The Shadow Maker (23 page)

bare-breasted enchantresses, photo-realistic Sirens with soft-textured flesh. These too were dispatched with a cacophony of thuds.

The whole pantheon of classical terror flashed past him in lurid detail as he fought his way higher and higher. Finally, as he burst into the daylight, the splendour of an ancient paradise opened around him - forests, groves, waterfalls, meadows filled with wildflowers - the Elysian Fields stretching towards the luminous presence of Mount Olympus. He stood still for a moment, his feet on the grass, his face glowing in the beams of virtual sunlight, but there was nothing he could think of to worry about.

He pressed Stop.

It was done, finished.

As he pulled off the visor, peeled off the bodysuit and stepped back into the real world, his head was still buzzing with apocalyptic images. The sleek, virtual carnage of the death match would stay with him for hours, like a hypnotic high - just as it would with hordes of tech-heads and gamers, once it hit the shops. What a mind-fuck.

He looked at the wall clock. It was after dawn, but his work was done. Like the others, he could pack up and go home. Try to switch his brain off. Chill out. There was just one thing left to do: phone Barbie and tell him his designer heaven-and-hell was up and running.

Rita woke from a good night’s sleep to the pleasant memory of Professor Byron Huxley paying court to her against a backdrop of the ivy-clad barracks and the rumble of commuter traffic. She was singing to herself as she showered and towelled off, before focusing her thoughts on the encounter ahead. It was one that promised to be challenging, as well as potentially risky, so she needed to be on her game. She dressed in a dark pinstripe suit, its jacket and skirt tailored to hug her curves, and a thin cream cashmere top. She swept back her hair and sprayed her neck with Ysatis perfume. Now she felt ready, alert and psyched up for the prospect of bearding an alpha male in his lair: Martin Barbie in his TV studio.

Rita stood at the rear of the studio, among the props and the cables, while Barbie recorded his continuity links for the evening edition of
Gold Rush.
As she watched him she couldn’t help feeling a sense of excitement. Maybe it was just the environment - the adrenalin-driven ethos of the media with its arc lights and boom mikes. There was a pervasive tension in the air, people functioning under constant hype. But maybe it was more than that. Rita had been in TV studios before and they’d left her cold, with their artificial sets, plastic people and fake emotions. This time, though, watching Barbie in action, she felt the pull of something different. This man, this celebrity, was perhaps the most plastic of them all, yet he was also a challenge, being a media star with a perfect image and a highly marketable face. But did he have dark secrets to hide? She had a strong feeling he was implicated in a nasty crime and had organised a cover-up.

Martin Barbie might be the pin-up of the masses, but for Rita he was a suspect in a crime hunt.

She had to admit that he was good at what he did. Relaxed, witty and personable, he was a sophisticate who wore his black dinner jacket and bow tie like a second skin. He could have been born to live in front of the camera. Equally impressive was his attitude between takes. The abrasiveness of his production staff didn’t rub off on him. He was clearly a man with tremendous self-control.

In her own case, her self-control was more than a strategy for social success, it also kept a lid on her demons of chaos. So what were Barbie’s demons? What was his secret torment?

A little frisson of anticipation went through her at the prospect of delving into his psyche, but she needed to remain detached. She hadn’t even met the man and already her feelings were aroused.

Something else. It wasn’t just his professional skills that she was admiring. She noticed that he was well-built, but not muscular. He moved well, almost fluidly at times. And once, when he smiled off-camera at the make-up girl, there was something wicked and appealing in it. The man had sexual magnetism. It was undeniable.

At last the recording session was over. Barbie got up off his studio sofa as a technical assistant unplugged him and reeled in the wires.

Rubbing his neck muscles, he began to walk off the set, before a slim young man in tight denim with a clipboard stopped him and spoke into his ear, pointing at Rita.

Barbie changed course and walked towards her. When he reached her he flashed a professional smile.

‘I’m told you want to speak to me.’

‘Yes,’ she said, watching him carefully. ‘It’s about Kelly Grattan.’

There was a momentary flicker, but Barbie recovered quickly and started loosening his bow tie. ‘And your name is?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel.’

‘I wasn’t expecting the police here. Was it you who called my private secretary?’

‘Yes. She said you had a full schedule, so I thought I’d try to catch you on the off-chance.’

Barbie nodded slowly then suddenly lost his stern look. ‘And so you have. Well done.’ He extended a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel.’

As they shook hands a little charge of electricity went through her skin.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘It’s all the static around here. I don’t think we’re falling in love.’ That smile again. Soft and wicked.

‘No chance of that,’ she said smoothly. ‘I need lightning bolts.

And thunder.’

As soon as she said it, she realised she was playing with him.

From the look in his eyes, he liked it.

‘I’ve got to say you don’t look like a plain-clothes cop,’ said Barbie.

‘What do I look like?’

‘You could pass for a model - and I’m not trying to flatter you.

I know what I’m talking about. My wife’s a model.’

‘So I’ve read - and seen. Women’s magazines can’t get enough of her - and you.’ Now who was using flattery?

Barbie gave a polite laugh and gestured towards the studio door.

‘We can talk in my dressing room.’ He turned to the make-up girl.

‘I’ll clean myself up, Candy. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

They walked down a broad linoleum corridor to a room with his name on the door. He ushered her in and offered her a chair.

As Rita sat down, she crossed her legs and the hem of her skirt rode up her thigh. She caught his look as he turned and seated himself in front of the brightly lit mirror to remove his make-up.

‘Kelly Grattan,’ she said abruptly. ‘Why did you pay her off ?’

For a split second it seemed like his hand trembled as he held a cotton pad to his cheek, but then it steadied and he continued wiping off the powder.

‘That’s a strange way to put it,’ he said.

Rita leant forward in her chair. ‘How much did you give her?’

‘The figure’s confidential. But you’d be right to assume it’s substantial.’

‘Enough to keep her out of the country for a long time.’

‘I don’t think that’s the point.’ A bead of sweat had risen on his temple and he brushed it away. ‘It was a business transaction. What she does with the money is up to her.’

Despite his coolness, Rita could sense his discomfort. ‘You call it a transaction. A transaction for what?’

‘I don’t see what you’re driving at,’ he said, then hesitated before continuing. ‘The transaction - to give it a name - was her severance pay. The early termination of her contract. As you may know, my software firm is on the brink of an extremely important and sensitive deal. For personal reasons, Kelly needed to leave the company.

For professional reasons, including strict commercial secrecy, I needed to ensure Kelly’s continued loyalty. Hence the “pay-off “, as you put it.’

Rita eased back and said, ‘These “personal reasons” - you saw them for yourself when you met her to agree on the money?’

‘I saw she’d been injured and heard her explanation about the unfortunate mishap.’

‘But you know she was brutally attacked?’

He blinked twice, and Rita knew he was about to lie.

‘I know nothing of any attack. And if she didn’t want to tell me, it’s none of my concern. What we discussed was purely business. I don’t think I can help you in your inquiries,’ he said, then turned back to the mirror and picked up a fresh pad to dab around his mouth.

This man was going to be hard to catch out, thought Rita. He was a very good liar. Almost in the class of women. That’s when Rita realised he was removing a thin layer of lipstick. For some reason she found it amusing, and vaguely sensual.

‘What shade do you wear, Mr Barbie?’

The question startled him more than the others.

‘Oh, um …’ He fumbled around for the lipstick tube. ‘Baby Pink for today’s shoot.’

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Nice and modest. You don’t wear lip gloss?’

‘People on the box shouldn’t wear gloss. It’s like drooling for the camera. Their lips look permanently wet.’ He gave a low laugh. ‘For location shots I wear Nude.’

‘I’ll bet you do.’

‘Can I ask you one thing? Call me Martin, Marty, Mart or even just Barbie. But never Mister. The day people think of me as Mister my career in showbiz is over.’

They were looking directly into each other’s eyes. He was hitting on her, and she knew it. It was clear he knew that she knew it and was pleased that she didn’t protest. The erotic nuance hung between them like a scent in the air.

‘I think I’ll call you Barbie,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of girls’

dolls and toys.’

He grinned.

They were playing a game and it was on several levels. He was obviously lying and she wanted to find out how much. She was probing into his secrets, and she could see he was pretending to cooperate, but he also seemed to fancy her. From what Josh had said, Barbie was a womaniser and a risk taker, and it might appeal to his speculative instincts to flirt with a policewoman who was pursuing him. She too was being manipulative, deliberately using sex appeal to draw him out. But the question was how far was she prepared to go?

Just then her mobile rang.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, taking her phone out of her bag as Barbie resumed his work in the mirror.

It was Strickland on the phone.

‘Drop what you’re doing,’ he told her. ‘Homicide want you at a crime scene right now.’

‘Homicide? Why? What’s happened?’

‘Another prostitute’s been mutilated. But this one’s dead.’

Rita peeled off her jacket and unhitched her skirt inside the scene-of-crime van and pulled on the plastic trousers and top. Then she slid on gloves, stepped out of the van, walked into the apartment block and climbed the stairs to the second-floor flat. As she entered the bedroom the first thing she noticed was the smell, followed by the body on the bed.

‘Ah, Van Hassel. I hope you can give us something on this.’ It was the head of the Homicide Squad, Detective Inspector Barry Mace. ‘I’m told you’ve already started a profile on the guy who blinded the first prostitute.’

She nodded. ‘You think it’s the same man?’

‘I do. There’s already a prints match. And we’ve got a second girl mutilated - this time the ears. And she’s another street hooker.

Nadine McKeever, only twenty-one. Looks like your reporter boyfriend was right about a serial attacker.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she said, frowning, as she began to concentrate on the crime scene.

‘Will you make sure I get a full set of photos and a copy of the video?’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Mace.

‘And if a card with Plato’s Cave on it turns up, I want to be told straightaway.’

‘Okay.’ Mace was a big man, broad-shouldered and with a tough face that would have looked at home in a boxing ring. But he was also astute. ‘I heard what happened to you - the carpeting by Nash.

In my opinion you were dropped in it unfairly. But it’s no good getting personal with Kavella. It’ll only get in the way if you’ve got a hard-on for him.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Rita tightly. ‘But if another card turns up it’s crucial evidence.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Now get me something to work with. We’ve got a real psycho-freak on the loose.’

Rita got out her notebook and moved past the evidence techs to where the pathologist was bending over the body, which was spread-eagled on the bed. Thin, pale and rigid. Limbs clasped in bondage restraints. The victim was young. The quilt she was lying on was dark with stains from the blood that had poured from her ears.

There was also congealed blood that had spilled from her mouth and down her neck. Her glassy eyes stared at the ceiling. The lividity of the corpse showed that this was the position she’d been killed in.

On surfaces around the bed, six candles had melted down into pools of wax. Her severed ears, circled in chalk, were lying on the floor.

‘What did he do to her?’ asked Rita.

‘As well as the obvious mutilation, he gouged out her eardrums with a steak knife,’ said the pathologist, gesturing to the weapon on the rug beside the bed.

‘That’s what killed her?’

‘Not exactly. I’ll need to get the body back to the lab to be sure, but I think in the process of inserting the blade he severed her carotid artery. An internal wound. Looks like she drowned in her own blood.’

Rita made some notes then said, ‘So he may not have meant to kill her. The murder might have been a consequence of his need to mutilate.’

‘Well, that’s conjecture.’

‘Yes, and conjecture’s my job. What else did he do?’

‘He had violent sexual intercourse with her.’ The pathologist pointed to bruising of the vagina and thighs. ‘And it was unprotected.

Even before we take a swab you can see the traces of semen.’

Rita nodded. ‘What else?’

‘She was hit with a heavy object. Look at the split skin and contusion on her temple. Could even be a fractured skull.’

Rita glanced across to where a brass candlestick was circled on the floor. ‘Is that the weapon?’

‘Again, I’ll need to check it at the lab, but it fits the bill.’

A few feet away another object was circled. She went over and looked at it - an unopened condom, just lying there, in the middle of the floor.

‘Now that’s odd,’ she said as Mace walked over to her.