Making Headlines (27 page)

As they walked to his car, the light lazily slipping into dusk, Rachel stopped at the kerb. ‘Oops. Got to get some stuff out of my car. This way.' She pointed in the other direction, down a sheltered street past the hotel.

‘What time are you meeting the girls?'

‘About seven thirty. Shouldn't be a late one. Then shall I come to you or do you—Holy fuck!' She stood stock still, staring at her car, hoping she was seeing shadows in the fading light. But no. The side passenger window had been smashed.

‘Oh shit.' Mitch stopped beside her.

She moved slowly towards the car, looking around anxiously. ‘Oh Christ, Mitch, do you think this is random or deliberate?'

‘What? The stalker?'

‘Of course.' Her heart beat faster as they drew closer to her car. Her eyes darted about, trying to take in the damage and wondering if the offender might still be around. Maybe he was hiding behind the car?

‘Wait up, Rach. Don't touch anything!' Mitch was right behind her, his voice making her jump and draw back her hands.

‘Fuck! Why my car? I don't leave anything valuable in it.' She looked through shattered glass. ‘Shit. There's a note. And something's on my jumper. Should I get it?'

‘No, no. Don't touch anything.' Mitch was on the phone calling the police.

Squinting, she peered more closely, then stood back, breathing hard and fast, pressing her hands to her temples. ‘Oh fuck, Mitch, it's him. I can make out his handwriting. He
has
been following me. Oh fuck.'

‘Don't read it. They'll be here any minute. Let them deal with it, get fingerprints.' He turned her to him, hugging her. ‘This could be a good thing, Rach. They might be able to find something and put an end to it all.'

She drew back and looked around. ‘What if he's here, watching us?'

‘It's okay. These sorts of bastards are cowards. He wouldn't hang around.'

Squeezing him tightly, her face pushed into the warmth of his chest, her eyes remained watchful, her body tense.

The police arrived five minutes later. Sergeant Russo and Senior Constable
Fraser dusted the car, took notes and fingerprints, and used gloves to lift a purple cylindrical object carefully from the back seat.

‘What's that?' Rachel asked.

Sergeant Russo's face was grim as he sealed the evidence bag. ‘You don't want to know.' He paused, shuffling his feet awkwardly. ‘But, ah, it's a sex toy. You probably should read the letter.' He gestured to Constable Fraser who showed her the note, now encased in plastic.

Her hands trembled as she read the loopy handwriting.

Rachel, my dirty little whore, this is a moment I've waited for. Inside your car I can smell you and imagine more clearly than ever, touching your beautiful body. Just the thought of it makes me come. I want you to get horny too, so I'm leaving you a present. Pretty, isn't it? Not as good as the real thing, but you can look forward to feeling that real soon. This is just an appetiser. Before the one and only time we fuck. Before you die.

Your Deviant Admirer, X.

Russo turned back to the car, continuing his inspection. ‘That stuff he wrote about. It seems he . . . ah . . . did relieve himself. Unfortunately using what looks to be a female jumper in the back seat. Real sicko this one.' He snorted in disgust.

Rachel dissolved against Mitch, letting his arms support her.

Fraser returned to offer Russo a larger plastic bag for her jumper. Russo grimaced as he dropped it in. ‘Not so clever really. Now we can give it to forensics for testing.'

Gagging, Rachel thought she might choke.

She felt Mitch tense with frustration. ‘Jesus, mate, you'd better be able to come up with something this time. We're dealing with a serious psychopath,' he said.

Russo nodded, looking sheepish. ‘I know. We'll do our best.'

When he'd finished with the car, Russo turned to Rachel, notebook in hand and began asking questions — how long her car had been there, why she might be a target, what she did for a profession, whether she had a boyfriend. When she explained she was a newsreader, he tilted his head, eyes squinting.

‘Ah yes,' he drew back, puffing out his chest. ‘I do recognise you now. Of course, you'd get a few strange ones writing to you.'

‘Sometimes. I'm sure this is the man who's been writing to me for months. The letters have become more and more threatening.'

‘Do you have the rest of the letters? Any idea who it could be?'

‘Some of them are at the Prahran Police Station. Most are with my boss, Helmut. At least, I hope he still has them. He wasn't taking the threats seriously, you see. In fact, my sister even thought it might be Helmut who was the actual stalker . . .' Rachel stopped. ‘Sorry, that's ridiculous. Don't write that down. I was just thinking aloud.'

Russo looked at her thoughtfully. ‘No, no, we'll keep that in. Any suspicion is worth investigating. You'd be surprised how many victims know the source of their misery.'

‘No, really. I don't really think it is Helmut. I mean, he stares at me a lot at work and he has a nasty temper, but I don't think he's mentally unstable. I don't
think
he is, do you?' She turned to Mitch.

He shrugged. ‘I don't know. It's a crazy world. Does weird things to people.'

It was getting crazier by the minute.

Rachel drove a hire car to work on Monday, deliberately parking in a different spot in case the stalker was watching. It was pouring with rain, but she didn't mind. Less likely he could be anywhere outside in an advantageous spying position. Yet still she took her time, getting soaked as she checked her surroundings. That was one benefit of having a stalker. Even when it was nine thirty in the morning and only six degrees, you didn't feel the cold.

Everywhere she went she looked over her shoulder, watching to see if she was being watched. Eating and drinking were no longer pleasurable pastimes. Her appetite had vanished. Sleep was disturbed by violent images.

She walked into the newsroom knowing at some point she would have to tell Helmut what had happened. Rachel dreaded the thought. No doubt he'd find it perversely exciting and want her to elaborate on the unsavoury details. She was also concerned she'd mentioned his name to police. She decided to wait until after she'd been to makeup and presented the first update — focus on work to distract herself.

But she'd barely placed her bag on her desk when her phone rang.

‘Hi Rachel.' It was Mandy. ‘Helmut says he wants you in his office straight away. Says it's quite urgent, so I guess you'd better get over here.'

Using the mirror on the back of her door, Rachel combed her wet hair and put on some lipstick before walking over to Helmut's office. His chair was turned around and he was staring outside. She knocked and he swung around, his face neutral.

‘Come in, Rachel. And close the door.'

Sitting down, she could sense he knew.

Leaning forward, two fingers touching a point under his chin, he stared at her for a moment before speaking. ‘It appears
you
have a problem.'

She nodded. ‘I had a few problems on the weekend, yes.' He made it sound like it was all her fault.

‘Had a call from the
Morning Herald
. Seems someone at Victoria Police likes getting a bit of attention and has leaked the story about your car attack to the paper. As I said, not something we wanted to happen. People hear these things and suddenly you have hundreds of copycat stalkers. Is that what you want?'

‘I didn't ask for the story to be leaked, Helmut. The last thing—'

‘No, no. I'm not saying you leaked it. I'm saying do you want it in the papers? On moral grounds, I can ask the editor not to run it. He's an old friend so he'll probably help out. A bit like suicide stories — if it's in the best interests of the victim, or the general public, they won't do it. If there's a good enough reason. And I think we have one. So should I try to get the story stopped or is this something you want in the papers?' He squinted at her.

‘Helmut, you may think I'm publicity hungry, but this is definitely
not
something I want in the papers. Yes. Please call them and ask them not to run it.'

He sat back in his chair, nodding his head, a glimmer of relief flashing across his face before he assumed a more serious expression. ‘Good. Good girl. Right call, I think. I'll give them a bell.' He reached for the phone. ‘You can go back to work now.'

‘Oh, yes. Right. Thanks.' As she walked off, Rachel wondered if he
was
the stalker. All the more reason for him to quash any story about the car incident. She shivered, thinking about what had been left in her car. It was too revolting to contemplate.

***

For the third time that afternoon, Rachel jumped when the phone rang. Every sudden noise startled her. She'd spoken with her mother and Lou yesterday, so both had called today to check she was okay. The third call was the one she'd been waiting for.

‘Hi Rachel, Sergeant Russo here. I'm just calling to give you the outcome from forensics.'

‘Did you get an ID? Any fingerprints?' She wanted to ask a thousand questions.

‘Look, I'm sorry. He must have had his wits about him, not one fingerprint to be found. Even on the letter. We can get DNA from the semen, but that would only be a match with any criminals whose DNA profile we already have on file. We've starting the testing process but it'll take a bit of time.'

‘So, what can you do from here? What can I do?'

‘We'll continue the investigation. Ask people in the area at the time in case anyone saw anything. But so far no witnesses. Nothing.'

Nothing. ‘I see.' She wanted to drop the phone. Her whole body felt weak.

‘But we will come in and take a look at those other letters. You said your boss has them? And maybe we'll have a chat to him too, after what you said. Discreetly, of course, don't want you getting into any trouble or anything.'

‘Sure,' said Rachel.

‘And just keep any other letters to yourself in the future and ring us straight away if you have any concerns.'

‘Can I get some extra surveillance from police? You know, to drive by the house and check on me at night?'

‘Not really. Our resources are stretched and unless there's a definitive threat, there's nothing we can do. Sorry.'

‘So this doesn't qualify as a
definitive threat
?'

‘I'm afraid not. There has to be a physical presence for it to be an actual threat.'

‘Right.' She was numb. ‘That's fine. I understand.'

‘But do ring us if you get any more letters, okay? And don't open them. He might not be so clever next time and we might get some fingerprints. You never know.' His voice lifted, trying to offer some hope.

***

As the weeks passed, Rachel gradually began to relax. House hunting helped distract her — not just because she wanted to live with Mitch, she wanted to move in case the stalker knew her current address. Finally, last weekend they'd managed to settle on a house in South Yarra. As well, Helmut had managed to quash the newspaper story about the car attack and Rachel hadn't received any more threatening letters. For the next month, there were none.

Mitch had been patient throughout. Putting up with her paranoia, her sleepless nights and nerves. It was only a few days ago, tidying up her desk at home, that her fears began to resurface. She found the note she'd written in the middle of the night, after she'd woken from her dream about the prophet predicting her death. The date was July eighteenth.

Today.

Driving to work, Rachel took more care, staying under the speed limit and constantly checking traffic in her rear-vision mirror. When she went to the shops during her lunch break, she took her time crossing the road. She scanned the faces of people around her in case any were a possible threat.

After her last update, she went to see Mitch in his edit suite. He was heading off on his long-awaited surfing weekend with his buddies immediately after the news, and Rachel wanted a proper farewell kiss before he left.

They sat together on the couch, hidden from prying eyes.

‘You haven't mentioned it yet,' said Mitch, taking her hand.

‘Mentioned what?' she said lightly.

‘The date. You told me the date you dreamt about and it's today. Are you okay?'

‘Of course, silly. I told you — I'm not superstitious.'

‘Sure. And I appreciate you not trying to talk me out of the surfing trip.'

She stroked his face. ‘I really
am
fine.'

‘So what are you planning tonight?'

‘Not much. Kate's working, so Julia's coming over to watch a DVD. Just a girly rom-com and an early night. Then I might stay at Lou's on the weekend, so I can see a bit more of Josh.'

‘Good. Long as I know you're being taken care of.'

‘I don't need to be taken care of. I can look after myself. See how strong I am?' She straddled him, pushing him back against the couch and pinning down his arms. Then she leaned forward, moving her mouth against his, tongues exploring. He didn't put up any resistance.

***

Rachel sat on the couch with a glass of wine, the DVD
Love and Other Drugs
beside her, and popcorn in the microwave ready to go. But still no Julia. She looked at her watch. Julia was more than half an hour late, which was unusual. She went to the kitchen and grabbed her phone.

Two missed calls. Damn. She checked and found she'd accidentally pushed the silencing button. There was a text from Julia:
Sorry Rach, but my sister just got engaged! Hope you don't mind me postponing. The whole family is going around her place 2 celebrate. xx

She'd left the message an hour ago. Rachel plugged the phone into its charger, with the ringtone up to full volume. It was too late to find someone else. She pushed a few buttons on the microwave to cook the popcorn and filled her glass. She had popcorn, wine and a good movie. And cigarettes. It wasn't so bad. Double-checking that she'd locked all the doors, she settled in on the couch, hoping the movie would whisk her into another world, away from the prophet's voice ringing in her head.

***

The movie over and a bottle of wine having the desired sedentary effect, Rachel stumbled to her bedroom. She threw her clothes on the floor and pulled some old flannel pyjamas from a drawer. She may as well dress for comfort. Just get through tonight and she'd be fine. She wished she'd asked Kate to make sure she came home after work
instead of going to Adam's, but in the reassuring light of day, it had felt a bit melodramatic. Now the house was silent and dark, she craved company.

She was cleaning her teeth when she heard a noise from the sunroom, like the back doors rattling. She turned off the tap, her breath quickening, adrenalin pulsing through her veins. It was a blustery night. Perhaps it was the wind?

Grabbing Kate's fluffy pink bathrobe from the back of the door, she pulled it on. Now she could hear a noise at the front gate. It was all probably in her head, but her heart was pounding as she stepped out into the hall. She thought she saw a shadow through the glass panel of the front door. Wasn't the noise coming from the back? Warily, she tiptoed up to the front door to look through the peephole. The verandah was bare.

Then
smash!
The glass panels in the French doors.

She ran back down the hall for her phone.
Need to call the police
. A hand reached through the shattered door. A man in a balaclava and gloves opened the lock. Rachel let out a strangled gurgle of a scream, the shock paralysing her throat, as she fumbled on the bench for her phone, her legs jelly. Swiping and swiping, she couldn't make the phone work.

An arm grabbed her from behind as a cold hand covered her mouth, but his breath was hot in her ear. She dropped the phone. He forced her to the wall and pushed her face hard against it. She tried to kick back at him with her elbows. He pinned her there, his body covering hers.

‘Ah, Rachel, at last. At long, long last. Don't struggle now, baby. Let's do this right.' His voice was low and rough, and the wool balaclava grazed her cheek. He pushed at her, hips grinding into her backside.

A growling right beside her ear. ‘Arghh, yes. Now you can feel me, can't you? You like this, don't you, baby? You like 'em big, huh?'

She tried to scream, but his hand muffled the noise. ‘No crying, baby, don't be a cry-baby . . .' he hissed. Fingers tore at her mouth and gagged her with a handkerchief.

His voice was familiar. She tried to place it. He thrust against her and she could feel his hardness. She arched her back, trying to escape, to kick backwards. He grabbed her hair and banged her head against the wall. And then harder. She slumped and as he pulled away, she heard a zip release.

‘Yeah, big cocks is what you like. I know that, you dirty slut-bag. But no, not against the wall. I want to pump you properly.' Gripping her wrists together, he forced
her to the couch. ‘Slut-bag.' With his other hand, he reached in front, ripping buttons from her shirt and groping her breasts. She tried to bite one of the hands and he spun her around, slapping her hard. Her lip split against teeth.

‘Feisty fucking bitch!'

She twisted an ankle trying to wheel away from him as he thrust her onto the couch, straddling her. She tried to buck him off, to scream through the gag. He punched her in the eye. Her head fell to the side, the room spinning. One hand held both hers above her head, the other pulled at her pants. Now she could feel his jeans against her thighs, his flesh pressing against her, his zip scraping her skin. She squeezed her legs together but his knees pried them apart.

‘Oh no, baby, you can't win this one, been wanting this for too long. All those letters, you enjoyed them, didn't you?' He grunted as he pushed back down against her and now she could feel him, hard against her inner thigh.

Tears blurred her vision.

A noise from the French doors. Was it Kate? A dark shadow on the wall moved swiftly towards them. Kate? She blinked to clear her tears and prayed. No, it was another man. A hand gripped the collar of her attacker, lifting him off with a roar.

Mitch. Dark and furious. A frenzy of fists and punching.

Rachel rolled off the couch. She needed to help though she could barely move for shaking. She willed herself up. Grabbing the heavy glass bowl with popcorn remnants, she smashed it over the attacker's head as hard as she could. The blow was softened by the balaclava, but he staggered as Mitch landed another punch, then fell to his knees. Rachel fled for her phone.

Locking his face to the ground, Mitch sat on the attacker and held his arm in an impossible grip. ‘Who the fuck are you?' Mitch yanked away the balaclava.

Brent Garrison.

Mitch punched him again. In the face. His head dropped to the floor.

***

The police were there in three minutes. Later, a second van came to take Brent away, sirens blaring. Rachel was briefly questioned by two officers, who said they'd speak to her in more depth when she'd recovered. They wanted to call an ambulance. Rachel said she was fine. Her injuries were superficial, although her ankle throbbed and her ribs ached. And she couldn't stop the trembling. They insisted she go to emergency for a full check, so Mitch said he'd take her to the Alfred Hospital.