The Mak Collection (136 page)

Oh my God, I am an idiot.

Mak felt sheepish. She was still a touch emotional. ‘I am. I guess I’m used to copping flak about my model past. Donkey was giving me a hard time about it.’

‘Don’t mind him. You are beautiful, anyone can see that. But you are also very smart. It would be a waste for you not to use it.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, flattered, but more pleased that he had no hang-ups about her model past than she was by the compliment itself. The number of times someone had walked up to her and said, ‘So yer a model, huh?
And
you went to uni? What was it—Phys Ed?’

‘I only asked because this place I’m taking us to has great pancakes.’

‘Pancakes? Yum,’ Mak said. ‘With real maple syrup?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Canadian Maple syrup.’

She was pleased.

Bogey continued driving, his focus pulled to a car veering off to the left in front of them and signalling the wrong way. Those were the kind of
people who literally drove Mak nuts when she was on her motorbike. But rather than road raging, as Andy might have, Bogey continued on course, his big car floating along the unfamiliar streets of Melbourne like a dream.

Mak relaxed into her seat and allowed herself to enjoy his company.

She had little reason not to.

The buzzer on the intercom went as Amy Camilleri was walking past it to the kitchen.

Huh?

Amy wasn’t in the habit of answering Larry’s door. She didn’t want anyone knowing where she was, and if someone had a package for Larry they would just have to wait until he got home from work. But the intercom had buzzed, and now the small screen lit up, and she could clearly see that someone outside the gate was holding a basket with a big bow on it. The basket was right in front of the camera lens, obscuring everything else, and it didn’t take Amy long to see that it was more than just some gift basket. There was a puppy sitting in it—a real, live puppy was in the basket with a big red bow around its neck. A card on the wicker handle of the basket said ‘AMY’, with a heart drawn around her name.

Oh my God!
She melted instantly.

‘Oh, Larry!’ she cried.

Barely taking the time to breathe, Amy ran out the front door and down the drive. She pressed
the button for the front gate to unlock, and ran out to grab the basket from the deliveryman’s hand. She put the basket on the pavement and lifted the puppy up to her shoulder. It was a tiny poodle pup, no more than eight weeks old, with curly black fur and huge wet eyes. It felt warm on her chest as she held it. It licked her neck with its moist little tongue. It was adorable.

What a surprise! Larry was so sweet to send her a gift while he was away at work all day, leaving her alone.

‘Oh my God…you are
sooo
cute, aren’t you?’ she told the puppy in a baby voice, while it wriggled in her arms and made little noises.

The delivery van was only a few feet away;
WITHLUV FLOWERS AND GIFTS
was displayed on its side. ‘He is a cute puppy,’ a man said in a deep voice. He was wearing a cap and a collared uniform shirt, leaning by the door of the van with a clipboard. He had a strange face, his skin pulled back. She looked away quickly.

‘Uh, yeah. Thanks,’ she said awkwardly. The puppy licked her wrist. ‘Oh, he is such a little cutie!’

In a flash the deliveryman was next to her with his clipboard. ‘This needs to be signed for. Do you have a purse with some ID?’

She had come out empty-handed. ‘Hang on, I’ll just get it.’

Amy remembered that her handbag was on a table at the base of the stairs. She ran back to get
it, and quickly returned to the front gate, not letting go of her new little companion for one moment.

‘Oh, Larry is just too sweet,’ she said, more to the dog than to the deliveryman, as she reached into her purse for her driver’s licence. ‘I can’t believe he—’

Her words were cut off by a sharp, needle-like pain in her buttock.

‘Whaaaaa…’ she babbled as her body rapidly grew weak.

Amy Camilleri’s knees gave way, and when they did, Luther Hand caught her. He carried her to the van, looking over his shoulder to be sure there were no witnesses.

‘This is it,’ said Bogey. ‘My humble shop.’

After a breakfast of pancakes and syrup, he and Makedde had bought frozen yoghurts and walked with them from Acland Street, St Kilda, to Bogey’s groovy custom furniture shop a couple of blocks away.

Mak felt like she was on holiday. She put her conversation with Andy in the back of her mind for the moment.

‘This is cool. I like it,’ she said.

Bogey’s shop was narrow and deep, with one glass ceiling-to-floor front window, where he had an immaculate handmade table and chair displayed, both in minimalist, modern form, with no right angles. The corners were rounded and smoothed, tapering seamlessly into the legs.

‘That is constructed from just one piece of timber,’ Bogey commented when he noticed her staring at the table.

‘Wow. What is it made out of?’

‘Pine.’

She laughed.

‘I guess I’m used to working with the stuff,’ he joked.

The display area of the shop was clean and uncluttered, but not very large. He walked Mak through a doorway into the back.

‘Are you ready for this? It’s quite a mess.’

‘I think I can handle it,’ she replied.

He pulled a chain that hung from the ceiling and a bare lightbulb flickered on. She could see that it was Bogey’s working space. There were industrial-looking floor lamps pointed this way and that, so that he could adjust them to get adequate light when he was working on the finer details of shaping or sanding. In one corner a broad work table was overflowing with sketches of design ideas and various photos of inspiring pieces of furniture or architecture. Beside the cluttered desk was a tall bookshelf stacked with thick art books.

‘Wow, you have amazing books,’ Mak said, and moved towards them. She ran her fingertips along the spines, reading the titles:
Modern Art, Classic Architecture…

‘Thanks,’ Bogey said proudly. ‘I collect books on art and architecture.’

Mak picked one up.
Australian Artists.

‘My favourite is Jeffrey Smart. He makes the most desolate urban settings compelling. Would you like me to show you?’

He opened the book to one of the middle pages and showed Makedde a series of stunning,
deserted city streetscapes, painted to angular perfection. He stood close to her, and when she looked up at him there was a bolt of chemistry. They both pulled back immediately, awkward with each other.

‘Um, I enjoy architecture, too,’ Mak said, wanting to keep the conversation going. ‘My favourite is Antonio Gaudi. La Sagrada Familia and Parco Guell in Barcelona.’

Mak regarded Gaudi as the Salvador Dali of architecture, with his melting shapes and bright designs. The Sagrada Familia church Gaudi had designed, but not finished before his death in 1926—when he was hit by a tram—looked as if it was made of melting wax.

‘Have you been?’ he asked her.

She nodded.

‘I’m jealous,’ he said.

‘How much does something like this go for, if it’s not too rude to ask?’ Mak said, pointing to the sixties-style armchair Bogey had only finished staining the night before.

‘Well, it’s custom-made and handmade. It’s pretty expensive because it takes so many hours to create. It’s not Ikea or anything.’

‘I can see the craftsmanship,’ Mak said, admiring the piece. ‘You are very precise.’

‘Thank you. I am giving this one a flat red leather seat,’ he said, his open hands touching the air just inches from the drying wood, indicating the position of the leather.

‘I like it. And I like your coffins, too,’ she added.

Along the back wall Bogey had mounted a full-sized casket inlaid with strips of polished oak. It was very impressive. Next to it were a few smaller ones, of the type that the Coffin Cheaters might have commissioned him to make as coffee tables or Eskies. Mak had not seen anything like it before. Even in the average funeral home one was likely to see only one coffin at a time. And she’d never been coffin shopping before.

‘There’s a place here called Dracula’s that commissioned a couple of those. It’s a vampire-themed restaurant.’

Mak raised an eyebrow.

‘The tall one is the only real casket,’ Bogey explained.

‘A casket, not a coffin?’

‘Exactly. It’s a heavier weight, more detailed. The caskets cost the big bucks.’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry. This is all probably way too morbid for you.’

Makedde smiled. ‘Not at all.’

Bogey walked to his latest piece and gently touched the surface. ‘Still a bit tacky. I’ll just go wash my hands. I’ll be back in a second. Take a look around if you like.’

Mak instead took the opportunity to reach into her purse and check her phone message, which she had thankfully managed to almost forget about in Bogey’s fascinating company. It
was probably a text from Andy, and likely one that she didn’t want to read.

But it wasn’t from Andy.

The text message was from a mobile phone number that she didn’t recognise. Mak opened it and it took a while to load up. It was large file.

A photo of a white and brown blur—what? No, wait…

It wasn’t a photo at all. It was a video. Mak’s eyes narrowed. She pressed OK and it began to play.

The white and brown blur shifted and moved, the poor-quality recording gradually focusing on what looked like a room. She brought the phone closer to her ear and she could hear static and faint voices. The white was a light in the centre of a ceiling, and as the moving image became sharper Mak could make out two men talking, apparently unaware that they were being observed. One man was Caucasian and tall, the other Asian and shorter. The Caucasian one was without a shirt. With the poor quality of the recording there was no way Mak could make out what was being said between them, but their body language gave the impression of an argument, one of the men clearly angry or distraught, the other trying to placate him. The footage panned down to what the men were standing over—no doubt the source of the taller man’s anguish: a young woman lying on a bed, partially clothed.

Mak felt her stomach tighten.

No, it wasn’t a woman—it was a girl of perhaps eleven or twelve years of age. She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were staring as if she was dead. The footage zoomed in close enough to make the face reasonably clear before panning up again and focussing for a few frames on the men’s faces. Then there was a noise, and the image jumped and blurred again, cutting off. It was the end. The entire video was perhaps eight seconds in length.

‘Oh my God,’ Mak said under her breath just as Bogey was returning.

‘What is it? What happened?’

Mak was speechless.

What is this?

‘Mak, what is it?’ he repeated. ‘Are you okay?’

She gripped her phone. ‘Nothing. Excuse me for a minute.’ She got up, shaken, and walked out to the street. Bogey watched her through the glass window of his shop, clearly concerned.

Heart pounding, Mak stood on the street and returned a call to the sender of the strange and horrible video. She gripped the phone nervously as it rang and rang. Finally there was a beep. No voice message. No name.

Amy? Was that from you?

‘Shit.’

Is that Damien Cavanagh? With a dead girl?

If Damien Cavanagh was knowingly using trafficked, underage girls for sex—as Amy had
suggested and this video appeared to show—it would be a very serious, damning and embarrassing fact to uncover publicly. Not to mention a criminal offence. His whole family would be tarred by the sins of the son.

Mak tried the number again.
I know it’s you…come on, pick up.
But there was no answer.

Disappointed, Mak walked back inside. She knew she could hand the video over to the police and they would be able to do something. They might be able to identify the people in the video, and they could run a check on the mobile number to find out who it belonged to.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Mak lied.

‘Is it about your investigation?’ Bogey asked.

She nodded. ‘I am going to show you something, and I want you to tell me what you see. Tell me if you recognise anyone or anything, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Bogey replied.

She hesitated. Should she show him?

‘And you are sworn to secrecy about this. I need to trust you,’ she said.

She took a deep breath and played him the video. Bogey watched, his brow pinched. When it was over, he looked at Mak with alarm.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘Never mind that. Tell me what you saw.’

‘Well, um,’ he began, struggling. ‘I saw a pretty girl without many clothes on lying on a bed
passed out, and a couple of men talking. There was something a bit familiar about one of them. I think I’ve seen him somewhere before. I saw a bed, a girl, two men and a Whiteley.’

‘A what?’

‘A Whiteley painting on the wall,’ Bogey said.

‘A Whiteley? Show me.’

She replayed the video.

‘There, behind them,’ said Bogey. ‘It’s a Brett Whiteley. Not one of his best-known works, but definitely done by him. I remember this one because the woman is pictured rubbing red lipstick on herself. I think it’s from the eighties.’

Mak raised an eyebrow. ‘You can see all that?’

‘I think so, yes,’ he told her.

She dug around in her purse and pulled out the crinkled news article that Amy had left on the table at Leo’s Spaghetti Bar. ‘What about this? Could this be the man in that video?’ She pointed at Damien, just as Amy had done.

‘Damien Cavanagh, the heir? Let me see again.’

They watched the video once more. Mak was mesmerised. She could hardly think straight. What on earth would make a young man like Damien Cavanagh, with everything going for him, risk so much? It brought to mind the story of the heir to the Max Factor fortune, the young and attractive Andrew Luster, who, despite his wealth and status, chose to drug at least three different women with GHB, a so-called date rape
drug, and videotape himself raping them while they were unconscious. He was currently serving a 124-year sentence in the US for his crimes.