CHAPTER 57.

Mak found herself drifting in and out of sleep for the next few days. She needed a lot of rest, more than she had expected. The nurses had warned her that this would be the case. She might have all her limbs, but her body had some recovering to do. She dreamed of the horrible, shadowy creature who had begun to haunt her again, except now he was shadowy because he wore a black mask, and the blood that filled everything came from his nose.

On Saturday afternoon the doorbell disturbed her.

Mak rolled over, feeling heavy on the sheets. She was in Andy's terrace, in their bedroom. A thin trail of her own drool was cool on the pillow. Oddly, she felt as if she'd been tied to a Tilt-A-Whirl for hours, and needed stillness, but she urged herself up. She wiped her mouth, embarrassed, crawled into a robe and went to answer the door.

No more sleeping...there are things to do...things to solve...

The terrace smelled of flowers. The bed was flanked by bouquets of red and white roses, one of which she remembered receiving, and one she didn't. Andy had called every day to check on her, and every day his roses arrived, she knew that much. She wondered how long he would keep it up. He had not yet mentioned their odd conversation on Monday. There had been a lot of other odd things since then.

Mak was walking, though stiffly. Her body felt heavy, but it was working. She was already at the bottom of the stairs when she remembered she was not alone.

'How are you feeling?'

It was Constable Sykes.

'Oh, Anne. Sorry, I forgot you were here for a moment,' Mak said. 'I must look like Frankenstein's bride or something.'

With evidence of the break-in into their home, and the suspicious circumstances, Andy had insisted on installing Sykes at the terrace. Mak had for once not protested about the added security. Not this time.

'Some more flowers arrived for you.' Mak saw another of Andy's red and white bouquets waiting in the hall. 'I didn't want to wake you. Oh, and these arrived for you yesterday afternoon.'

'Yesterday?' Obviously she had slept and slept. A huge bouquet of flowers sat on the coffee table in the living room. They weren't roses.

'I hope you don't mind, but I put them in water for you. You seemed so tired, I didn't want to disturb you.'

'Who are they from? Did they come with a card?' Makedde asked. She went straight to them and inspected the flowers.

Who?

'There was a card. It's just there.'

Mak saw it propped up against some books, still in its sealed envelope. 'Thanks,' she said, and pocketed it with a fleeting sensation of guilt, hoping it might be from Bogey.

'Your girlfriend Loulou is at the door again. You want me to let her in?'

'She was here before?' Mak said.

'An hour ago. You were asleep. Shall I let her in?'

'I don't know if I have the energy,' Mak joked. She tended to want to make light of things when she was in pain. Sykes only smiled.

Sykes opened the door and let Loulou inside. The policewoman looked both ways and then locked the door again. Mak noticed that the curtains were drawn, but it was still a bright afternoon outside.

'Sweetheart!' Loulou lunged for a hug and Mak recoiled.

'Not too rough, please!' Mak cried.

Loulou had kept her wild black and purple hair, and she wore a crazy striped sailor dress with fishnet stockings and platform boots. She looked worried. 'How are you feeling, darling?' she said, concern pushing out her brightly painted lower lip.

'I was really lucky. I've been so tired, though. I feel like I haven't been able to lift my head for days, except to eat. It's Saturday, isn't it?'

'Yes, it's Saturday! Oh gawd, girl, I had to come and see you. I was so worried.'

'Come in, come in,' Mak said.

Sykes was in the living room, so Mak took Loulou upstairs for privacy. It was only one flight of stairs but Mak felt her muscles burn on every step. When they reached the bedroom, Loulou marvelled at the bouquets of roses.

'Andy's been sending them every day,' said Mak. 'There is another one downstairs.'

Loulou gaped. 'Wow. Big damn roses! That boy must be fretting that he isn't here.'

I don't know.

'I'll just go freshen up for a sec,' Mak said, and disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.

Mak brushed her teeth eagerly and splashed water on her face. Her hairline appeared to be a touch greasy, the back of her hair in knots. She looked terrible. Her bright eyes seemed even greener than usual, surrounded by burst capillaries. Her face was pale. With a sense of trepidation, she grasped the left side of her robe and slowly lifted it up. A large, deep bruise coloured her outer thigh and hip with blue and purple. The centre was yellowish. She'd come down hard on her side when she'd slid.

Yick.

Mak felt the card crinkle in her pocket. She let go of the robe and opened the envelope. The card inside said Thinking of you. Get well soon. Bogey.

Mak closed it again, grinning to herself. Bogey. And then she saw the front of the card: it was a picture of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

Damn, he's good.

She'd pocketed it and read it upstairs because she didn't want Constable Sykes to see who it was from. Anything Sykes knew, Andy would find out. Bogey's message was certainly brief. He was clearly sensitive to and respectful of Mak's living arrangements.

When Mak came back out, Loulou was sitting on the bed. She'd opened the curtains and the room was filled with light. It was a huge improvement, so much less dark and depressing. 'This whole thing has been so wild.'

Mak nodded. 'You bet it has. When did you get back?'

'We drove up Thursday, after I heard.'

We. 'You guys drove? Wow.'

'Ah, it's only ten hours. Eight, the way Bogey drives.'

'Oh...Bogey is here too?' Mak tried to sound casual. 'You came with Bogey?'

'Yeah, he said he had some clients to visit. ECC are thinking about putting some of his stuff in their showroom. He's making a weekend of it, I think.'

Mak restrained herself from asking more about him, specifically where he was and if he had said anything about her.

'Mak, sweetheart, I've got to tell you,' Loulou said, breaking Mak's train of thought. 'There is this fetish photographer I know, Rico...Actually, he is a friend of Julio's. Julio is Mistress Scarlet's slave...um, Brenda's boy, you know. Has she introduced you?'

'No,' Mak said. No, Brenda has not introduced me to her slave, strange as that may seem.

'Anyway, Julio's friend Rico has seen your picture, and he is dying to do a shoot with you. He is a part-time snapper, you know, to pay the bills, and he said something interesting. He's in town for the social event of the year, apparently: Damien Cavanagh's thirtieth birthday party.'

Mak was instantly alert.

Of course.

Mak had heard about it, but with everything else going on, she'd forgotten.

'I hope you don't mind. I know that Simon Aston guy will be there. I thought I should tell you about it.'

Mak was very interested that the Cavanaghs were putting on a party. Not only was Simon Aston going to be there, but Mak was keen to find out more about Damien Cavanagh, too. Amy, who was now missing, seemed convinced that Damien was the man standing over the girl in the video. Mak had to know.

'Is it a very big party, do you know?' she asked.

'Is it?' Loulou responded with her usual drama. 'Mak, sweetheart, it's only the biggest party of the year, or maybe even the decade. Are you kidding?' She seemed not to comprehend her friend's social ignorance. 'It's been the biggest story in the gossip pages for months.

'It's going to be huge, darling,' Loulou said. 'And it's tonight.'

Luther Hand sat in a car across the street from the terrace.

He watched Mak and the mohawked girl through the upstairs window. If he had clearance to, he could get a good sniper shot at Mak, and in seconds it would be over. But he couldn't do that, and nor did he particularly want to.

He had to get her out of the house, and away from that cop.

And when he killed her, he had to make it look like an accident.

There will be no more mistakes.

CHAPTER 58.

An explosion ripped through the sky.

Another.

The crowd of party guests looked up as one, riveted by the colourful drama unfolding above them. Mouths held open and eyes wide, they took in the impressive sight of a surprise fireworks display as it screeched and flashed red sparks, filling the humid night with a sunset of smoke. Glasses were raised, and a round of cheers momentarily drowned out the crashing sounds of the fireworks as the guests toasted their extravagant host.

It was midnight at the Cavanagh house on Sydney Harbour, and the party was just starting to get into full swing. Though it was several weeks after the real Chinese New Year, 350 glamorous A-listers, socialites and VIPs had gathered at this place on the shore, dressed in the theme of the night. The women wore updated versions of the traditional Chinese cheongsam neck-to-knee dress, many reworked into abbreviated minis, or slit to the waist to better flaunt the women's tanned assets. One infamous men's magazine model had arrived with her 'dress' created using body paint on her generous curves. The men wore silk brocade or kung-fu-style suits, and still others arrived shirtless, Bruce Lee-style, to reveal their dedicated personal trainers' work. Waiters wore high-necked black ensembles, balancing trays of drinks or circulating with bottles of Moet to top up champagne glasses. A steady flow of Asian canapes tempted guests, though few of the carefully dressed women dared touch them for fear of smearing their silk outfits with a stray spring roll or dribble of hoi sin sauce.

The Darling Point residence where the esteemed guests had gathered was impressive by even the most privileged standards. It boasted fifteen bedrooms, luxurious living areas-the largest of which had been cleared of furniture for the night and currently housed a DJ and his sound equipment-a sprawling kitchen of marble and stainless steel, a home theatrette and a gym, maid's quarters and a tennis court. Tonight, torches and red lanterns lit the manicured pathways at the back of the house, coaxing guests down to the outdoor pool area, where they sipped cocktails and admired an unobstructed view of the continuing fireworks. With panoramic views over Sydney Harbour, palatial gardens, and its own private waterfront and small pier, the Cavanagh property was one of the most costly slices of land in the country, owned by one of Australia's richest families.

And didn't the guests know it.

The most coveted hairdressers from the upmarket suburb of Double Bay had been booked out for days beforehand, grooming ageing socialites and hot young It girls for the exclusive event. The parade of gleaming Maseratis, Rolls-Royce limos, Ferraris and Porsches that appeared at the front door had been waxed and polished, some having been surreptitiously rented by guests in anticipation of their brief but important first impression on the valet outside. Unable to pass the security guards to gain entry to the private grounds, paparazzi huddled at the kerb to snap what they could of the rich and the famous as they arrived. For weeks, gossip writers had filled their Sunday columns with speculation over who would make the guest list and who would not. And the chosen crowd did not disappoint: visiting movie stars, heiresses, Olympians and a handful of minor royals mingled with the movers and shakers of big business and politics. Anyone who was anyone was there, and those who had not been invited knew too well that they would be overlooked on the invite lists of the Sydney social scene for the rest of the year.

Makedde Vanderwall was not concerned about invite lists or the social circuit.

Nor was she vying for the opportunity to shake hands with Australia's A-list, or flirt with one of the country's most eligible bachelors.

The budding private investigator had other ideas.

She had chosen her moment of arrival carefully. It was after eleven and most of the guests were already inside; security were getting bored in their duties. As she neared the house, she noticed the still-hopeful paparazzi leaning against the stone outer walls of the property, not permitted to enter the party. They smoked cigarettes and chatted like soldiers on a break before the next battle. This was probably quite a different crew to the photographers who had rushed her on the steps of the Supreme Court during the Stiletto Murder trial, Mak reminded herself. These were full-time celebrity snappers, here for the movie stars, heiresses and royalty. Even if some of the photographers were the same, she thought it unlikely that anyone from the courthouse steps would recognise her here, in these circumstances, as that scared witness.

Mak took a deep breath.

You can do it. This will be easy.

Her driver turned the car into the driveway, the photographers now watching with great interest as the polished Lamborghini Murcielago slunk past, low to the ground, gleaming in the light of the streetlamps. A couple of quick flashes went off at Mak in the passenger seat, startling her. The mood changed quite suddenly. A handful of men threw their cigarettes to the ground and ran up the drive towards the entrance, hauling their cameras up to their faces. Security moved forwards and kept the growing throng of overtired photographers back on the other side of the car so that Mak could get out near the steps.

This is it.

Mak had decided that this charade was her best hope of getting inside. If she blew it, she had scant hope of scaling those stone walls or getting past security.

Come on.

Brenda Bale's alarmingly thin slave, Julio-a wealthy luxury car dealer with a fetishist's nocturnal life who looked to Mak like Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show-was dressed in a smart black rented uniform and driver's cap. He stopped his car and came around to Mak's side while she sat with her hands in her lap, heart pounding. The door clicked, unlocking. Julio pulled it open and Mak swung one foot out onto the drive, then the other. The photographers slunk around the sides of the car, shoving against one another to jostle for position and pushing the boundaries of the security guards, who held them back firmly with open palms.

'Hey. Stay back. Stay back!' someone said.

Mak exited Julio's luxury vehicle and stood; like a star shower, the night was illuminated by flashes. Photos were taken in such rapid succession that Mak found it dizzying, the flashes nearly blinding in the dark. Yellow blobs floated before her eyes when she closed them. She stepped forwards as casually as she could and flipped her hair back, letting it fall again over her shoulders and one side of her face, both intentionally glamorous and cleverly obscuring her identity. She sauntered towards the front door alone, head up with an air of importance, putting on the act of her life.

Owww.

Her bruises throbbed. Thankfully the party was black tie, and she'd worn a long dress with a slit up the right side. She had to concentrate on walking elegantly. Her body didn't like the movement, the high heels. She would take them off as soon as she could.

Mak could see two security guards swathed in black flanking the entrance.

Please don't stop me...please don't stop me...

The security guards watched her approach, coolly. One of them had a clipboard with what was obviously the guest list on it-the list that she was most certainly not on. Mak didn't want to have to give them a name. Stopping to give them a name-any name-would be social death. She had to be able to sail right through, too important to pause for security and their petty lists. That was the only way to do this. Unwittingly playing into her hands, the photographers continued to snap excitedly, and she used them. Mak turned and gave them a quick wave, egging them on and pausing for a few seconds to give a cheeky smile over one shoulder, a pose she'd seen starlets do on the Oscars red carpet. The photographers snapped away, and before they were done getting their shot she'd sauntered straight into the doorway past security, still minxing like a supermodel.

And she kept going.

Behind her she overheard Brenda's friend Julio say loudly enough for the security to hear, 'Where shall I park Ms Schiffer's car?'

Mak coughed. Schiffer? She was no Claudia Schiffer! She restrained herself from looking back to see the fuss outside. Now that she was past security they did not have her face for comparison. Who knows-they might even believe that she was indeed Claudia. The photographers, though, would not be so easily fooled, especially when they reviewed the images on their digital camera screens. Still, Julio's request would be enough to keep security occupied while she slipped away into the crowd at the party.

She was in.