The Mak Collection (30 page)

Makedde’s head was throbbing, her thoughts murky. She had no sense of time. Had they been driving for half an hour? Two hours? She struggled to stay awake as her body rolled on the van floor. After a blessedly smooth patch, the road became uneven again, gravel spinning under the tires. The van flew over bumps, her raw wrists protesting in pain as they tore and jerked inside the cuffs.

She spoke. “I-I don’t know you. I can say that I haven’t seen your—” She swallowed her words as they flew over a nasty bump, smashing the back of her head on the hard floor. She started again, trying to sound calm, to rationalise. Her throat gurgled as she spoke. “I haven’t seen your face. You could walk away. I could pay you money. I have a bankcard…”

He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even acknowledge the sound of her voice.

She tried again, louder this time. “I’ll give you my bankcard and the PIN number. I’ll get the money for you myself if you like. You could let me go. I won’t tell anyone. You could…” She tried to shuffle around
a bit, to take the pressure off of her shoulder joints.
Do something. Anything!
What had they taught her? When one tactic doesn’t work, try another. With effort, she swung her long legs up in the air above her, as if she were riding a bike upside down. Her head swam with the sudden movement. She found the door with the toes of one foot, and the wall with the toes of the other. She rocked back and smashed both feet into the door, screaming with all her might, “LET MEEEE OOOOUT!”

The door was solid and unmoving, but her captor turned his head. She had his attention.

“Shut up!” he hissed at her, his voice oddly high-pitched.

The van was still speeding across the gravel and the man jerked his head back around to face the road, but already they were skidding, the van shuddering. He wrestled the steering wheel hard to the right. A tree leapt out of the black night and crashed into the left side of the windshield, breaking it with a thunderous explosion of glass. The van lurched and Makedde’s body hit the wall, a heavy toolbox sliding along the floor and slamming into her ribs. The man made a noise, a small cry, as the van turned over, the gravel now gone. Still handcuffed, Makedde was hurled against the wall again, harder, her body twisted. Then there was another, greater crash.

They’d hit water.

Underground sex magazines;
FETISH, Bound, S&M Hookers
. Amateur bondage pictorials. Violent portrayals of involuntary sexual acts. They were stacked in Ed Brown’s closet, filed neatly in order of issue, dating back at least ten years. Ed’s favourite magazine appeared to be
FETISH
, a periodical specialising in women’s feet and kinky shoes. Andy searched behind the magazines. He found very little dust but he did find an unopened twenty pack of Polaroid 600 film. “Look for Polaroid photos,” he announced. “Look for a Polaroid camera. Careful of prints.”

Hunt and Hoosier nodded in unison.

A black sheet covered a series of odd shapes along the bottom of the closet.
What next?
Andy had the police photographer capture the arrangement on film before he slowly removed the blanket. Three jars. Big and cloudy with liquid. Containing something.

Andy’s stomach churned. Each jar held an entire human foot, neatly severed just below the calf.

Christ.

The pale feet arched with lifeless elegance, toenails again painted garish red, each in a state of perfect preservation suspended in formalin. Andy felt a familiar numbness spread through him, anaesthetising his nerves. He would be worthless to Makedde if he lost his objectivity.
No fear. No revulsion. Keep it clinical. Keep it professional.

Flashes went off as the find was recorded.

“He gives them manicures,” Andy began, “same polish, but only the feet and toes that he keeps. The ones he likes. A post mortem pedicure. Find the red polish. We want everything we can find.” As an afterthought he added, “The polish is his mum’s.”

“We don’t know he’s got her,” Jimmy offered, watching his partner’s face closely. “He might have just fled.”

“He doesn’t have her? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Skata! I’m sorry, mate. That’s just the facts. What he will do, he will do. You are only guessing. We can’t
know
.” Jimmy’s black hair was a mess and his olive skin looked pale. “Can I talk to you a minute?” Jimmy asked in a whisper.

Andy nodded and followed Jimmy out of Ed’s bedroom into the privacy of a small bathroom. It too was clean, and was the only space not crawling with officers toting evidence bags. Andy wanted someone to search it right away but Jimmy was in his ear,
speaking in low tones. “This nutter’s pretty damn obsessive. I figure he’s obsessed with you. He killed your wife, framed you. He’s gotta have some little shrine or something. When we find it, it could help to clear you.”

Andy couldn’t dwell on that yet. He needed to stop Ed from killing again.

“And,” Jimmy went on, “if it comes down to it, and we don’t find nothin’ like that…” He pulled a small zip-locked bag out of his pocket and gestured to it. It held a familiar gold wedding band.

Andy’s eyes widened.

Hearing footsteps, Jimmy quickly pocketed the bag. Inspector Kelley walked past them and stopped.

“Inspector—” Andy had broken into a sweat.

“Flynn, I was told you were here. I took you off this case a week ago, and your wife’s untimely death should be all the more reason for you to remain so.” He paused. “Do you have a gun?”

“Uh, yes sir.” The question surprised him. “Jimmy’s .38 Smith and Wesson.”

“I brought you your Glock.” Kelley handed him his Model 17.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, trying not to sound astounded.

“Don’t assume anything. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

“Yes sir.”

Inspector Kelley’s eyes were steady. “Watch your back,” he warned. “This nut case could have a thing for you. I don’t think it’s wise for you to hang about. We’ll keep you informed.”

With that, Kelley disappeared into Ed’s bedroom. The Inspector was covering his arse, but he wasn’t kicking him out. Andy knew he had to tread carefully.

In the putrid smelling hall there was chatter. More officers had arrived. He overheard someone say, “Do you believe in numerology? You know what eighteen is? 6—6—6.”

Then, a louder voice shouted from Ed’s bedroom. “Hey, I got something!” The call came from Hunt, who was half-jammed in Ed’s closet, searching the magazine collection.

Andy ran to the bedroom trying unsuccessfully to maintain a calm exterior.
Where has he taken Makedde?
Then suddenly Kelley was on him, barring his way.

“What?!” Andy exclaimed.

“You shouldn’t be here, Andy.” Inspector Kelley firmly gripped Andy’s shoulders. Past Kelley’s tall frame, Andy caught Hunt’s eye for a moment. The constable was staring blankly, his face bloodless. Quickly, he broke from Andy’s gaze and turned away, instinctively raising a hand to his mouth to contain his vomit.

The Redfern block of flats was lit up like a dance party with bright flashes in the night air. Photographers and television crews swarmed outside, trying desperately to get past the barricade to seize an exclusive story. A news helicopter circled overhead. Andy watched the mayhem from his car further down the street. Inspector Kelley had sent someone to fetch the Honda; another way of telling Andy to go home.

Over one hundred Polaroid photos had been slipped between the pages of Ed’s
FETISH
magazine collection. Breasts. Torsos. Feet. Body parts. All in various stages of life and death. Various stages of torture. The vivid colour photos were worse than any crime-scene pictures he’d seen. They captured the final struggles of faceless bodies, twisted and tensed in the throes of live autopsies.

There was already enough evidence to put Ed Brown away forever. But this was little consolation to Andy Flynn. He sat very still in his car while a hamburger cooled on the dashboard. He had no appetite. No one who had seen those Polaroids could be eating right now. He was neither hungry nor tired, although he hadn’t eaten or slept properly for a week. He’d watched Makedde for days, protecting her, and then, like a fool, he looked away.

There was something that was missing, something that would point the way. He had to think. The magazines, the photos, the shoes, the body parts; none
of them were well hidden. Ed’s mother would not have been able to find them, but he must have been confident that no one else was going to come looking.

Water crept up Makedde’s thighs. She had blacked-out again, and the freezing water’s progress woke her. She was still inside the van. Her whole body ached. Bones were broken, she could tell. Ribs were cracked. Her collarbone? An elbow too? Her arms were practically useless, particularly on her left side. No longer forced above her, they rested weakly on her chest, elbows bent. The shackles still held her wrists together, but the chains had been yanked from the wall with the force of the crash.

No more rumbling vibrations. No more movement. Only the calming rush of water around her. The van was on a forty-five degree angle, partially submerged, and her body was bunched up against the back of the driver’s seat. They should have sunk by now. Perhaps the water was shallow. It didn’t smell salty. A lake? A river?

She twisted her neck upwards and looked into the cab. Empty. He was gone. The doors were closed, the driver’s side window rolled down. Was it unrolled before we crashed? No, it wasn’t. He must have crawled out. There were red streaks across the handle
and the dashboard. Windshield shattered. Glass everywhere. He must be injured. He had crawled away and left her.

On her back, Makedde slid herself up the floor of the van, straightening her legs. The water only came up to her knees, and it didn’t seem to be rising any further. With stinging eyes she looked around and saw the mechanic’s toolbox that had hit her in the crash. Everything looked different, drawers had come open, sections had come loose from the wall. The drawers in the van were full of kitchen utensils, knives and forks for camping out. No. Not kitchen knives, these were longer, thinner blades. Not forks. Different tools, gleaming and clinical.

She slid herself over to one of the drawers, her head still swimming. The drawer was clean and smelled of disinfectant. The implements it held were spotless. Scalpels. Long, thin knives. Things that looked like delicate pliers. Gadgets she knew no name for.

In a flash it came to her.
Ed Brown, the morgue attendant.
She knew him now.

He saved a lock of Catherine’s hair for me.

Makedde had to arm herself. What if he came back? Wrists still bound together, she rifled through the instruments and chose a sharp, long-bladed knife. She held it in both hands. She had never cut someone before, had never sunk steel into living flesh. She
knew she could do it if she had to. She would not hesitate if the man came back.

Holding the knife as tightly as she could, she slid down the van floor and leant against the back of the driver’s seat. It was prickly with tiny pieces of glass, and the water around her was freezing cold. Her arms were of little assistance as she scrambled over the seatback and stuck her head through the window. She steadied herself by leaning her shoulder against the window frame. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could vaguely see a slow-moving river stretching away from the van. To her left, a muddy embankment sloped up to the road.

Count to three. One, two…three
.

She used every bit of her fading strength to push herself through the open window. She struggled out, shackled arms outstretched, gripping her weapon, and slipped into the icy water. Her bare feet found the murky bottom and she tried to stand. Brilliant red and green stars exploded before her open eyes, her head spinning. Gradually the headrush passed, leaving a hazy residue of dizziness in its place. She held the knife in front of her pelvis and waded cautiously through the waist-deep water towards the river bank.

No sounds; just the gentle rushing of water and the wind through the branches. Twigs in the thick mud.

Snap.

Movement. There was movement in the shadows.

Makedde stopped and held her breath. Drops of water falling. Wait…crunching on gravel. Shadows moving. She tried to steady herself, but her head wasn’t right. She held the knife out in front, tried to be ready. She knew she couldn’t run, not like this. She would have to fight. She cleared her throat and tried to speak. Her voice was harsh.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. More crunching. A figure forming out of the shadows. Something in its hand. Something swinging towards her fast. A hammer.
Quickly! Get out of the way!

Sluggishly she stepped backwards but still caught a hard blow to the jaw. The muddy ground swiftly rose to meet her, stars dancing in her head. Then, like a television being switched off, the stars around her flickered and disappeared.

“If he hasn’t taken her there, we’re fucked,” Andy said as they sped along.

“You might just be right,” Jimmy replied. “He seemed to know too much. It has a kind of psycho logic to it. A revenge thing. You never even told me you and Cassandra had the place.”

“It was Cassandra’s originally, but I was going to get it,” Andy explained. “It was an investment, but she never resold it. I was supposed to move in months ago.”

“Let’s just hope that he’s the one that’s decided to move in,” Jimmy said.

“Think about it. He’s killed at least nine women, only five of which we knew about. Where are the other four? He disposed of them well. But not these last ones. Why? He wants to get caught, that’s why. Either that or he thinks he’s invincible.”

“Skata! If all these fuckin’ psychos want to get caught, why don’t they just waltz into the police station and have it over with?” Jimmy shook his head. “Nah, I’m not sold. He’s just gettin’ sloppy. All those sick malakas get sloppy eventually.”