The apparent leader had been upstairs with Justine. Both she and Ryan had indicated that he'd given orders to the other offenders. Their descriptions of his height and role within the group matched those given by other victims.
Jill read Justine's description of him. She'd guessed he was around 5'8", a little shorter than Ryan, her boyfriend. A thin, black ponytail extended beyond his balaclava; his eyes were dark, Asian. Australian accent. No labels she could detect on his clothing, although the others had been wearing black sports clothes bearing well-known brand names. She'd seen tattoos though – a scorpion on his hip, glimpsed, she said, when he had reached for her brother's Game Boy when raiding one of the rooms, and what looked like crudely inked spiders on the side of his neck between his collar and the balaclava.
Jill caught the end of Gabriel's conversation, and looked up from the file.
'Yes. Thank you, Mrs Rice. We'll see you soon.'
Gabriel closed the phone and together they left the house.
On the way to the car, Jill breathed deeply, ridding herself of the scent of death that had permeated every room of the house. Gabriel stood by the driver's door. Apparently he was driving this time. She threw him the keys and took the passenger seat without comment, putting her sunglasses on and winding up the window.
When they'd left Capitol Hill behind, Jill leaned back in her seat. Gabriel drove confidently, seemingly comfortable with their silence, allowing Jill to think about the kids they were on their way to interview. She thought again about Justine's statement. Something was different with this case. For a start, the violence was much less severe than in any of the others. She thought about the statements she'd read from the other victims. She couldn't be certain, as she'd not had a chance to study them properly, but she was pretty sure this was the only time tattoos had been mentioned.
8
CHLOE FARRELL SHIFTED uncomfortably in the early afternoon sun. The crutch of her tights had been heading south since she got out here this morning. She'd thought about finding a toilet somewhere and taking them off altogether, but the blisters from her new shoes would only get worse. She scowled at her boss, Deborah Davies, as she postured for the camera. Davies had shown up at lunchtime after Chloe had called her, letting her know she'd finally persuaded one of the Capitol Hill residents to be interviewed. Deborah had finished the interview, using Chloe's typed list of questions, and the neighbour had gone back inside her palatial home, thrilled to have met the current affairs presenter she watched in her loungeroom every night. Davies was now recording the fill-ins: asking the questions over and over again in an ever more concerned tone. Giving empathic nods and outraged shakes of her head to her favourite thing in the world: the camera. The gestures and comments would be edited into the piece later, by Chloe, ready for the six p.m. broadcast.
Chloe knew she could've done the interview better. Shit, the stuff she'd got before Deborah arrived was gold. At first, the frightened housewife had refused to speak to her at all, but Chloe had managed to persuade her through the intercom that her comments could help people understand how terrible these home invasions had been. Maybe then the police would do something about catching these bastards, she'd said, knowing the woman was standing just there, behind the door, listening.
She'd opened up, just as Chloe had known she would. Although she lived in a mansion, they were still in the western suburbs. And people around here could tell that Chloe was one of them. She made sure of it with every word she spoke. It got her in a lot of doors.
Born and raised in Seven Hills, Chloe had been one of just a handful from her high school to make it to university. She'd excelled in her journalism studies, taking the university prize two years running. At just twenty-three, and a brand new graduate, she knew a hundred others who would claw her eyes out for this cadetship with the premier news service in the country.
But Chloe was impatient.
Her parents had run their local mixed grocery store for thirty years and they were so tired. Chloe saw her mum every morning, grey-faced and miserable, leaving home to open the shop. Now she was working, Chloe saw her dad only on Sundays. He would be at the markets when they opened at five a.m., and asleep before she returned from work each evening.
Growing up, the shop had been her second home. After school, she'd make her way there and could choose anything she liked for afternoon tea. When she got older, she helped serve customers. Soon she knew most of the neighbourhood. By the time she was thirteen, she knew that Mrs Shanoa's husband was a no-good drunk; that Jeremy Peterson was having an affair with his boss behind his boyfriend's back; that Tania Taylor was on the pension, even though she worked fulltime for cash in hand at the bowling club; and that Mr Mason dressed in drag once a month and stayed out all night in Darlinghurst. She knew plenty more besides, and she couldn't get enough. People opened up and told her things, quietly, while she cut their ham, weighed their frankfurts, rang up their smokes on the outdated till.
Her father stopped her working at the store after the second armed robbery. The man, armed with a syringe, had made off with the day's takings half an hour before Chloe got there for the afternoon. Her dad hated his wife being there too, and had tried to sell the shop, but there were no genuine buyers. Everyone knew that Coles and Woollies made all the money in the industry. Everyone except the junkies, that is: they saw the corner store as a cash register. Her parents had been robbed five times since then.
Chloe had to get them out, and she would. She was going to find a way to get an on-screen position and a six-figure salary. She'd pay off their mortgage and get them out of the shop. And there was something about this story that felt like destiny. She peered overhead at the news chopper, one of theirs, returning after a midday break. Sydney wanted to know what was going on out here.
Chloe surreptitiously pulled at her tights again and made some more notes. Hell, the whole country wanted answers. And she was going to get them.
9
GABRIEL SAT OPEN-mouthed, staring at the enormous television in the corner of the room. Narelle Rice had muted the sound when she'd shown Jill and Gabriel into the living room, explaining that Justine and Ryan were expected home from work at two-thirty. Jill tried to catch Delahunt's eye, but he sat absorbed in the silent TV. On the screen, American soap actors made exaggerated facial expressions.
Mrs Rice returned from the kitchen carrying soft drinks in glasses and a plate of biscuits. She put the biscuits on a low coffee table in front of Gabriel and sat next to Jill on the couch. Gabriel reached unseeingly for the plate and munched while he watched the soap.
'You want me to put the sound on?' asked Mrs Rice.
'No. That's fine,' answered Jill, scowling at Gabriel, who'd turned to nod a yes.
'So, Mrs Rice,' began Jill, 'do Ryan and Justine work together?'
'They do everything together now. Could you just call me Narelle?'
Jill smiled.
'We've only just been able to get Justine to go back to work,' Mrs Rice continued. 'They work over at Orange Grove – you know the Krispy Kreme over there? Ryan's a manager,' she said with pride, 'and Justine was well on her way to management too. Before this happened.' She looked at her lap.
'It must have been terrible for you all,' said Jill.
'Oh you've no idea.' Narelle pulled a tissue from her cardigan pocket. 'We'll just never get over it. Justine…' She broke off, smothering a sob with her tissue. 'We've had to let Ryan move in. She wouldn't sleep alone. She said she'd move in with him if we didn't let him stay over.'