He nodded and stepped aside. I padded across to my wardrobe, grabbing underclothing, jeans and a T-shirt, then headed into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later we were standing in front of Rubin Johnson's little store, situated in McMahon's Point, just across the bay from the opera house. The shop itself was one of those quaint, single-front two-story Victorians that were everywhere in Sydney, although this one was in the process of being renovated, if the splashes of paint across the windows were anything to go by.
"That is not paint," Azriel said, voice grim.
I glanced at him sharply, then stepped closer. Unlike the shops on either side, the window here was only half frame rather than full. A wide shelf stretched the length of it, and was lined with necklaces, bracelets. No cuff links, but then, they'd certainly be easier to pocket than the intricate and heavy stone and silver work currently displayed.
The brown splatters I'd presumed were paint had a crusty, cracked look close up, which dried paint didn't usually get. It was blood – old blood.
My gaze skimmed the jewelry, but none of it appeared to have been splattered. Not that I could see from this angle, anyway. But there were several globs of rusty red near the right end of the shelf and a spray of the stuff up the nearby wall. It was the sort of spray that could happen only when a major artery had been cut.
My gaze jumped to the interior of the shop. It had an open plan, with glass display cabinets lining the long wall to the left and a glass display table situated in the middle of the room. A counter stretched the length of the rear wall and, behind it to the left, a set of wooden stairs led upward. Nothing seemed out of place or disturbed, and there was no sign of anyone – dead or alive.
"That is because the body lies underneath this window. You cannot see it because of the thickness of the shelf."
"We need to get in there." I stepped back and scanned the walls. The place was alarmed, but there was no camera, at least out here. I hadn't noticed one when I was peering in the window, either. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and tried opening the door. "It's locked. We'll probably set off the alarm when we go inside, but we should have enough time to examine the body before either the cops or the security firm get here."
"Then let's go."
He caught my hand, and we reappeared just inside the door. The first thing I saw was the alarm panel. Neither the door's nor the windows' indicator lights were lit, meaning the system had been switched off. Suggesting, perhaps, that Rubin Johnson had not only known his killer, but had invited him in.
I turned and saw the body. He was barefoot, and wearing an old-fashioned woolen dressing gown that was so well worn the blue check was faded and patchy. He'd been shoved under the shelf like so much rubbish, his limbs at impossible angles to his body.
Azriel walked over and squatted next to him. "He has no head."
"What?"
He glanced at me, expression neutral but his anger burning through my mind. "His head has been removed."