She was standing in her hallway after an unpleasant night of put-downs and petty arguments. It was the wrong time and the wrong place to confront him, but the booze had clouded her judgement and the accusation of corruption had spilled without enough thought as to the possible consequences.
As soon as the words had left her mouth she knew she was in for a lot more than a smack around the head. One glance at Tye’s murderous expression and she bolted out the front door into the night. But as she flew down the front path her foot twisted in her high-heeled shoe and she tumbled on the uneven paving slabs, falling and hitting her head hard. He was on her in an instant, ripping at her blouse, tearing at her tights and skirt, raping her on the front path of her suburban house. She’d hardly fought, she didn’t scream; the neighbours were all around them, oblivious, watching TV in their cosy lounge rooms behind their weatherboard walls.
Stevie opened her eyes to find Monty staring at her. She was certain he’d guessed the truth back then, that there was more to her injuries than a fall down the front steps, but she’d refused to talk about it, knowing that if she started she would never have stopped. Such a revelation would have invited intimacy and intimacy meant vulnerability. The damage would be irreparable to both of them and it just wasn’t worth the risk. What better proof than the Christmas party, only a week after the rape—she’d been vulnerable, almost sick with alcohol, and he’d felt sorry for her. His sympathy was not what she wanted.
Even now she couldn’t meet his gaze. She looked at the blank TV screen above her head and began to finger the neck of her gown. Go with the drugs, she told herself. Relax and forget, it’s the only way.
Conscious of the moods of the adults around her, Izzy’s mouth fell in a downward curve. In a small, miserable voice she said, ‘Nanna?’
Monty reached for his wallet and handed Dot a ten-dollar note. ‘Here, buy her one of those cyanotic blue teddy bears they have in the gift shop. Or one of the pink ones that look like they have carbon-monoxide poisoning.’
Stevie shot him an exasperated look, but the bribe did the trick; Izzy was keen to go.
Dot said, ‘What a good idea. Let’s go and look at the toys downstairs, Izzy. Leave the grown-ups to their silly bickering.’
When they’d gone, Monty filled the awkward silence by going over to the sink. He took an empty vase and began to stuff the stolen flora into it. After some fiddling he turned from his task. ‘You’re shutting me out again.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss. I got whacked over the head following your instructions. Full stop.’
‘There’s something about this case that’s getting to you, I know there is, but you won’t tell me.’ Monty hesitated. ‘We used to be able to talk.’
She shrugged, felt the stitches tug at her tight skin. ‘We still do.’ She wondered if they would give her more pain-killers.
Monty plonked the top-heavy vase on the windowsill then sat on the edge of the bed. He drew a breath and his hand inched towards hers, stopping when she asked him about Martin Sparrow.
‘He’s still unconscious and still considered to be a murder suspect. Barry showed his photo to the waiter who verifies he’s the man he saw Michelle arguing with in the cafe. I thought I’d wander up to ICU after I’d seen you and see how he’s doing.’
Stevie nodded. ‘What about the description of the plumber from your neighbour? Could that have been Keyes or Thrummel?’
Monty shook his head. ‘Wayne spoke to her, didn’t sound like either of them. He didn’t get much other than tall, wellbuilt, wearing overalls with a woolly beanie on his head. The plumbing contractor who usually services the flats says no problems were reported that day.’
‘That’s one in your favour then. That has to be the guy who drugged your tomato juice. He obviously knows your drinking habits—Keyes and Thrummel could easily have found that out about you and told him. Then there’s the police files taken from your flat, the documents from Michelle’s safe—’
‘I know, the cop angle again,’ Monty interrupted. ‘But whatever we might speculate at the moment, I’m still not in the clear until they have the stuff analysed. The lab’s backlogged as usual.’
‘And I guess me being in Michelle’s apartment has got you into even deeper shit now.’
He shrugged. ‘Baggly wants to see me this afternoon. I think I might be busy cleaning my tennis shoes.’
Stevie rolled her eyes.
‘Oh, I’ve bought you a present,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He handed her a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘You might just fit one in before Dot gets back.’
Stevie’s hands shook as she attempted to remove the cellophane.
‘Here, let me do it,’ Monty said, extracting a cigarette and lighting it for her. He grinned when she blew out a luxurious stream.
She smiled back. ‘Thanks, Mont, I feel better already.’
‘I knew you’d be hanging out.’
Monty went over to the window and tried to work out how to break the seal. While his back was turned, the door opened and the stink of cigarette smoke was replaced by a sweeter fragrance.
Stevie’s spirits rose at the sight of the man behind the enormous bouquet of roses.
Monty turned from the window. ‘I thought you were in a meeting at Central?’
James De Vakey was already bending over Stevie’s bedside and didn’t look up. ‘I’ve seen Baggly. The others weren’t ready for me so I decided to check in here while I was waiting.’
He was distracted, and so was she, by the warmth of his minty breath on her cheek. Peering closely at the back of her head he said, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got a couple of black eyes from that. It was a nasty blow.’
Stevie pushed her hand against his shoulder, enjoying the feel of his soft jumper under her fingers. ‘Stop fussing, James, I only needed ten stitches. Jeez, you and Monty are worse than my mother. Thanks for the flowers, they’re beautiful.’
De Vakey put his flowers on the windowsill where they dwarfed Monty’s, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the cigarette ash from her tray table. Glancing at the oxygen outlet above her head, he said, ‘You really shouldn’t be smoking in here.’
She took a final drag and handed the butt to Monty to flush down the ensuite toilet.
De Vakey settled into a chair and crossed his long legs. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right,’ he said softly.
She felt the heat rise to her face.
‘So, what’s your opinion about last night?’ Monty asked brusquely.
De Vakey thought for a moment and looked at Monty. ‘I don’t think the person who murdered Birkby and Royce attacked Stevie and Sparrow.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The method for one: our serial killer is meticulous and he doesn’t like blood and gore. The MO in the Birkby flat couldn’t be more different—the place looked like a slaughterhouse. That Sparrow came out alive after such savagery is nothing short of a miracle. There was real hatred in this attack. Our Poser, on the other hand, kills with an almost warped reverence for the victim, taking his time and savouring the moment.’
‘Wayne said the evidence suggested the assailant tried to clean up,’ Monty said.
‘A towel was taken from the bathroom and used to wipe away bloody footprints, yes.’
‘Was he successful?’
‘You mean were they successful.’
‘What? There were two of them?’ Monty exclaimed.
‘SOCO found two different tread patterns. They were hazy and smudged, not good enough to make reliable comparisons, but clear enough to see that they were from two different pairs of shoes.’
Monty leaned back in his chair. ‘Wayne didn’t mention that. Well I’ll be...’
‘I only found out on my way to the hospital.’
Stevie joined in the conversation. ‘For those few moments in the apartment, before I was attacked, I was absolutely sure Sparrow was our unsub, that he’d been wanking in the cupboard, reliving the Birkby murder.’