Free Feeding the Demons by Gabrielle Lord Page B

and the surfaces of her eyes. She closed them. But the slashed body and clothes of the woman in the crime scene video kept erupting in her mind. She sat up, swearing. She couldn’t relax.
    Half an hour later she was dressed again and walking against a stiff southerly towards her car. It was still light at ten past six, and the aquamarine waves and pale sand were touched with apricot and mauve shadows. She threw her gym bag in the back, climbed into the car and started it, noticing another car doing the same some distance behind her. Gemma glanced over. It was the younger man from the gym, she was sure, driving a dark green Ford. He’s keen, she thought angrily, as she revved up Marine Parade. She noticed him settle a distance behind her, and her heart froze. Broome Street was just behind her. The image of the woman from the crime scene video flashed into her mind again. It’s him, she thought. He went through my bag. He saw my ID. He knows who I am.
    Fear surged from her heart into her arms as she swung the wheel hard left into Torrington. The fear doubled as she saw him do the same in the mirror. Calm down, she instructed herself. You’re being paranoid. He’s just a pest playing games. It’s not the killer because if he already knows who I am, there’s no need to follow me. She signalled right and drove onto the roundabout and then, instead of taking the right-handed turn into Arden Street, she kept turning, making a complete circle back to Malabar Road. In the rear view mirror, she had the pleasure of seeing the green Ford forced to move into Arden Street with another car hard on his back bumper. Gemma memorised his registration before he vanished, shouted aloud in triumph and headed for home.
    •
    Gemma realised she was still holding her gym bag in a clenched fist. She put it down. The horror was closer now. She took a deep breath and went to the lounge room, needing a drink. She made herself a Scotch and went back to her office. Angie answered and Gemma took a deep breath. ‘Some idiot tried to follow me from the gym. I need a rego check. QGT 178, late model Ford sedan.’
    For the sake of the logging tapes at her place of work, Angie’s voice switched to professional mode. ‘I’m sorry, madam, we can’t give you any information about vehicle registration. I suggest you take your query to the Roads and Transport Authority.’ Gemma knew that Angie treated every phone as ‘off’ but nevertheless would have written the registration number down by now.
    ‘Usual place, usual time tomorrow?’ Gemma asked.
    Angie agreed. ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘Lance got a perfect match from the murder scene with the semen deposited on your clothes.’ Gemma couldn’t speak for a moment. Although it wasn’t really a surprise there was a terrible finality.
    •
    Gemma pulled up outside the West Lindfield Uniting Church as people started pouring out of the doors and onto the grassed area around the church. Spinner had told her Imelda Moresby was to speak there tonight. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly half past ten. She got out of the car and had to move against the traffic.
    ‘You’re a bit late, luv,’ said a woman wearing an orange and black printed blouse. ‘Show’s over.’
    ‘I want to see Imelda Moresby,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you know where she is?’ The two of them stood in front of the entry as people flowed around them.
    ‘She was just back there, talking to some people from the country.’ The woman indicated the far corner of the room.
    ‘What does she look like? What’s she wearing?’ asked Gemma.
    ‘You can’t miss Imelda,’ said the woman, smiling. ‘Anyway, she’ll probably know you.’
    Gemma thanked her and battled her way in. She hadn’t been in a church since she left boarding school, she realised, and she looked around, wondering why places dedicated to worship seem always to be so heavy and ugly. In the corner indicated by the orange and black bloused woman stood four