“Besides,” Mak continued, shaking off the image of her bald mother hooked to machines, “I just got here. I don’t think I could hack the flight back so soon. And even if you could pay, you know I wouldn’t let you. Anyway, this isn’t about scraping up
some cash anymore. I can’t leave until Catherine’s killer is caught.”
She heard him mumble, “Stubborn,” under his breath before he said more clearly, “Is there anything I can do at this end?”
“Nothing. Please do nothing. I hate it when you meddle.”
He ignored her reference. “Why don’t you model somewhere else for a while? New Zealand is close.”
“Nice try. You know I have to be here. Catherine was always there for me, and there is no one here for her now.”
A barely audible sigh told her that she had won the debate, for now. She had always been too strong-headed for him to control. Their battle of the wills went way back. Although he had revelled in the undivided attention she gave his cop stories, even as an eight year old her boundless interest in crime worried him, as it did the rest of the family. He was perversely relieved when she started modelling at fourteen. Perhaps he was baffled now at her desire to pursue forensic psychology. Women were homemakers and supermums to his generation, not career types with PhDs and a passion for the criminal psyche.
“Please be careful, Makedde. Don’t take any chances. Promise me.”
“I’ll be fine, I promise,” she assured him. “Anyway,
I’m an Amazon. Any psycho would be crazy to mess with me.”
“They
are
crazy, Makedde. That’s the point.”
“Not legally, they’re not. Psychopaths may have a predatory, manipulative and violent predisposition, but they aren’t legally insane.”
“Knock it off.”
She laughed. “Just buggin’ you. I’ll call soon and let you know what’s happening. I love you Dad.”
“You too.”
She hung up the receiver and drifted back into a fitful sleep.
She dreamt she was standing in tall grass, looking down at the bloodied, naked corpse of a young woman. Hair obscured the face, and as she pulled it back, she came face-to-face with her own lifeless features.
“
Makedde
,” the wind whispered, “
I’m coming for you
.”
Makedde walked up the flight of stairs towards Book agency’s huge, glass double doors, stopping briefly to preen in the mirrored wall that lined the stairwell. She studied her made-up face, noting the tired eyes and pale, stressed complexion. She practised a smile and was relieved that the effect was pleasing. Instantly she looked healthy, happy and confident. Looks were deceiving.
She stood outside for a moment and wondered whether she would be able to pull off the appearance of a successful model unaffected by a personal tragedy. No sense in letting them know she was devastated; they would probably insist she take some time off, and that wouldn’t pay the bills. Lengthening her body, pulling her stomach in and fixing an indestructible smile, she stepped inside. She received a noncommittal raised eyebrow from the receptionist, who obviously didn’t know her from a hole in the wall. Makedde could hardly have been offended; she didn’t know the receptionist’s name either.
“Is Charles Swinton in?” she asked.
“Yes, go on back.” The nameless receptionist resumed reading a
Vogue
magazine on her desk.
Mak clutched her model bag and strode to the back area where ten booking agents, or “bookers”, sat at a long oval table, handling various phone calls and dealing with the hopeful young things hovering about them. Each booker had a computer screen and keyboard, and a young model staring eagerly at the screen as they pushed buttons to determine who was working, and who was not.
Stacks of composite cards in holders lined every wall. An impossibly flawless face shone out from the cover of each card, with the words “Book Model Agency” printed boldly across the top, and the model’s name printed across the bottom. The cards
appeared to be organised in sections. The “Linda”, “Christy”, and “Claudia” type cards were in one section and the “Anna”, “Louise”, and “Makedde” type cards were on another wall. The categories may have represented who was in town and who wasn’t, but Makedde suspected it indicated who would, or would not, get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars.
In vain she tried to get Charles’ attention but for the next fifteen minutes he remained resolutely absorbed in a constant stream of phone calls. He was a slick operator; smooth-talking and complimentary, but firm in negotiation. Charles had a reputation for being able to make or break a model’s career. Such was his pull, many top models had followed him from another big agency when he quit and started up Book with a mysterious business partner. Mak was undecided as to whether or not Book would be good for her, but her mother agency, as each model’s hometown agency is called, was quite enthusiastic about the arrangement. It had been a bit of a coup to have Charles on-side, because he only handled the top girls. Her old
ELLE
and
Vogue
covers must have done the trick.
Finally he turned to her, the phone still glued to one ear. “Ah, Makedde. How did Friday go?” It wasn’t exactly the question she was expecting.
“Uh, fine. Except for my dead friend lying in the grass. Otherwise it was a breeze.”
“Oh,” he seemed embarrassed, “that’s right. Poor Catherine. It’s such a shame, she would have done so well. By the way,
Sixty Minutes
wants to interview you. Here’s the number.”
“Thanks,” Mak answered bluntly. She took the slip of paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket as soon as Charles turned his head.
“The client’s not very happy,” he went on. “They say they need to re-shoot now, and they’re giving us grief about the money.”
She felt her anger rise.
Catherine’s dead, and they’re mad because they didn’t get their precious photo!
Charles answered another call.
A female booker intervened, “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened. How awful! She was so sweet.”
Mak extended a hand. “I’m Makedde.”
“Skye.”
“I was just about to introduce you,” Charles said absentmindedly, and continued his phone conversation.
Mak flashed him a wooden smile and turned her attention to Skye. “You left a message on her answering machine. Were you Catherine’s booker?”
“Yes.”
“What was the message about?”
“She didn’t make it to her last casting at Peter Lowe’s studio. I wanted to reschedule the appointment.”
“Did anyone see her leave for the casting?” Makedde pried gently. “Did she get a ride from anyone?”
“The cops asked me that, too. A few people saw her leave Saatchi’s. She probably caught the bus.”
“Did you see her much?”
“Not really. She spoke to me when she called in for her bookings, and I saw her every couple of weeks when she came in for a cheque. She was always kinda bubbly, but she never told me much about her goings on.”
“Did she ever mention a boyfriend?”
“No. But we reckon she had one.”
Mak perked up. “Why is that?”
“Oh, she didn’t hang out with the other girls much. She had some nice jewellery, too. I don’t know. We just figured.” Skye seemed a little overwhelmed by the whole thing. “Did you know that Tony Thomas is being hounded by the cops? Probably because of that exhibition of his. It’s pretty full on.”
“What exhibition?”
“Oh, his S&M photo exhibition. I went to the opening. It’s not my style, but some people think it’s art.”
Oh, really?
“Is it still on?”
“It’s at The Space in Kings Cross for a few weeks.”
Makedde decided to give the exhibition a look.
It took her another ten minutes to get Charles’
attention long enough to check her details for the following day. She found that she had no work to go to, but Charles suddenly remembered that they had just received a fax from her mother agency, Snap! Models back in Canada. He pointed to a tray full of faxes beside the machine.
She walked over and picked it out of the pile. Her name was scrawled in huge letters across the top of the cover letter. Barbara, the owner, was sending Mak condolences on the loss of her friend. It was a kind gesture, but how could she already know?
“Did someone tell them what happened to Catherine?” Makedde asked, puzzled.
“No. I don’t think so,” Skye said. “Catherine wasn’t even with them, was she?”
“No she wasn’t.” So how did Barbara know already?
Dad.
She supposed he was already spreading the word to the appropriate people. He was taking care of things; looking out for his daughter, pooling resources. He was probably checking up on her, too.
Makedde took the fax with her and left. With the exception of a few of her favourite agencies, she knew that without ten thousand dollar bookings or a recent
Vogue
cover, a model becomes invisible. After thanking the table of bookers, the invisible woman made a quiet exit.
Catherine Gerber’s lover was relieved to shut the door at midday and take his phone off the hook. He needed time to think. His daily lunch order sat untouched on the desk. He couldn’t eat a bite; not out of grief but annoyance. They had not prepared exactly what he had asked for—a smoked salmon sandwich with capers, horseradish and lettuce on rye. Not on brown, on
rye.
It was simple. On any other day he would have complained bitterly about the brown bread. Today his appetite had been quashed when he glimpsed the morning paper. He couldn’t think about food. His mind was on that photograph.
Catherine Gerber.
There had been an article about the murder every day since Catherine’s body was discovered by that Vanderwall girl on Friday. That was fine. That was to be expected. It wasn’t the article itself that worried him. It was the photo.
Stupid little bitch!
He had always been so careful, so meticulous. He had made sure that nothing could trace Catherine to
him. He was sure no one of any importance had seen them together. It was crazy that such an ignominious little hussy could end up as such a threat.
He opened the newspaper, flipped it to page three and stared at the large photo featured in the article titled
Canadian Model—Third Victim of Stiletto Killer
. There she was, photographed at some social event, smiling innocently, wearing a low cut dress with a thin necklace dangling around her throat, a dainty necklace with a man’s diamond ring suspended from it.
His ring.
Lying little slut!
He’d assumed he’d lost it, but evidently that was not the case. It must have been when he met up with her in Fiji during the autumn medical convention. He had been careful, as always. He gave her cash for the ticket, they stayed in different hotels, and he snuck over to hers in the evening. When he left, he must have forgotten the ring by the sink. It was days after the convention before he realised it was gone. When he questioned her, she swore she’d never seen it.
Conniving, scheming tart…
It was an important ring. His father had awarded it to him and a precious few other top brass at the company. It meant that he had proven himself. Unlike his parasitic brothers, he had a future. One day it would all be his, and the ring proved it.
The ring…
He had even phoned the hotel and asked them to search everywhere. When his colleagues noticed that it was missing he had to make an excuse. “I lost it scuba diving in Fiji,” he had told them. “Don’t tell Dad.”
No, I took it off to wash my hands in a hotel room, and the little trollop stole it.
A droplet of sweat rolled down his throbbing temple. His pulse was racing. Everyone would see the article. If anyone looked close enough, they would recognise the ring. What if they made the connection? And the police; what if they found his ring among her possessions?
It has my damn initials engraved on it!
He wiped the sweat away, his blood-pressure soaring.
Something had to be done. He needed to get that ring back.
There was no such thing as an “unintrusive” search, Makedde decided. The flat still felt like a crime scene. Any attempt the police had made to return the place to its original state had not been at all successful. Every object in the room was just a few precious inches out of position, the dark coffee table was grimy with white Lanconide and the cream-coloured kitchen cupboards were still sooty with carbon powder. Makedde was grateful that the flat wasn’t her own. Cleaning it up would have been a far more traumatic process.
Mak set about rearranging the place and packing up Catherine’s belongings. She started with the walls. One by one, she tore the magazine pin-ups down. Sticky tape ripped off in loud strips, leaving a tacky residue in their wake, the airbrushed faces of starry-eyed models shredding into meaningless ribbons of colour.
Catherine had naïvely aspired to become a “supermodel”. Of the many that tried, few lasted very long on the international scene, and even fewer made
it to the big time. Mak had been the flavour of the month in Italian
Vogue
at one point, and enjoyed fleeting moments of fame as the face of numerous fashion and cosmetic campaigns, but she’d never quite fit the title of “super”.
With the exception of Carmen, and perhaps Lauren Hutton, who both continued to do the occasional photo shoot several decades after they began in the business, a model’s career was spectacularly brief. The transformation from fresh-faced fourteen year old to jaded twenty-five year old was as cradle to the grave to most in the industry. Makedde had seen countless girls come and go. In their fleeting time, some sacrificed more than others, and some achieved more than others, but for most the trip was ephemeral, and the fickle industry moved on. The trick was to take the money and run, but it was a strategy few young models understood.
Makedde reached up and tore another face from the wall.
When fifteen-year-old Catherine reached five-foot-nine, she had wanted to give international modelling a try. Mak had mixed feelings about her friend’s aspirations. It would forever be a misunderstood lifestyle, reinforced by movies like
Prêt à Porter
and
Unzipped
, which portrayed the industry about as realistically as
Pretty Woman
portrayed prostitution. The international fashion scene could
be harsh and confusing to a teenager, and the combination of a mismanaged career and a misguided soul could be disastrous. Everyone knew a horror story—sixteen year olds gliding down the catwalk zoned out on heroin; cigarette and coffee dieting anorexics; bulimics; chronic diet pill—laxative pill—diuretic pill—upper—downer—
everything
pill poppers. The casting couch. It could become a deadly obstacle course for unchaperoned kids with poor self images or little self control.