The Mak Collection (106 page)

Crime-scene investigators moved around the apartment like busy worker bees, going about the painstaking ritual of collecting microscopic forensic evidence. A photographer recorded the body from various angles and then moved on to concentrate on other minute details, his flash illuminating the rooms.

Karen crouched near the victim and peered at her face through a mess of pale, blood-streaked hair. She had been pretty. Karen noticed that the victim wore no wedding band or rings; her only jewellery was a pair of stud earrings with the two distinctive linked letter C’s of the company
Chanel. There did not appear to be any lacerations above the neck, the concentration of wounds being to the chest. Her attacker had missed her heart, leaving time for her to suffer. Crimson handprints traced a fatal struggle around the room, leaving blood across the coffee-table legs and top, an area of white-painted wall and the floor. A stack of magazines had slid off the table; picture frames were on their sides. One frame containing a photo of a middle-aged couple—probably her parents—lay on the floor in a spray of broken glass. It appeared that the struggle might have lasted some time before the stab wounds ended the woman’s life.

You fought back. You tried.

An officer swathed in protective clothing moved in and Karen stepped back to give him room. He covered the victim’s hands with brown paper bags and tied off the bags so they were secure for the trip to the morgue, preserving any damning microscopic DNA evidence of the attacker’s flesh under her nails.

Karen had once seen a rookie cop named Finker use plastic bags instead of paper, causing a murder victim’s skin to slough off inside the moist bags until there weren’t even fingerprints left when the body reached its destination. Karen thanked her lucky stars that she had never done anything quite so damagingly inept in her stage of initiation—not that she was accepted as part of the gang just yet. She was still considered a
‘newbie’. Karen may have thrown up at her first dismembered victim, but that was almost a rite of passage. Besides, she’d managed to miss most of the evidence, and that’s what counted.

‘Fifteen minutes earlier and we might have caught him in time,’ someone commented.

Karen looked over her shoulder to see the uniformed officer who had spoken. He appeared shaken, standing with her superior, Detective Senior Sergeant Bradley Hunt, as he was questioned by the older man. She guessed that it was probably the constable’s first homicide or, at least, his first stabbing homicide. Karen wondered if the two connies had taken their time in arriving, considering that the complaint from the neighbours would have seemed routine. The young constable might be troubled by guilt if that were the case.

It’s too late now.

There was nothing anyone could do that would bring this young woman back to life. Immediate family would soon be informed. Karen only hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to lie to the family that their daughter ‘did not suffer’.

At only twenty-three years of age, Meaghan Wallace was dead.

‘I’ll just be a sec, babe.’

Simon Aston wore little more than low-rise board shorts and his smooth signature smile. He had been working on his tan and, thanks to the warm weather of late, it was looking good.
He
was looking good and he knew it—and his latest guest at the summery beachfront abode seemed to agree. He left her curled up seductively at one end of the cream sofa in the living room, her denim miniskirt riding up to show a glimpse of the toned curve of her bottom. She was a small dark girl with a full mouth and big brown eyes, and Simon hoped to examine that pert derrière much more closely by night’s end. She worked in ‘promotions’, she’d said.

He was having a good night. Not a bad pull for a Thursday.

Now Simon was in the small kitchen, searching through the cupboards. There was one more bottle in there, he was sure.

Ah, yes. Excellent.

He sauntered back into the living room,
grinning and holding the slightly warm, unopened bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne by the neck. A soft breeze stirred the chimes on the patio; the doors were opened wide to accept the dark, balmy evening.

Simon noticed that his guest had slipped off her cowboy boots and was twirling her dark hair around a manicured finger. Her tan legs glistened invitingly in the humid evening air. They would enjoy a few more drinks, and then he would walk her down to Tamarama Beach across the road and let the sand and the warm summer night do their magic. It worked every time.

Yes, life was good.

‘I found us another bottle, babe,’ he said.
Jessica? Or just Jess?
He had forgotten. ‘It’s a bit warm, but I’ll take care of that.’ He pulled the empty bottle out of the silver champagne bucket on the coffee table, and plunked the fresh one in, the wet ice making a
shloosh
sound, the cubes melting fast in the heat. Simon and his guest had already polished off their first bottle of champagne as if it were tap-water.

‘S-i-i-imon…’ the promotions girl purred, leaning towards him and throwing an arm around a cushion, her brown eyes large. ‘You haven’t answered my question yet. Do you already have a date for the big party, or what?’

‘Not yet, babe.’ He gave her a sly smile to encourage the idea that he would take her. Every young thing in Sydney wanted to score an invite
to Damien Cavanagh’s lavish thirtieth birthday party next weekend, and as Damien’s best friend, Simon was gatekeeper to the coveted invitation. It would be the social event of the year. Simon wasn’t about to bring a little promotions girl to it, but she didn’t need to know that now. There were plenty more opportunities to get laid in the lead-up to the party.

‘Oh,’ she said and moved another inch towards him, beaming. She flicked her hair.

His mobile phone rang and his guest seemed instantly bored, the sound of the ring switching off her attentive charm like a lamp. Simon impatiently pulled the phone from the pocket of his shorts and looked at its display. It was a private number.

‘Hello,’ he answered.

The girl downed the last drops of her champagne, and then gestured to her empty glass with an impatient pout.

‘It’s me.’

Me?

‘Who is
me
?’ Simon said, rolling his eyes for Jess’s benefit. She perked up and giggled at his display. He threw her another look, cocking an eyebrow suggestively.

She seemed to think him hilarious, and tossed her head back in a tipsy laugh, putting a finger up to her lips. ‘Shhhh!’ she said, the sound trailing off in a giggle. He definitely needed to keep her going on that champagne.

‘It’s Warwick,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

Warwick O’Connor.

‘Ah…yes,’ Simon replied curtly, now wishing he hadn’t answered the call. His throat tightened a little. He was not in a work mood, and this was a particularly unpleasant matter. He’d hoped he wouldn’t need to hear about it until morning.

‘Hey, man, how’s it all coming along?’ he said, not waiting for a reply. ‘Look, I’m a little busy at the moment. This isn’t a good time.’ Simon played it cool for the benefit of his guest. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll chat…Okay, talk to you then—’

‘It’s about the money,’ came Warwick’s voice, cutting him off.

The money.

Simon might have guessed it would be about the money.

Warwick was little more than a thug, but he wouldn’t go away easily, Simon knew. He covered the receiver.

‘I’ll be back in one sec,’ he told Jess. He didn’t want the promotions girl overhearing anything too interesting. She pouted and lifted her empty champagne glass as he left her again to stalk out onto the open patio. The breeze was getting stronger, the chimes making their chaotic music with more vigour.

‘The money’s all good, man. The other half is right here for you,’ Simon assured Warwick. He didn’t want any trouble brewing. ‘We can meet at the Ravesi bar downstairs tomorrow afternoon. It’ll all be there.’

‘I left you a message an hour ago. We need to renegotiate. I can make this hard or I can make this easy.’

‘You’ve been watching too many movies, man,’ Simon replied irritably. ‘You did your job, and now you’ll get paid what we agreed. Nuff said.’ It was ridiculous for Warwick to think he could renegotiate now. This guy was seriously burning his bridges—Simon had connections with a lot of important people; important people who might one day want the type of services that Warwick could provide.

‘There is no renegotiating,’ Simon told him firmly. ‘You’ll be lucky now to get the second half of the payment with all this grief you’re causing me.’

A salty breeze whipped around Simon, setting off the chimes again and lifting the sun-bleached hair off his tanned nape. He felt his face getting warm with irritation.

‘Don’t push me, man,’ he added.

‘I’ve been busy doing my homework,’ Warwick said. ‘Your mate’s old man would be more than interested in my offer, I think.’

Simon’s heart skipped. ‘
Don’t you…don’t—’

‘The new price is one mill. Cash.’

Simon reeled. ‘What? What the fuck?
A million dollars?
What are you, on crack? This is
bullshit
!’ he yelled at the top of his voice, his words carrying across the rooftops on the wind. ‘Forget it. Forget it, man.’ He’d agreed to $15 000 to take care of a little problem. Now what was this about one million? Ludicrous. Simon was losing his temper, and his patience.

I should hang up to show him who’s boss
, he thought. But before he did, Warwick spoke again.

‘Your mate is not going to want this made public, and neither is his old man.’

‘Come on, man,’ Simon said quietly, panicking inside. His stomach had tightened, the champagne taste turning sour in his mouth. What if Warwick really
did
know the connection, and had proof? What if he sold the story to some reporter?

‘You tell your mate I want an answer by one o’clock tomorrow,’ Warwick continued, ‘and if I don’t get the answer I want, the price will go up. Take him out for lunch, why don’t you? Have a nice chat about it. I am sure he’ll agree it’s worth it not to make this thing public.’

This was going all wrong now. How could it be going wrong like this? He was supposed to have the upper hand. He’d
hired
this guy, for God’s sake. It should have all been fine—taken care of—
nothing.

‘You’re bluffing,’ Simon said.

‘You
know
I’m not,’ Warwick said ominously. ‘One mill in cash. That’s the price.’

‘Come on, man,’ Simon repeated and laughed, trying another tactic. His laughter sounded too nervous in his own ears, and his body was on edge, pumping with adrenaline. But he tried to sound relaxed. ‘Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow at Ravesi. I’ve got your seven-and-a-half grand waiting for you, all right? And another few grand for your trouble. No worries, mate. We’ll make it twenty-five now all up. Okay? No worries. See you then…’

‘One million dollars. I want an answer by tomorrow at one, or I’ll contact the big man myself,’ Warwick threatened again.

Simon was about to get in another word when his mobile went quiet, the call ended.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted to the sky. Warwick had actually hung up on him. This fucking guy had hung up on
Simon Aston?

Simon stood in shock on the patio in the humid air, looking towards the darkening sky, one hand nervously rubbing his tight, muscled stomach, his fingers circling his bellybutton.

I can’t believe he hung up on me. I can’t believe it.

He cooled off for a few minutes, having felt so furious that he was unable to speak. When he felt in control again he walked back into the living room where his guest was waiting. She had opened the champagne bottle without him. She looked bored, picking at her French manicure, her glass half empty and her bare feet up on the arm of the couch. His face must have still been
red with anger from the phone call, because she could tell that something was wrong.

‘What’s up?’ she asked when she saw him.

‘Nothing. Here…’ He pulled the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket, which was filled with water and the remaining shapes of a few melted ice cubes. The bottle itself was not chilled enough, but he didn’t care. Silently Simon topped up his guest’s glass sloppily and then filled his own. He sat heavily in an easy chair, frowning and holding his drink. Warwick’s call had ruined his evening.

Should I say anything to Damien about it?
he wondered.
Absolutely not.

The guy was bluffing, and his friend was better off not being hassled with the details. It would be fine. He’s greedy, that’s all. He’s just trying it on.

But what if he isn’t bluffing?

On Friday morning Makedde Vanderwall opened her eyes to the sound of the front door closing.

She shifted in bed and frowned, not needing to check the clock. She knew it would be too early. Outside, she heard a car drive off. Mak vaguely remembered Andy coming to bed. He had crept onto his side and slid under the covers, careful not to disturb her. The thing was, she had
wanted
him to disturb her. Despite her resistance, Mak was becoming familiar with the pent-up sexual frustration of the work-widowed spouse, and she wasn’t even married. They’d only been living together for a year. Would it only get worse? Would his three months at Quantico bring them closer together or further apart?

Is there such a thing as a one-year itch?

If Mak thought this state of frequent absences and near-platonic boredom was less than ideal, she wondered how their relationship would be once he had returned and had to be on site at the new Canberra unit a full five days a week. They had not yet discussed it, but the obvious
unspoken result of his move was that she would have to consider moving there with him, even though her few friends in Australia were all in Sydney, and so was her work. Would she have to give up her investigation work with Marian, the work she currently thrived on? Trying to find an appropriate space in Sydney for her practice hardly seemed worth it now, with their lives in flux. The thought of moving to a new city with Andy, leaving behind the few tenuous ties she had built in the past year—her friendship with Karen, her time with her dear friend Loulou, her work with Marian—made her sad.