Death by Beauty (35 page)

She turned to the back of the Maxine Wentworth folder, to the attached Phoebe Wilson file, then back to the main file on Wentworth,
studying them carefully. The back page seemed to be a colour chart of some kind in shades of pink to camel. Gemma turned to
the text. Were these compatibility tests concerned with blood transfusions? It didn’t make any sense. Recipient. Donor.

She leafed through the swan folder, trying to decipher the text, but after a few moments she had to stop, disappointed. To
her it was incomprehensible, a long scientific paper describing improvements to something called the Pittsburgh Protocol.
She recognised some phrases, but most of it was about specific antibodies, again using the medical shorthand of HLA but this
time with additional letters DQ together with the word ‘alleles’, which she knew concerned DNA testing. There were, apparently,
‘six loci on chromosome 6 where the genes that produce HLA antigens are inherited’. Other words she recognised from her conversation
with Lance: ‘transforming growth factors – TGFs’, ‘collagen’, ‘interleukin’ and ‘successful immune privilege’ which ‘radically
surpasses anything so far’. She guessed it was possibly the scientific basis for DiNAH – the tailor-made DNA medications that
were part of the new therapy.

Frustrated, she put the folder down, wondering why Tolmacheff had been so concerned about the possibility of her seeing its
contents – the medical information it contained was as good as encrypted. She pulled out her phone and keyed in ‘Pittsburgh
Protocol’.

She scanned it quickly. The Pittsburg Protocol appeared to be something developed by the University of Pittsburgh Medical
Centre concerning antibody therapy – donor bone-marrow cell infusion to reduce toxicity in patients. Donors? Gemma looked
up from the screen. Was Sapphire Springs Spa doing illegal organ transplants? Maybe Dr Evans had discovered what was going on in the highly secured medical centre. Is that why she’s called me out here
tonight? Gemma wondered.

Puzzling over this, but aware of the late hour and anxious about her son, she rang Steve.

‘He’s sleeping like – like a baby.’ Steve laughed. ‘I’ve made him comfortable on my bed and don’t worry, I’ve built a wall
of pillows and cushions around him.’

‘I’m impressed that you knew to do that. But do watch him. He’s learned how to get past pillow security.’

‘Hey, I’m an uncle – not a very good one, but I’ve learned a few things.’

‘I shouldn’t be much longer,’ she said. ‘Dr Evans wants to see me. She’s just been called away.’

Gemma moved to the reception area of the medical records building to see if Dr Evans was on her way back, and in the bright
security light outside she noticed something: it seemed like the heavy security door to the medical centre wasn’t quite closed.
She stepped back into the hall. ‘Steve! Gotta go. I’ll call later,’ she said quietly.

Gemma walked out again and glanced at the security guard. He was sitting with his back to her as he rocked from side to side
in his swivel chair talking loudly on his mobile. Flattening herself against the wall, she edged her way past him, crept to
the door and, praying that it wouldn’t make a sound, cautiously opened it. She was outside and safe in darkness before she
breathed again. Keeping low, she made her way to the heavy door of the supercentre, flinching as the brilliant automatic light
came on.

She pushed the door slowly, cautiously, peering around and then stepping quickly inside, into a dimly lit room. Two corridors
led off it, one to the right and the other stretched directly in front of her; this was the one she chose. It was eerily silent
and she wondered where Dr Evans was and who had summoned her.

As she walked further down, her instincts warned her of danger. With a gasp, Gemma saw that lying on the vinyl floor, halfway
through a doorway, was the supine body of Dr Evans.

She ran to her and knelt down while scanning the rest of the corridor.

‘Dr Evans!’ she hissed. ‘What happened? Wake up!’

The woman stirred and her eyelids flickered. ‘Got to stop them …’ she whispered. ‘Please, stop them.’

‘Who? What’s happening?’

‘Dr Egmont … I threatened … the authorities … jabbed me … something … can’t move – barely speak …’ Dr Evans opened her eyes,
desperately fighting whatever sedation she’d been hit with. ‘… surgical team,’ she struggled to speak, ‘… here any moment
… leaving – all flying out … one last surgery … Harlow Hadley … the Bloomfield girl … help her! … my security card … Get her
out of here. I hadn’t realised. I thought they were only breaking … medical protocols – I had no idea … no idea … what was
going on in here. It’s too late for the other one …’

Her voiced faded and her eyelids closed. Gemma shook her, hard.

‘Where’s Mischa Bloomfield? Talk to me!’

But it was no use. April Evans had plummeted into deep unconsciousness, her heavily sedated breathing barely there, the drug
in her system completely claiming her.

Gemma gently removed the swipe card from around Dr Evans’ neck and scrambled to her feet with just one thought: Mischa.

With every cell of her body braced for action, she crept along the corridor. Two doors, both closed, stood opposite each other,
with another exit at the end of the long hallway. Gemma was heading for the exit when she heard a sound and froze. Had she
imagined something? She strained to listen. There it was again. A weak moan. From somewhere close. From behind one of the
closed doors; the one on the right. Gemma’s blood iced with fear.

As she approached, feelings of dread rose up. The white door stood like a threat and she hesitated before using Dr Evans’
card.
She swiped downwards, and heard the click as the electronic lock released. Quietly she pushed the heavy door open and peered
into the dim room.

Someone was lying on a trolley, a young woman who turned towards Gemma as she approached.

‘Mischa?’

Mischa stared at her with glazed eyes. Her pale face was expressionless, her mouth slack. She tried to speak but all that
came out was the shapeless moan Gemma had heard from the corridor.

‘Mischa, what have they done to you? We’ve got to get out of here. Can you get up?’

Mischa attempted to sit up, but fell back helplessly. Gemma hurried to the door and listened. Any moment now they could be
discovered. She pulled out her mobile and called Angie. ‘Where
are
you? You should be here by now!’ she hissed to the message bank. ‘I’ve found Mischa! We’re in the medical supercentre.’

Using all her strength, Gemma hauled Mischa to her feet, dislodging two folders that were hidden beneath her on the trolley,
one with Mischa’s name on it. Gemma noticed the name on the second folder as it fell to the floor – Harlow Hadley, the actor.
She tightened her hold on Mischa. Was Harlow Hadley here too? Was she awaiting DiNAH surgery?

With Mischa leaning heavily on her, almost a dead weight, Gemma staggered to the doorway. She prayed that no one was coming;
that she could get out before the surgical team arrived.

Where the hell was Angie?

Half dragging, half carrying Mischa, she made it out into the corridor. Dr Evans lay where she’d left her, on her back, arms
outflung. There was nothing Gemma could do for her right now.

It was hard work dragging the semi-conscious woman towards the medical-records room, but fearful desperation gave Gemma the
strength she needed. Only a little way to go, she urged herself: Come on, Gemma; you can do it, girl.

Suddenly, voices. Male voices. Desperate, Gemma looked for a hiding place, but there was none. She and Mischa were exposed
in the corridor. Opposite them was another locked door. She hauled Mischa over to it and swiped it open. The hum of the airconditioner
didn’t quite cover the sounds of the approaching voices as Gemma strained to listen, propping Mischa on a bench just inside
the room, before frantically looking for somewhere to hide. The room was empty except for glass cabinets filled with specimen
jars.

Gemma stared, then attempted to refocus. For several moments, her brain couldn’t take in what she was seeing; her mind was
trying to make sense of the impossible. At first, she thought she was looking at a sculptured mask, hanging in front of her.
She’d seen this beautiful face before, in a sketch made by Nicole.

Brie’s face
.

Brie’s face, completely removed from her head, hanging, suspended in dense fluid, floating in laboratory glassware, the half-closed
eyelids and their eyelashes surrounding vacant spaces where the eyes should have been.

Gemma froze in horror as the realisation set in. A scream choked back in her throat.

The peeled-off face of Brie, the young sex worker who had vanished.

Just beyond Brie’s face, separated by a wall of glass, floated another. This face, also as fine, was suspended like some appalling
theatrical apparition. This face, too, she recognised; from the
photograph Angie had shown her of the beautiful graduate with her mortar board worn at an impish angle.

She was staring at the peeled-off face of Marie-Louise Palier.

Like the grouping of shots on a target, the truth about the vampire killings started to come together. Gemma understood. Seemingly
disparate incidents locked into place as she grasped why the vampire had attacked, then shortly after come back for Phoebe
Wilson, Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier but
not
Annabel Carr. Gemma understood why he had attacked Mischa then relentlessly pursued her. She understood the colour chart
at the back of Maxine Wentworth’s folder.

She understood now the importance of the first, minor assault on the victims – the puncture wound; she grasped why the medical
records held information about the HLA components. She realised now why Annabel Carr had not been the victim of a second,
fatal attack. Even though the destruction of the lower bodies remained a mystery to her, it became clear there was a need
for those catastrophic post-mortem injuries to the heads of the young women—to hide the unthinkable, the reason they had to
die.

Slowly, the long chains of letters and numbers underneath Phoebe Wilson and Maxine Wentworth’s names started to mean something.
There had been many identical letters and numbers, Gemma recalled. These suggested compatibility. Phoebe Wilson shared great
compatibility with Maxine Wentworth
.

Just as the long chains of letters and numbers underneath Annabel Carr’s name must have delivered the opposite information:
incompatibility
.

That’s why she was still alive. Despite having all the desired qualities, when it came down to the nano level of the sixth
chromosome, Annabel Carr had proved unsuitable. Gemma recalled
Mischa’s description of the vampire’s interest in her skin tone. The chart at the back of Maxine Wentworth’s folder was a
colour chart, all right, matching skin tones from donor to recipient.

Gemma felt the energy draining out of her as she stared at this cabinet of outrageous evil. Limp with shock, she slumped against
the door, forgetting for a moment that she and Mischa were in great danger, that Dr Evans was threatened too. She forgot that
Tolmacheff, Dr Egmont and the vampire could discover them at any moment.

This
was what Janet Chancy had discovered; this was what she wouldn’t talk about on the phone; this was why she was murdered.

‘Puncture site,’ Lance had said, referring to blood sampling. In the first minor assault the vampire had taken samples from
the targeted victims, for tissue typing, to check against the recipients of the ‘facelift’ to ensure there was enough compatibility
before the final, fatal onslaught. Girls were chosen for their outstanding beauty, their skin tone and flawless complexion.
Did Sapphire Springs have a catalogue for recipients to choose from? Is that what the catalogue with the swans contained?
Could the women who desired an entirely different face pick their new look from an album – a catalogue of murdered girls?
They’d matched the skin tones. They’d matched the HLA compatibility.

She pulled out her phone as the voices became louder, closer.

‘Angie! For God’s sake get here fast! Those women were murdered for their faces!’

The voices outside the door came closer and Gemma ended her call.
I’ve gotta get us out of here
, came the voice of survival deep in her guts.

She could now hear words, phrases: ‘… flying out … getting too hot … Manila in the morning … as soon as the Hadley woman delivers
the cash …’

She held her breath, willing them not to come into the room, praying that they’d walk straight past. Praying that Angie would
arrive with the cavalry.

But the voices came closer and closer, and Gemma readied herself, deciding on a surprise attack. There was the barest chance
that with the element of surprise, she might just get away with it. There was no alternative.

The door opened. Gemma crouched. For a nanosecond Tolmacheff didn’t see her. She flew at him and they went down hard on the
floor, Gemma on top. Swiftly, she twisted his right arm back, attempting a vicious come-along hold, but as she did
and Tolmacheff roared in pain, something slammed into the back of her head, sending her sprawling along the corridor. She
attempted to get to her feet, dazed, trying to keep the momentum going, but the man who had kicked her in the head stood over
her, grinning, wrinkling the smeared birthmark under his left eye.

‘Good one, Volk! Now the bitch is in the right place,’ snarled Tolmacheff as he clambered to his feet. ‘This is the last time
you’ll get in my way. I know who you are. I got your rego number the day I caught you spying in my study, Gemma Lincoln!’

Gemma swayed then steadied herself against the wall, her eyes focused on the pistol Tolmacheff pointed at her.

He gestured with the squat weapon in the direction of Mischa, collapsed on the bench. ‘Take her to the theatre. I’ll deal
with this one.’

The theatre. Where she would be murdered and her remains dumped. Ted Ackland had almost got it: the parts missing from the
faces of the murdered women were not trophies. Gemma was shocked back into full consciousness at the sight of the vampire
half carrying, half dragging the heavily sedated Mischa away.

‘What sort of doctors do this? How is it possible?’

‘Everything is possible. All it takes is finding out someone’s weakness. Some people call it blackmail. I call it insurance.
Walk, bitch. Make any attempt to get away and that’ll be the last thing you do.’

Gemma stumbled in front of Tolmacheff, her brain racing despite the ache now spreading from the base of her skull. Her dazed
thoughts centred on one plea: for God’s sake, Angie, get here
now
!

Tolmacheff pushed her towards the exit and Gemma started to walk, constantly looking around at him, terrified that he would
shoot her. The thought of Rafi crying for her and she not able to come to him surged through her so strongly that she realised
her fingernails were cutting into her clenched palms.

‘You can’t do this!’ she cried. ‘The police are on their way. Get out now while you can!’

His only reply was a vicious jab into her kidneys with the business end of the pistol.

They’d reached the exit.

‘Open the door. Step outside, then take one step ahead and stop. Put your phone on the ground. Slowly, now. No, don’t turn
round.’

The night was black and no stars were visible. Slowly, Gemma reached into her pocket and took out her phone. Her hands were
shaking but she was able to thumb Mike’s speed-dial number before lowering the mobile to the grass.

He would know she’d called even if he wasn’t able to contact her.

‘You think the police are coming?’ Tolmacheff laughed as he kicked the mobile aside. ‘They’ve been and gone. They sent some
little girl out here and I dealt with her – sent her happily on her way. She thinks you’ve already left the premises.’

Despair crushed Gemma as Tolmacheff continued bragging. ‘Just like I handled that interfering journalist who’d seen something
she shouldn’t have and thought she’d race off and report it. Should have chucked her in the incinerator after her notebook.
But she didn’t get very far. And now it’s just you and me, sweetheart.’

Gemma’s mind whirled, terror and rage swirling like two demons. Angie wasn’t coming. Angie had been sent away. No one was
coming to help her. She was on her own, against death.

The despair met a fury: this evil man would not get away with his crimes. A surge of fire flew up through her spine, activating
muscle memory, spinning her into actions unpractised in years. Her left arm knocked Tolmacheff’s weapon hand sideways as a
split second later, the fingers of her right hand speared him in the soft spot of his throat. He collapsed heavily to his
knees, clawing at his windpipe, mouth gaping, the scream that he couldn’t voice choking him. With all her strength, Gemma
kicked him under the chin, sending him flying backwards in a shower of blood. Stooping, she snatched up the pistol then ran
to retrieve her mobile. She turned and sped back to the reception foyer, all the time fearing she’d hear the vampire hard
on her heels. She grabbed one of the heavy wrought-iron chairs and swung it against the glass of the double doors. They crashed
in a shower of shards and with her arms folded across her face she barged through, heedless of any cuts. She raced into Dr
Evans’ office, grabbed her bag and then ran out the door again towards the car park.

The manoeuvre she’d used on Tolmacheff could be fatal, but she wasn’t going to check on him now. The vampire was nowhere to
be seen. She had to stop them killing Mischa – had to get back to Rafi and Steve.

She was fumbling with her keys when a pair of headlights swung in from the road, hurtling through the entrance. Fearful, Gemma
crouched down beside her car until she recognised the other vehicle.

Angie!

She ran like a maniac, hurling herself in front of the car, screaming and waving for Angie to stop.

Angie braked and the car screeched to a halt, almost knocking Gemma to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and flung herself
into the passenger seat.

‘Angie! Thank God you came back! Call for back-up. We’ve got to stop them. They’re about to kill Mischa Bloomfield!’

‘Back-up’s on the way, Gems. Plus a medico. That bastard didn’t fool me for a second.’

Angie and Gemma ran to the medical centre where Tolmacheff, still alive, was making grotesque attempts to stand. Gemma snatched
the security card from around his neck and used it to open the door.

The two women raced through the building, Angie’s weapon drawn, flinging doors open until they found the operating theatre.

Four masked surgeons looked up in surprise from where they stood around the anaesthetised woman on the operating table as
Angie came forward holding up her weapon and her warrant card. ‘You’re all under arrest. Step away from the patient. On your
knees. All of you.
Now!
‘

Thank goodness that they hadn’t started cutting, Gemma thought. The anaesthetist gestured at his syringe line and Angie nodded.
He switched it off then joined the others kneeling.

With Angie’s service pistol holding their attention, Gemma was able to restrain them with Angie’s nylon cuffs as the surgeons
spoke urgently and loudly in Russian.

‘I don’t know what they’re saying,’ said Gemma, ‘but you can tell they’re not happy.’ She cradled the woman. ‘It’s okay, Mischa.
We’re here. You’re safe. We’ll have you out of here as soon as you come round.’

The surgeons, minus their key cards, were herded by Angie and Gemma into a small adjoining wash room and securely locked in.

Angie ran outside and crouched over Tolmacheff, who still hadn’t been able to make it to his feet.

‘Angelo Tolmacheff,’ she said, snapping a cuff around his flailing right arm, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of murder and
conspiracy to murder,’ she began. ‘You do not have to say anything, but anything you say may be later used in evidence against
you.’

Tolmacheff croaked obscenities but the fight had gone out of him, at least for now.

‘I’ll stay here until back-up arrives,’ said Angie.

‘What about the vampire?’ said Gemma. ‘We can’t let him get away.’

‘Nestor Kalganov. He’s a standover man and suspect in a murder in Melbourne. He can’t have got too far. We’ll find him. We
got his real name courtesy of Mike.’

‘Mike?’

‘Apparently he’s been on the case for a while now, keeping an eye on you. Don’t look at me like that. He was worried about
you.’

‘Tolmacheff called him “Volk”.’

The sirens were approaching as Gemma ran in to check on April Evans. She placed her rolled-up jacket under the unconscious
woman’s head then ran back out so she could get help for her.

‘Okay, Gems,’ said Angie. ‘What’s been going on out here?’

Despite the headache of the century, Gemma started to bring Angie up to date.

She was halfway through when the uniformed police pulled up. The doctor checked Mischa and called for ambulance transport.
By the time the whole area had been secured, Gemma had finished her account to Angie and directed the ambulance crew to Dr
Evans.

‘But wouldn’t the patient who’d had the face transplant look like the murdered woman?’ Angie asked the doctor.

She shook her head. ‘Not at all, because the transplanted facial skin is overlaid on the recipient’s own facial structure,
their bones and musculature. Of course they’d look
different
, but that would mostly be because they’ve lost about thirty years in facial ageing. People forget what we looked like in
our youth. And any discrepancy is explained away as having been caused by the “facelift”.’

Angie stared at her. ‘It’s hard getting my head around this. So creepy. So—’ She shuddered.

‘So
evil
,’ said Gemma. ‘There’ll have to be a full inquiry into this – to see if there’ve been other operations that we don’t know
about.’

Angie sighed. ‘By the way, Brie’s real name was Lucy Anne someone.’

‘Lucy Anne Russell,’ said Gemma, thinking about the name in the medical records. Mrs van Leyden wouldn’t get her new face
now. Nor would Harlow Hadley.

Two ambulance officers carried Dr Evans out on a stretcher.

Gemma should have felt a sense of elation after cracking a case so hard that it had seemed impossible, but instead she grieved
for the families of the women she hadn’t saved.

‘I won’t be happy until I’ve got a few answers from this man,’ Gemma said to Angie as she crouched over Tolmacheff. She was
not able to resist giving him a swift kick. ‘He was aiming to murder his wife for insurance money, weren’t you? You’ve already
got another woman lined up.’

‘I loathe women,’ snarled Tolmacheff.

‘But not their money,’ Angie snapped.

‘You loathe women so much,’ Gemma said, ‘that you’ve taken out an insurance policy that could have made Adel Milani very rich.’

That got him, Gemma thought, noticing the surprise and confusion registering on Tolmacheff’s face. Then he made an unpleasant
noise, which Gemma realised was his laugh. ‘You stupid cow! You don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘Why did Magda Simmonds commit suicide?’ Gemma continued, ignoring the insult.

‘Get fucked!’

‘Answer me! I’ve got plenty of kick left and there’s just you, me and Angie here right this minute.’ She gave him another
vicious kick to help reinforce his vulnerability.

Tolmacheff howled, then spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Stupid cow noticed her new face was falling off. Came out here abusing
me, screaming about suing me. Said she’d only had the facelift because her boyfriend pressured her. Said between the two of
us, we’d destroyed her.’

Her boyfriend
had
pressured her, Gemma thought, recalling the suave, flirtatious Ambrose Cobcroft.

‘What do you know about Maxine Wentworth? About why she died?’

Tolmacheff remained silent, but a movement of Gemma’s right foot changed his mind.

‘She came here for her usual DiNAH medication. Somehow she got hold of her confidential medical file – saw her donor’s file
attached to it.’

Gemma felt sick at his phrase, ‘donor’s file’, as if the murder of Phoebe Wilson and the destruction of her face were equivalent
to visiting the blood bank.

‘She started screaming. I told her to shut up – that she was in it up to her neck – literally. That I had her permission signature
on the surgical forms. That no one would believe her if she said she didn’t know. Of course she must have known! I warned
her about saying anything. I suggested she should pay me a certain amount of money to salve her conscience and I wouldn’t
involve her if questions were asked later.’

Gemma imagined Maxine’s shock when she realised she was wearing the face of a young woman whose murder she had purchased.
No wonder she couldn’t bear to look at herself, or let anyone else see the new face that had cost another woman’s life.