Fetish (14 page)

Just before 11 a.m. the following morning, Detective Flynn’s mobile phone rang out sharply in the quiet room. Although the flat was small, he had difficulty finding his pants. He stumbled around half asleep.

They had barely slept a wink.

Makedde was dead to the world and he wanted to answer the phone before it woke her. Andy got down on all fours, squinted under the bed and found his dark blue suit pants wrapped around a bed leg with the squealing phone hanging out of the pocket.

Makedde stirred and mumbled something incoherent.

As Andy’s fingertip touched the phone, the ringing stopped. He put it back down, his eyes resting on Makedde’s soft curves. The doona was pushed down past her knees and a single sheet clung to her naked body. She would be cold. Gently he pulled the doona over her.

“Andy…” she murmured without opening her eyes. She turned, and he found himself inches from her face. Some make-up, now smudged, clung to her
long elegant lashes. Full lips parted slightly with her deep breathing. There was space beside Makedde on the bed. He slowly bent backwards, as if to limbo under some invisible bar, and supporting himself with the bed post, managed to slide under the doona without disturbing his sleeping beauty. As soon as he made himself comfortable, the phone started ringing again. He snatched it up off the floor, and irritably whispered, “Hello?”

“Perfect gentleman, huh?” Jimmy asked, sounding impressed.

“What is it, Jimmy?”

“Hate to bother you, Casanova, but we have another one.”

Cupping a hand over his mouth, Andy whispered, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“You won’t believe this one. Becky Ross, the soapie star. They just found her in some bushes in Centennial Park. What a mess.”

“Jesus.” He was responsible for another lost life because he wasn’t smart enough to put the pieces together. Here he was, getting it on with a beautiful girl while someone else was being murdered. And not just
any
beautiful girl, but a key witness.

“You’re in bed with her, aren’t you?”

“Shhhh,” Andy whispered.

“You dog. Want me to pick you up?”

“No. I’ll be down there in twenty minutes.”

“Bring the panties.”

“Piss off.”

Andy switched off the phone and savoured one last moment beside Makedde’s warm, slumbering body. “I have to go,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll call you.” Reluctantly, he prised himself from her bed, stepping over empty containers of Thai takeaway and noting that his clothes, which had found their way into all the corners of the room, were horribly wrinkled. He would have to dash home before Kelley saw him.

Tearing off a portion of a Thai menu announcing “free home delivery”, he scrawled Makedde a note:

Had to go. I’ll call you.
—
A

He eased himself back into the real world, feeling uneasy about what he’d done, and wondering how Makedde would feel when she woke up alone.

Centennial Park had been thrown into chaos—uniformed police were in the process of cordoning off large areas and blocking many of the roads and pathways and Sunday strollers looked confused as Andy drove slowly through, his siren squawking at odd moments. It was a beautiful clear day, and the public had come out in droves to enjoy a sunny family picnic or a bike ride through the park. They wouldn’t have dreamt they would be taking their children to a major crime scene.

Andy flashed his badge at one of the uniformed officers and was directed towards an area of dense bushes down the road past the park’s popular restaurant, an area made conspicuous by the blue-chequered police tape which stood out ominously against the trees. As he got out of his car Constable Hunt walked briskly up to him and blurted, “Look out, she’s ripe.”

Andy shut the car door and pulled a pair of latex gloves from the inside pocket of the navy suit he had quickly grabbed from home. “Are we sure about the ID?” he asked Hunt.

“It’s her. Becky Ross. No question about it. I’ve seen her in all the papers and on television. See for yourself.”

A cluster of people was assembled near the bushes, and some others stood further away, including a trim, elderly man holding a large German Shepherd by a lead. He spoke with animated gestures while Constable Reed took notes. No doubt he was the poor bastard who had discovered the body. Andy saw Jimmy and the forensic pathologist, Sue Rainford, who was crouched near the bushes. He approached them, and was still a few feet away when the sharp stench of decomposition assailed his senses.

The victim was on her back, legs spread-eagled in a degrading and unnatural pose. She was naked, except for one expensive-looking, blood-stained
stiletto shoe. She had been grotesquely mutilated—disfigured almost beyond recognition.

Andy exchanged glances with his partner.

“Pos pas? Nice of you to join us,” Jimmy said under his breath. “Looks like our guy watches the soaps. Should we add that to your profile?”

Sue Rainford was on her knees examining the body. She was a quiet, unflappable woman in her late forties, shaped like an exaggerated pear, with short brown hair and glasses. “Victim is a female, Caucasian, aged in her late twenties. Deceased several days,” she said matter-of-factly into a microrecorder as she made an in situ examination. “The body is in a supine position, with the hips maximally abducted. No gross deformity of the limbs. Extensive blood loss is evident on the body, but not in the surrounding area. The victim was probably moved to this location post-mortem.”

Becky’s platinum hair spilled over the grass, matted and tangled with deep red gore, and her eyes, once sparkling with ambition, stared with rheumy lifelessness at the sky. Her wrists and ankles were raw and caked with congealed blood and maggots and other insects were crawling over her blistered body, dutifully going about their morbid business.

“She can’t have been done before Thursday,” Jimmy commented. “She had some kinda launch.”

The pathologist continued recording her notes. “No apparent ligature marks around the neck. Lacerations evident around both wrists. The nipples have been completely excised. There is an extensive vertical incision from the lower torso to the pubic region.” When Sue stood up, her face looked unusually pale. She glanced at Andy and he could see fear behind her glasses for the first time in years of working together. “Gentlemen, there is considerably more blood evident in these wounds. I suspect the killer made a number of these incisions while the victim was still alive, and possibly conscious.”

“More than—” Jimmy began.

“Much more than the others. The first victims we found had largely post-mortem mutilation, but it appears he is now keeping them alive while he…” She didn’t need to explain further. “I’ll know more when I get her on the table.”

“Jesus, the press are going to have a field day with this.”

No sooner had the words been spoken, than the deep rumble of helicopter blades whipped the air far above their heads. They looked up to find the barrel of a news camera bearing down on them.

“Skata! How’d they know? Get them the hell out of here!” Jimmy yelled, frantically waving his arms in the air. “Fuckin’ malakas! They’re ruining the crime scene!”

The helicopter kept a distance above them and yet the trees shook and leaves fell as if they were in a wind storm.

“We should contact the immediate family right away and let them know what’s happened before they watch it on the news,” Andy shouted above the noise of the helicopter. He was worried.

Their killer was evolving.

The clock was flashing 11.59 a.m. when Makedde finally woke. It felt odd to rise at such a decadent hour, and she found herself sitting bolt-upright, panicking that she may be late for an appointment. As her mind cleared she remembered she had no appointments, and then with a creeping sense of dread she remembered what had happened the night before.

Andy?

She was alone in bed, and suddenly, unreasonably, she felt betrayed. She’d had more experience with unreliable men than she cared to remember, and she hoped she hadn’t become involved with yet another. She noticed a section of torn paper sitting at the foot of the bed and her heart raced when she saw the writing on it. Reading it, she cracked a wide smile. She rose, wandered around the flat and found the plastic takeaway containers stacked by the kitchen sink, and her clothes, which would have been strewn everywhere, sitting in a civilised heap on a chair. None of the bathroom towels were wet—Andy must
have been in a hurry, but had made a quick effort to clean up the flat regardless.

Very classy.

As Makedde was running a shower, the phone rang.

Andy!

She streaked across the room, snatching the phone up by the third ring.

“Hello.”

Click.

She frowned, put the phone down and gazed out the large window. The blinds were not fully closed. Perhaps Andy had opened them before he left. Covering herself with her hands, she moved from the window, her stomach queasy. Once in the bathroom, she locked the door and stood before the mirror staring down her frightened image. In a moment joy had turned into fear. Beyond the locked door the phone rang again. After several rings, the answering machine picked it up. “Hello?…Sorry, it’s just a machine,” her voice replayed, “leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“It’s Andy. Are you there?”

Clutching a towel, she ran back into the front room and grabbed the phone. “Hi,” she said, breathless. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“Me too.”

“Sorry, I was called in. Um…Something came up.” He sounded uncertain. “I might be finished a bit late—”

“I’d love you to come over again, if you want to.”

He paused. “OK. I’ll call when I’m about to leave.”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I can’t really say at the moment but I should be able to tell you a bit later.”

“Something to do with the case?”

“Yes.”

“Come on,” she pressed.

He hesitated. “You know that lead about that photographer? The guy who put the ad in the paper? Well, we’re checking him out today. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

It was one o’clock by the time Makedde left the Bondi flat. It was a gloriously sunny day and Bondi Beach was crowded with people enjoying the first bit of decent weather all week. The cafés overflowed with exuberant customers and the waves were peppered with surfers. The sky was clear blue and the wind brisk as Makedde strolled past the shops, chomping on a nori roll and sipping a bottle of water.

She slipped into a newsagent and spied the paper containing the advertisement Andy had mentioned. Flipping past sections of employment opportunities
and used cars, she found an ad for models to call “Rick”, nestled between a promise of sexual adventure with “Sex-change Sue”, and an ad for “new, exotic” ladies at a massage parlour.
Could this be the guy?
she wondered. Catherine would never go for that kind of line. How did he get to her?

A sun-kissed surfer in a T-shirt and boardshorts was paying for a thick copy of the Sunday paper and Mak got in line behind him. He smelled of the sea, his blonde hair still salty and damp.

“What’s it like out there today, mate?” the man behind the counter asked him.

“Few wicked left-handers. Terrigal’s been flat all week compared with this.”

Terrigal.

“No kidding,” the man said, giving him his change. “I was up there for the Food and Wine Festival and the waves were pretty good.”

Makedde caught the surfer’s arm and he spun around to look at her with startled green eyes. He had freckles across his nose, neon pink zinc across his lips and a smile as wide as the Luna Park funny face.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, smiling back sweetly. “I heard you say Terrigal.”

“Terrigal Beach, yeah.”

“Where is that exactly?”

“Ah, not far. A couple of hours’ drive north,” he told her. “Hey, you American?”

“Canadian. Thanks—”

“You out here with anyone?”

“Yes. Oh, and I’m parked illegally, I’d better go. Thanks again.” She tossed her payment on the counter and left before he could get another word in. With the newspaper folded under one arm, she continued down the street at a less leisurely pace.

JT Terrigal

Beach Resort

16

14

The scrawl had been nearly illegible and written at a sharp angle but it was making more sense now. She’d have to tell Andy about it when she saw him. Perhaps the numbers would make sense to him. An extension? A room number? On her way home, a book in the window display of a shop in Hall Street caught her interest. It was titled
Birthdays—A Personality Profile
, and although Mak was usually sceptical of the daily horoscopes, she couldn’t resist.

She went inside and flipped it open to her birthday. Skimming over assets like
charming
and
attractive
, a warning that she could be stubborn and the usual reference to her being born on Groucho Marx’s birthday, she came to a paragraph that disturbed her.
Those born on this day have a thing about violence
, it read.
Being disturbed by it, or tending to indulge in it. Violence is attracted to this person. They must learn to be less obsessed…

She slammed the book closed, making a loud noise that was rewarded by some strange looks from the other customers.
Violence? Attracted to me?
She slid the book back on the shelf, forcing the thought from her mind. She wandered back onto the street, into the crowd of surfers, hip locals and romantic couples.

As soon as Makedde entered the flat she grabbed the phone and dialled 013 for directory assistance, asking for “Terrigal Beach Resort”. Bingo.

Catherine was to meet the man she called JT at Terrigal Beach Resort. The only mystery was what sixteen and fourteen stood for. It wasn’t the tail end of the hotel’s phone number. Makedde took a guess and phoned the resort.

“Terrigal Beach Resort. How may I help you?” a woman asked in a perky voice.

“Could I have room sixteen-fourteen please?”

“I’ll just put you through.” The phone rang several times, then the woman came back on the line. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. Room sixteen-fourteen is unoccupied at the moment. Which guest were you trying to reach?”

“Um.”
What next?
“I have a message here to call my friend JT in room sixteen-fourteen. I’ve been
away though, so I’m not sure how old the message is. When was he staying there?”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t give out information about our guests,” the woman said firmly. “But if you’ll give me your name, I’ll check to see if there are any messages for you here. Otherwise you can give me the surname of the guest you are trying to reach and I’ll see if they are presently registered with us.”

Damn.

“That’s all right. I’ll call back later.”

Well, at least the mysterious scrawl was no longer so mysterious. Catherine had been planning a romantic weekend with her lover boy. But just who was he? Surely the police could access the hotel records and find out whose name the room had been reserved under.

Andy wasn’t due for a few hours, and Makedde couldn’t wait to tell him about her find. But first, she needed to indulge her curiosity. She tore the ad from the paper, and examined it again as she dialled the number. Her call was picked up after three rings.

“Hello, is this Rick?” she asked in her best breathless Marilyn.

“What’s your name, doll?”

“Debbie. I saw your ad.”

“You American?”

Sure, why not?
“Yes, I’m from L.A.”

“How old are you?” Rick’s voice had a nicotine growl. He sounded like he was at least forty.

“Uh, I’m twenty-three.”

“What’s your bust size, Debbie?”

“I’m a forty double D. Gosh, I hope I’m not too big.”

“No such thing, babe. And your waist size?”

“Well, that’s the funny thing, Rick. I only have a twenty-three-inch waist. I feel a bit self-conscious that I’m so top-heavy, but a photographer in L.A. wanted me to model some lingerie once, and he seemed really happy with the photos.”

“You a blonde?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed.

“Natural?”

“Pardon?”

“A
real
blonde? All over?”

Yuck.
“Oh, yes. All over.”

They arranged a Wednesday night photo session and he gave her his studio address in Kings Cross. She giggled girlishly and asked if there was anything special she should bring.

“Stilettos. Knickers. I have some costumes here, too.”

I’ll bet you do.
“OK, see you then,” she said as seriously as she could manage.

She hung up and burst into hysterical laughter. Rick must be tickled pink to have a ditzy, top-heavy,
blonde Californian coming to his studio. He’ll sure be disappointed when he gets stood up. “A forty double D with a twenty-three-inch waist!” she screamed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

He had specifically asked her to wear stilettos, but then any glamour photographer probably would ask the same thing. She questioned whether a clever killer would be so direct. In Makedde’s experience, it was the ones who weren’t so obvious that were the real danger.