Private Oz (22 page)

THE COPS WERE called and Micky Stevens’ twenty-seventh birthday party came to an inglorious close. Katia was taken into custody. Micky went with Graham Parker in the ambulance to St Vincent’s Hospital.

It wasn’t until 3.30 that Darlene pulled away in her Beetle to take Johnny to the station in the CBD. He had five minutes to catch the first morning train home.

“Fantastic work tonight, Johnny,” Darlene said as they walked toward the ticket machine. “We make a great team,” and she pecked him on the cheek.

He blushed.

“You’re doing it again, dude!” Darlene laughed.

He turned and went for the stairs down to the platform, raising his hand as a wave goodbye, his back to her, a big smile on his face.

Darlene strode to her VW parked just outside the station and sat behind the wheel staring silently at the tall, shadowy towers, the leafy, deserted avenue ahead running toward the bridge. She hadn’t felt so alive for a long time. Sleep was absolutely out of the question.

EVERYTHING IN THE lab was as Darlene had left it over four hours earlier. On the central counter lay the collection of singed papers and piles of crispy, black remnants from Julie O’Connor’s scrapbook. A few feet above it hung the microscope.

She slipped on her lab coat, took her glasses from the right pocket and stared into the eyepiece, pulling over the last page she’d viewed earlier, the words “WHORE NUMBER FIVE”. The name wiped by fire, the entire page brown.

“Superficial burn though,” Darlene noted to herself, “which makes it all the more frustrating. If only …” Her mind was racing. She could try solvents. “No … too dangerous,” she said to herself. “Might destroy the thing entirely. Ultraviolet?” she whispered. “What about ultraviolet?”

She pulled up a chair and sat down, hand to chin. Sighed heavily. “No … wouldn’t work … wrong sort of disruption of the paper fibers.”

All these processes involved “peeling away” the upper layer of flame damage, she thought. If she could do that she could see what was underneath. But no, there was no way …

She froze. “Yes!” Pushing back the chair, she got to her feet, suddenly feeling a little giddy. “Easy girl …! But you
are
a genius, Darlene Cooper.” She smiled as she strode across the room to the store cupboard. “
You are a bloody genius!
”

IT WAS CALLED a “Saser” and two months earlier, when Darlene was giving Craig a wish-list of equipment for the lab, she’d almost crossed it off. She was thanking all that was holy she had kept the Saser on the list. Even with a price tag of ten grand, tonight it could prove to be worth every cent.

For that money, the machine didn’t look much. It wasn’t even very large, just a couple of shiny buttons on the front. It looked just like a small photocopier.

Appearances were deceptive. The Saser was an amazing invention, and there were maybe only half a dozen in the world.

She found it on the second shelf on the right of the storeroom. It was quite light, easy to lift down. She put it on the counter below the overhead microscope, plugged it in and watched a small screen light up.

She pulled over her chair and started programming the device. She remembered the spec. A Saser, she recalled, was, according to the technical review she’d read in
Forensics Now
magazine, a little like an X-ray machine. But – and this was its
USP – it didn’t see
right
through things to show bones of the body or the contents of a suitcase like an airport scanner. A Saser could be finely adjusted to penetrate beneath the surface to any predetermined depth. In skilled hands, it could reveal layer upon layer of any object. It was exactly what she needed now.

She lifted the lid and picked up the final pages of Julie O’Connor’s scrapbook.

The contents appeared on the screen. The pages were covered with scorches, almost all the writing wrecked. Darlene adjusted a few parameters and pushed the “Scan” button.

The Saser made a hissing sound. She studied the screen. The image appeared almost identical to the original – just small patches of scorched paper cleared. She could trace the lines of a few letters that had been invisible.

She altered the penetration depth and upped the resolution, pushed “Scan” again.

A new image appeared.

“That’s better!” she said, stunned by the quality. The picture had sharpened dramatically. She could see numbers, letters, whole words. She scrolled up. The top of the page looked better, but still not enough to show what she was after – the damn name.

Darlene adjusted the parameters a third time, her mind racing, numbers and quotients running through her brain. She had to get the depth right or she would overshoot, go straight through.

She pulled back on the resolution and doubled the depth of penetration to one five-hundredth of a millimeter, pushed the “Scan” button again.

The wait was agonizing. Darlene’s eyes were glued to the screen. She could hear her own heart thumping.

As she read two words at the top of the page, Darlene felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

GRETA … THOROGOOD.

JULIE HAD SET her phone to wake her at 4.30. It went off dutifully on time, but she was already awake. She hadn’t slept … too lost in wonderful thoughts, thoughts of blood, rolled-up banknotes, revenge … sweet, sweet revenge. She got up, changed into fresh clothes, threw the wig, moustache and men’s things into a plastic bag.

It was still dark as she tugged open the door onto the parking lot at the rear of SupaMart. Totally deserted, of course. Just two cars left from the previous night. She tossed the plastic bag into a nearby dumpster.

It was three miles from here to where the silly bitch went jogging every morning. 6 am. Parsley Beach. “How typical,” Julie said aloud. “Just when she goes out
running
, I’m on the frigging train from Sandsville to serve stupid bitches like her.”

She turned onto Sebastian Road and just kept walking, the anger building with each step. She could feel the long knife through the lining of her jacket, and her smile broadened as she contemplated what she would do to Greta Thorogood.

WHEN MY PHONE rang, I was in a deep sleep, floated up to wakefulness, confused, reached for the phone, and eventually recognized Darlene’s voice.

I glanced at the clock. It said 5.42. “Don’t you ever sleep, Darlene?” I groaned.

“Sorry, Craig. But I think you’ll wanna hear this.”

I was out the door in five, cell phone to my ear as I pressed the remote for the car.

Greta’s cell just rang and rang and finally went to voicemail. I left a message. “Greta. It’s Craig. If you get this message at home, stay where you are. Got that? Stay put and call me back. I’m heading over to your place right now.”

I searched for the Thorogoods’ home number as I pulled onto Military Road and headed toward the bridge, found it, punched the preset. No one picked up. I disconnected, tried again. Waited, waited … still nothing.

The traffic was beginning to build. I put my foot down, bugger the cameras, and if I got stopped? Well then I got stopped.

I sped left onto Warringah Freeway, the black colossus of Sydney Harbour Bridge in the distance, the towers of North
Sydney to my right, a much larger collection of skyscrapers directly ahead over the bridge.

Three minutes later, I was on the Cahill Expressway. I shot down the off-ramp, weaving between slower cars, ignoring the blaring horns, ignoring the speedometer. I tore down onto New South Head Road and just went for it. I saw two cameras go off, but I didn’t care. Slowing, I pulled into Stockton Boulevard, the Thorogoods’ house a little way down on the right.

Lights were on. I tried the home number again as I stepped out of the car and ran along the sidewalk. No response. I reached the doorbell, leaned on it. Nothing. Tried again. Banged on the huge hardwood door.

The door opened and I almost fell into the hall. Brett was standing barefoot in a bathrobe, hair wet, bewildered.

“What the …?”

“Where’s Greta?”

“What do you …?”

“Where is Greta?” I yelled.

“She’s out on her run … Why?”

“Your wife’s the next victim.”

“WHAT!” His expression changed to one of horror. “How can you …?”

“Just do, Brett. Where does she run?”

“Parsley Bay, about three miles away,” he said, his voice cracking with shock.

“I know it.”

“Always the same route – along the beach, up through the reserve, along to the parking lot. CHRIST!… Look, GO, Craig! GO NOW! I’ve got squads all over the Eastern Suburbs. I’ll get a team there immediately.”

ONE OF THE greatest pleasures in life, Greta thought as she closed the door of her BMW and turned to the path down to the beach. It was already seventy degrees plus and she loved the summer.

She ran down the path and two minutes later she was on the sand, the sun casting a fresh morning glow all around. The ocean was so perfect it looked like it’d been Photoshopped.

She found her rhythm and ran close to the water where the sand was harder. To her right, a line of palms. No one around, rarely was. That was one of the things she loved most about this spot, it gave her half an hour of blissful solitude. When she got home she’d have to sort out the kids’ breakfast, pack the bags ready for school. Then see Brett off on the driveway, get the children in the car and do the mile-long drive to the drop-off.

Later, as usual, she would meet friends for lunch at Tony’s or Oasis. Then it would be the mad dash to school – the 3.30 pick-up. Back home, dinner for the kids. Later, after the children were in bed it would be dinner for her and Brett, a glass of wine … thank God! Then, into bed and Brett no doubt getting amorous.

She ran on, focusing on her rhythm, her pace, the ocean, the scent of freedom. The temporary bliss.

She didn’t notice Julie O’Connor just a few yards away concealed in the palm trees watching her, smiling.

I SCREECHED OFF down Bexham Boulevard and back out onto New South Head Road. I knew Parsley Beach – it was in Vaucluse. A beautiful spot, panoramic view.

Averaging ninety miles an hour, it took a little over two minutes to reach the turn-off. I saw another speed camera flash as I shot past, but I couldn’t give a damn. I swung a hard left off the main highway onto a smaller road, followed the curves, descended a steep hill, and almost overshot the parking lot. I knew the path down to the beach lay on the far side of the scrap of sandy ground. This morning, only one car was parked there – Greta’s BMW 320i convertible.

I ran across the open space and down the first steps of the path that led through the reserve. I could hear the crashing of waves directly ahead.

I took the steps slowly, glancing around, sniffing the air. Julie O’Connor could be anywhere. I shoved away the dread, thought I might already be too late.

There was a bend in the path. I gripped the wooden handrail on one side as the descent became steep. Stopped, listened. Nothing but the sound of birds, waves, the breeze
rustling the eucalyptus.

I glimpsed sand, a flash of blue water. The beach was less than a hundred feet ahead down the sloping, curving stairway.

A tight bend. I held the rail with both hands, eased down two steps, and there was Greta. She’d just reached the first steps up from the beach.

I was about to call to her when I saw movement to her right. Julie O’Connor surged from the undergrowth with shocking speed.

“Greta!”

She looked up, saw me, began to smile, and the O’Connor bitch was on her.

I felt my stomach flip, and for a second I froze.

Julie grabbed her around the neck, pulling her back. Greta stared at me, eyes wide, and screamed.

I took half a dozen steps toward them.

“YOU BETTER STOP!” Julie shouted.

I kept going.

“STOP …! I’ve got a very, very big knife ’ere. And the tip of it is just touching this whore’s spine.”

Greta screamed again.

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” O’Connor hissed in Greta’s ear, then turned back to me.

“Let her go.”

Julie O’Connor laughed. “Oh, yeah!… Right! We have girl business to discuss. Don’t we?” She twisted Greta’s face round, her fingers digging into her cheeks.

I took another step forward. They were only thirty feet away now.

“STOP! I SAID STOP!”

I walked down two more steps.

“I TOLD YOU TO FUCKING STOP!”

Greta convulsed.

“Oh dear, there’s blood on her lovely running top!”

Greta’s face had drained. She was panting, eyes like black dishes.

I stopped. Put my hands up. Caught a glimpse of movement behind Greta and O’Connor. My cousin had appeared ten steps behind them, two officers with him, guns drawn.

“Look, can we talk?” I said.

Julie laughed again, a nasty rasp. “Why would I wanna talk? I have this bitch under my control. She’s
mine
… She’s mine. I can do what I want with her. Make her beg, make her squirm. She’s a whore … right? She gives it up for Brett. Mr. Big Policeman. She gives it up and she gets her Chanel, her Prada, her holidays on Hamilton Island. Two kids, and her husband might screw around on the quiet, but it’s a deal … right? What has this stupid bitch ever done for herself?”

“She’s a human being, Julie.”

“THE KNIFE’S IN a bit further,” O’Connor bragged. She looked down. “Oh yeah … more blood.” She grinned.

Mark rushed forward.

Greta fell to one side, groaning as she hit the sandy path. I saw Julie swing to her left, her knife slicing the air, a hateful look on her face as she slipped off the path.

“You go round the top,” Mark said to me, quietly. “I’ll take the path.” He turned to his men. “Nichols … go back down to the beach and round. Taylor, stay with Mrs. Thorogood.”

I could see Greta wasn’t badly hurt, so I ran up the steps. Mark’s plan was a good one. Between us, we’d have the woman, I was sure of it.

Ten seconds later and I was at the top step, the parking lot ahead of me. I ran onto the sandy rectangle, skirted the edge, found the next path down to the beach and headed onto it. I guessed Mark would be about fifty yards below on an adjacent path.

I took the steps down two at a time, the stair treads even. Turned right, then left, another tight left. Drew up in the sand.

Mark was coming toward me along a sandy path. I caught a
movement to my left. The O’Connor woman charged through the bush and smacked into him, knocking him off balance. He stumbled to his left, pistol flying from his hand.

Julie O’Connor was on him in a second, her right hand raised, the horrifying blade over Mark’s face.

I didn’t pause to think, just rushed forward and grabbed the woman by the shoulders. I was stunned by how powerful she was. Using all my strength I managed to yank her away, but I was sent sprawling onto my back. She was incredibly agile and got to her feet before me. I propelled myself upright, watched as she came for me. Mark began to pull up, but he was slow. Julie lunged at me, growling like an animal. I misjudged her thrust and felt a screech of pain rip through my abdomen.

I dropped to my knees and saw the point of the woman’s bloodied knife coming toward my face, heard the crack of a gun going off and felt a heavy weight slamming down on top of me.