Fetish (17 page)

He listened at her door.

Silence.

Luther knew she wasn’t there. Nor was she likely to return soon. A girl wouldn’t return to the flat after a shock like that. Not even a brave girl like Makedde.

Luther had watched her hurried departure with mixed emotions. Suitcases in tow, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, she had left in a taxi. He had thought she was headed for the airport, which would no doubt make his client very happy. But Luther had felt disappointed seeing her slipping away. She intrigued him. Never before had he so enjoyed watching someone’s every move. She brought out his homicidal side, but the whole city was searching for a murderer. It wasn’t a good time to kill.

She would have been a recreational hit, an indulgence. It had been several years since his last one. Unpaid. Spontaneous. A pleasure. The last one had been pretty, but not a model like Makedde. But he’d lost his chance to take her. Or so he’d thought. As it turned out, she wasn’t heading for the airport at all.
Just some little place near Bronte. She was still within his grasp.

He smiled.

Even though he knew it was pointless, Luther decided he should make his client happy by searching the flat one last time. If he hadn’t found the ring before, it almost certainly wasn’t there. But he had his own reasons for wanting to go inside. He would have to make it quick—Makedde might have called the police, despite her affair with the suspended detective.

With callused hands he jemmied the door, as he had done on numerous occasions previously. It was a clean and simple process—the lock had no T bolt, it was just the standard type that should really only be used on internal doors. Safety obviously wasn’t much of a priority for Makedde’s modelling agency.

The flat was barren. The week before, Makedde had packed Catherine’s things into bags and cardboard boxes and had addressed them to Canada. Luther had searched them all. Now with the boxes gone and her own belongings removed as well, the space looked very empty. She had left in a hurry. The bed was dishevelled, there were unwashed dishes in the sink, a newspaper lay crumpled on the floor. It wasn’t the way a well mannered girl like Makedde would normally leave her accommodations. She must have been very scared.

He opened the wardrobe doors and found a few metal hangers and a lone sock. He noticed that she
had shifted the wardrobe back to its original position. On Friday he had been searching underneath it when he heard her coming up the stairs. He’d hidden in the kitchen alcove, behind the dividing counter, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He had remained quiet and still, his patience serving him well, ready to silence her if need be. She was lucky, and instead she lay on her bed for a while, then showered. He had even caught a tantalising glimpse of her naked body when she emerged from the bathroom.

She was too beautiful.

Flawless.

That’s when the urge hit him.

Makedde had dressed and made herself up. She’d even read a book for a while, only a few feet away from him, and all the while he imagined the way she’d look with his hands around her pretty throat. Then her date arrived downstairs, just when he was ready to make his move. Perhaps it was for the best.

He checked through the rubbish bin and found nothing of interest, only food scraps and meaningless crumpled pamphlets and papers. In the bathroom he found that she’d forgotten her toothbrush and in the medicine cabinet there was a lone Tylenol pill and a packet of tampons. She’d left the bath towels, some of them used. Finally, he sifted through the newspaper and magazines left scattered on the floor near the bed. Under the paper he found what he was looking for.
His gift was right there. A smart girl like Makedde would have taken it with her, he thought, as proof that she was in danger. But it seemed she was in too much of a hurry to leave.

Silly girl. Now no one will believe you.

Having served its purpose, he pocketed his tasty little happy snap, and left the place as he found it.

On Tuesday morning, Makedde woke disoriented and distressed. From the moment she opened her eyes she was plagued with a deep, gnawing dread that she couldn’t quite put a name to. She blinked and rubbed her eyes before leaning over to check her watch beside the bed. It was 8 a.m.

Another one. Another murder.

Had it been a dream?

She’d left more messages for Andy which he hadn’t returned. It was hard for her to be angry at him, though. If Becky Ross had just been murdered, that would naturally take top priority. The police would be scrambling. She thought she might call the police station about the photo, if she felt desperate.

Makedde didn’t want to admit to herself that she might have overreacted. Any weirdo who read the papers and happened to know where Catherine had lived could have slipped her that note. Was it really a doctored photo of
her
? Was that really what she’d thought she’d seen? Maybe it was a joke. Maybe she was imagining things, the way she had imagined that
the furniture had moved by itself. A paranoid, overactive imagination was a sure sign of stress.

It was good to move anyway. Hopefully she’d be back in Canada before Deni got home, and compared to the Bondi flat Deni’s place was pure luxury. The view was superb, overlooking Bronte Beach, and there was a quaint porch and a small backyard. It had one large bedroom and a guest room, a separate kitchen, and an adult-sized bathroom; one where she didn’t have to sit on the toilet seat to wash her hands. The walls were soothing apricot, the floors polished wood. The furniture was a bit thin on the ground, but what was there was expensive and tasteful. There were two telephones and an answering machine she was welcome to use. There was even a laundry.
Heaven
.

The one drawback was the distance from public transport. She would need a car. On her many travels Makedde had generally relied on taxis, buses and occasionally trains, and even though she had an international licence, she’d had minimal experience driving on the “wrong side of the road”, as she thought of it. She thumbed through the Yellow Pages and found a local outfit—aptly titled Lowe-Rent—and booked a date with a five-year-old Daihatsu Charade.

After one bus ride, half an hour of walking, countless directions from strangers and one advance from a wino, she eventually found the William Street rental offices, paid her deposit and was shown to her
car. She slid into the driver’s seat nervous but excited. Like a pianist about to perform a recital, she cracked her knuckles, flexed her hands, and curled her fingers around the wheel.

I can do this. I have control of my life. New flat. New car. New me.

She pulled out of the carpark, driving past a larger-than-life illustration of a smiling koala exclaiming, “For the best deals, think Lowe-Rent!”

Think left.

She turned onto William Street and followed the manic stream of bumper-to-bumper machines and found herself in no time at all successfully driving on the left-hand side of the road.

See? I’m fine. No weirdo is going to scare me off.

Acclimatising herself to the joys of Sydney CBD motorsport, she took the car down William to College Street before heading back towards Bronte. She was crossing a six-lane intersection when she heard the loud honking of horns.

Is that for me?

“Oi! You’re on the wrong side of the road!”

Tyres screeched as she came to an embarrassing halt in the middle of the intersection. An angry orchestra of noisy horns filled the air. The lights changed. Cars started towards her, still beeping. She started to reverse, but the traffic going in the other direction blocked her route.

“Damn tourist!” someone shouted.

Some cars drove slowly, faces gawking out the windows. They stared at her the same way they would a mangled car wreck. Finally, she saw her chance and gunned it up the street as fast as she could. No longer under fierce scrutiny, her instinct was to pull over and abandon the car at the first opportunity. But she kept on, and before long she was out of the worst of the traffic and was nearing Bronte. Her new abode had about everything except a garage. She drove around and around and finally found a parking spot some four blocks away. The price of living near the beach she supposed.

When she got inside, the answering machine was flashing. She hoped it was Andy, wanting to take her out somewhere. She would let him drive. Then perhaps they could pick up where they’d left off on Sunday night.

Eagerly, she replayed the messages.

“Hello sweetie! It’s Loulou. You are impossible to reach! Where did you move to? Let’s get together. Call me.”

Makedde waited eagerly to hear Andy’s voice on the next recording, but the messages ended.

She frowned.

It’s a weekday; he’s busy. He’ll call later.

Maybe he’d gone off her? Had she been too assertive?

Nah. He loved it.

Flipping open her day-book, Makedde dialled Loulou’s number and after three rings it was picked up.

“Hi Loulou, it’s Makedde.”

“Makedde! How ya goin’ sweetie?” She sounded excited. But then, she always sounded excited. “I still can’t believe that Becky Ross is dead, she had such a bright future ahead of her.”

“I know, it’s horrible,” Mak replied.

“Didjahavagoodweegend?” Loulou asked.

“Pardon?”

“Did—you—have—a—good—weekend?” she slowly enunciated, as if Makedde were deaf.

“Sorry, yes. I did.”

“Were—you—on—the—phone—the—whole—time?”

“Knock it off,” Makedde laughed. “I’m not deaf, I just prefer English, and no, I wasn’t on the line the whole time.”

“Because every time I called, the phone was busy.”

Makedde’s mind went back to the long hours Andy and her had spent, not wanting to be disturbed.

“Oh, we took the phone off the hook. I mean…
I. I
took the phone off the hook.”
Oops.

“Oh, really? Who’s the lucky guy? Is he a hunk?”

“Loulou, I can’t really talk about it. But, yes, I had a great weekend.”
Really great.
“Anyway, I was calling to see if you wanted to get together for a little retail therapy? I haven’t been shopping for a while.”

“Baby, what an idea. You know I
love
shopping!”

“Tomorrow? We could have lunch in Paddington,” Mak suggested, “then hit the boutiques.”

“Shop till we drop! Sounds
divine
. Bring your portfolio, I didn’t get a chance to see it at the show.”

“Sure.”

“Where are you living now?”

“Bronte. It’s a real nice place that belongs to another girl from Book. Do you know a model named Deni?”

“Total bitch,” she said flippantly. “Just kidding. Never heard of her. Bronte’s not too far from me. My car’s in the shop till tomorrow afternoon. Can you pick me up?”

Those were the last words Makedde wanted to hear.

“I do have a rental car, but it’s—”

“Perfect! Pick me up at noon. See you then sweetie.”

Into the dial tone, Makedde said, “OK, sweetie.”

Makedde finally gave up her waiting game and called Central Homicide. She couldn’t find the photo that had so disturbed her, so she didn’t think she should mention it to whomever answered, but nevertheless, she thought she might have better luck tracking down the elusive Detective Flynn.

A female officer answered. “Central Homicide.” “Is Detective Flynn there, please?”

“Sorry, he’s not available. I’ll put you through to Detective Cassimatis if you like.”

Damn.
Makedde hesitated. Andy would be mad, but that was tough luck. She was getting mad herself.

“Detective Cassimatis.”

“Hi. I’m trying to reach Detective Flynn.”

“He’s not available,” Jimmy said. “Is there something I can help you with Miss…”

“This is Makedde Vanderwall. You’re Jimmy, right? His partner?”

“Oh…” There was a long pause. “Makedde. Have you seen him today?”

“No. I’ve been trying to get hold of him for a couple of days.”

Another pause. “Well, like I said, he’s not available. Is there anything else?”

She was taken aback by his rudeness. “Uh…no.”

He hung up.

He sat on the park bench outside the Bondi block of flats, wringing his hands and staring forlornly at her darkened window. There had been no movement, no sign of her for the past four hours. No one of interest had entered or left the building. No statuesque, beautiful blonde. No
Makedde
. He had spent hours staking out her flat between his shifts at work, and still there was no sign of her.

Had he lost her because of his stupid job?

Once upon a time, it had thrilled him to attend his work. But now he had other things on his mind. More important things. His job was getting in the way. He needed his hours free to pursue that which rightly belonged to him. But he couldn’t quit work. What would his mother say? Could he keep it from her?

He slid his hand into his jacket pocket for comfort. The scalpel felt hard and reassuring through the nylon fabric. Night had descended, and he was ready; but she was nowhere to be found. His prize was gone. He was so angry. Angry and disappointed. He was to cure her
of her sins. It was meant to be. She was the special one. How could he let her slip away?

He patted his pocket. He’d scour the streets, comb the city, explore every avenue and lane, leave no stone unturned.

We’ll find her. Don’t worry, we’ll find her.

At noon on Wednesday, Makedde honked her horn outside Loulou’s block of flats. She waited in the car, deep in thought. On the seat beside her was a copy of Weekly News, a gossip tabloid. A poster of the front cover had been up in the window of a news stand when she walked by, emblazoned with the headline SOAP STAR SLAIN. In the article there were a lot of quotes from mysterious “sources” and a mention of the fact that statuesque model, Makedde Vanderwall, discovered her dead friend Catherine Gerber only one week before Becky was killed…

Makedde imagined Catherine’s killer buying a stack of copies and tacking them to his wall to join other headlines like,
MODEL SLAIN
and
BODY DISCOVERED WEARING STILETTO
. She was thankful that her picture was not included in the article. Her thoughts were broken when a whirl of bright fuchsia caught her attention. Loulou was bounding towards the car, all smiles in a hot pink mini-dress and platforms. Her purse was lime-green with little gold flowers, her fingernails painted glittery
lime-green to match, and her blonde hair back-combed into a gravity-defying mushroom-shaped cloud. She resembled a spinning radish topped with yellow straw. Somehow, she managed to make even Vivienne Westwood look conservative.

Loulou bounced onto the passenger seat, picking up the magazine as she did. “God, she’s everywhere. Poor thing. Hey,” she said, looking around, “this car ain’t so bad for cheapo rental.”

“Perhaps. But the driver is.”

“The driver?” Loulou looked puzzled. “Oh, yeah, wrong side of the road. How are you finding it?”

“Do you want to drive?”

“No. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go.”

“It was worth a try,” Makedde mumbled as she pulled away from the curb.

They ate at a groovy little café on Oxford Street, where Loulou’s fashion sense seemed to fit in perfectly. Loulou must have been hungry, because she barely said a word through the entire meal, but once she’d polished off her spaghetti primavera, she wasted no more time.

“So, tell me about this hunk of yours.”

Mak almost choked on a piece of steamed broccoli. “Hunk? Well, he’s…”
He is a hunk.
“I…” she started again.
I think I’m falling for him. Or was…

“Good God girl, get it out! What are you babbling about?”

Makedde smiled. “Yes, well, I’m sort of seeing someone. I think. But that’s all I can tell you.”

“Who is he, James Bond?”

“Very funny, Loulou.”

“He’s not some snapper, is he?”

“No, he’s not a photographer. I just can’t say who he is right now. And besides, I’m not sure if it’s going anywhere.”

She wasn’t going to let up that easy. “Super-M? Oh, God, he’s not your booker?”

“Charles? No, no. He’s not my type at all. Actually, I don’t think I’m his. I’m pretty sure he’s gay. And no, this guy’s not some supermodel. He’s not even in the biz.”

“Oh, that’s right,
Charles
is your booker. Yeah, he’s still with Paulo. So, your hunk’s not in the biz,” she pressed. “A politician?”

“Loulou! Knock it off, please.”

“All right, all right.” She sat sulking for a moment, scratching at a grease stain on the table cloth. “Can I see your book?”

“Sure. That I can do.” Mak hauled the heavy portfolio out of her bag and plonked it on the table between their empty plates.

“Nice head-shot. Who did the make-up?” Loulou asked with a wink.

“Mmmm, can’t remember. It was taken in Vancouver a month or two ago. I don’t think you’d know them anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Loulou countered, flipping through a few pages. She stopped at a photo halfway through the book. “Wow! Where did you shoot that? Those shoes are
divine
.”

“Thanks. Miami. Those shoes were so uncomfortable. The heels must have been eight inches high. It’s almost two years old. I took some time off, you see…”

“Time off? Why on earth did you take time off? You’re in your prime, sweetie. You can take as much time off as you want when you’re dead.”

My mother was sick, and Stanley was on trial.
“Oh, I…I just felt like I needed a break.”

“Any photos of your hunk in here?” Loulou went on, oblivious to the fact that she had touched on a nerve. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Makedde laughed. “No. Can we please not talk about him?”

“Men. I had a guy stay over last week, and when I woke up, he was just staring at me with his mouth open. My eyebrows had come off on the pillow! He freaked!”

Makedde let out a ridiculous squealing laugh, loud enough for several of the other patrons to look up.

“Time for a little retail therapy?” Loulou asked, getting up from the table.

“Yes! Please. I thought you’d never ask.”

Umpteen credit card swipes and several hours later, they returned to the rental car and shoe-horned themselves in with their spoils of the hunt. It had taken Makedde almost an hour to prise Loulou out of The Look make-up shop—there had been a tug-o-war with a mob of gleeful sales assistants, and, needless to say, the shelves looked very clean when they had eventually left.

“Got everything you wanted, sweetie?”

Makedde looked at her hand-sized shopping bag containing a single lipstick, and said, “Yeah. I won’t ask if you have, because I’m not letting you back into that store.”

“Next time, sweetie.”

“Next time.”

Makedde got behind the wheel, and as she went to pop her new lipstick into her shoulder bag, she froze.

“What’s wrong?” Loulou asked.

“My book! Oh God! My portfolio! It’s not here! I must have left it…” Makedde flung open the car door and ran full-tilt for three blocks until she reached the café. An older couple was eating at
the table at which Makedde and Loulou had earlier sat.

“Excuse me,” she panted. “Have you seen a black portfolio here, with some model pictures in it?”

The lady slowly turned to her partner, and then back to Makedde. “Sorry, dear, no.”

“Are you
sure
?”

They shrugged their shoulders as Makedde made for the nearest waiter. He didn’t look familiar.

“Excuse me, have you seen a model’s portfolio here? I think I left it at that table,” she pointed, “around 12.30 p.m. It’s very important.”

The young man smiled at her. Makedde hoped it was because he knew where it was.

“You’re a model, huh? You’re a very beautiful lady. So tall—”

“Please, have you seen it?” she asked again.

“Sorry, no.”

Her portfolio contained the original photographs of the best of her many years of work. The photographers and their negatives were scattered all over the globe, and the magazine covers and editorials were probably out of print now.

“Maybe I can help you,” the waiter offered, moving closer to Makedde.

“Did you see the book? Can you tell me who sat at that table after we did?”

“No. I just began my shift.”

“Then no, you can’t.” Makedde glanced around the café. “Look, can I leave a number with you in case it turns up?”

The waiter’s eyes lit up. “Of course,” he said with a smirk.

She scribbled her agent’s phone number along with the name “Miss Vanderwall”. No doubt he would think she was coming on to him. “Just in case the portfolio turns up, OK?” she said again, trying to make herself clear.

Angry at being so careless, she turned and walked stiffly back to the car, digging her fingernails into her palms. Loulou was waiting in the passenger seat, listening to the radio. “What happened, sweetie?” she yelled above the music.

Makedde got in and switched off the radio with a little too much force. The dial came off in her hand.

“Not there, huh?” Loulou asked.

“Not there,” she confirmed, and silently drove Loulou home.

Makedde walked in the front door frowning, and threw her bag on the floor. “Shit-shit-shit-shit-
shit
! How could I do that?” she said out loud. “You stupid, stupid girl!”

Only once in ten years had Makedde forgotten her portfolio. She was fifteen years old, in Milan for
the first time, and had been calling her agent from a public phone booth. She got straight onto a tram and was clattering down the Corso Venezia before she realised she didn’t have it with her. Thankfully, when she got off and ran back, it was still sitting where she’d left it. Since then she had been vigilant.

Until today.

Reluctantly, she called Charles. “You
what
?” he yelled down the line. “How could you lose it? How long have you been modelling?”

“I should know better, yes.”

It was one of the first rules of modelling—protect your portfolio at all costs. Never put it in check-in luggage when you fly. Never give it to a friend to take somewhere. Never,
ever
lose it. No portfolio, no work.

Charles was still berating her, “Let’s hope whoever has it, returns it, and soon. I’ve got clients I want you to see. Come in tomorrow morning. We’ll see what laser copies we can scrape up for the moment.”

Not an encouraging thought.