Medea's Curse (33 page)

Her pubic area was shaved or waxed. Carved across her mons pubis were letters, mostly
scars. One was recent and
had crusts of blood—the one that spelt the T of
cunt
. Along
the edges of her outer labia were hints of what could be seen were she to open herself
up. Gnarled scars formed from repeated trauma.

The bloodied scalpel in the toilet
.

‘Are you happy? I would never have harmed them, they were
mine
,’ said Georgia. ‘I
was their mother.’

‘I was…stunned,’ Natalie admitted to Declan, still feeling much the same a day later.
She felt contained in his office. Partly by him, partly by his orderliness. For the
first time she appreciated the obsessive positioning of his three coloured pens and
the stack of files on his otherwise empty desk. ‘I can’t tell how much is performance.
Why didn’t she have underwear on? Did she plan that before coming to see me, or does
she just not wear underwear? Did she need to show me because she wants help and doesn’t
know how to ask? Every time I see her I end up going around in circles.’

‘She sounds very complex,’ Declan agreed. The bottle of wine sat on the side table
unopened. ‘But I think you are still looking for some ultimate truth.’

‘The court—a jury—is going to have to make a decision. If I can’t, how can I expect
them to? If I’m called to court, and I will be, I’m not sure I can explain what I
think. Treating her is like trying to bandage someone in the middle of a switchblade
fight. New cuts keep on opening up.’

‘Literally. Let’s try and get your thoughts clear. Start at the beginning, with a
formulation of how she got to be how she is.’

Natalie tried to construct a timeline in her head. ‘Georgia’s genetic heritage: possible
character traits inherited from both parents, who had impulse control difficulties.
Complicated
by attachment difficulties: her mother was isolated and unsupported and
probably emotionally unavailable, but there was some positive input from her father.
So she learned to look to men for affirmation, underpinning her defence style which
is a mix of Cluster B personality traits: antisocial, narcissistic and borderline.
Enter man number one: she sees him as an escape from her cold aunt, someone to finally
love her. He gets her pregnant and dumps her. She loses the pregnancy, with or without
intervention—my guess is with—then she meets Mr Right. Paul adores her and gives
her a stable base.’

‘Until she has children.’

‘Having children destabilises her in two ways. One, it reminds her of her own childhood
vulnerability when her needs were never met and she learned to pretend. The crying
child takes her back subconsciously to the moments of terror, being alone and unheard.
Two, it puts her in competition with them for Paul’s affection, which is the one
thing that has helped her be stable and live relatively normally.’ Natalie took a
breath. This much was fairly clear in her mind. The rest of the explanation was not.

‘Hypothesis One. She has a personality disorder. With dissociation but without multiple
identities. She kills her children because she can’t control her anger, which originated
from her unmet needs in childhood. Virginia and Lee only ever taught her to hide
it, not resolve it. In this hypothesis she knows what she did, is legally responsible
and is, at least in part, lying or acting.’ She had said
they were mine
: to do with
as she pleased? It resonated uneasily in Natalie’s mind with Paul’s note.

‘Hypothesis Two?’

‘Wadhwa’s option. She has Dissociative Identity
Disorder. She is still destabilised
in the same way but her subconscious copes with the emotions she can’t deal with
by drawing on different parts of her that manifest themselves as other personalities.
One of these personalities unleashed the anger at her children, and as such, she—the
real Georgia—isn’t responsible. Her mental illness is.’

‘Is there a Hypothesis Three?’

Definitely.

‘Paul is a psychopathic, narcissistic paedophile and manipulator. His wife and children
are extensions of himself; his playthings. In her destabilised state—possibly both
D.I.D. and a personality disorder—Georgia is vulnerable. She still kills them, but
in a dissociated state in which she may believe she is protecting them. Paul is pushing
the buttons of her vulnerability because he likes the power and isn’t fussed about
the consequences. There is a possibility’—the thought was articulating itself for
the first time—‘that he killed Jonah. He was there and the dynamic was different
with a boy. In this scenario, Miranda, his daughter, is at risk.’

‘Too much conjecture even for the psychiatrist’s office,’ said Declan. ‘What do you
know about Paul?’

‘He’s an only child and a successful businessman. Georgia’s lawyers have been told
by the police and social service that there is no reason for them to be concerned
about Miranda.’
But they don’t know he stalks me.
Even as she spoke Natalie was thinking
about their recent encounter and beginning to favour Hypothesis Three.

‘The police will not intervene unless you have something a great deal more substantial,’
Jacqueline Barrett had told her in their most recent phone conversation. ‘The social
services loved Paul. Unfortunately for us.’

But it wasn’t just Miranda being killed that Natalie was worried about. Georgia had
hinted at abuse and it was hard to get the word
amused
—along with a picture of Paul
naked in the bath with his daughters—out of her head. And him walking around her
apartment.

Despite Natalie’s best attempts to avoid him, Wadhwa put himself everywhere she was
until he had a chance to corner her.

‘Dr King, I am keen to hear about your impressions of Mrs Latimer.’

‘Georgia is doing as well as can be expected.’

‘She hasn’t completed the last research form I sent. Could you be so kind as to remind
her?’

‘She might not be in the best mindset for filling out forms at the moment,’ said
Natalie. Wadhwa would be in Corinne’s office in ten minutes to complain she was obstructing
his research.

‘So your therapy is not working?’

‘She’s very disturbed, as I’m sure you’d agree.’

‘If you do not have the right diagnosis you will not be giving her the right treatment.’

‘At the moment,’ said Natalie, working hard to keep her voice steady, ‘I’m trying
to keep her alive and as stable as possible.’

‘Of course,’ said Wadhwa. ‘In court it will only be the diagnosis that matters. I
am being retained as the expert witness.’

‘And I’m her therapist who actually knows her and deals with her.’ As Natalie made
an exit, she added: ‘And the one who worries about her.’

Jacqueline Barrett had finally emailed her the three-page PI report on Paul Latimer.

Paul had finished school, gone to university and completed an engineering degree.
He had a number of good mates. After school he had travelled to southeast Asia and
Europe for the traditional Australian backpacker tour, returned three months later
and started university while working part time in his father’s scrap metal business.
He met Georgia, got married, enrolled in an MBA and his father died. He now owned
the business and a black Porsche and had a full-time nanny caring for Miranda.

The report was so bland and superficial it could also have been the exterior world
of half of the US’s serial killers. She wondered why no other relationships, either
before or after Georgia, were mentioned. Had the PI not bothered looking? Engineers,
if her experience at university was anything to go by, tended to be socially awkward.
Maybe he was the shy kind of awkward rather than the type that ran a nudie past your
tutorial.

He had seemed benign in their brief encounter, but psychopaths were great con men,
and he had been stalking and intimidating her. If he was such a successful manipulator,
why had he made the mistake with the first note? Any pathology seemed within his
family—it was Georgia and possibly his children he liked to control and manipulate.
Why would he see Natalie as a threat? Did Georgia know what the bunnies meant?

Natalie met Liam at his request, this time at the Everleigh, a New York-style cocktail
bar in Gertrude Street. It was more his style than hers.

‘Friendlier security,’ he noted, kissing her on the lips.

‘Anything more on Latimer?’ Natalie had picked up a beer at the bar but Liam, who
had arrived before her, was halfway through a martini.

‘Not yet. I got some interesting stuff on your support team. Not exactly Mr Squeaky
Clean. Be grateful he likes you.’

‘Who? Tom is—’

‘Not your drummer. Your publican. Vince Castentella has done time.’

‘I’m sure that will be incredibly useful information when he has you in a headlock,
and you’re flying into the street.’

Liam grinned. ‘I figure I just need to stay on the right side of you to keep safe.’

‘What? Hiding behind a woman?’

‘Whatever it takes. You know he—’

‘Stop. He’s a friend. I don’t want to know.’

Liam shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

‘I presume that isn’t why you called me.’ Nor did she think it was just to get into
her pants again, though that was probably on the agenda too.

‘Tiphanie and Travis.’

Natalie waited.

‘He hadn’t had a chance to clean his mate’s car, but it was clean anyway. I’m sorry,
I know you think Tiphanie is innocent but we’re having to look at her again.’

‘Shit.’ She took a sip of beer. ‘I’ve been thinking about the videos. Of you and
me.’

Liam sat very still. ‘Have you had any more?’

‘No,’ said Natalie. ‘But even before the video…ever since the card, I keep getting
stuck on why Georgia hasn’t brought up the paedophile ring in therapy. That has to
be
what Paul is worried she’s going to tell me. She’s hinted other things, but nothing
beyond how it applies to her situation.’ Georgia’s narcissism, her interest in Paul
only as directly related to her? Yes, but the imperative to stay out of prison would
make it all the more likely she’d use what she had. Which left a high level of dissociation
or ignorance as the best level of explanation of Georgia’s failing to mention whatever
it was Paul thought she might, yet this didn’t sit well with her either.

Natalie lay her head back against the booth and stretched her foot out under the
table to rest over his groin. She was recreating a scene from
Flashdance
; Liam grinned.
‘Have you found
anything
that links him to it?’

Liam didn’t seem to be concentrating. Not on what she was saying at least. His hand
ran up her leg. She didn’t feel like concentrating on Paul either; but the missing
jigsaw piece left her uneasy. ‘No. Not even enough to bring him in for questioning.
I’d love another drink,’ he added, though his expression suggested it was more of
the under the table activity he had in mind, ‘but Lauren is just back from Geneva
and tonight’s one of those united parental front occasions.’

‘Sure.’ She pulled away her foot, smiled stiffly and only stayed long enough for
him to brush her cheek. She stormed home, still trying to deny her vulnerability
to the man and losing the fight when she rounded the cul de sac to her door.

At first she couldn’t quite make sense of what she was seeing. There was another
note. Only this one was pinned to something hanging from the door of her warehouse.
From a distance it was white, about the size of a football. Or a…

She ran, remembering the stolen picture of Bob.

Chapter 29

It was a dead rabbit.

She cut it down, feeling sick. She put the envelope in her bag and disposed of the
carcass to the accompaniment of Bob’s screeches.

‘Lucky you’re smart enough not talk to strangers,’ she told him. ‘Or else he might
have tried that parrot au vin I’ve been threatening you with.’

She played the security-camera video. It revealed a figure in dark clothes, including
a balaclava and gloves, almost certainly male. It could have been Paul but she felt
it was someone younger, more agile. His hired help presumably. Or an associate from
the bunny club.

The file on the USB was, as always, simple:
You’ve been meddling where you shouldn’t
have.
Then:
Mr O’Shea will find your hospital file interesting I should think.

Natalie’s Fridays had increasingly been taken up with Tiphanie’s case. She figured
losing another one to it would hardly matter. She had to get out of the warehouse.
After a workout, shower and a coffee, she eased her bike out of the garage space
and hit the road. It was another beautiful spring day, not yet warm enough for the
leathers to be a
problem. But it could have been pissing down rain and she wouldn’t
have noticed. Her body was tense and her mind on edge. The ride cleared her head
and by the time she parked outside the Welbury police station she was able to put
aside, for the moment, what had happened the previous night.