Split Read Free Page B

all about it?
    Instead he dialled.
    He was unsure of what exactly he should say to her if she answered. Don’t mention anything at first about flying over for the conference, he told himself, just chat a bit, feel things out . He eyed the entry in his Filofax, staring transfixed at her name.
    Makedde Vanderwall— her name, her photo, her vulnerable body in the hands of that sadistic bastard. I find her, blood everywhere, she’s bleeding on the bed, tied up and naked, and that bastard is grinning at me, he knows who I am, he taunts me and I aim and fire, tunnel vision, all I see is his perverted grin, everything else a blur, I aim for the heart, I pull the trigger, I shoot to kill, but…
    “Hello?” A male voice.
    “Uh—” Andy hesitated, restraining a jealous reflex. He wondered if the voice belonged to one of Makedde’s boyfriends. Did she have a boyfriend? Why hadn’t he thought of that?
    “This is Andy Flynn calling, is Makedde Va—”
    “Ahhh, Detective Flynn.”
    “Mr Vanderwall?” It was her father.
    Of course it’s her father, it’s his house, you fool.
    “Hello, Mr Vanderwall. Please, just call me Andy, sir.”
    “Call me Les.” There was a pause. “How are you?”
    He’d almost forgotten that west-coast Canadian accent. It was quite different from the twang down in Virginia.
    “I’m well, Les. Thank you.”
    “Good.”
    Another pause. That voice. Andy heard it for the first time in a hospital room in Sydney. He had met Les Vanderwall while Mak slept, bruised and full of stitches.
    “It’s been a while,” Les said. Andy detected a tone of reserve.
    “Yes, it has,” he replied awkwardly. The line was rough with static. And there was a delay that made the moment seem more uncomfortable than it really was. With all the technology at the FBI’s disposal, he would have thought the phone line would have been clearer.
    “So, how have you been?” Andy said, trying not to ask for her right away.
    “Very well, thanks. I suppose you want to talk to Mak?”
    “Yes, if—”
    “Well, she’s not around.” Andy’s heart sank. “I expect her soon, though. She’s coming across for the weekend.”
    Good. He didn’t have the number for her flat in Vancouver, and he wasn’t about to ask for it. He checked his watch. Just after ten o’clock in Virginia. That meant it would be seven in the evening on Vancouver Island. How late would she be arriving? What should he say now?
    Makedde’s father beat him to it. “How’s the case coming along?”
    “Well, it looks like it’ll take some time. There’s a lot of evidence to compile—”
    “A lot of victims,” Les said.
    Andy felt a familiar pang of guilt.
    Yes, too many. Too many victims.
    Les Vanderwall was a retired detective inspector, and as with most in his line of work, this new phase was, for all intents and purposes, a mere technicality. Andy knew that Les had done some digging around on his daughter’s behalf. He would have done the same thing if he were Makedde’s father. But he hadn’t wanted to talk about the Stiletto Murders with Les—not a good idea to discuss any case with a key witness’s father.
    He is a victim’s father, Andy.
    As soon as the thought came to him, Andy recalled Makedde’s voice, cracking with emotion. “I’m a survivor, Andy. Not a victim. Don’t ever call me a victim.”
    An uncomfortable pause.
    The crackle of the line.
    “It’s in very capable hands,” Andy assured him.
    “You aren’t handling it yourself?”
    That was information Mr Vanderwall would already know. Andy was sure of it.
    “I’m doing some training at the FBI Academy at the moment,” he said. “We’re putting together a new Profiling Unit in New South Wales.”
    “Really?”
    “I have a very good chance of heading one of the divisions in the unit.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “Thanks.” Andy noted the lack of enthusiasm. “I will be involved in the trial, Mr Vanderwall. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll make sure your