Upstairs in the photo studio, the receptionist was at her desk reading a copy of a fashion magazine. She was wearing a white silk blouse that appeared to be at least a size or two too small. The dog was gone from its place on the couch and the studio was quiet. The girl looked up, concern immediately showing on her face when she saw Berlin.
‘Golly, did you bump your head? That looks nasty. Was there a fight? I can get you some Mercurochrome and a bandage if you want.’
Berlin acknowledged her concern with a smile and a shake of his head. ‘Thanks, but it’s nothing. We’re just here to have another chat with Derek. Is he about?’
‘He’s not here, you missed him. The Beast was on location today, him and Derek, out early to catch the sunrise. They were shooting girls jumping on a trampoline.’
Roberts sat on the edge of the reception desk and smiled at the girl. ‘A trampoline?’
The girl smiled back. ‘Yeah, you know, those things you bounce on. It’s an ad for the newspapers, for pantyhose. You know how when you jump up in the air how your skirt keeps going up? These new pantyhose have underpants sewn right in so nothing rude shows. That’s pretty handy, eh?’
Roberts was intently studying the girl’s chest and the underpants comment got his attention. ‘Maybe we should track him down at this location and re-interview him there, Charlie, what do you say?’
‘Let’s keep our minds on Gudrun Scheiner, shall we?’ He turned back to the receptionist. ‘You said we missed Derek.’
‘Yair, about forty-five minutes ago. The shoot’s over already so the girls have stopped bouncing.’
The last part of her answer was directed towards Roberts, Berlin noticed. She was still smiling, leaning forward now and directing other things towards the younger detective.
Jesus wept, Berlin said to himself. ‘Derek came back forty-five minutes ago?’
The girl nodded, not taking her eyes off Roberts. ‘He came back to drop off the camera gear and leave the trampoline film with our Tim to be developed and then he left.’
‘Thanks for your help. We might just wander down the back and have a word with Mr Egan then. You coming too, Bob?’
At the rear of the studio Roberts knocked on the darkroom door and waited. When Tim Egan finally opened the sliding door there was an overpowering smell of rotten eggs.
Roberts stepped back quickly. ‘Jesus, mate, what are you doing in there? It stinks to high heaven.’
Berlin could hear water running and the steady rumble of exhaust fans, but the fans weren’t having much effect on the odour. Egan was wearing a white dustcoat and had a handkerchief tied over his mouth and nose. His hands were in thick rubber gloves.
He pulled the handkerchief down so he could speak. ‘Sorry, it’s hydrogen sulphide from the sepia toner I was using.’ He took off the rubber gloves. ‘I suppose it does stink a bit, maybe I’m just used to it. Is there something I can help you with?’
Roberts was holding his folder in front of his face as if it would somehow block the smell. ‘We’ve got a few more questions about your friend Derek but do us a favour and shut that door first.’
Egan slid the darkroom door closed and then turned back to face the two detectives. ‘Derek’s no friend of mine, I told you that earlier. Did you hurt your head, Mr Berlin?’
‘Had a bit of a bump, it’s nothing.’ Berlin wondered if he should just leave his hat on with the brim pulled down. ‘But right now Tim we’re interested in Derek’s background, if you can help us out. Like where he comes from, for instance.’
Egan dropped the rubber gloves into a bucket next to the darkroom door. ‘The West, I think – Perth maybe, or Adelaide. We don’t talk much about private stuff but I think he might have mentioned Adelaide once. A Croweater. Orphan too, as I recollect. Gets a bit moody if you ask him about it. More moody than usual, I mean. I feel bad saying things behind his back but he’s got a bit of a temper sometimes, he can be a bit scary.’
Berlin saw that Roberts was making notes. ‘What about you, Tim? Where do you hail from?’
‘Me? Banana bender born and bred. Family’s been Queenslanders going back three generations. Cane farmers all of them, though I guess I’m the black sheep since I took an apprenticeship with a cabinet-maker in Brisbane. Cane farming is too bloody hard. And dirty.’
‘So what are you doing working in a darkroom in Melbourne?’
‘Got bored with Brisbane and cabinet-making. Came to Melbourne and talked my way into a job here. Photographers can always use someone who’s good at building, you know, for sets and stuff. In exchange for my carpentry talents I got them to put me through the RMIT diploma course at night. Still got a couple of terms to go. The Beast seems happy enough with what I’ve picked up so far. He reckons I’m a fast learner.’
‘Bit of a difference to Brisbane, I imagine, the weather for one.’
‘Weather’s weather, no point in complaining about stuff you can’t change. Some funny stuff with language, though. Up in Brisbane if you get some ham between two pieces of bread and they slice it diagonally into four we call that four sandwiches. First day here I went to the shop and ordered four ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch and I just managed to stop the bloke behind the counter before he buttered a half a loaf of bread.’
Berlin was content to let him ramble. Seemingly casual conversations sometimes held useful information if you kept your ears open.
‘You really think Derek might have something to do with those missing girls, Mr Berlin?’
Berlin sensed something in his tone. ‘Like I said, we’re looking at all sorts of people. But if you know anything that you think could be helpful . . .’
Egan hesitated a moment before he answered. ‘Derek’s here in the evenings sometimes, late, using the darkroom and the studio. I’ve bumped into him a couple of times when I’ve come in at night after class to do assignments’
‘So you both have keys?’
‘That’s right. You don’t get paid a whole lot and Mr Shapiro, I mean, the Beast, works you hard. But you get free access to practise or do your own little jobs after hours.’
‘Like Derek’s pictures at the discos for GEAR?’
‘Stuff like that, yes. He pays me a few bob to develop and proof his films, which helps with my rent, but he makes his own prints. He’s a messy bugger in the darkroom, which I don’t like, and I reckon he pinches stuff. He’s a bit of a funny one, with women, I mean. You know what his favourite joke is right now?
Berlin shook his head. ‘No idea, why don’t you tell me?’
‘What’s the major similarity between a fashion model and a ladder?
‘Okay, I’ll bite, what’s the similarity?
‘They’re both tall and skinny. Now, do you know what the difference is between a fashion model and a ladder?
Berlin waited.
‘Not everyone can get up a ladder.’ Tim shook his head. ‘That’s really shocking, isn’t it?’
Berlin nodded in agreement. ‘Young Derek’s definitely a charmer.’
‘Well, he talks a good game, Mr Berlin, but I’ve never seen him with a girlfriend – someone regular, I mean.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t prefer women.’
Egan seemed to be genuinely shocked. ‘Goodness me, I don’t think that’s right.’
It looked like he was thinking something over and Berlin waited.
‘Just a tick, I’ve got something you might be interested in.’ He went back into the darkroom and rummaged around under a bench. Luckily the smell from the sepia toner had lessened a little, the exhaust fans must have been doing their job.
Egan came back out of the darkroom with a large manila envelope in his hand. ‘Derek thinks he’s got a secret hidey-hole back there for his private stuff but he forgets I rebuilt and rewired that whole darkroom when I first started here. I know every inch of the place.’ He handed Berlin the envelope. ‘Don’t tell him where you got these. Like I said, he’s a moody chap and he’s got a bit of a nasty temper. Derek�
�s not really a bloke I’d like to get offside.’
Inside the envelope were four or five proof sheets with a dozen square images on each page and about a dozen eight by ten inch prints. The proof sheets were of negatives taken with a Hasselblad camera and a quick glance showed the images were all of naked girls. The girls were posing awkwardly on a paper background and the square format showed enough details on the edge to confirm it was the Beast’s studio. The eight by ten inch prints were blow ups of some of the images on the proof sheets.
Derek’s favourite pose was with the girls sitting on the ground with their legs wide apart. Rebecca always said that a photograph tells the viewer as much about the photographer as it does about the subject. Going by these images, Berlin judged Derek Jones was pretty much as uncomfortable in the studio as his subjects were.
‘There’s also this, Mr Berlin, and I really don’t know what to make of it.’
Egan handed him a magazine folded neatly in half.
The magazine was in black and white and both the paper and the printing were high quality. The text in oriental characters meant nothing to Berlin but it was the images that made him suck in his breath. The girls were all Asian, with long black hair, and were either naked or wearing long robes that gaped open to reveal their nakedness. It was the ropes and gags that made Berlin hold his breath. Some of the girls were suspended from beams in what looked like attics, hanging limply, bound in almost elegant harnesses of artistically looped and knotted ropes tied around wrists and arms and ankles and waists.
Melinda Marquet had severe rope burns on her wrists, according to the coroner’s report and the post-mortem photographs, though Berlin recalled there was nothing elegant or artistic about them.
His mouth was dry and a sudden light-headedness and buzzing in his ears reminded Berlin to breathe. Bob Roberts’ voice brought him back to reality.
‘It’s a Jap thing, Charlie.’
‘What?’
‘The business with the ropes. Some sort of kinky thing they get into over there. Been going on for years. It’s call Kinbaku I think, or some name like that.’ He smiled an uncomfortable smile. ‘You can find all sorts of funny stuff in the uni library if you’ve got time to kill. Weird buggers, the Japs, but you have to admit they do make a good transistor radio.’
Berlin folded the magazine and put it into the envelope along with the proofs and prints. ‘You don’t happen to know where Derek is right now, do you, Tim?’
Egan looked at his wristwatch. ‘Dunno, but he’s not working. Him and the Beast did a trampoline shoot first thing and I know the Beast had a lunchtime meeting at the Little Reata in the city with some advertising agency people. Those advertising people like to drink a lot so I’m pretty sure he won’t be back in until tomorrow. Derek said he had the rest of the day off when he dropped by with the film – thirty rolls, can you believe it? I’ll be here all night developing and proofing. I suppose Derek might be at home, since they had such an early start.’
‘You know where that is, where he lives?’
Egan shook his head. ‘Nope. But ask Bethany out the front, she should have his address in the Rolodex. I think he’s got a flat in St Kilda somewhere.’
‘Does he drive? Have a car?’
‘He’s got a nice little Ford Cortina. I wish I had a car.’
‘Bide your time, Tim,’ Roberts said. ‘There might just be a Cortina on the second-hand market any day now.’
THIRTY-THREE
The two men sat down with plates of pasta at Leo’s Spaghetti Bar in St Kilda to discuss their strategy for the interview. Roberts had held back at their initial meeting with Derek Jones and he suggested he should go in hard from the start.
‘I’ll see if I can rattle him, Charlie. He’s a smug little bastard and not the smooth talker he thinks he is.’
Roberts paid for their food with a wink and a grin to the waitress. They drove round to Grey Street then turned into Burnett Street, where Roberts found a parking spot. The shabby block of flats was on a slight rise towards the Princes Street end and from the open second-floor walkway Berlin could just make out the water of Albert Park Lake across Fitzroy Street. Roberts knocked on the door, rattling the rippled-glass centre panel. Landlord needs to come round with some putty, Berlin said to himself. When Derek opened the front door it was obvious that the landlord hadn’t been round to this joint in a very long time.
Derek Jones was in his socks. He was wearing brown cord trousers and a South Melbourne football club team jumper. He was also wearing his lunch. By Berlin’s estimation, around one third of the Chiko Roll was in the hand in front of his face, another third in his gut and the rest on the front of his moth-eaten jumper.
Roberts leaned in close to his face. ‘Interrupt you scoffing your afternoon tea, did we, Derek? People are telling us you have been a very, very bad boy.’
Derek’s face went pale. It was a pretty standard copper’s opening gambit but Berlin knew that, coming from Bob Roberts with his twisted, scarred face, it would have quite an impact.
Roberts stepped forward and Derek took a step back, still holding the Chiko Roll up like he was about to take a bite.
‘Hide the bodies in the cellar downstairs, did you, Derek?’
‘But there’s no cellar in this building.’
Berlin already knew there was no cellar as they’d done a quick walk around the block of flats before climbing the stairs. It was Derek’s response he was interested in, and this time the look was one of confusion. Berlin’s hands bunched in his coat pockets. Bugger. But it was just wishful thinking that Derek would break down in tears and confess. They would have to do this the hard way.
Roberts pushed past Derek, making him drop his Chiko Roll, and Berlin followed him into the flat. Derek picked up the roll from the floor and wiped it with his hand. Berlin really hoped he wasn’t going to finish it off right then. If he wasn’t going to chuck it in the bin, could he at least wait until they left?
The flat had a small living room in the front, with a window to the right, and beyond it doorways to the single bedroom and the bathroom. A dusty bamboo blind covered the window, stained seagrass matting covered the floor and a creased poster for The Who on one wall tried to hide a patch of bare plaster where the wallpaper had peeled away. Through the open bedroom door he could see a rumpled futon resting on top of the seagrass matting.
There was a shabby wooden table in the middle of the living room, the lamp hanging above it covered in a round, white, flyspecked Chinese-paper lampshade. Two rickety wooden dining chairs, a sofa and two mismatched armchairs made up the rest of the furnishings, along with a bookshelf stacked with magazines. A record player and a small television were set up on top of a battered steamer trunk under the single window. The living room furniture looked like it had come from one of the dozens of second-hand places on High Street in Prahran.
‘We know all about the girls, Derek.’
Derek went pale again. Roberts pulled a couple of the photographs from the manila envelope. Berlin kept silent, watching the responses. Bugger again. The little bastard’s face had relaxed in relief when he saw the pictures. These weren’t the photographs he’d been expecting them to show him and he had a cocky smirk on his face now.
‘They’re all over eighteen, or at least that’s what they told me. Photographing a bit of minge isn’t against the law, unless you publish them. It’s art, anyway; my nudes are very artistic.’ He put the remains of the almost-finished Chiko Roll on the table and walked across the room. Berlin recognised the book before Derek picked it up from on top of the trunk and opened a page at random. ‘See, this is art, real art. Not that a policeman would know anything about it.’
The book was Cowboy Kate by a South African photographer named Sam Haskins. When it was published it had pushed the boundaries of nude photography with its high-contrast and grainy black and white images. Rebecca was a fan of the photographer’s work and her most recent nudes had shown Haskins’ influence.
Berlin took one of Derek’s photographs from the pile Roberts was holding. ‘That might well be art, son, but this stuff of yours is just bloody rubbish, you little twerp. The lighting is flat and characterless, you missed focus on the eyes and from the look of the print you probably underexposed the negative. And the girl in this one looks like she’s really regretting her decision to get her gear off, which I guess means she was probably sobering up.’
Berlin leaned in closer and lowered his voice. ‘This isn’t art, this is just the way a pathetic little shit like you gets to see bare tits and what’s between a girl’s legs, because there is no other way in hell you’d be able to manage it. And when you see what’s there, does it frighten you? Or do the girls laugh at you, maybe when you get your pants down, and that’s when it all goes wrong? Do you get angry and then get even? Is that when you hurt people?’
At the start of Berlin’s outburst Derek had brought the book up in front of himself as if for protection. Berlin had kept his voice low but he forward and just as slowly Derek backed away until his legs came into contact with the couch and he suddenly sat down.
I’m just being a bully here, Berlin said to himself, because it was all wrong. The girls in the photo were too old and Derek’s reactions were off, but he preyed on girls around Sarah’s age and Berlin hated the little bastard for it. And he was still hiding something, Berlin thought, but it wasn’t about the missing girls so should he even care?
Derek was staring up at him, eyes unblinking. Berlin suddenly hated himself. He turned back to Roberts who was leaning in the kitchen doorway, watching. ‘You can have a word, Bob, I’ll have a bit of a poke around.’
As he walked into the tiny kitchen he heard Roberts behind him asking, ‘Did you ever own a dog, Derek?’
The flats probably dated back to the 1930s and the kitchen was quite possibly original, going by the cracked and flyspecked tiles, the flyscreen doors on a couple of the cupboards and the geriatric enamel and cast-iron Early Kooka gas stove sitting against the wall. A couple of blowflies were busy buzzing around an overflowing rubbish bin by the back door. There was a greasy film covering the window over the sink and every other surface that Berlin could see. Would this have been his life if he hadn’t met Rebecca? he wondered.
St Kilda Blues Page 22
