'And when you are ready to issue your poster,' I said, 'I know what you have to say on it.'

'Thanks, Yvonne,' he said sleepily. 'Give my regards to James.'

I let myself out. At least he had coffee and fruit cake for breakfast. I acquitted Andy Holliday of being our nutcase. He was in too much pain and he was far too drunk to compose letters. Also, he had no computer and James had said that Andy had been sacked, therefore no workplace with an IMAC and a wobbly laser printer. Just another person to add to the free bread list. But I did know, with absolute certainty, what message would bring Cherie Holliday out of whatever hole she had hidden in. And that was at least one useful deed for the day.

Meroe opens the Sibyl's Cave on Sundays, so the Christians don't have it all their own way. I stopped to stroke Belladonna on the way in. She is so black that if it wasn't for a faint thinning of fur around the eyes and the outlines of the lips, she would look like a cat composed entirely of licorice. She greeted me politely and scooted back inside as rain began to fall. This would please Trudi and might save the gra.s.s.

'I thought witches liked thunderstorms,' I commented as Belladonna dived straight under the table which Meroe uses as a counter. The black cat packed herself into the corner, tail to the wall, and sat down on her paws.

'Witches, yes, witches' cats, no. Bella is sensitive to vibrations and storms release a lot of them. Look at the poor little creature's whiskers quivering!'

Meroe dropped a fold of her long woollen shawl over Belladonna. Belladonna didn't object. This meant that she really was scared. Most cats like to see what is going on.

The shop smelt gorgeous, a rich, oriental fragrance new to me. I asked.

'It's frankincense and myrrh,' said Meroe. 'I needed to be supported in my spirits, after such a shock. How went the Soup Run with the tall, dark and handsome one?'

'It was very strange and will need some thought before I can really tell you what it was like. Daniel is lovely and he doesn't talk in the morning.'

'Now there's a match made in heaven,' said Meroe. She has seen me in the morning. And tried to carry on a conversation with me.

We had a lot to talk about. I relayed what Senior Constable White had said about Mr Fruitloop and told her about the tomato sauce in the lobby.

'Yes, much anger and bitterness and a need for power games. Let us see if we can devise one for him,' she said. 'Think about it, Corinna. We need to go on the offensive.'

'I'll think about it. Meanwhile, we have a case in need of care under our own roof. Poor Andy Holliday, who has lost his daughter, is drinking himself to death in the middle of a pile of boxes approximately the size of Mt Kosciuszko. This should be a group effort. I don't want him fixating on me as his new career. Can you help?'

'Certainly,' she said. 'I didn't get many presents as a child and I love unpacking. What if he gets his daughter back and it's too late, his liver has finally given up the ghost? He needs some vitamins and maybe a talisman and certainly some incense to cleanse his vibrations. I agree with you that we should do it together. And you are sure that he needs help. We don't want to make the Mr Pemberthy mistake again.'

I agreed. We had been sorry for the downtrodden Mr P until he told us he liked being a slave and showed us-erk- his slave collar and frilly ap.r.o.n.

'Good. When?'

'And maybe it would be useful to do the ritual of return,' she said. 'But the ingredients are expensive.'

'When we sober him up a little. Tomorrow, Meroe?'

'After you have cleaned your bakery,' she said. 'Come and get me and I will close early. This sounds like a job for a practising witch.'

I couldn't have agreed more. Since a practising witch is as good as anyone else at finding the frying pan. Better, perhaps.

CHAPTER TEN.

Meroe had reminded me that I was going to get up at four am and make bread so I went back to the Prof, whipped us up an omelette aux fairly fines herbes, since there was no tarragon but plenty of parsley, and sat drinking wine and looking out of his windows at the city as the sun began to go down. It was very peaceful. I told Professor Dion all about poor Andy Holliday and he suggested that I send him down to sit with the Prof while Meroe and I attacked the unpacking.

'There is, at least, a comfortable couch to recline upon while drinking. In fact, that couch was designed by people who truly did like a drink-and perhaps he might like to talk,' he said. 'I can always listen. And I can't help with the unpacking. I have enough trouble finding my gla.s.ses. Though my leg is really much better now.'

I thought this was a wonderful idea, kissed his cheek, and went back to my place to feed the cats and a.s.semble the makings of tomorrow's bread. Everything appeared to be in order, though I admit I was listening for footsteps following me on the stairs. No letter under the door and no tomato 136.

sauce in the lobby, all to the good. I sat down in my parlour to read a few instructive chapters of Jade Forrester and finish a box of chocolates I had started before Easter. Last year. I don't eat a lot of chocolates.

The first thing anyone thinks about a fat woman is, disgusting creature, I bet she stuffs herself with Mars Bars before breakfast and eats her own weight in chocolate every day and we don't, generally. My mantra is that I am fat because I am fat and there is not a lot I can do about it. And I have the example of Gossamer and Kylie always before me. I could not get that thin if I starved for ten years, and that is a fact. We are famine survivors, we fat women, and ought to be valued for it. We must have been very useful when everyone else collapsed with starvation. We would have been able to sow the crop, feed the babies and keep the tribe alive until spring came. If you breed us out, what will you do when the bad times come again? At the very least, you could always eat us. I reckon I'd feed a family of six for a month. Properly pickled, salted and cooked, of course.

There was a reason why the oldest depiction of a human is the Venus of Willendorf, a huge fat woman. We were genetically designed to keep your tribe alive so that the thin people could be born. So be nice. Or at least shut up about it. Every time I turn on a TV I see (1) a car ad and then (2) some simpering female telling me how easy it is to lose weight by some new means and how wonderful she feels now she's thinner, just send lots of money. Then I snort and turn on cable. If you want to believe some lies, believe the one about how getting a new car will make you a fantastic driver and instantly attractive to tall willowy women in bikinis. It's probably more true.

I had set my alarm clock and was now trying to convince my weekend self that the carnival was over and that eight o'clock was a good time to go to bed when I saw a man-sized shadow at my window and froze.

Then I unfroze. I am not going to become a prisoner of fear in my own home, I told myself sternly in my Nurse Palmer voice. I seized the breadknife and threw back the curtain. My heart was hammering. My feet were strangely unwilling to move. But I was resolved. If Mr Fruitcake was on the balcony, he was shortly about to be off the balcony.

Fortunately, it was Daniel. Even more fortunately, I didn't stab him.

He was standing on the balcony and the wind blew his coat open, like wings. Street light and shadow made his face a mask. In the darkness, there was the glint of eyes. For a moment I could hear the rustling of a dark angel's wings. I felt like Glory in Buffy the Vampire Slayer-'Did anyone order an apocalypse?'

Ah, oh, but he was attractive. I now knew how iron filings felt when a magnet came past. Drawn. Dragged. But I was presently angry, as an alternative to being terrified.

'What are you doing there?' I yelled. 'You almost scared me to death!'

'Put down the knife,' he said. He sounded surprised at my reaction. 'I am often in the dark. I belong to the night. I didn't want to ring the bell in case you were asleep, and I wondered if your madman could reach your apartment via the balcony. And he could.' He stepped back a pace and half turned, both hands on the rail. 'But I shall leave, if I am not welcome.'

'No,' I said. Vampires can only come in if they are invited, I thought. Well, I was going to invite this one. 'But first show me how you got up.'

I stood next to him and looked down to the lane.

'Easy,' he said. 'There's the downpipe, and then a little traverse across to the balcony with at least two good handholds. Thereafter just up and over.'

'How can I stop him? Barbed wire? Plant cactus?'

He chuckled. 'I don't think you need go as far as barbed wire. Just a good coating of Vaseline on the rail, and the only thing you'll hear is the scream as he falls off. Then you can call the police in perfect safety. Good evening, Corinna.'

'Good evening,' I replied, still a bit bemused. 'Do come in. I was just about to go to bed. I have to get up and bake in the morning.'

'I know. I'm sorry that I startled you.'

'Yeah, me too.'

I was not feeling gracious. Nothing makes one feel sillier than overcoming terror to find that instead of confronting a murderer you are about to stick the breadknife into a future lover. Not that I did this a lot.

'Put it this way,' he said. 'Wouldn't it have been worse if I had been a real murderer? And you were brave. I bet you didn't know you were brave before.'

'I was terrified,' I mumbled, sitting down and drawing Horatio into a hug.

'But you armed yourself and opened the window,' he reminded me.

'That was better than sitting here being terrified,' I said, not thinking that I deserved a lot of credit. Horatio does not like unsolicited hugs and he removed himself pointedly to the other end of the sofa. Daniel sat down and provided a subst.i.tute so I hugged him instead. He smelt of the outside, of cold and dark. An unsettling, exciting scent.

He held me for a while and I began to lose my adrenaline-fuelled edginess.

'That was such a silly thing to do,' he said to himself. 'I can't imagine why I did it. How else are you likely to react? I'm a fool,' he said. 'Forgive me?'

'Of course,' I said.

'I have found out something interesting,' he said.

'And so have I,' I told him. 'You remember that friend of James's who moved into the apartment? He's lost a daughter. A runaway. Cherie Holliday. If I get a picture of her, can you show it around?'

'Possibly. What is the situation? I have known fathers desperate to find children for many reasons, and some of them are not good reasons.'

'Because they abused them and want to keep it secret? Yes, I worked that one out. In this case, Cherie tried to tell her father about her uncle abusing her and he didn't believe her. Now he does. And the b.a.s.t.a.r.d is in jail. I've interrupted Holliday in the process of drinking himself to death. Finding his daughter might save his life.'

'In that case there is no harm in showing a picture,' said Daniel. He seemed a little distracted. I could hear his heart. It had a very slow, rea.s.suring throb. 'How long has she been away?'

'Three years.'

'Not so good,' he said. 'He might not want her back. The street is very hard on girls.'

'This one looked pretty strong minded,' I said. 'And I got the impression he'd want her back, whatever state she was in. Meroe and I are going to unpack all his belongings tomorrow and then we can get the Lone Gunmen to do a flyer. What have you found out?'

'There are three main contenders for the hot shots,' he said. 'The Triad of Retribution, recently arrived and very unpleasant. The John Smith family. And a strange character called Lestat. The street people have seen him around. Dresses like a Goth. He's been seen speaking to all the victims, a day or so before they died. They're scared of him. The street is very superst.i.tious. They've probably not read Anne Rice's Interview With A Vampire, where the name comes from, but they know a baddie when they see one. He dresses entirely in eighteenth century clothes. He has long blond hair.'

'I think I saw him in Meroe's shop,' I said. 'I'll ask her. He might be a regular.'

'Good. If he is killing the junkies I can't imagine why.'

'Fun?' I asked. My adrenaline had drained away and I felt very tired.

'Possibly. We need to find him and have a talk. We have no chance whatever of finding anything out about the Triad. The police know about them and so does the Chinese community. They probably won't last any longer than the other Triad invasions.'

'There have been others?'

'Oh yes, over the years. They swagger in, full of confidence, and then somehow one doesn't hear anything about them until they are picked up, usually at the airport, by an alert customs officer who just thought that they might have a look in their baggage, and lo and behold! They are carrying heroin and will spend the next twenty years in jail. Haven't you ever wondered about that alert customs officer? Does he, in fact, have a mobile phone and an attentive ear for anonymous calls in a Chinese accent?'

'That's clever.'

'And absolutely bloodless. They don't want to attract official attention. But it discourages the Triad. And everyone is happy again until the next one comes barging in, demanding to be cut in on the action. That's happening at present and an arrest is expected shortly, I have no doubt.'

'So if it is them handing out overproof drugs, we can't catch them.'

'No, and we shouldn't try. They have a short way with interlopers.'

'What about the John Smith family?'

'They run most of the heroin in Melbourne,' he said. 'They're a criminal family-every one of them is involved in crime. For two generations so far and I hear that their youngest son has just reached the children's court. They are not nice people,' he said. I had a feeling that this was an understatement of t.i.tanic proportions, like the claim that the coalition of armies which invaded Iraq was a 'modest force'.

'Do you know any of them?'

'In pa.s.sing, yes, and I can't say that I want to further the acquaintance. But what I wanted to talk to you about, ketschele, was the victims. We have to find a pattern, if there is a pattern. I have a list of them here, with everything the police know about them.'

'And you got that from ...?' I asked, waking myself up enough to sit up and switch on a standing lamp.

'A friend,' he said. 'So far there have been four deaths and three near deaths. The first one was Collins. Nineteen, came from Frankston, away from home for two days. Heavy heroin user. Second, Hughes. Eighteen. From Abbotsford. Overdosed in the Treasury, away from home for two years, worked as a labourer when he could. Heavy user. Had booked himself in for a detox. Survived and is in detox now. Third, Suze, who overdosed in your alley and gave me the pleasure of your acquaintance. Real name MacDonald. Seventeen. From Toorak. Also survived and went straight back out and scored again. She's on her way out, poor Suze. Fourth, Venetti. Found dead at the station-'

'Stop,' I said. 'I need to put all this in a table. Then we ought to be able to see a pattern. If there is a pattern.'

I turned on the computer and called up a spreadsheet and entered the data he had given me. When I had finished it looked like this: Name s.e.x Age Origin Date of OD Place of OD Alive?

Collins, J M 19 Frankston 19th King Street no Hughes, M M 18 Abbotsford 20th Spencer Street station yes MacDonald, S F 17 Toorak 22nd Calico Alley yes Venetti, G M 19 Carlton 23rd Spencer Street no Nguyen, T M 15 Springvale 25th Flinders Street station no Udall, H F 18 Footscray 26th Hardware Lane yes Trench, S M 16 South Yarra 28th Treasury Gardens no Daniel looked at me over the printout. 'You have a gift for organisation,' he said. 'There is one pattern which leaps out instantly.'

'He skips a day,' I said. 'He, she or they skip a day, I mean. I wonder what they were doing on the 21st, 24th and 27th?'

'Indeed. Not much connection between the victims, though. Not on the face of this.'

'Well, it must be something other than where they came from. They are all pretty young. I reckon this creep or creeps might hang around the stations, though.'

'Possibly because the victims do too.'

'We need to talk to the survivors,' I said.

'I will try to find Suze tonight. She might talk to me if I can pay for her time. I must leave you now, ketschele. Keep the window locked and grease that balcony rail, and do you know, I think I'm falling in love with you. How do you feel about that? I mean, hypothetically?'

'Hypothetically? Very positive,' I said.

'Good,' said Daniel. He kissed me on the throat, and left. And I went firmly to bed. But instead of visions of sugarplums, visions of victims danced in my head and it was quite a relief when the alarm clock went berserk and I realised that it was four am and instead of being dead of a heroin overdose at the age of sixteen, I got to eat breakfast, drink coffee, and do the baking. Horatio must have thought the same, for he wolfed down his breakfast with unusual appet.i.te and even accompanied me downstairs for the rat count and breakfast with the Mouse Police.

It was to the happy whoofling of feeding cats that I started my dough hooks and whistled while I worked.

When I opened the door there was Jase. Relatively clear eyed if dirty as to clothes. 'Help you with the baking for a shower?' he asked. He whipped inside very smartly and I wondered if the Blues Brothers man was after him again.

'You aren't getting anywhere near my bread with those fingernails,' I said firmly. 'I'll lend you a gown again. Scrub those hands,' I yelled after him as he retrieved his towel and gown from the dryer where I had left them and dived into the shower. Puffs of steam and the scent of ginger shower gel inspired me to make gingerbread m.u.f.fins this morning. And a good if fiddly job for those clean hands was called 'cutting up the crystallised ginger', after which he would need another shower. But we had endless hot water and Jase wouldn't shrink if he had two showers in one day.

By the time he came out I had done the dry m.u.f.fin mix. Jase put his clothes in the washer and started it. He showed me his hands, front and back. They were scrubbed almost raw. Then he tied his gown around him tightly, rolled back his sleeves to the elbow, and began chopping up crystallised ginger. He was neat and was doing a good job so I went back to my dough.

'That's rye bread,' he observed. 'It smells different from that crumbly stuff.'

'Yes, it's the yeast. This crumbly stuff is health bread and it doesn't have any.'

'Why not?'

'Because the customer wants bread without any salt, sugar, gluten, oil, yeast or taste, and the customer is always right.'

'Yuk,' he commented. 'Must be mad. As if! When they could get the good stuff!'

'They're paying for it, so I'll bake it,' I said. 'You've worked in a kitchen before.'