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‘Get a towel from the bathroom and bring it here.’

Simon froze.
What?

‘Do it.’

Mechanically Simon rose, walked to the bathroom and took one of the fresh white towels off the rack. He returned and held it out to Mr Hand.

‘Now kneel.’

‘What?’ Simon’s veins stood out, panic coursing through him. He flinched to one side, but Mr Hand had already pounced. He pinned Simon to the floor, head against the soft white hotel towel. Mr Hand’s crushing body weight bore down, and in his panic Simon peed himself. He lost control, his jeans feeling wet and warm. He felt humiliated and scared, but that was not the worst of it. In one quick motion Mr Hand pushed Simon’s head down and whipped his small razor-sharp blade against Simon’s neck, cutting a painful but superficial wound down the length of it and right across his chin.

‘
Ahhhhhh!
’

Simon cried out with the white-hot pain, and balled himself up, crying.

Body in a foetal position, utterly humiliated and agonised, Simon felt Mr Hand move to get something. It was a bottle from the minibar. He opened it and poured something straight onto the wound, the alcohol splashing and dripping down his face and neck. The pain was agony, the like of which Simon had never before experienced.

Mr Hand had disfigured that pretty face.

He came right up to Simon’s ear and whispered words to him that Simon would never forget, and when he finished uttering his chilling warnings he pulled away, Simon’s face dripping with bourbon and blood.

Even once Simon was relieved of his crushing weight, he did not move a muscle. He was too shocked.

‘Go.’

Mak looked up through the taxi window at a five-storey Gothic building. The evening sun washed the old stone in an orange glow, illuminating the arched windows. Menacing gargoyles perched on its corners, facing east and west, to fend off evil spirits. Across the front was carved the numerals ‘1902’. Even from within the taxi, the lively din of music and conversation floated down from the top floor of the building, where a glow of light illuminated a small balcony.

Mak looked down again at the note she had scribbled with Loulou’s garbled instructions.

This is it.

‘I’ll get out here,’ Mak said. ‘Thank you.’ She paid the driver and got out. The street was cold. She buttoned her coat and scanned the area.

The address Loulou had directed her to was one of the taller buildings in Elwood, a beachside suburb of Melbourne just beyond the area of St Kilda, where Mak was staying. Here the buildings were huddled together, each seeming to lean on
the next. Few were modern. There were a number of sixties- and seventies-style apartment blocks and some terrace homes. The shops in the area looked to be eclectic, much like the locals: a number of cafés, a corner store and a laundromat, a couple of bottle shops, a comic book shop, designer boutique and a cobbler. Mak was surprised to see geriatrics with walkers and punks with mohawks occupying the same footpaths in the evening.

Mak stepped up to the building. She pressed the bottom buzzer, MCGILL, and after a few seconds was met with a booming static which she assumed was the doorbell being answered. She responded to the static with ‘Hi, it’s Mak’.

There was a loud squeal on the other end, which she also heard from above. It couldn’t be anyone but Loulou—it seemed Mak had the right place. She was buzzed in, and made her way inside to discover that there was no elevator, just like her hotel. Step by step she hauled herself up five floors of creaky stairs, grimacing as the muscles in her quads and calves burned. When she’d been working in Manhattan as a fashion model she had lived in a five-floor walk-up like this, but she had obviously been younger and fitter then, because this felt like harder work than she had remembered.

By the third flight of stairs light moisture beaded her brow. She would have to sign up for some more kickboxing classes, she decided. And since she’d started working strange hours for
Marian, she had not stuck to her usual routine of running 50 kilometres a week, either. She would need to retain her fitness for her odd jobs as an investigator. Who knew when she might need to outrun someone? She’d heard plenty of war stories about investigators being confronted and even chased by tipped-off—and ticked-off—subjects.

After what seemed like twice as many flights of stairs as there actually were, Mak reached the top landing. Loulou burst out of the apartment door in a whirl of red-and-black stripes. Mak braced herself for the impact. The ensuing hug was fierce and heartfelt.

‘Oh, darling! It’s so good to see you!’

Loulou was, as always, a sight to behold. She was clothed in a striped top and fingerless glove ensemble, with black zippered jeans and what looked like Doc Martens. Ever the make-up artist, her visage was striking, though anything but natural. Dark extended eyelashes curled upwards to caress her eyebrows with their length, and multicoloured eyeshadow swept with a theatrical flair towards her temples. And since the last time Mak had seen her—although only yesterday—Loulou had dyed her mullet-cum-swept-up mohawk hairdo a raven black with dramatic red tips at the ends.

Where did she find the time
, Mak wondered.

Everything about Loulou was dramatic. Always. They embraced and Loulou dragged her inside excitedly.

‘You’re here! You’re here! Sweetie, this is so great! You
so
have to meet everyone!’

The apartment had walls covered in sketches hung with thumbtacks, and bright abstract paintings, save for one side of the room that was painted from floor to ceiling in a striking cherry red which Loulou seemed to have subconsciously colour-coordinated herself with. There was a drop cloth and easel in one corner of the living room, the canvas half painted in burgundy and black brushstrokes, awaiting further inspiration. Someone here was an artist.

In the centre of the room, a large wooden dining table was set for six people and covered in dripping red candles. Two young men with greasy hair and acres of tattoos greeted her, as did a young woman with hair as wildly coloured as Loulou’s. Mak recognised the shade of red: they had both matched themselves, obviously sharing the same dye kit. Who thought to do that?

Loulou introduced her boyfriend first. ‘Mak, this is Drayson McGill,’ she said with proud affection, squeezing the arm of one of the two young men. He was just a touch taller than Loulou, with dark generous features and sleepy bedroom eyes. He seemed in need of a wash, and perhaps a wake-up.

So this is the singer she’s fallen for?

Loulou licked Drayson’s ear enthusiastically and giggled. They looked happy, at least, although Mak couldn’t help but recall Loulou’s earlier
pledge to avoid musicians exactly like him. She had her ‘type’ down to a science: always the greasy, unkempt hair; always the overload of ink; always the laconic attitude. In Mak’s eyes he looked nearly identical to Loulou’s four previous conquests.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Mak said, extending a hand towards Drayson’s unoccupied arm.

Drayson nodded slowly and pleasantly in her direction, and shook her hand softly, like a man half-asleep but content with whatever dreams he was caught in. He was either an extremely relaxed character, or stoned. Mak resisted the urge to wave her hands in front of his face to see if he flinched.

‘This is Donkey.’ Loulou gestured to a buffed young man with a long face and sleeves of green and red Japanese-style tattoos on his sculpted arms. He seemed not to have a single ounce of body fat on him. ‘He’s the drummer,’ Loulou explained. Donkey was big, strong and wired, quite the opposite to Drayson’s sleepy demeanour. He seemed ready to take off at any minute.

‘And this is Maroon,’ Loulou said, continuing the introductions. Maroon was petite, swathed in black, with shoulder-length hair that matched her name, and Loulou. Did she change names with hair colour, Mak wondered. ‘She’s the painter.’

Mak looked around at the work adorning the living room. ‘I like your stuff,’ she said. The
comment wasn’t empty flattery. The paintings on the walls were raw, perhaps, but there was genuine talent in the expression, composition and colour. And she seemed prolific, if this was a recent sampling of her work. Perhaps she had a bright future as an artist ahead of her?

‘Oh, and this is Bogey. He’s the one who can cook…’

Bogey was just emerging from the kitchen as he was introduced. Mak got a little shock when she saw him, unaware that there was a fourth person to be introduced to. He walked forwards with a tea towel draped over his shoulder and extended his hand, a gentle smile on his lips. His jet-black hair was spiked up, his attentive green eyes framed in black-rimmed glasses. He was perhaps six foot tall, just eye to eye with Mak, and he wore slim black jeans with a chain hanging from his belt, a fitted black T-shirt and lace-up Doc Marten boots. His hairstyle was loosely reminiscent of a late-fifties Elvis, and with that and the black specs, he brought to mind a lead in a David Lynch film, or a kind of Elvis man living in a time warp. An Elvis who could cook.

There was a lot of black going on.
Come to think of it, half the people in Melbourne seem to wear a lot of black. Are they all mourning something?

‘Hi, Bogey,’ Mak said and reached out to shake his hand.

Mak and Bogey continued to clasp hands for a fraction too long, their eyes locked for a strange
moment. Mak wondered if anyone else had noticed. For a second she thought they might have met before, but she knew they had not.

‘It’s nice to meet you all,’ she said, disengaging from him and addressing the group a bit more formally than she’d intended. ‘I’m Makedde.’ She wished she could say she had heard lots about them, but she hadn’t. The Loulou–Drayson romance was far too much of a whirlwind for Mak to keep up. She knew very little about these people.

‘Ma-what?’ It was Donkey who spoke. Or grunted.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your name is Ma-what? Malady?’ he said.

‘Um, Makedde. It’s M-A-K-E-D-D-E,’ she corrected him.

There was nothing new about confusion surrounding the pronunciation of her name. She was quite accustomed to repeating it a few times in new company.

Donkey screwed his face up, raising his lip on one side. ‘That’s a
weeeeeird
name,’ he said bluntly, and walked back towards the dining table.

Maroon. Drayson. Bogey. Donkey. I’m the one with the weird name in this room?

The group gathered at the dining table, and the Elvis man went to finish up in the kitchen, insisting that he did not need help. Mak took a seat, admiring the wonderfully uneven knots and scrapes in the wooden table while Loulou ran
around the apartment to shut off the remaining lights, leaving the candles to glow.

Maroon poured some red wine into each of the glasses. ‘You would like some?’

Mak nodded.

‘So how do you say it?’ Maroon asked, taking her seat.

Mak couldn’t help but respond with her usual spiel, having been asked that very question at least once a week since she was in primary school. ‘It’s pronounced “Ma-Kay-Dee”. I don’t know what my parents were thinking.’

‘I like it,’ the painter decided.

‘You can call me Mak, though. My friends call me Mak. It’s easier.’

‘What’s in a name?’ Drayson recited laconically from the head of the table, waving his arms around like his hands might be butterflies. ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’

Loulou threw herself at her boyfriend in response, pulling at one of his ear piercings with her red lips, leaving a lipstick print on the titanium barbell, while Mak gaped at him with puzzlement.

Yup, definitely stoned.

‘
Romeo and Juliet
,’ Mak noted, not sure how else to respond to the display except to recognise the origin of his little speech. ‘Don’t you two lovebirds end up like them, now.’

What are you saying, you idiot?

Loulou cackled at her comment, so Mak left it at that, vowing to stop saying every stupid thing that came into her head just because she was in new company and didn’t know what else to say.

Throughout dinner Mak kept to herself, as she often did at parties where she didn’t know most of the people present. She preferred instead to hang back and observe the new faces; a typical shrink, she supposed. She quickly deduced that Donkey’s nickname originated not from his long face but as a reference to his intellect. Drayson, on the other hand, was no fool, coming out with the occasional insightful comment that took Mak by surprise. Maroon could keep up with the boys just fine, bantering with Donkey and giving him a hard time at every opportunity; Mak wondered if she secretly had a crush on the brute. Bogey, the Elvis man, was the quiet one of the bunch. Mak didn’t have him figured out yet, but if she had to guess, she had him as owning a restored Cadillac and an Elvis pinball machine, and having a girlfriend who was a struggling songwriter. Part poet, part rock’n’roller? He had barely said a word to Mak all evening since their introduction, even though he was seated right next to her. Was he always so shy?

Mak quietly enjoyed her time in this different setting, and with people who certainly in no way
resembled cops. It kept her mind from the fact that when she returned home—if that terrace could be called home—it would be empty.

But she couldn’t enjoy herself too much in this new company. She had work to do in a few hours.

The information Mr Hand had received from his client was accurate and exhaustive, right down to driver’s licences, registered addresses, known contacts, photographs and other background on the chosen targets.

The instructions were extremely specific.

Madame Q had told him that his client was well organised and well connected, and Luther had not been disappointed. As usual, he had not been told the details of the client, but he had quickly guessed that the job was something to do with the wealthy Cavanagh family. Having grown up in Sydney, he was well aware of their influence. Only a handful of others in Australia would be able to afford his price. The Cavanaghs were one of the top three richest families in the country, boasting an empire built in only two generations.

Now that Luther had his tools, local currency and exact instructions, and had provided his lesson to Simon Aston—a warning sealed with his own
brand of physical reminder—he was ready for work.

Before midnight, one of the targets on his client’s list would be dead.