Feeding the Demons (29 page)

She rang her own number and listened to the messages. There were seven. Three were potential new customers. One message, from Richard Cross, made her blush. She rang him back but his receptionist said he was out. I’m neglecting my own job, she thought to herself as she scribbled down the other messages. But this
is
my job, she realised.

Gemma drove home, noting the high-flying cirrus mares’ tails indicating instability and a possible change on the way.

Gemma wore her black sheath dress with a black jacket over it, to cover her bare shoulders. The sky had clouded over suddenly and a few spots of rain fell. Beside them, the Pacific heaved and crashed on the rocks and Gemma thought she could feel the ground reverberate under her feet as massive waves dissolved into surf and spray on the side of the cliffs.

Two of the casual security operators hired by Charles Perrault stood on duty at the cemetery’s main gates, their brief to keep the press away. The other three, among them the violently disposed Roger Poole, were to stay with the main group, expelling any uninvited or merely curious bystanders. Above her, another kestrel hung in a holding pattern. Her heart was racing with excitement. This was the biggest job of her life. Ahead of her she could see the Perraults, the husband with his arm around his weeping wife, Amy straight and tall beside them. She had insisted on coming to her sister’s funeral, despite her parents’ fears and the fact that the killer might well turn up.

Gemma hardly recognised Noel in his dark suit standing back a little from the group of mourners, his hands neatly tucked together in front of him. He looked, she thought, like a rather dignified undertaker. And Spinner looked a treat as well in a dark pinstripe, standing up on one of the higher points of the rise in which the Perraults had their plot. The gravedigger had only made a small hole; Bianca’s ashes were joining the bones of her maternal grandparents, both dead in the ’eighties. Angie watched Jason, who gave her the briefest nod in the direction of a moustached man in mirrored sunglasses. In the group of fifty or so people who stood around Angie moved towards Gemma and whispered in her ear, simply looking like one mourner murmuring words of comfort to another. ‘That’s Poole over there. The one with the moustache.’

Roger Poole looked like an advertisement from
Soldier of Fortune.
He was kitted out in quasi-police style, complete with police belt with accoutrements dangling from it. Gemma bowed her head and put her own sunglasses on, the better to study him, as if wishing to hide eyes inflamed with grief. Heavy moustache and mirror sunglasses hid most of his face.

A couple of spits of rain made parts of her field of vision spotty and gulls circled and screamed overhead. Angie returned to stand beside her. ‘I’ve checked with Mr Perrault,’ she said. ‘There’s no one here who isn’t family or friend. Except for the hired hands.’

‘But he could still be watching.’ Gemma thought of her automatic zoom binos and how they could see into people’s houses, cars and backyards from a distance. ‘He could be in a parked vehicle up there.’ She indicated the high ground to the south of the cemetery where several cars were parked.

‘We’ve checked them all. They’re empty.’

‘Could be set up in a building.’

‘Maybe he’s here,’ said Angie, indicating the heavy figure in the mirrored sunglasses. Gemma took a few leisurely steps as if to hear the priest’s words better, so that she was standing just behind the sharp little figure of Spinner in the pinstripe suit. ‘We return her to you, heavenly Father,’ the priest was saying. ‘We leave her in your safekeeping until we meet again.’ The sound of Mrs Perrault’s weeping was heartrending and Gemma felt her own eyes fill. This crazy world, she thought. Did you make it like this, God? Are you some sort of idiot? A benevolent six-year-old could have organised things better. Or are we absolutely on our own, and making our own hell as well?

Soon it was over. Gemma watched while Mr Perrault gave the casual security people their envelopes. Amy stood close beside him. Mr Perrault turned to where Angie was standing and slowly shook his head. Amy hadn’t been able to identify them from their voices.

Gemma turned to Spinner. ‘I’m going to follow the guy with the mo. Wait here and see if anyone turns up later.’

‘I’ll sit up there,’ said Spinner, indicating the road, ‘and watch the grave.’ He turned to leave.

As the funeral group started moving away, Gemma watched. The man in the mirrored sunglasses and moustache went to the grave as if to pay his respects. She felt Angie bump her in the side.

‘Look at that,’ she whispered. ‘Must have read his profile.’ He almost knelt at the grave of the murdered girl, leaned over, and snapped a souvenir rosebud from a wreath.

Gemma held her breath. Angie was right. This sort of souveniring was straight out of the FBI textbooks. The two women waited, seemingly chatting, until their target walked past them, pocketing the rosebud, then they followed him up the hill towards the main cemetery gate. As the two women approached the entrance, one of the other security officers was still standing there, a sentinel at the grand Victorian wrought-iron gates.

‘Sad business, ma’am,’ he said to Angie, wiping a raindrop from his face. ‘I recall your name from the newspaper story.’ Gemma barely glanced at him, worried that she’d lose Roger Poole.

Angie acknowledged him briefly with a nod and he moved away a little to wait for the main body of mourners to make it up the rise. Gemma looked around for Roger Poole. He was getting into a four-wheel-drive monster, high up off the ground.

‘No white Toyota,’ said Gemma.

‘He could have sold it. Stay on him,’ Angie said. ‘We want him to take us home with him. I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on this character.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on him, too,’ Gemma volunteered.

Angie didn’t speak, but her gratitude showed in her smile as she squeezed her friend’s arm.

•

Gemma followed Roger Poole to his neat little one-storeyed terrace in Petersham. She parked across the road a good way back on the opposite side. Poole got out and swaggered into his house.

The late afternoon traffic was quite heavy even on this suburban street. Cautiously, she made her way to the house next door to Poole’s. A young woman with a baby in her arms answered her knock.

‘Hi,’ said Gemma, wishing Spinner was doing this. ‘The bloke who lives next door,’ she said in a bright voice. ‘That’s not Roger Poole, is it? I went to school with him!’

‘I think that’s his name,’ said the young woman with her lightly accented voice.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ Gemma continued, ‘but I just knocked on his door and he wasn’t in.’

The young woman frowned. ‘I’m sure I just heard his car pull up. Maybe you should try again.’

‘Yes, I will,’ Gemma said, turning away. ‘I had a big crush on him when we were kids. He was my first boyfriend.’

They chatted for a while, but Gemma didn’t get much more information except that he had a dog who kept the street awake some nights and that he worked as a security guard. She went back to her car and leaned back in the seat. In her rear vision mirror, she could see two detectives whose faces were vaguely familiar from the Strike Force meetings, sitting in an old Sigma sedan some distance behind her. She realised how tired she was. I think I’ll leave it to the wallopers for a while, she thought, switching the ignition on.

•

On the drive home, Gemma felt tired and sad. Missing Steve, missing Taxi, suspecting that Richard Cross was just a handsome distraction. She ran a bath and was just about to get into it when her phone rang. Wrapping the towel around herself, she answered it.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping we can get together again.’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, and the sadness eased a little.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Dinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

She realised her heart was beating as she lay back in her bath, soaking. She examined her legs and decided they needed shaving. It felt good to have another date with a desirable man. She went over their conversation and lovemaking of the other night and remembered that she’d done most of the talking. She vowed to be more silent tomorrow. To let him speak of himself so that she could start filling in the picture of this successful, self-made man. A man who doesn’t want to revisit the past like I do. The pressing needs of Angie’s current investigation had taken precedence over her father’s case. Her legs were silky smooth when she lay back again, just floating in the warm water. She recalled that other bath, and the slamming of the bathroom door at the Tusculum Hotel; the beginning of this whole, dreadful sequence of events that she was now considering. The dead end they’d hit in the investigation. The fear that the killer would attack again wherever and whenever he wanted. And soon. She ran a bit more hot water. Many of her best ideas came up in the bath, she recalled, as she lay back again. She revised the investigation so far. Nothing seemed to lead anywhere. The phone number the ESDA machine had highlighted was the only real lead they’d had and it had fizzled out. But there it was.

Even though the number had appeared under the letter written by brave Amy Perrault, the Mintners were adamant that no one else knew it. It just didn’t make sense. She felt a surge of energy and decided to drive out and visit the Mintners again. She’d found in her policing days that people sometimes remember details
after
they’ve been questioned and the subject matter brought to their attention once more. And the Mintners’ phone number was written on a shopping list in a house where Amy Perrault had almost died. They had to be connected somehow.

Mrs Mintner was tending her roses in the front garden when Gemma arrived and graciously ushered her inside for a cuppa. No, she said, they’d racked their brains since the policewoman’s visit and there was no one who had that number. ‘People sometimes take a number down wrongly, you know,’ said her husband, putting down his tea cup. ‘I’ve done that a couple of times myself.’

Gemma suddenly had an inspiration. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘This is who we’re looking for. A man. We don’t know who he is but we know quite a few things about him already.’ The Mintners looked from one to the other. ‘This man is aged between twenty-five and thirty-five,’ said Gemma. ‘He’s a bit of a loner. He’s had quite a few different jobs over the years, but he seems to find it hard to settle to anything. He doesn’t seem to have much luck with women. He’s outwardly shy and polite, and probably overweight or unattractive in some way. Maybe acne scars. He has difficulty with people. He’s withdrawn, he isolates himself. He could well be above average intelligence but you’d never know that because he doesn’t seem to have the necessary skills to get along with other people. He probably has a fascination for weapons, he might even have a gun or knife collection, or both. He moves around a bit. Maybe boards in rooming houses. He does odd jobs. He might have had a job once as a guard or with some form of security work. Just lately, he’ll be very edgy and nervous. Might be drinking heavily. Might be talking about the cases of the two young women, especially about the one called Bianca. Going on about it to anyone who’ll listen.’

Mr and Mrs Mintner looked at each other, then at Gemma. ‘That’d be Larry,’ said Mrs Mintner.

‘Yes, that certainly sounds like Larry,’ her husband agreed.

‘Larry?’ said Gemma, sitting straight up as an icy surge of excitement thrilled her. ‘Who’s he? Larry who?’ Her pen was poised over her notepad.

‘Oh Larry—’ Mr Mintner looked at his wife for help. ‘This is stupid of me. I just can’t recall his other name. Heavens, we’ve known him a few years now. On and off. He does the odd bit of gardening or gives Eileen a hand sometimes with moving furniture around.’

‘But how did you contact him? Did you have a phone number?’

Mr Mintner shook his head. ‘No. He’d just pop up out of the blue and knock on the door. Eileen would make a date and he’d come back.’ His wife interrupted. ‘Jeremy was in hospital last week and I stayed over with him. Larry did some work out there in the garden. You can see where he’s done quite a good job clearing some of that grevillea. When we got home I made him a cup of tea and he was talking about that poor girl who was killed. Saying he wondered if the police would ever catch the man. He talked a lot about her. Gave me the willies.’ The Mintners looked at each other.

‘What else did he say?’ said Gemma.

‘He said a man like that must be pretty smart.’

‘Do you have any idea where he lives?’ asked Gemma, very interested now.

Mr Mintner looked troubled. ‘I think he’s been staying out at a caravan park along Colo way.’

‘Who else has he worked for? Is there anyone who might know how to contact him?’

The old couple looked at each other. ‘I don’t know, really,’ said Mrs Mintner. ‘I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful. We keep to ourselves and don’t get about all that much these days.’

Gemma stood up. She wanted to be out of there, to tell Angie. ‘Thank you very much. This has been very helpful. You’ll be hearing from Angie McDonald again.’

‘We’ll do anything we can to help,’ said the woman. ‘I just wish I could remember his last name.’ Then the expression on her face changed. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, slapping a hand to her mouth.

‘What?’ said Gemma, alerted by the change.

‘I remember now. I 
did
give him the mobile telephone number. Just in case he wanted to check about anything in the garden. When I was away at the hospital. He wrote it down on a notepad.’

Snap, thought Gemma. There it is, the connection. Larry Someone was looking very much like a person of interest to the police. She felt elated. She thanked the Mintners and almost ran out of the house.

•

On the freeway from Parramatta she rang Angie, who wasn’t at her desk. ‘Just stepped out for a minute,’ said a voice Gemma didn’t know.

‘When she steps back in,’ said Gemma, ‘give her this message.’ She passed on the first name the Mintners had given her. ‘Tell her the Mintners at Kellyville—she’ll know what I’m talking about—gave their mobile number to an odd jobs man called Larry.’

‘I’ll let her know.’

By the time she got to the police centre, after battling through peak hour traffic, Angie had also just got in and was reading the message slips on her desk. She looked up as Gemma walked into her office.

‘What else?’ Angie’s green eyes were wide. ‘We’ve got a Larry,’ she said, eyes wide with excitement, ‘among the men who contacted Mr Perrault. Bruno said he was clean.’ The two women looked at each other. Then Angie pulled out the folder in which she kept all her details. ‘Here they are. Larry Hagen,’ she said. ‘Let’s have another look at him.’