Chapter 87

  JULIE O’CONNOR HAD fallen asleep in front of Australian Idol and was dreaming about her father again. In her dream, none of the bad things had happened. He was still alive. She’d finished school, gone to college, become a Police Forensics officer.

  She was woken by the crowd on TV roaring and shrieking as the winner was announced. And it all came rushing back – the reality of her life. She closed her eyes again and there was her mother screaming at her. When she hadn’t reacted, Sheila had begun to torture her. She had kept her locked in her bedroom for days, forced her to shit in a bowl left stinking in the corner, gave her only beetroot to eat.

  Later, the torment got worse. Sheila would tie her to a chair in the kitchen, gag her and burn her arms with cigarettes.

  On her eleventh birthday, the first since her father’s death, she received nothing. Then, just before bedtime, Sheila tied her to the chair again and told her that if she made a sound she would have her feet put in the fire in the lounge. Her mother had then pulled out an incisor with a pair of pliers.

  This treatment continued for four years. She could never say a word for fear of worse torture. She hid the scars and the marks, made excuses for every lost tooth, every bruise. Then, one day something snapped inside her.

  On the evening of her fifteenth birthday, Julie knew she would be in for a traditional ‘gift’. As Sheila busied herself getting ready to go out, Julie slipped a kitchen knife into the back pocket of her jeans.

  Her mother appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She was wearing far too much make-up. There were two lengths of cord in her left hand.

  “In the chair.”

  When she didn’t move, her mother began to smile. Took a step toward her. “At last …”

  Julie pulled the knife from her pocket and swung it round, stopping two inches from her mother’s face.

  The woman screeched, the smile vanishing instantly.

  “You! In the chair,” Julie hissed. And when her mother didn’t react, she’d moved the knife an inch closer.

  She tied Sheila with the cords meant for herself, gagged her with a tea towel and then brought the knife to the center of her forehead.

  Sheila was shaking, her eyes filled with terror and hatred.

  Julie had moved the knife a fraction of an inch, scoring her mother’s flesh. The woman screamed under the cloth but it came out as nothing more than a muffled hum. Julie heard a rush of liquid and saw her mother’s urine flow over the front of the chair and onto the floor.

  “You didn’t once make me do that, you useless bitch!” the girl announced proudly. She pulled the knife away and pocketed it again, turned and walked out.

  Chapter 88

  THE CALL FROM Lin Sung came ninety minutes later, close to twelve-thirty. Listening to Ho manage the call, I could see how he’d been such a successful cop in Hong Kong and then made a lot of money with his businesses in Australia.

  Darlene had an iPad on her lap and with a new App sent over from Sci’s lab in LA she could pinpoint the caller in under ten seconds. It was impressive, but actually not much help. Lin was calling from a payphone outside Luna Park in North Sydney.

  “We would like to meet you,” Lin said, his voice coming softly through a small speaker away from where Ho stood. The words went straight to a digital recorder.

  “You will have my son?”

  “Not this first time.”

  “Then there will be no meeting.”

  Silence from the other end. I held my breath.

  “You are hardly in a position to negotiate, Mr. Ho.”

  Ho paused for a moment. “I entirely disagree.”

  Lin gave a small laugh. “Ah! A little game of bluff.”

  “I’m not bluffing.” Ho’s voice was stony.

  Another, longer pause.

  “Very well. We’ll bring the boy. But we will only consider an exchange if all our conditions are met. Do you understand?”

  Ho said nothing.

  “I’ll assume that is a ‘yes’, Mr. Ho. And if you invite a third party to our meeting, your son will be killed before your eyes.”

  When Ho still did not speak, Lin said. “Blackball Reserve, forty-five minutes,” and hung up.

  Chapter 89

  WE WERE ON the freeway ten minutes short of Blackball Reserve near Manly when the agreed rendezvous was changed. I was in my car, Mary in the police surveillance vehicle with Mark, and next to him, a plainclothes officer driving. A hundred yards ahead of them was Ho’s Bentley which he was driving alone. The news came from Mary calling my cell. “New destination,” she intoned wearily. “A warehouse near the airport.”

  We all turned off at the next junction and headed south. I couldn’t see the Bentley, but kept a steady distance back from the cops. My car was fitted with a police tracker set to a broad range of frequencies. I could hear their comms and knew Central Control had quickly redirected the assault team in a chopper to the new location. They’d be much faster than us and in position before we got there.

  We reached the place in thirty minutes, pulling up fifty yards short of the warehouse. I parked behind the surveillance vehicle and ran over silently, watching Ho’s car vanish into the shadows. Mary opened the sliding door and I climbed in. Mark and an operative were at the controls. We could hear every sound Ho made through the tiny transmitter.

  “Assault Officer 1,” the operative in the van said. “This is Control, come in.” AO1, I knew, was Matt Yender.

  “Control. We’re in position. AO4, 5, 6 and 7 are in a small room across from the main warehouse building. I’m with AO2 and 3 the opposite side. I have visual contact with Mr. Ho’s vehicle.”

  A screen on the wall of the control-room of the van lit up with a night vision video feed from AO1’s helmet. It showed a fuzzy image of Ho’s Bentley entering the derelict warehouse, lights ablaze. It stopped, Ho dimmed the lights and the image improved dramatically.

  As we watched, a black Mercedes with tinted windows, registration LS1 entered through the north end of the dilapidated building. It crunched over the pitted floor strewn with pieces of metal and crushed concrete, stopping twenty feet short of the Bentley.

  Ho stepped out of his car, took a couple of paces toward the Merc. The car’s engine was still running, rear doors opened each side. Two men slipped out. They were slender, black-haired figures. The slightly taller one of the pair was Lin Sung. He was dressed in his usual vintage narrow-lapelled jacket and skinny tie. His brother, Jing, was in a blue tracksuit, white trainers. They walked slowly toward Ho as the driver clambered from the front of the Merc to stand by the hood.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Lin Sung began, and put out a hand which Ho studiously ignored.

  “Where is my son?”

  Lin Sung chuckled and flicked a glance at his brother. “There is great value in patience, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend.” Ho looked from one brother to the other. “I’m here to make a deal with you as we provisionally agreed.”

  “Yes, and …”

  “I want my son released, then I will cooperate.”

  Sung sighed, cackled.

  “You find it funny?” Ho asked coldly.

  “You don’t?” the younger brother butted in. His voice was oddly effeminate, completely at odds with his macho stance.

  “Ho’s hanging tough,” I whispered to Mary who was standing beside me in the police van.

  “Hope he doesn’t overdo it.”

  I turned back to the screen and saw Lin Sung take a step closer to Ho. “We have the boy,” he said slowly, “but we need assurances. Surely you understand that? If we return him to you, what is to say you will cooperate?”

  “You have my word.”

  It was the younger brother, Lin Jing’s turn to produce a half-assed laugh. “Ah! Your word!” he said, nodding his head. In an instant his mirth had vanished and he pulled a gun, a Type 64, from his waistband. His brother, Lin Sung, saw it and glared at him, but he didn’t flinch.

  Ho looked from one man to the other.

  “This isn’t going well,” Mary hissed in my ear.

  Yender’s voice came through the comms. “Hold positions. No one move ’til I say.”

  Sung deliberately moved closer to his brother and slightly in front of him. “We are all reasonable men,” he said and tilted his head slightly as he appraised Ho Meng. “I understand you want your boy back, but you have to put yourself into our position, Mr. Ho.” Then he turned and snapped his fingers at the man standing by the hood of the Merc. He walked to the back door and opened it.

  “You may see your son.”

  The driver leaned in and helped Ho Dai climb out. The young man’s hands were tied behind his back and he looked petrified. He had a bloody wound where his left ear had been. He caught sight of his father and went to speak. “Say nothing!” Lin Jing barked, then whirled round to Ho again, his gun raised.

  “There. Your brat’s safe. Now we talk.”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “At last …!” the younger gangster exclaimed, but his brother cut over him.

  “Your business provides a perfect cover for one of our … trade plans.”

  “Drugs … You want me to get heroin in.”

  Sung smiled, nodded.

  “And in return?” Ho flicked a look at his son who was still standing by the car, the driver gripping his right arm.

  “When you have proven your worth, he will be released.”

  Ho gave Sung a venomous look. “No deal,” he said and started to turn.

  “You mother-fuc …” the younger brother bellowed and began to squeeze the trigger of his Type 64.

  “GO!” yelled Yender through the comms.

  Chapter 90

  FOR A COUPLE of seconds it was sensory overload. Shouts from the assault team, yells and thuds from the warehouse floor. On the screen, a smudge of movement through the night vision lens. Ho fell to the floor. I couldn’t tell if he’d been shot or dived to avoid a bullet. Then Sung spun on his brother. Ho rolled to one side as the younger brother fired a second bullet. Sung was just yanking Lin Jing’s arm down when the assault team in full body armor burst through into the warehouse from two different directions, screaming as they went, Enfield SA-80s leveled.

  The younger Lin reacted instinctively. Pumped up, he dived for cover, headed for a pile of metal drums to his left and fired at the approaching cops. Before he could reach the barrels he was ripped open by at least three different weapons and crumpled in a heap.

  Sung whirled round, reached the Mercedes. Dai and the driver were crouching behind the car. The driver had pulled a gun, the kid looked like a puppet, cartoon eyes, limbs limp. Sung reached cover, pulled out his own weapon, a semi-automatic, Bulgarian-made Arcus 94.

  Lin grabbed Dai and we all heard the gangster yell out.

  “Hold your fire,” Yender’s voice boomed through the speakers.

  On the screen, I could see the fragmented image of Lin Sung rising slowly from a crouching position. He had the semiautomatic at Dai’s temple. The driver shuffled away, slipping behind a hulking lump of rusting plant machinery. Then Ho Meng stood up slowly, apparently unharmed. He started to walk toward his son.

  “Let the boy go,” he yelled.

  Lin Sung ignored him, took a step forward, opened the driver’s door with one hand and simultaneously shoved Dai inside the Merc as he slid in beside him. They disappeared from view behind the tinted windows.

  Ho reached the car but was forced back as it roared away. The cops had their machine guns raised, jumping aside as Lin accelerated toward them. The car skidded on the uneven floor, drifted for a second, tires screaming. Lin got it under control and slammed his foot to the floor.

  I didn’t wait another second, slid open the door of the surveillance vehicle and ran across the gravel to my Ferrari, hitting the remote as I went.

  Chapter 91

  I SPUN THE car backwards on the gravel, turned into a pitted lane beside the warehouse and shot away.

  I couldn’t see the Merc, but I knew Lin had gone this way, it was the only route to the perimeter fence. Careering round a bend-topping sixty, I hit a yard-wide hole in the tarmac, bounced out, the suspension stretched to breaking point. I almost lost grip on the road as the rear end came out, just pulled it back.

  The entrance to the freeway lay fifty yards ahead and I caught a glimpse of Lin’s car as it shot through the gates and accelerated up a slip road. I dodged another pothole, swung left, then a hard right, opened up the engine and tore onto the M5, headed west.

  The Merc was quick but my Spider was quicker, and driven by someone in my state of mind it was fantastically fast. If Lin wasn’t aware of the stats, they were impressed upon him when I started to gain on his car, halving the distance between us in less than thirty seconds. The M5 freeway was almost deserted and I had the Merc in my sights only twenty-five yards ahead. The speedometer read a hundred and twenty.

  Lin took the next junction, screaming onto Rocky Point Road toward Rockdale. It was a smart move, a slower road, more chance of urban traffic, plenty of turn-offs. It leveled the playing field … some.

  At 1.15 am the street was pretty much empty of traffic. Lin pulled the Merc off the dual carriageway into a side street, took it wide and almost hit an oncoming car. I screeched after him, missing the other car by an inch.

  It was a narrow suburban street, rows of modest houses, parked cars to the left. Lin jumped the lights. I slowed and checked, followed him over the junction. He took a right, a left. More residential roads, a church, a grocery store. I caught a sign for a sports field and glimpsed a line of trees.

  Lin left it to the last second, roared into a narrow lane just before the park. I braked and flew round the corner.

  The Mercedes had disappeared from view. Then I realized I’d shot straight past it. Lin had taken a hard right off the road and pulled up onto a rutted track at the edge of the field.

  I reversed and caught movement in the rear-view mirror. The gangster was out of his car, gun in hand and rushing round to the passenger door. He yanked it open, dragging Dai to the ground.

  I stopped, slipped out, kept low. The Merc was ten yards away. Lin was pulling Dai up, the barrel of his gun at the kid’s temple.

  I was in the shadows, but Lin knew exactly where. He could have taken a pop at me, but then he risked losing Dai. “Stop,” he shouted into the night, “or I’ll kill him.”

  I pulled back and crept behind a line of bushes. I knew he wasn’t sure where I was now. I moved fast. Lin and the boy dropped out of view for a few seconds, then I found an opening in the bushes and saw they hadn’t moved.

  I picked up a stone, tossed it to my left. Lin whirled round. He had his free arm around Dai’s throat.

  “Stop the stupid games,” Lin said, an edge to his voice now. I was getting to him.

  I moved hard round to his right and could see the back of his neck wet with perspiration. Leveled my gun to his head.

  “Let him go.”

  Lin spun round.

  “Let. Him. Go.”

  “No!”

  Some instinct told me I’d pushed him too far. I fired and his gun went off simultaneously. Lin flew backwards, the hood of his car breaking his fall, a cloud of red exploding from his head. Dai jolted, screamed and collapsed to the ground.

  I rushed over expecting the worst. Blood was running down Dai’s cheek, dripping from his jaw. But he must have had the same awareness Lin was going to shoot as I had. He’d moved just in time. The Chinaman’s bullet had just grazed the boy’s temple.

  I pulled Dai to his feet. He was shaking uncontrollably. I untied the cord around his wrists and he started to cry, tears streaming down his cheeks. He put a hand to his face and came up with bloodied fingers.

  We could hear sirens. “It’s okay,” I said, realizing I was pretty shaken up too. “Just a scratch. You’re going to be fine, Dai. It’s all over, buddy.”

  Chapter 92

  I GOT EVERYONE into the conference room real early. I hadn’t slept and had gone straight to Private from Police HQ. They’d questioned me for nearly three hours before they were satisfied I couldn’t have done anything different with Lin. Mark had gloated his way through the grilling of course and had taken pleasure in my discomfort. Nothing new there.

  I surveyed the others. Everyone was exhausted. I had that morning’s paper in front of me. The headlined screamed: “Sydney Slasher Claims Another Victim.”

  I exhaled loudly and felt a stab of frustration. “We’re getting nowhere fast with this,” I lifted the Sydney Morning Herald. “Darlene, anything?”

  “Only what I said yesterday afternoon. I’m sure the killer is a woman.”

  The others had been told about Darlene’s DNA findings.

  “Not conclusive though,” Mary said. “We know the victims were all acquainted. The blonde hairs could have come from a mutual friend.”

  Darlene looked at the table, nodded.

  “But what if they were the killer’s? Let’s run with that for a sec,” I said.

  “There’s no match on the database.” Johnny commented.

  “Means nothing. Maybe the murderer had never committed a crime until …”

  “Alright,” Justine said suddenly. “What if she happens to be a ‘respectable’ bleached blonde friend of the dead women and part of the same social circle? Maybe the motive was some relationship mess or simple jealousy.”

  “The wife of a banker or a corporate suit gone gaga?” Darlene looked up. “Maybe it is a sex thing. An Eastern Suburbs mom taking revenge on women her husband’s slept with?”

  I raised my hands. “Hang on, let’s calm down!”

  “Actually, I don’t believe that,” Darlene backtracked.

  “Why?”

  “For a start, the hair was not recently bleached. There was significant regrowth. That in itself suggested the woman didn’t pamper herself. How many wealthy women walk around with weeks of roots growing out?”