The Shadow Maker (2 page)

From the next room down the passage Rita could hear raised voices, one of them Strickland’s. She went and stood in the doorway.

The man Strickland was interrogating must be the proprietor, she guessed. He was braced backwards in a chair by the window, his eyes bloodshot and his balding head glistening with perspiration as he tried to fend off the questions. He wore a singlet which barely covered his paunch, and baggy shorts. Another officer, Bradby, watched, arms folded.

‘Look, mate, it’s not my business what the girls get up to in the rooms,’ said the publican.

‘Wrong,’ said Strickland. ‘And I don’t believe you anyway. You allow the place to be used by prostitutes - in fact, you charge them entrance fees.’

‘Dunno where you got that idea from.’

‘From the woman who’s just been mutilated on your premises,’

snapped Strickland, his anger in danger of boiling over. Like the publican, he looked like he’d got up in a hurry after an early morning call. He wore no tie, and he was unshaven. ‘How’d you like to be on the receiving end of that?’

Bradby glanced across at Rita and shrugged.

Strickland leant in closer, glaring at the publican.

‘You’re a whore-bludger, aren’t you? This is an illegal brothel.’

‘Shit, go easy. I just run a pub.’

‘Then you’re a liar. I’m arresting you for being a liar.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Can’t I? Then we’ll call it obstructing a police officer.’

‘Look, I told you I didn’t see the bloke she was with. But I did get a look at his car parked out front.’

‘What type of car?’ said Strickland, straightening up.

‘One of those little Mazda drop-tops.’

‘An MX-5?’ put in Bradby.

‘Yeah - a black one.’

‘And did you see the numberplate?’ asked Strickland, but the only response he got was a shake of the head. ‘Well what time was it?’

‘They got here about one-thirty. I heard the car leave around three. I assumed they were both in it.’

‘Not that you’d give a damn,’ said Strickland in disgust. Then he saw Rita at the door and beckoned her over. ‘I want you on board for this one.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘With the victim,’ said Strickland. ‘According to her ID, her name’s Emma Schultz. She’s twenty-five and lives in Coburg.’

‘When can we question her?’

‘The doctors reckon this afternoon. At the moment, she’s out of it.’

‘Then I’ll take a closer look at the crime scene first, make some notes.’ Rita turned to the publican. ‘Do you know the victim? Has she used this hotel before?’

He hesitated before answering. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘How often?’

‘Half a dozen times.’

‘So she’s a regular,’ said Rita.

‘I don’t want to say any more,’ said the publican, ‘till I’ve spoken to my lawyer.’

‘Sure, if that’s how you want to play it,’ said Strickland. ‘We’ll have another go when we’ve charged you.’

But Rita interrupted. ‘Wait. I need to know about the fire.’

The publican looked at her irritably. ‘I don’t know what the hell was going on there,’ he said, ”specially in this heat. The fireplace is supposed to be for decoration.’

‘Then why isn’t there a smoke alarm?’ she asked.

‘It’s an old hotel, if you hadn’t noticed. A lot needs doing.’ He was getting more defensive. ‘But I don’t expect customers to rip up the fittings and set fire to them. And don’t ask me about her bloody chains. That’s nothing to do with me.’

Strickland gestured to Bradby. ‘Get him out of here.’

As the publican was manhandled from the room, Strickland turned to Rita. ‘This is as sick as it gets,’ he sighed. ‘It looks like this poor hooker got brought here by a customer who bashed her, put her in chains, lit a fire and used a red-hot poker on her eyes.

You’re the expert, so tell me what sort of psycho could do this?’

‘I can begin a psychological evaluation once we’ve questioned the victim,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you want.’

A flinty look came into Strickland’s eyes - patronising. ‘We’ll make that decision when we’ve been to the hospital.’

As Rita weighed up his answer, she became aware of the traffic thundering over the freeway just outside. She thought fleetingly of the thousands of motorists caught in the familiar flow, unaware of the backdrop of savagery they were passing.

The sound of Strickland’s mobile broke her reverie.

‘Yeah?’ He listened for a few moments. ‘Good,’ he said and clicked off the phone before pocketing it. ‘They’ve done a vaginal swab.

The bastard had unprotected sex with her. We might be able to nail him with a DNA profile.’

Rita soon decided that Strickland’s optimism about the DNA was misplaced. With her notes and diagrams from the crime scene spread on her desk, she sat back and gazed vacantly across the squad room.

This attack was different from anything she’d worked on before in both its method and its cruelty. And looking through the database of physical abuse records, she could find only one case file that was comparable. It detailed a series of mutilations, rapes and murders attributed to an unknown perpetrator dubbed ‘the Scalper’ because he cut his victims’ hair. Although she’d looked at the file before, she had no first-hand knowledge of the investigation, coinciding as it did with her stint at Quantico a year ago. The brutal assaults had begun, escalated and abruptly ended within a matter of weeks. Now it was virtually a cold case.

There was one odd similarity - the offender’s car had been identified as a black Mazda MX-5. But with nothing in the way of MO to link this new attack to the Scalper, and with no other obvious candidate in the database, the probability was that a new offender had struck, and the existence of any DNA on file would be down to sheer luck. Without it he would be difficult to trace, unless the victim could provide some lead to his identity. That seemed unlikely given the initial report from the patrol car officers. All they got from the victim, apart from uncontrollable hysterics, was that she had no idea who he was. Perhaps she would come up with something when she was questioned more closely.

As she sat there pondering, one of the squad’s hard men heaved into view, Detective Sergeant Derek Higgs. He came over and leant on her desk.

‘Strickland’s given me the job of hitting the town tonight and interviewing street pussy,’ said Higgs. ‘So whatever you can find out from the blind hooker, anything about this prick, will be greatly appreciated.’

‘Okay,’ nodded Rita, though she didn’t really need to be told how to do her work.

Higgs was an old-school cop - blunt, opinionated and the most streetwise in the squad, with a reputation for taking shortcuts to get results. He was jowly, sharp-eyed and a chain-smoker, and his clothes bore a permanent aroma of stale tobacco. Although he shared the same rank as Rita, he was fifteen years her senior, and while her cerebral methods and rapid rise baffled him, there was no animosity between them.

‘It won’t be easy,’ he added. ‘Her recall could be completely fucked. So take it slowly.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said.

‘No sweat. I’m off for a beer.’

Emma Schultz lay in a hospital bed propped up by pillows, her ribs strapped, a wad of bandage and surgical tape covering her eye sockets.

She was conscious now, but heavily sedated, which was just as well.

Her mother sat beside the bed, gripping Emma’s hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. Along with being traumatised by the attack on her daughter, she had been shocked to learn that Emma was a prostitute.

Emma’s arrest sheet and medical record revealed charges for shoplifting and drug possession, and she’d been hospitalised before with beatings.

Yet until today, the mother had been none the wiser. Behind the tears, there was a pleading look in her eyes as she watched Rita questioning her daughter about her movements the previous evening

- when she’d left home, how she’d travelled into the city, where she went - a portable mini-disc recorder rolling across the answers.

‘You must be completely honest with me, Emma,’ Rita said gently.

‘It doesn’t matter what you did, but I need to know everything if we’re to catch this man.’

‘I scored some crack in Chinatown,’ said the girl in a slow monotone, her voice thick from the medication.

‘And what did you do next?’

‘I went down an alley and sat in a doorway.’

‘Is that where you took the drug?’

The girl nodded. ‘I heated and inhaled it.’

‘What time was this?’

‘About ten-thirty.’

‘Good. Every detail helps.’

Rita worked on maintaining professional detachment as she went through her list of questions. Strickland remained silent. The last thing Emma Schultz needed to hear was a male voice. Reminding herself to breathe calmly, Rita paused between each question.

‘Where did you go from there?’

‘I took a slow walk around the block, but there was no action on the street.’ Emma squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘So I went to a club that’s usually good for business.’

‘Which one?’

‘A Greek joint - Plato’s Cave.’

Rita raised her eyebrows at Strickland but he shook his head, as if warning her not to get distracted. Just the mention of the nightclub sent a chill through her. Only six months ago she’d arrested owner Tony Kavella for running a vice ring that used date-rape drugs on its victims, mostly young models. The girls were lured to an isolated villa along the Great Ocean Road with a promise of auditions for a movie company. Instead they were drugged, beaten and gang-raped by underworld thugs, who filmed the assaults and paid Kavella for the privilege. The victims kept quiet through sheer terror and the threat that videos of their ordeal would be released on the internet.

Several associates were jailed but Kavella walked free from court, his involvement not proven. His evasion of justice was a sore point, but Rita had been told to accept it and move on.

After a pause, she continued. ‘Is that where you picked up your client?’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘It was quieter than usual. A couple of blokes bought me champagne cocktails, but they weren’t in the market so I left.’

‘How late was that?’

‘After midnight, about twenty past.’

‘So where did you go?’

‘I just walked towards Southbank and watched the flame show along the river, so it must have been one o’clock. I went over the bridge and was standing near the casino when a car pulled over.’

‘Was it a sports car?’ asked Rita. ‘A black Mazda MX-5?’

‘That’s right. He was driving with the top down.’

‘Did you get a look at the numberplate?’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I was too busy checking him out.’

‘Perhaps you’d seen him before somewhere,’ said Rita. ‘At the club, for example.’

‘It’s possible. He was definitely a regular punter.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He was ready for action and completely cool with it. I never guessed he was a wrong ‘un.’

‘What do you mean by
cool
?’ said Rita.

‘The way he acted - laidback, confident. And the way he dressed

- black jeans, silver T-shirt, silver glasses - the reflecting sort, mirror shades.’

‘Was there a design on the T-shirt?’

‘A picture of Ned Kelly - the one in the mask.’

‘At any stage,’ said Rita, ‘did this man mention his name, or where he lived or worked - or any location?’

‘No,’ came the flat response.

‘How old was he?’

‘About my age,’ said Emma, ‘or maybe a bit older. Early thirties at the most.’

‘I need to know more about his appearance,’ Rita pressed her.

‘Anything distinctive.’

‘There wasn’t anything. He had dark hair. It wasn’t short or long, just neat, like the rest of him. He was clean-shaven, okay build, average height - and seemed like a nice, normal guy.’ Emma sighed.

‘Until we were on the way to the hotel.’

‘What happened?’

‘I offered him sex in the car for seventy bucks, but he wanted a private room, so I said for another thirty we could use the Duke of York. On the way he asked if we could do role-playing. I told him bondage would be an extra hundred, and he said no problem. I just didn’t spot what was coming. After I paid at reception and took him upstairs to the room I noticed he was carrying a laptop case.

While I stripped, he opened it and took out a mask and chains and put them on the bed. Then he looked around and said something really weird - that the place was perfect but he wasn’t ready for it.

He asked me if I had matches. I did, so I handed them over. Then he started ripping up a stack of old hotel magazines and shoving them in the fireplace, and he found all these wooden coat-hangers in the wardrobe and put them on top of the paper and lit it. I asked why we needed a fire in the middle of a heatwave, and he told me we had to play by the rules. I said, “Rules of what?”, and he said, “The cave”. I don’t have a clue what he meant.’

‘What did he do next?’ asked Rita.

‘He switched off the light,’ Emma answered. ‘Then he got undressed and laid his clothes out at the foot of the bed, and that’s when the shit happened. He put the mask on and grabbed me. I pushed him off and said I wanted my extra hundred bucks. He told me I was a prisoner. He said the first one fought him off that night, but not me. I was going to be defeated. It was freaky. I went for the Mace in my handbag but he hit me before I could get to it. I fell against the bed and felt my ribs go - then I was out of it.’

‘Did you ever see his eyes?’ Rita wanted to know.

‘No. He kept them hidden behind the glasses, then the mask.

I never got a really good look at his face.’

‘The mask,’ said Rita. ‘What sort was it?’

‘Like those ancient theatre ones.’

‘Ancient, as in Greece or Rome?’

‘Yeah, that’s it - bronze coloured.’

‘All these details are good,’ said Rita. ‘They’ll help us track him down. Is there anything else you remember?’

‘No, not till I woke up and felt what the bastard had done to me. Tell me, please, I’ve got to know - are the doctors going to be able to save my sight?’

Rita swallowed hard and couldn’t answer. Strickland looked away and the girl’s mother bowed her head, weeping again. The doctors hadn’t broken the horrific news to their patient. They wanted to keep her calm and sedated for as long as possible, to help with her recovery. They hadn’t told her that her eyes had been burnt and gouged out - and that she would never see again.