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  “What about the others?”

  “Fourth shop was on New South Head Road, about a mile from Bellevue Hill. The manager was a nice guy. Said he’d seen one particular woman come in a few times during the past three weeks. She didn’t look ‘suspicious’ exactly, just miserable, rundown. But get this. He described her. Above average height, well-built, bleached blonde.”

  I rubbed my hand over my chin and stared at Johnny silently. “And the fifth shop?”

  “Jackpot! A very sweet girl running the place.”

  “Yeah, yeah …”

  “She’d seen the same woman at least twice during the past month.”

  “There’s more. I can tell by your tone.”

  “The last shop keeps surveillance records for a month at a time. I gave the girl a hundred bucks and she ran off a copy of the disc for me.”

  Chapter 94

  IT WAS A poor-quality recording, but good enough. It showed a woman coming into the copy shop, moving from the counter to a self-service machine. She placed something indistinct on the machine’s tray and watched as half a dozen copies emerged. She then paid for them and left.

  “Quite a powerful-looking woman,” I said.

  “And piss ugly!” Johnny remarked.

  I exhaled.

  “Sorry!”

  “Can’t see much of her. But she definitely has bleached her hair.”

  “First thing I noticed,” Johnny replied.

  “Take it through to Darlene. See if she can do anything with her souped-up imaging equipment.”

  Chapter 95

  DARLENE WATCHED THE short clip taken at the copy shop. Johnny was leaning on the back of her chair peering at the screen over her shoulder.

  “It’s pretty crappy,” she mumbled.

  Johnny said nothing.

  “But, thanks to my new buddy, Software Sam, I might get something out of this. It works just as well for video as it does for still images.”

  She ran her hands over the control panel of the image enhancer. Then she turned back to the computer keyboard and slithered her fingers over the keys.

  The screen went blank for a second and then the film spooled back to the start. Darlene tapped another couple of keys. The clip was 500 per cent clearer.

  The woman came into the shop. She was wearing a shapeless blue sweat top, handbag on her right shoulder. They could see her straight-on. She had a wide face, flat nose, small eyes. Her shoulder-length hair looked greasy. It was bleached blonde. Not dyed well – a bottle from a pharmacy. She wasn’t wearing make-up and she’d shaved her eyebrows.

  “Not the prettiest specimen,” Johnny remarked, a little more diplomatically this time. “What would you say? Five-seven, five-eight? Hundred and seventy pounds?”

  “Five-nine, one seventy-five.”

  “I bow to your superior skills,” Johnny retorted.

  They continued watching as the woman walked over to the photocopier.

  “Can you close in on her there?” Johnny asked.

  Darlene played her fingers over the keyboard, slowed the film, zoomed in and adjusted the enhancer to sharpen the picture. She was straining the software to its limits.

  Tugging the mouse gently, she moved the center of the image to see what it was the woman was placing on the copier. They both noticed she was wearing latex gloves. She plucked a sheet of paper from her bag. It was impossible to see what was on it.

  Darlene let the film creep forward a few frames a second. The first copy began to emerge. She shifted perspective, closing in on the paper spewing from the copier. It appeared slowly. She moved in closer still. Darlene toggled the controls on the enhancer, prayed the software would hold up.

  And there, in the plastic collection tray of the photocopy machine, lay a sheet of paper containing the image of four fifty-dollar bills.

  “Wow!” Johnny exclaimed.

  “We still don’t know who she is,” Darlene commented. “I’ll get this over to the police. They may know something we don’t.”

  Chapter 96

  JUSTINE WAS WITH me in the office when Pam Hewes called to suggest we meet.

  “You look exhausted, Craig,” Justine said as I put the phone down.

  I gave her a wan smile. “Felt fresher.”

  “Can I help?”

  I was about to say, “No, everything’s cool,” then changed my mind. I told her all the details of the Hewes’ case. She looked intrigued.

  “Would Pam mind if I helped out? Would you mind?”

  I cocked my head. “It’s my call … I run my own show. And, well, I’ve persuaded myself it would be good to have you along!”

  Pam Hewes arranged to meet me at a small café close to the Opera House. Justine and I arrived early and sat admiring the view.

  We didn’t notice her come in. She lowered herself into a chair beside me and gave Justine a quizzical look.

  “Hi, Pam, this is my colleague from the LA office … Justine Smith.”

  The women shook hands.

  “What you drinking?” I asked.

  “Double espresso, please.”

  I leaned back and called over the waitress.

  “So Craig’s filled you in on my husband’s antics, I imagine,” I heard Pam say to Justine.

  “What’s been happening?” I asked.

  “Geoff’s returned.”

  “You don’t seem that relieved.”

  She exhaled. “No, I am relieved, but I’m also suspicious.”

  “Did he explain where he’d been?” Justine asked.

  “Oh, in that way he has,” Pam sighed. “Claims a couple of his drinking buddies played a prank on him. I don’t believe that for a second.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Does sound a bit …”

  “Far-fetched?”

  “I was going to say ridiculous, actually.”

  “I agree. He’s up to something,” Pam said. “What’ve you found out?”

  I told her straight, all about the brothels. Pam was my client and a big girl.

  “Well, that makes sense. Is one of them in Chester Street, Mosman?”

  I gave her a surprised look.

  “The first thing Geoff did when he got home was to call one of his pals … I ‘overheard’!” Pam added, seeing my puzzled expression. “He was talking to some guy called Brian about cameras installed in Chester Street. Apparently Loretto had them removed. Geoff was telling his friend to reinstall them … right away.”

  “That’s bad. Very bad,” Justine said. “From what Craig has told me, Loretto’s not the sort to mess with. If your husband has put cameras in the guy’s brothels …”

  Pam looked pale. “You spoken to Loretto, Craig?”

  “He’s out of town. But as soon … Look, it sounds like he held Geoff somewhere – maybe a final warning to back off?”

  “So, what now?” There was a tremor to her voice.

  “Well, Pam,” I said, “I reckon that’s up to Geoff. If Al Loretto was giving him one more chance and he takes notice, that’s one thing. If he chooses to ignore it …”

  Chapter 97

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING to believe this!” Darlene gushed as she came round the open doorway into my office. She had a paper file in her hand.

  I got up from the desk.

  “Just off the phone. Sergeant Tindle called. They’ve ID’d the remains of the man at the Bondi house.” She sat at the other end of the sofa from me, opened the file. “Name’s Bruce Frimmel.”

  She handed me a photograph of the man from police records.

  “He’d served time. Assault charge five years ago. His DNA was on file. He vanished two months ago.”

  “And you reckoned the guy in the garden had been dead for two to three months.”

  “Police Forensics have also identified two distinct sets of blood splatter in the bathroom at the house. One is Frimmel’s, the other Granger’s blood. They were both killed in the same room.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It gets much more interesting. Br
uce’s girlfriend, Lucy …” Darlene glanced at the file again. “… Lucy Inglewood … was questioned when Frimmel vanished. She told the police he had crossed a few people. There was a biker gang in Blacktown he’d upset and a few months earlier he’d broken up acrimoniously with his last girlfriend who he’d lived with for a few years.”

  “The police looked into these I take it?”

  “They interviewed everyone who’d known Bruce Frimmel. Sergeant Tindle worked with Inspector Talbot on it. They talked to twenty-odd of Frimmel’s associates and those close to him, including his ex, Julie O’Connor. The sergeant called me, Craig, because he had just seen the security camera stills of the woman in the copy shop I sent over this morning.”

  She plucked two sheets of photographic paper from the file and handed one to me. “This,” she said, “is the best image from the security camera.”

  I stared at the woman approaching the copier.

  “And this is the woman Sergeant Tindle interviewed two months ago, Julie O’Connor.”

  I glanced at the second photo, held the two images side by side. “We have our killer,” I said.

  “And you know the best bit? According to police records, as of two months ago, she was working at SupaMart in Bellevue Hill.”

  Chapter 98

  “JESUS! MAGGIE … MY favorite madam!” Geoff Hewes exclaimed as the woman in the red silk dress walked in. They were in Geoff’s office in the CBD.

  She rolled her eyes and helped herself to a chair directly opposite Hewes. In her late fifties, she was heavily made-up, saggy cheeks. She’d clearly lived, and then some.

  “Must be important,” Hewes added and looked past Maggie through a pair of glass doors toward the reception area. “So how is my Mosman House of Sin? All the pervs having fun?”

  “I try to make sure of that,” Maggie retorted. “And Geoff, baby, I try to please you too.”

  He raised an eyebrow, giving her a skeptical look.

  “Can’t say I’m happy about these bloody cameras going in and out of the place.”

  “Ah yes, well, we have Mr. Loretto to thank for that. But it won’t happen again, Maggie. They’re there to stay.”

  She let out a heavy sigh and held up a DVD.

  “What’s that?”

  “I was unsure what to do with it. It’s a film from one of our rooms, recorded just before Mr. Loretto took the cameras out. I was thinking of chucking it. I didn’t want to get into any trouble. But then … the man on this –” She waved the DVD in front of her face, “– came back in last night and acted like a right pig.”

  Geoff was surprised. “Isn’t that what the punters pay for?”

  “We have a strict house rule,” Maggie replied. “No fists. If a John wants that he can find some backstreet slut who’s willing … not my girls.”

  “And this guy was violent?’

  “He booked one of the prettiest girls, Jill. The bastard fractured her nose, broke two of her teeth, cut her face up. The poor kid won’t work for weeks.”

  “I see. So, you thought …”

  Maggie handed him the DVD. “Do what you want with it,” she said.

  Hewes slipped the disc into his computer and tapped a couple of keys. The inside of a room in Maggie’s brothel appeared. A bed, a low ceiling. A woman in a corset, high-heels and stockings came into shot and lay on the bed. A man appeared. Geoff couldn’t see his face. He flicked forward. The office filled with the sounds of copulation, the man grunting loudly. The prostitute was straddling him now. She moved to one side, and there, lying on his back, was the prominent Liberal MP, Ken Boston.

  Chapter 99

  GEOFF WAS STARING into space, still a little shocked. Maggie had just left and the DVD case lay open on his desk, the disc still in the machine. Then he reached for the phone.

  “Ken Boston’s office, please.”

  A female voice picked up. “Mr. Boston’s rooms.”

  “Good morning,” Hewes began. “Could I speak to Mr. Boston, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Mr. Geoff Hewes.”

  “From?”

  “I’m a Sydney businessman and a constituent.”

  “Does Mr. Boston know you, Mr. Hewes?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I see. I’m afraid I cannot put you through, but I can convey a message.”

  Geoff smiled. He hadn’t expected anything more. “Okay. Could you please tell Mr. Boston I’ve called about Chester Street. He’ll know what I mean.”

  A pause. “And what was your name again, Mr …?”

  “Hewes. Geoff Hewes. My number is …”

  Chapter 100

  I CHECKED MY watch as we drew up outside the branch of SupaMart in Bellevue Hill. It was just past noon. Mary stood on the sidewalk, pulled on her shades and waited a moment for me to get out of the car and lock it. I led the way to the store, keeping the keys in my hand.

  The manager’s office was at the back. A girl standing on some steps filling shelves pointed the way.

  “Take a seat, take a seat,” the manager, Matt Jones, said enthusiastically.

  “Obviously bored,” I concluded. “Slow day in Bellevue Hill.”

  “We’re looking for Julie O’Connor. Understand she works here.”

  “Julie? Yeah, she does. Should be here now, but isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t turn up for her shift this morning.” He frowned. “So what’s this all about? You cops?”

  “No,” Mary said. “We’re from an investigative agency. We’ve had a call from one of Julie’s relatives,” she lied. “An old aunt has died and the family wants to reach Julie.”

  “Really? So she might be in for an inheritance!”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well of course … I understand … Mustn’t assume anything.”

  “No,” I responded. “You couldn’t give us Julie’s address, could you? And maybe a phone number?”

  Jones looked doubtful for a few moments. “That might not be possible. There’s a certain confidentiality …”

  “Sure,” Mary said in her sweetest voice. “It’s just the family is desperate to get in touch with Julie. She apparently left her relatives in Queensland under a cloud, years back.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Jones responded. “Might explain a thing or two.”

  I gave the guy a questioning look.

  “I like Julie, but she’s never been the most … communicative of my staff. Never made friends with the others. She’s a bloody good worker though – that’s why I kept her on.” He paused. “Okay, I can’t give you her number – she doesn’t have a phone. But the address …” He turned toward a mini filing cabinet on top of his desk. Flicked through the cards. “Yeah, here it is: 6 Neptune Court, Impala Road, Sandsville. Let me know what the outcome is, will you? It would be good to know if Julie will ever be coming back!”

  Chapter 101

  JULIE WAS SITTING on her threadbare sofa. The TV on, sound off. Beside her lay her scrapbook and a notebook. She picked up the notebook first. She kept this in her overall pocket at work. In many ways, she had the perfect job for her purposes. Working at the checkout of SupaMart in Bellevue Hill each day she would see potential victims. Each day, a parade of spoiled wives of successful Eastern Suburbs bankers, brokers and doctors passed by. These women came into SupaMart Gucci-clad and dripping Tiffany to buy zero-fat milk and goat’s cheese with their private-school-uniformed brats. To them, she was either invisible or an object of contempt. She loathed them.

  But she had access to their personal details. She had their credit card data, she caught their names when they bumped into their snooty friends and had a little “chat” at the checkout. She noted down everything she heard. The same women, perhaps fifty of them, came in each week, often several times a week. A month of listening and note-taking and she knew a great deal about Samantha, Sarah, Donna, and dozens of others including Yasmin Trent, Stacy Friel, Elspeth Lampard and, of course, Jennifer
Granger, the wife of the bastard who’d started it all.

  Returning the notebook to the top pocket of the lumberjack shirt she was wearing, she picked up her scrapbook. She’d devoted a double page to each of the murders, numbered them. 1. JENNIFER GRANGER. 2. STACY FRIEL. 3. ELSPETH LAMPARD. 4. YASMIN TRENT. Beneath these, descriptions of each murder recounted in her scratchy handwriting, every other word misspelled. Interspersed with the words, Julie had pasted in pictures of babies taken from magazines.

  In the middle pages, she’d itemized everything she’d learned at SupaMart … credit card numbers, addresses, friends’ names, husbands’ details, where they worked, kids’ schools. All of it had been routinely transferred from the notebook, keeping the original as a backup.

  She flicked through the pages of the scrapbook, studying all the information she’d transferred over the months. “Tabatha,” Julie said aloud. “Married to Simon, a ‘very handsome’ broker at Stanton Winslow. Address: 8 Frink Parade. Four kids … Shit! Busy girl!” Turning the page … “Mary, ah, nice Catholic girl, Mary. Irish ancestry, no less. Works for a local charity – ‘Homes for Rejected Pets’. How lovely! Two kids, Fran and Marcus. Husband, a spinal surgeon at Royal North Shore Hospital … tempting, very tempting.”

  She flicked to the last page. A newspaper article about the murder of Jennifer Granger. Skipped forward. Stopped, read a name at the top of a double-page profile. Let her eyes drift down to the material she had collected on this woman.

  “Well, hey … looky here,” she said in a whisper. “Just looky here. I’d almost forgotten … Oh, that would be perfect!”

  She leaned forward, the scrapbook on her lap, turned back to her pages listing the murdered women, flicked to a fresh page and wrote: “NUMBER FIVE.” Then a name.