St Kilda Blues (7 page)

The breeze off the lake had an edge to it and Berlin turned the collar of his overcoat up.

‘You want to tell me what we know so far, Bob?'

Roberts glanced at the notes on his clipboard. ‘Local bloke, name of Partridge, was out walking his mutt early on the Monday morning. He was the one who spotted her, half in the water, facedown. The coroner's report said she had been starved and tortured, though the cause of death was determined as drowning – remember, I told you?'

Berlin nodded. ‘Water in the lungs, I remember.' He was looking down, studying a tuft of grass near the toe of his right shoe. ‘Keep going.'

‘She also had injuries received just before her death, injuries consistent with being struck by a car travelling at high speed.' Roberts pointed back towards Lakeside Drive. ‘They found fresh skid marks and broken headlight glass back there. The theory is that she was skittled on the roadway then dragged across the grass before being dumped into the lake by a person or persons unknown.'

‘Do we have any idea when she went in?'

Roberts looked at his clipboard again. ‘The dog stroller wandered past around six in the morning and a divvy van from St Kilda made a sweep around the lake at 2:30 a.m. so it must have been some time in between.'

‘Any chance the blokes in the divisional van might not have seen her?'

Roberts shrugged. ‘I spoke to the constable who was driving the van about that yesterday afternoon. He said the moon was well up and he reckoned there was no way he'd have missed seeing those skid marks on the road. If they were there when they cruised past he'd have stopped to have a look around for sure.'

Berlin made a mental note to check the weather and the phase of the moon on the night in question. ‘And I assume there aren't any reports of a naked, hysterical, fifteen-year-old girl running across Fitzroy Street and then down here, getting hit by a car and then dragged across the grass and dumped in the lake.'

Roberts shook his head. ‘You know how it is, Charlie, it's St Kilda. A naked fifteen-year-old girl isn't going to attract too much attention at three or four in the morning, not around this area.'

Berlin turned away from the lake and looked back across the parklands, through the trees towards St Kilda and its main drag, Fitzroy Street. The once-genteel bay-side suburb had never recovered from the Great Depression, when many of its mansions and fine apartment buildings had become boarding houses for the destitute. World War II was the next blow, with the arrival of hordes of American servicemen making the suburb a mecca for the pimps and prostitutes and sly grog men and drug dealers who serviced them.

And now it looked like it was set to fall even further as crew-cut, clean-faced GIs on R and R leave from a new war, Vietnam, were starting to drift south, looking for an alternative to the concentrated sleaze of Sydney's Kings Cross. They would start flying directly down from Saigon in a few months' time and if the Kings Cross experience was anything to go by, Berlin knew that heroin pushers wouldn't be far behind them.

Somewhere off to his right, on the corner of Grey Street, was the decaying George Hotel, the word ‘TITS' standing out in eight foot–high letters over the entrance portico. You had to be a whole lot closer to see that the sign actually read ‘This Is The Show'. The massively oversized capital letters advertised the strippers in the upstairs Birdcage Lounge, pulling in the raincoat brigade, the desperately curious schoolboys and the bucks' night crowds with spruikers outside promising more girls, more glamour and more skin to the acre.

For those wanting private and more intimate contact there were plenty of tarts working Grey and Blessington streets and pretty young boys congregating around Shakespeare Grove. If your taste ran to it, there were men on Barkly and Belford streets who wore stockings and wigs and dresses and called themselves Rita or Pearl or Margot. They never appeared to lack for company, though like the queers in Shakespeare Grove or out on Chaucer Street they were often skittish and wary. Bashings and robbery were a painfully regular part of their hidden-away lives.

Berlin took the clipboard from Roberts to look at the coroner's report. The rope marks on the wrists and ankles were clearly visible in the photographs of the body lying by the lake and those from the later autopsy. She had definitely been alive when she went into the water, poor little bugger. The knife wounds, in the coroner's opinion, had been inflicted over a prolonged period and were intended to cause pain and almost certainly to draw blood. Not enough blood to kill her, though, Berlin understood, just enough to fulfil whatever sick fantasy her captor had.

He handed the clipboard back and walked across to the edge of Lakeside Drive. Roberts had parked a good 25 yards back from the second area of trampled grass next to the roadway. There were fading black skid marks on the asphalt leading up to where Berlin stood.

Roberts joined him. ‘The motor accident squad boys say she was hit here and they reckon she went about fifteen, twenty feet that way.' He indicated the lake behind them with his thumb over his right shoulder.

Several tiny pieces of headlight glass sparkled on the roadway. Roberts nudged at one of the crystals with the toe of his shoe. ‘First detectives on the scene reckoned she was run down by whoever had her held captive. They might have been taking her somewhere and she somehow got free and out of the car.'

Berlin bent down and picked up one of the pieces of glass. ‘Is that what you think? Whoever had her held captive chasing her down to finish it off?'

‘Nope.'

‘How do you see it happening?'

Roberts pulled the packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He tore off the clear cellophane wrapping, crushing it in his hand before tossing it aside.

‘It's all on the road there, Charlie, or what's left of it. They were braking when they hit her, braking really hard and skidding, trying to avoid her. I reckon she almost made it across.'

Berlin turned the fragment of glass slowly between his thumb and index finger, watching it sparkle. ‘Then why not call an ambulance, try to help, rather than dragging her across the grass and dumping her in the water?'

Roberts peeled back the silver foil on the packet of cigarettes and offered one to Berlin, who shook his head. ‘Panic, possibly. Three or four o'clock in the morning in this area, who knows who's about? Could have been someone joy riding in a stolen car, someone doing the wrong thing. Or maybe they had the wrong person in the car, some other bugger's wife. Might have been hopped up on drugs, could be a thousand things.'

Berlin slipped the fragment of glass into his overcoat pocket. ‘You'd have to be a pretty cold bastard to drag an injured girl across the grass and toss her in the water.'

Roberts put the packet of cigarettes back in his pocket and took out his lighter.

‘C'mon, mate, it's bloody St Kilda. Three or four o'clock in the morning, all the Salvation Army god-squadders, friendly shopkeepers and upright citizens are tucked away nice and warm in their own little beds.' He cupped his left hand around the lighter to protect the flame from the wind, lit his cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled. ‘Cold bastards are the stock-in-trade around here after midnight, Charlie, you know that. It's just tarts and punters and predators and victims.'

Berlin's nose twitched as the smoke blew past him.
Why does that first puff always smell the best?
he wondered. Predators and victims? That was unexpected. Whatever else Bob Roberts was getting out of Sunshine the uni student, the relationship was definitely helping with his vocabulary. Just like that section in the Reader's Digest about how it pays to increase your word power but with a lot of barely legal sex thrown in as a sweetener. Predators and victims – Bob had that right.

‘And we have absolutely no witnesses? No one parked watching the submarine races out on the lake?'

Roberts smiled. ‘The uniforms who did the earlier sweep didn't report seeing anyone and they're both good blokes, they keep their eyes open. Besides, late-night submarine racing went out when the drive-in double features started. All the smart young Romeos have their panel vans fitted out with mattresses these days. They can watch the pictures in comfort and get their leg over before they send the lucky girls off at interval for pies and hot dogs from the snack bar.'

Berlin gestured for the clipboard again and went back to the autopsy report. There were multiple glass fragments from the headlight in Melinda Marquet's left hip where the car had struck her. She also had a dislocated right shoulder. Berlin tried to recreate the moment of impact in his mind. She was running in the dark, panicked, terrified, running away from the bright lights of Fitzroy Street and what was back there, running into the imagined safety of darkness.

He thought about the commercial buildings lining Fitzroy Street and the big houses and the blocks of red-brick, tile-roofed flats behind them. It was a bloody rabbit warren, he decided, and then corrected himself; it was a rat's nest.

‘How many flats and cellars and lock-up garages and boiler rooms out there, do you reckon?'

‘Too bloody many to search in under a month, Charlie, even if we had the time – and the men to do it, which we're never going to get no matter how much pull the girl's father has.'

He was right and Berlin knew it. St Kilda had too many places for a man to hide, or to hide things, and too many people who looked on the police as the enemy and knew how to keep their mouth shut.

On the other side of the suburb, closer to the Bay, were the more wholesome amusements: a nice skating rink, the Palais Theatre for dancing and concerts, and Luna Park with its rickety wooden roller-coaster, merry-go-rounds and carnival sideshows. Beyond that was Acland Street with its continental cake shops and, beyond that, Cafe Budapest and Lazlo Horvay.

Berlin knew he was going to make a phone call at some stage and, like so many things in his life now, it was something he really didn't want to do. But given the current circumstances, maybe it was something best out of the way as soon as possible. Lazlo might know what to do about the other thing, how to make inquiries, who to contact. Lazlo knew about a lot of things but would tracking down a ghost be one of them?

Trains leaving Flinders Street Station heading for Spencer Street and the northern line pass over a brick viaduct running parallel to Flinders Street. The arches under the viaduct had been turned into shops and storage areas, and Roberts parked the Triumph at the kerb outside one of the shops. The sign over the window read ‘Newsagent', and in smaller letters ‘Books, Magazines, Newspapers, Smokes, Etc.'. Berlin knew the place by reputation and it was the ‘Etc.' that gave it that reputation.

Roberts killed the engine and left the key in the ignition. ‘I'll just be a tick, Charlie, you might as well wait in the car. Just need to grab a packet of smokes.'

As Roberts walked away Berlin opened the Triumph's glove compartment. There were four packets of Craven A cigarettes inside, still sealed in their shiny cellophane wrapping. He closed the glove compartment and climbed out of the sports car, following Roberts into the shop. A small bell mounted over the doorway rattled as the two men entered. The shop was small and cramped, dully lit by a half-dozen fly-specked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

It always amazed Berlin that so many of the so-called raincoat brigade actually did wear raincoats. There were two or three of them browsing amongst the racks – frail, nervous men, pale-skinned and skittish, looking like a harsh word or sudden loud noise might frighten them to death. There was also a schoolboy, perhaps fifteen, in a blazer and shorts and battered school shoes, school tie loose and grey socks bunched around the ankles of his skinny legs.

The men in raincoats were looking at paperbacks with lurid covers or copies of
Sun & Health
and other imported European naturist magazines. The magazines featured photographs of laughing, naked girls playing volleyball and table tennis beside lakes or in forest clearings. The schoolboy was looking at one of the cheaply printed local magazines. Over his shoulder Berlin could see a full-page black and white picture of a nude girl smiling for the camera. Besides lacking clothes, the girl was also missing nipples and pubic hair. This airbrushing allowed the publication and dozens like it to skate past the obscenity laws. Berlin always wondered how confusing it must be when the young blokes who bought these magazines finally managed to get the clothes off a real live girl.

At the rear of the shop a man wearing a grey dustcoat over his suit was standing behind the counter.
You didn't see shopkeepers in grey dustcoats much any more
, Berlin thought. He'd looked up when Roberts entered, reached down under the counter in front of him and straightened up with a thick, buff-coloured envelope in his right hand. Berlin was just behind Roberts and saw the detective's head moving gently from side to side when he realised Berlin had followed him into the shop. The shopkeeper's eyes left Roberts' face and fixed on Berlin. The envelope went back under the counter and the shopkeeper gave the two men an uncomfortable smile.

‘How can I be of help this morning, gentlemen? I'm always ready to do whatever I can to assist the police.'

The shopkeeper said the word ‘police' with a little more volume than was strictly necessary. There was a flurry of books and magazines being replaced on shelves and a strange, almost whistling sound of nylon against nylon as raincoat-wearing customers brushed against each other on their way out through the narrow doorway. The schoolboy, apparently frozen to the spot, was staring at Berlin, his eyes wide open and unblinking. The crest on his blazer pocket was from a leading boys school and a metal badge on his lapel said he was a prefect.

Berlin took the magazine from his hands. ‘Don't you have some place you should be, sonny Jim?'

The boy nodded but didn't move.

‘Then you should be there, shouldn't you?'

The boy nodded again. Berlin pointed to the shop doorway. The boy turned and walked to the door, stopping only to pick up a vinyl schoolbag at the entrance.

Berlin turned back to where Roberts and the shopkeeper were looking at each other.

‘Can I have a pack of twenty Craven A?'

The shopkeeper took the cigarettes from the shelf behind him.

‘That'll be three shillings and sixpence, I mean thirty-eight cents. This bloody decimal currency is a pain in the arse.'

Roberts handed over one of the recently introduced pink five-dollar notes. The government had been smart enough to make the different colours of the new money match the old bank notes to try to cut down on confusion. The one-dollar note was brown like the old ten-bob note, two dollars was green like a quid and the old blue fiver was now a blue ten-dollar bill. But it still wasn't the money Berlin had grown up with, and the shopkeeper was right – it was a pain in the arse.

There was a pile of tabloid newspapers tied up with string on the floor in front of the counter. The paper on top had a photograph of pop star Normie Rowe on the cover. Berlin knew the face because there were stories on the news that the popular young singer might be called up for national service and could eventually wind up in Vietnam.

‘Those all music newspapers? For kids, youngsters?'

The shopkeeper nodded. ‘From the last couple of weeks. I'm just about to send them back. The distributors make me take them. Waste of bloody space, we don't get a lot of teenagers in here.'

‘Not if the little buggers know what's good for them, anyway.'

The shopkeeper looked over at Roberts and then back at Berlin. ‘You can't talk to me like that, even if you are a copper. I run a decent business here.'

Berlin stared back across the counter. ‘No you bloody don't and we both know it. And I'm taking these newspapers, if you don't have any objections.'

‘I do as a matter of . . .'

The shopkeeper stopped mid-sentence. Berlin was standing next to Roberts now and from the corner of his eye he saw the detective's head moving from side to side again. The shopkeeper shut up and handed Roberts his change.

‘You wanna grab those newspapers, Bob? You're younger than me.'

‘And I'm better looking too, Charlie.' Roberts put the packet of cigarettes into his pocket before bending down and picking up the bundle of newspapers.

Berlin walked around behind the counter, reached underneath and pulled out the buff-coloured envelope. He slipped it into his suit coat's left-side pocket.

‘Now just a minute, mate.'

Berlin leaned in very close to the shopkeeper and spoke slowly. ‘First of all, sunshine, I'm not your mate, and if you really want to make this a big deal then we can. I can have a rummage around under your counter and see what else I can turn up. Of course, with me being a policeman I'd be forced to confiscate anything of a pornographic nature I might come across and then put you under arrest. But since I really, really don't want to put my hand back under there if I can help it, why don't we just call it quits? What do you say – that sound fair?'

The shopkeeper nodded slowly, keeping his mouth tightly closed.

Back at the car, Roberts dumped the bundle of newspapers behind the front seats and looked across at Berlin. ‘Okay, what do we do now?'

Is he asking about the missing girls or the envelope?
Berlin wondered.

The expression on Roberts' face wasn't giving anything away, that was for sure. Berlin was reminded of Peter's impassive face when he had come to collect him from the South Melbourne police station lock-up that awful night. The boy had fallen into bad company, was the way the magistrate had put it. Would a magistrate one day sum up Bob Roberts' situation the same way? And for both Peter and Bob, was it his doing somehow?

Berlin reached down for the passenger side door handle. ‘Why don't we go take a look at this Buddha's Belly joint, see if we can rustle up anybody. And maybe take a trip around to the other places the girls went dancing. After that you can drop me at home with the files on all the missing girls so I can go through them. There's probably more than enough people out beating the bushes for young Gudrun right at the moment.'

In the cramped space of the passenger seat the Triumph's door pressed against Berlin's hip and he could feel the bulk of the envelope in his pocket. In his twenty some years on the force he'd seen enough unmarked buff envelopes changing hands to know what was going on. He really hadn't wanted to believe the rumours about Bob Roberts and he really didn't want to ask about the envelope and hear the lie or open it up and see the truth.

He looked at his watch. Sarah had saved up and bought it for him after his old air force–issue watch had finally given up the ghost. Usually the watch made him think of her and that always made him smile. Right now all the watch did was tell him that it was just past midday on a Monday and he was already exhausted. And Gudrun Scheiner had been gone for forty hours.