‘Is she here today?’
‘I’ll find her for you, love.’
I was writing in my notebook when I looked up and saw a woman coming towards me.
Detectives were trained to register appearance quickly and without surprise, but this time I couldn’t help staring. Bett was the last person I expected to find sleeping rough. She seemed to be in her fifties, and she was beautiful, with high cheekbones, widely spaced eyes, dark, thick eyebrows and a generous mouth.
When she smiled at me I saw that, unlike those of many homeless people, her teeth were white and strong. She wore black high-heeled pumps, and the heels sank into the soft grass as she walked. They were real leather, although the caps had fallen off the heels, and the shoes were streaked with mud. I was sure that her soft, slim-fitting jumper was cashmere, although it was dirty and there were food stains across the chest. It was tucked into a light, black wool, knee-length skirt, softly flared. The skirt was crushed, and there were grass and mud stains around the hem. It was beautifully cut.
Casually draped across her shoulders was a red cotton jacket, elegantly made but also grubby. She carried a blue and red silk scarf. Her hair was blonde, long, dry looking, with grey roots that extended from her scalp to just above her ears. It was a long time since she’d had a hairdo.
She stood in front of me, winding the silk scarf around her hair and tying it at the back. Finally she spoke, formally extending her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Elizabeth Asher. Pleased to meet you. I understand you’re asking about Hobie.’ Her voice was educated, cultured, the kind you expected to hear in a mansion south of the Yarra, not in a homeless community under a railway bridge.
‘Yes, Ms Asher. I’m Jocelyn Wallachia, a Senior Detective with the Homicide Squad.’ I showed her my ID.
‘So the deceased was called Hobie?’
She lit a cigarette before she answered. Her dirty fingernails had once been manicured, and they still bore traces of chipped scarlet polish.
‘Well that’s what he called himself. Listen, dear, I need a cup of tea.’
She was the first person that morning who had shown any personal knowledge of the victim, so a cup of tea was the least I could do. The café in the Aquarium would be open by now.
‘Okay, we’ll go to the café.’
I spoke to one of my team members briefly, and then I walked with Ms Asher to the café. There would be time for a formal statement later.
‘Earl Grey tea, please,’ Bett, as she asked me to call her, commanded the hovering waiter while we sat down at a table by the window.
When he came back with her tea, a coffee for myself and a cheese toastie, each on china plates, Bett nodded sniffily. She sat relaxed, her hair now tied up in the silk scarf, and her elegant legs were crossed at the knees. She sipped her tea, nibbled at her sandwich delicately with those expensive teeth, and patted her lips with a napkin.
‘So, Hobie?’ I began. ‘What can you tell me? Was Hobie his real name?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. No one on the street uses their real name.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not well, dear. We talked sometimes, usually late at night, especially when his demons began to hound him. He’d sometimes come looking for me then.’ Bett paused, for effect I thought. She was enjoying the limelight.
‘What demons, Bett?’
‘Nazi demons. Hobie was a resistance fighter in Poland under the German occupation during World War II.’
‘Can you tell me more about that?’
Even though I had Polish ancestry, I was shamefully ignorant of Poland’s war history.
‘Well, when the Nazis invaded Poland, the Polish government was exiled to London, but the Home Army, as it was called, fought the invaders. They were an underground group; they fought from hiding, mostly in the forests. Don’t you know this history, dear?’ she asked accusingly.
I felt like a schoolgirl who hadn’t done her homework.
‘In Warsaw in 1944, there was an uprising led by that underground Polish army,’ she continued. ‘The city was destroyed. Hobie was one of 60,000 Poles sent to German camps. He’d already seen terrible things, fellow soldiers murdered in front of him, hundreds of thousands of civilians including children killed in mass executions, and then he witnessed even worse in the camps. No wonder he was a little insane.’
‘So he wasn’t Jewish?’
‘No. Of course it was deadly to be Jewish in Poland then, but Hobie was Catholic, like most Poles. He ended up in a concentration camp. I still can’t understand how he survived. Most of the underground military fighters didn’t.’
‘When did he come to Australia?’
‘After the war with all the other displaced people from Poland, and with Jews liberated from the camps.’
‘Did he ever mention a family?’
‘Once he told me that he had a wife and a son, but then he clammed up and I didn’t ask. You learn not to intrude on people’s past.’
‘What did you talk about with him, Bett?’
‘Oh, the evil of human nature. Hobie was a very intelligent man, a philosopher, except when he was able to scrounge money for vodka, then it was best to stay away.’
‘What about last night? Did you see or hear anything?’
Bett gave me a defiant stare. She’d tell me what she wanted to tell me when she was ready. ‘No dear, I sleep at the other end of the park with my own group. We tend to live in little families here.’
‘Was Hobie in a family?’
‘No, he was quite antisocial. He hated people.’
‘And yet he talked to you?’
‘Well, we had something in common, you see.’ Bett had finished her tea and sandwich, and she pulled a cigarette and lighter out of the pocket of her jacket.
‘You can’t smoke in here, Bett. I’ll pay the bill and we’ll go outside.’
In the warm air she lit her cigarette and blew a white stream out through her nose.
‘What did you and Hobie have in common?’
‘Hatred of the Nazis and everything German.’
‘Are you Jewish?’
‘Yes, by blood. You wouldn’t exactly call me kosher these days.’
I couldn’t ask, not yet, but I wondered again how her life had come down to this, a sleeping bag in a dirty park next to the Yarra.
‘My father came out to Australia on the Dunera,’ she began.
I must have looked blank, because she was suddenly irritated again.
‘You young people know no history, do you? It’s disgraceful.’
‘I’m sorry, Bett, please tell me.’
‘Alright, I’ll give you a history lesson, little Miss Detective. There were thousands of Jews in England, especially London, just before World War II broke out. They’d fled there when they saw the writing on the wall in Europe. In England, everyone was terrified of a German invasion, and they decided the presence of the Jews would bring on an attack. They put two thousand Jewish boys on a decrepit ship to Australia, the Dunera. They spent two months on that stinking overcrowded ship, not knowing where they were going. It docked in Sydney. My father was one of the “Dunera boys” as they called themselves, and he made his way to Melbourne in the late 1940s, when members of his family, Holocaust survivors, arrived here.’
‘So you were born in Melbourne?’
‘Yes, my parents where both Orthodox Jews, so I knew something about Hobie’s obsessions. Even as a little girl, I knew the Nazis were monsters. But like many of the Dunera boys, my father made the most of his new life and became very successful.’
‘Did you have brothers or sisters?’
‘No, just me. The full ticket, darling. Exclusive Melbourne Jewish school, synagogue every week, marriage to a brilliant young Jewish investment banker.’
I was amazed. I must have been staring at her, and she didn’t like it.
‘Grow up, lovey, there’s more to the world than your little corner of it,’ she barked, dragging on her cigarette. Her long, sli
m fingers were stained yellow with nicotine.
Clearly I needed to stay out of her personal life.
‘Okay, let’s get back to Hobie. Did you ever see him talking to anyone else, arguing? Did anyone visit him?’
‘No, he was isolate, a recluse. He’d wander during the day and come back to the park at night.’
‘Was he concerned for his safety?’
‘Another foolish question, darling. Of course he was. We all are, sleeping out in the open like this. He kept his mallet close.’
Mallet? I checked my notes. The crime scene guys hadn’t mentioned anything like that.
‘He had a mallet?’
Bett was getting tired of this now. ‘Yes, he had a mallet,’ she mimicked my voice.
I ignored her sarcasm. ‘Can you describe it?’
‘It was heavy, wooden, a carpenter’s mallet. He told me he used to make furniture. He wouldn’t let anyone touch it.’
She knew more than she was telling me.
‘Bett, I need you to come to the station to make a formal statement. We’ll go there now.’
After we left the café, I asked one of the uniformed officers to stay with Bett, while I made arrangements with the rest of my team to continue their investigations in the park.
Then I sent a text to Trent: Person of interest who knew the deceased. Going now to take a statement. Also possible weapon. How far away are you?
Trent’s reply was almost immediate: On my way now.
Chapter 17
Trent Grierson
Monday, 11 April
Bett was angry.
She fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, looked around the room, and avoided eye contact.
‘What about a cup of tea?’ Jossie offered.
That got a response. ‘Yes, please.’
When Jossie brought the tea from the kitchen, Bett looked with disdain at the polystyrene cup and its insipid brown liquid.
‘Sorry,’ Jossie said. ‘We don’t run to Earl Grey in teapots here.’
‘Are we ready to begin?’ I asked.
When Bett nodded, I told her of her rights and pressed a button to begin recording the interview.
‘You refer to the deceased as Hobie? Do you know his full name?’
Bett seemed now to have decided to cooperate. ‘He went by the name Herbert Stanley.’
‘Went by? Are you saying it wasn’t his real name?’
‘Of course not.’ Bett couldn’t contain her sarcasm. ‘It couldn’t be. Hobie was Polish. There’s nothing Polish about the name Herbert Stanley.’
‘How long did you know him?’
‘A few years.’
‘Did you know him before?’ I asked.
Bett seemed to fidget with an invisible cigarette. ‘Before? What are you talking about?’
‘Before Enterprise Park. Before you became homeless.’
‘None of your business.’ She crossed her arms defensively.
I was tired. ‘Look, Ms Asher, I know this is hard for you. I understand why you don’t want to talk to police. But think about it this way. Hobie was your friend. He was violently killed. He was a lonely, homeless old man who didn’t deserve that. Don’t you owe it to him to help us find the killer? All we want is justice for Hobie. We’re not trying to pin anything on you.’
She seemed to relax a little then. ‘I met him in 1979. It was the year I was married. He had a furniture factory in Carlton. He made everything himself, heavy European furniture, all Australian hardwood. He was in demand for a few years. We commissioned library shelves for our home in Caulfield, and he came to the house to measure and fit them. He and I talked as he worked.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Literature, history, poetry, social issues, politics, everything. He was an intelligent, well-read man. He told me a little about his life in Poland during the war.’
‘Can you remember the name of his factory?’
‘Not really … Something, Something, Fine Handcrafted Furniture? I went there a few times. Over the years he made us some beautiful pieces — a table, a dresser, a curved handrail for the main staircase.’
‘During what years did you go to the factory?’
Bett thought for a moment. ‘Early 1980s.’
‘Did anyone work with him?’
‘Only the boy that I saw.’
‘What boy?’
‘Hobie’s son.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Eighteen or so? I didn’t know his name. He never spoke.’
‘What about the boy’s mother?’
‘Long gone, Hobie told me.’
‘Were you in continuous contact with Hobie since 1979?’
‘No, there was a gap of about twenty years when I didn’t see him or know where he was. Later he told me that his business failed in the nineties. He survived on the dole and on whatever labour he could get for a few years. By the time I met him again, his alcoholism and “demons” as he called them had taken over and he wasn’t able to work.’
‘Where was he living then?’
‘In a rooming house in Fitzroy.’
‘And you?’
‘Why does it matter?’
‘We have to try to get every piece of information we can. Sometimes something that seems irrelevant turns out to be important.’
Bett rolled her eyes upward in irritation. ‘My marriage had finished by then. My husband was in jail for illegal business dealings, embezzlement, insider trading, everything the greedy bastard thought he could get away with. The creditors got everything. I stayed with my parents for a while, and when I couldn’t take their disapproval any longer so I started the rounds of emergency housing. It didn’t take long to descend into rooming houses, and finally onto the street. Anyway, I met up with Hobie one day at Sacred Heart Mission. All of us down and outs go there for a daily meal. We’ve stayed together, on and off, since then.’
‘So you were a couple?’
‘Yes, in a way.’ Suddenly her eyes glittered with tears, and she put her head down to hide them.
‘Did you know anything about Hobie’s son during that time?’
‘No, the last time I saw him was at the factory sometime in the early 80s. Hobie didn’t know where he was. I’ve no idea what happened to him.’
‘You said that Hobie had a wooden mallet?’
‘Yes, it was always close by. He used it in the factory; it was a vintage mallet, very heavy with a long handle.’
‘Do you remember him having it when he was living in the park?’
‘Yes, as I said. It was always close by. He kept it for protection. When he was drunk he’d wave it at people as if to threaten them, but there was nothing to it. Hobie wasn’t violent.’
‘This is important. You stated to Detective Wallachia that he had the mallet with him last night, the night he was killed. Are you certain of that?’
‘Yes. I was talking to him at about eleven. He was sober and the mallet was there as usual.’
‘Anything else you think we should know, Bett?’
‘No, I’ve told you everything.’
‘That’s all for the time being. If we can’t find the son, would you be prepared to identify the body?’
‘I suppose so.’
I formally closed the interview and turned off the recorder. ‘We’ll need to talk to you again. Will we find you at Enterprise Park?’
‘Nowhere else to go,’ she muttered.
While Jossie organised to have the statement typed up, I stood outside with Bett in the thin autumn sun, as she smoked two cigarettes quickly, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. I wanted to talk to her about the dangers of sleeping rough, tell her that we could help her find emergency housing, but she was too testy. I tried another approach.
‘What about a real cup of tea and a sandwich?’ I offered.
I took her to the café next door. It was one of those pretentious, expensive little places where they served five chips in a dented aluminium dish, a
nd sandwiches on a wooden board, but they made real tea in china pots.
‘You know, Bett, we could help you get emergency accommodation, and get you on the list for public housing. It’s dangerous the way you’re living.’
‘Look, dear,’ she said as she sipped her tea, ‘don’t worry about me. I’ve got relatives I could go to, but I can’t bear their sanctimonious ways. Every now and then I find emergency housing, but you can never stay very long. They’re always moving you on somewhere else. For the time being I’m living in the park. People know me there and look out for me.’
‘Well you know you can come to us whenever you’re ready, and we’ll always do our best to help you.’
Suddenly, uncharacteristically, she reached out her grimy hand and covered mine. It felt almost motherly.
‘Thank you, Trent.’
Chapter 18
Bett Asher
Monday, 11 April
Those two wanted to rescue me.
God knows, I’d love a bath, love to wash my hair and my clothes, love to feel clean again. But I don’t want that more than my freedom. The family suffocates me; all that valiant woman bullshit, the Shabat candles, segregated synagogue, the whole disaster. If I take emergency housing I have public servants wanting to know every detail of my life. I only get the Newstart Allowance, I’m not old enough yet for the pension. On Newstart, I can’t afford even the cheapest rent.
Little Miss Detective and that Trent bloke had no idea. How could they understand how two doomed, damaged people could make a home together, even in a cold, wet park? How they could cling together against the rain and wind, how they could calm each other with stories?
Hobie would sing to me the lullabies his mother sang when he was a child. He told me how in Warsaw he saw his wife gunned down, and how part of his heart grew hard and cold that day. He’d told me that he didn’t care about his homeland anymore, and then he’d cried and said it wasn’t true. He’d recited poetry to me in that language full of hills and valleys, and I’d held him close, dry and warm on our concrete bed.
The Blooming Of Alison Brennan Page 8
