The Mak Collection (137 page)

A jail sentence was probably not something Damien Cavanagh would want to live with. So why would a high flier like him get involved in all of that mess? Why would he choose the services of illegal and unregulated sex workers, when legal sex workers—Asian, Caucasian or any ethnicity he liked—were readily available? Was the experience with these women different? Did they allow unprotected sex—extreme sex?

What is his motivation? Would he risk all that just for a feeling of power?

The video finished playing.

Bogey shook his head. ‘Yeah, I think that could be him. Or someone who looks like him. But that is definitely a Whiteley.’

Wow.

The Cavanagh family had status indeed, and like most in their position they would do anything in their power to avoid going from the top of the status food chain to the bottom—social A-list to common criminal.

If that video had come from Amy, then Mak had to get hold of her, and fast.

Luther Hand knelt down and examined the girl on the floor of the delivery van.

Amy Camilleri was attractive.

Luther wasn’t often close to attractive women. Even the ones who were paid to keep men company baulked at the sight of his face and imposing build. Only the roughest, most desperate prostitutes in Mumbai had ever willingly agreed to visit him in all his years living there, especially since the cosmetic surgery to correct the scarring of his face had failed. He struck fear into women, and he could see it in their faces. Luther looked scary; he knew it. This girl had thought so, too. He’d noticed the fear in her eyes when she had seen him, and had quickly looked away.

She felt no fear now.

The target, Miss Camilleri, was on the floor of the rented van, mouth slack, eyes wide open and moving rhythmically from side to side, an involuntary response to the drugs he had administered to her. Beside her, the confused pup
nuzzled against her hand, wanting to be patted. She was unresponsive. He could hear her deep, slow breaths. Luther had jabbed her with an intramuscular dose of the anaesthetic drug ketamine, enough to knock her out for about thirty minutes, relatively unharmed. He could leave her there for a while if he had to. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Luther reached down and closed the target’s softly painted eyelids, his calloused hands seeming oversized next to her smooth features.

Now she looked peaceful.

He returned to the driver’s seat and drove the van several blocks away to an inconspicuous lane lined by high fencing and garbage bins, behind a series of residences; a spot he had chosen for its privacy during his planning. Within minutes he had taken off his cap and changed out of his delivery shirt and into a black T-shirt. He put a baseball cap on his head, and dark sunglasses, and went to the side of the van to take off the adhesive signage, looking both ways as he did so. The signage came off easily with a bit of muscle, and he balled it up and put it in a garbage bin in the lane. He returned to the target and closed the double doors of the van behind him. She still looked like she was sleeping, though beneath her closed eyelids her eyeballs continued to move rapidly, twitching. The pup had wandered back to its basket, where it sat with its head on its paws, staring at the girl.

Luther took a moment to observe her as she lay unconscious on the black rubber sheeting he’d spread out across the floor of the truck. She was wearing small denim shorts and a singlet that said
HUSTLER
on it. His eyes followed her form, the shape of her slim, bare legs; the tiny, straight scar on her left kneecap; the mole on her chest; her breasts that rose and fell with her heavy, drug-induced breathing. Her bleached hair spread out luxuriously from a messy ponytail. One knee lay open at an angle. Between her legs a glimpse of white panties showed under her brief shorts.

Back to work
, Luther told himself.

He took his eyes away from the target to check through her purse. If the contents he needed were inside, he would be able to avoid returning to Mr Moon’s house and disabling the elaborate surveillance equipment to get inside. Luther was adept at electronic surveillance—both enabling and disabling it—but with most systems he would run some small risk of setting off an undetected internal alarm. Furthermore, the pretext of the absence of Mr Moon’s girlfriend would evaporate if it seemed that a professional was involved. It had been better to get her out of the house willingly—that was why Luther had risked letting the target back inside to get her purse. His client wanted that mobile phone, and Luther would much rather the target get it for him than have to go in and get it himself.

He had learned that the hard way on an early job on the Gold Coast that had seen him surprised by a returning spouse while he rummaged hopelessly through the house in search of the item he needed—an item, in hindsight, that he could have talked the target into retrieving for him at an earlier stage. It was best to avoid such unnecessary risks.

Luther had been watching carefully. He knew full well that the target, Miss Camilleri, was alone in Mr Moon’s house. If she had gone back inside and not come out again, he would have gone in and got her.

Good.

The target’s mobile phone was in her purse, as was her wallet, some make-up and a set of keys. The phone was all he had been briefed to collect and bring back. The mission had been a success. He only had one more instruction left to carry out before returning to Sydney.

Luther drove the truck into position in the narrow laneway behind Amy Camilleri’s one-level Richmond home. He parked it just behind her back door, and returned to the van to check on her. The target looked cold, her lips slightly bluish and her skin paler than it had been on the street thirty minutes before. The rubber sheeting was not warm; there was no heating in the truck. She still breathed slowly, eyes darting back and forth beneath the lids.

Luther slipped on a pair of latex gloves with a
loud snap that inadvertently turned Amy’s head in his direction.

The target is coming awake.

Her eyes looked in his direction, unfocused, eyelids heavy. She was slowly becoming conscious, but she would not be able to move quickly for a while. The target would most likely remain quiet. He was confident that he had no need to restrain or gag her. But he did not want her lucid as she was being transferred, or there might be some suspicious struggle.

‘Here, this will keep you warm,’ Luther told her, avoiding her eyes. He picked up a thick blanket from the back and unfolded it. He placed it over her body and she clung to it weakly, still not in full control of her motor functions.

‘Who are you?’ she managed.

Luther didn’t answer. He prepared the syringe and took a rubber band from his case, then knelt beside her. She was shivering.

‘It’s okay,’ he told her, pulling the blanket higher until it rested just under her soft chin. He pulled her left arm out and inspected the veins under her pale flesh. She didn’t flinch or struggle at his prodding. The target was still very sleepy, her body malleable. She would be feeling very numb.

‘Relax,’ he said in her ear, and tied the rubber band tight around her arm, just above the elbow. Luther wasn’t good with words. He didn’t often need conversation, but he did his best to calm
her. The girl was still shivering, despite the blanket.

The vein in the crook of her elbow was beginning to rise, bluish and plump. Once it became visible he wasted no time. In one jab he forced the tip of the needle in, causing her to shift at the feel of the pinprick. She barely flinched. Luther squeezed the end of the syringe until it was dry, the pure heroin flowing into her bloodstream in a lethal, irreversible dose.

‘Ahhhhhooo…’ she moaned, twisting her head. She would be feeling no pain, just a surge of pleasure and adrenaline.

Luther watched her face, gently placing her arm back under the blanket again. Almost immediately her breathing became shallow and harsh; her forehead broke out in a clammy sweat. He stroked her brow and hairline with his gloved hand, gently caressing the skin.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, stroking, stroking. His latex fingertips pushed the light sweat back. ‘It’s okay…’

The target gasped and her leg jumped. Her body was beginning to cramp. Her breathing got worse. The whole time Luther knelt at her side, whispering softly to her and gently caressing her brow, stealing occasional looks at the second hand of his watch.

Thirty seconds…sixty…ninety…

It was over in less than three minutes. When her breathing stopped he checked her pulse with two fingers.

Dead.

The target, Miss Amy Camilleri, twenty-one years of age, had died from a massive heroin overdose. It was a tragedy when drug users, particularly those who were depressed and anxious after the loss of a loved one—a friend, for instance—came across a pure form of heroin and, in their careless state, underestimated its potency. It was dangerous to experiment with a cocktail of drugs, like the anaesthetic ketamine, for instance, which could be acquired on the street by confused young women who wanted to forget the loss of their dear murdered friend for a while. It was particularly sad, and potentially lethal, to inject alone at home with no witnesses. There could be no one to help when they ran into trouble. Even someone’s protective new boyfriend was unlikely to break down the door and find them. It could be days before the neighbours complained about the objectionable and suspicious smell.

When it came time for the autopsy, the cause of death would be straightforward. Under the circumstances, it was unlikely that there would be much of an inquiry.

Luther wrapped the target’s still body in the rubber sheeting, lifted her up over his shoulder and carried her inside her house through the back door, which he unlocked with the keys from her purse. Her home was small; it did not take him long to find the right spot. He placed
her body on the square cream linoleum tiles of her kitchen floor with the syringe in her hand, careful to make a good imprint of her fingertip on it, as per his instructions. He kept the mobile phone but left her keys, the purse and its contents on the kitchen table, laid out casually next to the opened gift card.

AMY
,
I LOVE YOU MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE CAN XOX
said the card.

Luther left the gift basket by the front door and let the puppy roam the kitchen.

He then called The American to give his update.

‘Melbourne has been a success,’ he said, looking down at the target’s body. The puppy had circled the kitchen and now sat near Amy’s face, its head cocked to one side. It whimpered.

‘You have what we need?’ The American asked.

‘Yes,’ Luther assured him. ‘I have it.’

‘Very good.’

Luther left, locking the back door behind him and pulling off his latex gloves as he reached the van. He would be back in Sydney by nightfall to deliver the target’s phone to his client.

And to be briefed on his next assignment.

‘And I’ve been on the plan for two years, and…’

Makedde Vanderwall spent the entire flight back from Melbourne to Sydney ruminating over every word Amy Camilleri had said. The girl still was not answering her phone, but Mak was sure the video message had come from her.

Is that video how she knows that Damien Cavanagh is involved in Meaghan’s death? Or was there more? What is the link? Who is the girl in the video?

The video had effectively taken Mak’s mind off her conversation with Andy.
There is nothing you can do right now.
Mak wished she’d been able to think more clearly, but she had a talker sitting next to her.

‘It actually reverses ageing,’ the man went on, incessant in his desire to talk Mak’s ear off. He’d already given her a business card she didn’t want for his health clinic. ‘Reverses it,’ he repeated.

That’s it.

Mak put down
The Age
newspaper that she had been pretending to read. ‘Ageing can not be
reversed,’ she said, irritated. ‘It is age. It is time passing. Therefore, by its very nature, it cannot be reversed. You can’t reverse or stop time from passing, only prevent premature physical signs of age. Which is not the same as reversing actual age.’ She took a breath. ‘I am pleased you have found a health program that works for you. Good for you.’

She brought her paper up again, feeling his eyes on her through the newsprint.

‘How old are you?’ he asked her, undeterred.

Mak rolled her eyes behind the pages. ‘I’m forty-eight—why?’ she lied, and gave him a look.

His eyes got big. ‘Really? That’s amazing.’ He looked a little perplexed.

‘Good genes, I guess,’ she said.

The flight arrived right on time, and Mak was pleased to leave her talkative new friend. She switched her mobile phone back on as she disembarked and put it in her jacket pocket. Hopefully there would be some kind of message waiting for her, anything at all to explain the video and its origins.

Mak planned on taking a taxi straight to police headquarters to speak with Detective Sergeant Hunt, and to show him the video she had been sent; and while she was at it, she hoped they would run a CCR check on the phone number and be able to confirm whether or not Amy Camilleri had sent the message.

Mak strode past the gates towards the airport arrivals exit, head down. She stepped out into the fresh air through the exit doors and saw that the taxi rank had a long line-up.

Damn. This will take a while.

To her surprise, she was shoved sideways. She stumbled on the footpath, nearly losing her balance.

‘Hey!’ she called out, shocked.

It took her only a moment to realise that her handbag had been lifted from her shoulder.

‘Hey! Stop! Police!’ she yelled, registering what had happened.

She took off down the sidewalk after the man. He looked young and thin, wearing board shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes. And boy, he could run. Mak struggled along after him, hauling the weight of her overnight bag on her shoulder as he dodged the incoming traffic to cross the street and flee into the massive parking centre.