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DIABOLIC VIDEOS HADa studio on the upper floor of a building on bustling George Street, up a flight of carpeted stairs that reeked of gasoline. A huge pink neon sign at the top of the stairs blinded me as I arrived at the tiny foyer where a girl with too many piercings sat texting.

“What is that smell?” I covered my mouth and nose with my T-shirt.

“Some girl’s ex-boyfriend came in here last week lookin’ for her.” The pierced girl yawned. “Poured gasoline all down the stairs. Said he was gonna light the place on fire if she didn’t come out.”

“She come out?” Tox asked.

“The place on fire?”

“We’re looking for people who know this girl here.” I showed her a picture of Claudia her parents had provided us with. Piercings hardly glanced at it. She only had eyes for Tox.

“You don’t look like no cop.”

“What do I look like?”

“I dunno.” The girl leaned on the counter, wriggled her booty. “But I like it.”

“This! Girl! Here!” I slapped the photo on the counter.

“Okay! Okay! Jeez!”

She pushed aside a curtain and led us through. The space was divided into quarters by painted black partitions. I could hear whips cracking in the farthest corner. We passed an empty bed and arrived in the middle of a film set. Two huge black cameras were manned by men. On a satin-sheeted bed, an unnaturally hairless woman was propped, the hem of a blazing-white tennis skirt flipped back over her thighs. Her cotton polo shirt was ripped across the middle and tied tight beneath enormous breasts. She twirled a blond pigtail in one hand and licked the handle of a tennis racquet she held in the other.

Tox pointed. “What is she gonna do with that racquet?”

“Excuse me!” A man with a clipboard stepped out of the glow of the lights. “You’re in the middle of a live shoot here!”

“I’m Detective Blue. This is Detective Dirtycreep. We’re looking for someone who was close to Claudia Burrows.” I flashed the picture. “We know she did a film here a couple of months ago. We want to speak to anyone who has any knowledge about her murder.”

“I’ve never seen that girl before.” The producer turned his nose up at the picture. “If she’s dead, it’s her own fault.”

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around, only to be yanked face first into yet another pair of breasts. The girl hugging me was wearing six-inch silver sparkle heels, and nothing else.

“Harry!” she squealed. “Oh, my God, you little doll, what are you doing here?”

I’d handled Vicky Varouma’s sexual assault claim at Surry Hills a couple of years earlier.

“Vicky!” I smiled up at her. “Hi! Tell me you know this girl.”

“Oh, man.” Vicky’s face fell as she took in the picture. “Now there’s a piece of bad news.”