Jill Jackson - 02 - Voodoo Doll (4 page)

F
INDING THE RIGHT
house was not easy. It's true there were a million McMansions around these days, usually with a BMW or Range Rover in the garage, but most of them were mortgaged to the hilt. Cutter and his crew had learned that most of these owners didn't have a spare dollar to save their lives.

Some of the fibro houses in Cabramatta were another thing altogether. One family had thirty grand under the bed for fucksakes. Cutter couldn't believe that Mouse, one of his crew, had given up his own aunty on that one. But when he'd cut off the aunty's thumbs to help her calm herself down a little, Esterhase had had to take Mouse out the back. See, you could never figure people out. Why did he put his aunty in it in the first place?

Cutter liked the garage entry best. Kept everyone real quiet until they were all inside. You had to know the house a little: look for one with an internal entry from the garage through to the house. Good thing Esterhase did furniture deliveries for his day job – he got to see these things. Then, wait near the garage, slip in with the car when they come home, and stay quiet till the door goes down. Let them get out of the car. Then they're all yours until morning. Do anything you want, go anywhere you need to go.

Nosy neighbours could be a problem. He tried to stay away from townhouses – connecting walls. It was true they had done one townhouse, and no one had come running. But they'd had to use duct tape to keep her quiet. Cutter preferred it when there was a little screaming room. Houses that backed onto a reserve, a school, an industrial estate; those that had a high brick fence, a busy road, a pool in the yard, just a bit of space around were best.

When Esterhase showed him the house with the guns at Capitol Hill, he'd been in heaven. The Capitol Hill estate was all two- to five-acre blocks. Double brick castles. Pool houses, guest wings. Still a new development, there were vacant blocks everywhere, next to half-finished houses, skeletal in the night. He'd be back for this place. Shit. Maybe he'd do another two here.

Almost time. Cutter couldn't wait.

Esterhase waited in the dark near the garage. The target rarely got home before one a.m. Owned some factory where they worked through the night.

Cutter sat in the van. The rest of the crew sat with him in their balaclavas, wishing Cutter would put his mask on too. They looked everywhere but at him.

Cutter stared out the window of the van into the night, grinning, rocking backwards and forwards in his seat. He kept his hands pressed down tightly into his lap.

I
N HER UNDERWEAR
, face sour, Jill surveyed the wreckage of her bedroom. The only clothes she owned that she hadn't tried on were her swimming costumes.

'So much for a couple of days off,' she muttered.

She settled on narrow grey pants, a fitted white shirt. She smoothed her hair into a high ponytail and scowled at the mirror. New people. Blah. She smudged a tiny bit of colour across her cheeks and eyes. She had no tan yet to hide the freckles across her nose.

At her breakfast bar, she sat with an orange juice and toast, bare feet on the bench, a street directory in her lap. She had planned on plotting her route carefully, maybe taking a drive out to her new workplace before starting. Yeah, right.

The call had come at five-thirty a.m. Another home invasion: Capitol Hill, a wealthy estate around fifteen minutes from the copshop in Liverpool. This time the victim didn't make it to hospital. The ambos had brought his body out in two bags.

'We're going to meet at eight, Jill, but I'll understand if you're not able to get here by then.' Superintendent Last spoke in an unhurried tone. 'We'll catch you up when you do arrive. Again, I'm sorry to call you in today.'

'No problem. I'll be there as soon as I can.'

The most direct route seemed to be Beauchamp Road to Foreshore Drive and then along the M5 all the way to Liverpool. There looked to be only a couple of streets to negotiate once she got off the motorway.

By six-forty, she was in the car heading southwest.

She wound the window down and angled her face into a stream of cool air. The morning sky glowed, and there was a promise on the joggers' faces as they bounded by.

She found a parking spot right out the front of the police station. Metered, but they'd settle that stuff later. The clock in the dash showed 7.38. Early. Good. The last thing she wanted was to start this thing behind everyone else.

Her gut twisted. She hated meeting new people. After nearly a year away from school following the kidnapping, she'd returned to find she couldn't speak English anymore. At least it felt that way. She couldn't relate to the things the other kids said, couldn't fill the silences they left for her. Couldn't make the little noises they did – the giggles, uh-huhs, nuhs, whatevers. What was the point? Once you said what you wanted, or needed, or what was immediately obvious, what was left to say? Some lunchtimes she'd sat, incredulous, listening to the roar of language around her. The words smothered her, choked her airways, and sometimes she would run to a silent classroom, wheezing for oxygen, struggling to clear her throat, trying to prevent an anxiety attack.

The ability to banter, which she'd taken for granted as a younger child, had never returned. The comfortable chitchat that knitted relationships was beyond her. Others saw her as aloof, rude, odd. Some instantly disliked her; resented her for the discomfort they felt when she broke the social rules. In the past, if she could've done anything about it, she probably wouldn't have, given that the distance kept her feeling safe. But today, starting a new job, she wished she had the ability to make the right noises, to help dispel some of the stories she knew would've reached here before her arrival.

She slicked tinted gloss over her dry lips, checked her face once in the rear-view mirror, and stepped out of the car into Liverpool.

The first thing she noticed was that there were definitely no joggers. Not a one. In Maroubra, they were everywhere at this time of day. Here, a few early risers hurried to get to work. Down a block and across the road, a man, his face lost in his hair, screamed ceaselessly at the traffic –
motherfucking cunts! You're all cunts!
A skinny young mum waited with a pram at the lights. A man next to her kept his eyes fastened on the brown paper bag clutched in his hand. Already. What time did the bottlos open around here? She figured that there must be a methadone clinic somewhere close by. A man and a woman in tracksuit pants it looked like they'd worn to bed did the junkie shuffle towards the chemist on the corner. She remembered reading a few years ago that the shopkeepers in the area were furious about the crackdown on the heroin trade in nearby Cabramatta. The politicians had claimed hero status in the war on drugs, but the buyers and sellers had moved just five kilometres down the highway to Liverpool.

Mouth dry, Jill decided she needed a juice or something before she entered the building. On the other side of the road she could see an Asian food store open for business. She crossed the street. Tables of fresh fruit and vegetables, still wet from the markets, spilled onto the footpaths. Moon cakes and dim sum sat in the fridge next to cans of Pepsi and bottled water. She took a bottle of green tea to the counter, where a woman was packing a vegetable Jill had never seen before into small bags.

'Okra. More fibre than any other vegetable! You want some this morning?' The shopkeeper continued to pack as she spoke.

'How do you cook it?' Jill wanted to know.

'I don't know. Never had it! You try it and tell me next time.'

'Okay. Why not. How much?' Jill rummaged through the bottom of her bag for her purse.

'Two dollars,' the woman replied, beaming as she filled Jill a fresh bag containing twice as much as the others she had packed.

Jill crossed the road, cramming the bag of vegetables into her handbag. They poked out the top and she wondered what the hell she had been thinking. It was ten to eight and time to get in there.

Jill found Superintendent Lawrence Last striding down a hallway in her direction. A youth in uniform half-jogged to keep up with him. Last's baggy suit shushed with each oversized step; grey suit, hair and skin seemed all the same tone. He hunched forward, as though the ceiling hovered just beyond his hair. Plate-sized hands swung by his sides. He saw her ahead of him, and his hand and the crags around his mouth lifted in greeting, then dropped again with his shoulders. He turned his grey eyes to his watch, and was with her in one final lurch.

'I'm so glad you're here, Jill. I really appreciate it.' The quiet voice seemed out of place from such a huge man, as though he'd tried to shrink that too. 'It's all a terrible mess, I'm afraid.'

He seemed so bent with worry that Jill's self-consciousness had already been replaced with a desire to try to lessen his burden. She fell in behind him as he opened the door to a meeting room. The man in uniform handed Last a folder and left them.

They entered a room already occupied by two men.

'David. Derek. Thank you for coming.' Although his voice was low in volume, Superintendent Last carried power into the room.

'Not like we had a choice, is it, boss?'

The words were for Last, but the speaker's eyes were on Jill. Leaning against a wall, arms folded over a bulging chest, he stood straight at the last minute, in offhanded respect to his superior officer.

'Quite,' said Last. 'It's a minute to eight. I expect Delahunt will be here shortly. We'll wait. Maybe if we all take a seat?'

Jill walked around the table to take the seat diagonally facing the door. The dragon seat. According to the rules of feng shui, it afforded its occupant power through placement. Jill didn't know if she believed that stuff, but she did prefer that position, with her back to the wall – and she needed all the help she could get today. She reached the chair at the same time as the fourth occupant of the room. A flicker of a smile, and then he dropped his eyes, held out a hand, his other holding onto the back of the chair. Assuming possession of it.

'Hello. I am David Tran.'

She took his hand, feeling slightly put out until she noticed a walking stick leaning against the table; he was using the chair for balance while he greeted her.

'Hi. Jill Jackson.' She smiled.

They stood there.

'You take the seat,' she offered, at the same moment as he waved her towards it. They laughed, awkward.

'No, please take this seat. I will sit next to you,' said David.

'Thanks.' Jill dropped into the chair, looking up to see Muscles watching the exchange with an open smirk.

She looked around the table. The men all wore suits. What had she been thinking with her outfit? First day – taskforce – suit! It seemed obvious now. She adjusted her shirt a little. Muscles still wore the smirk.

Just in time to save her from doing something ridiculous, like initiating a stare-down match with this idiot, another man entered the room. He must be another taskforce member. What had Superintendent Last said his name was? Delahunt?

Cargo pants. Phew. It was the first thing she noticed. Blue tee-shirt. Yee hah. She straightened a little in her seat.

Dark-haired and unshaven, he walked into the room on an angle, kind of like he was trying to sneak up on something. An A4 notepad, rolled like a trumpet, stuck out of the side pocket of his navy cargos. She figured him for around six foot. Making eye contact with no one, he sat down.

With his entry, Superintendent Last looked up from a bulky folder and rummaged through a box on the table. He pulled out four more folders of the same size, and handed them around the room. Jill left hers closed in front of her, focused her attention on the team leader, eager now to begin.

'Gabriel. Glad you're here,' he said to Delahunt. 'This thing's gone from bad to worse.' A pause. 'I'd like to begin with introductions. I've met all of you previously, so I'll begin with . . . '

A forceful sneeze made Jill jump in her seat. Embarrassed by her exaggerated startle-response, she shifted a little to hide her movement. The new guy sneezed again. An explosion. And again. And again. Each sneeze a shout. The others waited, staring at him. Jill forgot her own discomfort in her mortification for the man. The sound must have been echoing through the hallways.

'Haven't you got a tissue?' the sneezer demanded, looking around at the others. She'd expected 'sorry', 'excuse me', even 'oh dear', but he seemed completely unperturbed.

She grabbed her bag, more to give her something to do other than stare, and reached into it to find her tissue pack. Too late, she overturned the bulging bag of vegetables, and they sprayed across the table, two landing in the superintendent's open folder.

'Bumya,' said the new guy, Gabriel.

'Sorry?' She meant it as a question; as an apology for covering the table in okra; and as an apology to herself, for having to come to this bloody place this morning when she'd so badly wanted a few days off.

'Bumya,' he repeated.

She wondered what was wrong with him.

'It's um . . . ah . . .' he tried.

Muscles leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, enjoying the show.

This was like a car crash.

'Okra!' Delahunt shouted, delighted with himself. 'Bumya. Okra. It's the same thing.' He pointed at the scattered vegetables.

Over the next hour, Jill learned that last night not only had the home invasion gang committed murder for the first time, but that they were now in possession of at least nine firearms. Most worryingly, however, it was clear that the motivation for these crimes was not just robbery. At least one member of this gang was a violent sadist. A sociopath. And his need for violence was escalating.

Six acts to date. Eighteen victims. One dead. One still unconscious, with multiple serious injuries. Reports from past victims had all identified one person who seemed to be in charge. There were four offenders they knew about, each armed with a machete; but only one man in each of the robberies had used his knife. The victims' descriptions suggested that it had been the same person each time: the descriptions of his height, his mannerisms, his voice seemed to tally.

Superintendent Last wanted them all to travel over to the Capitol Hill residence later this morning. He'd been there at five this morning, shortly after the daughter of the deceased had managed to free herself from her restraints and telephone for help. Physically uninjured, she remained in hospital, heavily sedated. Her father's legs, head and arms had been severed from his torso. His safe, containing ammunition and nine registered firearms, had been cleared out.

Almost incoherent, the survivor had managed to let the arriving officers know that she'd heard the whole thing.

Jill imagined that the sound of her father's screaming would have been less horrific than the chopping and sawing sounds that had continued when he stopped.

The taskforce members had been silent during the briefing, transfixed by Last's measured, careful account. Jill and David Tran scribbled notes. During the introductions, she had learned that David Tran and Derek Reid were detectives from Sydney's southwest. Gabriel Delahunt was the surprise – an Australian Federal Police officer, he had most recently been stationed at the police headquarters in Surry Hills, but like Jill, had moved around a lot for his previous big cases. She knew that the AFP often worked major crime investigations with community police, but she'd never worked a case involving them.

'Before we get moving on this thing,' said Last, 'there are two other important matters. First, we'll be looking into a couple of additional home invasions committed prior to the six we have been actively assigned. They occurred late last year, and there are some similarities which suggest that one or more of the same perpetrators may be involved.'

He cleared his throat, sat a little straighter in his seat.

'The second matter we need to discuss involves the media.'

Silence for a few beats.

'I am sure you heard the news this morning.'

Jill did a mental head slap. She'd been too busy figuring out how to get there to listen to the radio.

'I don't know whether any of you listen to talkback, but it seems that eighty per cent of callers want to know why we haven't caught these guys yet. They're talking about being too scared to turn the lights off; complaining that they've spent thousands on new security. Last week, one woman said she'd moved all of her family's beds into the loungeroom, where they plan to sleep every night until the offenders are caught. The idea seems to have caught on, and other listeners report doing the same thing.' He stopped to take a sip of water.