Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing Read online

  Gabrielle Lord is one of Australia’s foremost crime writers. Her popular psychological thrillers are informed by a detailed knowledge of forensic procedures, combined with an unrivalled gift for story-telling. She is the author of fourteen novels—Death Delights, Bones, Tooth and Claw, Salt, Jumbo, The Sharp End, Feeding the Demons, Whipping Boy, Fortress, Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing, Lethal Factor, Spiking the Girl, Dirty Weekend and Shattered. Her stories and articles have appeared widely in the national press and been published in anthologies. Winner of the 2002 Ned Kelly Award for best crime novel for Death Delights and joint winner of the 2003 Davitt Crime Fiction Prize for Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing, Gabrielle has also written for film and TV. She lives in Sydney.

  Other Gemma Lincoln novels

  Feeding the Demons

  Spiking the Girl

  Shattered

  Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

  Gabrielle Lord

  First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2002

  by Hodder Headline Australia Pty Limited

  (An imprint of Hachette Australia Pty Limited)

  Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000

  Website: www.hachette.com.au

  Second edition published in 2003

  Third edition published in 2004

  This edition published in 2007

  Copyright © Gabrielle Lord 2002

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for

  the purposes of private study, research, criticism or

  review as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part

  may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior

  written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Lord, Gabrielle, 1946- .

  Baby did a bad bad thing

  ISBN 978 0 7336 1592 4

  ISBN 978 0 7336 2558 9

  1. Women private investigators - Fiction. 2. Murder -

  Investigation - Fiction. I. Title.

  A823.2

  Cover design by Blue Cork Pty Ltd

  eBook by Bookhouse, Sydney

  To Margie

  One

  It was unusual to see a mug kerb-crawling this early. But as the silver Ford neared the gutter, the few huddled street workers, risking a drenching in the driving rain, ventured out from under the shelter of the Ferrari building. Business was always slow at the beginning of the week and, lately, it hadn’t improved that much even on Friday and Saturday nights. Although more lucrative than working in a brothel, where the workers split the fee with the house, street work was the hardest and most dangerous. Only the desperate were out now in this weather. The tiny stilettoed ballerina with an artificial blue rose in one hand tottered towards the kerb.

  Behind the dark windscreen, the driver studied her. It had been dark since just after five although the winter made the hour seem later and the hairs on the back of his hand glinted in the dash light as he glanced at his watch. He turned up the volume of his sound system. The singer wailed, bouncing the syncopated words against the driving down-beat, then his voice fell to a whisper: ‘Baby did a bad bad thing’ he sang. ‘Baby did a bad bad thing.’ The driver liked the look of the little ballerina very much. But something put him off. Maybe she was too old. He wanted a young one. The young ones reminded him of someone.

  A few turns around the circuit and he noted a thin, pretty girl smoking nervously, her other arm surreptitiously clutching a small leather bag over her shoulder. He slowed the car to get a better look. She didn’t look too out of it. Maybe she was new to the game. She was finely made, her short yellow skirt revealing legs that seemed too slender to carry the weight of the long black boots at the end of them. A white scooped top showed her breasts and he imagined he could see her shivering. He knew the girls didn’t carry money with them for obvious reasons and robbery wasn’t normally his thing. But she might have some sort of concealed weapon, mace, for example. The newspapers had run a piece last weekend after the second attack and he’d smiled when he read it. But there was no doubt the girls were warier this week. He’d cruised the circuit the last couple of nights just watching what was available and he’d seen how the girls in the back streets seemed to be watching out for each other. That’s why the brunette appealed to him. She was the right type and she was alone. She kept glancing back towards the terrace house behind her, and that concerned him. Perhaps she was just keeping an eye out for a resident who might yell at her to move away. But there was always the possibility that her minder was in there somewhere, keeping an eye on her business, jotting down the time and the rego numbers of her customers. The driver had made his numberplate appear ambiguous by deliberately bending the black frame around it. An alert bystander could probably make it out. But they’d need good eyesight and good weather.

  This girl was definitely just what he was looking for. Neat, slight build, an oval face, only a little make-up as far as he could see. The rage built steadily through his body. The bitch. She will come to see, he thought, that she’s brought this on herself, that she is the cause of it. I am simply an agent. And it’s payback time.

  There was no need to rush. He had plenty of time. No one knew where he was and he loved the feeling of power that anonymity gave him. He was almost at the point of leaning over towards the passenger window to get her attention when, at the last moment, something made him pull back. He took his foot off the brakes and increased his speed, turning the corner and almost running down a six foot tranny from the group who usually worked the other side of the road later in the night. He braked suddenly, cursing with rage.

  ‘Stupid pervert! Watch where you’re fucking going!’

  The tall figure froze in the headlights, leather fringes and spangles shivering, the whites of her eyes under the black make-up like a spooked horse.

  ‘Fuck you!’ she screamed. ‘You nearly killed me!’ A white cowgirl boot kicked his duco hard. ‘You could’ve killed me!’

  Despite his anger, the driver laughed. ‘Not you! No way! Frigging freak!’

  He accelerated away, leaning on the horn as she scrambled to the footpath. He wanted a real woman, not some man who wanted to be a woman. He drove the length of the street and noticed three girls spread some distance apart, waiting, all of them engaging his glance, eyes asking ‘are you looking for me?’.

  The singer was still sobbing through the speakers as the driver slowed the car and the group of girls turned to look at him. One in particular interested him, very young, a bit stoned but not totally out of it, dark hair damp from the rain and twisted up in a looped plait. She was wearing a casual shirt and sneakers. She looked very fresh and he liked that. She kept her eyes engaged with him, hurrying over.

  He rolled down his window.

  ‘Want a girl?’ she asked, heavy-lidded eyes blinking slowly.

  ‘How much?’

  Suddenly, an exotic-looking Polynesian girl, large breasts in a tightly laced bodice, materialised beside the young girl he fancied.

  ‘Not you,’ he said, and pointed at the slight young girl beside her. ‘You,’ he repeated. ‘How much?’ He had to lean right across the front seat because they stood well back from his car. Wary.

  ‘French and sex, eighty,’ said the young girl. ‘Straight sex, seventy. Plus twelve dollars for the room.’

  ‘I’m not going to one of your filthy brothels.’

  ‘Use one of the safe houses,’ said the Polynesian, ignoring the driver, talking to her companion. He could see the indecision on the young girl’s face as she looked up at her friend, then down at him. He flung the passenger door open and patted the front seat in
what he hoped was a friendly manner.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I just want some fast French.’ He patted his wallet. ‘I’ll give you the eighty anyway. I know a good place to park. You’ll be back here in ten minutes. Max.’

  The girl stepped closer. The Polynesian grabbed her companion. ‘Robyn,’ she whispered, ‘don’t get in the car. It’s not worth it.’

  Robyn looked from her friend to the mug. He looked all right to her. She checked her instincts, but they were asleep under the narcotic. Just another mug, she thought. Like they all are. The rain squall suddenly intensified in slanting sheets.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I won’t bite.’ As soon as he’d said it, he wished he hadn’t. It might make her think of recent events in her line of business. But Robyn didn’t seem to make any connection. ‘Look, Robyn,’ he said, pretending concern, ‘you’re getting drenched. Hop in.’ He pulled out his wallet and took out two fifties, shoving them towards the window. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you a hundred. Just for some head.’

  ‘Don’t, Rob,’ he heard the Polynesian girl say. ‘He’s too keen. This doesn’t feel good.’

  Robyn shivered and water dripped off her hair down her face.

  ‘But no brothel,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve got a thing about going to brothels.’

  ‘What thing?’ asked the Polynesian.

  ‘They’ve all got video cameras,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the idea of that.’

  The Polynesian looked at him in disbelief. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Robyn blinked and smiled. He was hooked she reckoned and she played her line. ‘Another fifty for car work,’ she said. ‘There’ve been girls attacked in cars the last few weeks.’

  ‘Don’t!’ the dark girl begged, but Robyn was already stepping into the car, grateful for the relative shelter. ‘I’m watching you, pal,’ said the Polynesian. ‘You ring me, Rob, the minute you’re finished.’

  ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said the driver to her, ‘I’ll make sure she does.’ His teeth gleamed as he moved his hairy forearm to pat his companion’s bare knee. ‘I’ll look after her,’ he said. ‘Look,’ he added, ‘I’ll meet you after this and you can join us in a double. We’ll go to the house. Okay?’

  The Polynesian girl studied him. He smiled again.

  ‘I’ll pay double for a double.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Robyn. ‘Rob a bank?’

  ‘You ring me, Rob.’ The Polynesian girl frowned as the driver pulled away from the kerb. He checked the rear-vision mirror. She continued to stare after them until he made the turn. His companion was unsteadily fishing tissues out of her bag; she was more stoned than he’d realised. Then she looked around.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she asked.

  ‘Hey, Rob,’ he said, smiling and patting her knee. ‘Just down here,’ he said. ‘Just a little way along here.’

  ‘No,’ she said. She couldn’t let him take her to his turf. It gave him too much power. ‘You go where I tell you,’ she said. ‘Take a right up this one-way.’

  ‘Sure.’ He smiled, driving straight past the street she’d indicated and turning left.

  ‘I said right!’

  ‘It’s just down here,’ He flashed his teeth at her, his tone reasoning and placatory. But he turned into a dark laneway where ‘no standing’ signs and piles of compressed cardboard cartons filled the narrow footpath of the desolate corridor. ‘We can park just up here,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ she said. ‘Get back onto the main drag.’

  The lights and life of Oxford Street were only a little distance away, Robyn reasoned. No real harm could come to her. She was simply pissed off at being disregarded. As usual, she thought.

  He’d slowed the car and it was almost completely dark now because the lights over the deserted buildings were not on. The car stopped. Rain slanted past the beam of the headlights until he switched them off. Now the lane was suddenly black.

  Robyn hesitated. If he tried anything on, she thought, she could bolt for it and run the short distance up the hill. She could even hear raised voices and bursts of laughter from the pub, it was so close.

  ‘Give me the money now,’ she said, fear breaking through the drug haze.

  He was hardly listening. An expensive headjob in this back lane was not on his agenda. He felt the girl tense up beside him so he fiddled with his belt as if he were about to undo it. ‘You better make that phone call,’ he said sweetly, ‘or your friend will be worried.’

  ‘Pay me now,’ she said. ‘Or I’m out of here fast.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. She didn’t want to let him see that she was frightened so she felt around for the door handle with her left hand under cover of her bag. Although Robyn failed to notice the spanner just next to his right hand in the door pocket, some atavistic sense warned her. This feels all wrong. Get out and run, it said. She could feel panic travel up to her heart as her groping fingers found the door handle and it fell off in her hand.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, ‘I should have mentioned earlier’—his big hand closed around the heavy shifting spanner—‘that handle on your door keeps falling off.’ She noticed his toothy smile in the dim interior as he started to sing. Too late she recalled the ugly mugs’ listing: ‘Drives a car, passenger door handle disengaged. Middle-aged, dark complexion, well presented. Sings just before the attack and sometimes during it.’

  ‘Been meaning to fix it for ages,’ he grunted as he raised his arm.

  Neither did she have time to notice that his jacket was slashed into ribbons, swinging like vertical blinds as his arm came down. Robyn didn’t even have time to scream.

  Two

  Gemma stayed up late watching television, lying the full length of the pale blue Italian leather sofa she’d bought when she redecorated. Two fat club-style armchairs completed the suite, a couple of manila folders on one, and on the other, curled up like a plump striped cushion, her cat, Taxi. He raised his head and winked at her.

  ‘Come over here, you big fat thing,’ she commanded. Taxi didn’t even bother opening his eyes so Gemma grabbed him, collapsing back onto the sofa, the warm heavy cat draped across her stomach like a poultice.

  The rain was heavier now, scudding and lashing across the timber deck outside the sliding doors beyond the dining table, the wind flailing it across the glass. The sense that all that separated her cosy nest from the seething, opaque darkness outside was a thin layer of fragile glass made her feel very vulnerable. In the last few months, Gemma had been aware of a heaviness in her, a feeling of oppression. When first aware of it, she’d put it down to the blues of autumn and now the cold of winter. Now, she wasn’t sure what it was about and wrapped a friendly old grey cardigan, one of Steve’s, more closely around her. She shoved Taxi aside, and hurried over to pull the curtains across, so that the blankness of the glass and the driving rain were hidden by brilliant blue, yellow, white and extremely expensive fabric. She shivered, but it was only a reflex. Nothing and no one could get in here, she thought, considering her sophisticated security system. Unless they knew the code, they’d have to dig a tunnel to get in.

  But her sanctuary had been breached, at the speed of light, shooting through the optic fibre. And although words on a screen were nowhere near as menacing as a physical presence, each morning now for several days, she’d dreaded checking her email. She flopped back onto the sofa wishing the cyberstalker to hell. And wishing she’d never entered a chat room. Wasting time pretending to be someone she was not because she was bored one night. Silly, silly girl, she scolded herself. She’d talked to her friend, Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald, about it.

  ‘He’ll get bored after a while,’ Angie had told her. ‘And there’s not much we can do. He’s really only a digital address. I’ll talk to some of the whi
zz kids in Technical Services and see if they can come up with something.’ She’d shrugged. ‘Sorry, Gems.’

  But the cyberstalker hadn’t got bored; instead, he’d upped the ante considerably.

  •

  Outside, the wind howled over the scrubby coastal vegetation and, somewhere, distant lightning jerked the picture on the television screen. The late news repeated the item that had been headlines earlier. Idly watching footage of a fire, Gemma suddenly sat up, her attention captured when she heard the name.

  ‘Philanthropist Benjamin Glass,’ said the reader, ‘whose house was completely destroyed in the blaze, has not been seen since the fire. Police suspect arson.’

  Benjamin Glass, billionaire philanthropist, was hardly the sort of person who’d be setting fire to his property for the insurance money, Gemma thought. The reporter went on to say that Mr Glass’s good works were legendary. ‘The man is practically a saint,’ said a friend in a three-second grab.

  The news finished, she switched off the television and picked up the manila folders on the armchair. These contained information on two new cases for Mercator Security and Business Advisers, Gemma’s company. Although mainly dealing with insurance fraud, the company also had a little sideline developed by Gemma in response to a need where, for a very reasonable price, suspicious spouses or lovers could check up on their partners. Or busy career women could check out a new man they were dating. For less than two hundred dollars, Gemma could get back to a client with basic information about the person of interest, that he was in fact who he said he was, that he lived and worked at the places he said, and that he was single and without a major criminal record. Or not as the case might be. No need even for a potentially embarrassing personal meeting, just credit details over the phone. All she needed was a name and a birthday. All this information was quite freely available, but the legal searches might take an inexperienced person the best part of a week; Gemma could ring back in twenty-four hours.