by Marele Day
‘To find Madalena?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why is he watching my house instead of looking for her?’
‘Perhaps your husband thinks Madalena might try to contact you. Rosa,’ I said, lightly touching her on the arm, ‘you and your husband have to talk about this. It’s stupid you both having someone look for her.’ And it wasn’t making my job any easier having this guy putting Madalena’s friends, the people who usually know something, offside.
Rosa looked down at her hands in her lap. ‘You don’t understand. It’s very difficult to talk to my husband. I can’t even mention her name to him. Besides, when would I have the opportunity? He hardly comes home anymore. You know, I would come and stay here with Anna and John except … except I keep hoping …’ She put her hand up to cover her face. ‘I have to be there in case she rings. She’s not dead,’ she burst out, ‘my little girl is not dead.’
‘Rosa,’ I said softly, ‘there’s a good chance that Madalena is alive.’ I tried to keep my darker fears at bay. There was a chance she was alive. Somebody had come back to the house in Darlinghurst for her things, it could have been Madalena herself. I told Rosa that I had been in touch with friends who’d seen Madalena since she left Lugarno.
‘Why didn’t she call and tell me she was all right?’ Rosa implored.
‘That’s what we don’t know. Rosa, she went to see her father the day she disappeared, did he tell you that?’
‘She went to see Arturo? No, it’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘He would have told me this. Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘They may have had a fight, perhaps he hit her. He was ashamed to tell you. I don’t know. You have to speak to your husband. If he hardly comes home anymore, go and see him at work.’
From somewhere in the house I could hear the little electronic jingle of a computer game. Rosa closed her eyes, her face tense. It was a hard thing I was asking her to do. ‘He doesn’t like me going there. He doesn’t like me to be involved with the business.’
I was sure he didn’t. ‘For Madalena’s sake,’ I reminded her. ‘Speak to him. Ask him about the man in the car. I think his name is Fabio.’
She thought about it. It had to be easier than what they were both separately going through now. Couldn’t they at least share their grief? ‘I will speak to him. I will ask him what happened that day, I will ask him about the man. I will ask him if he will consent to a meeting with you.’ She spoke with resolution, as if swearing on a bible; the words becoming a pledge to herself. She stood up. ‘Now. I will drive to his work and do it now. Anna?’
No doubt Fabio would follow her. I wondered how he’d enjoy the trip back to his employer. And what he’d do when he got there.
We left the living room, went down the hallway and came into a small alcove where Anna sat glued to a computer screen, playing a game. ‘She likes to ride the super airwave,’ explained Rosa. ‘But only when John is not here. He thinks it’s bad for her brain.’ I thought it was super highway but what would I know?
Rosa tapped Anna on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. Loudly, as if Anna was behind glass. Anna put her mouse down. ‘I’ll come to the door with you.’
‘Is there a way out the back?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ said Anna. ‘It’s the neighbour’s house at the back.’
I waited for Rosa to leave. Through the window in the front room I saw her car drive up and disappear round the corner. Then Fabio’s car did the same. If Anna wanted to ask me anything now was the time. But she didn’t ask. She smiled politely and showed me to the door.
The Lost World of Agharti. The rays of the late afternoon sun shone through the windscreen of the panel van as I sat in a quiet backstreet of Strathfield leafing through the book. On the front page where Rafael Khan’s name was written in stylish Gothic calligraphy was a map of the world with the North Pole near its centre. Naturally the map did not feature that great southern continent, Australia. A dotted line was drawn in a roughly circular shape through North Africa, Tibet, Mongolia, the rim of North and Central America. This dotted line marked the boundaries of Agharti, a world hidden beneath the surface of the earth. As I leafed through the book I learned that though the kingdom of Agharti was a Tibetan Buddhist utopia, most cultures had myths and legends of an underground world that could be accessed by a labyrinth of subterranean tunnels and passageways. Could be but very rarely was. Although the underground world had intrigued people throughout history, Bulwer Lytton, Madame Blavatsky, even Adolf Hitler who sent soldiers and scientists off on expeditions, those who had purportedly gained access either didn’t come back, were sworn to silence, got lost and couldn’t remember exactly where they’d gone underground or had some other convenient reason why the many entrances to this world were never precisely pinpointed.
It wasn’t the kind of thing I took to like a duck to water but I could see how it might appeal to the imagination of a fifteen year old on the brink of discovery of self, others and the world in general. I wasn’t exactly cynical—I realised that the human species had sheltered in caves under the ground for eons longer than we’d lived in houses—I just didn’t think there was a better world elsewhere. This was it, for better or worse. The text was mildly intriguing, but when I got to the photos I was absolutely riveted.
Not only was there a photo of a Buddha statue, obviously the inspiration for Raf’s artwork on the door of the Darlinghurst house, there was also another one that showed the peculiar keyhole-like entrance to a tunnel system in India. This was a dead ringer for the tattoo on Kerry’s arm. The one that Madalena had as well.
When I pulled up outside Kerry’s place I saw a woman sitting on the front step in a dressing gown, smoking a cigarette. She looked about fifty but could have been as young as thirty. Kerry was coming up the street. She’d been to the supermarket.
The front gate creaked as Kerry pushed it open with her foot. In either hand she had a plastic carry bag, a bunch of spinach poking out the top of one of them. The bags were heavy, judging by the way her arm muscles tensed. The woman looked up with vacant eyes and smiled a thin smile at Kerry. Kerry, on the other hand, wasn’t looking too pleased to see her mother sitting there in a dressing gown, hair dishevelled, at this hour of the day.
But as she got closer to the front step her expression softened. She bent down as if bending down to a child with a sore knee. Some words were exchanged, words I couldn’t hear. Then the mother took on the look of a chastised child. Reluctantly she got up and went into the darkness of the house. Kerry picked up the shopping and followed her mother in. I gave them a few moments to settle then walked up to the front door.
When Kerry opened the door I was assailed by the odour of rancid fat. Lightly in the background I could hear the shower going. Kerry looked for a minute then remembered who I was. ‘Hi.’ She wasn’t displeased to see me.
She didn’t invite me in, rather she closed the door behind her and sat down in an old canvas director’s chair on the narrow verandah. I sat down in the other one, gingerly at first. One false move and the whole thing would collapse on the ground.
‘Is Raf Maddy’s boyfriend?’ I asked.
She gave a little laugh, as if she found the idea amusing. ‘No, not really. He’s just a guy we used to hang out with.’
A small ginger cat appeared from out of the tangle of tall weeds and jumped into Kerry’s lap. Absentmindedly she began stroking it.
‘What do you mean hang out with?’
The cat was obviously having a soothing effect on her. ‘Oh, you know, we used to do stuff together,’ she said dreamily, as if it had all happened in some distant past.
‘Like what?’
‘Explore the tunnels.’
‘You mean train tunnels?’
‘Whatever. Train tunnels, Telecom tunnels, stormwater tunnels, old coalmines. As long as it was underground, it didn’t matter which.’
I thought of the two kids I’d s
een earlier today riding on the outside of the train. As long as it was dangerous, as long as it got the adrenalin going.
‘You still do it?’
‘It got a bit weird. Not Raf, he’s really cool, but some of the others.’
‘There was a group of you did this tunnel thing?’
She idly played with the eat’s ears, running her fingers to the tips of them, watching the cat flick away the tickle.
‘Well, Maddy and I weren’t really in the group, we just liked going into the tunnels. Like, they were all into this thing about some lost kingdom under the earth, you know, Atlantis or something.’
‘Agharti.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, there’s this tunnel in Glebe, a disused railway tunnel. The group would meet there and light candles and chant about the King of the World, like he was Jesus or something.’
‘So you don’t see Raf anymore?’
‘Yeah, I see him occasionally. You know that house in Darlinghurst? Raf painted that beautiful door. He is such a good painter. He does other stuff as well. He does huge paintings in chalk on the street. You know Hyde Park, opposite David Jones in town? He does street art there. Such beautiful colours, and the people look really real. It takes him weeks to do one.’
‘Raf did your tattoo?’
‘Not the tattoo. Raf did the drawing then a tattooist up the Cross went over it. We were a bit pissed,’ she explained.
‘Have you seen Raf since Maddy disappeared?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
She laughed, as if the question had no meaning. ‘He has a couple of places he stays but he doesn’t actually have an address. He could make a lot of money if he went into advertising or graphic design, but he doesn’t want to do that.’ Integrity and the artistic spirit. I wondered how long that would last.
The door opened. ‘Kes, I’ve made some cheese on toast if you want some.’ It was Kerry’s mother, freshly showered and holding a cigarette in her hand. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t know you had company.’
‘Hi, I’m Claudia,’ I introduced myself.
‘Want some cheese on toast?’ she asked me. ‘I can easy fling another slice of bread under the griller.’
‘No thanks,’ I said, getting up. ‘Maybe some other time.’ Over the cigarette smoke I could smell something burning. I didn’t like to say anything, she’d probably put a lot of effort into making what seemed to be their dinner.
‘I better get back to it. You coming in, Kes?’
‘Yeah, Mum, rightaway.’ She gently put the cat down on the ground and picked a couple of its hairs off her black jeans.
‘That guy hasn’t bothered you again?’ I asked.
‘What guy?’ He mustn’t have bothered her too much if she had to be reminded of it. I reminded her, all the same. ‘No. I haven’t been to the Darlinghurst house recently. Mum’s been … sick.’
It seemed futile but I had to ask. ‘Have you heard from Maddy?’
All the brightness in her face disappeared. ‘No.’ Then she pulled herself back from the yawning chasm that had momentarily opened up before her. ‘She’s OK, though, I just know she is. I guess one day there’ll be this postcard from Byron or somewhere. That’ll be Maddy.’
The breath caught in my throat at her optimism. Inexplicably I felt my eyes prick with tears. I stepped down onto what was probably once a path to the gate. ‘Enjoy your cheese on toast.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘Kerry,’ I said suddenly, as she was about to go into the house, ‘if ever you need anything, anything at all, give me a call.’
She looked at me oddly, wondering what I was making all the fuss was about.
SEVENTEEN
It was after six but I knew Brian would still be at work. The honeymoon was over now and he was back in the thick of it. Traffic was heavy but at least I was going the other way-towards the city rather than away from it like everyone else, returning home to the suburbs after a hard day at the office. I waited till I got to the first big intersection, then I phoned.
‘Brian? It’s Claudia … No, not Brazil. Hurstville. I’m in the car.’
Brian made some comment to the effect that he never thought he’d live to see the day I’d make a phone call sitting in my car at traffic lights. I told him I’d gotten over that glitch as soon as I realised how practical a mobile phone was in my line of work.
‘You know we were talking about Grimaldi the other day? Well, if it’s not too much bother, can you check him out?’ He asked me what in particular. ‘Companies, business records, tax returns if your intelligence stretches to that.’ I could almost see him grinning, appreciating the joke. The Tax Office knew everything about everyone but getting information out of them was worse than getting blood out of a stone. ‘Also, if he has an employee called Fabio—sorry I don’t have the surname—or if there are any records of payment to such a person. That’d be the best Christmas present I could hope for.’ He said he’d see what he could do. Maybe he’d have something for me when I came over for dinner. With perfect timing I hung up at the exact moment the lights changed.
It was just on 6.30 when I got back into town. Peak hour parking restrictions were finished and I had no trouble finding a parking spot outside David Jones. But that turned out to be my ration of luck for the day. Across the road I could see the painting but the artist had gone.
The painting was alongside Hyde Park, close to the entrance of St James station. There was a florist on one side of the entrance and a newsstand on the other. They were both packing up for the day. I asked the woman in the florist if she knew where the street artist was. She just shrugged and continued bringing the buckets of flowers inside. I tried the same thing with the guy selling newspapers. ‘He’s gone. Probably be back tomorrow,’ he assured me. ‘He comes most days.’
I went back and examined the painting. It was The Last Supper. Kerry was right-the colours were beautiful. The cobalt blue of Christ’s robes was reflected in the blue of his eyes. His fair hair framed his face like a halo. Strange that a Sephardic Jew like Jesus would have blue eyes and fair hair. Artistic licence I suppose. I stood back to admire the painting as a whole but soon my view was obscured by people walking along the street heading for the station. Some of them skirted around the painting but most walked straight over it, thinking of nothing else but getting home for the night.
EIGHTEEN
Our hair colour, our clothes, our names, even our facial features can be altered, but our genes don’t change. Deoxyribonucleic acid is the stuff genes are made of. In the biochemistry of a person’s chromosomes are features unique to that individual. Blood, semen and other body fluids present at the scene of a crime can be analysed and matched with a suspect’s unique DNA patterning.
DNA analysis was first used to establish paternity. Some of an individual’s unique features are shared by family members and are passed from one generation to the next. It was paternity I was thinking about as I drove to the morgue. There’d been a message from Sofia Theodourou. She had a result on the blood tests. Could I come and see her at my earliest convenience?
The Glebe morgue, as well as housing the Institute of Forensic Medicine also houses the Coroner’s Court. The brown brick complex is on Parramatta Road opposite Sydney University. You can get a degree in medicine or law then pop across the road for a job.
When I walked in off the street, however, I wondered if I’d come to the the wrong place. It was chaos. The foyer was filled with people whose average age was eighteen, milling around, dressed to kill, chattering on to each other like long-lost friends. Disregarding the policeperson who was endeavouring to get everyone’s name and address. She was fighting a losing battle.
I made my way through the throng. ‘Why the big crowd?’ I asked one of the sheriffs. ‘It’s a drive-by matter,’ she said tersely, as if she’d told me too much already.
The inquest into a drive-by killing. I remembered it now, happened about six months ago. A drive-by shooting outsi
de an all-night cafe in Marrickville. It had to be the same one. Drive-bys are rare in Australia.
I left the Coroner’s Court section, walked through the door to Forensic Medicine and told the woman in the office I was there to see Dr Theodourou. She asked for my name then picked up the phone. ‘A Claudia Valentine to see Dr Theodourou,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ she said, putting down the phone.
Less than a minute later a door opened and a man wearing glasses over a lean tanned face appeared. ‘You’re looking for Dr Theodourou?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Come this way,’ he invited.
I went that way. He led me down a maze of corridors and left me in a room with a tea urn, fridge, chairs, a table and magazines. It must have been some sort of common room but there was no-one else there at the moment. I flicked through a couple of the magazines. Still no-one came. I went for a little walk, wondering what was behind all those closed doors I had passed. I pushed a set of double doors, which let out a draught of cold air, and found myself looking in a storeroom with rows and rows of bodies in bags on shelves.
‘Looking for anyone in particular?’ I heard a voice behind me. It was a woman with steely grey hair and a steely grey face. She wore nurses’ shoes and a watch pinned to her ample bosom. If she wasn’t a matron she had a strong desire to be one.
‘It’s OK,’ I assured her, ‘I’m waiting for Dr Theodourou.’
‘You can wait at reception,’ she went on in her authoritative yet matronising tone.
I’d already got this far, I wasn’t going back to reception. I started to head towards the common room. She came with me. Then parked herself in the doorway so I couldn’t get through. ‘This is for staff only.’
What was wrong with the woman? ‘A member of staff showed me to this room,’ I glared, starting to lose patience with her behaviour. ‘If you don’t mind.’
We stood there glaring at each other. The stalemate was broken by the sound of another voice. ‘Hi. Sorry you had to wait.’ It was Sofia Theodourou. ‘Beryl?’ she said to the matron. ‘What are you doing up here, is everything all right?’
