening you?’ She heard a sharp little intake of breath and then his denial.

‘No, no, of course not. What makes you say that?’

She heard the key turn in the lock and nearly jumped through the roof, then she saw it was Kit, coming in with shopping bags and some flowers. ‘I’ve got to go now. Kit’s just arrived.’ She rang off.

‘Gems. I thought you were out,’ she said. ‘The car’s not there. Otherwise I would have knocked. I made one of these for you and I wanted to put it in your fridge as a surprise.’ Kit unwrapped a checked teatowel to reveal a black cherry and ricotta pie.

‘Yum,’ said Gemma. ‘Thank you.’ She put the dish in the fridge.

‘It’s a peace pie,’ said Kit. ‘I made one for Father, too. I’ve brought that letter for Will with me. Please try and get it to him somehow.’ She passed it to Gemma and Gemma put the long envelope on the kitchen counter. ‘Hey,’ Kit said, looking around. ‘Where’s Taxi?’

‘He’s been missing for a couple of days. I think his nine lives have run out. I’ve just been putting posters around offering a reward.’

‘Oh Gems, I’m sorry.’

‘But it’s not only that. Take a look.’ Gemma proffered the letter from Imelda Moresby in silence and Kit read it quickly. ‘What do you think?’ Gemma asked as Kit handed the letter back.

‘Maybe an angry patient,’ she said, putting the letter down. ‘Angry ghosts.’ She saw what Gemma was drinking. ‘You’re on the hard stuff already?’ she added, indicating the brandy.

‘It was a shock,’ Gemma said. ‘To get this letter.’ She went into her office and brought out Philip Hawker’s notes. ‘I just spoke to Dad. He said he didn’t recall anyone. Had no memory of that incident about the angry man at the house. It probably wasn’t—isn’t—unusual,’ she continued, ‘for unstable patients to behave like that at their doctor’s houses?’ She looked at her sister.

‘It’s happened to me,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve had to make it very clear to one or two of my clients in the past that coming to my house outside appointment times is simply not on.’

‘Can
you
remember any fancy silver?’ Gemma asked.