by Marele Day
For some reason I beeped. The male sheriff asked me to extend my arms while he caressed my aura with his metal detecting device. Then the female sheriff asked me to open my bag and show her the contents. There was nothing much in my bag, a notebook, pen, lipstick, the photos of Madalena, a Ferry Ten ticket. Nothing lethal.
I went into the courtroom, a brown brick interior with mustard-coloured wall panelling. It was set out like a theatre, with rows of seats for the audience and a partition separating them from the onstage players. The players were: the coroner, sitting up at the highest table like a king; on the next level down sat the witness at one end and the coroner’s assistant at the other. Lower down, with their backs to the spectators, were the legals. On the right, members of the print media sat taking notes, and to the left were the witness’s minders. Carol was in this area as well.
As well as members of the public who’d come along for the show, there were ‘interested parties’ sitting in the gallery—big men in tight suits or short-sleeved white shirts. Moustaches, hair longish at the back. They’d survived the seventies but not by much.
The witness was a balding man in a light blue suit and a bright paisley tie. Some people are born with it, others never attain it. Addressing him was a barrister. Trim black beard, one of the dark blue suits I’d seen in the canteen. ‘Now, Mr Glasser,’ the barrister started.
‘Excuse me, for the purposes of this court the witness will be known as Mr Jones,’ interrupted the coroner.
‘Now Mr Jones,’ said the barrister sarcastically. ‘In your statement you say that a dinner took place at the Fry ‘n’ Fish on 26 March 1985 during which Edward Leonards was discussed. Is that correct?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And what was the nature of that conversation?’
‘Dennis said something had to he done about Leonards, he’d become a loose cannon.’
‘And by loose cannon you mean …?’
‘Well, he was getting out of control. He’d kill anyone. If he didn’t like the colour of your tie he’d kill you. He was stupid, going round asking people if there was anyone they wanted knocking off.’
‘This was almost a month before Leonards disappeared?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why did Dennis wait so long?’
‘Dennis never killed him. Dennis never killed anyone. He was going to talk to Harrington about it, that’s all.’
‘By “Harrington” I take it you mean Detective Richard Harrington as he was at the time?’
‘That’s correct.’
I shifted seats so that I was sitting right behind Carol. I bent over and whispered in her ear, ‘Carol, come outside.’
She sat there frozen, as if she hadn’t heard what I said.
‘Do you think I’d drag you out if it wasn’t important?’ I tried again.
She’d heard. Without turning around, she quietly stood up, went through the motions of bowing to the coroner and went outside. I did the same.
Not surprisingly, Carol was fuming. ‘This better be good, Claudia. You’d just about have to be able to tell me what they did with Leonards’ body to have dragged me like this.’
‘He’s at Rookwood, in the Crematorium wall.’
Everything stood still for a minute then Carol understood what I was getting at. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Think about it. I didn’t make the connection at first because I was out of the country when it happened. Leonards was last seen a month after 26 March. That puts it pretty close to 25 April, doesn’t it? Anzac Day. Dennis Carey goes to see Harrington. Harrington arranges a little send-off for Leonards. Both Harrington and Hindley were at Kings Cross at the time. And the night of the twenty-fifth, Hindley was on duty.
‘I don’t know the exact sequence of events but let’s say Leonards is brought to Rushcutters Bay park. He might already have been unconscious when he arrived. Hindley and Harrington both know deros frequent that park. It’s Anzac Day, they’re going to be tanked, passed out. Easy, they think, to grab some ID off one of them and plant it on Leonards. Hindley fills out the Report of Death to the Coroner, saying the body is that of Guy Francis Valentine. The body is cremated, never to be found. Except there’s one thing wrong with it-Guy Francis Valentine is still alive and living in Surry Hills.’
Carol had started off shaking her head but by the time I got to the end she was at least listening. ‘You’ve found him?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘What was it like? What did he say?’
‘We didn’t speak.’
‘What do you mean, you didn’t speak?’
‘He didn’t see me. I left without making contact.’
Carol was waiting for me to explain further. Perhaps over a drink, a game of pool, but not now.
‘You could go and see Guy, ask him what he remembers of that night. Ask him what happened to his coat. But there’s even more telling proof right here in this building. Blood samples. Leonards must have relatives. See if they’re prepared to have a DNA analysis. See if they get a match with the specimens taken from the man Hindley identified as Guy Francis Valentine.’
Carol was thoughtful. ‘Leonards had a son, I believe. Living in Madagascar. I’ll think about it while I listen to the rest of the proceedings. You coming back in?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was at the fountain in Hyde Park with my hair pulled back, wearing the round-rimmed glasses I’d worn at La Giardinera. It didn’t take much to change your image. I was standing vigil, watching Raf. When he moved, I would move. I would follow him to the ends of the earth and there I would find Madalena. Nothing would get in my way. I wouldn’t be stopping to help old ladies in distress or doing any other type of good deed.
The perfect image of summer that this place represented the first time I stood here had switched into its own negative. The sky was brown and the reflection of light off the billowing smoke had turned the tall city buildings a blue of hyperreal intensity. The only reason the cloud hadn’t drifted down to the ground the way it had in the outer suburbs was because the heat from the buildings kept it hovering. Gotham City. Behind the smoke the sun was a red ball of blistering heat. It was only midday yet the light resembled a garish sunset. If hell had a waiting room, this was it.
The mood had changed too. Instead of a relaxed holiday feel there was a recklessness, as if everything was out of control. In the midst of this Raf was methodically working on the rainforest. It was almost finished now. He leaned into a pool of blue-green chalk, attending to some detail. A few people watched him work while others walked respectfully around the painting rather than straight across it.
I watched him all the way through lunchtime, changing position once or twice in case he looked over this way. He never did.
It was 2.45 when he finally made a move. He pocketed the money, put his hat on, walked to St James station. Down the stairs and into the pedestrian tunnel he went, then into the station proper. Before passing through the automatic turnstiles he went over to the old-fashioned milk bar and bought two Cherry Ripes. Two. While he was doing that I bought a train ticket. He went through. I hung back for a minute then passed through the turnstile myself.
The platform had enough people on it to make me feel inconspicuous. Raf was standing right down one end. The train from Circular Quay pulled in, the automatic doors opened and passengers got out. Raf waited to get on. I walked onto the train, three doors up from him. The guard signalled and the train started to move. I looked back. The platform was now empty. I had no idea where he’d be getting off so I set out to locate him before we got to Museum, the next station. I moved progressively through the carriages.
He should have been three carriages away but there was no sign of him. I went right to the end of the train and still couldn’t see him. Perhaps he didn’t get on the train after all. But there was no-one left on the platform when the train pulled out.
&nbs
p; He wasn’t on the train and he wasn’t on the platform. There was only one other place he could be. In the tunnels. The realisation came as no surprise. Subconsciously I’d known from the start that he hadn’t got on the train, I just didn’t want to admit it because that meant I had to go into the tunnels too.
I got off at the next station and waited for the train going back to St James. On the return trip I put my hands to the window and looked out. There were lights every few metres, similar alcoves to the ones I’d noticed in the Glebe tunnel, and archways that went through to other tracks. They all flashed by in seconds.
The train pulled in at St James. I got off but instead of going up the stairs like everyone else, I hung around the platforms. There were two—southbound and northbound. In between was a kind of trough where a track might once have run. At the end where Raf had been waiting, the tunnel entrance of the former track was blocked off by a white timber wall. In the wall was a small door that appeared to be locked. Perhaps it was the aborted tunnel I’d seen on the map.
It would be easy to slip down off the platform and into the tunnel. Best time was when a train had just pulled in, people milling around. No-one would notice. And if there was a train in the station already, there’d be no danger of meeting another one in the darkness of the tunnel. But you couldn’t stay there long. This was part of the City Circle. There were trains coming all the time. Raf would know this. He was the tunnel king, he would know his way around.
I looked at the timetable. There was a train from Circular Quay due in two minutes. The next one from that direction would arrive seven minutes later.
I stood in the place Raf had stood. The train from Circular Quay was dead on time. People got off and others got on. The disembarking passengers started making their way up the stairs. The guard looked up and down the platform then gave the all-clear signal. A quick look around, a deep breath, then I slipped down onto the tracks and walked into the darkness.
A metallic smell invaded my nostrils as soon as I entered the tunnel. Behind me the lit-up area of track at the station was still visible. I pressed on, hugging the wall.
Raf wouldn’t have stayed in this tunnel long, there’d be too much traffic. But somewhere there would be an archway leading into the aborted tunnel. There was also the strong possibility that once down here I might stumble into tunnels that weren’t on the map. I had seven minutes before the next train. I hoped I would find the other tunnel before a train came zooming along this one.
I continued on, feeling my way along the wall. I didn’t want to use my pencil torch unless I had to, didn’t want to alert him to my presence if he was up ahead. I heard a soft scratching and felt something run over my hand. Automatically I withdrew my hand. Only a cockroach I assured myself, just like the ones at home.
According to the diagram the boarded-up tunnel ran parallel to this one for a while, curved east, then abruptly stopped. I must have been at the place where it curved away because suddenly, instead of feeling the wall, my hand felt thin air. I turned the torch on briefly. There was an archway leading into the other tunnel. I switched the torch off again. In those few seconds I’d seen walls streaked with grime, a bit of faded graffiti here and there. Oddly comforting, the fact that someone had been down here to do this, even if it was years ago.
There were no actual train tracks in this tunnel, I could walk freely. Nevertheless I was reluctant to leave the security of the wall. Through the cold oppressive silence I could hear little scurryings and the occasional drip of water. As I felt my way along I began to notice that in places there were streams of wetness. I hoped it was water. My eyes were getting accustomed to the dark. Up ahead the quality of the darkness was different, glistening almost. Was this the pool of water the station master had referred to? If it was, things weren’t looking good because I hadn’t seen any signs of Raf.
I turned the torch on again. It was water up ahead. But nothing else. This was a wild goose chase. Perhaps Raf was still on that train. How stupid of me to have got off. To be down here. I kept on, towards the water, thinking how futile this all was. I left the torch on. There was no reason not to, no-one was here to see it.
Not only was there a pool of water, there was a patch of sand in front of it.
And in the sand there was a print. I shone the torch directly on it. It had been made by a heavy shoe, a workboot worn by railway workers. Or by inner city kids. Something caught my eye. A spot of cobalt blue. Blue chalk, of the type Raf used.
The footstep was facing in the direction of the water. I shone the torch into the water. There were dark shapes in there. I reached in and felt a piece of iron, part of a rail track presumably, then a pick. Workers’ equipment left behind after work on this tunnel was abandoned?
I waded in a bit further, and suddenly I was in over my head. I started treading water, then made my way to the end wall. The water was just as deep here but at least I had the wall for support. I shone the torch down into the water and at the bottom of the wall saw a different shade of darkness. I dived down. It was an opening through to the other side. I remember Vince and Steve talking about caves with water in them, that sometimes you had to go under water to get from one cave to the next. But what would I find on the other side? Was there a place where I could come up for air?
My heart was thumping so hard it was creating ripples in the water. Was it my heart that was making the muffled sounds I could hear? I counted to four, trying to bring my heart beat to an easier pace. I pressed my ear to the wall. A whispering sound and behind it a dull whoosh. It would be OK, all I had to do was swim through to the other side. It was perfectly safe. I could have a look then come back exactly the same way.
So I did it. I wriggled through the opening, swum in a direction that I hoped was up, then burst through the surface, gasping for air. I fished the torch out of my boot. It flickered for a second, long enough for me to see walls that seemed to be glittering with crystals. Then the light petered out.
Somewhere I could hear the dull whoosh, louder now than it was on the other side of the wall. Was it traffic passing overhead? Everything else was still, and the whispering had ceased.
I kept swimming forward a few strokes till I touched the ground again. It wasn’t sandy here as it had been on the other side, it felt like chunky gravel. I stood up, took one step and then the ground gave way. I heard a snap then felt my ankle in a vice-like grip. I was caught in some sort of a trap. The messages of pain began coming through. A searing circle around my ankle. I tried to pull my foot free but it wouldn’t budge.
‘Is anyone there?’ I cried desperately. I felt overwhelmed by panic. Trapped beneath the city. Up above in the streets no-one would hear my silent screams. No-one knew I was here, no-one was going to come looking for me. In the darkness I could smell my own blood. If I died down here no-one would ever find me.
I breathed, to keep the panic at bay. My foot was caught in a trap, that was all. There was no other damage. There was a way out, I just had to stay calm and think of it.
The darkness that deprived me of sight seemed to sharpen other senses. Something, or someone, was close by. I couldn’t see what it was. It was as if the atmosphere suddenly thickened somewhere to my left. I put my hand out and groped the air. I touched something, something that instantly shrank away. There was a sharp intake of air. It could have been me.
Then, in amongst the cold blackness, I smelled it. The scent of jasmine. Perfume. Soft and warm as the body temperature of a human being.
‘Maddy? Raf?’
There was no answer. But someone was there.
‘Maddy, there’s been an accident. Your father is in hospital, he’s very badly wounded.’ My words seemed to get eaten up by the darkness. Yet still I could feel an alertness in the air.
‘Is it Fabio you’re worried about? Is that why you’re down here? The police are looking for him, I don’t think he’ll bother you. In fact he’s probably left the country.’ I tried to keep my breath even but it was coming in fi
ts and starts. I felt nausea creep up from my stomach and flow all over me. A ringing in my ears, then nothing.
I was dead. I had been through the dark tunnel they talk about and now I could see the warm welcoming light. It was just the way they describe it in books. I groped for the light, I had to reach it, had to keep it in view. This was it, the final stage in the death experience.
My mouth was dry, the ringing had returned to my ears. Sensation. My ankle, instead of being surrounded by fire, now felt like ice. The vague blotches of light and dark came into focus. I could see now that the light was a kerosene lamp. Above it was a face. Raf’s face.
‘You fainted,’ I heard someone say. Now another face came into view. It was Madalena. More gaunt, sharper-featured in the lamplight than in the photo. But it was Madalena.
I attempted to stand up. Slowly, tentatively. But when I tried to put weight on my left foot pain shot up my leg like a howling wind.
‘You better sit down,’ Raf said. He put the lamp on the ground and now I could see my surroundings. What I thought were crystals was a mosaic in broken glass. The walls were covered in it. A work of art. Raf’s underground gallery. He sat me down on a mattress. The whole place looked quite comfortable. Mattresses, cushions, candles.
‘Did you come all this way to tell me that my father’s in hospital?’ asked Madalena.
I had to smile, despite the circumstances. ‘Your mother hired me to look for you. Before any of that happened.’
‘Hired you?’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
‘Really? Mum hired you? What did my father think of that?’
Not Dad. My father. The distant one. The same way we referred to Guy.
‘He didn’t know. At first.’
‘But Mum’d never do anything without his permission.’
