Spiking the Girl (9 page)

Gemma stretched her neck and shoulders. The light had faded and she switched the deck light on and sprayed herself with citronella to keep the mozzies at bay.

The next piece of paper was not a witness statement, but a memo.

Intranet Memorandum

From: Supt JS Buisman

To: D/S Bruno Gross

Re: Missing Person: Amy Bernhard. CN #039–4303

Bruno,

After our discussion of yesterday and the situation that you described to me I think it would be best from the legal angle that you step aside. I have decided to take you off this case and will allocate someone else to take over. Please be ready to hand over all relevant paperwork, case notes, etc, when directed.

Yours

Jim

Gemma read it again. Bruno Gross had been the detective in charge of the earlier investigation and he’d been relieved of this position and someone else put on. Why? What was ‘the situation’ they’d discussed? She made a note to track down Jim Buisman and underlined it. She recalled how it was often messy when a job changed hands, with more than the usual chance of procedures not being followed up and information slipping between cracks during the handover. This would be multiplied if the original investigator had been someone like G-for-Gross.

The last adult to have spoken to Amy appeared to have been Mr Romero. Surely he should have been interviewed? She made a mental note to ask Angie if he had ever been properly followed up; she knew that it took only one incompetent or lazy member on an investigating team for all the work done by the others to be undermined. She shuffled through and found the witness statement she was very keen to see—that of Mannix John Romero.

I have been teaching Art and History at Netherleigh Park for six years and I teach Amy Bernhard Art and History. On the morning of the second of December I was delayed in traffic and arrived late for my teaching duties. I first noticed that Amy was not in class that morning, but it wasn’t until the end of the day that I heard she had gone missing. She is a good student and I don’t know of any reason that she would go missing.

Had Bruno picked up the hole in Mr Romero’s statement that the teacher hadn’t mentioned that a pre-school-hours meeting had been arranged with Amy? She needed to talk to Mr Romero as soon as possible .
 
.
 
.

Gemma sorted the statements into two piles: those she’d read and noted, those yet to be examined. From the second pile, she picked up the statement from Mr Alistair Forde—the harmless, funny old bachelor who lived next door, Gemma remembered.

I live next door to the Bernhard house and on the night of the thirty-first of October I was changing the light bulb when I happened to look outside and saw a person crouching in the bushes outside one of the rooms of the Bernhard house. I could see him even though the person was keeping down because of the outside automatic light on the side passage of my house. I went downstairs and as I was walking up the side to challenge this person, he turned around and I got a good look at his face before he took off, running in a northerly direction and disappearing over the back fence. The person was not familiar to me. I rang Lauren Bernhard and told her what I’d seen.

Gemma stood up and went over the railing, leaning against it. The sky and sea were now the same luminous steel colour as the last of the reflected light from the west bounced back from the surface of the ocean. Despite the citronella, she realised she was being targeted so she gathered up the piles of papers and took them back inside. She hunted through the unread statements but couldn’t find any other reference to the incident reported by Alistair Forde. It was probably just an entry on the local police station’s running sheet with NFA—no further action—beside it.

The next statement was from Amy’s father.

My name is Andrew Bernhard and I am divorced from Amy’s mother and have been living at the above address in Brisbane for the last eleven years. I was attending a business meeting when my ex-wife contacted me and told me that our daughter Amy had not been to school on the second of December and that she’d called Amy’s friends and was worried .
 
.
 
. Amy is a good girl and has never done anything like this before.

How would you know? Gemma thought. She quickly skipped through the rest of the statements. There should be one from Eric Stokes, Amy’s stepfather, president of the FFM—but there wasn’t. Had he been overlooked too? All the more reason for her to visit Eric Stokes.

Next Gemma turned her attention to her copies of the running sheets including the names and addresses of the people the police had contacted in the first days of Amy’s disappearance. Could Amy have headed north to see her father and met with foul play? She thought of the Ratbag—the kid who’d lived next door to her in the adjoining unit until he and his mother had moved to Melbourne. He’d run away, back to Sydney, and camped out on the cliffs near his old apartment until Gemma had stumbled on him and taken him in for a few days.

Gemma stood up and stretched. There was something right in front of her, something important. Something she wasn’t getting, something she wasn’t seeing. Something that didn’t add up. She needed a break. But first she needed to organise an interview with Mr Romero. Both Amy and Tasmin had been expected at pre-school meetings with him on the mornings they’d disappeared. Her mobile rang and she snatched it up.

‘It’s me,’ said Angie, her voice sounding tired. ‘I knew you’d want to know straightaway. I’ve just come from the morgue and the initial examination of Amy Bernhard. She’s been officially identified.

‘The body was rolled up in a piece of vinyl and the doc’s only got skeletal remains to work with. But the vinyl might have protected some evidence. There was no clothing found on or near her—nothing except a piece of nylon cord. Samples have gone to the Division of Analytic Laboratories in case there’s anything on them. The doc’s saying it’s going to be one of those tricky ones. Still, it’s pretty amazing what he can get from a pile of bones.’

‘Did you notice,’ Gemma began, ‘that both Amy and Tasmin were supposed to have a meeting with their History teacher—’

‘I did,’ said Angie. ‘I tried to contact him today but he’s off sick. I’m going to talk to the school body on Friday night—I’ll catch up with him then. Or track him down. By then, we might have something helpful from the pathology report.’

‘How’s the investigation going?’ Gemma asked.

‘The strike force is being put together right now. We’re going to check out all the teachers—their backgrounds, employment histories.’

‘As long as Bruno doesn’t get that job,’ Gemma said. ‘Make sure it’s given to someone who’ll do it.’ She paused. ‘That reminds me—did you see that memo from a super taking Bruno off the earlier investigation? Someone called Jim Buisman?’

‘Vaguely. I didn’t take much notice. I was concentrating on the witness statements.’

‘Where can I find Buisman?’

‘Last I heard he was HOD. I’ll ask around.’

‘Hurt on duty’ was often used as a door out of the police service, Gemma knew. Angie sighed. ‘Now I’ve had to go and cancel a date with Trevor. Why don’t these kids just stay home and behave?’

‘Did you?’

Angie laughed. ‘Trevor’s got to go away on a job.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He sent me this huge box of red roses and a box of chocolates. And in the chocolates was another poem. Listen .
 
.
 
.’ Angie started reading. ‘
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways .
 
.
 
.
Isn’t that just gorgeous?’

‘Lovely.’

Gemma was sure she’d heard it before. Even so, she couldn’t help a pang of envy. Angie was happy and in love. Not like me, she thought. Home alone with witness statements and mozzies. There was a pause during which she focused back on the subject.

‘Who’ve you got on the strike force?’ she asked, wondering if she’d know any of the names.

‘Would you believe, Sean Wright?’

‘You poor thing,’ said Gemma. ‘G-for-Gross and Mr Right in one task force. You should get danger money.’

‘Hey, cheer up, honeybun. You sound edgy or something. What’s up?’ Angie asked.

‘We’ve just discovered—Kit and I, I mean—that we’ve got a sister. A half-sister.’ Gemma filled her friend in.

‘Would your father’s name be on the birth certificate?’

Gemma considered. ‘She was in love with him. She said she was going to kill herself if he didn’t leave our mother.’

‘Then I’d say most definitely your father’s name will appear on the birth certificate. Why would she be coy about it? She’d
want
to name him as the father of her child if she was in love with the man. She’d want to get him on paper. Then it’s almost official,’ said Angie.

Gemma’s mind went through some fast calculations. ‘So I should be looking for a female child, father’s name Chisholm, born .
 
.
 
.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s where it gets really tricky. We haven’t got a birth date. Only the year.’ The online individual search facility she used would probably require her half-sister’s full name. And their records might not go back far enough anyway.

‘You’re not going to be able to get into Births, Deaths and Marriages,’ said Angie. ‘Not unless you bribe someone, blackmail them, seduce them or know a good hacker.’

It certainly wasn’t going to be easy, Gemma conceded. Identity theft was the crime of the season and, apart from the person in question, only parents could now access birth certificates. Even then, three forms of ID were required. For a wicked moment, she wondered if Mike could hack into government records. It had certainly been done before. But she dismissed the idea as crazy. It would be the end of her professional life. And his. Serving time at Mulawa women’s prison was not an attractive proposition. Green had never been her colour.

‘So where are you going to start?’ said Angie. ‘You might have to door-knock every house in Hargreaves Street.’

‘I’ll start at the usual place: electoral rolls. Although without a first name that would hardly help.’ Gemma had a sudden inspiration. ‘Angie, you said it! Of course she’d want to get him on paper! She may even have wanted to get him
in
the paper! Announcing the happy event. Perhaps she put “Kingston–Chisholm. A daughter”.’

‘Do you reckon?’ said Angie. ‘And then go off and top herself?’

‘It’s a start,’ said Gemma.

‘You’ll have many happy days in the State Library, peering at microfilmed newspapers. Three hundred and sixty plus, not counting public holidays,’ said Angie, ringing off.

Gemma brought her attention back to the two girls from Netherleigh Park. The status of the investigation into the case of Amy Bernhard had changed from missing person to murder and this immediately made Tasmin Summers’s sudden disappearance more ominous. Gemma also wanted to speak to Mr Mannix Romero as soon as possible, sick or not. Her phone rang again.

‘Sorry to ring so late,’ said Beatrice de Berigny, ‘but I need to ask you something.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Gemma, ‘I was going to ring you. I need to talk to Mr Romero. Check a couple of things with him.’

There was a silence before Miss de Berigny spoke. ‘I want you to come and talk to the school body on Friday night. Dectective Sergeant Angie McDonald is going to address the girls and the staff and I’ve invited their families as well. If you could come too, I’m sure it would make much more of an impression—cover all bases. I’ve sent notes home with all the students about it and considerable interest is being shown.’

That would be a perfect opportunity, Gemma thought, knowing that she didn’t need to check her diary. Her nights were all free now. Too free.

‘I’ll mention to Mr Romero that you want to talk to him,’ Miss de Berigny went on. ‘He’s not well just now.’

‘With your permission,’ Gemma added, ‘I’d like to have a look around the school too, especially the classrooms.’

‘You’re very welcome to do that,’ said the principal. ‘I’ll arrange it myself. One of the senior students could show you around.’

‘One more thing,’ said Gemma. ‘Tasmin Summers.’ She noticed the principal’s sharp intake of breath at the name. ‘What do you know about her family situation?’

‘Her father is in the military,’ said Miss de Berigny. ‘The youngest general in the army.’ She paused. ‘He’s away in the Gulf at the moment.’

‘And Mrs Summers?’ Gemma asked.

‘She runs her own film production company. Brilliant woman.’

After ringing off, Gemma headed back into the kitchen and opened the fridge. She needed to talk to the brilliant producer, Mrs Summers. She stood there, staring into the fridge, deep in thought. Still the same miserable items—the drying chicken carcass blighting the interior. She pulled it out and put it in the rubbish, scolding herself. Gemma Lincoln, your fridge is a disgrace.

She started making a list. Sometimes, ordinary routine chores—like shopping for herself—could be very soothing.

Gemma drove to Kings Cross, the shopping list in her briefcase. The big 24-hour supermarket in the Kingsgate
Centre was convenient and well stocked. Mechanical Christmas carols sounded behind the clash of trolleys and the too-loud announcements about pricing.

Despite the recent attempts to clean up the Cross, the spruikers were already out, trying to drum up business nevertheless. Two of the worst clubs, operating as unlicensed brothels, had not been able to renew their leases and were now boarded up, plastered with advertisements for rock bands, moving-house sales and singles clubs. Maybe I should take note of that last number, Gemma thought bitterly.

Lugging grocery packages back to her car in the underground parking station, some atavistic sense stirred in her. Badly lit, with dark corners and stains on the ground, the car park revived a memory of the frequently replayed, jerky security footage of a woman who had been the subject of an intense murder investigation caught leaving a car park. She had never been seen again.

Gemma swung around but there was no one in sight except a young mother battling with the shopping, a tired toddler and a baby, clearly not knowing which one to attend to first. But still the signal from some ancient part of Gemma’s brain persisted: someone is watching you.

She stowed the shopping bags in the boot and got back into the car, wanting to be out of there fast. Reversing quickly, she swung the car towards the exit sign, using the mirror to keep an eye on her rear. Two other cars swung out straight after her—a red Volkswagen and a white Ford. All traffic had to turn left at the exit and she watched the progress of the other two vehicles. The red VW peeled off near Bayswater Road, but the white Ford stayed behind, two cars back—the classic ‘two for cover’ of physical surveillance. She wondered why they’d bother. It was clear she was heading home with her shopping, and there was no secrecy about where she lived—her business was listed in the phone book.

She drove in a wide circle around the Cross, returning finally via Woolloomooloo and into the parking station again, the white Ford staying with her. She indicated left but suddenly swung into a just-vacated spot, braking sharply. The white Ford went past, fast now because he knew he’d been pinged, the driver just a colourful blur with dark hair. She jotted down the part of the rego she’d managed to get, abandoned her own car and hurried on foot up to street level, keeping an eye out for the Ford.

The nightclub, Indigo Ice, was shut and she had to lean on the bell for a while before the door was yanked open. The stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke spiked with the sharp stink of vomit hit her.

‘Who’s making all that racket?’ A man’s angry face appeared. ‘Gemma! It’s you! Come in, come in! Sorry about the mess. The cleaner packed it in last night. Good to see you.’

Kosta Theodorakis, her late friend Shelly’s boyfriend, led her through the dark, deserted club. With the chairs piled up in groups and a mop and bucket in the middle of the floor, the space looked like the set for a cabaret act.

‘Someone’s on my tail, Kosta,’ she said, bypassing the usual pleasantries. ‘Someone in a white Ford. Multi-coloured shirt. Dark hair. Rego with a three, six and seven in it.’

Kosta shrugged. ‘No one I know. You’ll need a drink.’ In Kosta’s world, most people were being tracked, one way or the other.

‘Not right now,’ said Gemma. ‘I just want to know who it is and why. I’ve had this feeling for a few days now. And today I spotted him. Ask around for me—see what you can find out about who might be tailing me? And why?’

‘But Gemma, babes. You’re the investigator.’

‘I don’t want to draw attention to myself,’ she said. ‘I go asking around and everyone and everything pulls back. You know how toey people get. You can go where I can’t go.’

‘Anything I can do for you, I will. You know that. Friends for life, we are.’

He took a swig on his beer and walked over to a wide scissored broom which he started pushing around the floor, gathering butts, ring-pulls and other assorted debris. Gemma wished she’d brought her camera with her: a Greek man sweeping an interior floor, the assistant manager of the club no less.

‘Give me that,’ she said. She pushed it along in a wide square. There was something very satisfying about seeing the dust and dirt and bits of paper all being collected in the vee-shaped arms of the broom.

‘I still miss her heaps,’ Kosta said, swigging more beer. ‘Whenever I see you, I think of the Shell. What a good woman she was.’

Gemma gave him a hug.

‘So watcha doing these days?’ he asked. ‘Apart from getting yourself into strife. Haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘This and that,’ she said. ‘Busy looking into the disappearance of that girl from the flash ladies’ college last year.’

‘Everyone knows what happened to her!’ said Kosta with a pitying look. He pulled out his cigarettes. ‘That’s old hat. You wanna know?’

Gemma pulled out her notebook. This was too easy.

‘She ran away to Brisbane, to live with her dad.’

‘And?’

‘And that’s where she is. She’s no more disappeared than I am when the licensing demons come round.’

‘So how come her body turns up wrapped in vinyl near Port Botany?’

‘Shit! Is that what’s happened?’

‘That’s what’s happened.’ She put her notebook away. ‘Where did you get the Brisbane story?’

Kosta went all vague. ‘Oh, everyone was saying so a while back. Her father was involved in a modelling agency when he was in Sydney. Used to have an office round here. Few doors up.’

Lauren Bernhard hadn’t mentioned anything about that, thought Gemma. But then why would she? Could that have been the secret? She made a mental note to follow the lead. ‘So how’s your business?’

Kosta shrugged. ‘I don’t know whether it’s this terrorism business or whether that new club in Darlinghurst is taking people away from me.’ He picked up a business card and threw it to Gemma who caught it as it spun past.

‘Deliverance,’ she read. ‘The very best in cool. Day or night. We deliver.’ The ‘D’ of the club’s name was a cleverly stylised razor blade cutting a line of powder.

‘That’s pretty bloody blatant,’ she said. ‘What are the cops doing about that?’

Kosta did his best Greek grimace, shrugging, mouth turned down. ‘What do you think? Fuck all.’

Gemma frowned. ‘I know how cops think. They might be turning a blind eye, or even getting a piece of it, but they wouldn’t tolerate this being shoved right in their faces. They’re practically advertising that they’re dealing.’

‘They did a few busts and got nowhere. The owners are pillars of the community. Rotarians, that sort of thing.’

‘Who are they?’ Gemma wanted to know.

‘You’d know the names if I could remember them. Some bloody foreign name.’ Kosta wasn’t being ironic. ‘Believe me, if I had any dirt on them, I’d be dishing it. They’re the bloody competition. They’re hurting me.’

Gemma glanced down at the provocative logo.

‘But I reckon it’s more than just a new club on the scene,’ Kosta continued. ‘You ask any of the girls. They’ll tell you business is slow.’

Gemma handed him back the broom and picked up her briefcase, preparing to leave. ‘You tell me anything you hear, right? About those schoolgirls.’

‘Right.’ He started sweeping. ‘Know any good cleaners?’

Gemma walked back to her car second time around, checking every white Ford she passed. None of them contained the driver in the colourful shirt. She unhoused the radio and called Spinner. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘I was on my way home.’

‘When you’re not busy with Daria Reynolds, could you do some counter-surveillance for me from time to time over the next few days? If you see a white Ford sticking to me, I want to know.’ She gave him the partial rego she’d noted down.

‘I’ll keep an eye on you, Boss,’ said Spinner and called off.

•

Long experienced in making use of the girls’ breathtaking network of information, Gemma drove to Baroque Occasions, the licensed brothel in Darlinghurst that her dead friend Shelly had paid off over many years, ‘lying on her back’. Too many sex workers accumulated addictions and bad relationships rather than property. But Shelly, smart and educated, had left her daughter, Naomi, a two-storey terrace, nicely restored, with a couple of large rooms downstairs, a small kitchen and extra bathroom beyond, and two bedrooms and a luxurious spa bathroom upstairs.

‘Come in, come in.’ Naomi smiled, delighted to see her mother’s old friend. ‘What can I do for you?’ In her shorts, T-shirt and bare feet, she looked fit, healthy and about fourteen. She wasn’t that many years older but looking after her mother had caused Naomi to grow up fast and she was as savvy and sophisticated as many women twice her age. Like her mother, she wore no make-up when she wasn’t working; her hair was in two streaming tails on either side of her head.

‘I wondered if you’d heard anything on the street,’ said Gemma. ‘About the missing schoolgirls.’

Naomi shook her head.

‘You look like you’ve just stepped out of an advertisement for Danish ice-cream,’ Gemma continued. ‘All scrubbed and wholesome.’

Naomi laughed. ‘Want a cuppa?’

‘Sure,’ said Gemma. ‘How’s tricks?’

Naomi put two yellow cups on the table, pushing textbooks and an exercise book out of the way, turning down the radio. ‘Not as many as I’d like. Business is slow. We had the Americans here for a few days and that was fantastic. I worked my arse off. In a manner of speaking. I thought you might be here because of Hugo.’

‘Hugo?’ Gemma was astonished at this mention of the Ratbag. She’d only recently been thinking of the boy. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve seen him!’

‘Seen him? I had to hide him last night. He was on the run.’

‘Tell me what happened,’ said Gemma.

‘He lobbed in here when I was doing my homework—about midnight, I guess. Don’t laugh. I’m doing my HSC at tech. If it’s a bit quiet of an evening, I duck out here and work on my assignments.’ She indicated the pile of textbooks. ‘He was tired and hungry. Hadn’t eaten for a day or so. Said he’d had a fight with his mother and pissed off a couple of days ago. He’d been crashing at some guy’s house but the guy wanted sex and it freaked him out. I was going to ring you about him but he’d gone by the time I got up. Which was late, nearly midday.’

‘That’s the second time he’s done this,’ said Gemma. ‘Things must be tough at home.’

Naomi rolled her eyes as she poured Gemma’s tea. ‘Tell me when it’s not.’ She opened a cupboard. ‘I’ve got some nice little bickies somewhere. Want one?’

Gemma nodded to the biscuits. ‘If you see him again, Naomi, let me know fast, will you?’

‘He’s a great kid,’ said Naomi. ‘You’d think his parents would be proud of him.’

‘Yeah.’ Gemma picked up one of the books on the table. ‘What’s this like?’ she said, holding up
The Big Sleep
.

‘Haven’t read it yet,’ said Naomi. ‘We’re studying “Noir” fiction.’

‘That won’t be hard for you,’ Gemma laughed. ‘You live noir!’

Naomi tipped some Tiny Teddies onto a plate. ‘I don’t want to be selling my arse for too much longer. I’d like to get into managing places,’ she said, nipping a teddy in half. ‘I’d like to build up to a few houses. Good, safe, legitimate businesses. Classy service. That’s what I’m aiming for. That was always Mum’s dream. She never quite made it, but I could. I’ve got a couple of girls who’ll work for me at very short notice if we need more staff. They’re smart as tacks. Between us, we’ve got every sort of woman the mugs could want—mumsy, nursie, schoolgirl, dominatrix, water sports, SM. We offer every possible humiliation that money can buy!’

She laughed and pushed a long tail of blonde hair back over her shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t believe how weird some mugs are.’ News on the hour started and Naomi turned the radio up a little.

Gemma went to the kettle and topped up her strong tea. ‘Try me.’

‘There’s this guy who comes every week and prays over me.’

Gemma dunked a Tiny Teddy and lost it.

‘He is truly weird. First he prays over me, then he gets me to undress and, while I’m doing that, he starts wanking. He wants me to do the same. So I do the Meg Ryan thing—very convincing.’ She smiled. ‘You can’t imagine how weird a guy sounds when he’s praying and wanking at the same time!’

‘And that’s it?’

Naomi nodded. ‘He doesn’t touch me. Then he prays over me again while I get dressed and off he goes.’ She bit the head off a Tiny Teddy. ‘I wish they were all as easy as that. Mum had her toe-sucker for years.’

‘I should get out more,’ said Gemma. ‘I always learn something when I visit you.’

‘I used to do these regular well-paid outcalls—sometimes with Robyn or sometimes just alone—for this mug who always had a friend with him. Fantastic house at Watsons Bay. Really classy. They were loaded, I reckon.’ She finished the last of her tea. ‘Lots of photographs of a big boat—a yacht or something—which the active one said belonged to him. The quiet one would pin me down while the other mug acted out his rape fantasy. I’d have to struggle and scream. They wanted to tie me up but that’s something I’ve never allowed. As it was, I always got Kosta or someone to drive me there and wait outside. No way I’d do an outcall without security. I’d always offer the inactive one something.’ Naomi grinned. ‘Anything he wanted. Always looking for that extra buck for that extra fuck.’ Her face grew serious again. ‘But he never took me up on it.’

She stood up, carrying her empty cup to the sink. ‘They were a strange pair. The inactive one was always waiting for me on this big leather lounge or the floor. He wasn’t anything to look at, but the other one was a well-built, good-looking guy. Bit knocked around but a good body.’

‘Maybe they were bi or something?’

‘Who knows? It was always in the study—the office—and there were heaps of sporting trophies along a shelf. I never got the chance to see what they were for, but some of them had initials on them, like GPS or something. I asked them if they’d gone to private schools. For some reason, they found that very funny.’ Naomi shrugged.

‘Private schoolboys can be very up themselves,’ said Gemma, feeling angry on Naomi’s behalf.