Death by Beauty (32 page)

As she drove down the escarpment with the first flashes of the brilliant blue ocean shining through the eucalypt forest on
the sloping hillsides surrounding the road, Gemma felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders. She was out on the road,
on the job.

The house at 66 Hadley Street, Belambi was a modest, brick-veneer home set in a row of similar houses, neat and uninspiring.
Gemma was pleased to see the pale green Peugeot parked in the carport. She knocked on the front door. No response. She walked
round the back and called out. Nothing. No one home.

She drove to a nearby shop and bought a newspaper, some sandwiches and a carton of orange juice then went back and parked
across the road, a little way beyond the house, where she could keep an eye on it.

The afternoon passed into early evening. Nothing happened in 66 and the Peugeot stayed in the carport.

Darkness fell and the hours went by. Mike had bathed Rafi and all was well at home, he said when Gemma called him.

She was dozing, her head leaning against the window, when the sound of a car woke her suddenly. She sat up, shocked that she
had slept on the job. The Peugeot, discernible in the streetlight, was backing out and onto the road. Damn! She’d missed the
moment and couldn’t see who was driving it.

She pushed the newspaper off her lap, threw the empty juice carton onto the floor and switched on the ignition. She waited
a few moments and then followed the car, staying well back.

Gemma soon realised that the driver was heading in the direction of Sapphire Springs Spa. She doused the headlights as she
pulled off the road, a little way from the entrance. She took nothing except her car keys and mobile and started out on foot,
hurrying to keep up with the Peugeot, which was now in the crowded car park. Gemma remembered Dr Evans telling her about Miss
Cosmetic Surgery Europe and the conference. It looked to be in full swing.

Moving cautiously and using whatever cover was available, Gemma came closer to see the woman getting out of the Peugeot. Shocked,
she recognised her: Lizzie, the helpful young receptionist who’d shown Angie and Gemma around on their search for Janet Chancy’s
notebook.

Gemma stood immobilised as her mind worked with these pieces, putting them together so that she almost saw the action replay:
Mischa tries to get a cab. She spots the vampire waiting for her down the street. She turns to run, and then the Peugeot just
happens to drive by with Lizzie from Sapphire Springs at the wheel. Overcome with relief and gratitude to see a friendly,
familiar face, even if it’s someone she didn’t know well, Mischa willingly jumps into the car. Lizzie – Elizabeth Mary Winchester.

But what happened after that? How was Mischa coerced to Sapphire Springs?

Did Tolmacheff contact Lizzie and tell her to offer Mischa one of those pink invitations to a complimentary treatment? Did
Lizzie in all innocence do this? Or was she complicit? And did Mischa believe that a luxurious day at the spa would be the
perfect hiding place instead of going to her mother’s house and worrying her?

Closer to the foyer, Gemma could hear sociable chatter punctuated by occasional laughter, and looking inside she could see
a crowd in the wide reception hall.

Glancing back to the car park, she was startled to see a white-robed figure stumbling across the lawns towards Lizzie, arms
flailing, making a strange moaning sound. Gemma ducked behind a tree as the mysterious woman came closer to Lizzie.

‘What are you doing here, Mrs van Leyden? Why are you out of bed? You must go back. I told you the doctors will see you tonight
after the conference event finishes. Now please, let me help you back.’ And with that, Lizzie took a firm hold of the unwilling
figure and marched her towards the cabins beyond the lake.

After a couple of minutes Lizzie hurried over to the reception area. Gemma waited until she’d disappeared inside and then,
keeping low, moved cautiously across the expanse of lawn, worried about the security cameras. She hoped she had been able
to slip by unnoticed, given the number of people who were attending the conference – but suddenly powerful automatic lights
switched on and in the distance she heard the shrieking of an alarm. She’d been spotted.

She ran out of the light, crouching low as she dashed across the lawns through the dark night. She could hear a commotion
back at reception. Ahead of her, illuminating the pathway to the cabins, other powerful lights flashed on. The frog chorus
from the lake fell silent. Gemma crept around the back of the cabins until she came to cabin number two, where Lizzie had
escorted Mrs van Leyden.

Keeping low, Gemma rapped firmly on the cabin’s door. Again, she heard the strange moaning sounds. The door was opened to
reveal Mrs van Leyden, a scarf covering her palsied face. When she saw Gemma, the strange noises she was making became more
animated and she staggered across the room to a small table and picked up a pencil and wrote a word: ‘Police?’

‘No. I’m a private investigator and I shouldn’t be here. There’ll be a search party coming any moment. Tell me what’s going
on.’

Mrs van Leyden wrote: ‘My mouth doesn’t work. Something very bad is happening here.’

‘What is it? What can you tell me?’

Against the silence, the scratching of the pencil on the paper sounded very loud and the jewels in Mrs van Leyden’s rings
twinkled as she wrote.
Hurry up, hurry up
, Gemma silently urged, daring to peek out the window to see security guards with torches combing the grounds in the distance.

‘Look what they’ve done to me!’ As Gemma read this, Mrs van Leyden pulled off the scarf that covered her head. The terrible
face sagged like a bloodhound’s. The mouth that couldn’t close gaped stupidly.

‘
Done
to you? I don’t understand.’

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pencil and paper.

‘I’m staying at this resort at their expense, until I have arranged to get my youth and beauty back – signed the contract
to undergo DiNAH therapy, huge cheque. Half-million dollar deposit. This
hideous thing. Healed. I want justice. I want them arrested. This is what their famous DiNAH therapy did to me! They are criminals!
Not leaving here until this has been restored.’

Gemma stared, horrified, as the implication of those scrawled words registered. Mrs van Leyden wasn’t a ‘before’ DiNAH therapy
example, she was an ‘after’.

The security guards were coming closer. Any moment now they would be banging on the door.

Gemma looked out the window and saw them heading straight for the cabin.

Mrs van Leyden’s jewelled fingers continued scribbling, pausing only long enough to wipe the saliva that threatened to fall
from her open mouth. ‘I want my money back, compensation—’ she stopped writing and raised her head to indicate her disfigured
face, ‘—want another facelift carried out by a different medical team. Not a bunch of crooks. I saw him and another man DRAGGING
a girl into the medical supercentre.’

Gemma swallowed. Mischa.

Again, the pencil flew across the paper. ‘I have the security code door medical building. Watching them – my bird-watching
binoculars.’

Gemma took the piece of paper and read: ‘F4067X.’

‘You’re an investigator,’ Gemma read the hastily scribbled words: ‘Investigate!!!’

The pencil stabbed at the paper, almost tearing through it, as Mrs van Leyden heavily underscored the last word. Then she
viciously tore the piece of paper to shreds.

Gemma took hold of the woman’s narrow shoulders. ‘I have to get out of here now but I promise you, I’ll do everything to see
that you get what you want.’

The guards were so close now, Gemma could hear their voices. She hurried to the window, lifted the mosquito screen out of
its housing and climbed out, crouching low against the wall under the window, listening as they knocked on Mrs van Leyden’s
door, then went inside. She prayed they wouldn’t notice that the fly screen had been taken down, but she didn’t wait to find
out. Instead, she felt her way around the side of the cabin, heading to the lake. In the dim night light, she stepped into
one of the kayaks and in a few strokes had made it to the other side. There she broke into a run towards her car. She heard
voices and risked a quick glimpse behind her. At that moment, two men walked into the glare of one of the lights over the
path and she saw that one of them was Dr Egmont, walking with a companion, deep in conversation. She shrank back, immobilised,
hoping that the grevillea bushes would hide her. As the second man turned, his face became clear.

Now the Ratbag’s description of how Mischa had willingly jumped into the passing green Peugeot made sense.

The vampire and Lizzie had worked like a pair of hungry wolves, herding their prey into a trap.

Gemma jumped into her car and turned down the driveway, her headlights turned off. She didn’t breathe until she was a kilometre
along the road. Finally, she pulled over and stopped.

As she mentally replayed the scenes she’d just witnessed, the crickets, silenced by her car, took up their tentative chiming
again. She thought about the connections between the vampire, Tolmacheff, Egmont and Sapphire Springs Spa. It appeared that
the vampire worked for Tolmacheff. And maybe Egmont as well. She would find out. She was determined to do what she could to
help Mrs van Leyden.

She waited. The occasional car sped past but no one came from Sapphire Springs.

With the code to the medical centre firmly fixed in her head, Gemma drove back, again switching off the headlights well before
she swung into the car park.

The landscape was just discernible by starlight and the searchers had given up. All was quiet.

She hurried across the short distance between the cabins and the low buildings of the medical centre. Her mobile rang and
she silenced it. Mike. Not the best time to talk; but what if Rafi was sick? She couldn’t risk being overheard, and Mike would
only scold her. Sorry, Mike, she thought ruefully, cutting the call.

Dim lighting showed through a small window, and as she stepped up to the door of what she saw on a small sign was the records
office, and pressed F4067X, it clicked open. Cautiously, she pushed it a little further and peered around. Opposite was a
security desk and four split CCTV screens on the wall covering the rooms and corridors of the medical centre. From the entrance
area, a corridor led off to the left of the security desk; opposite this was a closed door. She could see herself on one of
the monitors as she stepped towards it.

There was no one at the desk but she could hear a man speaking some distance away. Quickly she went to the console and scanned
it, looking for the reverse play. She found it and erased the last few moments. Without close attention to the fast-running
clock at the bottom right corner of the screen, the missing footage would not be noticed.

The sound of the man’s voice came closer and she could also hear his approaching footsteps. The only place to hide was offered
by the closed door. With gritted teeth, she slowly turned the
handle and ducked into the darkness behind it, where she waited, immobilised, listening. She heard the squeak of a chair as
the man, presumably the security guard, sat down at the desk. From the one-sided conversation, Gemma could discern that he
was arguing with his wife or girlfriend. The argument became more heated, the chair squeaked and she heard the footsteps again,
coming closer. Don’t come in here, Gemma prayed. He was now standing right outside the door. He raised his voice and swore
as he terminated the phone call. She heard him muttering under his breath and the sound of the front door opening. A few seconds
later, she could smell cigarette smoke. For the moment, she was in the clear.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Gemma saw that she was in an office, or storeroom. Carefully, she drew out her mobile and
switched on the flashlight, keeping the piercing beam low and letting its peripheral light show her more of her surroundings.
Opposite her was a large cupboard, its doors were securely closed, with the key conveniently dangling from the lock. Quietly,
Gemma turned it and pushed back the doors to reveal shelves of medical records neatly organised in colour codes and alphabetical
order. Scanning the files, she found ‘Wentworth, Maxine’. She pulled it out and briefly looked through: name, date of birth,
address, the date she arrived at the medical centre, data of her DiNAH therapy and then the date of discharge, with the twice
weekly follow-up visits marked in. Apart from the basic details, the information was incomprehensible to a lay person.

She tried, and failed, to make sense of what looked like arithmetical scores under a list of abbreviated headings: HLA – A26,
HLA – B59, HLA – C10, HLA – D26, HLA – DR22, HLA – DQ9, HLA – DP6. At the back of Maxine’s file another,
smaller file had been stapled. It seemed to contain a similar set of letters and figures. Unable to make any sense of this
highly scientific medical record, Gemma was about to replace the folder when she caught a glimpse of the name at the bottom
of the last page: ‘Wilson, Phoebe’.

Puzzled, she checked again, but there it was. Had Phoebe Wilson, the woman who’d been found floating dead and mangled in the
harbour, also had cosmetic surgery here? Even if that were the case, why were her details in Wentworth’s file? Gemma pushed
the file under her top, securing it in the waistband of her jeans. Listening for any sound of the security guard’s return,
she noticed a familiar name on another file: ‘Carr, Annabel’. The beautiful girl she’d interviewed at the Bondi cafe with
a grizzling Rafi. Flickering connections in Gemma’s mind started to spark.

On the lowest shelf lay a lone file. Across its cover someone had scrawled: ‘Final action processed’ with the date from two
days ago. Gemma picked it up and flicked it open. It was Mrs van Leyden’s medical file. Attached to it was a thinner folder
with a name at the top: ‘Russell, Lucy Anne’. Gemma frowned. Who was Lucy Anne Russell? Beneath her name was a similar string
of incomprehensible HLA numbers and letters.