by Unknown
After fifteen laps, I climbed out and towelled off on the boardwalk. By the time I dressed it was past five and a crowd had gathered on the balcony looking over the baths. I contemplated heading up and ordering a beer, but needed to get home and feed Prince before meeting Ella at seven.
Taking Beach Road to the Esplanade, I drove with my window down. The sun sat high over the bay on the left, breeze flooding the car with warm and salty air. A dozen or so kite boarders skated across the glassy water beyond the marina. Diesel’s ‘Fifteen Feet of Snow’ came on the radio and I turned up the volume to catch the end of the opening riffs, singing along with the lyrics. I once saw Diesel perform to a small crowd with nothing but an acoustic guitar and a voice that could literally tear your rib cage open. It was his raw energy and grunt that got me every time.
As the vocals faded, I killed the volume and rolled my shoulders, pleased I’d made the trip to the baths. The swimming had loosened my back and shoulder, though it hadn’t cleared my head as much as I’d hoped. The events of the day and the details of the case floated through my mind as I passed Luna Park and took Beaconsfield Parade towards home. Pulling into the car park beside my apartment block, I made a conscious effort to push it all away, to focus instead on Ella, my family and the night ahead.
The afternoon heat had left the apartment like a kiln. I turned the air conditioner on high, then dumped my towel and swim bag in the laundry. Prince heard the cupboard open and rushed to his food bowl. I topped it with a tuna sachet. By five thirty I’d showered and was dressed in a linen shirt, beige cargo shorts and leather sandals. At the mirror, for once I was pleased with what I saw. The afternoon sun had left my face tanned and the bags under my eyes almost unnoticeable. My skin had a healthy sheen, cleansed by a dose of salt water. I ran a comb through my hair, slapped on some cologne and decided to leave the day’s stubble intact. After gathering my wallet and phone, I selected a bottle of wine from a box in the pantry and stowed it in a carry bag with the wrapped present. Now I was ready.
The Stokehouse Restaurant on St Kilda’s Lower Esplanade is a Melbourne institution. Situated on prime beachfront, there isn’t a better place in the city for a drink on a sunny afternoon. Upstairs is pure swank. Tuxedos and business suits. Trendy meals at not-so-trendy prices. Downstairs is more my flavour, especially in the beachside courtyard, where the only barriers between you and the water are a walking track and a few metres of sand.
At the bar I nodded and smiled at Logan, who’d worked at the Stokehouse for as long as I could remember, as much a part of the atmosphere as the view. He was preparing a row of screwdrivers in tall tumblers. While I waited I picked up a copy of Inpress, a free newspaper promoting the Melbourne band scene. Wolfmother were on the front cover. After snatching a Grammy Award from big American acts like Nine Inch Nails and Tool, the Sydney trio were still going gangbusters. They’d recently headlined the Big Day Out rock festival and were backing it up with a nationwide tour. Looking more closely, I realised the picture had been taken on a rooftop just across the Esplanade, the Palais Theatre and Luna Park in the background.
After serving the screwdrivers, Logan sidled over. ‘Hey, big fella, put it here,’ he said, holding his hand out across the bar. ‘Can’t stay away, can ya?’
‘Not when the beer’s cold and the sun’s shining,’ I replied, smiling and shaking his hand.
‘Mate, the sun’s shining too much this summer. Check that out.’
He pointed to a TV on the wall. The seven o’clock news had just started and the bushfires were the lead story yet again. On the screen, traffic on a highway was queued for miles as people fled another town under threat.
‘I see it on TV and it doesn’t seem real,’ Logan said. ‘It’s like one of those American doomsday movies. Then I look outside and it’s right there in front of us, in Melbourne. Look!’
I followed his line of sight, out to the beach. Suspended behind a blanket of smoke, the sun was crimson red and looked like a ball of fire over the water. It happened only at certain times of the year, and only when it was stinking hot. I knew cops who called it the blood sunset. It was beautiful yet threatening at the same time, because you knew that as soon as the sun extinguished itself in the bay and darkness fell on the city, people would lose the plot. Fights in the pubs, rapes in the hostels, brawls outside the nightclubs and stabbings on the foreshore were all par for the course when the heat was up. I looked back at Logan, who twisted his earring nervously.
‘I’m telling you, man. Armageddon’s coming. You better be ready.’
‘Then you better get me a beer,’ I said. ‘A Heineken, nice and cold. And a glass of Chandon too.’
Logan raised his eyebrows. ‘On a date, stud?’
‘Ah, sort of. It’s Ella, remember her?’
‘No shit. The Ella?’
I nodded. Many years ago I’d proposed to Ella in the restaurant upstairs, and during our marriage we’d come back every year to celebrate our anniversary.
‘She’s not here yet, but we’ve got my nephew’s eighteenth birthday party tonight, so we’re having a quick drink here before we go.’
Logan nodded approvingly and poured my beer. ‘I’ll keep the Chandon on ice until she arrives.’
I paid for the drinks and dropped a two-dollar coin in the tips jar. Outside in the courtyard I selected a table by the grass and watched the teams of kite boarders slice white wakes across the water. Further out, a lone windsurfer sped across the surface.
I sipped gratefully and thumbed through Inpress to the gigs section, looking for the listings at the Esplanade Hotel. The Espy, as we locals called it, was a musical icon. As the name suggested, it looked out over the walkway along the bay, with an almost uninterrupted view of the water. But it wasn’t the view it was famous for, it was the music. For more than a hundred years the Espy had been regarded as one of the nation’s premier live music venues. Everyone, from legends like Jimmy Barnes and John Farnham right through to more recent rockers like Paul Kelly and Jet, had performed there. In an average week the Espy played host to over fifty bands across three stages, and the best part was that a lot of it was free. I’d lost count of how many acts I’d seen there.
But even more than that, the Espy was one of the last remaining places in St Kilda to resist the lure of developers and dance scene promoters, many of whom would chop off their arms to take over the venue and convert it into apartments or some freakshow of a nightclub. Even the Prince of Wales Hotel, just a block up the road and previously a similar venue to the Espy, was now known more for its swanky restaurant and disc jockeys than the rock bands that occasionally played there. Pubs like the Espy offered more than just entertainment; they were a modern-day David fighting an endless battle with the Goliath of inner-city progress.
I was writing down a couple of Wolfmother’s tour dates when my mobile phone beeped. Looking down, I saw it was a text message from Ella: Sorry, won’t be able to make it. Explain later. Xo.
I was dialling her number when a hand tapped my shoulder. It was Ella, mobile phone in hand. She leant in to kiss my cheek.
‘Sorry, just wanted to see your reaction.’
‘What the . . . ?’ I cancelled the call. ‘You’re pranking me?’
She winked and I realised it was her off sense of humour. ‘That’s low, El.’
‘How low?’
‘Lower than a snake’s arse.’
She laughed and slid into a chair, summer dress riding high on her thighs, hair tied back, revealing a patch of pink around her neck and shoulders.
‘Been sunbaking, have we? Hard day at the office?’
‘Ever the detective,’ she said, sliding on her sunglasses. ‘No, my bloody tram broke down so I had to walk three blocks. Got blisters to boot. That’s why I’m late.’
‘Want to go inside, out of the sun?’
‘No, I want to smoke,’ she replied, dragging her chair into the shade of a palm tree and nodding to the newspaper on the table. ‘Checking the gig guide, h
uh? Who’s playing?’
‘Wolfmother,’ I said. ‘They’re doing a night at the Espy next week.’
‘The Espy? God, is that place still going? Thought they would’ve converted it into apartments or something by now.’
‘Yeah, right. I think the locals would rather burn it down than see that happen. I’d bloody help them.’
She waved me off in indifference.
‘Anyway, I’m on the members list,’ I said. ‘I can get tickets if you wanna come.’
‘Why not something like Bennetts Lane?’ she said. ‘I hear Missy Higgins is doing a members set there. Now that’s something I’d like to see.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘You get us tickets and I’ll come, then you can come to Wolfmother.’
‘Yeah, as if. Aren’t you a bit old for Wolfmother?’
‘Hey, who’re you calling old? I’m not even forty yet. Can’t a bloke my age still enjoy a decent gig? Besides, you could be my strapping young rock chick. What do you say?’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I don’t even really like Wolfmother. They’re just a cheap imitation of Led Zeppelin.’
‘I thought you liked Led Zeppelin.’
‘I do.’
‘Then you’ll like this. Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll even shout dinner beforehand. We can go to Leo’s and grab a big plate of marinara, maybe a bottle of –’
Ella raised her palms and started laughing. ‘All right, I’ll think about it. Can I just enjoy a drink here first?’
As if on cue, Logan appeared with the Chandon.
‘Chandon, ma’am? On the house.’
‘Ah, sure. Thank you!’
‘My pleasure. You’re always welcome here, Ella.’
‘How do you know my name?’ she asked, surprised.
‘How could I ever forget?’
When Logan was gone she shot me a look of suspicion. ‘Very clever, mister. What’s the occasion?’
‘Does there have to be one?’
‘Well, no. It’s just that . . . I don’t know.’ She slid her sunglasses down her nose. ‘Are you trying to impress me?’
‘Me?’ I said, innocently.
‘Well, I am impressed.’ She took a sip, held her glass towards me. ‘What a day, huh? Look at the sun. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Thank God we didn’t get any more CFA brought in.’
‘So the rest of the day was slower?’
‘Well, let’s see.’ She counted fingers. ‘Two cardiacs in one hour, before I had lunch. A PFO during lunch, then a tradey fell off his ladder, broke both legs and fractured his skull – brought in by chopper, no less.’
‘What’s a PFO?’ I asked.
‘Pissed and fell over.’
I laughed.
‘Got three old ladies with food poisoning too. Note to self: never eat pork rolls from cheap bakeries. Then to top it all off, some poor kid knocks a pot off the stove and spills boiling water all over his face.’
I wondered how she’d gone getting the information on Rachel Boyd, but didn’t want to ask. ‘I got Johnno’s present,’ I said instead. ‘A bargain too. Shirt, tie and cufflinks for under one-fifty. Like you suggested: the Windsor end of Chapel.’
‘Nice one!’ She removed a package wrapped in silver paper from her handbag. ‘As it happens, I bought you a present too.’
‘Me? It’s not my birthday.’
‘Just open it.’
I recognised the familiar blue and white striped cloth before I’d finished unwrapping it. ‘A new apron,’ I said. ‘Good one!’
‘I figure if you’re going to cook for me, you can at least look good while you do it,’ she said, nudging me, a huge smile on her face.
‘I don’t know what to say, El. Thank you.’
‘Don’t say anything. Just make sure you throw the old one out. And keep the dinner invites coming.’
‘I will. Matter of fact, I’m thinking of starting my own cooking show. See if I can teach some of the slobs of the male species how to lift their game. Call it something like Cop These Apples. Maybe improve the image for male cops across the country. We get a bad rep, you know?’
She laughed. ‘You deserve a bad rep.’
We clinked glasses and went back to watching the beach. The north wind blew sand about in swirly gusts. It wasn’t very pleasant and I decided to watch my ex-wife instead. I liked the way her sunglasses perched atop her nose, the way she smoked her cigarette almost thoughtfully. I liked the way her lips delicately sipped the champagne, the sun reflecting off the glass.
‘So how was your day?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘Shoot any scrotes?’
‘Any what?’
‘Scrotes. That’s what you call them, isn’t it?’
I chuckled. ‘Only the nice ones. And no, I didn’t shoot any today. We don’t do that any more. They’ve all been shooting each other lately.’
She smiled, waiting, but I didn’t know whether to go on about my afternoon. Ella was a tough woman, used to seeing the ugly side of life. Accidents. Illness. Trauma. Things most people ran from. But a cop’s world was different. There were things even emergency department nurses weren’t meant to know about. Things only police should see. Then again, I reminded myself, it was keeping these things from her that had driven us apart in the first place.
‘I had a blue with the boss today,’ I finally said. ‘I called him a bureaucrat.’
‘Bet he liked that.’
‘Yeah, not as much as he liked it when one of my colleagues stitched me with ESD and had me kicked off the squad.’
Ella set her glass down on the table, then blew out cigarette smoke in an angry puff. ‘Whoa, hold up a second. You lost your job?’
‘Well, not as such.’
I spent the next ten minutes telling her about my work that morning on LEAP, the fight with Eckles and my visit to the morgue, leaving out graphic details of the abuse. I outlined my meeting with Boyd’s stepfather at the commission flats and how Eckles had pressured Finetti into making the false allegation. I ended by saying I intended to keep an eye on the case, but didn’t tell her about my side deal with Finetti because I still didn’t know how it would work out.
‘So as of now, I’m officially on carer’s leave,’ I said in conclusion. ‘Eckles is in the clear and the Homicide Squad have got the case, even though they’re chasing the wrong bloke.’
‘God, I thought I’d had a big day.’
I nodded and looked out at the bay, towards the sunset. I could see the windsurfer now heading in the opposite direction.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked me.
‘Well, I’m not going to take it lying down.’
‘So you’re still working the case?’
‘You bet I am.’
She squeezed my hand and removed a folded page from her handbag. ‘In that case, I suppose you’ll still need this.’
I unfolded the page and saw that it was a printed list of Rachel Boyd’s attendances at the Alfred Hospital.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Don’t thank me yet. Read it first.’
Rachel Boyd had had three attendances in total, the most recent in October the previous year. Less than six months prior. When Ella shuffled forward to explain it all, her knee rested against mine. I made no attempt to move and nor did she.
‘The first two are a couple of years old,’ she said. ‘The initial one was for an operation to remove her tonsils. I read the file notes and the op was due to a referral.’
I recognised Ella’s handwritten notations under the computer records and waited for her to go on.
‘The second record was in late 2006 for a car accident,’ she said, running her finger along the middle row. Again she had scribbled some coded notations underneath. ‘Nothing serious. Just whiplash and minor bruises.’
‘Who was driving?’
‘Don’t know. I thought about that. There’s a date and time here if you want to cross check with police record
s.’
I doubted it would lead anywhere. DHS weren’t interested in car accidents.
‘The third one is interesting,’ she continued. ‘Less than a year later she came back for an infection.’
‘Infection?’
‘Yeah, that’s all it said on the preliminary diagnostic chart, so I looked further into the record and it looks like she was treated for a urinary tract infection. Now at first there’s nothing unusual about that. UTIs are very common in kids, especially young girls.’
I swigged the last of my beer and looked around for Logan, hoping to get his attention. ‘So what was so unusual?’ I asked, unable to spot him.
‘Well, that she was brought to us for one thing. A urinary tract infection isn’t normally the type of thing you come to a hospital ER for. You go to a chemist or a GP. That’s not to say we turn you down, especially when the little girl has no parent present.’
‘So who brought her in?’
‘Her brother, Dallas.’
‘Right, that figures. So did you treat her for it?’
‘That’s the thing. See, she was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection and prescribed antibiotics. I checked on the type of antibiotic and found this.’ She ran her finger down the page and pointed to a highlighted word: Zithromax.
‘It’s a very strong antibiotic,’ she explained. ‘I remembered what you said at the hospital this morning, so my alarm bells went off when I saw the name of the medication.’
Now I understood where she was headed. ‘What’s it normally used for?’
‘Well, lots of things, but it’s often used to treat sexually transmitted diseases. I tried to track down the doctor but she’s moved on. Gone overseas, I think.’
‘Great. I thought you said you guys are trained to identify this sort of thing.’
‘We are.’
‘So let me get this right: the doctor prescribed a strong antibiotic for a urinary tract infection that was probably something more serious but didn’t tell anyone or try to investigate further. Why didn’t she at least order some tests?’
Ella just shrugged, which annoyed me. Couldn’t she see where this was leading?
‘Well, it seems pretty obvious what’s happened here,’ I said. ‘Dallas Boyd brings his sister in for a check-up, probably not knowing what’s wrong with her except that it hurts her to pee. The little girl’s probably too embarrassed to say anything about the stepfather, so nobody knows the truth. Sure, she gets treatment and the sore peeing goes away, but nobody reports it, even though the doctor must’ve smelt a rat. So the little girl goes home, takes her medication and it all goes away. Until the next time Daddy gets into bed with her and the chlamydia comes back.’
