The Profiler (36 page)

Checking the address on the paper, she leaned over and punched it into the GPS mounted on the dashboard. Pressing ‘go,’ she did a U-turn and headed in the direction shown on the screen. Picking up her radio, she called into headquarters and informed the operator where she was going.

She hadn’t heard from Clayton. He was probably still in the air. At least, she hoped he was and that his plane hadn’t been delayed any further.

Glancing at the vacant seat across from her, she felt a wave of longing. She couldn’t believe how much she missed him, how quickly she’d become used to having him beside her, joking, laughing, plotting, teasing, grinning. He hadn’t even been gone a full day and already she was pining. There was absolutely no hope for her.

She was doomed.

She was a goner.

She was a write-off.

She was in love. Head-over-heels, forget-about-the consequences in love, Fed-be-damned, in love. She shook her head at the incongruity of it. She’d never have believed anyone in a million years if they’d told her she’d find the man of her dreams while she was caught up in the middle of a nightmare multiple-murder investigation.

Nothing about that scenario made sense. But then, when did love ever follow the rules? No one got to choose who they fell in love with. Hadn’t she read that somewhere? Read it; heard it—it didn’t matter. It was the truth and that’s all that did make sense.

He’d sounded so good when he called. So calm, so happy, so keen to get back. She only hoped he’d meant what he said when he told her he loved her.

She’d discounted it earlier as just words uttered at a time when most men forgot how to think with their brain. But now, she wasn’t so sure. He’d seemed so serious, so earnest, so genuine. And the man she’d come to know over the past couple of months wasn’t the kind of guy to throw out declarations of love without thinking about them first.

She only hoped she wasn’t making their connection into more than it was—just because she wanted it to be that way.

Ellie sighed and flipped her indicator to the left to make the turn into the Cranebrook Street she’d set as her destination. She’d just have to wait until she spoke to him again. Then, she’d know for sure.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Five-thirty. At least another half hour before he landed.

“This is bordering on ridiculous,” she muttered, pushing thoughts of him aside. She checked the last address on the paper that sat on the passenger seat. Twenty-six Harpers Drive. Which meant it was the red brick-and-tile bungalow ahead on her left.

She pulled into the curb and shut off the ignition. The house looked like all the others on the street, with nothing to distinguish it except for the flourishing flower beds that grew along the fence line. Impressed at the display in the middle of winter, she recognized the pretty pink and yellow bell-shaped flowers of a common Correa bush, at least two different types of Grevillias, with their spiky olive foliage, a magnolia bush laden with creamy-white flowers and an early flowering native wisteria, whose bright purple flowers crept in gay abandonment along the front fence.

Climbing out of the car, she made her way up the concrete path leading to the front of the house. Though the path was old and cracked, it had been swept clean and ended at a freshly painted front door. Knocking twice, she stepped back and waited.

There was no response.

She cleared her throat and called out. “Police, is anyone home?” Silence met her once more and she knocked again.

After another couple of minutes with no response, she turned and walked along the patterned-tile porch and peered through the front window. Heavy cream curtains had been parted to let in the light and she could just make out lounge room furniture through the gauzy-white film still covering the window.

A good-sized plasma television, which was turned off, graced one wall and faced out to a newish brown-suede couch. The room was as neat as a pin. Not exactly where she imagine a psychopathic serial killer would live.

She called out again through the window, but the house remained stubbornly silent.

Retracing her steps down the worn concrete path, she crossed the front lawn and made her way down the side of the house. It was possible someone might be in one of the rooms furthest from the street and couldn’t hear her.

The backyard was as tidy as the front. The grass was as green as you could expect at the end of winter and was cut short with the edges trimmed. More flower beds formed decorative borders along both side fences and between the cracked concrete driveway which led to an old, but freshly painted, empty carport.

A child’s faded-green swing set stood in one corner, along with a sandpit containing toys. Two small bikes with white plastic baskets attached to the handlebars stood propped against the side of a color-bond shed that filled the back half of the garden.

Ellie pulled her coat around her shoulders in an effort to ward off the late afternoon chill and made her way over to the building. She was still a few feet away from it when she noticed there was power to it and the door was padlocked.

It wasn’t surprising. This was the western suburbs, after all. In fact, she’d be surprised to find any backyard shed unlocked in this part of Sydney.

Standing on tiptoes, she put her face up to the dirty Perspex window and peered in. The light was fading fast and she could barely make out a workbench set in the middle of the room.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she recognized other shapes. An old car body, a lawn mower and a three chest freezers all materialized in the gloom.

She breathed on the Perspex and rubbed it with her hand in an effort to remove some of the grime. The indistinct shapes on the workbench morphed into tools—chisels, a small mallet, a tin of paint. Wood shavings curled in small, riotous bundles at one end, almost as if they’d been brushed out of the way and had landed in a tangled heap.

Wood shavings
. Her heart accelerated, but she forced herself to remain calm. Wood shavings didn’t necessarily mean it was their killer. A lot of people worked with wood. Look at the professor and Rick Shadlow. Neither of them had turned out to be the perp they hunted.

All of a sudden, Ellie registered the sound of a motor vehicle approaching. She stepped away from the shed in time to see a white van come to a stop inside the carport. Making her way across the yard, she waited for the occupants to alight.

The high-pitched voices of children reached her ears as the passenger-side door swung open.

“Me, first! Me, first! You always get to go first!”

“No, me! Mama, you said I could go first today.”

An older female voice intervened. “Amy! Anissa! Enough.”

The voice was stern and the children fell silent immediately. Two girls about the ages of nine and seven jumped out of the car, tugging school bags out of the van as they did so. Ellie moved closer. They stopped in their tracks when they saw her, curiosity plain on their faces.

“Hi, I’m Detective Cooper. I’m looking for your dad.”

“He’s at work,” the girls replied together, then turned to glare at each other.

“She asked me,” the older one whined.

“No, she asked
me
,” the younger one yelled back.

“Girls, enough.”

Once again, the children fell silent, their eyes lowered. The woman Ellie assumed to be their mother rounded the back of the van. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Michelle Wilson. I’m sorry about my daughters. They know better than that. Now, what were you saying about my husband?”

Michelle Wilson’s eyes were a pale blue; her face was open and kind. White-blond hair hung down her back in a casual ponytail. Ellie guessed she was in her mid-thirties.

She took the hand the woman proffered and shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Wilson.” She glanced toward the children. “You have them well trained. I’m impressed.”

The woman’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Not without a lot of effort.”

Ellie smiled back. “I’m sure. Look, I’m making some enquires about men in your neighborhood who are employed by the Orange Cab Company. Your husband works there, doesn’t he?” Ellie watched her closely, but the calm expression in the pale blue eyes didn’t falter.

“Yes, yes he does. He’s been there for years. He loves that job.”

“I take it he’s not home at the moment?”

“No, no, he’s at work. He’s working the late shift tonight.”

Retrieving her notebook and pen from the pocket of her jacket, Ellie jotted down a few notes. “What time did he start?”

“Mm, let me think. He started at three o’clock and goes through to about three in the morning.” She grinned and shook her head. “I’m usually asleep in bed. Most times I don’t even hear him come in.”

Ellie kept her voice casual when she posed the next question. “It looks like he does some wood working in his spare time.” She inclined her head toward the shed. “I saw some tools on a workbench through the window.”

Michelle smiled again. “I don’t know where he finds the energy or the time. He only has the weekends off. He spends hours in that shed. He loves being in there almost as much as he loves his job.”

Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. “What does he do in there?”

The smile turned into an outright chuckle. “You’re not going to believe it, Detective, but he makes dolls.”

“Dolls?”

“Yes, wooden dolls. He carves them by hand. He paints all of their features and sews their clothes. Tiny dresses and shoes. Hair ribbons to match. They are magnificent.”

Disappointment surged through her. Lex Wilson hardly sounded like a serial killer. Still, he was worth talking to. Who knew—he might have seen something.

“What time does your husband go to work tomorrow?”

“Oh, not until the afternoon again. He usually sleeps for a few hours after he gets in and then potters around in the shed until it’s time to go.”

Pulling a card out of her wallet, Ellie handed it to the woman. “Here are my numbers. Please, ask him to give me a call when he’s free. I would like to speak with him.”

Michelle’s eyes clouded over. Her face turned serious. “Of course, Detective. Is there anything the matter?”

“No, no. It’s nothing to worry about. We’re doing some routine questioning. That’s all.”

The woman still looked doubtful, but slid the card into her handbag.

Ellie looked up at the darkening sky and tossed her notebook and pen back into her pocket.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Mrs Wilson. I would appreciate it if you could let your husband know I was here.”

“Of course, of course.”

Ellie made her way down the driveway. About half way down, she turned back as another thought occurred to her.

“What does he do with them?”

Michelle’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“The dolls,” Ellie added. “What does he do with them?”

A wide smile lit up the woman’s face. “Why, he gives them to me, of course. And I sell them at the markets.” She inclined her head toward the vehicle in the carport. “That’s why I have the van.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ellie slumped back against the car seat and sighed in disappointment. Okay, so maybe the killer wasn’t on her list. With only so much manpower available, she knew there were still at least fifteen or so names that hadn’t been allocated. Maybe tomorrow they’d get lucky.

With another sigh, she switched on the ignition and pulled away from the house. She should have known just by looking at it that it wasn’t the house of a madman. The neat lawns, the gaily colored flowers, the stern but friendly wife, the bickering kids. It all seemed too normal.

As she negotiated the late-afternoon traffic, her thoughts wandered to the shed. A taxi-driving doll maker. Who’d have thought? He made them; she sold them.

Then a memory hit her and her foot slammed on the brake. Michelle Wilson, the owner of the white van. The van Ronald Carter had seen in the laneway beside his house right after his freezer went missing.

A chest freezer. Like the ones she’d seen in Lex Wilson’s shed. But why the hell would Michelle Wilson be stealing chest freezers? It didn’t make sense. The woman didn’t seem to have a deceitful bone in her body.

Could she have been lying?
Ellie immediately discounted that. She considered herself to be a pretty decent judge of character and she’d have sworn Michelle was exactly what she appeared to be—a busy mother trying to raise two rambunctious children and doing her bit to support her family.

Could her husband have used the van? He worked with wood. She’d seen wood shavings piled on the end of the workbench. Wood shavings had been found in Josie Ward’s hair and underneath Angelina Caruso’s fingernails.

Her mind drifted to the paint tin. It was probably used to paint the dolls. In the dimness, she hadn’t been able to tell what color it was, but she suddenly recalled the pink paint chips that had been found in Angelina’s hair.

The impatient beep of a horn behind her reminded her she’d slowed almost to a stop. Adrenaline surged through her and she pumped the accelerator.

The peculiarities were piling up. It was all circumstantial and a good lawyer would probably explain all of it away, but still, it was a bit of a coincidence and was definitely worth further investigation.