Death by Beauty (16 page)

Gemma drove to Kit’s, picked up Rafi and then took him home in time for his dinner and a bath. He looked up at her from the
tub and splashed with pleasure, clearly thrilled to be back at home with her. Afterwards, she put him on the floor and he
immediately took off for the kitchen, so she opened all the cupboards and he sat among pots and pans clashing saucepan lids.
As his bedtime neared he was still bouncing with energy and wanted to play, so she put on the Mozart Concerto for Three Pianos.
Mozart always seemed to have a calming effect on Rafi. She took him in her arms and rocked him gently. Within ten minutes
he was dozing, and she sneaked him into their bedroom and placed him softly in his cot, making sure the blind was drawn down.
She remembered the way he’d been staring at the window some days earlier, and she checked the outside image on the monitor
that Mike had mounted on the wall. The front garden was clear and silent, with a soft sea breeze blowing the tops of the bushes.
Gently, she closed the door. Not a sound.

After Mike called to say he was on his way home, Gemma dialled Mischa Bloomfield’s number again. When she answered, Gemma
said, ‘I’m checking to see if everything is okay with you, Mischa. Are you at your mother’s place yet? I’ve been trying to
contact you.’

‘Why is everyone after me? Detective McDonald called me earlier,’ said Mischa, her voice shaky, ‘asking me the same thing.
Should I be worried? I mean, more worried than I already am? Is there something I don’t know?’

Gemma made a quick calculation. She decided that fear now was the only way to keep Mischa safe. ‘Mischa, please listen. I
don’t want to panic you. But in two other cases like yours – I mean, where there was some kind of ugly assault—’

‘What?’ The girl’s voice was panic stricken. ‘What others? What happened to the others?’

Gemma flinched, unsure now about what was best for Mischa. She desperately searched around for a gentler way of framing what
she had to say. ‘It seems that sometimes this offender comes back – not to everyone, but to someone he’s already attacked.’

‘What does he do?’ her voice tense with terror. ‘He kills them, doesn’t he? That’s what you’re going to tell me, isn’t it?
That’s what happened to those other two women.’

‘You need to move out of your house and take some leave from work – just for a while.’

‘You’re telling me that he’s going to come back and kill me!’

‘Mischa, listen to me. Please go and stay with your mother. Until it’s safe. And take some holidays from work. Just drop off
the radar for a while. Get a medical certificate if you need one,’ said Gemma. ‘Okay? Let me know where you are. Can you do
that?’

But Mischa had already rung off.

Gemma called her again. This time the call went straight to voicemail. ‘Please call me,’ said Gemma.

Later that night, the only thing that could keep Steve and Mischa from taking turns in freewheeling through her mind was helping
Mike prepare dinner while bringing him up to date with what she’d been doing that afternoon. After telling him about Janet
Chancy, she went over the vampire cases, trying to figure out why Annabel Carr was only attacked once, nine months ago while
the other victims had suffered a second – sometimes fatal – attack within a week.

‘Maybe he couldn’t find her again,’ said Mike, rinsing the lettuce for the salad he was making.

‘I doubt it. She still lives at the same address, works at the same job. He’d have had ample time to go through her belongings
and find everything he needed to know about her.’

A couple of times Gemma almost told him about her visit to Steve, but pulled back. She didn’t want to deal with the turbulence
this incident caused in her whenever she focused on it. She didn’t want to talk about Steve.

I’m keeping secrets from Mike, she thought, and the idea made her uneasy.

‘This vampire guy is a real monster. He selects his victims. He marks them. And then he comes back – like the Komodo dragon.
Two of the women he punctured are now dead, and the third one—’

‘The girl Angie brought around to see you,’ said Mike, comprehension dawning in his face, ‘who was bitten by a vampire …’

‘Mischa Bloomfield. Her neck was punctured, Mike. He’d injured her.’

Mike stopped and looked at her. ‘If what you’re suggesting is right,’ he began, ‘that girl is in serious danger.’

Gemma nodded. ‘I rang to warn her. But I think I panicked her.’

‘Better to be panicked than to be dead, Gems. She has every right to be scared.’

‘And she’s not the only one. There’s a terrified sex worker in hiding somewhere. He marked her before and tried to get her
again,’ she said. ‘Mike, I’ve thought of something. I have to call Angie.’

‘It’s me,’ Gemma said, on the phone to Angie. ‘He’s not a vampire. He’s a Komodo dragon. Mischa Bloomfield is in terrible
danger. She must have some sort of protection or go into hiding.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Angie, ‘but I got lost around the Komodo dragon bit.’

‘Starr and Palier were both victims of an earlier assault. He selected them and marked them first, then he came back to get
what he wanted – and then really do a job on them. That’s what
Komodo dragons do. I saw this doco about how they bite their prey with their toxic fangs and then later they move in for the
kill. Can you do something for her?’

Angie considered the options then said, ‘I could suggest to Gross that we put a twenty-four-hour watch on her.’

Bruno Gross, that bit of very bad judgement on my part, Gemma thought. A crazy alcohol-fuelled romp in a motel one night years
ago, when she’d still been in the job. A night she now profoundly regretted.

‘And what are the chances of that happening?’

‘Nil.’

‘But Angie, you know what this means for Mischa. She needs protection.’

‘She’s not going to get it, Gems, not with our budget. We’ve already gone way over, according to the boss. The best she can
expect is maybe a squad car driving by her place now and then.’

‘Can’t you squeeze out something more? There’s no security in her house; you can practically walk through the walls!’

‘You know Gross, Gems. All that matters is that the crime figures look good so he looks good. That, and going for the next
promotion.’

‘You know, Angie,’ said Gemma, ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Bruno Gross would be the boss. How does this sort of
thing happen?’

‘It’s the nature of the brotherhood,’ sighed Angie. ‘People like me get passed over and people like Bruno Gross get to the
top. Actually, it’s probably bigger than the brotherhood. Seems to be the way of the world. I don’t know what he’d do if he
knew you were helping me out, Gems.’ She paused, and then spoke firmly. ‘I’ll talk to Mischa.’

‘I’ve done that. Talk’s not good enough. He could be back for her in days. Lean on her hard, Ange. I told her to go to her
mother’s place, or somewhere else. She needs to disappear.’

The next morning, with Rafi at daycare, Gemma sat in her office and looked up the details for Angelo Tolmacheff’s former lover.

She called the number, waited, and was about to hang up when Penny Watson answered. ‘You’re under no obligation to do so,
Ms Watson,’ Gemma said, after introducing herself, ‘but I hope you’ll agree to talk to me. I’m making some inquiries about
an Apprehended Violence Order you took out against Angelo Tolmacheff some time back. Would you be willing to tell me something
about that?’

‘That bastard! What’s he done now?’

More than willing, Gemma thought.

‘It’s an ongoing investigation, so I can’t really say very much,’ she said, ‘but we wanted to contact you in case you can
shed more light on the character of this man.’

‘Angelo Tolmacheff is lower than a snake’s bum. He cheated me out of money, and when I tried to get it back, he stalked me
and bashed me. I was terrified. He’s a nightmare. He comes
on all European gentleman, but cross him and he’s all Balkans thug. He forged cheques in my name, somehow got my PIN and withdrew
thousands of dollars from my bank account. I wish someone would lock him up and throw away the key!’

‘We’re working on that,’ Gemma said.

‘Funny you should call me about him. I actually saw him a few weeks ago. He didn’t see me, and I crossed the street to make
sure he didn’t. He was walking along with another thuggy-looking guy. I can tell you, my blood pressure went through the roof.’

‘Any idea who the other man was?’ asked Gemma, alert.

‘I couldn’t tell you. They were coming out of Indigo Ice, a cafe in Macleay Street, at the Cross. Up to no good, for sure.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual about the other man’s face?’ Gemma asked, thinking of the vampire.

‘They were too far away for that. Sorry.’

Gemma thanked her and rang off. The same pattern, she thought, confirming the MO of Angelo Tolmacheff: charming women and
then using them. Penny Watson was lucky. If she’d been as wealthy as Delphine, she might have ended up hiding in fear for
her life.

Gemma made herself a coffee and settled on the lounge next to the tightly curled-up Taxi. Steadying her nerves, she watched
the crime-scene DVD that Angie had loaned her, replaying the close-up scenes of Janet’s body amid the scattered belongings
from her bag. Over and over Gemma studied the scene: the bag, lying on its side almost empty. Its contents had spilled out
around it – the wallet, a couple of pens and a pencil, a make-up purse, lipstick, comb, address book, a mobile phone, keys
on a ring with a large cream ‘J’ encrusted with diamantés, a half-finished pack of chewing gum and a favourite pen with a
long red tassel
on it lying next to the car keys. Something was missing, Gemma thought. But what was it? It was infuriating.

As she typed up her notes on the Watson interview, thoughts of the three dead women haunted her … and then she got it. Janet
was an old-fashioned journalist, the sort who still took notes in shorthand – but there was no notebook in the scattered belongings.

She immediately picked up her phone. ‘Angie! Janet Chancy’s stenographer’s book, where is it? It should have been in her bag
with everything else.’

Angie was silent for a moment. ‘Good question. If she was making notes at the spa for a piece for her paper, that’s where
all that information should be. And you’re right, we didn’t find a notebook at the crime scene.’

‘The killer must have taken it,’ Gemma said, and thought for a moment. ‘What if Janet found out something that would discredit
the medical team and ruin the spa?’

‘She sure discovered something,’ Angie agreed.

‘She might have talked to someone at the spa about getting that information. So there would be every reason for that person
to take the notebook, especially if she had information they didn’t want anyone to know about.’ Gemma paused then went on:
‘Janet’s profile is different from the other victims. She’s older, for one thing; she’s – she was – a few years older than
me. Starr, Palier and Brie are in their twenties. So’s Mischa.’

‘By the way, I talked to Gross, and there’s no chance of protection for her. He practically laughed at me. You know what his
suggestion was? “Can’t she just go on a cruise?”’

Mike came home for a late lunch, joining Gemma in the kitchen as she heated up a quiche for them both.

‘I haven’t been able to get anywhere with that beneficiary on Tolmacheff’s insurance claim,’ he told her as they ate. ‘Adel
Milani doesn’t show up online anywhere or on any records I could find. But I spent an hour tracking your Mr Tolmacheff. All
I can report is that he had brunch with a young man.’

‘Probably his son,’ said Gemma. ‘I guess I’ll find out more about that relationship if Tolmacheff asks me out for dinner.’

‘I’ll be at another table, keeping you under surveillance.’

‘Don’t you dare, Mike! I’d feel really self-conscious. Promise me you won’t go along.’

‘Okay. But I’ll be close by.’

‘As far as he knows, I’m Gerri Westlake. Stop worrying. I know how to do this.’

‘I just hope you’re right.’

So do I, she thought.

She’d gone for a run, showered and washed her hair and was dressing for her appointment with Ambrose Cobcroft when Angelo
Tolmacheff called.

‘I can’t seem to get you out of my mind,’ he said. ‘I think we need to do dinner.’

‘That would be nice,’ Gemma said, immediately alert.

‘And soon. How about tomorrow night?’

‘I’ll buy a new outfit for the occasion.’ She hoped the tone was right; coquettish and a bit silly.

‘Something low-cut,’ he said. ‘To show off your – charms. What time should I pick you up?’

‘How about seven? But I’ll be in the city tomorrow evening,’ she said, not wanting him to come anywhere near Phoenix Bay.
‘So we can meet at the restaurant.’

He gave her the address. ‘I look forward to it,’ he said, his accent a little stronger than usual.

She forced him from her mind as she selected a dark pink suit and cream satin camisole.

Then she checked her hair in the mirror, happy with the way it fell in a tawny bob to just above her shoulders, and put on
deep pink lipstick.

She was aware of Mike’s warm presence behind her, looking past her into the mirror.

‘Very nice.’ Gently, he turned her around to face him. ‘I’m meeting up with Nick Cleary tomorrow, the ex-Federal cop that
I mentioned to you,’ he said. ‘It will mean I won’t be around as much, but now that Rafi’s in daycare …’ He paused. ‘Have
you thought any more about – about the Mrs Moody question?’ he asked.

‘A little.’ She smiled. ‘Just give me a bit more time?’

‘I love you, Gemma.’

She smiled and reached up to kiss him. ‘I’d better go.’

The drive north to Vaucluse was marred by heavy rain and the ocean, when she caught glimpses of it, was battleship grey with
churning white tips. On the high ridges she looked across to the harbour and the bridge, the sea beneath it the same dull
grey.

Ambrose Cobcroft lived in a block of four units, hidden from the road by tall hedges and a high stone wall. Gemma pressed
the security buzzer and heard a man’s voice call, ‘Come in!’ and the gate unlocked.

As she made her way along the winding path lined with small cypress trees, she saw him waiting at the entrance to his garden
apartment.

Gemma was surprised. Cobcroft was tall and athletic-looking with tanned skin and appeared to be in his forties – a generation
younger than his fiancée Magda Simmonds.

‘Thank you for coming. I appreciate it,’ Cobcroft said as he led her into the living room, which was decorated with tribal
art. Around the walls hung wooden masks studded with cowrie shells, some sporting what appeared to be human teeth set crookedly
into gaping mouths. Large fibrous tapestries covered in geometrical patterns covered one wall.

He walked out to the patio, indicating she should sit with him at a glass-and-wrought-iron table.

‘Magda waited until I was out and then took an overdose of Xanax. I didn’t even know she had it in the house. Or where she
got it. Here’s the note she left,’ Cobcroft said, pushing it across the table as if it were a dangerous object. ‘The police
returned it to me. I wanted you to see it. Of course I haven’t read any other suicide notes in my life, but this one is different
somehow from what I would have expected. That’s why I want your opinion.’

Gemma picked up the sheet of paper, pink stationery with a stylised rose in the top left-hand corner, noting that the writing
looked weak, even shaky.

‘
Please forgive me, everyone, for what I have to do. I thought I could make a new beginning with you, Ambrose, but I can’t.
Something terrible is happening and I simply can’t cope with it.
Maybe you can guess what it might be, Ambrose … What I’m doing is for the best
.’

At the bottom of the page she’d signed, ‘
With all my love. My heart will live on, Magda
.’

Gemma read it again before raising her eyes to the man sitting opposite her. ‘I need to ask some questions. First of all,
is that her usual handwriting?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Magda had a very firm, strong, flowing hand. This looks like an invalid’s writing.’

‘Was she ill?’

He shook his head. ‘She seemed in radiant health. She looked wonderful after her facelift. You see, there is quite an age
gap between us and – I’ll be brutally frank about it, I didn’t want to be seen with someone who looked – well – old. I loved
Magda, but—’ he spread his hands helplessly, ‘—we men love beautiful young women. Remember that old song from the twenties?
“Keep young and beautiful”.’

‘I don’t know it,’ said Gemma. ‘But I guess Magda did.’

‘She did. That’s why she booked into Sapphire Springs Spa.’

‘What was the terrible thing that she was alluding to?’

‘I have no idea,’ he said, ‘and before you ask me about that line she wrote – “
Maybe you can guess what it might be
” – I don’t know what she meant with that, either.’

‘It’s a very pointed remark. You really have no idea?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Cobcroft answered quickly. Too quickly, Gemma thought. ‘I have to ask a few personal questions,’ she said, taking a new tack.
‘Your personal life was …?’

‘If by “personal” you mean our sex life, I’d have to say very good. We are – we
were
– both in excellent health. Add to that the
fact that Magda was on top of the world. She was planning our wedding. I know it’s a cliché, but she really did have everything
to live for. Her suicide just doesn’t make sense.’

‘What sort of business are you in?’ Gemma asked, looking from the patio into the well-appointed apartment and the expensive,
if grotesque, masks on the wall.

‘I dabble in the art market. I’ve had a lucky run. I suppose you could call me an art dealer.’

‘Yes, you must be lucky. The art market’s been pretty wobbly over the last couple of years, I believe.’

‘Not in the middle market,’ he said, slight condescension in his smile. ‘I buy a lot of tribal art that people seem to like,
and they are prepared to pay good prices for it. That’s how I met Magda: she bought a pair of masks. Although she is – was
– much older, she was very good for me.’