Private Oz (20 page)

GEOFF STRAIGHTENED AND walked across the room to the doorway. The children shrank back in terror and he felt a momentary pang of guilt and hurt. Then his anger welled up again. He heard Pam pulling herself up from the sofa and he grabbed the children, shoving them into the hall.

“Come on, kids, we’re going away for a little while.”

“But Mommy!” Sam protested, jerking back toward the room.

Geoff ignored the boy. “Mommy needs some time on her own,” he said, maneuvering the kids across the hall.

Pam reached the doorway. “WHAT ARE YOU …?” she was yelling. “WHERE …?”

Geoff and the children were at the front door. He yanked it open and herded them out. Pam was across the hall in seconds, but the door was closing. She reached out for the gap. Her husband pulled on the handle, hard, trapping his wife’s fingers.

They could hear Pam’s scream of pain from outside and both kids started to cry uncontrollably. Geoff had his car keys in his pocket. He clicked the remote and pushed the children into
the backseat of the Audi. Sam was protesting. He went to hit his father as Sophia scrambled across the seat to the far door.

“Don’t,” Geoff Hewes snapped. Then more gently … “Look, Mommy’s okay, but we have to go away.”

Sophia stared at him, shaking with terror. Geoff slammed shut the backdoor and stepped away.

He heard a crunch on the gravel of the driveway, turned and swayed.

The baseball bat seemed to come out of the darkness from nowhere. Geoff saw it complete the last few inches of its journey as it smashed into his forehead sending him crashing onto the hood of his car.

He heard the children squeal and felt a second smack to his left temple. He couldn’t move, just lay there as the blows kept coming. He heard his own skull crack open, caught the spray of blood out of the corner of his eye. A terrible tremor of pain shot down his spine. He gasped and the smell of blood flooded his shattered nose, the taste of it in his mouth.

And then he died.

JUSTINE AND I were almost at the end of Simeon Street, about to turn right from Military Road, when I saw a large figure running from the driveway of No. 20.

Pulling into the street, I parked at the curb and yanked on the handbrake. We both heard screams and jumped out of the car, sprinted ten yards along the sidewalk toward the Hewes’ house and turned onto the gravel.

The driveway was like a scene from a
Saw
movie. Geoff Hewes lay face up, the side of his head smashed in. He was clearly dead, his blood spattered all over the front of the car. Two young children were in the back screeching hysterically.

We ran to the rear doors. The kids couldn’t move, couldn’t stop screaming. I managed to pull Sam out and told him to go to the house. The boy was spasming with terror.

I whirled back to the car and saw Justine on the other side, opening the rear door and cupping the little girl under her knees and shoulders, lifting her out. I took her from Justine and we headed for the house.

It was only then that I heard whimpering from the hall. The door was open a crack. Still cradling Sophia, I opened the door
with my foot and lowered the little girl to the step. I saw Pam sitting inside, rocking, her broken fingers out in front of her, tears streaming down her bruised face.

The two kids ran into the house, almost falling onto their mother. Pam tried to hold them, but her hands were smashed up.

“What in God’s name’s happened?” Justine exclaimed, running over to the injured woman.

I reached for my cell.

Pam could barely speak. Her children clung to her, terror in their faces, eyes wide, tear-streaked cheeks.

“Daddy’s dead!” Sam cried.

“
What?
” Pam stared at the boy, then up at me.

“We need to get you an ambulance, Pam.” I stabbed 000.

“Craig? What’s happened?” Pam croaked.

I ignored her. “Emergency … Simeon Street. Number 20. One fatality and a seriously injured woman … Yes.” I glanced over to Pam and saw the horror in her eyes. Justine had an arm about her shoulder. “Yes,” I said again. “Get here quick!”

Pam was trying to pull herself up. Justine helped her.

“Listen to me.” I took a step forward and turned Pam’s face to mine. “Geoff’s dead, Pam. I have no idea what –”

“NO!” she screamed. “NO!” Pulling away, she glanced at the kids for a second, staggered to the front door and out onto the driveway.

Even in the subdued light from the street she could make out Geoff’s misshapen head and contorted body, the blood. She fell onto him where he lay on the hood, her own physical pain suddenly numbed. Then she pushed her head down into his abdomen and began to wail.

IT WAS 10 pm and Darlene was alone in Private HQ. She kept unsociable hours, always had. She’d been one of those students who worked during the night and slept until 3 pm.

She walked over to a large metal bench dominating the center of the lab. Above her hung a powerful light bleaching the work surface. On the counter lay remnants of Julie O’Connor’s papers salvaged from the apartment in Sandsville.

She had already spent several hours sifting through the material, sorting it into three piles. Useless ashes, vaguely useful scraps and a small heap of material that might be of some practical use.

This last pile included about a dozen pages of a scrapbook. She glanced through these, turning the pages carefully with latex gloves. It was a peculiar mess. Many of the surviving pages contained pictures of Julie holding babies. Then there were pictures of babies cut from magazines, ads for prams, baby clothes, toiletries.

A few pages on she saw a crude drawing of a nursery. On the following pages, names. A long list, two columns to a page. At the top of the left column, Julie had written “GIRLS”. Topping
the right column was the word “BOYS”. Under these headings were dozens of names, alphabetized, some crossed out and written over, many misspelled.

A set of double pages from the scrapbook had separated from the rest. She saw familiar names. One said: “WHORE NUMBER THREE. ELSPETH LAMPARD,” the other: “WHORE NUMBER FOUR. YASMIN TRENT.” Beneath this, details of the murders from Julie O’Connor’s perspective.

With great care, she leafed through, then stopped suddenly.

On the brightly lit counter lay another double page that had slipped away from the others. She could see three words: “WHORE NUMBER FIVE.” Next to that a deep brown scorch mark.

JULIE WALKED FROM the train station, south along Seymour Avenue and then right into Sebastian Road. She followed this route six days a week, but always early each morning – this way at 7 am – retracing her steps to the station twelve hours later. Today was different. She was walking toward SupaMart at 10.10 pm and she looked like a middle-aged, mustachioed man.

The street was quiet, a residential haven basking in a balmy summer’s evening. Ahead, Julie could see the SUPAMART sign lit up above the front window of the store.

She strode straight past the entrance, the rectangle of glass fronting the shop, then down a broad alleyway toward the parking lot at the rear. Hanging a left, she found the darkened doorway into the back of SupaMart. The door was bolted and padlocked.

Julie slotted a key into the padlock, turned it, found a second key for the lower Yale, twisted that, pushed, and the door swung inwards.

She was in a corridor, flicked on the light and a florescent strip spattered into life. Concrete floor, concrete walls, concrete ceiling. She pulled the door closed, took three paces
along the passage, stopped at another door bearing a sign: STOREROOM 1.

It was unlocked, the light on. It was filled with stock for the shelves in the store. At 6 am tomorrow, a three-person team would arrive to take the goods out onto the shop floor. Later tomorrow, a truck would arrive to replenish this stock. It was a cycle, a rhythm.

There was a concealed cupboard at the back of the third shelf up from the floor. She had spotted it weeks ago when she was sent to the storeroom to get some detergent. She yanked on the handle. Inside, a few items she’d put there two days ago – clothes, a sleeping bag, a thermos, some basic toiletries.

Julie gathered the things up, unfurled the sleeping bag on to the floor and lay on it. She was used to sleeping rough. After walking out on her evil mother, she’d lived on the streets for four years. She’d been raped twice, had her skull fractured as she slept in a park and almost died on the operating table. No, unlike the stupid, soft bitches she delighted in killing, she knew Julie Ann O’Connor was as tough as iron.

She leaned back against the wall and pulled out her notebook. At the top of a double page close to the back, a name. Beneath this an address followed by a list of people – the woman’s family and friends. Then a collection of phone numbers. Last, some notes, a set of things she thought might one day be useful information about the woman she’d targeted: “Favorite restaurants”, “Gym address, number”, “Habits.”

Under “Habits”, she’d written: ‘This whore likes to run. She runs and she runs … silly bitch. She runs around Parsley Bay, a couple of miles from her house. Always the same time – early riser, this babe … 6 am. Easy!”

I LEFT JUSTINE to look after everyone. An ambulance was on its way.

I walked out into the hot night. I’d seen someone run from the driveway as we’d pulled up no more than six or seven minutes ago. There might still be a chance of finding him.

I headed off in the direction the man had run and started to jog along the tree-lined road. I stopped at the end of the street. “This is ridiculous,” I said to myself, glanced up and saw a young couple just a dozen yards away. The woman looked distressed. Her partner was on his phone. He looked agitated. I walked over to them slowly. The man turned off his cell.

“What’s up?” I asked gently and looked with concern at the woman. She was rubbing her left arm and had a bruise to her right cheek.

“Some madman with a baseball bat came charging along the road toward us. I’ve just called the cops.”

“He hit you?”

She shook her head, the tracks of dried tears on her cheeks.

“Just barged her out of the way,” the guy spat. “She smacked
her head on the wall … there.” He pointed to his left. “Bastard … if I ever get my …”

“Which way did he go?”

The man gave an odd look. “That way … Tyson Road …”

I sped off without another word.

There was no one about. I dashed past neat suburban homes, white fences, flowerbeds, gate posts. To my right, an unbroken line of cars stood tucked into the curb. Then I stopped abruptly.

Ahead lay a small patch of grass, a kids’ playground, the swings motionless, the slide empty in the moonlight. I could just make out a large shape sitting on a park bench.

I approached slowly.

The man was sitting hunched up, his head in his hands. At his feet lay a bloodied baseball bat. He was sobbing loudly, heard me approach, lifted his head, recognized me.

“Craig,” the man said between gasps. He was in a bad way.

“Patrick!” It was the bouncer from The Cloverleaf who’d had his life ruined by Hewes. “What happened?”

He didn’t reply, just kept sobbing. I couldn’t see his face.

“Patrick?”

“I killed him, Craig. I killed him in front of his kids! I didn’t know they would be there. But once I started I couldn’t … Oh Christ!”

I heard the wail of police cars. They screeched to a stop on the road a few yards away.

“It’s over now, Patrick,” I said and sat down on the bench beside him.

“HEY, JOHNNY,” DARLENE said, looking up from her microscope as her colleague knocked on the open door of the lab.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“What are
you
up to? It’s gone eleven.”

“I was bored. Thought I’d come in to do some work. What a sad life I lead!”

Darlene gave him a crooked smile. “So what does that say about me?”

“I judge not!” Johnny had his palms up. “What’re you working on?”

She pulled back from the scope. “Take a look.”

He peered into the eyepiece. “Means nothing to me.”

“And not much more to me,” Darlene remarked. “It’s part of Julie O’Connor’s scrapbook, but it’s so badly charred I can’t make out the words. I’m getting really pissed with it to be honest.”

“Not surprised.” Johnny paced over to Darlene’s desk. He saw the small pile of invites Software Sam had left yesterday.

“I heard about these,” he said, picking up the tickets. “Micky Stevens’ party … right? Craig mentioned them.”

Darlene nodded. “Yeah, that guy … friend of Micky’s dropped them in. With all the stuff going on here I’d forgotten.”

Johnny stared down at the invitations. “It’s tonight.” He stared into Darlene’s eyes.

“Oh, no. I’ve got …”

“Darlene? What is wrong with you?” He walked over, the invitations in his right hand.

“Johnny Ishmah,” Darlene said, beaming. “You’re not asking me out on a date, are you?”

He flushed red.

“Oh my God! You’re blushing!” Darlene said, hand to mouth. “How …”

“Don’t say cute!”

“Alright …
not
cute!”

He smiled. “So, then? What do you think?”

Darlene looked down at the sample under the scope, then back up, shrugged. “What the hell?”

DARLENE DROVE A ’70s VW Beetle she’d lovingly restored. Johnny often reflected on the eccentricities of the woman. She looked like a young Elle Macpherson but loved nothing more than messing around with blood and body parts during the week, only to get her hands black with grease at the weekends. He’d always found it a heady mixture, but knew she was way, way out of his league.

The car chugged through the exit gate of the garage. The security guy smiled and gave her a shy wave.

“Sweet bloke,” she said, turning to Johnny. “Insisted he come back to work as soon as he could. Only had a few days off after suffering concussion.”

It was 11.32 pm and the sidewalks of the CBD were abuzz. They passed a club on George Street called The Ivy, a line out the door stretching two blocks.

Johnny leaned in toward the radio – an original sixties collectable. Pointed to the machine. She nodded and Johnny nudged down the “On” switch. Classical music flowed from the speaker.

“You ever been to anything like this before?” he asked, picking up the invitations.

Darlene shrugged. “Long time ago.”

Johnny knew she’d been a model for almost a year after graduating from university. She didn’t like to talk about it much. He assumed it hadn’t been a positive experience.

“How do you change channels on this thing?”

“Don’t like Monteverdi?… The dial.”

Johnny slowly turned the knob. He passed through a jazz station, the ABC late program. Then some pop music came on. He went past it, backtracked, tuned it.

“Unreal!” He turned to Darlene.

“What?’

“Only Micky Stevens’ new single! Heard a snatch of it earlier today.”

“Coincidences do happen.” Darlene turned off George Street. They both fell silent for a few moments, listening to Micky’s new song.

She hung a right into Castlereagh Street and looked round at Johnny. “Pretty catchy tune … What’s up?”

He was pale, staring at the radio. Held up a hand. “Sssh! Listen!”

The music swelled, Micky repeated the chorus:
“I just wanna die at midnight in your arms. Like Jimi and Janis and Kurt Cobain too … Club 27 charms.”

“What’s the time?”

“11.40.”

“Darlene! Put your foot down!”