‘You look live you’re living well, Warren,’ Rebecca commented, ‘not like the old copyboy days at The Argus. I remember you used to steal sandwiches out of the secretary’s handbags when they weren’t looking.’
Sunderland smiled. ‘That’s right, you were the one who blew the whistle on me, weren’t you? I always said you were wasted on the social rounds, Rebecca. Investigative journalism was where you should have been with a nose for hard news like that. Too bad the girlies didn’t get a go at the big stories.’ He took the cigar from his mouth and turned away momentarily to flick ash into the garden next to the porch. ‘Nice garden, good to see someone getting the flowers in early.’
The garden comment was all that stopped Sunderland getting a smack in the mouth. Did the man have a sense for when he might have pushed things too far, Berlin wondered.
‘Was there something you wanted, Warren,’ Rebecca asked, ‘or are you just going door-to-door lowering the tone of the neighbourhood?’
Sunderland drew back on his cigar, took it from his mouth again and blew a shimmering blue smoke ring. ‘As it happens I need a quick word with your better half. In private. Men’s business, you understand.’
‘And you’ll understand if I don’t invite you inside . . . that dickhead business I mentioned.’
The Jaguar’s red leather seats were soft and very, very comfortable. Berlin settled into the passenger side and glanced towards the front of the vehicle. British carmakers certainly had a thing about burled wood-grain veneers for their dashboards, he decided. Was it always burled walnut they used? Legroom was a hell of a lot better than the Triumph, though. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and then at his own watch. How many days and hours was it now that the Scheiner girl had been missing?
‘Japanese, I see.’
Berlin looked across at Sunderland who nodded towards his left wrist.
‘The timepiece, your watch. Very reliable, I believe, for the price.’
The watch on Sunderland’s wrist was gold, as was the cufflink next to it, securing a starched and neatly pressed French cuff. Berlin’s everyday shirts came from the local Coles with plastic buttons already sewn onto the cuffs.
‘My daughter bought me this, for my birthday last year. She saved up for quite a long time.’ He ran his index finger gently over the face of the watch.
‘Then I suppose that it’s actually of immense value, whatever it may have cost.’
Berlin couldn’t quite pick the tone in Sunderland’s voice. Was he being sincere? From what he knew of the man it seemed highly unlikely.
‘By coincidence I’m actually here this morning for a bit of a chat about someone’s daughter.’
‘If you mean Gudrun Scheiner then, like I said last time we met, I’m not talking to the press and I’m especially not talking to you.’
‘Fine, I’ll do the talking then. A little bird tells me you and your mate Roberts solved the case last night, turned up the killer, found a deathbed confession and conclusive evidence of the crimes. But for some strange reason you don’t seem too keen on spreading the good news.’
Sunderland did have good sources, Berlin had to admit, not that he’d ever say it to the man’s face. ‘I don’t want the story getting out prematurely. I don’t think the case is really solved, not yet. And if I have to tell a father his only daughter is dead I want to do it only once and I want to be 100 per cent certain it’s true. We don’t have hard evidence or a body or bodies yet, which is something that concerns me.’
Sunderland flicked ash from his cigar into an already overflowing dashboard ashtray. ‘Come on, sometimes bodies are never found, we both know that. Plenty of blokes have had their necks stretched at Pentridge without the actual murder weapon or a mouldering corpse being dragged in front of the jury.’
‘That might be so but it’s not happening in this case if I can help it.’
Sunderland shook his head. ‘Well I’m afraid that’s out of your hands which is why I’m here. Later today Gerhardt Scheiner will be informed by senior police that his daughter is deceased, as will the parents of the other missing girls. The squad investigating the disappearance of the Scheiner girl, the official squad I mean, Tony Selden’s team, has recently obtained a confession and irrefutable photographic evidence.’
‘Which I’m guessing you’ve seen. That right?’
Sunderland’s smile was all the answer Berlin needed. Had Bob Roberts spoken to the wrong person by mistake while trying to keep things under wraps, he wondered?
‘That’s right, I’ve seen it all and pretty damn grim it is. Tomorrow morning a special edition of the Truth will be published revealing that we have had amongst us a monster who preyed upon young girls, a monster who took his own life in the end in remorse. There are no bodies to be recovered, sadly, but by his own written admissions police have identified the killer. No thanks of course to the ineptitude of certain senior members of the police force and government, who until now seemed almost blissfully unaware of the existence of this monstrous predator or worse still have perpetrated a cover-up. The afternoon papers and the TV and radio news people will be all over it after that, like flies on shit.’
‘That’s a pretty accurate analogy, for you and your paper. And I’m guessing this allegation of police ineptitude will be an ongoing theme? Proving the need for a new broom right up to the very top of the police force and embarrassing the government.’
‘There are a lot of people who think it’s time for a change. People with influence, people who see me as useful in achieving what they want.’
‘It’s must be nice that someone sees you as useful for something Warren. And these people, the people with influence, they want a change of government?’
Sunderland laughed out loud. ‘God no! They’ve got exactly the government they want; they just think it’s time for a change of leadership. Mr Bolte’s had a good run but he’s pushing sixty and times are changing, any bugger can see that. Ronald Ryan got hung like Bolte wanted but the popularity boost didn’t eventuate, and even if it had it was only ever going to be temporary; the average voter has a pretty short memory.’
Ryan was a hard-core crim who’d been executed in Pentridge at the start of the year for the murder of a prison guard during an escape attempt. A lot of people, Berlin included, had felt that some of the evidence presented at Ryan’s trial was questionable at best and his hanging had started an intense community debate on the morality of capital punishment.
‘The people I know think Bolte wants to ride it out to the next election and if he does and his popularity keeps declining who knows what could happen. New blood, younger blood is what’s wanted, so they’re looking for . . . ’
‘Some way to force the premier out?’
‘An orderly transition is always best, they tell me but not always possible. People sometimes believe they are due certain rewards, perhaps for their patience, their diligence, or sometimes simply for things they know or think they know. Timing is crucial in transitions and also in the events that lead up to them. Inquiries and crimes solved or perhaps unsolved can alter perceptions.’
Berlin could imagine the smoke-filled room in some exclusive gentlemen’s club up on Spring Street where they had feted Sunderland and splashed the single malt whisky about while hiding their contempt for the man.
‘So where do I stand in all this?’
‘If you keep shtum, keep your trap shut and walk away from this case today, I’m told there will be no repercussions for you, personally or career wise. In fact, in time there might even be a promotion. Following tomorrow’s revelations and what comes after I have no doubt the police will be undergoing a bit of a shakeup. Over the next few months heads will certainly roll, which means positions in the higher ranks will open up. This of course is an unfortunate reality but one you coppers have to live with.’
‘You have to be bloody mad, Warren. There’s still a killer out there somewhere.’
‘Sez you, and right now there’s a shitload of e
vidence that says exactly the opposite. But suppose you’re right. If someone is still out there then they’re going to realise they’ve had a bloody close call and pull their head in for a while. And once we publish those pictures, well the less gruesome ones anyway, do you reckon any of the mums and dads are going to let their precious little daughters out any time after the sun goes down? Probably kill the local dance scene stone dead but that’s no loss. Get people back in the pubs where they belong.’
‘You really are mad, Warren, you and the people you’re working for. We’re talking about people’s lives here, young girl’s lives.’
‘No we’re not, Charlie, we’re talking politics and that trumps everything.’
It was the sneering tone in Sunderland’s voice that did it. The punch was awkward, given the relative position of the two men, the cramped space and the fact that Berlin was a right-hander. His left fist caught Sunderland just under the jaw and while clumsy the blow still had some power. The cigar tumbled down to the expensive carpet on the floor under the steering wheel while Sunderland’s head snapped back and smacked hard up against the driver’s side window.
As much as Berlin despised the man he had to admire Sunderland’s recovery. He sat back up slowly and rubbed his jaw, before reaching down between his legs for the still lit cigar. Berlin’s nose caught the smell of charred wool from the carpet.
The reporter worked his jaw left and right a couple of times. ‘Not bad, I heard you used to box, back before the war. I’ve had worse though, it comes with the job.’
Berlin flexed the fingers of his left hand but nothing felt broken. ‘This is all bullshit, Sunderland, and you know it. I can go straight into Russell Street right now and talk to the higher ups. Some one is going to listen.’
Sunderland laughed out loud, then winced and rubbed his jaw again. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Berlin, you don’t have any friends in at Russell Street and we both know it. People have sensed something is going on and they’re keeping their heads down. First thing tomorrow morning every bastard on the police force above the rank of sergeant will start jockeying for position and trying to figure out how to turn this little scandal to their own advantage. It’s just musical chairs, Charlie, we both know that, but we also bloody know how the game is played. When the music stops there most definitely will be one chair missing. Someone will get it in the neck and if he’s at all smart the poor bugger will cop it sweet and go quietly, for the good of the force, as they say. And right about now, Charlie, it looks like that poor bugger might just be you. You’ve got a wife and family, you ought to spend a bit of time thinking about that.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘It was smart of them sending Sunderland to lean on you. Just a reporter talking to a cop about a case.’ They were sitting at the kitchen table and Rebecca had her hand on Berlin’s.
‘So what do we do now, what do I do?’
Rebecca squeezed his hand. ‘It’s pretty simple really, isn’t it, Charlie? You have to tell the girl’s father what you know and what you don’t know, and if possible before they can get to him. If there’s even a remote chance the girl is still alive he should at least have that hope. If it means stepping on a few toes then that’s too bad.’
‘It might mean more than that, it might mean my job.’
‘You don’t like your job, Charlie, remember? At least not this part of it, the politics.’
He knew she was right about that.
‘And the studio is making enough money for us to live on if it comes down to that. And if there’s one thing we both know about you, Detective Sergeant Berlin, it’s that if you don’t do the right thing you’ll be hell to live with. I’m just looking out for myself.’
Berlin knew she was right about that too. He had bought an extra twenty-four hours from the girl’s father with a promise and a lie and now it was time for the truth. Hopefully the drive across the city to the Scheiner home in Brighton would give him time to figure out exactly what the truth was in a situation like this.
*
The police presence at the Scheiner’s Brighton residence had been reduced to one uniformed constable lounging by the front gate. The press presence was also reduced, down to a single cadet photographer snoozing in his car. The weather was starting to change, and quickly. There was a chill in the air and a smell that told Berlin there would be a storm soon. He hoped the photographer would be nice enough to give the copper some shelter when the rain came. He might be needing shelter himself soon, given what he was about to do.
The front door was opened before he could knock. Berlin guessed Scheiner must have been watching the street from the front window, and who could blame him? He was wearing a suit and had shaved, but hadn’t made a good job of it. There was a bloody nick on his chin and a dried patch of shaving soap on his jaw under his left ear. It was four nights now since Gudrun had gone missing and the black circles under her father’s bloodshot eyes said he hadn’t slept through any of them.
‘Is Vera about?’
Scheiner shook his head. ‘Oscar has had a heart attack and she went to the hospital to see how he is. They say it is touch and go; they say it is the stress.’
Scheiner’s eyes were on Berlin’s. ‘Should Vera be here, Detective Sergeant Berlin? Is that why you ask? Should Vera be here to give me comfort? Just tell me, good or bad – is my Gudrun found? Is she alive or . . . ?’
Berlin heard his answer as an echo. His voice was distant, hollow sounding. ‘A man has confessed to abducting Gudrun, and to kidnapping a number of other young girls. He wrote a confession to the crimes and then took his own life.’
Scheiner reached out and grasped Berlin by both forearms, the grip of his right hand awkward, weaker because of the missing finger. ‘Where is she, where is my daughter?’
Berlin sensed another presence in the room. He didn’t look across at the mirror over the mantelpiece because he knew what he would see. He would see a hungry, haunted man on a country road on a freezing, sleeting morning in Poland; his younger self watching a younger SS man with a finger missing on his right hand put a pistol to the head of a woman who had chosen her time.
He heard a soft voice in his ear, a woman’s voice, her voice, and she was saying, This isn’t the time, not now, not now.
Berlin looked around the room. It was just the two of them. The silence, the distance, the voice were all gone and now he could hear cars outside, out on the street.
‘They’re coming to tell you Gudrun is dead, Mr Scheiner, but I’m not sure. I don’t think we can be certain.’
‘Who is coming? Why are you not certain? I don’t understand.’
Berlin walked across to the cocktail cabinet. He found cognac and glasses and poured a tumbler-full.
‘Drink this and I’ll tell you what we know.’
Scheiner did as he was told, downing the contents of the cut crystal tumbler.
‘Last night Sergeant Roberts and I found our best suspect dead with a written confession and evidence that he had the taken girls.’
‘My Gudrun also? Is she dead? What evidence? Show me.’
The doorbell rang but the two men stayed still, facing each other.
‘Mr Scheiner, there is evidence and a confession and a strong case to be made for reaching that conclusion, but I’m not convinced. Something still worries me but I could be wrong, totally wrong. I don’t want to give you false hope and that may be all I’m doing. I don’t know.’
The doorbell rang again and there was an insistent knocking on the door. Berlin decided to open it before they broke the glass.
The senior officer had his cap under his arm. His uniform had polished silver buttons and braid and service ribbons. Berlin recognised him from several official events he had been unable to avoid attending and from those press conferences where credit and praise for the good work of the force was on offer and needed to be humbly accepted.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘DS Berlin. I’m with the fraud squad. Sir.’ The pause b
efore he added the word ‘sir’ would have come under the heading of dumb insolence in his air force days.
The senior officer turned and looked over his shoulder. There were two more officers behind him with more silver buttons and braid, and behind them a policewoman. ‘They said this was taken care of.’
There was a cold, hard edge to the statement and Berlin saw that the two officers understood the message. One of them nodded. ‘It will be, sir, don’t worry. Outside, Berlin, and right bloody now.’
He had to wait for the two officers and the policewoman to go past before he could leave. The policewoman closed the door behind him. Dragging a policewoman along always meant they were delivering bad news. Crying women they could cope with but the possibility of a man in tears always made coppers uncomfortable.
Outside on the street Berlin saw the green Triumph and Bob Roberts standing next to a pale blue divisional van. He had a plain-clothes officer on either side of him. Roberts opened his hands palm out and shook his head. He was handcuffed. The two plain-clothes officers straightened up as Berlin approached. One of them stepped forward and held his hand up in front of Berlin’s chest.
‘You can get fucked.’ Berlin said it softly but he meant it. The plain-clothes officer lowered his hand.
Bob Roberts grinned. ‘No sweat, Charlie, no need to monster the boys, they’re just going through the motions, like the monkeys at Ashton’s Circus. We’ll have all this sorted in a couple of hours, trust me.’
Berlin picked the older of the two plain-clothes detectives. ‘Can I have a word with Sergeant Roberts, in private?’
The detective folded his arms. ‘You just told my mate to get fucked, what do you reckon?’
‘C’mon, Len, don’t be like that.’ Bob Roberts’ tone was surprisingly conciliatory, Berlin thought. ‘Charlie here’s a good bloke and it’s not like he said anything offensive like get fucked you snivelling little prick which he could have. And I promise not to run away and make you chase me. I can’t be fairer than that. And I can get you a good deal on a new Holden, or a Ford if you’re the kind of dill who drives one of those.’
St Kilda Blues Page 25
