The Mak Collection (73 page)

Andy was shut out, a familiar feeling in recent years. He waited tensely for the brief moment he would be able to give Makedde a nod of support before she walked into the courtroom. And that was all he could do. Just nod. The feeling of impotence did not sit well with him.

‘Fifty bucks says they question her today about whether or not you porked her.’

‘Jimmy!’ Andy rubbed his temples. ‘My head hurts.’

‘Come on. Betcha fifty!’

Andy covered his ears.

‘Wow you went hard last night,’ Jimmy finally said, realising how fragile his partner was.

‘Yeah.’

Andy’s brain ached from his late-night session with his mate Jack Daniels. He had managed to cut
it short by tossing the bottle in the garbage again, but only after downing a full three-quarters of it. And that had been a chaser for a couple of seemingly benign beers from his fridge. So far, that was one battle he didn’t seem to be winning. He would have to do better the night before he was called to the stand, or his binges could spell serious trouble for him once again. He probably would not be called to give evidence for another few days, after Makedde took the stand and endured the intense examination and cross-examination process. The prosecution was bringing out the big guns first for emotional impact: the only first-hand account of Ed’s demented violence in this horrifying case. Mak’s testimony would be pivotal in hitting home the human cost of what the man had done to his victims.

‘Don’t call me a victim, Andy. I’m a survivor, not a victim…please don’t ever call me that
…’

Andy’s heart twisted in his chest at the thought of her, and how intimate they had been when she had spoken those words. Things were different now.

‘Did you see Ed’s ma?’

Ed Brown’s mother. Yes, Andy had spotted her too. ‘The lovely Mrs Brown,’ he replied.

Her date with the court had prompted Mrs Brown to dress somewhat more conservatively than usual. The white rolls of flesh that had been proudly on display in the past were now covered in a drab navy suit that fitted her like a potato sack. The wardrobe was different, but the scowl she wore was apparently a permanent one, and had not faded in
intensity since last they’d seen her. She was by all accounts a bitter, difficult woman, a disposition earned from years spent working the streets before a house fire sentenced her to a wheelchair-bound existence. What did she think of her son? Andy wondered. And would she see him differently by the time this trial was through? Would it finally bring home to her what he had done?

‘Hello, Detective Flynn.’

Andy looked up with a start.

Damn.

It was the ubiquitous Pat Goodacre, arguably the most tenacious reporter in Sydney. He’d expected she would show. Her presence was both good and bad. She would report the facts more accurately than most, but she would get
all
the facts, and that could be worrying.

‘Pat, how are you?’ Andy said cautiously.

‘Yeah, you chased any pretty ambulances lately?’ Jimmy added, ever the diplomat. He sat with his arms crossed, practically sneering in the journalist’s face.

‘You should get a muzzle for your dog,’ Pat replied, not even sparing a glance at him. Her pleasant features seemed to sharpen, her eyes narrowed. ‘The staff at the hotel say you don’t tip so well, Andy. I was wondering if you have any comment on their service.’

Pat was clearly having a bit of a fish around.

‘You don’t have anything, Pat.’

‘The Westin has always been good to me,’ she said.

‘You’ve got nothing.’

‘The Hyatt?’

Andy remained silent.

‘Where is Miss Vanderwall staying?’ she finally asked outright. ‘Come on Andy, we’re friends. There’s a lot of international media on this one. Someone’s going to get the scoop. You know I’ll do the right thing by you.’

Andy looked at his watch in an intentionally exaggerated motion. It was almost ten-thirty.

‘You wouldn’t want to lose your seat, Pat.’

She left them. The real show would be starting any minute. She would deal with him later, he felt sure.

Ed Brown would be on his way from the cells by now, about to take his place in the dock. The courtroom spectators would finally get a real live glimpse of the man who was allegedly Sydney’s Stiletto Killer. Would he measure up to their expectations? Would he appear monstrous, or merely human, just a man like any other?

If convicted on all charges, Ed Brown would sit in history’s books as one of the most prolific serial killers in Australia.

‘Miss Vanderwall?’

Makedde’s heart flew up into her throat at the sound of her name. She had been waiting for it, but it still gave her a fright. The opening remarks seemed to take forever, and now, after an hour or more of quiet fidgeting, she had been called.

Mak took a deep breath. ‘Uh, yes.’ She stood up, and put the wrinkled copy of the
Australian Women’s Weekly
she had been pretending to read back on the chair. She had been too nervous to concentrate.

The tipstaff who had come to collect her was clothed in a dapper grey uniform, gold crowns polished proudly on his lapels. He looked a gentlemanly type in his fifties, his mouth firm, but his eyes friendly.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said quietly.

With a pleasant but formal demeanour, like some kind of butler for the great courts, he led Mak from the room where she had been waiting and out into a hallway. The tall door of the courtroom was opened for her.

‘Mak…’

Her breath caught in her throat. It was Andy. He sat with Jimmy on a bench outside the court. His eyes looked bloodshot.

‘Good luck,’ Andy called softly to her. Detective Cassimatis nodded in silent support. She nodded back, barely able to think. The tipstaff urged her on, and without further delay she stepped inside.

Oh God.

The courtroom was much smaller than she had anticipated, but much more crowded too. Her entrance was met with collective silence. All eyes were on her, and most of those who stared made no attempt to pretend they were doing otherwise. Spectators, journalists and jurors looked her up and down. She’d worn a black pantsuit, her long hair pulled back behind her shoulders, and she could
feel the instant judgement of her appearance, her apparel, her hairstyle. The room momentarily exploded in excited murmurs. An artist began sketching her likeness. Court reporters scribbled in shorthand.

Makedde remained stony-faced as she walked down an aisle past the seated crowd to the witness box at the front of the court. She coughed quietly. Her hands felt clammy. She hoped she was ready.

‘Please state your full name,’ the tipstaff said.

‘Makedde Vanderwall.’

‘And your occupation?’

‘Psychology student and fashion model.’

‘Raise the Bible in your right hand and repeat after me,’ he continued. She raised the Bible. ‘I swear by almighty God that the evidence I give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ She repeated the words.

‘You may be seated.’

Don’t look at him. Don’t do it.

Mak knew everyone was watching her, including the sober-looking judge and her associate, but only one set of eyes disturbed her. She could feel
his
eyes burrowing into her, she could feel Ed’s stare as his gaze moved over her face, her neck, her bare hands. The sensation made her want to scream. She concentrated on taking in her surroundings instead. There was the stenographer waiting to record her every word, the tipstaff taking his seat, the twelve-person jury, all watching her, binders and pencils poised, each with a thick book of evidentiary material in front of them—photos of crime scenes,
images of mutilation and murder. Pictures of Makedde’s injuries would be among them. And of poor Catherine left lifeless in the tall grass.

The thin, distinguished-looking figure of William Bartel, QC, approached her. He looked different with his wig and gown. His expression was one of grave sincerity, but Mak detected a barely perceptible wink of encouragement as he ran through the formalities and moved into the examination-in-chief.

‘Miss Vanderwall, did you know a young woman by the name of Catherine Gerber?’

‘Cat? Yes, she was my best friend. She was from my home town and I helped her get into the modelling business.’

‘And did you travel to Australia to see her?’

‘Yes. About eighteen months ago I flew to Sydney to stay with her and do some modelling work.’

‘And what happened?’

Mak measured her words carefully. She didn’t want to cry in front of all these strangers. There was no way she was going to let herself cry. She feared that once she began, she would be unable to stop.

‘I arrived in Sydney and Catherine wasn’t at the airport to meet me, which surprised me. It wasn’t like her at all. I went to the address she had given me and no one answered there. Eventually I got a key from the model agent who’d organised the apartment and let myself in.’

‘I see. And what happened next? Did you see your friend Catherine Gerber?’

‘Well it was clear that she was staying in the apartment, her stuff was there, and there were phone messages for her. She hadn’t left a note or anything for me to explain where she was, and I became concerned that something might have happened to her. Then I had a photo shoot the next day at the beach at La Perouse…and that’s when I found her body in the grass.’

There was another collective intake of breath in the courtroom.

Oh, Cat.

Ed was still watching her. She could feel it. She was sure of it now. She wasn’t going to look at him. He could stare all he wanted but she was not going to acknowledge his presence.

‘Were you asked to make a formal identification of the body?’ Bartel asked.

‘Yes. The next day Detective Flynn asked me to meet with him at the Glebe morgue to identify her body. I was the only one available who really knew her.’

‘And was it your friend?’

‘Yes. It was Catherine. And at the morgue, that was where I first saw Ed Brown. He was the morgue attendant.’

Bartel leaned forward across the bar table. He didn’t look at Makedde in the witness box, but aimed his question towards the judge and jury, as if trying to impress something upon them. ‘Did the defendant, Mr Brown, say anything to you at that first meeting?’

‘Yes. Something about how I could touch her if I wanted to, and that he had saved some of her hair if I wanted it.’

There were mutterings of disgust from the public gallery.

‘I suppose I was pretty emotional and I didn’t think much of it at the time,’ Mak went on. ‘Sometimes families ask for things. I was the closest she probably had to family. But later it did strike me as odd.’

He got off on that
, she wanted to say.
Ed got off on my seeing her dead body, his handiwork, while he stood there and offered a lock of her hair…

It was well into the afternoon before Bartel began questioning Makedde about her abduction at the hands of Ed Brown. And it was this questioning in front of the crowd of strangers and reporters,
in front of Ed
, that she knew she would find extremely challenging. She didn’t even dare think ahead to her cross-examination by the formidable Phillip Granger, that would commence all too soon, perhaps tomorrow. Recalling the facts required a difficult journey into places in her memory that she did not want to travel to. Ed had planned to kill her—
to do even worse than simply kill her
—and he would have done just what he pleased if Andy had not intervened and saved her from becoming Ed’s tenth unfortunate victim. In the end, injured and bound as she was, she had been unable to
successfully fend for herself. That was the truth. For someone as fiercely independent as Mak, the reality of that vulnerable state was very hard to accept.

‘Can you tell us what happened next?’ Bartel asked her patiently.

She saw the stenographer typing away, recording every word. The defence counsel and his instructing solicitor wrote notes, and whispered back and forth to each other and their juniors. An artist turned her sketchpad to a new sheet of paper. One of the jurors, an elderly woman wearing round spectacles, looked at a crime-scene photo in her booklet of images. Mak thought she must be looking at an image of Ed’s van, the one he had kidnapped her in, or perhaps the autopsy instruments he had stolen to use on her, and the thought of it made her feel like vomiting.

‘Miss Vanderwall…?’ Bartel prompted.

She had to answer him.

‘I…’ she began. Her voice shook. ‘I don’t remember every detail. There were curtains across the front of the cab…so I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see where he was driving me to. I tried everything I could to get free. I started talking to him, trying to convince him to free me. I told him he could let me go and I wouldn’t do anything. I told him he could just let me out on the side of the road and I wouldn’t tell anybody. I told him he could take my money. But he just became more and more agitated. He kept telling me to shut up. I think he must have looked away from the road while he was speeding, because the van went out of
control and plunged into a river. There was a huge crash. He had me in these handcuffs on a chain. When the van went over it threw me into the air and I hit the inside wall hard. Later, I found out my ribs had been broken. I think the chain broke with the impact because I could finally free myself. There was water pouring into the van. I managed to climb out through the front window and wade through the water. I was freezing cold and disoriented, but then I remember finding the shore and out of nowhere something hit me on the head. The next thing I knew he was standing over me.’

At this point, her tears, which up until then had stubbornly clung to her lashes, finally let go in streams down her cheeks. ‘I realised that I was tied down,’ Makedde recalled, beginning to sob despite her best efforts not to. ‘I realised that some time must have passed since I was in the water. I must have blacked out for a while. I was in a lot of pain. My head really hurt. I couldn’t move. I was cold and I was naked. And I saw instruments.’ She took a deep breath and tried to control her voice. ‘He said he was going to perform an autopsy on me. He said…he said something like, “I will save the fatal incisions for last”.’