Vodka Doesn't Freeze (5 page)

'I
DON'T SEE WHY
we had to come out here this arvo,' grumbled Scotty, steering the car with one hand, nursing a Pepsi with the other. To accommodate his long legs, he had adjusted the seat back as far as it would go; he was practically sitting in the back seat.

Beside him, an open street directory lay on Jill's lap. Her feet were up on the dashboard.

'Are you serious?' she asked. 'Don't you think it's kind of significant that Mercy Merris has counselled victims of all three dead men? We've got to talk to her – she could be a link.'

'Yeah, but it's boiling. And we're going to Richmond, for God's sake. We could've just called her.'

Jill had called Mercy, and she knew they were coming.

They'd been driving west for just over an hour. The builtup shopping strips and unit-blocks had given way to huge, blank-faced factory estates as they made their way through the afternoon traffic. It seemed like half of Sydney was heading home to the western suburbs.

Reading the map while travelling left Jill feeling queasy. She pressed her forehead against the window. Parched bushland bordered the two-lane road. The scrub was broken every now and then by a ranch-style house, or a service station.

'Another friggin' speed camera! Can you believe this shit?' Scotty backed off the pedal a little. The car's dashboard display still registered 41 degrees outside, even though it was now after 3 p.m. Scotty had been bitching for the past thirty minutes.

Jill tuned out and thought about the last time she'd met Dr Mercy Merris. A psychodynamic psychotherapist in private practice, Dr Merris used to do some work for the New South Wales Police Service. She'd counselled cops who had problems at home, with the boss, or who, like Jill, had attended a fatal, or a shooting incident, and had been sent to a shrink for a mandatory debrief.

Like most cops, Jill hadn't wanted to go to counselling. In fact, having spent a year in therapy at fifteen, she was even more reluctant than most. So she'd been surprised when she found the obligatory three meetings helpful. She'd gone to the sessions determined to say as little as she could and get out as soon as possible, but had found it easy to talk to Mercy. Dr Merris had recommended more treatment; but hey, she didn't like it
that
much.

An approaching intersection snapped her from her thoughts. 'Turn left here, Scotty.'

'Finally,' he grumbled five minutes later, steering the car into the drive of the private psychiatric hospital.

The wheels of the Subaru crunched gravel as they rolled down the two-kilometre, palm-lined private road. Hills of waving grass poured down to meet a river and in the distance were the mountains. In the foreground to their right, a few cattle grazed stupidly, sun-addled, tails swishing at flies; on the left four bored horses ambled. Jill wound the window down and took a long sip of the hot, clean air. A bellbird whistle-cracked.

'Worth going nuts for, this is,' said Scotty, taking in the peaceful surrounds. He turned completely in his seat to watch a young woman in pyjamas, clutching a teddy bear, walking with a young man in suit pants and a shirt.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a long, low, sandstone building. The bulk of the hospital sprawled behind this building, across beautifully manicured grounds. A sprinkler thwacked water across an emerald lawn, and Jill did a double-take when a peacock on the grass angled to catch the overspray. She noted a sign near the sprinkler commenting that it was run from a rainwater tank – drought-stricken Sydneysiders hadn't been permitted to use sprinklers for a couple of years now.

Before she had time to remind Scotty of their agenda for this meeting, a beaming woman was at her door, welcoming them to the Sisters of Charity Hospital.

Carole Dean, well-groomed in skirt-suit and heels, had come to greet them while Dr Merris was with a client. Would they like a late lunch while waiting? It was seafood day. Could she show them the grounds, or to the library to collect themselves after the drive? She smiled as she ushered them into a plush, cool foyer more resembling a five-star hotel than a psychiatric hospital.

'Lunch sounds great,' boomed Scotty at the same time as Jill stated, 'Actually, Carole, we'd like to have a look around while we're waiting.'

Jill wanted to see the hospital. It could be a possible link to a serial killer; hell, the killer could be here right now.

She ignored Scotty's disgusted look and his mumbled 'Don't see why we can't do both' as she led the trio from the foyer in the direction that looked like it could lead to patient wards.

Carole caught up quickly and, gracefully overtaking Jill, her smile glued on, she guided the group across the deep carpeting.

Jill noticed Carole's smile slip as they turned into the hallway ahead.

Scotty had managed to convince Jill that a tour of the hospital grounds would be helpful, and he had slipped away well before they reached Mercy's rooms. She was certain that this would first lead him past the hospital restaurant. She looked around the room and recalled the sense of refined warmth she had experienced the last time she was in this office. The squashy armchairs squatted around a low table bearing a water jug and platter of fruit. On three walls, framed photography depicted single flowers in exquisite, almost erotic close-up. Along the fourth wall, full-length glass bi-fold doors opened onto a terracotta-paved courtyard framed by flowering shrubs and trees. Birds foraged familiarly across the lawn.

Today the room was less carefully arranged than she remembered. A pile of books had spilled from the desk and lay splayed across the thick carpet. An ashtray near the computer overflowed with lipstick-rimmed cigarette butts, and a pile of unopened mail and magazines threatened to join the books on the floor. The afternoon sun speared in through the glass doors and cast parts of the room in a garish glow, while shadows waited in corners.

'Jill, it's so lovely to see you,' smiled Mercy, walking towards her from the glass doors. She took both of Jill's hands in her own and brushed her cheek with a kiss.

'You too, Mercy. It's been a while. I hope you're well?'

'Fine, fine, always busy, of course, but aren't we all? And you, Jill? Are you taking care of yourself?' Mercy's brown eyes scanned Jill's face as she guided her to one of the armchairs.

Jill felt herself drawn into the cocoon of caring she had experienced when she had consulted Mercy two years before.

'I'm well. I'm trying.'

She felt suddenly defensive under Mercy's searching gaze. She didn't need anyone probing her feelings right now. Besides, this is my investigation, she thought. She straightened her back in the chair. Mercy might be a skilled psychologist, but Jill knew a bit about interviewing too.

'Mercy, as I mentioned on the phone, I want to speak with you about some of your clients.'

'Of course, of course, darling, but first we must have a coffee, a glass of wine? How is your sister?' she said over her shoulder as she walked towards a sideboard.

Mercy's tangle of curls was more unruly than usual and hid half her face as she fussed around an espresso machine in a corner of the room. She turned to face Jill with a coffee cup in one hand, a wine glass in the other, wearing a questioning smile.

'Coffee, thanks, Mercy. Black. No sugar. And Cassie's fine.'

Mercy dropped the smile when she turned back to the sideboard. She sloshed red wine into a huge glass, then attended to the espresso maker.

'I've no more clients today. Might as well,' Mercy chirped brightly as she took a deep sip of her wine. 'Sure I can't tempt you? Just a glass. I picked this up in the Hunter last year. It's a gorgeous pinot noir. You have to try-'

'Mercy, I don't want any wine. Thank you.'

'Of course. No problem. I know you're working. Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry, Mercy. I appreciate the offer.' Jill curbed her impatience. She knew that interviews, unlike interrogations perhaps, should always remain positive. A collaborative atmosphere was required when gathering information from someone. She smiled. 'I really appreciate your time. You look like you've got a lot to do.' She gestured around the room.

Mercy looked at her office as though seeing it for the first time. 'It is a mess, isn't it?' She giggled nervously.

'You should see
my
office!' Jill knew most people would be happy to eat straight off her desk, it was so clean, but she wanted to join with Mercy, reduce some of her defensiveness.

Mercy finished preparing Jill's coffee and brought it over to the low table. Jill noticed half of the wine Mercy had poured herself was already gone. Oh boy, she thought. Better get on with this.

'Mercy, I've got some news to tell you that could come as a bit of a shock,' she began, when Mercy had taken a seat. 'I'm in the middle of an investigation. Three men have been killed. Believe it or not, Mercy, each of these men was connected to patients you've treated in the past.'

'Are you serious? How extraordinary.'

'That's what I thought.'

'How can I help, Jill?'

'Well, I don't know. The thing is, in an investigation you look for patterns, anything that seems to link things together, and then you follow them wherever they take you. It's probably a little like your work, Mercy, searching for reasons why people have particular problems, looking for things that could have happened in their past.'

'Quite. Yes, I see what you mean.' Another deep sip left little wine in Mercy's glass.

'First I thought I'd tell you the names of the men who've been killed. Maybe you've heard your patients mention them.'

Mercy waited.

'Dennis Rocla, David Carter, George Manzi.'

Nothing.

'Mercy, have you heard those names before?'

'I don't believe so, no, Jill.'

'You're sure? Give it some time.'

Mercy finished her wine, set her glass down on the table. Too hard. The delicate stem of the glass snapped in two.

'Shit!' Mercy looked as though she might cry. She and Jill both stood.

Jill tried a small laugh to dispel the awkwardness. 'Flimsy bloody things. You know, my sister bought me six Riedel wine glasses. Supposed to cost a hundred dollars each or something. She got them duty-free. I've got two left! I'm going to have to go out and replace them before she comes over.'

Mercy took the broken glass to the sink. She seemed to draw herself together as she walked.

'Jill, I'm sorry you've had to come all this way. I don't think I can help you. I don't know these men.' She walked back towards the armchair, but rather than taking a seat, she fussed around with a potted plant, absently breaking off leaves, snapping them under her fingernails.

'I do not associate with men like that,' Mercy continued. 'I'm afraid there's nothing I can tell you.'

'Men like what?'

Mercy's face coloured; her eyes narrowed.

'Well, Jill,' she said, 'if these men are connected to patients of mine, I'm assuming that they had no positive influence in their lives. You know the people I work with are mostly victims of abuse.'

Jill let it slide, but she was puzzled. She'd come out here because she thought that Mercy could have an unwitting link to the killer, might unknowingly have some information she could pass on. But the psychologist was obviously very rattled; this was not the calm woman she'd consulted two years ago, and her last comments revealed she was hiding something. Or someone.

'Yep, well, you guessed correctly,' said Jill. 'Four of your patients have made complaints against these men. Let's see . . .' she consulted her notepad, although she knew the names by heart. 'Hailey Carter, Travis O'Hare, Giselle Forest and Carly Kaplan.'