Feeding the Demons (30 page)

She typed his name into her screen while Gemma looked over her friend’s shoulder. ‘Got him. DOB 12.11.63,’ Angie said. ‘He lives in the right area,’ she added, noting his Kingsford address. She scrolled further down. ‘Contact here is his uncle. At Liverpool.’

‘There’s the Liverpool connection,’ said Gemma.

‘He could have met Adrian Adams at some Botany blood house,’ said Angie. ‘Or they might have done time together.’ She looked at the screen again. ‘Let’s see what he’s done.’ The two women looked in silence at Larry Hagen’s record. Grievous bodily harm, sexual assault. Gaol terms for violent attacks on women. ‘In 1983 he abducted an ex-girlfriend from her flat and assaulted her.’

Angie looked up from reading. She studied the police photograph on the screen, looking closely. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘
he’s
the one who spoke to me at the funeral! Said he recognised me from the newspaper.’ She swung around on her chair. ‘That shot was deliberately out of focus. He couldn’t have recognised me from the photo.’ She looked up at Gemma. ‘How the hell did bloody Bruno miss this? Where is the bastard? I’ll kill him for this.’ She noted the address, grabbed her coat and hurried out of the office. Gemma followed. ‘We had him,’ she was saying as she ran to her car in the underground parking area. ‘We could have picked him up at the funeral.’

In the car, she radioed the two police officers who were sitting off Roger Poole’s place. ‘Meet me at the corner of Victoria and Botany streets, Kingsford,’ she told them. ‘I’ve got a suspect I want to talk to. I may need some extra help. Tell Colin to meet us there.’ She dropped Gemma off beside her car in Riley Street, and Gemma settled down behind her, following.

Colin and Jason were already parked some distance from the corner and Angie grabbed the street directory and jumped out of her car to talk to them. She was only gone a few minutes.

‘They’re going to go round the back. There’s a lane behind Hagen’s place. We don’t want him hopping over the back fence.’

In another few minutes, Angie pulled up discreetly down the street from 113, a small nineteenth-century worker’s terrace, one of many in the street. The two women walked towards the house.

Gemma could feel a tightness around her throat and chest. Remember to breathe, Kit used to tell her. She inhaled deeply and let Angie open the iron gate. The narrow front yard had been cemented, and half a cement seahorse stood forlornly with morning glory vines trailing from it.

Angie knocked. Then knocked again. It was clear there was no one home. No lights, no sounds from inside. No white Toyota parked on the street.

‘What do we do now?’ Gemma asked.

‘We leave someone here watching. We put his description out everywhere. We get everyone alerted. I’ll get a warrant for this place. I’ll search it from top to bottom.’

Gemma stood at the front door, trying to get a feel for the place, for the man who lived there but wasn’t in. But she felt nothing. The blinds were down in the tightly shut windows. There was nothing on the tiny tiled verandah, no pot plant, nothing to reveal anything of the character of the man who lived there. She shivered. This was the one they’d been hunting all this time. We mightn’t’ve known his name, she thought, but we knew more about his character than we wanted to.

‘You better go home,’ Angie was saying.

Gemma didn’t move.

‘I promise I’ll let you know the minute anything happens,’ Angie said.

Gemma drove home. As she turned the corner prior to drawing up beside the kerb she thought she saw Taxi sitting by the top gate, but the surge of relief was quickly followed by disappointment when she realised it was only a large paper bag of rubbish. She felt restless. So near and yet so far, she was thinking. It had to be Larry Hagen. He had the form, the violent background, the criminal know-how. And there was no other explanation for that phone number being on the notepad. She wondered about the shopping list disclosed by the ESTA machine. Tape? Ropes? A knife? Cornflakes? Kit had often reminded her that murderers, even the most violent, did the ordinary things as well. She rang her sister but all she got was the answering machine. She tried sitting down with her calculator and a pen to work out her finances for the next six months, but it was too dispiriting when she looked at the figures and her body was jumping to do something physical. She checked that the kestrel had enough water and thought that he might have eaten a little of the mince she’d put in for him.

She found herself on the street, doing a doorknock, asking if the householders had seen Taxi. But it wasn’t a good time to be doing this, she knew, with people settled in front of television, winding down for the night, irritated by strangers at the door or fearful of her knock, as some faces showed. She had interviewed most of the people on both sides of her street before she gave up. No one had seen Taxi. Too disheartened to continue doorknocking, she returned home, got her powerful torch, and started hunting around in the bushes that grew at the front of the timber deck, scared of what she might find. But there was nothing there. Not even the odd wrapped lunch. The Ratbag must have found another dump site, she thought. Then she extended her search to the edge of the level ground ahead of the timber deck. This was low scrubby brush, constantly worried by the southerly. Beyond it was the steep incline that led down to the rocks and, eventually, the southern end of the beach. She shone the torch down the incline. All she could see were rocks and straggly vegetation. Taxi sometimes went down there to hunt the pigeons who lived around the cliffs further south. The sea was calm tonight, just a low, hushed sound and the moon was nearly gone.

She sat to rest against a rock and switched off the torch. Her night vision showed her the dim outline of the beach a little way to the left and the darkness of the cliff face that ran along the coast to Bondi. She thought of Larry Hagen, remembered his passive, heavy face from the mug shot; his distorted need for relationship that drove him to attend the funeral of the girl he’d murdered, compelled him to contact her young sister and abduct her. She wondered where he’d strike next. Even though he moved towards women he believed he
knew
in some way, it was unlikely he’d make another attempt on Amy Perrault. She wondered how he’d first decided on Bianca. Perhaps Adrian Adams had ‘introduced’ them; perving on her first, photographing her, then bringing his new partner along on a house raid.

She stood up and went back to the house. She was spooked, imagining the killer sitting off her place, watching her movements. She slammed the sliding doors shut and locked them. Kit should be home by now, she thought, because it was quite late, so she tried her again. Still no one home.

She looked up at the photo of Kit hanging above the television. Something in that moment, the knife in her hand, Kit’s face smiling down at her, her conjecturings about Larry Hagen, brought her to realisation. Adrian Adams had boxes and boxes of photographs of Kit. This killer had teamed up with Adrian Adams. She jumped up and screamed out loud.

‘No! Kit!’

Gemma ran into the bedroom, opened the bedside drawer and snatched up her .38 and a handful of cartridges. She grabbed her mobile, leaped into the car and was on the way to Kit’s place when she hit Angie’s number.

‘Angie! Kit’s not answering her phone. She’s always there at night. Larry Hagen might have seen her photographs.’

‘Jesus!’ said Angie, her sleepy voice suddenly sharp. ‘I’m on my way!’

•

Gemma pulled up outside Kit’s place. A little way down the street was a white Toyota ute. Please don’t let it be his. Please let Kit be all right, Gemma prayed. Almost unable to look, she took in the registration. Her relief was enormous but short-lived. Kit’s house was in darkness although her car was there. She fumbled, loading the weapon on the run. Please, she prayed, let it be all right. Let Kit just be having an early night. She made her way silently down the left-hand side passage, but found that Kit had padlocked the gate that blocked it halfway down. She ran to the other side and found the same problem. She was sweating with fear for her sister and herself. She raced back to the road and around the corner, taking the road that led to the coastal path, running the few metres until she came to Kit’s back fence and gate. She tried it, but it was padlocked, too.

She pushed the gun into a pocket and clambered up and over the ivy-covered gate, praying that she wouldn’t shoot her own leg, dropping down on the other side. She froze. The grille door to the kitchen stood wide open and the hose lay looped on the ground, still running. Hurry up, Angie, she prayed. Come along with a dozen great big SPG brutes right now. She put her hand on the gun, grateful for its heaviness in her pocket, and continued to creep towards the door. Now she could hear Kit talking, in a low voice, but she was unable to make out the words. Gemma stood, uncertain. Maybe Kit was having an early night, and she had over-reacted wildly. Maybe the white Toyota belonged to a nice banker a few doors down.

Cautiously, she moved into the kitchen, her eyes adjusting to the lack of light. It was empty.

She stood still, straining to absorb every sound. She thought she could hear Kit’s voice. Then she was sure. ‘You will be compelled to do this sort of thing over and over,’ Kit was saying, her voice shaking. Kit was frightened. Gemma knew that tone. And then she heard it. A man’s rasping
whisper.
It was
him
. Her blood seized up in terror. He was here with her sister. Gemma crept through the kitchen and started down the hallway, the gun drawn, cocked and ready to fire. The awful whispered rasp had stopped and Kit was talking again.

‘It will never end,’ she was saying. ‘Unless you do something about it. You’ll live in this torment for the rest of your life.’

They were in Kit’s therapy room. Gemma could see a flickering light and again the man’s harsh whisper. She moved closer to the room, wishing she’d attended the pistol club practice sessions more often. She got right up to the door and looked around.

Kit lay on her side, facing the door, her hands bound behind her. Larry Hagen towered over her, the knife in his hand flickering in the candle light, his huge shadow looming and throbbing. Gemma raised her firing arm and took careful aim.

The next few seconds seemed to take forever, because there was time for Kit to see her sister at the doorway, time for this to register on her terrified face, time for Larry Hagen to swing around and lunge so that the first shot missed him. Then he was on top of her, dragging her into the room, pushing her up against the mantelpiece, one arm bashing her firing arm into the air, the other bringing the knife down towards her face. Gemma screamed and attempted to block the knife arm’s descent, at the same time kicking out as hard as she could towards Hagen’s groin. Her weapon went flying from her grasp. He roared and faltered, jerking his striking arm up, knife still held tight.

Her right arm was now painfully pinned against the wall behind the shelf, while her left scrabbled to find something—anything—on the mantelpiece that might serve as a weapon. The vase of flowers and the candle crashed to the floor. Kit was yelling behind them, helpless in her bonds. Gemma looked into the darkness of his eye pits as the knife came down again. Her left hand closed around something small and hard. Grasping it in her fist, she tried to block his deadly downward arc. But she was no match for his strength and this time, although she’d deflected the blow away from her face, he struck her hard on the arm. With the adrenalin strength of desperation, she smashed her fist into his face again with everything she had. This time, he reeled back and the knife clattered to the floor. With horror, Gemma realised that blood was pouring from her right arm. Larry Hagen’s knife blow had laid it open.

‘On the floor!’ Kit was screaming. ‘Over near the door!’

Dazed, Gemma looked around. Larry Hagen was flailing against the opposite wall, gurgling and struggling, trying to regain his feet.

‘Your gun!’ Kit was screaming. ‘On the floor near the door!’

Gemma groped around for her gun, aware of Larry Hagen recovering himself, scrabbling to his feet again.

‘Hurry!’ Kit screamed. ‘Get me out of here!’

As their attacker lunged to grab her again, Gemma heard a sound like thunder. Angie and three uniforms, torches and guns drawn, pounded down the hall. Three men burst into the room and tackled Larry Hagen. He crashed to the floor with two men on top of him.

Angie switched on the light to reveal the struggling men, Kit yelling on the cushions and Gemma transfixed against the mantelpiece. ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Angie said. ‘You two sisters.’ She looked to where Larry Hagen was being dragged to his feet, handcuffed. ‘What did you do to him?’

Gemma looked at her assailant for the first time. Limp hair fell across his face and his bloodied head hung forward. His feet stalled then dragged as he was hauled off the floor and out of the room. Near the door, Gemma’s gun and his knife lay side by side. Quickly, Angie stooped to cut Kit free while in the hallway, Gemma could hear someone calling for an ambulance.

‘And what have you done to yourself?’ Angie asked as one of the uniformed officers wrapped a towel around Gemma’s bleeding arm.

‘Thank God you came,’ Kit said to her sister. ‘I thought this was it. I thought I’d never see you or anyone again.’ She put her arms round her younger sister and held her. Gemma felt the huge sobs break out from her body.

‘Thank God Angie got here when she did,’ she said.

‘It’s all right, Gemmyfish. It’s all right now.’

It was over, Gemma knew. Really over.

Gemma’s wound, expertly stitched, neatly wrapped and splinted, throbbed only slightly. The small room off Casualty seemed crowded with the three of them and the surgeon. ‘I’m not going to bed,’ she told the surgeon. ‘I’m not sick.’

‘I’d just like you to wait here for an hour or so,’ the surgeon said. ‘Just so it settles down before you leave. It’s a deep cut. And a ligament is damaged.’

‘You’ll need to rest,’ said Kit. ‘The effects of the anaesthetic will last for a while.’

‘I’m all right,’ said Gemma. ‘I just want to get out of here and go home.’ She turned to her sister. ‘And you should talk. After what you went through.’

‘I never thought I’d be using my therapy room for that purpose,’ said Kit. ‘All I could do was play for time. But he was running out of patience.’ She had told Angie and Gemma of how she’d been watering the garden in the cool night, the kitchen door open behind her, when the man with the knife had jumped down from the wall. ‘I just did as he told me,’ she said. ‘He taped my hands. And then we talked for ages. I don’t know how long it was. It seemed forever. He told me a lot about himself. I used every ounce of skill and instinct to disarm him.’

‘It’s the reason you’re still alive,’ said Angie.

‘The reason I’m still alive is my sister.’ Kit stroked Gemma’s face, pushing back a strand of hair. Gemma had told her of the nightmare moment in which she’d realised Larry Hagen’s next move. ‘But the more we talked,’ she continued, ‘the more he opened up to me, the more he realised I would know about him; the more dangerous to him I became. I could see his energy change as he decided he’d had enough talk. That was when I saw you at the door, Gems.’

‘I’m putting Bruno on paper,’ said Angie, ‘the minute I get back to the office. He checked the wrong record. He looked under Hogan, not Hagen, and found a cleanskin. Now the boss can deal with the bugger. I’m never working with him again. If there’s any justice, he’ll wind up doing general duties at Blayney. Which reminds me, the white Toyota. That car turned up in Lithgow. The buyer had sold it on, but he kept the wheel barrow. He was a builder. It seems he was watching that motel; his wife was in there. So Spinner was right.’

‘Is there a Gemma Lincoln somewhere here?’ Gemma heard Spinner’s voice outside, asking the sister in charge.

‘Hey, Spinner,’ she said, ducking her head out the door. ‘In here.’

He was carrying a bunch of poppies, brilliant reds, oranges and pinks. ‘These are for you,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I heard you saved the day. What happened?’

Gemma told him.

‘How’s the injury?’

She shrugged, holding up her bandaged arm, and Spinner frowned with concern. Gemma put her good arm around him. ‘Spinner,’ she said. ‘You’re the best.’

He laughed, pushing the compliment away. ‘I’ve got a date,’ he said. ‘With Rose Georgiou.’

Gemma laughed. ‘Good for you,’ she said. But Spinner had already said more than he’d meant to. He became aware of the others and stopped talking.

‘So this is the famous Spinner,’ said Angie as Gemma introduced them. Her phone rang and she went into a corner, talking on her mobile. She rang off and turned round. ‘You’ll never believe it,’ she said. ‘That was Ted Ackland.’

Gemma remembered Dr Ackland well, the tall, stooped forensic pathologist. ‘Larry Hagen is dead. Brain haemorrhage. What did you hit him with?’

Gemma shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Some stone or something that was on the mantelpiece. I didn’t intend to kill him.’ She shuddered and looked at Kit.

‘My Cyprus marble,’ Kit said. ‘I picked it up on a beach.’ It had lain there, rattling in the light seas, Gemma thought, for eons, then it had come to Australia to sit on a mantelpiece until its time came. A wave of weakness overcame her.

‘Small, white and lethal,’ Gemma quoted. ‘Just like she said.’

‘Just like who said?’ Angie wanted to know.

But Gemma deflected the question. ‘Kit, I want to go home.’

‘Before you go,’ said Spinner, ‘will you ring Noel? Says he wants to talk to you.’ Gemma nodded.

‘Take her home, Kit,’ said Angie. ‘She’s just saved the state millions of dollars.’

‘I didn’t mean to kill anyone,’ Gemma said again.

Kit put an arm around her. ‘I know you didn’t,’ she said. ‘Come on, darling. I’ll take you home.’

‘Let me take her home,’ said a deep male voice and there was Richard Cross striding in, a huge bunch of red flowers tied with brown and silver ribbon. Gemma smiled with pleasure as he came over to her. She thought he had never looked so handsome in a tweed jacket and navy slacks, still somewhat formal with a shirt and tie. Gemma was aware of Angie’s admiring glance. She introduced them and they shook hands.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ Gemma asked.

‘I have my spies,’ he said, laughing.

‘Promise me you’ll be careful,’ the surgeon said. ‘You’ve been through a lot and the anaesthetic can make you a bit woozy for a while.’

‘I’ll take great care of her,’ said Richard.

‘I’m starving!’ said Gemma.

‘I can certainly do something about that,’ said Richard.

‘Okay, okay,’ she said, laughing between the men. ‘Who’s going to take Kit home? She needs more looking after than me after what she’s been through.’

‘I will,’ said Angie, taking Kit’s arm. ‘I’ll even tuck you in.’

‘Take me to Gemma’s place, if that’s OK with you, Gems?’ Gemma nodded. ‘Somehow,’ Kit added, ‘I don’t feel like going back to my place just yet.’

•

Richard Cross took Gemma’s elbow, steering her along the footpath to his black Mercedes. He opened the door for her and she climbed in, again enjoying the old-fashioned smell of an expensive car. He came round and got in, putting the flowers in the back seat. ‘I’ve got you under false pretences,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to show you before I drive you home. It’s only a little way out of our way. Do you mind?’

Gemma shook her head. ‘As long as you feed me soon,’ she laughed. She was feeling a little crazy and wondered how much of it was due to the local anaesthetic, how much to the adrenalin in her system, and how much to the fact that somehow, she had struck the blow that killed Larry Hagen.

•

Angie stopped at a little shop so that Kit could buy provisions; she knew what Gemma’s refrigerator could be like. ‘I don’t like leaving you alone,’ said Angie, as they sat on the timber deck. A storm was coming up from the south and half the sky was black with the rest still starry. The sea was growling around the rocks and Kit shivered to think how close death had come to her that night. ‘Is there someone who can come and be with you until Gemma gets home?’

‘Truly, I’ll be fine,’ said Kit. ‘I have a son,’ she added. ‘If I’m feeling really shaky, I can ask him.’ I have a son again, she thought, and the idea strengthened her. They went inside, driven by the rising wind, and closed and locked the sliding door against a now stormy sky.

‘Come down tomorrow,’ said Angie, ‘and we’ll take your statement then. Tonight you need to recuperate.’ Then she stood and looked at Kit, head on one side. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you two sisters are really something. I was so pissed off with both of you—especially
you
—and now, well .
 
.
 
. lost in admiration would be the expression I’d use.’ Angie opened her arms and they hugged each other.

‘We’ve been through a lot, the pair of us. But I want to thank you for getting there too.’

Sometime later, Kit was making up the lounge bed, wondering how much longer her sister would be when the phone rang.

‘Gemma?’

‘No,’ Kit answered. ‘I’m her sister. I can take a message.’

‘Kit. It’s Steve. Steve Brannigan.’

‘Steve,’ she said, unsure of how much she should tell him. ‘Gemma’s not here right now. Could I get her to ring you tomorrow?’

There was a long pause. ‘Actually, I need to talk to you. And now. I’m not able to move around freely just yet. Tomorrow I won’t be available. It’s about the statement your father wrote the night your mother was killed.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Gemma told me she’d given it to you to give to some language expert.’ And it all rose up in her again, the huge business with her father. The death of her mother, all of it eclipsed by the drama of the last few hours in which she’d thought that she, too, would die.

‘Actually,’ Steve was saying, ‘it’s really good that you’re there.’ He paused. ‘You may know already that Gemma and I have gone our separate ways and I didn’t know how to do this.’

‘Do what?’ Kit asked, alert to the urgency in his voice.

‘I can’t really explain over the phone,’ he said. ‘I know this sounds peculiar, but could I come over? Now?’

‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t know how rational I’ll be. I’ve had a helluva night.’ She started laughing as she rang off. The laughter became more intense and she just let it rip until it turned into deep sobbing.

She was still blowing her nose when Steve arrived. ‘I’m sorry about the hour,’ he said, looking anxiously at Kit’s tear-stained face. ‘But this is extremely important.’

They sat at the dining table opposite each other, and Steve pulled out a manila folder. ‘Locky’s written a full report,’ he said, handing it to her. It contained a dozen or more typed sheets of paper. She briefly looked through it and handed it back, noticing that the copy of the statement was covered with highlighters of different colours and all the pronouns were circled.

‘I’ll do my best to give you a concentrated SCAN lesson,’ said Steve. ‘This sort of analysis is based on the fact that the language a person uses in his statement reflects reality.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m familiar with the way mind and behaviour are connected. It’s my life’s work.’

‘Gemma told me that the subject—your father—sat down and wrote this after the death of his wife. So the statement hasn’t been contaminated by questions or any weird policese, like “male person”.’ Kit nodded. Steve went on. ‘Humans are extremely possessive creatures. But your father doesn’t use the possessive pronoun “my wife” when he introduces her in the text. The next important thing to notice is where your father decided to
start
his statement about the event. Not as one might have expected with his arriving home to find the terrible scene. No. He starts his statement with this sentence.’ Steve started reading:

‘
At about two-thirty, I rang Marianne to see if she wanted to go to the dinner that night at the university. She told me she didn’t want to go to the dinner, because she is being treated for depression. I said that was fine with me. We did not argue
.’ He looked up again from the statement. ‘Expert analysis says that
that
phone call—in your father’s mind at least
—
is the start of the main event. Now you’d have to ask yourself why is that?’ Kit leaned forward, listening with all her attention. ‘Because during that phone call, his wife told him something that was the beginning of her death.’ Steve put the statement down. ‘This is hard for me,’ he said. ‘Having to tell you this.’

‘Keep going,’ said Kit. She found that she was clenching her fingers so hard, her nails were cutting into the palms of her hands.

‘The fact that he wrote “we did not argue”,’ Steve continued, ‘is extremely important. When someone writes what they
didn’t
do in a statement, or what
didn’t
happen, a SCAN analyst becomes extremely curious, because a statement is about what
did
happen.’ Kit looked down again at her father’s statement, following the written words upside down as Steve read them aloud.
‘
I saw four more of my patients
.’ Steve stopped. ‘Notice he says “my patients” and yet a little further on he’s talking about “a” patient. The analyst wants to know why it is that he wants to distance himself from that particular patient.’ Kit slowly nodded. It made sense to her. Steve read on.
‘.
 
.
 
. went to the bank but because there was a long queue, did not get money out then. Made a brief house call to a patient.’
Steve jabbed at the paper. ‘This is what we call the missing “I”,’ he said. ‘Three times he’s not there. In his own statement! It can mean that the person was not actually present in the action. So he’s “missing” at the bank, “missing” when he
doesn’t
get money out .
 
.
 
.’ Again, he paused. ‘Remember the importance of mentioning something that
didn’t
happen. And in this case, he further unwittingly draws attention to this transaction by using the word “then”. This tells us that he
did
get money
at another time.
This withdrawal is very important in his mind. And an analyst wants to know why. Because almost straight after that he is making a house call to “a” patient, not “my” patient as in the earlier example, and the “I” is also missing. These are significant signals of concealment and deception.’ Kit felt her heart sink.

‘
After that, I left.
’ Steve put the paper down. ‘“After” is what we term a “missing connection”. After what, we have to ask? What happened at this meeting with this patient that he wants to distance himself from in the statement? Did he give the patient money, this patient that he distances himself from? The use of the word “left” in a statement always implies some sense of stress or urgency.’ He saw Kit’s face and his serious expression softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘to be telling you this. I wish it was otherwise. Then look what your father does:
drove straight to the house—
”the” house. Not “my house” or “home”. This indicates no sense of ownership of the house. Was it rented?’

Kit shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It belonged to Grandfather Lincoln.’ Steve nodded at the confirmation.

‘
Marianne was in bed and the girls were in their room
,’
Steve read. ‘The way he refers to his daughters doesn’t indicate relationship. His own daughters are just “the girls”.’ Kit felt her own eyes filling. Some old sense of shame was activated. We weren’t important to you at all, were we, she said to herself. ‘Nor does he bother introducing you. It is not very good. And you have no names.’ Kit turned her attention back to the statement, not wanting Steve to see the incipient tears. But he was reading on.