St Kilda Blues

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  Berlin stared into his drink. He could feel Lazlo’s eyes studying him.

  ‘Give me a name, Charlie. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Berlin shook his head. ‘It’s just a hunch and I’m probably wrong. Any chance you can tell me exactly who to approach and how to go about it? I can say it’s police business.’

  ‘That I can do, Charlie, but official channels can take a long time on this sort of thing. Unofficial is sometimes better.’

  ‘This bloke’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Perhaps not but in matters such as this some, shall we say, distance can be useful. Sometimes such inquiries as these can set events in motion, producing unexpected outcomes. Sometimes such inquiries can be like lighting a fuse.’ Lazlo leaned across the table and put his hand on top of Berlin’s. ‘You always want to make your fuse long enough, Charlie, you want to keep some separation. Too short a fuse, too close a connection and a man can sometimes be caught up in whatever follows after he lights it.’

  Berlin smiled. ‘You sound like me talking to Peter about fireworks on cracker night, Lazlo, trying to stop him blowing a finger off or burning down someone’s back shed. I think I can handle this.’

  Lazlo sat back in his chair. ‘As you wish then. I’ll have my secretary put the address details together first thing. They can be dropped off at Russell Street or, if you prefer, at Rebecca’s studio tomorrow by noon.’ The steaks were put in front of them and Lazlo smiled. The plates were large and needed to be. Besides glistening steaks charred with a crisscross pattern from the grill, there were mounds of red cabbage, potato salad and bright green creamed spinach.

  Lazlo picked up his knife and fork. ‘One last thing, Charlie, about your SS man.’

  Berlin looked up from his plate. ‘I said I wasn’t certain, Lazlo, remember?’

  ‘Sure, okay, about your possible SS man, who may or may not be. In the Snowy I met a lot of people who like me hold no love for the Nazis, and amongst them people with certain skills should they be needed.’

  Berlin waited. Lazlo leaned towards him across the table and lowered his voice.

  ‘I know a man, a Czechoslovak who the British SOE trained to blow up trains and bridges and is now using his talents blasting nice, neat holes into mountains. A man like that has always access to certain useful items, items that would also be very hard to trace.’

  Berlin didn’t much care for the direction their conversation was taking. ‘I don’t have any proof and I might be dead wrong about my suspicions. And I’m a policeman, I can’t go around having people blown up even if I wanted to.’

  Lazlo nodded and sat back. ‘I take your point. But if things are confirmed by your investigations and certain steps need to be taken you can always call on me. But for right now, Charlie, I have my suspicions that this steak will be the most tender piece of meat that you have ever tasted. I think perhaps we should investigate that.’

  Lazlo was right about the steak. But Berlin remembered the photograph of Melinda Marquet’s scrawny body in the morgue and thought about young Gudrun Scheiner missing for almost two days now. He surprised Lazlo and himself by pushing the plate away with his dinner only half finished.

  THE DESERT

  Dusk

  He rummaged through the pile of supplies in the back of the Dodge until he found a silver one-gallon metal container with a screw top. The label indicated that the tin contained methylated spirits and there was also a warning that the contents were highly flammable. He unscrewed the cap and lay the container on its side so the contents poured out over the back of the car and over the hemp tow rope. He was about to toss the match into the vehicle when he remembered he would need a hat. His was already soaked with the methylated spirits so he took Brother Brian’s.

  At first he thought the fire hadn’t taken and then he realised that the methylated spirits produced almost invisible flames. When the tow rope caught and then the cardboard packaging on the film supplies, smoke began to form. Wanting to watch what happened next from a safe distance, he found a small patch of soft dirt under some spinifex about a hundred yards from the burning vehicle. Squatting on his haunches, naked, with his kitbag and water bottles beside him he waited.

  He began to worry the fire was going to burn itself out without doing the amount of damage he needed, but then the jerry can of petrol ignited and after that the vehicle’s half-full fuel tank. The smell was quite disgusting. He wondered what would have happened if he had put the Abo into the vehicle still alive. The heat radiating from the conflagration was hot on his skin and then he realised there was something hotter than the burning car, something lower down on his body.

  The fire mostly burned itself out after thirty minutes, though the rubber tyres took longer. The plume of black smoke had been broken up quickly by the wind and fortunately didn’t seem to attract any attention. The shell of the vehicle was still red hot, too hot to approach, but even from a distance he could see the shrivelled and blackened corpses in the front seat and knew that identification would be impossible.

  He got dressed and ate another of his sandwiches, ignoring the smell from the vehicle. He would sleep here tonight under the spinifex with the dagger in his hand. In the morning he would cut some brush and use it to remove his footprints from around the vehicle just in case they brought in black trackers after he and Brother Brian were reported missing and the vehicle was discovered. He would drag the brush behind him on his way back to the road and, if there was wind, any sign of him would soon be gone. But just in case, he decided he would walk in a wide circle through the bush, coming out at least a mile further down the road in the direction of Adelaide.

  He had enough water for a couple days as long as he didn’t exert himself too much. The remaining sandwiches were already shrivelling up in the heat but should last him through breakfast tomorrow, then lunch and tea. After that he might have to look for snakes or a goanna. He probably should have kept the spear, he realised. If a truck or a car didn’t come by within two or three days he would die. But of course he was dead already, burned up in a car that had somehow wandered from the track. It would be dark soon and in the fading light he looked at his new life. He had Fatso’s birth certificate, Brother Brian’s wristwatch and six pounds, five shillings and sixpence. And he had his lovely, lovely dagger.

  He sat under the shelter of the spinifex and methodically sharpened the dagger. As he worked the blade back and forth across the stone he decided that he and the blade were brothers. They were about to start on a journey together and the thought both cheered and warmed him. The memory of Brother Brian’s blood washing hot and wet over his hand on the dagger and the metallic taste and sticky feel of it on his tongue warmed him even more.

  EIGHTEEN

  Roberts had forgotten to fill the Triumph’s petrol tank so they stopped at an Ampol service station out on Pascoe Vale Road. Berlin re-read the Marquet file while Roberts smoked and an attendant in a dark blue boiler suit filled the tank with petrol and then lifted the bonnet to check the oil and water. Full driveway service was becoming a bit of a rarity these days.

  The Triumph’s radio was up high with someone singing about going up, up and away in a beautiful balloon. Berlin reached across and turned it off. He’d like to be somewhere far away right now but he had his doubts about getting there by balloon, even a beautiful one.

  Roberts dropped his cigarette butt on the service station’s concrete driveway. ‘So why Melton, Charlie? Not that I mind a nice drive in the country.’ He turned to the service station attendant who had just closed the bonnet on the sports car and winked. ‘Don’t forget the windscreen, eh sport.’

  Berlin looked up from the folder. ‘I went through all the reports last night. Every one of the girls was reported missing from a dance or a discotheque except for Melinda Marquet.’

  ‘Okay, that’s what the report said. According to her mum and dad, Melinda was all tucked up in bed by nine in the evening like a good little girl and was gone the next morning. How’s tha
t going to help us with finding Gudrun?’

  ‘If the missing girls are all connected then we need to find a break in the pattern, Bob. If it’s the same bloke doing all this then he deviated from his normal pattern. And that deviation might give us a clue. And there’s something else.’ Berlin opened the folder to the notepaper clipped to the back cover. ‘It says here that one of the Melton coppers, a probationary constable named O’Brian, got a slightly different story out of Melinda’s sister Maud when he first questioned her. She said something about Melinda having a boyfriend and sneaking out to go to a dance. But when the detectives questioned her about it in front of her parents she just clammed up. After they found Melinda’s body the girl refused to talk to anyone. And so far it looks like the blokes officially on the murder case haven’t bothered to look into that angle.’

  ‘And what did she tell the Melton copper, exactly?’

  Berlin closed the folder. ‘That’s what I want to find out. We’ll have a chat with this Constable O’Brian first and then a word with young Maud. Melton won’t take us too long given the way you drive and the girl should be in school so we can see her without the parents present. So fix the bloke up for the petrol and let’s go.’

  While Roberts was inside paying, Berlin pushed the chromed button on the lid of the glove box and the wood-grain cover popped open. The thick brown envelope was still there, wedged in amongst the packets of cigarettes.

  It was a quick trip out to Melton, especially with Roberts wanting to show off what the Triumph could do on the open road. Traffic was light since it was past nine and everyone was at work or in school. The highway ran through Melton township and on the way to the local police station they passed the Marquet family’s furniture store. Sofas and chairs were set out on the footpath and sale signs were posted in the windows.

  Roberts ran the car up to the kerb outside a small cafe. A public telephone box was just visible in a laneway next to the cafe and Roberts rolled the car round the corner and parked next to it.

  ‘Why don’t I make a phone call to the local cop shop, Charlie? Get the constable to join us here for a cup of coffee while we chat, keep it nice and casual, eh?’

  Berlin was about to argue but changed his mind. ‘Okay, let’s do it that way. I’ll get us a table.’

  Roberts climbed out of the car. ‘Order me a coffee will you? White with one. I shouldn’t be a tick.’

  Berlin ordered a tea and a coffee and they were on the table when Roberts came into the cafe. There were tempting finger buns in a glass cabinet but Berlin decided not to eat until the interview was over. Roberts asked the waitress for a bacon and egg roll to go with his coffee.

  The constable came into the cafe about five minutes later. He was much too young to be a policeman, Berlin decided, but they were all looking like that to him lately. The constable put his cap under his arm and stood to attention by the table. His eyes flicked back and forth between Berlin and Roberts before settling on the older of the two men.

  ‘I’m Constable O’Brian, sir. You wanted to see me?’

  His hair was longer than Berlin liked to see on a copper but his black shoes shone and it looked like he had taken a moment to brush his uniform jacket and smooth out some of the wrinkles before heading over to the cafe.

  ‘Pull up a chair. It’s Shane, right? Can we get you a tea or a coffee? This is just a chat, nothing formal. I’m Charlie Berlin and this is Bob Roberts.’

  They shook hands before the constable sat down at the table. ‘I’ll have a coffee, thanks, white with two.’

  Berlin saw him glance over at the glass cabinet. ‘Let’s get you a finger bun too, with butter? I’m paying.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, that would be real nice.’

  ‘Can you organise that Bob?’ Berlin asked and Roberts walked across to the counter to place the order.

  ‘We’re here about the Melinda Marquet . . . case.’ Berlin had almost said ‘murder’ but decided to soften the statement. ‘They said her sister Maud told you some things when Melinda first went missing but when the Melbourne detectives questioned her later she wouldn’t say anything. So why don’t you tell us what you remember about that morning and what was said?’

  ‘Okay, the call came in around nine on the Sunday morning. Melinda and Maud and Sally all stay in a sleep-out behind the house. It’s one of those old one-room bush schoolhouses. Mr Marquet got it from some small town out the back of Bourke. Bought it at auction and had it hauled in five or six years back. Anyway, the girls were all supposed to be up and dressed for church by eight and there was no sign of Melinda. Her bed didn’t look like it had been slept in.’

  ‘And they didn’t call in till nine?’

  ‘Mrs Marquet called. Her husband was out looking in the bush round the house in case Melinda was there. He got back about fifteen minutes after me and Reg arrived.’

  ‘Reg?’

  ‘Senior Constable Suffolk. I called him as soon as Mrs Marquet telephoned. I was on duty by myself since it was Sunday and it’s usually a bit dead.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, I meant a bit quiet. I picked Senior Constable Suffolk up in the divvy van on my way out to the house.’

  ‘And when did you talk to Maud?’

  ‘A bit before her old man got back. She was in the sleep-out and Reg, Senior Constable Suffolk, was in the main house with Mrs Marquet and the rest of the girls.’

  The waitress put a cup of coffee and a pink-iced finger bun on a plate onto the plastic-covered tabletop. Berlin waited till O’Brian took a sip of coffee and a bite of the bun.

  ‘And what did Maud say exactly?

  O’Brian swallowed the piece of bun and licked icing off his upper lip. ‘She said Melinda was always back by sunrise and she didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Always back?’

  ‘She said she had a secret boyfriend and she’d been sneaking out to meet him over the past few Saturday nights but she was always back on time.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  O’Brian shook his head. ‘Her old man came back around then and she didn’t say much after that, not to him or Senior Constable Suffolk. And nothing at all about Melinda having a boyfriend.’

  ‘Why do you think she told you?’

  ‘Frightened, I suppose, and confused. They’re a bit of an odd family, the Marquets, to tell the truth. Keep to themselves mostly. Maud goes to high school with my younger sister so she knows me a bit. Melinda turning up murdered in the big smoke really put this town into a bit of a tizz.’

  ‘Did Maud happen to say anything to your sister after it happened, after they found the body?’

  ‘I asked her about that but she said no.’

  ‘That was smart of you, to ask I mean. That’s thinking like a detective.’

  O’Brian grinned and took a bite of his bun. Berlin’s mind flashed back twenty years to a cafe in Wodonga and an earnest young uniformed probationary constable named Robert Roberts.

  ‘We thought after this we might stop by the high school and have a chat with young Maud.’

  ‘Not there.’ O’Brian said the words with a mouth full of bun. He swallowed, coughed and sipped his coffee. ‘Sorry about that. I was on crossing-guard duty at the primary school this morning, making sure none of kids got skittled by a truck. The younger Marquet girls said Maud was home sick today, upset tummy.’

  Berlin glanced across at Roberts. ‘Looks like we have to go out to the house.’

  Berlin pushed his chair back and stood up. He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Roberts. ‘Can you pay the bill, Bob?’

  While Roberts went to the counter of the cafe Berlin walked out the front door with Constable O’Brian and around the corner of the laneway to where the Triumph was parked.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee and the bun, DS Berlin, much appreciated.’ He glanced over towards the phone box. ‘Did you want me to call Mrs Marquet and say who you are? I mean that you’re on your way. The house is fairly isolated and she’s probably pretty edgy given what’s
happened. You’re both in plain clothes too. I went along with the detectives the last couple of times, want me to go out there with you today?’

  ‘No thanks, Constable O’Brian, we can find our way. But give her a call and say we’re coming if you like.’

  O’Brian put his cap back on, straightening the brim as per regulations and Berlin smiled. The boy smoothed his uniform sleeves and pulled at the bottom of his jacket. He had something else to say and Berlin waited.

  ‘That sleep-out I mentioned, DS Berlin – where the older girls sleep. When you’re out there you should probably take a squiz at it.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Trust me. And once you’re inside the main house you might want to ask to use the dunny.’

  ‘I should trust you on that one too?’

  O’Brian nodded.

  Berlin decided there was something about the young policeman he liked. ‘Keep your eyes open, don’t you, Constable? And your ears.’

  ‘I try to.’

  ‘Like I said earlier, Shane, this was just an informal chat. But down the track, if you get promoted to the big smoke and need someone to talk to, need some advice about the job or just someone to vouch for you, give me a bell. If I’m still a copper, that is.’

  O’Brian acknowledged the offer with a slight dip of his head.

  Berlin climbed into the parked sports car and waited. He wondered if he had any right to offer career or life guidance to anyone, considering how both his son and Bob Roberts had turned out.

  In the Triumph’s side mirror he saw Roberts walk up to the constable. As they shook hands he reached for O’Brian’s right elbow and leaned in towards him. A truck full of sheep was rumbling past out on the high street but the two men were still close enough to the rear of the sports car for Berlin to make out his words.

  ‘Thanks for all your help, mate, and like I said on the phone, there’s no need to mention this little visit to anyone. Let’s just keep it between the three of us, okay?’