Fetish (18 page)

“Fucking, goddamn, greedy women!” Andy Flynn shouted as he tossed his head angrily, his alcohol-numbed brain causing the room to sway and roll. “Fuck ’em!” he yelled for no one to hear. He pounded his right fist straight into the wall. The plaster was unforgiving, as were the half healed cuts along his knuckles. They split open again, but he barely felt a thing.

How could Cassandra have taken his stereo? That bitch only ever listened to crappy country music stations anyway. What did she need his hi-fi system for? She’d stripped him of everything that mattered—the Honda, the house, and now his music. She had sure laid out the welcome mat, just what Andy needed after being kicked off the most important case of his career. “Vultures!” he screamed, and threw his empty beer bottle against the wall. It shattered into hundreds of tiny shards, littering the old Persian rug.

“Fuck it!” he bellowed and opened a fresh beer with his bleeding hand. Andy thought about what it would be like; what a complete relief it would be to
deal with Cassandra properly. She and that simpering lawyer of hers needed to be taught a lesson; avarice was such a natural state for the two of them, they deserved to be hauled kicking and screaming into the real world. His head swam, and he decided maybe he should lie down, but he hit the couch too hard and missed the cushion, thumping his head into the armrest, splashing both himself and the couch with beer. He tried to focus on the half empty bottle in his hand. How long had he been drinking? A day at least, probably two. Was it day or night? The curtains were closed and he couldn’t tell. Did it even matter? He didn’t have to go to work.

Kelley hates me. Took my gun away. I fucked up…and why? Because of another damn woman. Fuckin’ manipulating whores, all of them.

His black mood was all-encompassing and he began to dwell on the blonde temptress, the one who had gotten him into this mess in the first place. She’d become an addiction, and now he was paying for it. His head started to ache, and his first thought was to reach for the Jack Daniels. He wouldn’t need a glass, it would go down just fine straight from the bottle. He reached out for it, confused that his hand wasn’t paying attention and knocked it over.

“Shit,” he managed to slur in protest.

By early evening, Makedde still hadn’t heard from Andy Flynn. She had questions that demanded answers, but no one, it seemed, was willing to provide them. If the police weren’t going to do anything worthwhile, then she would have to take matters into her own hands.

A photo session with Rick Filles was about as appealing as a date with Norman Bates, but as the hours uneventfully crept closer to their nine o’clock appointment, it seemed like her only hope. What if he was the one? What if she could expose him? Rick hadn’t acted suspiciously with Constable Mahoney, but that didn’t prove anything. She wasn’t his type. But Debbie would be.

If Rick was Catherine’s killer, and the one who sent Makedde that revolting, mutilated photo, showing up at his studio surely would catch him off guard. He might give something away. But he might also act unpredictably, or worse, dangerously. Precautions had to be taken. Her appointment was only three hours away. She had to work fast, and she knew exactly who to call.

“Hi Loulou. How are you?”

“Darling! Have you found your portfolio?”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry if I was in a bit of a mood when I drove you home.”

“Not at all. I totally understand.”

“I wanted to ask you your dress size.”

“Dress size? Twelve…mostly.”

Makedde smiled.
Close enough.
“I was wondering if you could do me a favour…”

Just before nine o’clock, Makedde arrived at a dark, decrepit and graffitied block of flats in a side lane off Bayswater Road in Kings Cross. Most of the streetlights had been smashed and the footpaths were eerily deserted; it was as if some disease had swept through, wiping everyone out, leaving the infected streets unfit for human feet. The only sign of life was the flickering light of a television set in a flat on the third floor of the building. Someone was safely tucked away, watching a gameshow. Mak could hear the applause.

Why am I playing this game?

She wondered if Rick Filles was a modern-day Harvey Glatman—the hard-core, bondage-obsessed serial killer who, posing as a photographer, terrorised the Hollywood modelling world in the fifties. A shiver ran up her spine at the thought, and she froze. But that was the point of this expedition,
wasn’t it? To be smart enough to suss him out and expose him before he had the chance to harm more women.

Just one hour, that’s all. You can do this.

With some trepidation, Makedde knocked on the door and it creaked open unaided to reveal a darkened stairwell. She stepped inside and fumbled for a light switch. There was none. All she could make out was the dim outline of the stairway leading up.

I’m doing this for you, Catherine.

She was relieved to find a round, white timer switch on the far wall on the first-floor landing. Pressing it, the stairwell was flooded with light from a single fluorescent tube. A handwritten sign told her the studio was on the fourth floor. She looked around. No elevator. She sighed. Four flights of stairs in stilettos. Things were looking worse by the minute. Dolled up in a blood-red bustier and a short black miniskirt, Makedde knew she looked like a cross-between a Vargas pin-up girl and a gift-wrapped Barbie doll. It wasn’t a look she went for often.

She bent forward and cupped her hands under her breasts, heaving them upwards. It had the magical effect of turning her already generous bosom into Debbie’s outrageous, Jayne Mansfield-like proportions. The bustier was cut low, revealing two perfect, gravity-defying semi-moons of dangerous cleavage. He’d
probably notice that she’d exaggerated a bit on the phone, but she was sure he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Reaching his studio door, she once again cursed the Australian government for not legalising pepper spray for civilians. Her fashion arsenal would have to do—hair spray, a hat pin and the trusty paring knife.

Play the role. Nothing to fear. It’s just a movie.

I wish I knew how the script ended…

Rick Filles answered his door as soon as she knocked. His eyes were the first things she noticed. They were disturbing, misshapen, and far too small for his face. She had never seen such tiny, ill-proportioned eyes. Beady and bloodshot, they shone like hot marbles.

“Hi, I’m Debbie,” she said in a breathy voice, adding a soft giggle for effect. His eyes went straight to her breasts. It was a relief. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed her fear. He led her inside, all the while unashamedly ogling her cleavage.

“Wow. What a great studio. Do you, like, do a lot of photos?” She was careful to bob her head from side to side when she finished the sentence.

“Shit yeah. What’s your poison, doll?”

“Poison?”

“Drink?”

“Oh, whatever you’re having.”

As he wandered over to the kitchenette, she discreetly surveyed the studio. She made her way over to a glowing light-table and scanned the slides.
Soft porn. Girls in heels on sports cars. Nudies. Nothing spectacular, certainly nothing original. He had probably left them there for show. But there was an interesting stack of folders on the floor underneath. Perhaps that was where more damning photographs hid.

On one side of the room a rack of frilly lingerie waited. Standard stuff. Pink teddies. Red garters. Crotchless panties. They could wait all they wanted, she sure as hell wasn’t going to put them on. To her left an inconspicuous doorway aroused her interest.

Rick returned with some clear liquid in shot glasses and set them down on the light-table. Makedde kept her bag firmly on her shoulder, hoping the makeshift weapons it held wouldn’t be needed. “Do you have any photographs I can look at?” she asked.

“Sure, doll.” He pointed at the slides.

“Any others? I’m just trying to get ideas.”

“Nah. The rest are…” he hesitated, “with a client.”

Yeah right.
“Too bad. Do you have some outfits?”

“Over here.” He gestured to the rack of frilly half-there underwear.

“Do you have anything else? Something a bit…” She winked.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Anything…kinky?” she suggested, and flashed him a smile. She sipped gingerly at her drink and almost gagged. It tasted like lighter fluid. His eyes lit
up like an adolescent boy witnessing his first centrefold. Any minute she expected to see drool forming in the corners of his mouth. Without warning he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her towards the mysterious room. “A kinky one, eh? You’ve come to the right place, babe.”

His hand felt hot and sticky through Loulou’s tight top. His face was close to her neck. Makedde tilted her head away, trying to avoid the foul breath drifting up her nostrils.
What is that smell?
She tried holding her breath. Every instinct told her to fight. Elbow strike to the throat and run! Fast! But she couldn’t. She had come too far. He released his grip to open the door, and she quickly snuck a glance at her watch. It was only 9.30 p.m. She had half an hour to go. She had to stall him.

A slimy grin creased his face. He held the knob in his hand, his eyes burning like the windows of a furnace. Painstakingly he opened the door, inch by inch revealing the contents of his special room—a startling array of leather, latex and chains hanging from walls and hangers. Her eyes rested on a painful looking metal contraption with leather straps.

Bloody hell, what’s that?

He looked to her for approval. “Ooh,” she exclaimed.
Oh shit
.

On one wall a set of chains and cuffs dangled expectantly. She found it hard to picture someone
voluntarily allowing themselves to be tied up there; she recalled the marks on Catherine’s wrists. How much had she struggled? Was it leather or metal that had so effectively restrained her, cutting into her tender skin?

The chains were just the entrée. There were leather whips, some with painful looking red tassels. There were spiky looking clubs and innumerable phallic devices. Candles. Needles.

She had to show the police this.

“I bet you’d look great in one of those,” she said, pointing to one of the outfits.

“Nah, not for me. I like to dominate.”

And what do you do when you dominate?
“Have you ever tried one on?”

“Not those outfits, no.”

“Neither have I. I’ll try one on, if you do,” she suggested.

He studied her for far too long, devilish eyes measuring her up. Could he sense her fear? She mentally prepared herself to fend off an attack.

His reply surprised her. “OK.”

“You first.”

“No, I insist. You first.”

“No, please,
you
first.”

A twisted parody of politeness.

Rick Filles was serious about the proposal. He wouldn’t back down, and Makedde couldn’t back out.
“Wait here. Let me pick one and surprise you,” she whispered. Mak shut the door behind her and flipped a light switch. An overhead lamp came on, spreading a dim, cherry glow.

“I’m waiting,” she heard him say through the door. His voice made her shiver.

Her mind got away with her and panic threatened to take over. She had a sudden flash of Stanley bursting through the door and pinning her to the floor, kneeling on her biceps with all his weight with his switchblade shiny and sharp pressed against her cheek. She pushed the thoughts aside, reminding herself again that Stanley was in jail, and the man she faced now was much shorter and weaker, and she was far better prepared.

She chose a black leather bodice and peeled off Loulou’s red bustier, stuffing it in her purse. The bodice was tight, with a plunging neckline decorated with gleaming metal studs. She struggled into it, the merciless corsetry forcing her waist into absurd dimensions.

“Your turn,” she managed to say as she grabbed a pair of latex hot pants sporting curious metal rings, and passed them to him.

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing to slits.

This is not good.

She slowly ran a finger along the swell of her breast. It worked. His eyes widened and followed her
finger. “Come on baby, try it on for me,” she whispered. “Please?”

Rick walked into the room and partly shut the door, one beady eye still keeping watch over his prey. He turned from her for a moment and she saw her chance. Lunging forward, she slammed the door shut and swung a chair beneath the knob.

“Hey!” he yelled. “You bitch! Open this up!”

There was no time to waste. She ran towards the stack of folders sitting under the light-table and frantically searched them.
Damn!
Just forms and papers.

“Bitch!” he yelled again, and she could hear the chair creak dangerously, about to break.

She had no time. Shoes in one hand, she took the steps two by two, the sound of his shouts fading as she reached the street. She started to run, then out of the shadows came a neon blur.

“Sweetie! What happened?” Loulou exclaimed.

“Quick!” Mak said, breathless and still running. Loulou took her cue and followed. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

They ran for blocks before they reached Loulou’s car, fresh out of the repair shop. Bored drug-addicts and street-walkers watched them pass with disinterest. Loulou started the engine. “What happened? Wasn’t I supposed to barge in and act like some jealous lover or something?”

Makedde felt sick. “Things got a little out of hand,” she admitted.

“I can see that. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Well…yes and no,” Mak said. “He’s got some weird shit goin’ on, but I didn’t find anything directly linking him to Cat.”

“Where’s my red boob-top?”

“In the bag.”

“Where’d you get the leather thing?”

“The S&M dungeon from hell. You can have it. I won’t be wanting any souvenirs.”

“Groovy,” Loulou said, admiring the studs before they sped off.

He lay on top of the bedsheets, eyes closed, curtains drawn. He wanted to rest, to clear his mind, but he couldn’t. There were sounds coming through the wall, depraved noises disturbing his quiet. He picked up some cotton balls and stuffed them in his ears, succeeding in blocking out only a fraction of the din. In the dim room, he squinted at the photograph tacked to the wall.

My girl.

Makedde.

She was perfect; long, slim, elegant legs barely concealed beneath a short leather dress. Deliciously high heels forced her slender feet to arch, calves flexed.

Whore.

It antagonised him that the photograph wasn’t clear enough. He couldn’t see the tiny, blonde hairs on her thighs. He couldn’t see the small, bluish veins of her feet, pumping sweet blood back towards her heart.

She’d left the photo there for him. She wanted him to cure her. She’d even led him to her new flat, where she lived alone.

Don’t worry, I’m coming for you soon.

But the noises wouldn’t stop, they were breaking into his thoughts. They became louder. He could hear them right through the walls; groans like animals, the bed squeaking.

Mother!

He covered his head with the pillow. He was a child again, just a little boy; his pillow a teddy bear, covering his ears to that terrible racket. He was back in that house, trying desperately to block out the sounds, stuffing his school clothes under the door.

Mother! Mother, stop it!

Days and nights it had persisted. For years it wouldn’t stop; sinful debauchery, and the smell. The loathsome odour of lust and profligacy had filled the house, filled his young nose.

Mother!

Only
he
stopped it. He cleansed her in the white-hot flames of hellfire, burning away her sin, the house a pillar of bright heat. He had watched it from down the street, watched the flames lick the sky.

Now he tried to ignore the persistent noises coming through the wall. He pretended it wasn’t happening again. After all these years, it
couldn’t
be happening again.

Mother can’t be a whore now. I cured her.

Makedde wanted his special punishment too and he would take great pleasure in giving her what she
needed, once the time was right. He’d watch her until then; follow her through the streets, watch her in her new lodgings and above all exercise patience.

It was meant to be.

But first, preparations had to be made.