The Mak Collection (120 page)

If the girl had been left inside the dumpster she would probably not have been discovered until the Sunday night garbage rounds. Andy could only guess that her body had been placed there well after the previous garbage pick-up, but mere hours after her actual death. By the time she’d reached that alley, her struggle for life had been well and truly over.

There was a noise, and they looked up.

The doors of the autopsy gallery opened and an attendant entered in his scrub suit and shoe covers, pushing a gurney. The small body of the victim lay under a white sheet. Within minutes he had transferred the deceased to the autopsy table and pulled a clear plastic shield down over his face. The pathologist entered, and removed the white sheet.

Andy was taken aback by her youth. The girl appeared to be no older than thirteen, perhaps younger. Her body was swelling from the gases of decomposition. There was little dignity in nature’s death process.

So young.

‘
Skata
, she’s just a kid.’

‘Yeah.’

The Dumpster Girl was of Thai descent. She had no identification on her, so they were in the process of running dental records, fingerprints—anything they could—to try to figure out who the young woman had been. Thus far, the only possible clue to her identity was a very large, intricate tattoo across her lower back. That, at least,
was one identifying marker that might help the investigation. Although tattoos were commonplace, they were highly unusual on someone her age; most parlours in Australia would not perform work on a minor. The style and age of the tattoo might just lead them to a list of possible tattoo parlours where the work had been done—assuming that she had been born in Australia. Andy was no expert on tattoos; in fact, he was revolted by them, thanks to the large number of criminals who bore them. But the presence of such brandings often aided in identifying both criminals and victims in a variety of cases.

As with all homicides, the girl’s hands had been covered in paper bags to retain any important evidence, and Andy noticed that the bags had already been removed. The examiners had no doubt worked tirelessly to find any skin under her fingernails, or any substances that might be traced. In many ways it was a saving grace that she had been discovered just behind the dumpster rather than in the thing itself, as the garbage would have contaminated any evidence infinitely more.

Now the internal examination would begin.

The head pathologist began with the traditional Y incision extending from shoulder to shoulder, meeting at the breastbone, and finally extending all the way to the pubic bone. Andy was grateful for the panes of glass separating them from the autopsy. He had seen enough autopsies to be used to them, but the smell was something that no one
ever fully adapted to. The word
autopsy
comes from the Greek
autopsia
, meaning ‘seeing for oneself’. Andy was content to see for himself and leave the smell on the other side of the glass.

His mobile phone was on vibrate, and it buzzed twice. Andy surreptiously checked the text message.

I LOVE YOU
,
SEXY
.
HAVE A GREAT TRIP
.

It was Mak.

She’d been so responsive, so eager. The sight of her body laid out on the bed, nude and welcoming, was a vivid memory. Her breasts were soft and full, her waist the perfect size to fit his arm around while they made love. He hadn’t wanted to leave.

Andy read the message furtively and hid it from Jimmy. He tucked his phone away and looked up just in time to see the young girl’s chest being opened with the surgical equivalent of a large wrench. For a moment the mental image of Makedde’s nakedness and the Dumpster Girl mixed in his head, and he felt sick.

‘Sooooo, was that yer girlfriend?’ Jimmy teased, seemingly oblivious to their location. ‘Was it hot make-up sex? Did she spank you or anything?’

‘Not now,’ Andy snapped, not wanting to play Jimmy’s little game while he was viewing some poor girl’s organs being taken in one connected block and placed on a stainless steel tray. Andy never understood how Jimmy could talk about things like that while an autopsy was going on in full view a few metres away.

‘Come on, mate, don’t be like that. You know I gotta live vicariously through you.’ Jimmy knew Andy wouldn’t answer him, so he got onto business. ‘Okay, I’ve got the guys doing the rounds of the tattoo parlours checking on that ink, like you suggested. They were able to make up a pretty clear shot of it for us.’ He passed an enlarged photo to Andy. It was a good image, certainly clear enough for someone to identify.

‘Let’s hope she’s local and that she had the work done here,’ Andy commented, inspecting the photograph.

‘Who here would work on a girl under eighteen?’

‘I hope to find out.’

They had not got a match on her prints. If they couldn’t get any clues to her identity she might end up as just another Jane Doe, stored away indefinitely in the freezers of the morgue, both her murder and her identity a mystery.

There was a sound from outside the viewing theatre and Jimmy and Andy both looked towards it. The door opened and Detective Sergeant Hunt entered.

‘Hunt?’ Andy said softly.

‘Yeah, he’s taken over now,’ Jimmy whispered with little enthusiasm. He had not worked with Hunt before.

‘I’m sure you two will be like best mates in no time,’ Andy answered under his breath.

‘
Skata.
’

Hunt was in his late thirties, with a good suit, a light blond brush cut and an exaggerated chin like a hero in a Marvel comic. He was ambitious, political and slick—everything Jimmy was not. Hunt had worked under Andy at one point, and had soon risen through the ranks with unprecedented speed. Now he outranked Jimmy, who had been in the coppers for nearly ten years longer.

The detective sergeant approached.

‘Hunt,’ Flynn addressed him.

‘Flynn.’

Hunt took a seat one row ahead of them, in the centre, inadvertently giving Jimmy an opportunity to make faces at his back. Jimmy cupped his hand and jerked it around near his groin, mouthing the word ‘wanker’.

‘I haven’t missed anything, have I?’ Hunt said stupidly, leaning back with his arms extended like he was watching TV in his lounge room.

Andy looked down on the sad, bloated corpse through the glass. ‘No, they’re just getting started.’

It seemed to Andy that Hunt had probably avoided as many autopsy viewings as possible in the past.

‘Aren’t you leaving today?’

‘Yes,’ Andy replied distractedly, his eyes drawn to the girl’s heart as it was separated from the other organs and weighed.

Makedde checked the contents of her overnight bag: change of clothes, make-up, wallet, notepad, monocular, camera. She zipped up the bag and slung it over her shoulder. Marian had booked her a cheap flight for one o’clock and organised a hotel at the other end. The client was happy for Mak to seek information from Meaghan’s interstate friend—so long as it didn’t cost him too much, so Mak imagined the hotel wouldn’t be too flash.

She had a couple of hours up her sleeve before the flight, so she figured she had time to make one stop before boarding her flight for Melbourne.

Jag.

It was best not to turn up in leathers if she wanted to gain the girl’s trust, so Mak made her way downstairs and scrounged around in the miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen to find the spare set of keys to Andy’s little red Honda among a bunch of elastic bands, paperclips and unused suitcase locks. The airport parking for two days
was more than it would cost her for a cab, so she would return with the car in time to take a taxi.

Mak left her packed overnight bag by the front door and set off.

Meaghan’s friend Jag lived in a crumbly terrace in the suburb of Newtown, a groovy ‘alternative’ area of Sydney, with cafés, CD and book shops, and fetish stores. Mak took a deep breath and walked up to Jag’s front door.

Okay, here goes.

Thankfully she found that she felt nowhere near as awkward as she had walking up to the Wallace household the day before. Perhaps she was getting used to knocking on strangers’ doors.

Makedde rang the doorbell. There were footsteps, and then a young man with spiky blond Billy Idol hair opened the door.

‘Hey, is Jag around?’ Mak asked casually.

‘Ah, no, she’s gone to the Angelo,’ he said, as if that should make sense to her.

‘Oh, the Angelo. Yeah. Where is that again?’ Mak asked.

‘Just on the corner,’ he said. ‘It’s, like, two blocks that way.’ He pointed west.

‘Cool, yeah. Thanks,’ Mak replied, and trundled off in the direction in which he had pointed. He watched her go, perhaps wondering who she was.

Mak had no idea what the Angelo was, but she hoped she would spot it easily enough, and she also hoped that Jag would look like her picture.

The Michelangelo Café was indeed two blocks from Jag’s place. It was a run-down and dusty little place with wooden tables and a badly executed mural of Michelangelo’s ‘David’ painted across the walls and ceiling. There were few patrons, but they included a girl who fitted Jag’s description seated near the back of the place, hunched over a plate. Mak had the distinct impression that the young woman was hungover. She had a plate of fried eggs and bacon in front of her, largely untouched.

Mak sidled up beside her.

‘Hey, Jag, how are you?’ she said casually.

Jag looked up, startled. Her reactions seemed a bit slow.

‘How’s it going? Big night, huh?’

Jag nodded.

‘Can I sit down?’ Mak asked, and pulled out a chair for herself before the young woman could answer.

‘Do I know you?’ Jag said, looking at her suspiciously.

‘Well,’ Mak told her, ‘this is about your friend Meaghan Wallace.’

Jag stopped her feeble attempts at eating. ‘Megs?’

‘Yeah,’ Mak said. ‘Megs.’

The girl nodded. ‘It’s awful what happened to her.’

‘It is,’ Mak agreed. She could see that Jag was sharp, even when hungover. Pulling the wool
over her eyes seemed unnecessary. ‘Jag, I am trying to figure out what happened to her. I’m working on behalf of someone who really cares about her, and wants to know the truth about her murder.’

‘You’re a…’

‘Private investigator, yes.’

Jag folded her arms. ‘Well, that’s great but I don’t know anything.’

‘Maybe,’ Mak replied, giving her verbal room to move, ‘but I just thought I’d chat to you, because she considered you a friend. Sometimes we can know something helpful without realising it.’

‘Who are you working for, exactly?’

‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid. But I’m not working for the cops, or the Feds, I can tell you that much.’ She slipped a card across the table and Jag looked it over.

‘Her parents hired you, didn’t they?’ she said.

Mak didn’t answer. If she wanted to believe it was Meaghan’s parents who had hired her, that might be a good thing.

‘Do you know Noelene and Ralph well?’ Mak asked.

Jag shook her head. ‘Nah. Megs mentioned them, though. Look, I don’t know why you think I’d be helpful, but I don’t know anything. I didn’t really know her that well.’

‘You were friends, though,’ Mak pressed.

‘We partied together a few times, that’s all. Her parents should be sending you to someone like
Amy, not me. Amy was her best friend. She knew her a lot better than I did.’

‘That’s fine.’ Mak paused. ‘When was the last time you saw Meaghan?’

‘Are you sure you’re not a cop?’ Jag asked, suspicious again.

‘Yes I’m sure. And I’d have to tell you if I was a cop, you know,’ Mak said, fibbing a little. ‘That’s the law.’ Undercover cops could say what they wanted, and they did.

‘Okay. I haven’t seen her since New Year’s, I think. Like I said, we weren’t that close.’

‘How about Simon Aston? You know him well?’ Mak had a photo ready in case she needed it. But she didn’t.

‘Simon? Ha! I wish. All the girls wished they knew Simon.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He was the big tipper, you know. Him and his rich mate, Damien Cavanagh. They used to visit the club a lot.’

‘The Rocking Horse?’

‘The strip clubs, babe. You know—where Meaghan and I worked?’

Meaghan Wallace had been a stripper—that was where she was getting the money her mother was so confused about. She would never have told her mum. Not a mum like Noelene.

‘Amy worked there, too, didn’t she?’ Mak said with false confidence. That might explain the sexy outfits all three were wearing in the photo.
They worked together, they danced together and sometimes partied together.

‘Yeah, Amy,’ Jag confirmed. ‘She works at the Thunderball Club now. I don’t know how she makes ends meet. The cash is better up here.’

‘Yeah, I heard that,’ Mak lied. ‘So you hadn’t seen Megs since the New Year?’

Jag nodded. ‘She had a straight job and she didn’t come out much any more.’

Mak understood.

So when she got her straight job, did she stop with the gifts for her folks? Or was she still dabbling on the side?

‘Tell the Wallaces I am really sorry about Megs.’

‘I’ll tell them,’ Mak said. ‘Thanks for your time. You call me if you think of anything else, okay?’

She nodded, and Mak left the girl with her greasy hangover breakfast.

The flight lasted barely an hour, but Makedde noticed the drop in temperature as soon as she stepped off the plane in Melbourne. Not exactly a snowstorm—as some Sydneysiders had her believing—but it was about 10 degrees cooler. Considering the recent humidity in Sydney, the change was a relief.

‘How far is it to…?’ She read the address off her notes to the taxidriver at the airport. ‘To St Kilda?’

‘Is no problem. Twenty minutes this time of day. Tops.’

Makedde smiled as the taxi passed a bright yellow rod, like a giant French fry, jutting 50 metres into the sky—someone’s idea of art. They drove through a space-age tunnel and across an overpass that afforded Mak her first view of the city.

It was already two-thirty in the afternoon. Mak would check in to her hotel, freshen up quickly and make it out to Amy Camilleri’s Richmond residential address by perhaps three-thirty; Marian
had hunted down the address, so hopefully it was current. Mak would take note of the surrounding area and, if necessary, gently interrogate some of Amy’s neighbours to see if she could make any further ground. If Amy was as good a friend of Meaghan’s as Jag had suggested, then she should potentially be a great source of information. She could have been privy to a lot of details about Meaghan’s personal life; certainly, more than poor Mrs Wallace seemed to know about her daughter, and more than Jag knew or was willing to divulge. Perhaps Amy even knew something about Meaghan’s involvement with Simon Aston, if there had been any.