by Stephen Orr
‘You sure you want to read it?’ Jim asked Bill.
‘Yes,’ Bill replied. ‘Then everyone will know what sort of girl she is.’
Twenty minutes later Dad, Jim and Bill sat behind a small wooden table placed in the middle of a milk-white studio, its walls as bare as the Croydon Cold Store. Where the walls met the floor there was a curve so there was no possibility of shadow. Lights hung from a high ceiling on long steel frames that moved in the slight breeze of air-conditioning.
There was only one camera. I watched on a monitor as the men squeezed together in front of a police logo made from cardboard that had been torn and taped back together. Dad poured water into each of three glasses and looked at Bill. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. It’s not the Tivoli, but . . .’
Dad smiled. ‘And I’m not Daisy.’
A window opened from a control room high above the studio. ‘Tape’s running,’ someone called out, and another man, wearing thongs and shorts and a pair of earphones as big as coffee mugs, looked at them and asked, ‘Who’s going first?’
‘I am,’ Dad replied.
‘When you’re ready.’
Dad purged his face of any trace of levity or good humour. His voice dropped and he stared into the camera. ‘Good afternoon. My name’s Detective Sergeant Robert Page.’
And then he was off, introducing Jim and Bill and explaining what had happened to the kids – the day, time and place. ‘The difficulty we’re having,’ he said, slowly, clearly, ‘is the lack of substantive witnesses.’
Substantive. I’d never heard my dad say that word before. Did he have some sort of extra intelligence, a police intelligence, or was that one of the terms they learnt at the academy – undesirable elements, extraneous information, intolerable hooliganism?
He continued explaining their few leads. He held up an enlarged photo of the kids and waited a full thirty seconds as the camera maintained a close-up. Then he produced a sketch of the man in the blue bathers that showed a tall, blond male with a generic nose, eyes, chin, hair and teeth. It could’ve been me, Menzies, Mr Coulson, Kevin Johns or anyone at the Challa Gardens Hotel for the six o’ clock swill. He produced a small map, showing their possible route from the esplanade along Semaphore Road, past the bakery, and ending at the edge of the page with a question mark. Mr Patterson and the three pasties in a bag were invoked, as well as an image of the blond man helping the children get dressed. Then Dad said, ‘This case has touched a lot of people. I don’t accept that three kiddies playing at the beach in front of hundreds of people could just go missing. There must be an explanation. Someone must have seen something. Anything. No matter how small, if you have seen or know something that you think might help us, please call this number.’
And then there was a pause, for a number to appear later.
‘Also,’ Dad continued, ‘we’d like to ask people to search their properties. In the city, and country – creeks, gullies, wells, sheds, storage areas. Ten minutes of your time. We can’t be everywhere. I’d like to ask you to do this tonight, if possible.’
Then it was Jim’s turn. He explained how the police were using every resource, how people were coming in on days off and delaying holidays. He described the search and the spirit of a thousand ordinary people giving up their time to help. ‘And why?’ he asked. ‘Because they, like me, don’t believe this sort of thing happens in our town. In America or Europe, perhaps, but not Adelaide. They believe we live in a safe place, where kids are looked after and protected. Not a place where some . . . person, gets it in his head to do other people great harm. Great, great harm.’
And at this point, everyone was watching Bill’s face.
‘And, if you are that individual,’ Jim continued, ‘I plead with you, on behalf of Mister and Missus Riley, to return the kids unharmed. That would be the decent thing, the human thing. Everyone in this city asks the same thing – for God’s sake, give them back.’
He paused, to let his words settle, to allow their meaning to be comprehended. Then he said, ‘And if it turns out you’re not the sort of person who can be reasoned with, the Police Commissioner and the Premier, Mister Playford, have authorised a ten thousand pound reward for any information leading to your capture. But believe me, whoever you might be, that will just be the beginning. Every man, woman and child in this country will know your name, and like it says in the Bible, you will be cast out. You Will Be Cast Out.’
Slowly, Bill began to talk. He said he agreed with Jim, that there was a person or people. He said he was talking to that person. Do you have kids? Do you know anyone who does? But most of all, just think about my children. Think how much a four-year-old needs his parents. If you want money, tell me, so I know what I should do. How could you, or anyone, live like me and Liz are living?
And then, to make it clearer still, he read the letter. ‘“Dear Mum and Dad, I am just about to go to bed and the time is nine. I have put Gavin’s plastic sheet on just in case he wets the bed. Gavin wanted to sleep in his own bed so one of you will have to sleep with Anna. Although you will not find the rooms in very good condition I hope you will find them as comfortable as we do. Good night to you both, Janice. PS, I hope you had a nice time wherever you went. PPS, I hope you don’t mind me taking your radio into my room, Daddy.”’
Bill turned his head away from the camera. He slipped from his chair onto the floor, and the cold, white walls amplified his breathless fits. Dad knelt beside him and the man in the earphones called up to the control booth, ‘That’s enough.’
Then Jim sighed, and turned the opposite way, and covered his face with his open hand. He managed to stand up, and walk from the studio, upsetting the sign that snapped its nylon line and fell to the floor.
And that was it. The lights switched off with a sort of clunk and Dad and Bill were left in the green shadow of an exit sign.
Again, this visit, to Doctor Gunn’s clinic, is something Dad told me about later – in his endless retelling, and recasting of those days; of their chronology, sequence and mechanics.
Later that afternoon, Dad and Bert stood in the waiting room of Doctor Gunn’s clinic. Dad watched as a boy, about my age, the son of a single mother from Princess Street, sorted through a pile of books in the adjoining room. Dad wondered why I’d been replaced. There was a time I’d plead to go the clinic. But maybe, he guessed, I was growing up. Still, it was strange, how there was another, not dissimilar Henry Page sorting books.
‘Is he paying you well?’ Dad asked the boy, as Bert sat down and flicked through a magazine.
‘He gives me free books.’
‘You like reading?’
‘I like Biggles. I like it when he gets the Krauts.’
Dad smiled. ‘My son used to help here. He likes books. Ali Barbar. You read him?’
‘Nut.’
And then the boy just bowed his head, searching for an author’s surname. Venning. ‘I’m up to V. Nearly finished.’
‘Good.’
The boy stood up, approached the shelf and slipped the book in, slowly, carefully, aware that he was being watched.
‘Doctor Gunn looks after you?’ Dad asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Looks after you? Treats you well?’
Doctor Gunn emerged from his back room followed by a frail old man with an almost horizontal stoop. ‘Bob,’ the doctor said, taking Dad’s hand and shaking it. ‘Terrible news.’
‘Yes. We’re door-knocking Croydon, George. Everyone. Wondered if you had a few minutes?’
‘Of course. Hold on.’
Doctor Gunn helped the old man count his money and then gave him some change from a strongbox in his desk drawer. As he did this Dad took a book from one of the shelves in the waiting room. He opened it and recognised my handwriting straight away. Neat. Perfectly spaced. Property of Doctor George Gunn.
The old man shuffled out of the door and Dad asked, ‘Henry?’
‘Yes, he did all of these. Where is he? I haven’t
seen him for so long.’
‘Suppose he’s got other things on his mind, George.’
‘Of course.’ He turned and scanned one of his shelves, pulling out a book and handing it to Dad. ‘Give him this. He must have run out of books by now.’
Dad looked at the spine. Treasure Island. ‘You sure?’
‘Of course. It’ll get his mind off this business. Least I can do, for all the help he’s given me. Tell him to come back, I’ve got books everywhere. I need a good helper.’
‘You’ve got one.’
‘Many hands, Bob. I want to line that whole room with shelves. I know where I can get thousands of books. The libraries have disposal sales. People come in for some work, Bob, and they leave with an arm-full of books. It’s becoming a real little library. Look . . .’
He showed Dad a box of cards on his desk where he recorded titles and due dates. ‘That library at Hindmarsh, it’s hopeless. I’m doin’ a real public service. But I need help. You tell Henry I’m missin’ him.’
‘Will do.’
Doctor Gunn sat down behind his desk. Dad closed the door to the library and introduced Bert, who explained how he needed some work done, standing and showing the doctor the area around his backbone and asking when was a good time.
‘You give me a call,’ the doctor replied, handing him a card.
Dad sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I suppose you’ve been reading the papers,’ he said.
George Gunn shook his head. ‘Why the Rileys, Bob?’
‘We reckon it’s random,’ Dad replied. ‘They were just in the wrong place . . .’
‘So why all this?’
‘I take it you knew the kids?’
‘Met them once or twice, through Henry.’
‘You talked to them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long ago?’
He folded his arms. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Something they might have said to you . . .’
‘No, it was just hello.’
Bert, clutching his rolled-up magazine, stretched back and upset a model of the human spine on the smoker’s table. ‘Con tells us,’ he said, trying to fit several vertebrae back together, ‘that you saw them at the station.’
The doctor stopped to think. ‘Did I?’ He came over to the model and fixed the pieces in place. Then he sat down again, slowly, using the time to think.
‘When they were catching the train to Semaphore,’ Bert explained. ‘Nine in the morning, Australia Day. You weren’t open on a public holiday, were you?’
‘No, just catchin’ up on some paperwork.’ He dipped his head, paused, and then looked up. ‘Jeez, you’re right, I was standin’ out the front.’
‘And there was no one with them?’
‘No. Just a girl on a bike. You think someone might’ve – ’
‘No,’ Bert replied. ‘Just a thought.’
‘Must be terrible for the parents,’ the doctor intoned, turning his head in slow, repetitive orbits. ‘How’s Henry?’
Dad shrugged. ‘Quiet, but it will hit him soon, I think. Then we’ll have to see.’
‘Poor kid. Tell him to come by. And what about the rest of the area, what are people saying?’
‘Most are like you,’ Dad explained. ‘Others . . .’
Like the old bastard they’d just visited in Robert Street, busy up on his roof trying to remove moss with a bottle of bleach and a hose. He looked down at Dad and Bert and called, ‘Shut it off.’
Dad turned off the tap as he explained who he was and why he’d come.
‘I don’t know nothin’ about no kids.’
‘But they would’ve passed here,’ Dad almost shouted up. ‘Quite regularly. There was a nine-year-old girl – ’
‘Don’t know. Now, turn me hose back on.’
Dad and Bert walked off, shaking their heads and whispering, ‘Silly old cunt.’ And the roof cleaner climbed down the ladder, screaming after them, ‘You heard what I said – switch me bloody hose back on.’ Then he followed them onto the street. ‘Hey, don’t walk away. Who do I call to complain about you two?’
Bert grinned. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Don’t you think I will?’
Back in the clinic, Dad stood up and shook Doctor Gunn’s hand. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said.
‘Of course.’
He looked at the book. ‘I’ll give this to Henry.’
‘Righto. He never says anything about his job?’
‘No. Maybe he doesn’t need the money. We give him a few shillings.’ Dad smiled. ‘Maybe we should stop.’
Bert and Dad walked down Elizabeth Street. ‘What do you think?’ Dad asked, deep in thought.
‘What should I think?’
‘I was just wondering . . . man that age, keeping the company of children.’
‘Including Henry?’
‘I know.’
‘Have you checked him – ’
‘What do you reckon?’ Dad shot back.
Bert took the book and flicked through. ‘From this to a triple abduction?’
Dad shrugged. ‘You’re right.’
They covered both sides of Elizabeth Street, buying smokes at the Acorn deli, watching John Cox fix a pair of work boots and Ted Bilston unpack a crate of bruised peaches, explaining, ‘They were fine yesterday, but someone’s been moving them around, down the cold stores.’ Dad waited outside as Bert talked to Eric Hessian and they ate fruit buns with Joe Skurray’s wife as she told them how Janice used to help them mix dough. Then there was Don Eckert. Dad only remembered when it was too late.
‘You spoke to those kids yet, Bob?’ Don asked, filling bags with mixed lollies (as Bert noticed how he crammed them full of cheap sweets).
‘I have, but we’re here about the Rileys.’
‘You were gonna get back to me.’
‘I’ve had a lot on my plate, as you can imagine.’
‘Did you tell them you’d book ’em?’
‘I told them to keep away.’
‘Lotta good that’ll do. They still walk past and look in, and smile, like this.’ He demonstrated. ‘Kids that age, you’d think the father woulda taught them a bit of respect.’
‘Don.’
He lost his count. ‘Christ. What?’
‘The Rileys.’
‘What about them?’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘Who, Bill?’
‘The kids.’
He shrugged and started counting again. ‘Dunno. Few days ago. Why?’
Dad picked up a copy of The News, opened it and found an article with a photo of the kids on page five. ‘“Four days after their disappearance,”’ he read, ‘“police are still no closer to ascertaining the whereabouts of the Riley children.”’
Don stopped. He took the paper from Dad and looked at the picture. ‘When did this happen?’ he asked.
Dad shook his head. ‘You let me know if those kids bother you, Don.’ He walked from the shop, holding the door for Bert and then letting it slam. Don looked up at him. ‘Careful,’ he muttered, picking up another bag and starting to load it with raspberries.
‘Amazing,’ Dad said, walking along Day Terrace. ‘They get on a train not thirty feet from his shop . . .’
They walked down the front path of a bungalow that had been made Greek. Two olive trees, staked with droppers and attached with pantyhose, had grown as tall as the house in the few years since Bob could remember cumquats in their place. A few young citrus trees with their lower trunks painted white collected reflected light from the fence. The bluestone façade of the house and the porch and verandah had been disguised with blue and white vitriol tiles, leftover from someone’s laundry. The concrete path had been painted brown and a shaky trellis of aluminium poles moved under the weight of a grapevine.
Bert knocked on the door and a small Greek woman with a caterpillar moustache, dressed all in black, opened the door and released a cloud of laurel sulphate mixed with the smell of h
oney and nuts from fresh baklava. She said a few words in Greek and then Dad showed her a photo of the kids. She took the photo, studied it, lifted her arms and then walked back down the hallway. A moment later she returned with a photo album and sat on a chair on the verandah. She motioned for them to sit beside her, and started showing them photos of her grandchildren.
‘No,’ Dad said, pointing at the photo, ‘have you seen these particular children? They would’ve passed by here, past your house, see, here, along there.’
She kissed the photo and managed a word that sounded like ‘correspondence’, and Dad reclaimed the photo and sighed.
A few minutes later they were sitting on a brick fence, smoking. ‘What are we going to charge Grosser with?’ Bert asked
Dad shrugged. ‘Stupidity.’ He inhaled until his lungs were full. ‘I’m smoking too many of these,’ he said, looking at the day-old rollie.
‘Makes you impotent,’ Bert replied.
‘That doesn’t worry me.’ He stopped to think. ‘We should make an example of him. Otherwise we’ll have a hundred cockheads like him to deal with.’
Erwin Grosser had phoned the Freeling police the day before. In an agitated voice he’d explained how a man driving a Holden had just stopped at his house at Daveystown. He described the man (a near perfect match of the police description) and the pistol he’d waved at him as he made him fill up his car’s radiator. He described the children, again, almost exactly the same as the papers. Except for one thing: ‘The boy, the nine year old, kept looking at me and trying to say something. Then they drove off towards Nuriootpa.’
The Freeling police asked him to come to the station. They made him sign a statement saying he’d made a false report. After admitting his guilt he explained, ‘I did it to get your attention. You should be lookin’ out my way. There’s a million places he could have them.’
Dad and Bert worked their way along Day Terrace. When they got to Kevin Johns’ house, Dad said, ‘Do we really need to?’
‘Yes we do.’
‘I’ve spoken to him.’
‘Come on.’
They sat with him on the front porch, dangling their legs into a garden of dead ryegrass. ‘You had her here quite often,’ Bert said, taking the lead. ‘She must have talked to you.’
