Daughters of Eve, page 15
Robbo leaned against the roof with his arms outstretched. ‘That’s the point. We haven’t seen her. What if she slipped out between your first visit and the start of surveillance? Maybe it’s a share house. We need to know if she’s in there or not.’
‘And if she is, then she can’t be our girl.’
Robbo pushed off the car. ‘Not necessarily. These terrace houses can be tricky. Maybe she hops a fence at the back or the house connects to the one next door.’
I rolled my eyes and followed him down the road, through the gate and up the steps to knock forcefully on Patty’s front door.
We waited and I touched his arm, encouraging him to take a step back.
Robbo was clenching and unclenching his fists with what I presumed was frustration when the locks finally began clicking and bolts were drawn.
Patty’s dishevelled head peered past the security chain.
‘I told you: I’ve nothing to say to the police.’
Her head drew back but I stuck my foot into the gap and winced as the door slammed against it.
‘Would you rather have an informal chat here or a formal chat at the station?’
The weight of the door continued to press against my foot. Was she calling our bluff?
‘You’ll need to move your foot.’
I did as she suggested, feeling bruises forming beneath the skin.
The door closed and opened without the chain.
‘Just you.’ A long slender finger pointed to me and then swung towards Robbo. ‘Not him.’
The furrow on Robbo’s forehead deepened and his fists clenched again.
‘We work together,’ I said, and the door swung closed with a thump.
I pulled my phone out of my bag, started the voice recording app, and slipped the phone into my jacket pocket before knocking again.
‘Alright. Just me.’
I followed her inside and waited while she latched and locked what looked like a dozen different mechanisms on the back of her door. I followed her gaze as it slid up and to the left and settled on a familiar-looking dome in the ceiling.
A camera, probably trained on the front door.
I followed her down an immaculate corridor, through a spotless kitchen and out into a tiny courtyard at the back. I’d seen no evidence of a doorway that might connect to the terrace houses on either side, and the fences at the back were solid wood and too high to jump.
‘It’s a lot warmer inside.’ I pulled my coat close around me and thought of my phone with its tiny microphone buried now beneath a thick layer of wool.
‘He’s got no cameras out here, no microphones.’ She lifted the collar of her fluffy dressing-gown and I settled on a wooden bench that circled the trunk of a grand old European tree. It was the only thing growing in the brick-paved courtyard.
‘Who’s he?’ As good a place as any to start.
‘None of your damn business.’ She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. Her hands trembled as she took a long slow drag.
‘Is he the man who comes to visit?’
She fixed me with a stony stare as she dislodged something from between her front teeth with a long, polished fingernail. Her cigarette waved in front of her face, so close to her hair I worried it might catch alight.
‘So, what’s this informal chat about, then?’
She took another long drag and this time she blew smoke into my face. I waited until it had dissipated before taking another breath.
‘Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon between midday and five o’clock?’ I stretched the time range so she wouldn’t connect the question to the shooting that had been all over the TV.
‘Here.’ She pointed at the house.
‘Can anyone corroborate that?’
She sucked on the cigarette, then pushed the smoke out in a steady stream. ‘How do you know about the man who visits me?’
I cursed myself for giving away our surveillance, so I let the silence stretch out between us until it was uncomfortable.
She was a cool customer. We were at two minutes before I realised we could have been watching him, not the house, so I changed tack.
‘How well do you know him? The man who visits you.’
She held my gaze. ‘If you want to know about him, you’ll have to ask him yourself.’
She wasn’t giving an inch. ‘This house—is it his?’
Patty flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette into a brass ashtray sitting on the bench beside her.
‘You’ve got access to public records. Why ask me?’
We’d done a land title check and the house belonged to a shell corporation. Robbo had a mate in the Fraud Squad who was trying to get us a name, but shell corporations could be notoriously difficult to track, especially those linked to organised crime. Actual human ownership was usually buried at the end of a chain of corporations that owned corporations, circling the globe.
I let my coat fall open to be sure the phone caught my next question.
‘Patty, you’re an army-trained marksman and you’ve got a licence for a Browning Composite Stalker. Can I see the gun and licence, please?’
The colour drained from her face. I’d called in once to tell her about the shooting death of the man who raised her and now I was asking about a gun. It looked like she’d put two and two together and wasn’t keen on four.
‘He doesn’t let me keep the gun here.’ She took a short sharp pull on the cigarette and the red end glowed extra hot. We were back to him again but maybe she’d be more cooperative now.
‘Where is it kept? As the licensed owner, you are responsible for ensuring it’s secured according to the legal requirements.’
Another short sharp drag. ‘I don’t know. He took it.’
She was in breach of her licence. Now I definitely had the upper hand.
‘What’s his name, Patty?’
She flicked the end of her cigarette so it rained grey ash on the red bricks below.
‘I don’t know his name. I call him Master.’
My eyebrows shot up. I’d come across kink in the Cross. The BDSM community were pretty tight; they were all about consent and connection.
‘Where did you meet him?’
Her hand was visibly shaking now, the little line of smoke rippling like a vertical sound wave.
‘You’ve seen my record, haven’t you? You know what I do.’
I nodded.
‘He was just a john at first. Liked to play games. Liked it rougher than some of the girls were up for.’
She took a final long drag, then stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray on the bench beside her, grinding it long after the red glow had died. Then she stood and let her dressing-gown fall open, revealing scars that caused me to cringe. Cigarette burns, cuts and deep abrasions.
‘He brought me here one night. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I mean, look at the place.’
My eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘But he doesn’t live here?’
She shook her head. ‘He took me back to mine to get some stuff, but he wouldn’t let me bring the gun. Said he’d keep it safe, that I had him to protect me now.’
It was a familiar story. Men promising to protect women and turning out to be sadistic bastards.
‘You want to leave? Walk out the door with me right now.’
She laughed. It wasn’t a mild chuckle; more of a full-throated laugh. ‘Where would I go? Back to the streets, where people hurt me for a fifty? I shared a two-bedroom apartment with eight girls. Mattresses on the floor, people I’d never met nodding or twitching. Now I’ve got three bedrooms to myself and a fridge full of food. I’d be crazy to leave.’
‘You’re sure you don’t know his name?’
She shook her head.
‘And none of your friends know where you are?’
She shook it again.
‘And you think you’re safe?’
Robbo was in his car, the radio playing something loud and hard from the nineties.
He switched it off when I opened the door and looked up expectantly.
I shook my head and threw the phone across to him.
‘I don’t think she’s our shooter.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Robbo and I met up in the basement car park after the interview with Patty. We rode the lifts up to the squad room and were called into the DCI’s office before we could sit down.
‘You’ve got a hunch?’ The DCI locked eyes with Robbo across his desk and I held my breath. ‘It’s been nearly two weeks, we’re knee deep in bodies and you’ve got a bloody hunch?’
It hadn’t been my idea to read Willoughby in on the domestic and sexual violence hypothesis, but Robbo wanted to give him something.
Robbo stood his ground. ‘If we can find a link, work out what’s driving this guy, we can work back from there.’
Willoughby frowned and his lips thinned. ‘How many bodies does it take to confirm this hunch?’
Robbo adjusted his posture. ‘It’s not a hunch—it’s a working hypothesis.’
I put the file I’d grabbed from my desk on the DCI’s desk and stepped back, clasping my hands behind my back and avoiding Willoughby’s eyes.
‘The killings don’t look random, sir. The Sea Cliff Bridge killer …’ Robbo started, but Willoughby thumped his desk.
‘Alleged killer, Roberts. You didn’t get that conviction.’
Robbo took a breath and started again. ‘The alleged Sea Cliff Bridge killer and his barrister both getting shot, sir—what are the odds? And what connects them? The Sea Cliff Bridge deaths: an alleged case of domestic violence.’
Robbo paused and waited while the DCI ruminated on the odds of such a coincidence.
‘And there’s been something hinky about most of the families of the victims. Hart’s seen a lot of domestic violence–related deaths. She’s got a nose for these things.’
The DCI’s face hardened as if the muscles under his skin had turned to stone but Robbo pressed on.
‘Hart says the first Melbourne vic’s widow was jumpy and the second vic, well, he didn’t have family but he’s got form for misogynistic rants and trolling women online. The papers are also alleging a couple of sexual assault complaints that got paid off before they made it to court.’
Willoughby turned his back on us and walked to his window. ‘So, you’re suggesting this is a vigilante killer?’
Robbo took a deep breath before answering. ‘Either that or it’s a contract killer and there’s no chatter on the street about a new gun for hire, We’ve been through Griffith-Jones’s client list and sought advice from Organised Crime. There’s no gang war—and if there was, there’s still no connection to most of the vics.’
The DCI continued to stare out the window. ‘Go on.’
Robbo shifted his stance and continued. ‘We’re watching the bank accounts of anyone who might have wanted the victims dead. So far nothing, going back three months. No big cash transfers or withdrawals. Nothing suspicious.’
Robbo’s shoulder muscles tightened with every sentence.
‘We’ve checked military and police retirements and discharges and we’re going through airline manifests and airport CCTV for all relevant flights between Melbourne and Sydney. So far, nothing. The last two shootings were so close there wasn’t time to drive. If it’s the same shooter, they must have flown.’
The DCI snorted and turned to face us. ‘That’s if it is the same killer. Apparently, Hart isn’t convinced either way.’ The DCI fixed me with a withering stare but I refused to meet his eyes.
Robbo soldiered on. ‘There is a woman connected to the case who has a gun licence. We’ve had her under surveillance, and she has been interviewed.’
‘You’ve got a suspect? Why am I just hearing about this now?’
‘She’s no longer a suspect, sir. We had eyes on her house when Jennings and Taylor were shot and she was home. It appears she never leaves the house.’
The DCI looked from Robbo to me and back. ‘Never leaves the house? Is she agoraphobic?’
Robbo opened his mouth to speak but the DCI cut him off.
‘So, you’re telling me that after two weeks, with five bodies in Sydney and possibly two more in Melbourne, the sum total of your progress on the case is an interview with an agoraphobic woman who holds a gun licence but has a police surveillance team to alibi her?’
‘And a photograph of the killer,’ I said as I reached forward and flipped open the file I’d put on his desk. We’d brought the footage back from the hotel last night and done our best to blow it up.
Sitting in the middle of the desk was the grainy image of a woman between one-hundred-and-sixty and one-hundred-and-seventy centimetres tall, thick-set build with dark hair down to her waist, wearing a grey pantsuit and a voluminous hat. The most striking thing about her was the bright red lipstick that peeked out from under the hat’s brim.
‘It’s a woman?’ The DCI’s response wasn’t politically correct—but it was pretty much what we’d expected. Robbo waited until Willoughby looked up, slack jawed and shocked.
‘Hotel records confirm that this woman checked into the hotel under what we assume is a false name, roughly half an hour before the shooting. She requested a room at the back of the building, on the western side which has clear line of sight to the street where Steven Taylor was shot. When we searched the room we found bullet casings that matched previous crime scenes.’
I added: ‘The garment bag she was carrying would have been large enough to contain a rifle. We suspect she left the hotel via the fire exit shortly after the shooting, leaving the room spotless.’
‘No fingerprints?’
‘Forensics have been over it. Not so much as a smudge.’
‘You think it’s a bloody woman?’ he repeated.
Willoughby’s phone rang and he picked it up. ‘Right … Yes … I’m sorry, what? … No … Right … Of course … Right … Thank you.’
He put the phone down. ‘Hart, I need you to pick someone up from the airport. There’s been another shooting in Melbourne. VicPol are sending up a liaison officer with details.’
Willoughby turned back to the window and I looked at Robbo but he just shrugged.
‘A liaison officer, sir?’
Willoughby turned around but there was something different, something deflated about him. ‘Why are you still here, Hart?’
‘Sir, why are we hosting a VicPol liaison when they wouldn’t work with us?’ I recalled Matt holding the phone away from his ear and wincing that morning in Melbourne as the taxi pulled away from the hotel. It sounded like someone had told Fitz-what’s-his-name that Matt had signed me into the morgue.
Willoughby’s lips curled into a snarl. ‘When the Commissioner’s office calls, we don’t argue with them—and when I give you an order, you don’t question it. Understood?’
I was running ten minutes late when I pulled into the airport loading bay to pick up the Victorian liaison officer. I’d signed out a general duties car so no-one would question me when I left it in the loading zone, then spent most of the journey hoping the liaison wouldn’t be Matt bloody Hayes.
I was halfway up the concourse when I saw his grin. He was chatting with a hostie as she prepared the gate for the bustling crowd, waiting to take the return flight. Holidaymakers in casual shirts and jeans were perched on plastic chairs between business suits of both genders, with a smattering of harried parents wrangling children with too much energy.
Matt was a moment of stillness in the crowd. He checked the concourse intermittently and I saw the moment he clocked me. His smile widened and I cursed inwardly.
This was going to be harder than I thought. Not just because he was clearly happy as a clam to see me; no, it was the glowing warmth and slippery tumble in my belly that told me I was in trouble.
‘Hart.’
I fixed a cool professional smile in place and extended my hand. ‘Hayes.’
His smile wavered and his eyes flicked from my face to my hand and back before he fixed an equally professional smile in place and we shook.
We started down the concourse. Of course, Matt had brought luggage.
We pushed through the tide of oncoming travellers, past the glittering mini-mall of high-end retail stores offering overpriced goods to bored transits and guilty parents, to the baggage claim area. The drone of the carousel and the hum of animated conversation filled our awkward silence but it couldn’t dampen the growing glow inside me.
Matt leaped forward to seize a bag and I breathed a sigh of relief. We could go now, and the sooner we went, the sooner I could dump him in the squad room and scarper. I turned to leave but Matt didn’t move.
Turning back, I looked down at the full-sized suitcase and up to the awkward smile on his face. What the hell? This bag was bigger than the one I’d taken to New Zealand last year, when the girls and I went skiing. For three weeks!
He sprang forward again and this time grabbed a garment bag and folded it over the top of the case. Then he turned back to the conveyor belt.
‘There’s more?’ I tried to keep the note of panic out of my voice.
The final bag was a document case. I looked at the pile of bags and shook my head. It was like he was bringing the contents of his house for what I hoped would be a short trip. Here are the crime scenes, here’s what we’ve got, here’s how you catch the train to the airport to go home.
I reached for the garment bag but he blocked my hand.
‘I’ve got this.’ He laid the document case against the extended handle of the mega bag and draped the garment bag over the top.
‘Do you always travel so light?’
He smiled without meeting my eye.
‘Car’s this way.’ I led him to the patrol car in the loading zone.
With luggage stowed and seatbelts on, I pulled into the traffic. ‘Did you request this duty?’ I kept my eyes on the traffic ahead.
