Death by Beauty (10 page)

‘Okay,’ said Angie, switching on the ignition. ‘Let’s go. By the way, apparently that piece about the vampire attacks is in
today’s paper. There’s a copy on the back seat.’

With Angie heading towards the southern freeway, Gemma scanned the paper until she found the article that Angie had helped
produce. ‘Here it is,’ she announced, folding the paper back. ‘On page five.

‘Police are asking anyone who may have information regarding this type of attack to contact their local police station or
call this number,’ Gemma read out, then folded the newspaper and flung it back onto the seat. ‘Let’s hope it gets some response.’

‘I’ve got Rodney going through the company listings to try to get some information about Satellite Imports, which probably
doesn’t exist, and Access Media Promotions, which does exist but is simply an offshoot of a whole tangle of other companies.
Poor Rod’s pulling his hair out. I told him I’d write a good report on
him if he could find out who the principals are and what other holdings they might have.’

It took more than an hour and a half to get to the spa. It was a pleasant drive down the meandering coastal road and a steep
descent to the very edge of the continent, through a narrow strip of rainforest with stately tree ferns growing on the slope.

A large billboard on the main highway advertised: ‘Sapphire Springs Spa – Fountain of Youth Luxury Spa Resort Only Seven Kilometres
Away: Rest: Rejuvenate: ReCreate!’

Angie took the next right-hand turn as the sign indicated, and drove the seven kilometres through lush countryside. Several
homesteads dotted the gentle slopes spreading away from the narrow road.

The turn-off to Sapphire Springs was dominated by huge dark trees and another colourful billboard. Angie swung into the driveway
and drove past tall banana palms, over a narrow timber bridge that crossed a landscaped stream and up to the reception area.
To the right of the main entrance was a large lake with a small island in the middle. Kayaks lay idle along the shore and
two white swans glided in harmony across the surface.

The reception hall was built in the style of a Balinese garden pavilion, with retractable glass walls for the winter, supported
by tall carved columns. French-style wrought-iron chairs and tables were placed around a paved terrace. Lorikeets squabbled
over the pink and red blossoms of a tall tree that spread dark green leafy branches across the cathedral-style roof. On either
side of the portals, magnificent tropical orchids, green and gold, cream and red, hung in wide baskets high up near the glass
of the ceiling. Ferns and indoor palms bordered the entrance.

Gemma and Angie walked across the marble paved floor to the reception counter, behind which glass walls allowed wrap-around
views of the garden, overflowing with flowers and plants.

Paradise, Gemma thought.

Angie flashed her warrant card to the pert desk clerk. ‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ she said.

‘Certainly. May I ask what this is about?’

‘Just some routine questions concerning a missing person.’

‘I won’t be a moment. Please wait here.’

A few minutes later, high heels clicked on the marble and Gemma and Angie turned to see an elegant woman, thick chestnut hair
arranged in elaborate tresses over the shoulders of her tailored cream suit. A dazzling smile revealed perfect teeth but Gemma
noted the small lines of tension in her face.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ She smiled, extending her right hand. ‘Dr April Evans, director of Sapphire Springs Spa. Please
follow me.’

April Evans’ office was furnished in the whipped-cream style, thought Gemma. Everything from the long creamy marble desktop,
plumped-up armchairs and a divan crammed with cushions, was in a shade of ivory. A tall stalk of cream and red orchids stood
in a long glass cylinder on the desk, which was otherwise bare except for an elaborate pen and pencil set in cream and gold.

‘Please take a seat,’ said the director, waving them to the chairs while she perched on a tiny golden and cream chair behind
the desk.

Angie again flashed her warrant card briefly. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald and this is Gemma Lincoln, who’s
assisting me. I’m here to ask a few questions about a journalist, Janet Chancy, who I believe was here a few days ago.’

‘That’s right. Janet stayed with us for two nights. She was doing a piece on our wonderful Sapphire Springs Spa for her newspaper.
But she left on Monday. Did you say a missing-person inquiry?’ Dr Evans frowned.

‘Dr Evans, no one has seen her since that time. We know she made a phone call on Monday morning at 10.57 stating that she
was driving straight from here to a meeting in the eastern suburbs. But she never turned up to that meeting. She hasn’t been
to work. She hasn’t been home. As this was the last place she was known to be, we’re starting our line of inquiry from here.’

‘Let me make a call,’ said Dr Evans, picking up her mobile in its jewelled case and involving herself in a short conversation
before calling off. ‘I’ve just organised for us to meet the girl who was on reception on Monday. I’m sure she’ll be able to
help. Please come with me.’

As they followed her down a wide corridor, Gemma glanced through the open doors on either side, catching glimpses of luxurious
suites and more whipped-cream décor. At the end of the corridor a slim, brown-haired woman in a pale blue uniform waited for
them.

‘This is Lizzie,’ Dr Evans said, introducing them quickly and explaining the situation. ‘She’s more than just a receptionist.
She’s a housekeeper as well, and sometimes a shoulder to cry on. You were on the desk that day?’

‘That’s right, Dr Evans,’ Lizzie said. ‘Miss Chancy checked out around eleven o’clock on Monday morning. Why? Is there a problem?’

‘She was alone?’ asked Angie.

‘Yes. She made a phone call in the foyer, then came and finalised the paperwork – we’d given her a complimentary stay because
she was doing a piece on the spa and how successful it’s been – she signed off, and then she went outside and a few moments
later I saw her car driving away from the parking area behind the lake.’

‘Did she stay in one of the suites here?’ Gemma asked, glancing down the corridor.

Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, she stayed in a lakeside cabin. Number five. I helped her settle in.’

‘I’d like to see that cabin,’ said Angie.

The woman looked towards the director, who nodded. ‘Lizzie, take them and show them number five.’

‘No problem,’ said Lizzie.

A few minutes later, Angie and Gemma stood behind Lizzie as she unlocked the cabin, one of five dotted around the lawns, then
followed her in. A mosquito whined around Gemma’s ear and she tried to smack it.

‘Sorry about the mozzies. They can be bad near the lake at times,’ said Lizzie, standing back to allow Angie to look around,
‘especially if guests leave the screen doors open.’ A wide picture window looked on to the lake and beside it were two armchairs
in the same style as the director’s office. The cabin had a tiny bathroom and a small kitchenette discreetly hidden behind
frosted glass doors. A king-size bed covered in cream brocade, between two bedside tables holding lamps that reminded Gemma
of ice-cream confections in cones, took up a lot of the living space.

‘Pretty lamps,’ said Gemma.

‘Very nice,’ said Angie. ‘Janet Chancy was here Saturday and Sunday night?’

‘That’s right. Then she left late on Monday morning.’

‘Who normally stays in the cabins?’ asked Angie.

‘Some of our clients – those who aren’t having the DiNAH therapy – like to stay on here until the swelling and bruising’s
gone down. Once they’re past the intensive-care stage they don’t need so much medical care. They can relax a little more and
enjoy their recovery.’

Angie took a last sweeping look around the cabin. ‘I think we’re done here,’ she said, handing over her business card. ‘Thanks,
Lizzie. If you hear anything from Ms Chancy, please contact me on that number.’

As they stepped outside, Gemma noticed another building set right back from the lake. ‘What’s that over there?’ she asked.

‘That’s the medical records centre,’ Lizzie explained. ‘And behind that is the medical supercentre – at least, that’s what
we call it. It’s the area where they do the DiNAH procedures. Maintaining sterile conditions is of the utmost importance.
The theatres over there are used for the most delicate procedures.’

‘Can you show us?’ asked Gemma. ‘Janet Chancy was very interested in the research going on there. She was writing a piece
about the breakthrough therapy research that was done here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lizzie, looking rueful, ‘but the medical supercentre and the laboratories are completely off-limits. There
are really strict protocols in place to protect the sterile area. And apart from that, it’s also top secret.’

‘Because of the DiNAH project?’ asked Angie.

‘I believe so. Even staff members are forbidden entry. Only Dr Evans and some of the medical team are permitted over there.’

As they headed back to reception, Gemma noticed Dr Evans waiting for them in the foyer.

Just as she was about to step down to join them, a woman loomed behind her. Shocked, Gemma thought the woman was wearing a
mask, until she realised that she was terribly disfigured. Her face seemed to have melted, hanging in sagging pouches, her
mouth hung open, her features crooked, as if some careless child had made them in plasticine and stuck them onto her face.
April Evans turned quickly and Gemma was surprised to see that the elegant doctor’s face was dark with fury.

‘Mrs van Leyden,’ she said in a controlled voice, ‘how did you—? You must go back to your room. Lizzie? Please help Mrs van
Leyden.’

The woman attempted to speak but her disfigurement made this impossible and Gemma’s heart wrenched to witness it.

‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Evans said, as if able to translate the woman’s moans, ‘I’ve already told you. Your operation is definitely
down for tomorrow night. We’ve put you ahead of everyone else on the schedule. Now, you must not become agitated. It will
not help your condition. Please return to your room and I’ll come by and give you a little something to relax you. Tomorrow,
you’ll be on your way to being a new woman.’

Lizzie helped the tottering woman, who was still trying to talk, steering her back along the corridor. Was she trying to break
away from Lizzie’s grip? Gemma wondered. And why was Dr Evans so angry?

‘Too many people,’ Dr Evans said quickly, adjusting a comb in her hair, and smoothing her expression back to its usual composure,
‘especially women, are judgemental about cosmetic surgery. They assume that the women who come here – and some men too – are
simply vain. But that’s not really the case. Some of them are in despair. Especially women who have nothing else
in their lives except their physical beauty. Someone like Mrs van Leyden, for instance, is surely entitled to a more presentable
face.’

Dr Evans took Gemma and Angie into her office again, where she opened a large folder. ‘Take a look at these. Her husband threw
acid over this woman’s face when he discovered she’d been unfaithful to him.’ In the ruined face, Gemma could just discern
the features of Raimon Fayed’s ex-wife.

She flinched at the first of the photographs. Far, far worse than Mrs van Leyden’s disfigurement, this face had virtually
disappeared. One staring eyeball glared out from a destroyed eyelid. Two flat holes in a mass of burned tissue formed the
nose. Because the lips had largely gone, upper and lower teeth grinned out like a death’s-head.

‘There doesn’t seem punishment enough for doing that to another human being,’ said Gemma, thinking of Raimon Fayed walking
free.

‘We were able to do some grafting from undamaged skin and create some improvement for both of these unfortunate women … and
this one,’ Dr Evans continued. ‘Her boyfriend doused her in petrol and set her alight – here are the before and after shots.’

The ‘after’ photographs showed mask-like faces: swollen eyelids, lips that didn’t seem to belong to their owner’s face and
restructured noses that stuck stiffly out from flattened cheeks. There was some improvement on the horrors of the first photographs.

‘These reconstructions were done before the DiNAH therapy was available. Now in the case of people who can afford DiNAH, we
no longer have to carry out multiple operations over time. The first operation delivers the desired effect. But of course,
it’s very, very costly. A team of surgeons is involved, and many hours
of the most delicate microsurgery and then the DiNAH therapy with the transforming growth factors is also extremely expensive.’

‘Do you have photographs showing the effects of DiNAH on those clients?’ Angie asked.

‘Yes, here you are.’ Dr Evans picked up two framed photographs from her bookshelves. She handed the first one to Gemma: it
showed Dr Evans standing with her arm around a woman’s waist. ‘That’s Maxine Wentworth,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous?
If she said she was thirty-five nobody would disbelieve her; in fact, Mrs Wentworth is more than twice that age. She was one
of our earliest successes from three years ago. She elected to be a kind of guinea pig for the new treatment.’

Gemma blinked and looked again. Maxine Wentworth did appear to be a svelte, beautiful woman in her middle thirties. ‘It’s
almost impossible to believe in such a transformation,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘It’s truly extraordinary.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dr Evans graciously, as if she had personally carried out the astonishing renovation. ‘And here’s another
one of our marvellous success stories,’ she said, passing Gemma the second photograph. ‘As you can see, Mrs Simmonds looks
thirty years younger thanks to DiNAH. Our best advertising is the living proof. Magda Simmonds is yet another testimonial
to the exciting results DiNAH therapy yields.’

‘Yes,’ said Gemma. ‘She certainly looks wonderful in this photo. I saw some pictures of her taken at various events lately
on the net too. I presume you’ve heard the news of her suicide?’