Death by Beauty (13 page)

‘Maybe I do.’

She climbed to her feet and hurried over to Rafi who was about to eat a piece of Norfolk pine, tempting him away from it with
a banana.

An hour later, she reluctantly packed up, while Mike carried Rafi over to get a closer look at the breakers. Gemma watched
them lovingly. My two men, she thought, smiling.

After she had settled Rafi down for the night, Gemma went into her office, turned on her laptop and typed in: ‘Rachel Starr
– assault at Bondi Beach – pushed and punctured. Eight days later, dead.’ Then she typed: ‘Marie-Louise Palier – pushed and
punctured getting onto train at Town Hall. Seven days later, dead.’ Then: ‘Mischa Bloomfield – assaulted …’ And finally: ‘Annabel
Carr – drugged and punctured in January. Nine months later, fine.’

The list was frightening.

She then flicked over to her emails. Among the messages was one that turned her mind on to full alert.

‘Hi there, Gerri! You sure sound like an interesting woman. And you look good too! Let’s set up something uncomplicated first?
Like a coffee, where we can talk about art and life and the whole damn thing. Can I suggest Indigo Ice cafe at the Cross?
Let me know what time and day would suit you. I really look forward to connecting with you. Yours, Angelo.’

‘Perfect!’ Gemma emailed back. ‘How about 3 pm tomorrow? Looking forward to meeting you. Gerri.’

Angelo’s response came within the hour. ‘Till 3 pm tomorrow.’

The next afternoon, Gemma drove to Kings Cross, parking in Bayswater Road and walking past the fountain in Macleay Street
to Indigo Ice. She was fifteen minutes early, and she scanned the features of the people sitting at the outside tables to
see if she could spot him. She did. Dressed in a dark suit he was standing talking to a young man not far from the entry to
the cafe. Immediately, she discreetly aimed her mobile at them and took some shots. He was very tall and strongly built; next
to him the young man, also in a dark suit, seemed slight and fragile. She was surprised to see Angelo lean over and kiss him,
resting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, and she raised her phone slightly to get a good angle on them before the young
man hurried away. Angelo turned, as if he’d sensed her presence behind him. When he saw her, his face registered surprise
and, she hoped, pleasure. She’d taken great care to dress well, in a red satin shirt and dark skirt, cream coat and lipstick
to match her shirt. She had borrowed the pearl-and-diamond earrings that had belonged
to their mother from Kit and on her right hand she wore the large diamond that had been their mother’s engagement ring. She
waved at him, smiling as she hurried over.

‘Gerri!’ he called, his hand outstretched to greet her.

Gemma shook it. ‘You’re taller than I imagined,’ she said, laughing.

‘All the better to—’ he started, his speech lightly accented, laughing along with her. ‘I’m not too sure how to finish that.
Let’s take a seat and order something, shall we? My son wanted to have coffee with me,’ he said, ‘but I told him I had a better
offer!’

So that’s who the young man is, Gemma thought. A son from one of Tolmacheff’s earlier, lied-about marriages.

Tolmacheff leaned back in his chair and signalled the waitress, who came over and took their orders. Gemma studied his face
carefully. The photograph he’d used on the singles’ website must have been taken quite a few years ago, she decided. Since
then, his face had become heavier, the shadows around his eyes more darkly stained, the sides of his mouth, when not smiling,
turned down more bitterly.

‘Now tell me a little about yourself,’ he said, leaning in across the table, his dark eyes appraising her.

‘I’m thirty-eight,’ she started, remembering the script she’d written for herself. ‘I’m interested in art and music. I used
to sculpt when I had a studio. I enjoy reading. I really understand what it’s like to be a frustrated artist.’ She flashed
her sweetest smile at him. ‘You
must
write your novel, you know.’

‘Oh, I will,’ he replied, moving conspiratorially closer to her, ‘with the right woman as my muse. But please, go on.’

Gemma lowered her voice, as if embarrassed by what she was about to say. ‘I’m in the fortunate situation of not having to
work,
and I like to fill my days with things I think are worthwhile. I volunteer for some charities; one of my sisters has recently
had a baby and I enjoy spending time with him.’ She hoped Rafi would forgive the lie.

She paused as their coffees arrived, stirring in some sugar before continuing. ‘Last year I came out of a long-term relationship—’
she couldn’t help but think of Steve, ‘—and now I’m ready to meet people – men,’ she added, ‘who might be thinking in terms
of a long relationship. I feel very lonely a lot of the time. I feel I have so much to give and share. And you?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, ignoring his coffee and nodding slightly in her direction, as if in approval.

‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘Like I said on my profile, I’m a businessman – involved in several areas of property and consulting.
I broke up with my last girlfriend – irreconcilable differences – and I’m mainly looking for a stable, loving relationship
and someone to cherish. Someone I can totally trust. I have a good feeling about you already. I believe you are that kind
of woman, Gerri, aren’t you?’ On the last few words he leaned forward, gazing into her eyes.

Gemma felt all her instincts and hackles rising at this pressure, but she managed a weak smile in return. She returned his
gaze and noticed for the first time that there was some kind of barrier showing in his eyes, like a firewall coming up in
front of her. She couldn’t get through. Gemma picked up her cup and took a sip. ‘That seems very positive,’ she said, trying
to sound naïve and friendly at the same time. ‘Tell me a little about your life.’

He recounted his birth in an area near the Black Sea, his migration to Australia as a young man, the places he’d lived,
work he’d done, his marriage, the birth of his son, of how he’d come home one day to find his wife in bed with his best friend.

‘Did you marry again?’ asked Gemma innocently.

‘That broke my heart,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘For years I couldn’t even think of another woman. It’s only now that I
have really started to come out of my shell a little.’

Gemma waited but there was no mention of a second marriage. He’d lied to Delphine and now he was lying to her.

They chatted for a little while longer until Gemma felt she had gained his attention. ‘I have to go now, Angelo,’ she said.
‘I have another engagement. I enjoyed meeting you very much. If you like, we could do it again.’

He stood up with her. ‘If I like,’ he repeated her words ironically, smiling broadly, revealing a gold tooth. ‘Of course I
like. Very much. In fact, I’d like to ask you out for dinner. What do you say?’

‘That would be nice,’ she said meekly.

‘May I have your phone number?’

She almost passed him her business card but recovered in time, and instead pulled out a pen and scribbled her mobile number
on one of the drink coasters on the table. ‘There you are,’ she said, passing it to him. ‘Mornings are the best time to catch
me.’ She left a five-dollar note on the table; she didn’t want to owe this man a cent. ‘It was nice to meet you, Angelo,’
she said.

Back in her car, she closed her eyes, remembering the narrow escape she’d had from passing him her business card.

She pulled out her mobile and called Delphine. ‘I’ve made contact with your husband,’ she said, deliberately vague. The way
Delphine was, she might say something to him, accuse him or
scream at him about his behaviour. She could destroy Gemma’s carefully contrived cover story.

‘Be careful of him,’ said Delphine. ‘He’s capable of anything. Especially if he gets suspicious.’

‘I will be,’ Gemma replied, knowing all too well that she was putting herself into a dangerous situation.

‘Gemma, I’ve done everything you’ve suggested. I’ve moved to another hotel and I’ve contacted someone from the list you gave
me who might be suitable as a bodyguard.’

‘That’s good to hear. I’ll phone again to keep you up to date with any developments, Delphine.’

Gemma rang off, and checked her watch. She was tempted to follow Tolmacheff, to see where he went and if he met up with anyone,
but she had to collect Rafi from daycare. A couple of years ago, she could have called Spinner and asked him to keep an eye
on the darkly handsome foreigner. No harm in trying, she thought.

She called him up on the two-way.

No response.

She was driving down Bayswater Road when the radio suddenly crackled into life.

‘Tracker Three here, boss. Are you there? Copy.’

‘Spinner! How are you? It’s great to hear from you. Over.’

‘Glad you called, boss. I was talking to your old friend Shelley’s girl, Naomi, about another matter I’m working on for the
insurance company. Naomi’s very helpful and sometimes we even have a chat about her immortal soul and the possibility of her
finding another way to earn a living. She said to let you know
she’s contacted a girl you wanted to see. Can’t remember her name – some kind of cheese. Cheddar? Extra Tasty? Over.’

‘That would be Brie, Spinner. Over.’

‘That’s right. It was Brie. Naomi said this girl is willing to talk to you. There’s a shooting gallery round the back of Al’s
Chicken and Felafal Takeaway. Brie hangs out there a lot of the time.’

‘I know it,’ said Gemma, recalling a job she’d done at that place, trying to convince a runaway schoolgirl not to throw her
life away. ‘I’ll check it out,’ she said, looking at her watch and making a quick calculation. ‘In fact, I can go there now.’

She turned around and drove back up to the Cross and found a parking spot not far from the chicken shop. She called Mike,
who agreed to pick up Rafi from daycare. Locking the car, Gemma hurried towards the corner of the lane, noticing the metal
door of the shooting gallery at the back of a tired-looking building. She banged on it but nothing happened. She banged again.
This time the door was yanked open by a huge Polynesian man whose bleached hair contrasted sharply with his heavy black eyebrows
and piercing dark eyes. ‘What do you want?’ he barked, the face changing into a terrifying scowl. ‘You a cop?’

‘No. I’m looking for someone who hangs around here. A girl by the name of Brie.’

‘She’s not here. I haven’t seen her for weeks.’

Gemma took out a business card. ‘Can you give her this if you see her? And ask her to call me?’

He looked at the card and then at Gemma.

‘Haven’t seen her,’ he said, leaving the card in her hand.

He stepped back inside and closed the door.

Pocketing the card, she walked back towards her car, but hearing the door open again she turned and saw a familiar figure
step outside – the skinny girl in the black halter top and boots she had spoken to a few nights ago at the old Ferrari showroom
corner. Gemma waved and called out, hurrying back. The girl was wearing tight black jeans, and her short-cropped hair looked
stringy and in need of a wash.

‘Sorry I didn’t get your name the other night,’ Gemma said as she approached her. The girl stared blankly, then her expression
changed as she recognised Gemma. ‘You’re the woman. I was telling Brie about you. I gave her your card. Has she called you
yet?’

‘You’ve seen Brie? Where is she? Where can I find her?’

‘She’s really scared. She’s too scared to work the streets. She’s sharing a place with another girl, working open door.’

‘What’s frightened her?’

‘Some ugly mug. Same one who attacked her before. He tried to do it again last week but she recognised him before he could
get her, and she got away. Now she’s a mess.’

‘Listen. It’s really important that I speak with her. Where does her friend live?’

‘Down the bottom of Stanley Street somewhere. A dark blue terrace. Could be number seven. Maybe thirty-seven. Or seventy.
Not real sure.’

Gemma hurried back to the car and took off, heading back towards Stanley Street. She found parking near an old Lutheran church
and set off on foot, checking out the buildings, looking for a blue terrace house that had seven in its address.

After a few false starts and doors slammed in her face, she found 127, a slate grey terrace house with blue trimmings.
The door stood open and Gemma walked in. Open door, she remembered.

‘Hello?’ she called out, from halfway down the hall.

‘Yes?’ someone called from upstairs. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for Brie. I heard she was assaulted recently and I want to talk to her about it.’

Gemma came into the living room at the end of the hallway. It was small and neatly furnished with comfortable couches and
in the corner, an Irish harp. Moments later, a young woman, dark hair pinned up, pale pink satin robe clutched around her
body, came clattering down the wooden staircase.

‘Brie’s not here. Who are you?’ she asked, pulling the dressing gown tighter around her.

‘I’m a private investigator,’ said Gemma, passing out yet another one of her business cards. ‘I’m looking into a series of
crimes involving assaults on women. I heard that Brie was attacked twice, by the same man. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Maybe. Have a seat,’ said the woman, taking the card and sinking onto one of the couches. ‘Business is really slow today
so I have time to talk.’

Gemma perched on a small armchair, taking in the woman’s tired, pretty face, the tendrils of hair curling around her temples,
the dark eyeliner and pale pink lipstick as she picked up a pack of cigarettes lying beside her on the couch and lit one.
‘I’m Nicole, by the way,’ she said, crossing her legs and exhaling a cloud of smoke.