How had the murdered girl seen it? An eighteen-year-old would surely feel wary about being alone in the dark at this time, or was she now complacent? She might not have been jumping at shadows as she walked, or hugging the brick wall to keep out of the wind and the roar of traffic as Stevie was now. Her thoughts were probably miles away from danger, thinking about the shoot. Had the photographer been pleased with her, had her make-up been okay? Maybe she’d been preoccupied with thoughts of her boyfriend, their skiing holiday and the money they’d saved.
Wispy fingers of fog tickled at Stevie’s face as she walked. Last Sunday had been clear, but now it was like seeing everything through gauze. Even the orange of the streetlights seemed muffled. Linda wouldn’t have had to take such careful footsteps. The lumps and bumps of the footpath would have been more obvious, the city buildings more defined, the lights of the passing traffic not so blurred.
God but her shoes were killing her. She stooped to loosen one of the faux leopard-skin straps. As she straightened, she shivered and pulled her cardigan closer to her body. Was he watching her now?
She smelled Joshua Cuthbert before she saw him. He was leaning into the arch in the wall where De Vakey had discovered the discarded bottle. After a moment she heard his footsteps shuffling behind her and risked a glance back. He stopped walking when he came to a rubbish skip, squatted on his haunches and began to roll a cigarette. This must have been his vantage point the previous Sunday: the killer would never have known he was there.
Stevie reached the bus stop without incident and lingered there for some minutes as per instructions. Then, exchanging thumbs up with the film crew as if it was a wrap, she took off her shoes and replaced them with the trainers she’d left on the bus stop bench.
It was comforting to be herself again; the re-enactment stage was over, let the games begin. She held her breath and walked to the mouth of the alleyway. Was he here? Had he already separated himself from the crowd to wait for her here in the shadows? De Vakey’s voice echoed unwelcome in her head. A female police officer, this could be just the challenge he’s after. She remembered the flush of animation as he spoke and then Tye’s words, worse because they were the verbalisation of her own irrational suspicions. Maybe it takes one to know one, have you thought about that? A shiver scampered up her backbone.
She turned into the alley. It was long, narrow and dark, with little illumination filtering in from the main street. With visibility so poor her ears strained for any incongruous sound. Even her muted footsteps sounded loud as they bounced back at her from the walls. The putrid smell of garbage mingled with the fog and the smoke of her breath. Her pace slowed as she tried to see past the shadows of empty crates and garbage bins.
A noise, the clanking of tin.
A rat scampered for safety into the shadows. ‘Shit,’ she exhaled into her collar mike.
She skirted an overflowing drain, only to slap into another puddle; oily water sloshed around her feet and splashed a riffling newspaper. The end of the alley was in sight now. The lights were getting brighter and she could see the street ahead clearly now.
Almost safe.
She wasn’t sure what came first, the hand on her arm or the click of the spotlight. Whatever, she reacted on sheer instinct, slamming her elbow into her assailant’s side then pivoting around to smack him on the side of his face with her weighted handbag. At the same time something resembling a dead animal was loosed from his head and sent flying across the breadth of the alleyway.
In the blur of confusion and bright lights, police in tactical response gear stepped out from the shadows. Angus appeared, talking on a radio, calling an end to the procedure.
Stevie’s cry of surprise rapidly turned into a night-shattering cackle, part relief and part sheer delight. She doubled over, consumed by howling gulps of laughter, not even trying to stifle what everyone would think was an overreaction to the stress of the re-enactment. Then Barry saw it and joined her with his own guffaws. Even Angus couldn’t suppress a smile as he scooped the dislodged toupee from a puddle of water.
Stevie’s gaze turned to her ‘assailant’. James De Vakey was rubbing his jaw. He gingerly reached for his head, his expression of shock turning into one of embarrassed horror.
She was gripped by another fit of laughter. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see printed in her mind the meagre fringe of hair and the gleam of the spotlight on the extensive bald patch.
‘That was a foolish thing to do,’ Angus said, hauling him to his feet and handing him his dripping accessory. De Vakey snatched the hairpiece from his hand and quickly pocketed it. ‘You of all people should have known how tense she would be in this situation.’
De Vakey rubbed the side of his head, keeping his eyes focused on the ground. ‘I thought it was over. I wanted to make sure she was okay.’
Stevie had never expected to hear De Vakey so rebuked or sound so embarrassed. She turned on her heel. They might not have caught the killer tonight but at least she’d accomplished something. The thought filled her with a satisfying warmth. Who was it that said that revenge was best served cold?
As she made her way back up Wellington Street with Angus, De Vakey called out, ‘Be careful, Stevie, he could still try, and it’ll be when you least expect it.’
Stevie made no reply. Only when she was sure she’d left her laughing fit in the alley did she trust herself to ask Angus how it all went.
‘The ABC director thinks the footage will be good. They’ll start showing it on TV tomorrow. Cuthbert doesn’t seem to have remembered anything, but someone else might. And as for the stake-out in the alley, well, it was worth a try, wasn’t it?’
Angus’s professional demeanour and his refrain from comment about the toupee almost started her off again. She grinned and nudged him in the ribs. ‘In more ways than one, eh?’
They’d just reached the tramp’s position by the skip when a blue Commodore pulled up alongside them. Baggly’s beady gaze slid down Stevie’s body in sync with his electronic side window.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
Angus repeated what he’d told Stevie.
‘Good, it sounds as if the footage has come out well. We’ll need to scan the crowd shots carefully. Well done, Hooper.’ With an easy acceleration, his top-of-the-range Commodore purred away up the street.
At the same moment a mittened paw clawed at Angus’s coat sleeve. Angus looked at the derelict with uncharacteristic impatience; so far all he’d given them was a fast food bill.
‘That car, that car,’ Joshua Cuthbert said, pointing to Baggly’s disappearing taillights.
‘Well, what about it?’ Angus said.
‘Same car, different driver.’
Angus folded his arms and sighed.
The old man ignored Angus and said to Stevie, ‘I don’t know much love, but I know me cars.’
24
The investigator must examine the killer’s life within the context of cause and effect. Psychologists call this ‘Psychological determinism’.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
The van headlights swept across Baggly’s driveway through a mist of rain. Monty shrank behind the hibiscus bush to avoid the sliding beams, grateful for the camouflage his army jacket provided. After his altercation with Keyes and Thrummel, he’d spent the night under the freeway bridge near the river, barefoot and semiconscious. The first thing he’d done on waking was to find a public phone and ring Stevie. Then he’d called Wayne, who told him about the APB. He’d hung up immediately, realising that for the moment he’d have to give his friends, including Stevie, a wide berth. Until he could prove his suspicions correct, anyone found helping him would be putting their careers on the line.