Death by Beauty Page 9

  The reception hall was built in the style of a Balinese garden pavilion, with retractable glass walls for the winter, supported by tall carved columns. French-style wrought-iron chairs and tables were placed around a paved terrace. Lorikeets squabbled over the pink and red blossoms of a tall tree that spread dark green leafy branches across the cathedral-style roof. On either side of the portals, magnificent tropical orchids, green and gold, cream and red, hung in wide baskets high up near the glass of the ceiling. Ferns and indoor palms bordered the entrance.

  Gemma and Angie walked across the marble paved floor to the reception counter, behind which glass walls allowed wrap-around views of the garden, overflowing with flowers and plants.

  Paradise, Gemma thought.

  Angie flashed her warrant card to the pert desk clerk. ‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly. May I ask what this is about?’

  ‘Just some routine questions concerning a missing person.’

  ‘I won’t be a moment. Please wait here.’

  A few minutes later, high heels clicked on the marble and Gemma and Angie turned to see an elegant woman, thick chestnut hair arranged in elaborate tresses over the shoulders of her tailored cream suit. A dazzling smile revealed perfect teeth but Gemma noted the small lines of tension in her face.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ She smiled, extending her right hand. ‘Dr April Evans, director of Sapphire Springs Spa. Please follow me.’

  April Evans’ office was furnished in the whipped-cream style, thought Gemma. Everything from the long creamy marble desktop, plumped-up armchairs and a divan crammed with cushions, was in a shade of ivory. A tall stalk of cream and red orchids stood in a long glass cylinder on the desk, which was otherwise bare except for an elaborate pen and pencil set in cream and gold.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ said the director, waving them to the chairs while she perched on a tiny golden and cream chair behind the desk.

  Angie again flashed her warrant card briefly. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald and this is Gemma Lincoln, who’s assisting me. I’m here to ask a few questions about a journalist, Janet Chancy, who I believe was here a few days ago.’

  ‘That’s right. Janet stayed with us for two nights. She was doing a piece on our wonderful Sapphire Springs Spa for her newspaper. But she left on Monday. Did you say a missing-person inquiry?’ Dr Evans frowned.

  ‘Dr Evans, no one has seen her since that time. We know she made a phone call on Monday morning at 10.57 stating that she was driving straight from here to a meeting in the eastern suburbs. But she never turned up to that meeting. She hasn’t been to work. She hasn’t been home. As this was the last place she was known to be, we’re starting our line of inquiry from here.’

  ‘Let me make a call,’ said Dr Evans, picking up her mobile in its jewelled case and involving herself in a short conversation before calling off. ‘I’ve just organised for us to meet the girl who was on reception on Monday. I’m sure she’ll be able to help. Please come with me.’

  As they followed her down a wide corridor, Gemma glanced through the open doors on either side, catching glimpses of luxurious suites and more whipped-cream décor. At the end of the corridor a slim, brown-haired woman in a pale blue uniform waited for them.

  ‘This is Lizzie,’ Dr Evans said, introducing them quickly and explaining the situation. ‘She’s more than just a receptionist. She’s a housekeeper as well, and sometimes a shoulder to cry on. You were on the desk that day?’

  ‘That’s right, Dr Evans,’ Lizzie said. ‘Miss Chancy checked out around eleven o’clock on Monday morning. Why? Is there a problem?’

  ‘She was alone?’ asked Angie.

  ‘Yes. She made a phone call in the foyer, then came and finalised the paperwork – we’d given her a complimentary stay because she was doing a piece on the spa and how successful it’s been – she signed off, and then she went outside and a few moments later I saw her car driving away from the parking area behind the lake.’

  ‘Did she stay in one of the suites here?’ Gemma asked, glancing down the corridor.

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, she stayed in a lakeside cabin. Number five. I helped her settle in.’

  ‘I’d like to see that cabin,’ said Angie.

  The woman looked towards the director, who nodded. ‘Lizzie, take them and show them number five.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Lizzie.

  A few minutes later, Angie and Gemma stood behind Lizzie as she unlocked the cabin, one of five dotted around the lawns, then followed her in. A mosquito whined around Gemma’s ear and she tried to smack it.

  ‘Sorry about the mozzies. They can be bad near the lake at times,’ said Lizzie, standing back to allow Angie to look around, ‘especially if guests leave the screen doors open.’ A wide picture window looked on to the lake and beside it were two armchairs in the same style as the director’s office. The cabin had a tiny bathroom and a small kitchenette discreetly hidden behind frosted glass doors. A king-size bed covered in cream brocade, between two bedside tables holding lamps that reminded Gemma of ice-cream confections in cones, took up a lot of the living space.

  ‘Pretty lamps,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Angie. ‘Janet Chancy was here Saturday and Sunday night?’

  ‘That’s right. Then she left late on Monday morning.’

  ‘Who normally stays in the cabins?’ asked Angie.

  ‘Some of our clients – those who aren’t having the DiNAH therapy – like to stay on here until the swelling and bruising’s gone down. Once they’re past the intensive-care stage they don’t need so much medical care. They can relax a little more and enjoy their recovery.’

  Angie took a last sweeping look around the cabin. ‘I think we’re done here,’ she said, handing over her business card. ‘Thanks, Lizzie. If you hear anything from Ms Chancy, please contact me on that number.’

  As they stepped outside, Gemma noticed another building set right back from the lake. ‘What’s that over there?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s the medical records centre,’ Lizzie explained. ‘And behind that is the medical supercentre – at least, that’s what we call it. It’s the area where they do the DiNAH procedures. Maintaining sterile conditions is of the utmost importance. The theatres over there are used for the most delicate procedures.’

  ‘Can you show us?’ asked Gemma. ‘Janet Chancy was very interested in the research going on there. She was writing a piece about the breakthrough therapy research that was done here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lizzie, looking rueful, ‘but the medical supercentre and the laboratories are completely off-limits. There are really strict protocols in place to protect the sterile area. And apart from that, it’s also top secret.’

  ‘Because of the DiNAH project?’ asked Angie.

  ‘I believe so. Even staff members are forbidden entry. Only Dr Evans and some of the medical team are permitted over there.’

  As they headed back to reception, Gemma noticed Dr Evans waiting for them in the foyer.

  Just as she was about to step down to join them, a woman loomed behind her. Shocked, Gemma thought the woman was wearing a mask, until she realised that she was terribly disfigured. Her face seemed to have melted, hanging in sagging pouches, her mouth hung open, her features crooked, as if some careless child had made them in plasticine and stuck them onto her face. April Evans turned quickly and Gemma was surprised to see that the elegant doctor’s face was dark with fury.

  ‘Mrs van Leyden,’ she said in a controlled voice, ‘how did you—? You must go back to your room. Lizzie? Please help Mrs van Leyden.’

  The woman attempted to speak but her disfigurement made this impossible and Gemma’s heart wrenched to witness it.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Evans said, as if able to translate the woman’s moans, ‘I’ve already told you. Your operation is definitely down for tomorrow night. We’ve put you ahead of everyone else on the schedule. Now, you must
not become agitated. It will not help your condition. Please return to your room and I’ll come by and give you a little something to relax you. Tomorrow, you’ll be on your way to being a new woman.’

  Lizzie helped the tottering woman, who was still trying to talk, steering her back along the corridor. Was she trying to break away from Lizzie’s grip? Gemma wondered. And why was Dr Evans so angry?

  ‘Too many people,’ Dr Evans said quickly, adjusting a comb in her hair, and smoothing her expression back to its usual composure, ‘especially women, are judgemental about cosmetic surgery. They assume that the women who come here – and some men too – are simply vain. But that’s not really the case. Some of them are in despair. Especially women who have nothing else in their lives except their physical beauty. Someone like Mrs van Leyden, for instance, is surely entitled to a more presentable face.’

  Dr Evans took Gemma and Angie into her office again, where she opened a large folder. ‘Take a look at these. Her husband threw acid over this woman’s face when he discovered she’d been unfaithful to him.’ In the ruined face, Gemma could just discern the features of Raimon Fayed’s ex-wife.

  She flinched at the first of the photographs. Far, far worse than Mrs van Leyden’s disfigurement, this face had virtually disappeared. One staring eyeball glared out from a destroyed eyelid. Two flat holes in a mass of burned tissue formed the nose. Because the lips had largely gone, upper and lower teeth grinned out like a death’s-head.

  ‘There doesn’t seem punishment enough for doing that to another human being,’ said Gemma, thinking of Raimon Fayed walking free.

  ‘We were able to do some grafting from undamaged skin and create some improvement for both of these unfortunate women … and this one,’ Dr Evans continued. ‘Her boyfriend doused her in petrol and set her alight – here are the before and after shots.’

  The ‘after’ photographs showed mask-like faces: swollen eyelids, lips that didn’t seem to belong to their owner’s face and restructured noses that stuck stiffly out from flattened cheeks. There was some improvement on the horrors of the first photographs.

  ‘These reconstructions were done before the DiNAH therapy was available. Now in the case of people who can afford DiNAH, we no longer have to carry out multiple operations over time. The first operation delivers the desired effect. But of course, it’s very, very costly. A team of surgeons is involved, and many hours of the most delicate microsurgery and then the DiNAH therapy with the transforming growth factors is also extremely expensive.’

  ‘Do you have photographs showing the effects of DiNAH on those clients?’ Angie asked.

  ‘Yes, here you are.’ Dr Evans picked up two framed photographs from her bookshelves. She handed the first one to Gemma: it showed Dr Evans standing with her arm around a woman’s waist. ‘That’s Maxine Wentworth,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous? If she said she was thirty-five nobody would disbelieve her; in fact, Mrs Wentworth is more than twice that age. She was one of our earliest successes from three years ago. She elected to be a kind of guinea pig for the new treatment.’

  Gemma blinked and looked again. Maxine Wentworth did appear to be a svelte, beautiful woman in her middle thirties. ‘It’s almost impossible to believe in such a transformation,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘It’s truly extraordinary.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dr Evans graciously, as if she had personally carried out the astonishing renovation. ‘And here’s another one of our marvellous success stories,’ she said, passing Gemma the second photograph. ‘As you can see, Mrs Simmonds looks thirty years younger thanks to DiNAH. Our best advertising is the living proof. Magda Simmonds is yet another testimonial to the exciting results DiNAH therapy yields.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gemma. ‘She certainly looks wonderful in this photo. I saw some pictures of her taken at various events lately on the net too. I presume you’ve heard the news of her suicide?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Evans. ‘Very sad. But of course there was no connection …’

  As they made their farewells, Dr Evans accompanied them to the orchid-festooned entrance, clicking along in her high heels.

  ‘Do please come back,’ she said. ‘We have some wonderful early spring deals going that you might be interested in. In fact, allow me to make you a gift of a spa day, normally priced at $450. I’m sure that one of you young women would like to take that up some time, preferably in the next twelve months?’ With that, Dr Evans summoned the receptionist who shortly returned with a beautifully engraved pink and gold complimentary gift voucher for ‘Heaven For a Day’.

  On the way back to Angie’s car, Gemma, idly toying with the gift voucher, said, ‘Dr Evans seemed angry with Mrs van Leyden. She couldn’t get her back to her room quickly enough.’

  ‘I noticed that, too,’ said Angie. ‘And did you see how she made that comment about there being no connection between Magda Simmonds’ suicide and Sapphire Springs Spa?’

  ‘Sure did,’ said Gemma, ‘which would indicate that in her mind at least, there is such a connection.’

  ‘Mmm. I wondered what was going on between Dr Evans and Mrs van Leyden. She’ll sure present a challenge for the surgeons. Although now they’ve got DiNAH … Hello?’ Her voice swiftly changed as she answered a call. ‘Oh, hi Ted. I’m fine. I’m about an hour and a half away. In fact, I’m just about to drive back to the city.’

  There was a pause while Angie listened. She nodded goodbye to Lizzie who was walking across the lawn, presumably after assisting Mrs van Leyden back to her room.

  ‘I can make time for that, Ted. Be there in about two hours. Will you still be there? Okay.’

  She noticed Gemma’s inquiring glance.

  ‘That was Ted Ackland,’ Angie said as they reached her car. ‘He briefed our team the other day. Wants to talk to me on the quiet. He wouldn’t say what it was about over the phone.’

  Angie unlocked the door and got in and Gemma swung herself into the passenger seat.

  ‘He has something to show me, too,’ said Angie. ‘So, Gems, how do you feel about a nice trip to the morgue?’

  CHAPTER 11

  Angie parked in a back street behind Parramatta Road and they made their way around to the foyer of the squat dark building that housed the morgue. Gemma had called Kit on the way, and she was happy to pick up Rafi and look after him until Gemma had finished.

  ‘Ted Ackland is expecting us,’ Angie told the receptionist. ‘Detective Sergeant Angie McDonald and Gemma Lincoln.’

  The receptionist noted their names and called Dr Ackland. ‘He’ll be here in a minute or two,’ she said with a smile. ‘Take a seat.’

  Ted Ackland came out through the security door behind the reception desk, hand outstretched to greet them.

  ‘Sure, I remember Gemma,’ he said to Angie’s question, shaking her hand, ‘from the old days when you were in the job. Come through.’

  He led them along the corridors, through a small museum where organs hung in formaldehyde, until they came to his office – a generous space filled with a table, a couple of chairs and stacks of files.

  ‘I called your boss earlier today,’ said Ted as they sat around the small table. ‘And he said I should brief you, Angie. Inspector Gross is very busy with administration matters, apparently.’

  ‘That sounds like Inspector Gross,’ said Angie, with a tight smile. ‘Always busy with administration matters.’ She paused. ‘You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about the murders of Rachel Starr and Marie-Louise Palier?’

  Ted Ackland nodded. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this. But I’ve been uneasy about these two cases for some time now. Angie, you must understand that I have to be very careful in my work. Anything I write down in a report has to be based on scientific fact. But I wanted to tell you this in case it’s helpful to your investigations. As you already know,’ he said, pulling out several large glossy black-and-white photographs from a folder, ‘the facial and skull injuries of those two young women were catastrophi
c, as were the injuries to their pelvises, particularly the sacroiliac area. And someone had gone to a great deal of trouble in each case not only to mop up any possible trace evidence, but also to set up a scenario that would create confusion about the original cause of death as well as hide the original crime scene.’

  Gemma looked at Angie, wondering what Ted was getting at.

  ‘I had to ask myself – as I’m sure you have, Angie – why would someone go to all that bother? Not only is it difficult, but it’s also dangerous – at any stage in the set-up of the “accident”, the perpetrator could have been interrupted. At the disused quarry and near The Gap.’

  ‘I get all that, Ted,’ said Angie. ‘What are you saying?’

  He seemed reluctant to speak, but finally he began again. ‘With that sort of tissue damage, extreme trauma with tissue pulverisation, it’s hard to be sure of what I’m about to suggest. However, I’ve been in this game a long time and I’ve learned to trust my gut feelings. With this sort of catastrophic damage, it might be hard to prove but there are some things I just couldn’t find.’

  He pushed the photographs towards them. Mercifully, in black and white it was not quite as confronting.

  ‘What sort of things?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘In both cases, certain tissue was missing – I couldn’t account for it. If that sounds vague, I’ll try to explain. Parts of the iliac crest appear to be missing in both women. And I couldn’t find any nasal tissue. That type of tissue has a different quality to, say, lip tissue, which, by the way, also seemed to be missing. You must understand that the facial epidermis was shockingly damaged. But even so, I would have expected to find some recognisable sections of it – even if not intact. And in the case of Marie-Louise Palier, I also found that part of the mandible was missing.’