The Shadow Maker Read online

  Robert Sims grew up in Melbourne, going straight from high school to a job with the Herald & Weekly Times in Flinders Street. This was to involve stints as a reporter at The Sun, 3DB radio, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Papua New Guinea Post-Courier. He took a career break from journalism to complete a degree in politics and philosophy. After that he spent more than 20 years in London working for Independent Radio News and ITN. While writing The Shadow Maker he did freelance radio work with the BBC. Robert and his wife and two young sons divide their time between London and Melbourne.

  The Shadow Maker

  Robert Sims

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2007

  Copyright (c) Robert Sims 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Sims, Robert, 1950- .

  The shadow maker.

  ISBN 978 1 74175 173 4 (pbk.).

  I. Title.

  A823.4

  Set in 12/14.5 pt Adobe Garamond Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Some sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death: prisoners in misery and irons

  Book of Psalms

  Philosophers have pointed out that hell exists in this world, not the next.

  To observe the ranks of the damned we need only look at ourselves, for we comprise both the devils and the souls in torment.

  Although this subtlety would have been lost on the woman facing a man across a cheap hotel room, she was about to experience her own version of it, for the man was there to engage in an act of inhuman depravity.

  The room was furnished with no more than a double bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a wooden chair. There was no carpet on the floor and no curtain on the window, just a blind patting against the window sill, warped by more than a century of sun and rain. The only light came from the flickering flames in the fireplace - strange in such uncomfortably hot weather. Not that it bothered the woman. She wasn’t fazed by the man’s need to act out a fantasy, or, for that matter, by the mask, manacles and neck shackles he was placing on the bed. This encounter was part of the anonymous life she’d chosen by default - the series of mistakes that had led to this night and to this room. Her purpose was business, that was all, or so she thought as she removed her clothes. His tense attitude she put down to impatience.

  When he put on the mask and took hold of her she pushed him away.

  ‘Back off,’ she told him. ‘Money first.’

  He stood there, not responding, just staring at her.

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘Bondage is extra.’

  Then he said something in a quiet voice, and she realised, with a sense of panic, that she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  She turned to grab the spray can in her handbag, but he hit her from behind with a glass ashtray from the mantelpiece. The blow stunned her, and she felt her ribs crunch against the metal base of the bed as she dropped to the floor.

  The woman regained consciousness with a piercing headache. There were points of pain in her ribs, and a dull throbbing in her groin.

  The room was in total darkness, but she could feel the breeze from an open window and hear the drone of cars zooming past at high speed. There were smells of drains and petrol fumes and also a strange odour of burnt flesh. Then she remembered. He’d cruised to a stop where she was standing on a corner by the casino and after he’d picked her up they’d driven to a hotel beside the freeway. That’s where she was lying now. But why was it so dark?

  He hadn’t paid the extra money, she remembered both that and the way he’d come after her in the mask. He must have hit her from behind and she’d fallen against the bed, but afterwards - a blank. It wasn’t the first time she’d been caught. More than once she’d been left with cracked ribs, and by the feel of it that’s what she had again.

  Along with the pain came the humiliation. Under her body she could feel the scattered contents of her handbag pressing into her skin - lipstick, tweezers, a broken perfume bottle, a piece of foil for inhaling crack. The spilt components of her life.

  Groaning with the pain, she propped herself up against the bed, her chains clinking as she moved. So that’s how it was. He’d acted out his fantasy on her unconscious body. The weight of the manacles dragged on her wrists, and the metal shackles pressed down on her neck. But how much damage had he inflicted? After knocking her senseless he must have chained and raped her, and - what else?

  She raised her hands nervously to her face and felt a gritty texture on her cheeks. She put her fingers to her nose and sniffed something like soot or ash. At first she thought her face had been disfigured then realised there were no wounds on her cheeks. So where did the burnt smell come from? Tentatively she moved her fingertips to her eye sockets. That’s when she started screaming.

  The desk sergeant looked up as a young woman walked through the lobby of Melbourne’s police headquarters.

  ‘Good morning, Van Hassel,’ he said. Then he raised an eyebrow at her pale turquoise linen suit. ‘Very arresting,’ he added.

  ‘That sounds like a hint to slap the cuffs on you,’ she laughed.

  ‘I can think of worse ideas.’

  She smiled and breezed past him to the lifts, looking cool and crisp in defiance of the heatwave. Despite her composure, she gave the impression of a woman who strove hard to win. Her face and physique were in keeping with the Australian ideal of athletic good looks, and her short blonde hair was swept back.

  Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel - Rita to her friends - was arriving for another day of work with the Sexual Crimes Squad. As usual, she came with a sense of energy and purpose. It was more than a job to her, it was a daily challenge. It was also an opportunity, a career path.

  She’d been assigned to Sex Crimes seven years ago, thanks to the recommendations of a senior officer at the Police Academy and her honours degree in psychology. It hadn’t taken long to impress the head of the squad, Detective Inspector Jack Loftus, with her intuitive grasp of crime scene analysis and an assertiveness that had to be channelled. He decided she was the type who needed fast-track development, and three years ago she’d been selected by the Australian Bureau of Criminal Intelligence to train as a profiler. That meant a part-time return to studies in subjects like forensics, behavioural science and pathology. It also meant a three-month visit to the FBI Academy at Quantico in Virginia. She still had a year to go on the course, but once she was fully qualified she’d move up to the Intelligence Data Centre, perhaps with a post in the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Until then s
he was still a squad detective - albeit one who possessed profiling skills and a small, glass-panelled office to focus on them, as well as a desk in the squad room.

  Once upstairs she cleared a space on her desk and started sorting through her case files. Her in-tray had accumulated a drift of paperwork and, with another court appearance pending, she wanted it out of the way. The mood around her was subdued. Officers sat at their work stations tapping at keyboards, shuffling through reports or mumbling their way through routine phone calls. Some were nursing hangovers. No doubt most of them wished they were somewhere else, preferably by a shaded pool outside. That said, the office was quarantined from the hot March day by tinted windows, air-conditioning and fluorescent strip lighting. Like so many other workplaces, its design was neat and functional, right down to the grey filing cabinets and the drab roller blinds.

  When the paperwork was under control, Rita logged on and transferred a set of evidence notes from the server to the hard drive of her computer. There were no other pressing chores, so after checking her emails she strolled over to the coffee maker.

  ‘So how’s your love life, Rita?’ came a voice from behind her, as she got her espresso.

  She turned to greet Erin Webster, a fellow detective sergeant with the squad.

  ‘Detached. How’s yours?’

  ‘With a two-year-old driving me nuts, non-existent, despite the holiday,’ said Erin. ‘Your ex is still your ex then?’

  ‘Definitely. And he’s not moving back in.’

  ‘Why not? I thought you two were good together.’

  Rita thought for a moment. ‘Because he appeals to my worst impulses.’

  Erin laughed. ‘But that’s what makes you interesting.’

  Erin Webster was Rita’s closest friend inside the police force. As well as being a colleague she filled the role of confidante - a woman to share gossip and moral support in a male-dominated environment.

  A fellow graduate from the Police Academy, Erin had employed a different work method to Rita to gain promotion, one that came naturally. Her looks helped. A boisterous competitor to the core, she had copper-coloured hair and a wholesome face with hazel eyes.

  These she highlighted, though her freckles she tried to hide. They made her look cute - not an image she wanted. Physical prowess and out-scoring the boys were what counted. And an appetite for fun. As a career strategy it had its rewards. Those who won her favours usually put in a good word for her.

  ‘I can see we’re due for another wine session,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ joked Rita, before the shrill ring of her mobile broke into the conversation.

  It was Detective Senior Sergeant Wayne Strickland. ‘This is a bad one,’ he said. ‘Put everything on hold. I want you down here as soon as possible.’

  The sombre tone of his voice as he gave her the name and location of the hotel he was calling from told Rita it wasn’t a good time to ask questions. Swallowing her coffee, she quickly farewelled Erin, grabbed a notepad and ran downstairs to her car.

  When Rita arrived at the crime scene the hotel parking lot was already taped off, and half a dozen squad cars and patrol vehicles were slanted at untidy angles out front. Uniformed officers stood around, eyeing the passers-by.

  The Duke of York hotel was a classic Victorian building with high gables and turrets. Sandwiched between a corner garage and a used car dealer, the place had seen better days. The paintwork was peeling, slates were missing from the roof and there were weeds in the spouting. The nearby concrete pillars and graffiti of the freeway overpass completed the tawdry aspect.

  Rita lifted the yellow tape, spoke to a uniformed officer at the entrance and hurried up the stairs. Walking down a passage on the second floor, she took in heavy wooden doors and framed lithographs mildewed with age. The place was redolent of cheap, anonymous vice.

  The crime scene investigation was well underway when she reached it. Evidence techs were busy dusting for prints, measuring distances and bagging anything that might be relevant. In front of the fireplace, chalk circles were drawn around two small, ugly stains on the floor. A police photographer bent over them, camera flashing.

  Beside them lay a poker. The rest of the fire irons stood in a rack on the hearth, where ashes and charred wood littered the grate. A dented fire screen had been moved to one side. There were more stains nearby, next to chains and manacles that hung from the metal bedstead. A red handbag sat on the bedside table, and underneath a chair was a pair of red stilettos. The contents of the handbag were strewn across the floor. A detective constable squatted on his haunches, taking notes.

  From the next room down the passage Rita could hear raised voices, one of them Strickland’s. She went and stood in the doorway.

  The man Strickland was interrogating must be the proprietor, she guessed. He was braced backwards in a chair by the window, his eyes bloodshot and his balding head glistening with perspiration as he tried to fend off the questions. He wore a singlet which barely covered his paunch, and baggy shorts. Another officer, Bradby, watched, arms folded.

  ‘Look, mate, it’s not my business what the girls get up to in the rooms,’ said the publican.

  ‘Wrong,’ said Strickland. ‘And I don’t believe you anyway. You allow the place to be used by prostitutes - in fact, you charge them entrance fees.’

  ‘Dunno where you got that idea from.’

  ‘From the woman who’s just been mutilated on your premises,’

  snapped Strickland, his anger in danger of boiling over. Like the publican, he looked like he’d got up in a hurry after an early morning call. He wore no tie, and he was unshaven. ‘How’d you like to be on the receiving end of that?’

  Bradby glanced across at Rita and shrugged.

  Strickland leant in closer, glaring at the publican.

  ‘You’re a whore-bludger, aren’t you? This is an illegal brothel.’

  ‘Shit, go easy. I just run a pub.’

  ‘Then you’re a liar. I’m arresting you for being a liar.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Can’t I? Then we’ll call it obstructing a police officer.’

  ‘Look, I told you I didn’t see the bloke she was with. But I did get a look at his car parked out front.’

  ‘What type of car?’ said Strickland, straightening up.

  ‘One of those little Mazda drop-tops.’

  ‘An MX-5?’ put in Bradby.

  ‘Yeah - a black one.’

  ‘And did you see the numberplate?’ asked Strickland, but the only response he got was a shake of the head. ‘Well what time was it?’

  ‘They got here about one-thirty. I heard the car leave around three. I assumed they were both in it.’

  ‘Not that you’d give a damn,’ said Strickland in disgust. Then he saw Rita at the door and beckoned her over. ‘I want you on board for this one.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘With the victim,’ said Strickland. ‘According to her ID, her name’s Emma Schultz. She’s twenty-five and lives in Coburg.’

  ‘When can we question her?’

  ‘The doctors reckon this afternoon. At the moment, she’s out of it.’

  ‘Then I’ll take a closer look at the crime scene first, make some notes.’ Rita turned to the publican. ‘Do you know the victim? Has she used this hotel before?’

  He hesitated before answering. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Half a dozen times.’

  ‘So she’s a regular,’ said Rita.

  ‘I don’t want to say any more,’ said the publican, ‘till I’ve spoken to my lawyer.’

  ‘Sure, if that’s how you want to play it,’ said Strickland. ‘We’ll have another go when we’ve charged you.’

  But Rita interrupted. ‘Wait. I need to know about the fire.’

  The publican looked at her irritably. ‘I don’t know what the hell was going on there,’ he said, ”specially in this
heat. The fireplace is supposed to be for decoration.’

  ‘Then why isn’t there a smoke alarm?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s an old hotel, if you hadn’t noticed. A lot needs doing.’ He was getting more defensive. ‘But I don’t expect customers to rip up the fittings and set fire to them. And don’t ask me about her bloody chains. That’s nothing to do with me.’

  Strickland gestured to Bradby. ‘Get him out of here.’

  As the publican was manhandled from the room, Strickland turned to Rita. ‘This is as sick as it gets,’ he sighed. ‘It looks like this poor hooker got brought here by a customer who bashed her, put her in chains, lit a fire and used a red-hot poker on her eyes.

  You’re the expert, so tell me what sort of psycho could do this?’

  ‘I can begin a psychological evaluation once we’ve questioned the victim,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you want.’

  A flinty look came into Strickland’s eyes - patronising. ‘We’ll make that decision when we’ve been to the hospital.’

  As Rita weighed up his answer, she became aware of the traffic thundering over the freeway just outside. She thought fleetingly of the thousands of motorists caught in the familiar flow, unaware of the backdrop of savagery they were passing.

  The sound of Strickland’s mobile broke her reverie.

  ‘Yeah?’ He listened for a few moments. ‘Good,’ he said and clicked off the phone before pocketing it. ‘They’ve done a vaginal swab.

  The bastard had unprotected sex with her. We might be able to nail him with a DNA profile.’

  Rita soon decided that Strickland’s optimism about the DNA was misplaced. With her notes and diagrams from the crime scene spread on her desk, she sat back and gazed vacantly across the squad room.

  This attack was different from anything she’d worked on before in both its method and its cruelty. And looking through the database of physical abuse records, she could find only one case file that was comparable. It detailed a series of mutilations, rapes and murders attributed to an unknown perpetrator dubbed ‘the Scalper’ because he cut his victims’ hair. Although she’d looked at the file before, she had no first-hand knowledge of the investigation, coinciding as it did with her stint at Quantico a year ago. The brutal assaults had begun, escalated and abruptly ended within a matter of weeks. Now it was virtually a cold case.