The Shadow Maker (17 page)

Paolo was laughing again as Rita considered the explicit threat.

She put down her wineglass and asked Kavella, ‘Is your mother still disappointed at your failures as a human being? Does she still weep at night because her son is a university dropout and moral cripple?’

‘My mother is nothing to do with you,’ he replied.

‘How is Nina these days?’ Rita persisted. ‘Is she still praying for your soul in the Greek Orthodox church? Does she still curse you for corrupting your younger brothers, Theo and Nikos?’

Kavella stood up, turning to his dining companions. ‘Time to get back to business. I’ll just show the bitch out.’

Rita also decided it was time to leave, but as she opened the door she paused and said, ‘If these are the members of the Delos Club, it hasn’t got much of a future.’

Kavella’s fist slammed the door shut, preventing her from leaving.

An icy silence filled the room. Paolo had stopped laughing and Victor Yang stared at her stony-faced.

‘Tell me,’ said Kavella, laying a hand on her shoulder, ‘where you heard about that.’

‘Take your hand off me,’ she said.

He moved in closer, placing both hands on her shoulders and breathing into her face. ‘You know, I could snap your neck like a twig, and I wouldn’t even do time for it.’

Rita swallowed and said, ‘You’d be a dead man, and you know it.’

‘No one could tell what happened in here, and I’ve got two perfect witnesses to back me up.’

Hemmed in against the door, his hands pressing down harder, Rita was having to control her breathing, as her hand slid behind her jacket to fumble open the holster.

‘So tell me,’ Kavella repeated, ‘what you’ve heard about the Delos Club?’

She thought quickly and said, ‘It’s what I
overheard
from your goons downstairs.’

As Kavella threw a searching look over his shoulder at his two guests, Rita flicked off the safety catch and pressed the barrel of her gun into his stomach.

He lifted his hands and backed away, smiling coldly, knowing she wanted to pull the trigger.

‘We’re all done here,’ he said, resuming his seat at the dining table. ‘But next time we’ll meet somewhere less public. I’ll look forward to that.’

Rita calmed her emotions and holstered the gun. She needed to leave before she changed her mind and shot him.

‘It worked,’ Proctor was telling Rita. ‘You stirred up a hornet’s nest.’

‘And damn near got stung in the process,’ she retorted.

‘But you didn’t,’ said Proctor. ‘And the only sting at Fioretto’s was the one you pulled off. I’ve now got all three on tape discussing Kavella’s blueprint and timetable for an underworld consortium. The information’s priceless and I wouldn’t have got it without you. We’ll launch city-wide raids within a month.’

The debrief was taking place in the comfortable setting of Proctor’s club, the two of them reclining in spacious leather armchairs, whisky highballs on a low mahogany table between them, oil paintings from the Heidelberg School ranged on the walls around them. The club, dating from the colonial era, retained the trappings and stiff etiquette of Empire.

‘I’ve got Kavella under twenty-four-hour surveillance,’ Proctor resumed, ‘but if you’re worried I can have an unmarked car posted outside your house.’

‘That would only make me uncomfortable.’

‘Fair enough, but I promised Jack I’d make the offer.’

‘In all your surveillance,’ said Rita, putting the Plato’s Cave card on the table next to her drink coaster, ‘have you picked up any hint about this?’

‘No,’ answered Proctor. ‘But assuming the card’s part of Kavella’s operation, my bet is it belongs to the hi-tech fortress attached to his club. Some unsavoury characters have been exiting by the fire escape, which makes me wonder what they’re up to in there, but none fits the description of the prostitute’s attacker.’

‘Well, so much for this line of inquiry.’ She slid the card back inside her jacket. ‘I’d better do what Jack tells me and back off.’

‘Have you spoken to him yet?’ Proctor asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘and he ticked me off like I was one of his daughters.’

‘Hmm,’ nodded Proctor, sipping his drink. ‘Some of Kavella’s comments got to you, didn’t they, like the father figure reference?’

‘He’ll try anything to control and manipulate, there’s nothing new in that. But he’s the second person today to accuse me of needing to be dominated.’

‘Who’s the other person?’

‘A brothel madam.’

Proctor laughed. ‘I think you can safely ignore both opinions.’

He put down his glass. ‘You’d be quite wrong to question your personal psychology. I’ve no doubt whatsoever about your strength of character, not to mention your acting ability. In fact, I’m convinced your skills are wasted in a detective squad. The intelligence you gained for me is like gold dust, and as an undercover operative, you’re a natural.’

‘Is that a job offer?’ Rita asked. ‘I’ve had another of those today too, from the same brothel madam!’

They both laughed.

‘I wasn’t thinking of my unit,’ Proctor continued. ‘I wasn’t even thinking of the police.’ He bent forward, lowering his voice.

‘I was thinking more of national security. Your background as a profiler and an experienced detective would make you a perfect recruit, and it just so happens several members of this club hold senior positions with the security services. If ever you want to make the switch, let me know.’

Rita was smiling to herself.

‘What is it?’ asked Proctor.

‘I was just thinking,’ she said, picking up her drink. ‘It’s not such a bad thing to have a few father figures around.’

More than a week had passed and the investigation seemed to be getting nowhere. The hunt for Emma Schultz’s attacker had produced no breakthrough. The fingerprints had still gleaned no matches, and nor had the DNA. The car was proving a fruitless and time-consuming lead, while the questioning of known offenders, prostitutes and their clients had failed to yield any likely suspects. No links had emerged to the bondage gear, the smartcard or software producers, and tip-offs from the public about the identity of the man in the Ned Kelly T-shirt had only wasted police time. As the lines of inquiry petered out, detectives were being reassigned to other cases. The sense of urgency and the departmental pressure for a quick result had dissipated. This corresponded with a lack of coverage in the media.

The story had become last week’s news.

Rita made another visit to the crime scene in a vain attempt to get fresh insight into the offender’s mind. All it produced was a stilted conversation with her mini-disc recorder. As she crossed the lobby of the police complex, Strickland emerged from a lift, frustration creasing his face. Without breaking stride he shuffled a cigarette from a packet into his mouth and beckoned for her to come outside with him.

‘God I hate smoke-free environments,’ he said, lighting up the instant they reached the front entrance. He inhaled deeply, like a diver surfacing. ‘Used to be great when we could smoke where we liked. Fucking bureaucrats.’

They went through the thick stone pillars at the entrance and walked a little way along the front of the building. Strickland nodded at a few of the fellow smokers loitering on the steps - men from another squad, officers in shirtsleeves, holstered guns on their hips, standing with that watchful nonchalance peculiar to cops.

Eventually he stopped at a discreet distance and said, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got anything new to add?’ When Rita shook her head he glanced at the recorder in her hand. ‘That part of your anatomy?’

‘I use it when I’m on my own at a crime scene. It’s better than trying to formulate notes. I sit quietly and record anything that comes to mind.’

‘Something you picked up from the Yanks?’

‘From a profiler at the FBI. Sometimes it helps. Today it just felt like I was talking to myself.’

‘I know the feeling.’ Strickland sighed; something seemed to be needling him. ‘I say: “We’re here to catch ratbags and lowlifes.” They say: “You’re here to maintain core values.”’

‘Ah,’ said Rita. ‘Another strategy meeting.’

‘Yeah, all bullshit, Nash presiding. It’s all “ethical objectives”,

“proactive initiatives”, “lateral thinking”.’ He took a heavy drag on his cigarette. ‘I come out wondering what the fuck I’m doing here.’

Rita couldn’t help smiling at his discomfort. ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’

‘Well it sucks,’ he said. ‘It’s not enough to be a good cop anymore.

You have to be aware of “sociometric factors”.’

‘Sociometric?’ she said. ‘Not a word I’d expect you to know.’

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’

Despite his irritation, the day itself breathed out a soporific calm.

The odd cottonwool cloud hung motionless in a sky of intense blue.

Leaves hung limp on the roadside trees. The afternoon sun gleamed on the metal tramlines running down the centre of the road as a thin line of cars moved lazily through the heat shimmer trembling above the asphalt. A queue of police vehicles was parked along the kerb where a dozen recruits were being instructed by a supervisor in the art of traffic policing. From the playing fields opposite came the resonant smack of bat on ball, accompanied by the competitive cries of schoolboys poised in their cricket whites. Behind them rose the bluestone structure of their venerable grammar school.

The peace of the day was abruptly interrupted by a screech of tyres followed by a crunch of buckling metal and shattering glass.

One car had slammed into the back of another and skewed across the road. The two drivers got out and started shouting at each other.

‘Arseholes,’ said Strickland.

The shouting died away quickly when, to the motorists’ alarm, a dozen uniformed cops surrounded them.

‘What a dumb place to have a prang.’ As the traffic began to jam up behind the collision, Strickland blew out some smoke and turned to her. ‘Okay. Let’s look at where we are on the prostitute case. More than a week on and what have we got? The DNA doesn’t help at this stage - the attacker’s profile isn’t on the database. Same with the prints. That means we’ve got a new offender.’

‘Or one who’s never been caught,’ Rita put in.

‘Yeah. And you’ve checked out all the interview tapes?’

‘That and observed interrogations. I haven’t spotted anyone who fits the crime.’

‘Same with the make of the car. All the Mazda owners we’ve checked seem to be in the clear.’

‘It bothers me we’ve been through the same exercise before with Mazda sports cars,’ said Rita. ‘The fact that it’s exactly the same model and colour, a black Mazda MX-5, strikes me as more than coincidence.’

‘So what? In dozens of other cases we’ve been looking for the same type of Holden or Falcon or Toyota. What’s your point?’

‘It wasn’t just any other case. It’s got an almost identical offender profile.’

‘Right. You’re talking as a profiler now.’ Strickland took a deep breath. ‘But the Scalper was a rapist and murderer who chopped off women’s hair. You’re not suggesting there’s a connection?’

‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I haven’t got any evidence of that.

But it’s a coincidence that’s bugging me. Two psychosexual predators who mutilate their victims and drive the same car. It’s like having two parallel cases.’

‘Have you compared the DNA?’

‘Of course. Two different people.’

‘Well you’ve just shot down your own theory.’

‘Don’t rub it in.’

‘I’m not having a go at you. Maybe what you’ve stumbled on is one of the great flaws of profiling. Projecting patterns that aren’t there.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘Or maybe you’re scratching around for a way out of a dead-end case.’

‘That’s exactly what a profiler’s supposed to do,’ she said sharply,

‘especially when the most obvious line of investigation has been vetoed.’

He nodded uncomfortably. ‘Plato’s Cave. I must admit it would be nice to get Kavella in an interview room again. Pity we have to tiptoe around that creep.’ He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ornamental shrubbery. ‘Shit happens.’

Back in her office, with no more evidence to follow and nothing new to add to the profile, Rita decided to resume her online browsing.

An internet search for ‘Plato’s Cave’ pulled up more than twenty thousand results. Of the couple of thousand linked to Australia, she’d got through about half, much of them drawn from philosophical or political articles. But as she ploughed on through them, one caught her attention, an academic group called the Plato’s Cave Fellowship.

It was based at Melbourne University, where Rita had graduated in psychology. The fellowship was attached to the Philosophy Department, a place she’d never ventured into. But now she realised part of her education was lacking. She had a general understanding of Plato’s importance but only a vague knowledge about the significance of his cave. As a profiler, she couldn’t ignore the reference. What she needed was a brief, informed summary. Luckily there was someone she could visit, someone who might throw some light on the case by giving her a quick analysis of Platonic themes. It was the sort of thing he was good at. And he was someone who had nothing to do with case files or criminal psychology or internal police politics.

Rita sidestepped the shoppers darting along the narrow city lane of Little Collins Street and turned into a pedestrian alleyway lined with coffee shops and salad bars doing a brisk afternoon trade. She picked her way through customers sitting under awnings and walked into an old arcade.

It was like stepping into a bygone era. The tall, arched passageway with its tiled floor and gilt decorations had been built in the late 1800s and retained a quaintness at odds with the overblown malls that were its near neighbours. Its rows of boutiques included old-fashioned toyshops, family jewellers and tearooms. Rita’s heels tapped the tiles as she walked past the display windows until she reached the cramped, dusty premises of an antiquarian bookseller. The tinkle of a bell sounded as she opened the door and went inside.

The first time she’d come here had been on one of her earliest assignments in the Sexual Crimes Squad. A member of the public had made a formal complaint about the bookshop, claiming it had hard-core pornography in its window. Rita had been dispatched to investigate, and discovered that the offending material was a shelf of nineteenth-century erotic art, with explicit engravings on show.