by Unknown
I held Mum’s hand as they wheeled her into the hospital. The nurses were ready, but they waited patiently while I leant over her, looking into her slanted face. Her left eye drooped, and drool slithered from her lips. I wiped it away with a tissue. Her right eye twitched, looked up at me and her breathing began to stagger. Was this a reaction to my presence? I squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead, inhaling the aroma of soap and musty linen.
‘You’re in the wars again, Mum. Beds are for sleeping in, not surfing.’ I waited for a reaction but there was none. ‘They’re just going to do some tests, make sure you haven’t gone and broken anything. I told them that was impossible with bones like yours. They’re like steel, all that milk you drink.’
I smiled, but again there was no reaction. Her right eye closed, opened slowly. Not looking at me. After a few moments, I nodded to the nurses and they wheeled her away. I knew then why I’d avoided coming to see her and it had nothing to do with my job.
An hour later I was led to a room with two beds either side of a window that overlooked a courtyard. Mum was in one bed, ‘Mrs Isabella McCauley’ already written on the slot above. The other was empty. I pulled a curtain across for privacy and stood next to her. She wasn’t asleep, but the painkillers had left her drowsy.
‘Brought you some flowers,’ I said, arranging them on the bedside table. In my haste, I’d left the other flowers and the vanilla slice back in the Falcon and had to buy another bunch. ‘Got the results too. No breaks. Just like I said, bones of steel.’
Looking down at the mound beneath the sheets, I wondered how extensive the bruising was. The nurses said she’d been lucky, that she’d fallen the right way. What was the wrong way?
‘Dad’s on his way back up from Melbourne. Gonna stay the night here with you. Nurses even found a room with a spare bed in it. How good’s that?’ I said, sitting down and taking her hand. It was cold, so I rubbed it, trying to warm her skin. It was her left side and I wondered if she could actually feel me. The stroke had knocked out the entire right hemisphere of her brain. Left hemiplegia, the neurologists called it. Ischemic clot. For Mum it meant a near total loss of motor skills on the left-hand side of her body and acute aphasia. Speech paralysis.
‘Do you want something? Drink of water maybe?’
She pointed her right arm towards the bedside table, hand curled into a ball.
‘The roses; you want to see the roses?’ I said, following the line of her arm.
She mumbled what seemed like a yes. I carried the flowers to the bed and held them close to her face. She breathed, closed her eyes and for a second the frown disappeared.
‘Nice, huh? They’re Alexanders. Your favourite. Could’ve got you anything though. Everything’s in season these days. Even tulips. Guess they just grow everything indoors. Doesn’t matter about the weather. That’s plain cheating, if you ask me.’
Watching her with the flowers reminded me of the many times she’d led me through her garden, pointing out her new roses. In spring the previous year, I’d watched her churn the soil and add mulch to a dry garden bed. Her hands were muddy and she’d looked clumsy with the shovel, knee pads strapped around her overalls. But it was a beautiful garden, lush with colour and fragrance. Somehow she always managed to plant species that survived the drought. There were Alexanders and Icebergs and Blue Moons, even a Penny Lane that climbed an archway.
‘Grown this one from a cutting,’ she’d said proudly, handing me a pot with a stem protruding. ‘It’s a Silver Jubilee. It’ll look good on your balcony, but don’t let the pot get too hot. And don’t water at night, only in the morning.’
‘Or what? Will it turn into a Gremlin?’ I’d said, smiling.
She’d laughed. ‘It’ll get black spot, silly. Lovely to see you, Ruby. Bring Ella up next time?’
‘Sure thing, Mum.’ I hugged her. ‘Next time.’
That was two days before the stroke.
I put the flowers back, sat down and held her hand again. This time she faced me.
‘My shoulder’s getting better,’ I said. ‘Anthony’s working miracles. Says I’ll be lifting weights again soon. Soon as he’s finished with me, we’ll get him to go to work on you. You’ll be out in the rose garden again in no time.’
I squeezed her hand but she looked away. She was beyond bullshit, and I no longer knew what to say. I didn’t want to talk about the birthday party and she probably didn’t want to hear about it either.
‘Want to hear a joke, Mum?’
She groaned a yes.
‘The Prime Minister is on the election trail and he needs to increase the senior vote, so he goes to a nursing home to make friends with the residents.’ She gave a weak smile, even though I was certain I’d told her the joke before. ‘Anyway, the PM walks up to a little old lady and says to her, “Good morning, ma’am, do you know who I am?” To which the little old lady replies, “No, dear, but if you ask the young chap at the reception desk, he’ll be able to tell you.” ’
I laughed at my own joke and was sure Mum did too. I felt the sadness rise up inside me and had to draw a deep breath to keep myself from losing it in front of her.
‘I spent the night with Ella,’ I said after a long break. ‘At the flat in Carlton. Things are going well between us, I think.’
Her right hand came up, touched my arm and squeezed. She groaned and the right side of her lips pulled to a smile. I hugged her then and almost lost it again, choked with pain and guilt.
‘I love you,’ I whispered in her ear. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around for you lately. That’s going to change.’
A tear slid down her cheek. As I wiped it away, I decided I didn’t want to be here when Dad and Anthony arrived. I was ashamed and angry and couldn’t face them. What was I going to do – tell them I was sorry? Tell them I’d do more, visit every chance I got? It would mean nothing, not without action.
For a long while I sat beside her, stroking her cheek and waiting for the painkillers and sedatives to take effect. Soon her breathing slowed and I had the strange sensation that this was what it would be like to euthanise a person. I shook off the morbid thought and remembered a question Mum had asked me not long after my return from hospital. Why do you do it? It was about a month before the stroke, and the only time she’d ever questioned my career direction. Sometimes I thought she knew something was on the horizon; that her body was preparing to shut down.
A marriage counsellor had once asked me the exact same question – albeit for different reasons – and instructed me to list my responses, a task I failed to accomplish. Even now, I still couldn’t articulate it. Some detectives I knew – Cassie, for example – described it as a calling, but I wasn’t sure about that. I only knew that if you had a skill, something you were naturally good at doing, then that was a gift, and if you didn’t pursue it then your skill was wasted and so was the gift. To me, that transformed skill into purpose. It was like an ecosystem, in that if everyone ignored their skill, their gift, the world would be worse off. People who depended on you would suffer. People like Dallas Boyd and his sister, Rachel. People like my elderly neighbour, Edgar Burns. People like Chloe. And people like Jacko.
Yet even as I thought all this, I knew I wasn’t being honest. Ella had depended on me too, and I’d let that world fall apart. I’d let her down. What about the rest of my family? Mum was in a nursing home, Dad was a shadow of his former self, and now Anthony needed me. Surely our purpose in life extended well beyond our careers.
I squeezed Mum’s hand and wished I could ask her advice. What would she say to me, I wondered. Give up and go home? Quit and spend all day on the couch? Tell Edgar Burns you’re too tired for it? Tell Anthony you can’t help him? Forget about Dallas Boyd and his little sister? No, I knew what she would say. I knew because she had said it all her life. To get what you want, you have to know what you want.
Right then I made a choice. I would go back to Melbourne and hunt down whoever had killed Dallas Boyd and see to it that
both he and Rachel received the justice they deserved. I would embrace my purpose and I would follow it to the end.
20
THE DRIVE BACK TO MELBOURNE took almost an hour less than the drive up. I kept the speedo on one-thirty all the way and the stereo muted. I wasn’t in the mood for love songs or any other music. I just wanted to get back to Melbourne and go to work. I arrived in St Kilda to find most of it had been blocked off for the festival and I had to badge a team of council workers guarding the barricades before they’d let me through. Even then, I had to drive at snail’s pace along the tram tracks.
Thousands of people walked the streets, like a parade without a cause. Tables and umbrellas covered the sidewalks, waiters flitting between them. Large banners hovered over the street, welcoming everyone to St Kilda. A concert was underway on the foreshore, a past Australian Idol personality headlining. All of it infuriated me. Didn’t they realise what went on in this place? I wanted to blow my horn until they all moved along but had to sit patiently, wasting time.
Finally I pulled up outside the 7-Eleven, double-parked and waited for all the customers to leave before I walked in. Dallas Boyd had bought a recharge card for his mobile phone here at ten o’clock Thursday night, less than two hours before he was murdered. Yet we’d never found a phone on or near his body, and it still hadn’t turned up. It was a loose end that needed to be tied.
The shop attendant, a man of Pakistani descent, crouched over a cardboard box, stocking the fridge. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, showing him my badge. ‘I need to view your tapes for last Thursday, from about 9 p.m. onwards.’
‘This could make a problem,’ he said. ‘Police have already taken the disk.’
I thought about this; the only likely explanation was that Stello had come for it.
‘When?’
‘I am thinking late yesterday. I was not here.’
I cursed myself for neglecting to swing by the day before; instead, I’d gone for a swim.
‘Hang on. You said they came by to collect the disk?’
‘This is correct. The disk.’
‘So your system is digital. Not on tape,’ I said, looking up at the camera above the console.
‘Correct. No tape.’
‘Okay, so why is there a problem? Can’t you make me a copy?’
‘It will take a long time and I am the only person here,’ he said, looking around nervously. ‘I am thinking it is easier to get the copy from your colleague, yes?’
‘Sir, I really need you to copy me the disk. This is important, and I’m happy to pay you for a blank disk if that’s what you’re worried about.’
The man hesitated, then led me through to an office at the back of the store where a computer sat atop a desk cluttered with folders, boxes and empty takeaway containers.
‘I must be quick,’ he said, clicking on the computer screen. ‘Customers can steal as they please if I am not in the store.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘If you show me what to do, you can get back to stocking your fridge.’
‘No, I will do it myself,’ he said, typing a series of commands. An image of the shop appeared on the monitor, the date and time counting forward in the bottom right-hand corner. It was still cued up for 9 p.m. on the Thursday, probably saved from Stello’s copy.
‘It is Thursday, yes?’ he asked.
‘Yes, from nine onwards.’
‘I can only give you three hours per disk.’
‘Fine. Give me from nine-thirty onwards.’
The man went to work. The image disappeared and a measuring scale appeared on screen, showing the progress of the burning. A minute later the disk tray opened.
‘All finish,’ he said, handing me the DVD.
‘Can I watch it quickly?’ I asked. ‘You know, just to make sure it worked?’
‘I am promising you, it will work.’
‘I believe you, but it would be great if I could watch it here.’
Taking the disk, he put it in the tray and pointed the cursor arrow to a control box at the bottom of the screen. I recognised buttons similar to those on my DVD player at home.
‘Fast forward with this button,’ he said. ‘When you are finished, press stop and eject. I must be going back to the store.’
When he was gone, I pressed fast forward and watched dozens of customers walk in and out of the store as the clock counter skipped towards 10 p.m. A few minutes before ten, Dallas Boyd entered. I pressed play and the movement slowed to natural speed. The volume was muted and I tried to find a dial but couldn’t. Deciding it wasn’t necessary, I watched as Boyd moved around the store, from the fridge to the confectionery aisle, eventually stepping towards the counter. At this stage he asked for something, and the attendant turned and pulled out a recharge card. Meanwhile, Boyd quickly snatched a chocolate bar off the console and slid it in his pocket.
‘Cheeky little bugger,’ I said.
As the attendant handed Boyd the receipt and recharge card, a girl in a miniskirt entered the store and came into view. It was the girl I’d seen in the picture in Dallas Boyd’s bedroom, the hooker outside the apartment block. She sidled up to Boyd and put an arm around him. I paused the image and called out to the shop attendant for help.
‘I need a printout of this girl,’ I said when he came in. ‘Can you do that?’
He muttered something in another language as he leant over me and punched in the keyboard commands. When the page was printed, he snatched it up, removed the disk and handed them both to me.
‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
I took Grey Street into the red-light district, looking for the green Valiant or the girl in the picture. Despite the heat, or perhaps because of it, the street seemed devoid of prostitution. I turned down Greeves Street, a favourite on the hooker circuit, but still failed to see a single girl. This wasn’t right. Normally there were at least twenty girls out during the day, more at night. I drove around again and finally spotted a transvestite who went by the working name of Dixie Normas.
Dixie, aka David Castleton, had a story similar to many others: absent father, sexual molestation as a young boy, a runaway at first. There was big money for young boys on the block. Big risks too. He’d been raped and assaulted at least twice, busted for drugs and solicitation more than once. Puberty blues and the rock spiders were no longer interested in him, but there were plenty who were. At age twenty-five, he was one of the hardest-working girls on the block.
I parked across the street and walked towards him. He must have read the determination in my face because he started walking away.
‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Stop, I wanna talk to you.’ He kept walking and I jogged to catch up, grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. ‘I told you to stop.’
He yanked his arm free and stared at me. Up close I saw that he no longer took as much pride and patience with the make-up. Maybe his clientele liked it that way, or maybe he was just worn out.
‘I’m not talking to you, not now,’ he said, taking a step back. His heel caught in the sidewalk and he grimaced as he stumbled.
Catching his elbow, I helped him upright. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said, showing him the picture I’d printed at the 7-Eleven. ‘She’s a new girl. Who is she and where can I find her?’
He turned his head away, and in profile he looked like a man. Like many trannies around St Kilda, he’d had the implants but not the tackle chop. Whenever we locked up a trannie, we had to put them in a cell on their own because they didn’t belong in the women’s or the men’s.
‘Just look at the picture,’ I said. ‘This is important.’
‘And so am I. I’m not doing this, not today.’
A late model BMW slowed on the other side of the road. Despite not being able to see through the tinted windows, I knew the driver was watching us. He was probably a pervert angling for a blow job and was unable to find anyone out today. I stared at the dark windows until the car drove off.
‘What’s
your problem?’ I snapped at Dixie. ‘I just want a name. She’s not in a blue; I just need to speak to her.’
He handed the picture back and turned to walk off but I grabbed his wrist and held it firm.
‘You know the rules, Big Dick. You respect me and I’ll do the same for you. If I need help, you don’t get to choose when it suits. I decide when it’s important. You don’t walk away and you don’t give me attitude. You just answer my questions and give me what I need. That way, when you need my help there’s some left over.’
He knew exactly what I was saying. Pretty soon every hooker becomes a victim and they need us just as much as we need them.
‘Look, today’s not a good day for us, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘What do you mean? I don’t care about the festival.’
‘I’m not talking about the festival,’ he hissed. ‘Why do you reckon the streets are empty?’
‘What are you talking about? Where is everyone?’
‘Like you don’t know.’
Suddenly a cold dread washed through me. ‘What’s going on, Dave?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘No. What is it?’
He stepped under the shade of an elm tree and leant against a brick fence. Another car drove past, slowed and tooted its horn. Neither of us acknowledged it.
‘I’ve never bullshitted you, Dave. I’ve always played fair. Just look at the picture and tell me what’s going on around here.’
His eyes shunted back and forth, searching the street, before finally he looked at the picture. It wasn’t a long look.
‘You’re right. She is new to the stroll. Her name’s Tammy, I think. That’s all I know.’
‘Surname? Address?’
He shook his head and handed the picture back.
‘Did you know her boyfriend, Dallas Boyd?’
He looked up at me sharply then. ‘Yeah, I knew Dall. Everyone did. He was a cool guy, young but smart.’
‘Sad,’ I said. ‘From what I gather he was cleaning himself up.’
