Robert Sims - The Shadow Maker

Robert Sims grew up in Melbourne, going straight from high school to a job with the Herald & Weekly Times in Flinders Street. This was to involve stints as a reporter at The Sun, 3DB radio, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Papua New Guinea Post-Courier. He took a career break from journalism to complete a degree in politics and philosophy. After that he spent more than 20 years in London working for Independent Radio News and ITN. While writing The Shadow Maker he did freelance radio work with the BBC. Robert and his wife and two young sons divide their time between London and Melbourne.

The Shadow Maker

Robert Sims

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2007

Copyright (c) Robert Sims 2007

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Sims, Robert, 1950- .

The shadow maker.

ISBN 978 1 74175 173 4 (pbk.).

I. Title.

A823.4

Set in 12/14.5 pt Adobe Garamond Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Some sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death: prisoners in misery and irons

Philosophers have pointed out that hell exists in this world, not the next.

To observe the ranks of the damned we need only look at ourselves, for we comprise both the devils and the souls in torment.

Although this subtlety would have been lost on the woman facing a man across a cheap hotel room, she was about to experience her own version of it, for the man was there to engage in an act of inhuman depravity.

The room was furnished with no more than a double bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a wooden chair. There was no carpet on the floor and no curtain on the window, just a blind patting against the window sill, warped by more than a century of sun and rain. The only light came from the flickering flames in the fireplace - strange in such uncomfortably hot weather. Not that it bothered the woman. She wasnt fazed by the mans need to act out a fantasy, or, for that matter, by the mask, manacles and neck shackles he was placing on the bed. This encounter was part of the anonymous life shed chosen by default - the series of mistakes that had led to this night and to this room. Her purpose was business, that was all, or so she thought as she removed her clothes. His tense attitude she put down to impatience.

When he put on the mask and took hold of her she pushed him away.

Back off, she told him. Money first.

He stood there, not responding, just staring at her.

I told you, she said. Bondage is extra.

Then he said something in a quiet voice, and she realised, with a sense of panic, that shed just made the biggest mistake of her life.

She turned to grab the spray can in her handbag, but he hit her from behind with a glass ashtray from the mantelpiece. The blow stunned her, and she felt her ribs crunch against the metal base of the bed as she dropped to the floor.

The woman regained consciousness with a piercing headache. There were points of pain in her ribs, and a dull throbbing in her groin.

The room was in total darkness, but she could feel the breeze from an open window and hear the drone of cars zooming past at high speed. There were smells of drains and petrol fumes and also a strange odour of burnt flesh. Then she remembered. Hed cruised to a stop where she was standing on a corner by the casino and after hed picked her up theyd driven to a hotel beside the freeway. Thats where she was lying now. But why was it so dark?

He hadnt paid the extra money, she remembered both that and the way hed come after her in the mask. He must have hit her from behind and shed fallen against the bed, but afterwards - a blank. It wasnt the first time shed been caught. More than once shed been left with cracked ribs, and by the feel of it thats what she had again.

Along with the pain came the humiliation. Under her body she could feel the scattered contents of her handbag pressing into her skin - lipstick, tweezers, a broken perfume bottle, a piece of foil for inhaling crack. The spilt components of her life.

Groaning with the pain, she propped herself up against the bed, her chains clinking as she moved. So thats how it was. Hed acted out his fantasy on her unconscious body. The weight of the manacles dragged on her wrists, and the metal shackles pressed down on her neck. But how much damage had he inflicted? After knocking her senseless he must have chained and raped her, and - what else?

She raised her hands nervously to her face and felt a gritty texture on her cheeks. She put her fingers to her nose and sniffed something like soot or ash. At first she thought her face had been disfigured then realised there were no wounds on her cheeks. So where did the burnt smell come from? Tentatively she moved her fingertips to her eye sockets. Thats when she started screaming.

The desk sergeant looked up as a young woman walked through the lobby of Melbournes police headquarters.

Good morning, Van Hassel, he said. Then he raised an eyebrow at her pale turquoise linen suit. Very arresting, he added.

That sounds like a hint to slap the cuffs on you, she laughed.

I can think of worse ideas.

She smiled and breezed past him to the lifts, looking cool and crisp in defiance of the heatwave. Despite her composure, she gave the impression of a woman who strove hard to win. Her face and physique were in keeping with the Australian ideal of athletic good looks, and her short blonde hair was swept back.

Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel - Rita to her friends - was arriving for another day of work with the Sexual Crimes Squad. As usual, she came with a sense of energy and purpose. It was more than a job to her, it was a daily challenge. It was also an opportunity, a career path.

Shed been assigned to Sex Crimes seven years ago, thanks to the recommendations of a senior officer at the Police Academy and her honours degree in psychology. It hadnt taken long to impress the head of the squad, Detective Inspector Jack Loftus, with her intuitive grasp of crime scene analysis and an assertiveness that had to be channelled. He decided she was the type who needed fast-track development, and three years ago shed been selected by the Australian Bureau of Criminal Intelligence to train as a profiler. That meant a part-time return to studies in subjects like forensics, behavioural science and pathology. It also meant a three-month visit to the FBI Academy at Quantico in Virginia. She still had a year to go on the course, but once she was fully qualified shed move up to the Intelligence Data Centre, perhaps with a post in the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Until then she was still a squad detective - albeit one who possessed profiling skills and a small, glass-panelled office to focus on them, as well as a desk in the squad room.