Fellows chatted on about real estate and how his property had lost its value. Nothing he said was of any importance but he was trying to work out what had suddenly made her so tense and distracted. He wondered if she was uncomfortable being driven to a stranger’s home but she didn’t seem the type who couldn’t take care of herself, especially after what Rooney had told him about her. As if she had read his mind, she suddenly asked what Rooney had said to him.
‘That you used to be a lieutenant, and a good one.’
She laughed and he found it attractive, a low, soft gurgle more than a laugh.
‘Was that all?’
He paused at traffic lights. ‘Yes, well, he implied that you made a mess but he didn’t embroider.’
‘So what did he tell you?’
Fellows drove on, turning into Marmont Avenue. ‘Something about a drinking problem.’
Before they could continue, he turned into a driveway. The house was as neat as Fellows, a swimming pool taking up most of the garden. Lorraine calculated the property would be worth around one and a quarter million dollars, perhaps more.
Fellows opened Lorraine’s door for her and waited for her to get out. The front door opened and a pleasant, rather plump woman waved from the porch. ‘Dilly, this is Lorraine Page. She’s working on the case I told you about.’
Lorraine felt an immediate warmth towards Dilly, short for Dylisandra. The interior of the house mirrored her generous personality — open plan, comfortable, not ostentatious. The sitting room was filled with deep, inviting sofas and thick Moroccan-style coffee tables, big lamps, spotlights focusing on large, bright canvases. The one that hung over a stone fireplace was of a man reclining, stark naked. The painting was impressive: no matter where you sat in the room you couldn’t help but be drawn to the figure, or, more specifically, to his large penis and balls that were over-prominent.
Dilly worked in the kitchen, opening wine, talking nineteen to the dozen as she listed who had called and left messages. Fellows took himself off to his study and his answer machine, excusing himself.
The meal was simple — tossed salad, steak — but served beautifully. Lorraine was relaxing and enjoying their company, when Dilly brought the conversation round to Brad Thorburn. ‘Now there’s a man I could go for,’ she said to Lorraine. ‘That’s his portrait over the fireplace, by the way. I know it doesn’t look like him — that’s because he refused to sit still long enough for me to get his head right, but I think I got everything else okay. Well, Andy says I’ve been a little optimistic about the genital area but I’m not. I just painted what I saw and, to be perfectly honest, at times it was very difficult to hold my brushes straight.’ She laughed loudly, tossing her head back.
Fellows smiled adoringly at his wife, without a hint of jealousy. ‘I’ve tried to introduce him to more girlfriends than you could imagine. They all fall for him but he’s a real choosy guy.’
He suddenly stood up, ruffling his wife’s hair. ‘We’ve not come here to talk about Brad Thorburn. Can you bring coffee into the den?’
‘Sure. How do you take it, Lorraine?’
‘Black, honey if you’ve got it.’
Fellows said, ‘I thought you’d take it that way. It fits with how clean-cut you are, direct.’
Dilly snorted. ‘Don’t pay attention to him, he’s always saying things like that! It used to be his big pulling trick, now he just does it for effect!’
Fellows’s study was lined with books and photographs, many of them featuring Thorburn. Lorraine walked round the room, with its leather armchairs and wide stacked desk. She looked at a photograph of Fellows and Thorburn together on a fishing trip. Fellows stood behind her.
‘Where does he live?’
‘Up in the Canyon. It’s the family home, he’s got them littered all over the world but that’s his sort of base. He had quite a strange upbringing. His father left his mother when he was just a toddler and remarried God knows how many times.’
‘Is he an only child, then?’
‘No, I think there was an older brother but Brad was left the money.’
Dilly appeared with the coffee and bade them goodnight. Lorraine liked her and Fellows too. He was a man she felt she could talk to, a man she wanted to talk to, but not about the murder. She felt he would be dependable, honest, a man with no ulterior motive, a rare creature. Fellows briefly outlined his interest in the murder. She listened intently, knowing much of what he was saying because she had read the files, but she liked the reassuring sound of his voice.
‘I hear there’s been a development with Norman Hastings — cross-dresser. Well, I said Rooney would probably find something. Interesting, huh?’
He had thrown the ball neatly into her court.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘You asked to see me. For what reason?’
‘To see if you knew more.’
‘You think I do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do.’
She met his steady gaze. Lorraine was the one to break the look. ‘Why do you think he kills?’
Fellows leaned back. ‘Lorraine, nobody knows what makes a man kill, if not in the armed forces or under pressure or supreme emotional strain. I don’t believe any man simply kills. There is always a reason.’
‘What reason is behind our killer?’
‘I don’t know because there is no cohesive pattern. They are not all hard-faced prostitutes. One was a cross-dresser, one a seventeen-year-old.’
‘What if the seventeen-year-old was a mistake?’
‘What do you mean?’
Lorraine repeated what she had discussed with Nula and Didi, and Fellows leaned forward, frowning. ‘So you’re saying our killer was after one of your friends. Is she blonde?’
‘Bleached. She said the driver stopped and Holly ran across the road to him, got into the car. I think Hastings knew the killer,’ Lorraine continued, ‘and that the killer is a cross-dresser or a transvestite.’
‘Why?’ Fellows asked.
‘Because he seems to hate women, maybe women his own age. I think he hates the woman he becomes, the woman he attempts to be when he’s dressed up.’
Fellows closed his eyes. ‘Where does Hastings fit in?’
‘Hastings may have known him and been suspicious. Perhaps he was about to expose him to the police...’
Fellows tugged at his ears. ‘There is one person who must be found, the woman he attacked, the one in the parking lot. I don’t think the police realize the importance of this witness. She saw him, his face, smelt him, he attacked her and, according to the witnesses, she was covered in blood. Both they and the cab driver have described her — tough, hard-faced, tooth missing, scrawny, lank-haired...’
Lorraine’s heart was thudding.
‘I don’t think she was a whore, though, or at least not like the other women. I think this one was different. She was educated, knew enough to...’ He looked directly at Lorraine. ‘Did you read the transcripts of that phone call she made? Clear, concise description. I told Rooney it was almost like a professional description, as if she had been attached to the police in some capacity.’
Lorraine coughed. He was bloody good — did he know? ‘I agree but I don’t think they’ll find her.’
He shrugged. ‘Then they’re not looking, are they? Because she’s still in this area.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she wouldn’t give her name. She wants to remain anonymous.’
‘That doesn’t mean she didn’t pick up a trucker and is out of town. Just because she didn’t give her name doesn’t mean anything.’
‘She wanted him caught! If she was moving on, why bother calling the police? I think she’s still around.’