'The second piece of remarkable news, folks,' he continued, fixing each of them with an intent look, 'comes from the Rice crime scene. The lab has analysed the semen and blood sample collected on the towel by Justine Rice. It belongs to Mr Henry Nguyen.'
Jill gasped and turned to Gabriel. He raised his eyebrows at her, his face otherwise impassive.
'Yes, the name should be familiar to each of you,' Superintendent Last continued. 'On Wednesday afternoon we received an anonymous call from a woman claiming that Henry Nguyen, AKA Cutter, was the leader of this gang. I believe some of you have listened to the tape. I have arranged for a copy of the sound file to be emailed to each of you this morning. It appears that this caller does know what she is talking about, and we need very much to speak to her again. We issued a media release first thing today, indicating that we want the caller to contact us again.'
'What do we know about this man so far, sir?' Tran asked, as Last took a sip from his coffee.
'Nguyen's last known address was John Street, Cabramatta,' said Last, 'excluding, of course, his time spent in prison: Parklea, Parramatta and Long Bay. Ah, hold on a moment.' He looked down at his notes, and then read, 'Maliciously destroying property; break, enter and steal; take and drive conveyance; assault occasioning actual bodily harm.
'As a child,' he continued, 'Nguyen also appears to have been locked up for more time than he was at school, including in Minda, Mount Penang and Dharruk. Let's see…' – again he bowed his large head to his notes – 'charges whilst an inmate include fighting; threatening language; assault; and damaging property.
'And people,' Lawrence Last paused to ensure they were all listening. 'Apparently Mr Nguyen likes a knife – hence the nickname, Cutter. He's had multiple self-harm attempts in every lock-up, and most of the time he did not report them. In fact,' he cleared his throat, and then continued in the same measured tone, 'he was transferred to the hospital at Long Bay when his cell-mate went to the guards for help. Apparently Mr Nguyen had opened a wound in his stomach, and under his covers had been manipulating the area for over a week. The cell-mate informed the guards when he could no longer bear the smell.'
Jill unconsciously smoothed her hair when Joss Preston-Jones's wife, Isobel Rymill, opened her front door. A dark, glossy ponytail snaked around one side of the tall woman's neck, contrasting with her simple white shift dress. She welcomed them into her home with a smile, but hugged her arms around her slim body as they walked together towards the kitchen. Her face was shiny and clear, but her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips slightly swollen.
Superintendent Last had insisted that the taskforce continue with the witness interviews today, despite the developments. He had four officers collecting further intelligence on their two suspects, and would not hear of any definitive action being taken until they had done more surveillance to better determine their whereabouts. He was adamant that no one went anywhere near the suspects' families, or their last known addresses, until they knew exactly where the two men were. It was important not to tip them off in any way.
So Jill and Gabriel sat sipping orange juice at the breakfast bar of the terrace house in Balmain for the second time in as many days.
'How was Joss after yesterday's interview?' Jill asked Isobel Rymill. Despite the evidence on the tape that he was holding something back, Jill had instinctively warmed to this woman's husband, and she couldn't help but wish that this family had not come into their investigation in such a brutal way. She felt guilty that she and Gabriel would this afternoon be finding out everything they could about Joss Preston-Jones. This was not the way she was used to working with victims.
As Isobel told them that her husband was bearing up relatively well, Jill couldn't help but notice the aversion behaviours she displayed – the 'liar's lean', Gabriel had called it – her body angled sharply away from Jill, almost toppling her off the back of her stool. Her eyes darted around the room like a small bird, and she twisted her fingers together in her lap.
Isobel's account of the home invasion was just as harrowing as her husband's. Jill liked to think she had a sense for detecting offenders, and Joss and Isobel did not fit the pattern. She noted the carefully maintained furniture, the mementoes, the photographs on the walls. It was a family home, an ordinary home. She had to agree with Gabriel, though. Joss and Isobel definitely seemed to be keeping some-thing back from them. This did not necessarily mean that they were hiding something related to this case; Jill had seen this kind of behaviour before. Sometimes police involvement in the life of a victim of a particular crime unearthed their involvement in a completely unrelated matter.
Are you up to something? Jill mentally questioned Isobel, as she was tearily finishing her account for the camera.
By the time the interview was over at two o'clock, Jill was already regretting that she'd agreed to analyse the tape at Gabriel's apartment in Ryde. His suggestion that they use her flat yesterday had caught her by surprise, but in bed last night she had mentally kicked herself for not suggesting they use the police station in Balmain, or even in the city, rather than her unit. And when Gabriel had suggested his house today, she'd agreed immediately. What was going on with her? Breaking her own rules, backtracking on decisions. She was lowering her guard too fast. The thought bunched her shoulders. Still, she told herself, they were achieving a lot together in this case. Just let it go at that.
20
CHLOE HAD BEEN extra careful with her makeup this morning. With her first pay cheque as a journalist, she'd been able to buy some serious-looking suits. The dress she chose this morning, however, she had purchased for eveningwear. Perhaps for a date with some fascinating scientist or a doctor she'd have interviewed, she'd thought at the time. Although it wasn't at all low-cut, and dropped to her calves, the caramel jersey clung to her breasts and hips, and she felt more sexy in it than in her skimpiest sundress. It had not even been on sale. This morning, she'd twirled, delighted, around and around in front of the mirror, just as she had in the change rooms of the boutique in which she'd bought it. The snooty salesgirl had actually smiled at her. A woman from the next stall had come out of her cubicle just after her, wearing the same dress. Chloe, four inches taller than her in her bare feet, had given her a big smile, but the other woman had stared briefly at both of them in the communal mirror and ducked back behind her door. Chloe had bought the dress and a pair of knee-high, chocolate brown boots. The boots were the same shade as her eyes and hair.
She stood now in George Street, Liverpool, regretting her decision this morning. A group of four workmen in the Spotlight carpark behind her had been making comments since nine a.m. and it was now after twelve. She'd seen the same man in a suit walk past her and the cameramen three times. She knew he was working up the courage to come over to her. His smile lingered longer with each trip. Keep walking, she tried to tell him with her eyes.
Thing is, the guy behind the counter in the copshop had been the reason for this dress this morning. Constable Andrew Montgomery. He'd asked her if she'd be back today, and yep, here she was, but she hadn't yet been in to say hi.
Yesterday, she'd entered the station full of confidence, given her name and implied that she was an important investigative journalist working on the home invasion cases. The female police liaison officer had tried to blow her off with the standard spiel for the media, but Chloe, undeterred, had said that she'd wait to speak to someone for as long as it took. The dark-eyed girl behind the counter had just smiled sardonically as Chloe settled in for the wait, somewhat dispirited.