Private Oz (14 page)

DARLENE WENT STRAIGHT from her lab to the house in Bondi where Jennifer Granger had been found. She knew the Police Forensics team would still be there and she wanted one more search around the place herself.

A cop Darlene recognized met her at the front door, gave her a warm smile. “Darlene,” he said. “Back again?”

“Can’t keep me away from a good murder scene, Sergeant Tindle,” she quipped, reading his ID badge. He was young and good-looking, she’d spotted him at the earlier murder sites and knew that he’d definitely noticed her too.

“It’s Howard,” he said leading her through the hall. They stopped at the door to the bathroom splattered with blood.

“The murder was committed here,” the sergeant said.

“You don’t say!” she laughed. “So, I heard you got tipped off by a vagrant who slept in the front room last night.”

“That’s what we thought at first. A young guy called us early this morning. We followed up. He’d dropped his driver’s license would you believe! Turns out he’s an eighteen-year-old schoolboy. He and his girlfriend snuck in here for a quick one. They’re both respectable kids from good families. But they
picked the wrong spot. They’re in a lot of trouble with their parents now!”

“Poor things.”

They emerged from the dark interior into the blazing afternoon sun. Darlene saw four men in boiler suits digging up the lawn and the overgrown flowerbeds to the rear of the house. Two CSOs were sifting through the soil searching for further clues.

Darlene heard a cry from one of the diggers and ran across the yard.

Two of the men were bending over an opening in the ground. Darlene skirted the edge and crouched down. Decayed human bones. Patches of white caught the light of the sun – a forearm protruding from the dirt.

The forensics guys ran over, saw the bones and settled down beside Darlene. “Keep digging, but gently,” one of them said to the men with shovels and started to clear the soil near the arm with smaller spades.

The grave was shallow, barely two feet deep and soon the outline of a large man could be seen. A few patches of gray-brown flesh remained on his dead bones, strands of red hair clung to his skull.

IT HAD PASSED 6 pm and Johnny was leaving the office when the phone rang. A young female voice told him she was calling from Bonza Records and inviting him to a “VIP concert” starring Micky Stevens starting at 8.30 that night.

He just had time to get home, get changed and get a cab to the venue – a rather macabre place called the Old Quarantine Station near Manly.

The cab pulled into the lot, Johnny paid and walked toward the noise. He knew this place from when he was a kid. For over a century since it was built in the 1820s, it was the place where visitors to Australia were quarantined before being allowed into the country. Thousands had suffered terribly in this place. Decades ago it’d been turned into a national park novelty: “The Most Haunted Place in Australia.”

Close to the old shower block and the mortuary, the original boiler house had been converted into a swish restaurant and conference center. Johnny emerged onto a cobbled courtyard lit up by massive lights on rigs. Directly ahead stood a stage strewn with musical equipment, men in black jeans and T-shirts testing mics. There were perhaps a hundred people
milling around in front of the stage. Most were wearing suits, drinking champagne, chatting animatedly.

Johnny strode over to a waiter carrying a tray, took a glass of orange juice. A leggy blonde approached with a clipboard. Johnny gave her his name.

“Ah yeah!” she said. “I was the one who called you earlier. Mel …” She extended a hand.

“So what’s this all about?”

“Promo for the suits. Even stars as big as Micky need to lay on a show for the execs and the sales guys.”

I nodded. “Weird choice of venue.”

“Oh, we like to be a bit different!”

There was a sudden hush as the strains of a famous classical piece Johnny couldn’t put a name to flowed from the speakers either side of the stage. A man wearing a cream linen suit and a Micky Stevens T-shirt walked out stage right, radio mic in hand. It was Graham Parker.

“Ladies and gentlemen … welcome.” His voice was deeper and softer than Johnny had imagined. He smiled at the crowd, pointed at someone at the front, laughed good-naturedly. “Thanks for coming along. It’s a sort of celebration of Micky’s birthday tomorrow, but the real party’s at The Venue – and, of course, you’re all invited. Now … Micky’s well and truly wired and he is RARING TO GO! So, please, give it up for my boy … Micky Stevens.”

The lights died, the entire stage turned black. A drum rhythm started and a bass guitar came in. Then the lights burst on, thousands of watts of color. And there was Micky Stevens dressed entirely in white, crouched, microphone in hand. He screamed and the music came crashing in.

The crowd, lubed on expensive champagne and free cocaine, went wild. The song rocketed along, growing more and more powerful as it went.

Johnny had seen videos of Micky Stevens of course. His latest song already had a million hits on YouTube, but seeing him live and only fifty yards away was something else. He looked round and saw Mel nodding appreciatively. Then he turned back to the stage, hardly able to believe how the demure shy character he’d met at Private could transform himself into this massive personality, this rock god parading in front of them.

I’D NEVER SEEN Darlene so excited. “What’s happened? The latest copy of
Forensics Now
arrive early?”

She gave me a phony smile and tilted her head to one side. “Just got back from the house in Bondi. There’s a second body in the garden.”

I stood up. “Really?”

“A man. From the level of decomposition I’d say he’s been dead two maybe three months. Severe facial disfigurement, multiple stab wounds. Sound familiar?”

“But it’s a totally different MO … a male victim. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ve taken samples. Police Forensics are all over it. There must be some link. Has to be the same killer.”

I must’ve looked shocked, or at least deeply concerned because Darlene said, “There’s some other news.”

“That’s good.”

“I think I have something on this killer.”

I came round my desk and we sat on the sofa. Darlene had a file in her hand. “Something was niggling me about these crimes.”

“Yeah, you said something in Sandsville … Yasmin Trent’s murder.”

“It came to me a couple of hours ago.” She pulled a test tube from the pocket of her lab coat and held it out.

I took it and lifted it to the light.

“A strand of hair?”

“Specifically, bleached blonde hair. Found on Elspeth Lampard’s blouse.”

“Not one of hers? She was blonde.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve just had it under the scope. A particular bleach was used. Every brand is very slightly different. This is a cheapie, slightly higher peroxide level than the more up-market dyes. Doesn’t sound like the sort of stuff a woman like the victim would use. Also, see how a good third of the hair is dark? The woman this hair came from doesn’t keep up with her color. She let it grow out. Again, doesn’t fit Elspeth’s profile.”

“I don’t see …”

“Okay … the thing bothering me was that when I first arrived at the scene of Yasmin Trent’s murder I ran off a couple of hundred shots on my camera and must have subconsciously noted a strand of blonde hair lying across the dead woman’s arm. I was distracted by something and had to talk to one of the cops for a couple of minutes. By the time I got back, the Police Forensics guys were packing up, and I set to work.”

“You’d forgotten about the hair?”

“I don’t think I really registered it consciously.”

“But the camera did.”

Darlene pulled a photo from the folder. It showed a magnified white-blonde hair lying on a piece of dark fabric.

“And Yasmin was a brunette,” I said.

“She was.” Darlene took back the photo. “I called forensics straightaway. One of the guys there, Martyn Gofner. He’s okay, seems to like me. He checked their files. Sure enough, they have a blonde hair from the Yasmin Trent murder scene.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed.

“Yep … They profiled a DNA sample from the hair. Couldn’t match it with any database. They sent the profile over.” She pulled a piece of paper from the folder and held it out. It was a chart showing the analysis of the sample. “And this,” she said proudly, “is the profile I have from the hair I had, taken from Elspeth Lampard’s body.” She handed me a second sheet. The two charts were identical.

“Hair from the same person.”

“Absolutely no doubt … and the DNA does not match either blonde victim, Stacy Friel or Elspeth Lampard.” She flicked a glance at the sheets of data I held in each hand. “There’s one more thing … the DNA, and therefore the hair, is definitely from a female – no Y chromosome in the profile. Our killer is a woman.”

DARLENE HAD GONE back to her lab and out of the corner of my eye I noticed Mary walking along the corridor from reception to her office. I hadn’t seen her or heard from her all day. But Johnny had told me what’d happened to her at the Triad place. I pulled up from my desk and tapped on her open door. She looked up and knew I wasn’t happy, followed me over to my office.

“I’m really pissed with you, Mary. What the hell were you thinking?”

She sat down, kept her bandaged hand just out of sight deliberately. “Information gathering, Craig. I went into places worse than that friggin’ Triad dump all the time in the force.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed. Besides, you might as well have put up a billboard on George Street … ‘Triads … We’re after you’!”

“They knew already. Word travels fast in this city. Besides, that’s exactly the desired effect, Craig. I wanted to give them the shits!”

I let out a deep sigh. “Okay.” I put my hands palms down flat on the table. “It’s done. How is it?” I nodded toward her hand.

“Just a scratch.”

“Yeah right! A sixteen-stitch scratch!”

“God!” Mary exclaimed. “Can’t a girl keep anything secret around here?”

The phone rang.

“Mr. Gisto,” Ho Meng said down the line. “I need you to come here to my home immediately. There has been … a development.”

JOHNNY WAS WALKING toward the exit gate at the Old Quarantine Station where the cabs were lining up when he heard someone call his name.

He turned just as a black limo pulled up. Micky Stevens had his head out the window, a big grin on his face.

“Jump in.”

Johnny strolled over and peered inside. There was a stunning girl on the back seat next to Micky. She had mile-long legs and a perfect model pout. Hemi was in the front passenger seat next to the driver.

“I’m good, Micky.”

“Dude! You’re coming to the after-gig party, right?”

“Party?”

“My place. Come on, hop in.” He spread his arms. “Plenty of room.”

“Okay.”

The car pulled away as the door closed and Johnny landed on a seat facing Micky and the girl. There was an ice bucket in the middle of the floor, two uncorked bottles of champagne inside. Next to that, a mirror with half a dozen lines
of coke. Johnny noticed white powder on Micky’s upper lip.

“Johnny … meet Katia, my girlfriend. Katia, this is Johnny, a good friend of mine.”

The girl looked at him seriously, didn’t move a muscle. She had jet black hair cut in a severe bob with a high, straight fringe, huge dark eyes and amazing cheekbones. She was dressed entirely in black except for what looked like a miniature sword about an inch long on a pink ribbon at her incredibly pale throat.

“I know you don’t drink, Johnny, but do you …?” He nodded toward the cocaine.

“Er … no, thanks, Micky.”

“How dull,” Katia said. Her English was almost perfect with only the merest hint of an accent Johnny couldn’t quite place.

“Each to his own,” Micky said matter-of-factly. “Katia is a brilliant guitarist, Johnny. She’s Russian and was in a band in Moscow. They were called Khuy.”

“Which translates as penis,” the girl said blankly.

“Isn’t that fuckin’ great, man? I fell in love with her when I learned that. Six months ago … Longest relationship I’ve ever had!” He turned to the girl. “And I love her.”

Katia smiled for the first time and leaned in to kiss Micky. They stayed glued together for five minutes while Johnny looked out the window at the buildings flashing past.

Finally Micky pulled away, wiped his mouth and refilled his and Katia’s glasses.

“So man, you like the show?”

“I was knocked out,” Johnny replied earnestly.

“Excellent. Excellent.” Micky downed the champagne. “Well, I think you’ll enjoy the party even more.” And he gave one of his huge smiles.

MICKY’S SYDNEY PAD was a penthouse in Woolloomooloo. Spartan, clean lines, massive windows looking out toward the harbor, a ten-mill price tag.

By the time the limo got there the place was packed. Micky and Katia vanished and Johnny was left to wander around clutching another glass of orange juice. The place was filled with the sound of ridiculously loud rock music.

Part of him was still in a state of shock just knowing Micky. He was, after all, just a poor boy from the Western Suburbs. At least that’s what so many people wanted him to believe. He never had accepted the label and that was partly how he’d clawed his way up the food chain. Now he had real friends, people who appreciated him, a great job, prospects. But meeting Micky and finding him so easy to be with … that had been totally unexpected.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Katia.

“Can I speak with you?” she said seriously.

“Sure.”

She led the way across the main room, a vast space filled with men in suits, a couple of recognizable faces from TV
and YouTube, a lot of beautiful young women. Johnny noticed Graham Parker talking to Micky on the far side of the room. Katia motioned toward the balcony just as Johnny saw Parker hand Micky a small package.

Outside, a mellow breeze ruffled the water.

“I’m sorry I was so rude earlier.”

Johnny shrugged and thought how refined her voice was. She was clearly educated. “You weren’t …”

“I didn’t realize you were the guy from Private. Micky’s been singing your praises.”

Johnny looked stunned.

“I’m very concerned for him,” Katia went on.

“Because of this Club 27 business?”

“Of course.”

“He’s convinced that Graham Parker …”

“I’m very aware of that … But,” Katia said, her voice thick with … what? Concern? Irritation? “But … oh, I just don’t know … I’m worried Micky’s losing it …”

“Drugs?”

“Everything, Johnny. Everything. It’s almost as though he has some weird death wish.”

“So you think Graham Parker has nothing to do with it?”

“You’re the PI.”

He fell silent, looked back to the room filled with people. There was a sudden commotion. A woman ran over from a doorway in the far wall. She was shouting something, but Johnny couldn’t make it out over the thumping music.

Katia was at the door to the main room. Barged her way through the packed room sending drinks flying. Johnny followed in her wake.

The music stopped abruptly and a hundred threads of conversation died with it.

They had reached the far side of the room and Johnny followed the girl through a door. The woman who’d rushed into the main room a few seconds before was now back, standing in the doorway. Katia ignored her and plunged into a cavernous bathroom, Johnny a second behind. Three men stood around a prone form on the floor. A fourth was leaning over the figure, an opened case beside him.

“Fuck … Yob … Govno,” Katia screamed, mixing her languages. She fell to the floor.

Micky was semiconscious, drenched in sweat, foam at his lips. His arms and legs twitched.

Katia suddenly seemed to recognize the man with the case. “Dr. James …” she said.

The man ignored her.

She went to grab Micky.

“Please!” the doctor snapped.

Dr. James pulled a syringe from the case, squeezed the plunger a fraction of an inch letting liquid dribble from the tip. Then he leaned forward, and with one shockingly violent movement he thrust the syringe into the middle of Micky’s chest, right through to his heart.

Micky jolted upright. Then, as the doctor withdrew the needle, the rock star slumped back, his eyes snapping wide open. He rolled to one side and vomited.

Johnny noticed the package he’d seen Parker hand to Micky ten minutes earlier. It was opened on the floor, a used syringe and an empty vial lying on a rectangle of cloth.