The Mak Collection (3 page)

“Uh, Charles…has there been any word from Catherine?”

“No. I suspect she’s run off early for the weekend. By the way, you’re up for the Becky Ross fashion launch too. We should have it confirmed tomorrow.”

“Becky Ross?”

“The soapie star. She’s big at the moment. She’s promoting her own line of clothes. Should be excellent exposure for you.”

“Great. Let me know.” Makedde thanked him for the key to the flat and said goodbye. She lay in bed, waiting for the phone to ring and hoping Charles was right. Catherine could get carried away, in love with love itself, and convinced that her latest man was none other than Prince Charming in a Porsche. It had happened before.

It was only 5.30 p.m., but it was past midnight in Canada. She struggled to stay awake but by 10 p.m. her energy quietly packed up and abandoned her, and her eyelids locked shut. She drifted off with a dog-eared copy of
Mindhunter
in her hand.

The following morning was mercilessly cold, with a biting southerly that whipped along the coastline, causing the caravan to shudder and groan like a feverish old man. Makedde stood inside its open door, savouring her last moments of warmth.

It was odd that Catherine had not called or left any messages. Even if she was taking advantage of a couple of extra days off to enjoy a romantic weekend away, she could have at least phoned. Who was this guy, anyway? Mak hoped it wasn’t the same unnamed man Cat had been seeing for nearly a year, but in all likelihood it was. Cat had dropped a few hints—he was very rich, plenty powerful and he lived in Australia. No doubt he was what made her choose the Southern Hemisphere to continue her career. Makedde strongly suspected he was married, but when she pressed the issue Cat just grinned guiltily. Apparently this man made her swear, under “penalty of death” as she put it, to complete secrecy over his name and the details of their affair.

Makedde never could get the guy’s real name out of her friend, so she came up with her own.
Whenever Cat had showed up with a new piece of flashy gold jewellery, Makedde had simply asked, “So how’s
Dick
?” She might have been brash enough to ask, “So, how’s
your
Dick?”, except that any man wanting to keep a stunner like Catherine a secret was obviously not “hers” in any sense.

Makedde shivered, watching the photographer and his entourage, rugged up in parkas and long pants, make their way down to the water’s edge. Her thoughts drifted away as the assistant waved. It was her turn to join them.

The moment she stepped from the warm caravan her skin broke out in indignant goose flesh. Harsh wind whipped through the red-chequered picnic blanket she had wrapped around her. She could see the crew setting up on the sand below, and from their strained postures it was obvious there would be no shelter.

“I’m too old for this,” Makedde mumbled to no one in particular.
I’m twenty-five. Shouldn’t I be finishing my psychology degree? Shouldn’t I be having babies like my sister?
She dismissed her thoughts as quickly as they came, pushing down the pain that had risen quickly within her. Adjusting the hot-water bottle strategically shoved down the back of her suit, Mak hurried down to the shoot.

Minutes later she was posing elegantly, with the wintry ocean lapping at her feet and her blonde hair flying back from her face. For a moment her mind
focused completely on her body—aware of how her size-ten feet were positioned to minimise their length; the turn of her hips; the angle of her shoulders and the graceful placement of her hands—all in relation to the camera lens. Once she was satisfied that her pose was right, she allowed her thoughts to wander.

Makedde was grateful for her lack of appetite the night before, because her stomach seemed a little flatter than usual. Some girls were known to swear off liquid for several days before a “body shoot” as it was called, but Mak rarely went to those lengths. She heard rumours of laxative abuse, too, but what was the point? Self-induced diarrhoea? She was generally chosen for her healthy look, with the bonus of some curves, so she tended to worry more about all-night chocolate binges than mere sips of water. Besides, she told herself, if they had wanted a waif, they would have chosen one of the many teenage models subsisting on coffee and cigarettes.

As the photographic team silently examined her appearance, Makedde stretched up and tightened her stomach, assuming a well-practised pose that made the best of her feminine physique and presented the aqua-blue bikini at its most “saleable”. The two representatives of the swimwear brand, who scrutinised every inch of her, seemed happy with the fit of their tiny garment.

Once the Polaroid was snapped Mak leapt for the blanket, now lying a couple of feet away, and wrapped it around her shivering body, jumping up and down in her battle against the cold. The others took no notice.

Tony Thomas, the photographer, was unhappy with the quality of the light. He barked orders at his assistant, his instructions flying past Makedde’s ears in muffled gusts of wind. She looked on with restrained amusement as the assistant brought out a large, gold reflector board and gamely struggled to keep control of it. The client and the art director watched the clumsy spectacle with stony frowns.

“It’s got to look
summery
,” one of them insisted. “Can’t you do something with her hair, Joseph?”

Joseph was a delicate looking man who applied make-up to a face the way many artists tend to their cherished canvases; adding a touch, stepping back, squinting, and then adding another. Today though, his own face was pinched in frozen displeasure. He stepped towards her, careful not to disturb the sand where the shot would be taken, and tried pinning her mane of hair back. The wind promptly rebelled, sending a couple of pins flying into the water and others dangling from the very ends of her hair.

She had known it would be winter in this corner of the globe, but had temporarily forgotten that this was irrelevant as far as the clients were concerned.
Summer designs were always shot the winter before their release; including swimwear. When no one was paying much attention, she held the hot-water bottle against her chest. Perfect for minimising nipple-itis.

The chilly day dragged on. Lunch consisted of some rather sad, wilted salad greens that the photographer’s assistant was sent away to fetch. Makedde could have sworn she saw the photographer scoff down a cheesy focaccia and a beer when no one else was looking. By five o’clock she was relieved at the prospect of shooting the last outfit. It was a daringly high cut, bright yellow zipper front swimsuit that was an ode to a decade when “Christy” referred to Brinkley, not Turlington. As usual, things became rushed as the client pushed to end the shoot before twenty minutes past the hour. That was the magic minute when models had to be paid for the extra hour’s work. It was amazing how many photo shoots ended at nineteen minutes past.

As time was at a premium, Makedde was forced to change on the beach with a towel held in front of her by the embarrassed photographer’s assistant who did his best to look the other way. A decade of modelling had cured Makedde of any romantic views of modesty, and she stripped fast and changed like a pro. She wrapped herself in the thick blanket again, holding her trusty hot-water bottle tightly against her, while the others searched for an appealing backdrop
for the final shot. Sensing the tension over time, she had held off since the lunch break, but her full bladder could no longer be denied.

“I’ll just be a sec’!” she called out to them, pinching her knees together and hopping in the international signal for “I have to pee”. Joseph was the only one to laugh.

She turned and started up into the tall, yellow grass, relieved at the prospect of relief. Dry blades scratched her shins as she moved farther away from the group, looking around for a patch of high grass that might offer some semblance of privacy. She noticed a curious smell, then something half hidden in the tall grass caught her attention.

A shoe?

She checked to see that the others were still searching for the next spot to shoot and, satisfied, she pushed further into the grass. As she drew closer, her eyes widened at the sight before her. Involuntarily her mouth stretched into what must have been a scream, although her ears could not hear it.

A rush of blood swelled inside her head, pounding mercilessly. She was barely aware of shouting, and the sound of feet running up from the beach. Images spun in front of her eyes—bold slashes of dark stain on pale skin; dark hair matted with gore; disturbing shapes of flesh—body parts missing. Long red wounds gaped open along a naked torso, revealing organs and
flesh, and worse, the dark hair, matted with blood, partially covered a face that seemed far too familiar.

There were arms around her now, dragging her through the grass, dragging her away from that horrible mess, away from the smell that lingered like a sickness. She tried to speak. At first nothing came. There was confusion all around her. Finally she heard with horror the words that came from her own lips.

“Oh God,
Catherine
. Oh God…”

Mak was dimly aware of a young woman perched beside her with a steaming cup in her hand. On the far horizon the last glimpse of a violent, red sunset lit up the skies like hellfire. All around them was activity, voices and the static and garbled sounds of police radios. Her uniformed companion silently observed her. They were removed from the action, several feet away from an area cordoned off with police tape. Artificial light flooded the grassy dune, transforming the faces huddled around it into pale, fixated masks. Latex-gloved hands scribbled in small police-issue notebooks, and Makedde was reminded of her father’s notebook, with its official looking cover. She wondered what vicious brutality it had witnessed, and what sickening incidents had been recorded in it.

The strong breeze was bitterly cold on her face, and she was shivering, even though she had been
wrapped warmly in several plain, heavy blankets. Looking around, she saw flashlight beams piercing the descending darkness like fireflies. She recognised the make-up artist, Joseph, disappearing towards the parking lot with a uniformed officer, and further down the beach she saw Tony Thomas having a heated discussion with a tall man in a suit. The man was standing calmly with what looked like Tony’s camera in his hands, his stance speaking clearly of authority while Tony, looking even shorter than his five-foot-five, was gesturing angrily at him.

Tony’s camera? What would they want with that?

When the discussion appeared to die down, Mak watched Tony being led past her, head down, towards the vehicles in the bustling parking area. Police surgeon, pathologist, crime-scene officers, detectives; they were all there, recording and measuring, calculating in their attention to detail. She could see the police photographer sending out sudden bursts of light in the growing darkness. Each of them went about their job with a familiar single-mindedness.

Different faces, same morbid business.

She remembered her father’s colleagues. Their jobs took on a new meaning under these new, horrible circumstances. Beat cops, detectives, medical officers; they had seemed like part of the family for as long as she could remember. Some had even visited the hospital where her mother had been staying when she
was sick. Her dad had refused to leave the hospital room. Three months, and he stayed there every night in an uncomfortable cot beside her.

“How are you feeling now?” A soft voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m Constable Karen Mahoney. Are you warm now? Would you like to see a doctor?” The voice was calm and reassuring, the round face sympathetic. Makedde thought of how this woman would, day after day, see unspeakable pain and remain calm and detached.

“No, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor, I guess I…” Mak’s voice trailed off. “Have you seen her? The girl?”

“Yes. Here, why don’t you have some coffee?” She handed Makedde the steaming cup. “You may know the victim? Is that correct?”

Catherine.

A chill ran up her spine. A body; bloodied and mangled, so very dead. Could it be her?

“I…I think I might know her. I’m not sure. I thought it was her—Catherine Gerber. I’m staying with her, but she’s not there…” The words came out as a senseless ramble.

“It’s OK. I understand this must be difficult. You were the first to find the body, is that right?”

Makedde nodded slowly.

“We’ll need to ask you a few questions and we may have to get you to identify the victim at a later time. Is that all right with you?”

Makedde nodded again slowly. Nothing had prepared her for this. Sometimes she had a sixth sense about things, a kind of intuition that forewarned her. But not this time.

Perhaps I was mistaken? Maybe it was just the dream…

The dream.

Now awake, the details were lost, the nightmare fragmented; just pieces of terror floating free, interchangeable and meaningless. There was a sense of horror and loss over Catherine, but it was all too abstract to comprehend. The line between nightmare and reality had grown incredibly thin.

Mak concluded with desperate optimism that she’d been mistaken. She just thought it was Cat because of the bad dream. And the dark hair. Lots of people have dark hair. Cat would call. She looked up to see a tall man in a suit towering over her. It was the man she had seen with Tony Thomas. With the crime-scene lights behind him he was an impressive, faceless silhouette.

“Miss Vanderwall, I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Andrew Flynn. This must have been quite a shock for you.” His voice was deep, with a pleasant Australian accent. He sounded strangely calm, and when she didn’t respond he continued, “I understand you were the first to discover the body, and you may be able to make an ID? Is that correct?”

“Yes. Well…I saw her first but I don’t know if it’s really Catherine.”

“Catherine?” He was writing in his notebook. “Can you tell me her full name?”

“Catherine Gerber. She’s a close friend. A model from Canada. That is, if it’s her. I don’t know.” She felt her throat tighten, like her heart, into a painful, bitter knot.