annoyance. They had not prepared exactly what he had asked for—a smoked salmon sandwich with capers, horseradish and lettuce on rye. Not on brown, on rye. It was simple. On any other day he would have complained bitterly about the brown bread. Today his appetite had been quashed when he glimpsed the morning paper. He couldn’t think about food. His mind was on that photograph.
Catherine Gerber.
There had been an article about the murder every day since Catherine’s body was discovered by that Vanderwall girl on Friday. That was fine. That was to be expected. It wasn’t the article itself that worried him. It was the photo.
Stupid little bitch!
He had always been so careful, so meticulous. He had made sure that nothing could trace Catherine tohim. He was sure no one of any importance had seen them together. It was crazy that such an ignominious little hussy could end up as such a threat.
He opened the newspaper, flipped it to page three and stared at the large photo featured in the article titled Canadian Model—Third Victim of Stiletto Killer . There she was, photographed at some social event, smiling innocently, wearing a low cut dress with a thin necklace dangling around her throat, a dainty necklace with a man’s diamond ring suspended from it.
His ring.
Lying little slut!
He’d assumed he’d lost it, but evidently that was not the case. It must have been when he met up with her in Fiji during the autumn medical convention. He had been careful, as always. He gave her cash for the ticket, they stayed in different hotels, and he snuck over to hers in the evening. When he left, he must have forgotten the ring by the sink. It was days after the convention before he realised it was gone. When he questioned her, she swore she’d never seen it.
Conniving, scheming tart…
It was an important ring. His father had awarded it to him and a precious few other top brass at the company. It meant that he had proven himself. Unlike his parasitic brothers, he had a future. One day it would all be his, and the ring proved it.
The ring…
He had even phoned the hotel and asked them to search everywhere. When his colleagues noticed that it was missing he had to make an excuse. “I lost it scuba diving in Fiji,” he had told them. “Don’t tell Dad.”
No, I took it off to wash my hands in a hotel room, and the little trollop stole it.
A droplet of sweat rolled down his throbbing temple. His pulse was racing. Everyone would see the article. If anyone looked close enough, they would recognise the ring. What if they made the connection? And the police; what if they found his ring among her possessions?
It has my damn initials engraved on it!
He wiped the sweat away, his blood-pressure soaring.
Something had to be done. He needed to get that ring back.
CHAPTER 9
There was no such thing as an “unintrusive” search, Makedde decided. The flat still felt like a crime scene. Any attempt the police had made to return the place to its original state had not been at all successful. Every object in the room was just a few precious inches out of position, the dark coffee table was grimy with white Lanconide and the cream-coloured kitchen cupboards were still sooty with carbon powder. Makedde was grateful that the flat wasn’t her own. Cleaning it up would have been a far more traumatic process.
Mak set about rearranging the place and packing up Catherine’s belongings. She started with the walls. One by one, she tore the magazine pin-ups down. Sticky tape ripped off in loud strips, leaving a tacky residue in their wake, the airbrushed faces of starry-eyed models shredding into meaningless ribbons of colour.
Catherine had naïvely aspired to become a “supermodel”. Of the many that tried, few lasted very long on the international scene, and even fewer madeit to the big time. Mak had been the flavour of the month in Italian Vogue at one point, and enjoyed fleeting moments of fame as the face of numerous fashion and
Catherine Gerber.
There had been an article about the murder every day since Catherine’s body was discovered by that Vanderwall girl on Friday. That was fine. That was to be expected. It wasn’t the article itself that worried him. It was the photo.
Stupid little bitch!
He had always been so careful, so meticulous. He had made sure that nothing could trace Catherine tohim. He was sure no one of any importance had seen them together. It was crazy that such an ignominious little hussy could end up as such a threat.
He opened the newspaper, flipped it to page three and stared at the large photo featured in the article titled Canadian Model—Third Victim of Stiletto Killer . There she was, photographed at some social event, smiling innocently, wearing a low cut dress with a thin necklace dangling around her throat, a dainty necklace with a man’s diamond ring suspended from it.
His ring.
Lying little slut!
He’d assumed he’d lost it, but evidently that was not the case. It must have been when he met up with her in Fiji during the autumn medical convention. He had been careful, as always. He gave her cash for the ticket, they stayed in different hotels, and he snuck over to hers in the evening. When he left, he must have forgotten the ring by the sink. It was days after the convention before he realised it was gone. When he questioned her, she swore she’d never seen it.
Conniving, scheming tart…
It was an important ring. His father had awarded it to him and a precious few other top brass at the company. It meant that he had proven himself. Unlike his parasitic brothers, he had a future. One day it would all be his, and the ring proved it.
The ring…
He had even phoned the hotel and asked them to search everywhere. When his colleagues noticed that it was missing he had to make an excuse. “I lost it scuba diving in Fiji,” he had told them. “Don’t tell Dad.”
No, I took it off to wash my hands in a hotel room, and the little trollop stole it.
A droplet of sweat rolled down his throbbing temple. His pulse was racing. Everyone would see the article. If anyone looked close enough, they would recognise the ring. What if they made the connection? And the police; what if they found his ring among her possessions?
It has my damn initials engraved on it!
He wiped the sweat away, his blood-pressure soaring.
Something had to be done. He needed to get that ring back.
CHAPTER 9
There was no such thing as an “unintrusive” search, Makedde decided. The flat still felt like a crime scene. Any attempt the police had made to return the place to its original state had not been at all successful. Every object in the room was just a few precious inches out of position, the dark coffee table was grimy with white Lanconide and the cream-coloured kitchen cupboards were still sooty with carbon powder. Makedde was grateful that the flat wasn’t her own. Cleaning it up would have been a far more traumatic process.
Mak set about rearranging the place and packing up Catherine’s belongings. She started with the walls. One by one, she tore the magazine pin-ups down. Sticky tape ripped off in loud strips, leaving a tacky residue in their wake, the airbrushed faces of starry-eyed models shredding into meaningless ribbons of colour.
Catherine had naïvely aspired to become a “supermodel”. Of the many that tried, few lasted very long on the international scene, and even fewer madeit to the big time. Mak had been the flavour of the month in Italian Vogue at one point, and enjoyed fleeting moments of fame as the face of numerous fashion and
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