Spiking the Girl (38 page)

‘If anyone was going to come in here,’ she said, ‘they’d either have to come up the cliff from the sea or come through the roof.’

‘But the sound didn’t come from outside.’

Hugo raised his eyes to the ceiling and that’s when she got it. There wasn’t a van anywhere down the street. There was no need for a van.

‘It came from up there,’ Hugo continued.

‘Oh Jesus,’ she whispered. Upstairs was a new tenant whom she’d never laid eyes on. Someone whose flickering late-night TV she’d seen on several occasions lately through the shroud-like curtains. She jumped in fear when her mobile rang but snatched it up.

‘It’s me,’ said Mike. ‘Got your message. I’m on my way.’

‘Mike—’ she started, but he’d called off. She put the mobile down and that was when the fear really kicked in. What if Mike
is
part of it, a voice in her mind questioned? It wasn’t the first time she’d been betrayed by an employee. What if his arrival was the signal? Open the door to Mike and in rushes Death, disguised as a trusted colleague.

‘Is he coming now?’ Hugo asked.

She picked up the phone again, to tell him to stand by, when it rang again.

‘Boss? You’re awake?’

‘Spinner! I am so glad to hear your voice.’

‘What are you transmitting at the moment? What have you got running?’

‘You’ve found it too!’

‘I got bored sitting off that house in Bronte. I decided to do a sweep of the area—see what’s going on. After I’d sorted through the usual stuff, there was this other signal that intrigued me. When I pinpointed it, it was at your place. What is it?’

‘There’s a spycam in my living room.’

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’ll drive around and take a look. They’ve got to be somewhere nearby.’

‘No, Spinner. Not nearby. They’re here. They’re in the flat upstairs!’

‘Stand by. I’m on my way.’

The cavalry is on its way, she thought. But now her mind was spinning out, betraying her in every direction. What if Spinner had been lying to her? Taking on that new Mandate client just so he could be in the area and keep her under constant surveillance? But why? It didn’t make sense. Unless he was in league with someone else. Someone who wanted her dead. This was awful. Suspecting everyone; realising that underneath it all she trusted no one.

‘Hugo,’ she said. ‘This reminds me of last year.’

‘That night we were down on the beach,’ he said. ‘And that man was trying to get us.’ In the torchlight, his face filled with fear. ‘You don’t think he’s come back, do you? He could climb up from the sea.’

Until he said that, she hadn’t even considered the possible return of last year’s cyberstalker. Now, suddenly, every hateful hostility was possible. Coming from all directions. Even familiar faces being pulled away, revealing themselves as masks covering something evil. Last she’d seen of him had been at sea. It wasn’t possible he should return.

‘No one can get in here,’ Hugo reminded her. ‘You told me that. We’re safe in here.’

Despite the two colleagues heading her way, Gemma felt trapped. Just waiting. What if he was getting down through the ceiling as they sat here? She heard a car pulling in on the road above. Mike?

‘Just don’t let anyone in,’ said Hugo. ‘Ring Angie!’

‘She’s gone away!’

She ran to the bedroom and checked on the Glock under the second pillow on her bed. She came out to rejoin Hugo. Help was on the way. All she had to do was let Mike and Spinner come in and deal with whoever was upstairs. Maybe, said the treacherous voice in Gemma’s mind, maybe that’s just what they want. To make her believe that she’s safe if she stays put. Then what? An earthmover through the plate glass of the sliding doors to the deck? Don’t be so stupid, she scolded herself. She wasn’t living in a Hollywood blockbuster.

She went to the curtains and hesitated. She had a strong desire to pull them back, to confront her absurd fear of the earthmover crashing through, show herself how completely stupid she was being, see for herself how nothing moved out there except the stringy bushes at the edge of the cliff. And yet, some atavistic fear immobilised her. She stood irresolute a few seconds, then grabbed the curtains, spreading them wide.

The world exploded. Hugo’s scream and the crash of glass breaking. A shower of knives and her own shriek of shock and terror as the looming figure hurtled through the shattering plate glass. Gemma jumped away from him, but stumbled against the edge of the dining table and went down, banging the back of her head sharply on the corner. Before she could regain her feet, he was on top of her, pressing down hard over her lower face and upper body so that she could hardly breathe. His breath stank in her nostrils. Terror charged her body. She kicked out, stifled screams forced backwards into her own throat by the painful blocking of her mouth. The screams rang inside the turmoil of her own head. He’d pinned her right arm awkwardly, painfully, beneath her own body; her left arm tried to engage with him. She flailed, intent on trying to breathe. From somewhere, Hugo’s yelling reminded her she needed to live. Desperately, she tried to see who her assailant was, but just as he’d been too close up against the glass for her to see him on the deck, he was now far too close to her face. Memories flooded as the pressure built in her skull. It was the smell that did it. Peppermint and body odour. The big Polynesian from Deliverance. The stench of body odour and her own terror triggered another memory—the scent of Dior’s Poison. She knew now who it was who wanted her dead.
You’re dead, bitch!
she’d screamed at Gemma last year.

Gemma went limp at the realisation. Lorraine Litchfield. And the grip on her throat loosened sufficiently for her to get a lungful of air. ‘Hugo!’ she screamed. ‘Help me!’ The hands closed hard around her neck again. A terrible pressure was bearing down on her throat, her chest. Her ears were filled with explosive humming, then there was a crashing sound and tearing pain. She felt as if her head was being pushed into the floorboards, crushed into the darkness under the floor. Then suddenly, the pressure was gone and pain flooded in after the numbness of shock.

In the corner, either dead or unconscious, lay the huge Polynesian who’d stood in her way at Deliverance and signed for the bodgy courier delivery. With huge, raking gulps, Gemma got some air into her lungs, the oxygen feeling as if it had to be dragged over knives to get down there.

‘It’s okay, we’ll lift you,’ said Mike. ‘Just relax.’

With Spinner on the other arm, they gently supported her, lifting her over towards the couch. She tried to help by walking, but when she went to stand her legs were jelly. She was aware that someone had turned the lights back on but she could only see as if through a narrow tube, still blind with shock.

‘Sit here,’ said Spinner, guiding her back onto the cushions.

‘Just take it easy,’ said Mike. ‘Get your breath. Don’t try and talk.’

‘Hugo?’ she gasped.

‘He’s here.’

She raised her head and looked up at them. She wanted to say thank you but words were impossible. Hugo went over to the decanters and turned up four glasses, then he emptied the brandy bottle with four generous serves. She wanted to say, ‘You mustn’t drink that’, but it seemed a silly thing to even think, let alone say. She sat there, trembling, holding onto a very large brandy, her three friends around her.

Before the ambulance took the Polynesian away, Mike pulled on a pair of gloves and checked him for ID. All he
found was a set of keys, a substantial wad of cash and a mobile phone number on a piece of paper.

Gemma, Mike and Spinner went upstairs to the vacant flat with the keys. None of them fitted.

‘How’s he been getting in and out then?’ Gemma asked, puzzled.

‘Who wants to do the lock thing?’ Spinner asked, squinting at it. ‘It’s one of those old-fashioned ones.’

‘There’s an easier way,’ said Mike, and he shouldered then kicked the door, breaking it down.

Inside, they found the monitor with its view of Gemma’s living room, now very still and showing only Hugo, overdosed with brandy, sleeping with Taxi on the lounge. The interim lease agreement, with its credit card payment, lay with other bits of paper, including a small spiral notebook. Gemma tried to decipher the signature on the credit card receipt but had no luck.

‘I’ll take bets,’ said Mike, ‘that the paper trail will lead straight back to Lorraine Litchfield. Not to mention what that big hulk might have to tell us. Conspiracy to murder is a nasty charge.’

Gemma poked at the notebook, flipping through its pages with a pen. She found a page with a list of starters at Rosehill and the instruction,
Ring beautician
. ‘She wrote that note,’ she said. ‘On the page before this one.’ She remembered the beautiful young woman, full of hateful jealousy. ‘She couldn’t forgive me because Steve chose me.’ For a while, at least, she thought sadly. ‘But why would she send me a warning? If you’re going to murder someone, why alert them? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I’ll ring your sister,’ said Spinner. ‘You need her to come over. Look after you a bit.’

Gemma nodded. ‘In a minute,’ she said.

Spinner, after being reassured there was nothing more he could do, said goodnight.

‘I’ll stay, Gemma,’ said Mike. ‘Hugo and I can sort out the sleeping arrangements.’

‘But something’s not right,’ she said. ‘Why did he wait until tonight to do it?’ Her voice was a rasping whisper, still too painful to push too much energy through her voice box. ‘He’s been up here for days. He could have crashed through any time. Why tonight? And why doesn’t he have a key to the place?’ She started looking around the flat. ‘Lorraine came here one night. I could smell her perfume from downstairs.’

Gemma picked up one of the glasses in the sink. The lipstick ring was obvious. With the tip of her pen, she lifted the lid of the kitchen tidy and poked through the rubbish. Then she went into the bedroom. A Hawaiian shirt lay on one bed. Gemma had a flash of memory—the man in the white Ford who’d followed her at the car park. A colourful blur with dark hair, she recalled. Not the bleached hair or massive bulk of the Polynesian. She thought of the man who’d abducted her last year, forcing her to go to Lorraine Litchfield’s place where Steve had rejected her at gunpoint and Lorraine had lowered the Colt, smiling at Gemma’s humiliations.

‘I don’t think the Polynesian has been living up here,’ she said.

‘Then who the hell has?’ Mike asked.

•

Later, Mike sorted through the shards with gloved hands and picked up a large section. He examined it closely. ‘He used a glass cutter,’ he said, ‘and then just tapped it in. The whole plate fell inside. You’re lucky you didn’t sever something important.’

‘I’ve never been so scared in my life,’ Gemma whispered. ‘I pulled open the curtains and he seemed to fly through the glass.’

Mike reached for her then and took her in his arms. ‘Gemma,’ he whispered. ‘Gemma.’

She stayed there for a few seconds, but pulled away from him.

His arms fell to his sides. ‘I’ve wanted to do that,’ he said, ‘from the first moment I saw you.’

‘It’s not the right time,’ she said, turning away, surprised to find that in this moment her heart ached for Steve.

Mike peered more closely at her. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet!’

Gemma bolted then, and just made it to the bathroom and the toilet, hurling out the fear and terror of the night, the lack of food and too much brandy. When she’d finished, she washed her face and cleaned her teeth, smoothing her hair back. She looked at herself in the mirror. Dark purple-red marks marred the skin of her throat and the sides of her neck and there was a grazing bruise starting to swell and shine over her eyebrow. She hadn’t even felt that one. The back of her head was tender where she’d gone down against the corner of the dining table.

She made her way back to the living room where Mike had finished clearing the glass away. ‘I’ll keep it for the cops,’ he said. ‘They might get prints off it.’ He straightened up and put a parcel of glass on the table. ‘Feel better now?’

She shook her head and sank into the lounge. Hugo, as shocked children sometimes do, still lay heavily asleep next to tightly curled-up Taxi cat.

‘After an assault like that,’ Mike said ‘you should get yourself checked out. Especially—’ He broke off.

She put a hand to her bruised throat. ‘I’ll survive.’ Her voice was a croak. ‘Especially what?’

Mike seemed about to answer her, but changed his mind. She asked him to bring her a couple of painkillers from the bathroom cabinet because her head was starting to ache. He put the kettle on and made a cup of tea for the two of them.

Gemma went to bed with Mike still hovering around. Finally, he made a bed on the floor using cushions from the lounge, pillows and a cotton throw.

Gemma lay awake for a while before the drugs kicked in, listening to the sound of the sea coming straight through where the sliding door used to be. It was nice having Mike out there, she thought, recalling the feel of his arms around her. And Hugo, sprawled on the lounge with Taxi cat. Her little family, she thought, and then slept.

She woke with the sun high in the sky and wondered for a split second why she felt so terrible. It wasn’t just the ache in her head and throat and the dryness caused by the opiate. Her whole body was nauseated. She lay still for a few moments, reviewing the events of last night. Resentment and hatred, Gemma saw, had almost caused her death. She couldn’t help realising that her own lack of forgiveness for Steve had destroyed their relationship. She and the widow Litchfield had something in common.

This understanding, unpleasant though it was, energised her and she jumped out of bed, throwing her dressing gown around her and hurrying to her office. Mike had risen and was already in the operatives’ office and she greeted him as she passed. Sitting at her desk, she pulled out a piece of paper then sat for a few moments in thought. She picked up her pen.

Dear Steve
, she wrote,
I’m so sorry that I destroyed our relationship —our friendship—with my inability to forgive you. I miss you so much. One day, I hope you can forgive me too. I will never stop loving you. Gemma.

Quickly, so she wouldn’t change her mind, and with tears in her eyes, she sealed, stamped and addressed it, slipping it into her briefcase to post later in the day.

She made tea and toast and Mike came down and ate with her out on the timber deck, Gemma wincing as she swallowed.

Later in the morning, and wearing the scarf Spinner had given her to disguise the bruising, Gemma greeted Hugo’s mother, pretending bad laryngitis—which, in a way, was true. Gemma watched the lanky kid and his mother disappearing up the steps to the road and felt a pang in her heart. She slowly tidied up, finding bits of Hugo that she put in a box. He’d left a card and a ten-dollar bill under the kitty jar in the kitchen and she realised she’d actually miss him.

Finally, she went back to her office. This was her work and her life. To mount investigations against the cheats. To bring a little justice to an unjust world.

There was a voice mail message for her from Angie that she must have slept through. ‘I had to let you know—the forensic dentist got a perfect fit from Tasmin Summers’s teeth and the bite mark on Scott Brissett’s penis. The guys told me that when he was shown your snapshots, he stopped fighting. And,’ she added, ‘all the knots he’d tied—apart from the correct nautical lashings—were thief knots.’

Gemma was about to hang up, but the message wasn’t quite finished. ‘Julie said to tell you that the big thug who tried to kill you is Kenny Rataroa. He’s telling everything he knows about Lorraine Litchfield. He was carrying her mobile number. She’d sent one of her other thugs, Murray Boyle, to do the job but, according to Kenny the Rat, Murray had become reluctant to do the job. Watching you day and night like that, he’d got to like you.’

Murray Boyle—Lorraine’s henchman who’d forced her to the floor of a car last year and called her ‘girlie’. Murray of the Hawaiian shirt whose heart hadn’t been black enough for murder. Who’d even tried to warn her with his pencilled note.

‘Kenny told us Murray got even more reluctant when Hugo kept coming and going. He’d started bonding with the two of you. Some sort of reverse Stockholm Syndrome. Told Kenny he couldn’t do it, but he was too scared of Lorraine. He knew what she was like. Anyway, the Litchfield woman had to call on Kenny Rataroa. The only thing he’s ever bonded to is cash. You did well, Gemster. I’ll see you before Christmas. Message ends.’ Gemma smiled, despite the pain in her throat.

She checked her emails and her heart sank when she saw how many there were. She deleted one after the other, barely glancing at the summaries before hitting the delete button. But she stopped, shocked, as one name registered. Grace Kingston.

Gemma felt faint with excitement. Grace. Her sister had found the ICQ message! With shaking fingers, she undeleted and the message opened up.

Dear Gemma, I’ll be coming to Sydney next week and will ring you to set up a meeting. I’m looking forward to meeting a member of my father’s family. Is that you? Sincerely, Grace Kingston.

Gemma stood up, dazed. She walked around her office not seeing anything for a moment, vaguely aware of Mike sitting at the desk in the office opposite. Then she picked up her phone and rang Kit.

‘Why can’t you talk properly?’ Kit asked.

‘Lost my voice,’ Gemma lied. She’d tell Kit about what happened later, when she could face it all. Instead, she told her about the email from Grace. There was a long silence.

‘Are you going to reply?’

‘Yes,’ Gemma croaked. ‘Yes. I am.’

She went to the hall table and opened the drawer. The photograph of her father smiled up at her. Would Grace want to know what her father looked like? If she did, Gemma would give her the photograph. But she’d have to tell Grace everything about their father and mother, what had happened. She closed the drawer over her father—their father’s—cocky smile.

She went back to her office, aware of Mike across the hall. She would have to make a decision about him, she realised. Either take him up on it or let him go. She felt the beginnings of excitement. A new phase. A new sister. The possibility of a new man.

Yet the nausea, forgotten in the excitement of their sister’s email, reasserted itself. She’d been about to sit down at her desk again, but instead she headed back out the door.

Mike was standing in the doorway of the other office, a file in his hand. ‘I need to ask you something about this,’ he said. Then he looked closer. ‘Are you all right?’

‘The half-sister I didn’t even know we had has just emailed me. And I think I’m going to be sick. Again.’

He followed her careening run down the hall. Gemma just made it to the bathroom. There wasn’t much to come up, just the toast and tea. Afterwards, she washed her mouth and face and cleaned her teeth again, and came out, the hair round her face dripping.

Mike stood in the the entrance to her private world. ‘Haven’t you worked it out yet, Gemma?’ he asked.

•

An hour later, after posting the letter to Steve and a visit to the pharmacy, Gemma was back in the bathroom, staring at the kit. She dipped the lower end of it in urine, as instructed. According to the directions and diagrams on the side of the box, a small dark oval would appear in the centre of the sensitised strip if the test were positive. If she wasn’t pregnant, no oval shape would appear and the sensitised strip would simply remain as it was—a long, straight pink band. She stared. The pink band remained blank.

Her mobile rang and she hurried up to the office to answer it. It was the glazier. He was running late, he said, and apologised, but he’d definitely be there within the hour to replace the glass in the sliding doors. She still had the strip in her hand and Mike turned round at his desk, an enquiring expression on his face.

Gemma shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. It was just the nausea of overload. Too much going on, poor sleep, a lethal attack, a new sister. Stress and more stress. She headed back towards the bathroom to throw the test strip away and wash her hands.

But she didn’t make it. Something out at sea caught her attention and, still clutching the blank test strip, she stepped onto the deck into the bright sunshine. There was a churning on the surface of the ocean quite close to her and a flock of gulls wheeled in a synchronised swirl. Must be a huge shoal of fish, she thought. As she watched in wonder, the sea broke open and shiny black shapes curved out of the waves like a child’s delighted scribble, over and over, stitching themselves through the water. There must have been more than a hundred dolphins. Almost as suddenly they vanished, pulled under by some secret dolphin command, and the sea closed over them, resuming its dark blue chop.

Gemma looked down at the strip in her hand. Her eyes widened and her lips formed the same oval shape as the positive reaction now clearly visible on the sensitised pink band.

‘Oh!’ said Gemma. ‘Oh!’