dangerousness. Her study of psychology might assist her if she was observant, but if Tony was a psychopath it would be impossible to detect the usual signs of perjury.
She slid a sharp paring knife into her purse. “Wish me luck, Jaqui,” she said under her breath with an almost superstitious intensity. Jaqui Reeves was Makedde’s Canadian self-defence instructor and friend. She was well versed in martial arts, street fighting and the use of weapons, and was an enthusiastic teacher. She also had a notoriousdisrespect for some of the technicalities of Canadian law, particularly with regard to concealed weapons. Among other gadgets, she kept a small folding knife in her bra at all times, which she affectionately called her “booby trap”. Knowing Makedde’s obsession with on-going training, she had referred her to Hanna, who taught Friday afternoon classes in Sydney. It seemed that Mak needed to be on her toes more than ever, and she looked forward to attending.
She planned to take Tony to a café where there were lots of people around. She would confront him and scrutinise his every response. And if something went terribly wrong, she’d have the knife. She wasn’t afraid to use it. It was better than nothing.
She crossed her fingers.
By 1.50 p.m. Mak hoped that Tony had changed his mind, or better yet, had been hit by a car on his way over. Four minutes later a hard knock shook the front door.
Doesn’t anyone use the buzzer downstairs?
She peeked through the spy hole and saw Tony’s round face peering up at her, sporting a freakishly large nose in the warped glass image. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers. With the knife in the purse clutched at her side, Makedde reluctantly opened the door.
Tony barged straight in. “Do you have a vase for these?” he asked, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Tony—”
“I’m sorry about last night,” he shouted from across the room. “This place is a box. A pretty girl like you should be staying somewhere upmarket,” he continued as he wandered around, touching things. “Nice to be down at Bondi, I guess. But still—”
“It will do,” Makedde said sharply.
He was already examining the kitchen. “Your cupboards are filthy, you really should get a cleaner.”
“It’s carbon.”
“What?”
‘Never mind.”
“I’ve got a place,” he persisted. “I rent it to models occasionally. Sarah Jackson stayed there for a while, until her career really took off.”
Sarah Jackson was on the cover of the latest British Vogue .
“No thanks.”
“You should at least see the place.”
She gave him an icy look.
“You know, you could be a really top model if you got your lips done. You’ve got a great face.”
“Thanks for the advice. Can we get out of here now? I’m starving.”
“Just a second. We’ve gotta talk.”
“ We can talk while I eat,” she insisted.
It didn’t work. Tony sat on her couch and started complaining about the police, and how they were treating him like a criminal. “They’re pulling apart myfiles, looking at all my negatives. You have to believe me.”
“What do I have to believe, Tony?”
“I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”
“What was on the film then?”
“What film?” he said stupidly.
She gave him a hard look, and spoke slowly, emphasising every point. “The film the cops confiscated.”
His face went red. “I…”
“Why did you take photographs of that poor girl’s corpse?” She stared unflinchingly at Tony as he sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, like an ostrich without the necessary sand. “Did you know we were friends? Did you know I would find her?” she pushed. Tony began blubbering incoherently. “What made you choose that location? Out of all the beaches in Sydney, why did you choose that location, on that day?” she demanded.
“I always shoot at that damn beach! I must have shot there twenty times this year. No one is ever around, so you can get away without paying the permit.
She slid a sharp paring knife into her purse. “Wish me luck, Jaqui,” she said under her breath with an almost superstitious intensity. Jaqui Reeves was Makedde’s Canadian self-defence instructor and friend. She was well versed in martial arts, street fighting and the use of weapons, and was an enthusiastic teacher. She also had a notoriousdisrespect for some of the technicalities of Canadian law, particularly with regard to concealed weapons. Among other gadgets, she kept a small folding knife in her bra at all times, which she affectionately called her “booby trap”. Knowing Makedde’s obsession with on-going training, she had referred her to Hanna, who taught Friday afternoon classes in Sydney. It seemed that Mak needed to be on her toes more than ever, and she looked forward to attending.
She planned to take Tony to a café where there were lots of people around. She would confront him and scrutinise his every response. And if something went terribly wrong, she’d have the knife. She wasn’t afraid to use it. It was better than nothing.
She crossed her fingers.
By 1.50 p.m. Mak hoped that Tony had changed his mind, or better yet, had been hit by a car on his way over. Four minutes later a hard knock shook the front door.
Doesn’t anyone use the buzzer downstairs?
She peeked through the spy hole and saw Tony’s round face peering up at her, sporting a freakishly large nose in the warped glass image. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers. With the knife in the purse clutched at her side, Makedde reluctantly opened the door.
Tony barged straight in. “Do you have a vase for these?” he asked, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Tony—”
“I’m sorry about last night,” he shouted from across the room. “This place is a box. A pretty girl like you should be staying somewhere upmarket,” he continued as he wandered around, touching things. “Nice to be down at Bondi, I guess. But still—”
“It will do,” Makedde said sharply.
He was already examining the kitchen. “Your cupboards are filthy, you really should get a cleaner.”
“It’s carbon.”
“What?”
‘Never mind.”
“I’ve got a place,” he persisted. “I rent it to models occasionally. Sarah Jackson stayed there for a while, until her career really took off.”
Sarah Jackson was on the cover of the latest British Vogue .
“No thanks.”
“You should at least see the place.”
She gave him an icy look.
“You know, you could be a really top model if you got your lips done. You’ve got a great face.”
“Thanks for the advice. Can we get out of here now? I’m starving.”
“Just a second. We’ve gotta talk.”
“ We can talk while I eat,” she insisted.
It didn’t work. Tony sat on her couch and started complaining about the police, and how they were treating him like a criminal. “They’re pulling apart myfiles, looking at all my negatives. You have to believe me.”
“What do I have to believe, Tony?”
“I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”
“What was on the film then?”
“What film?” he said stupidly.
She gave him a hard look, and spoke slowly, emphasising every point. “The film the cops confiscated.”
His face went red. “I…”
“Why did you take photographs of that poor girl’s corpse?” She stared unflinchingly at Tony as he sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, like an ostrich without the necessary sand. “Did you know we were friends? Did you know I would find her?” she pushed. Tony began blubbering incoherently. “What made you choose that location? Out of all the beaches in Sydney, why did you choose that location, on that day?” she demanded.
“I always shoot at that damn beach! I must have shot there twenty times this year. No one is ever around, so you can get away without paying the permit.
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