Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  ‘I remember the case quite well,’ Graham Patterson told them. ‘It was one of the first of its kind I’d dealt with. I’d seen plenty of road trauma and death, of course, but we’d always been able to identify the victim. I felt I’d failed her, you know?’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Then there was your father. He wouldn’t let it go. Used to come to the station all the time, asking if we’d found anything. Drove us mad, to be honest.’

  Hamish looked up sharply. So this so-called friend was her father. Why hadn’t she trusted him with that information? Surely he was entitled. He suddenly became aware that Moss was speaking again.

  ‘He still hasn’t let go,’ said Moss. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ She was embarrassed to ask the next question. ‘I’m not suggesting you didn’t do all you could at the time, but . . .’

  ‘But I did do all I could. We all did. Have you seen the coroner’s finding? There was never any suggestion of negligence on our part.’ Moss began to apologise again but he cut her off. ‘The problem is, my investigation was hampered by the very fact that I was a police officer. I always felt that Brenda knew more than she let on at the time. But she didn’t trust the police. For instance, when we searched her room, there were so few of Amber-Lee’s belongings that we believe Brenda probably stole the rest.’

  ‘Did you ask her about them?’

  ‘Of course we did. She said that Amber-Lee was just a roommate: someone to share the rent. She had no idea what might have been missing. Brenda was a very aggressive witness, and she’d been beaten up badly by the time we spoke to her. I’m not even sure that I trust the description she gave us.’

  ‘It all sounds hopeless,’ said Moss. ‘We haven’t even started and we seem to have reached a dead end.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Patterson began writing on a pad and tore off the page. ‘Here,’ he said, giving it to Moss. ‘This is the address of the Prostitutes’ Collective. I’ve written a note to Georgia Lalor asking her to help you. You’ll find her there most days. She’s the only one I can think of who might be able to help.’ He stood up and shook hands with them both. ‘I always thought Brenda was the key. Funny—these things stick with you, even after all this time. I hope you find her.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ said Hamish.

  Waiting until they were back out on the street, he turned to Moss. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this was for your father? You used to tell me you didn’t know who your father was.’ His tone was aggrieved.

  Moss took his arm. ‘I’m really sorry, Hamish. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that my father told me about Amber-Lee in confidence. In the end I had to tell Judy when she rang me for the details. They needed to know why I was interested in the case.’ She searched his face. ‘Okay now? We’re still mates?’

  ‘Alright. Still mates. But tell me, how did you find your father?’

  Moss related the story of her search as they made their way to the Prostitutes’ Collective, which was only a twenty-minute walk from the police station. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they almost walked past its unremarkable entrance. The Collective was housed in an old red-brick building, and they entered through a single glass door which led to a large room furnished with several armchairs and a cluster of desks. Some young women were looking at a noticeboard, and another was feeding the photocopier.

  Moss and Hamish looked at each other. It wasn’t quite what they’d expected. An older woman, dressed stylishly in black, came over to where they were standing.

  ‘Are you the reporters?’ she said.

  ‘What? No, we’re here to see Georgia,’ said Hamish.

  ‘We have a letter of introduction,’ Moss added.

  ‘Georgia’s in a meeting at the moment. Did you have an 211 appointment?’

  Moss was chastened by the woman’s tone. ‘Sorry. We didn’t know we had to have one.’

  The woman sighed. ‘Who’s the letter from? I might be able to fit you in later today.’ Moss handed her the letter and she nodded. ‘Graham Patterson. Yes.’ She returned to her desk and referred to a diary. ‘She can see you at three this afternoon.’

  With nearly four hours to fill, Moss and Hamish decided to walk along the foreshore and have lunch at one of the bay-side restaurants. It was a clear spring day, with a hint of summer in the sun’s rays. There were a few yachts bobbing on the water, sporting sails of red, yellow and sparkling white.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ Hamish told her, ‘I always wanted to go to sea. I used to read books about explorers and pirates— anything about the sea—but my parents didn’t even like the beach. We always went up to the mountains for our holidays. Anyway, one day my mate Ben’s parents invited me out for a day’s fishing on their boat. I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep the night before. We’d been on the boat for less than twenty minutes when I started to throw up. It wasn’t even rough. The sea was like a millpond. They were very nice about it, but I was so sick that they had to bring me back and ring my parents to collect me. I was mortified, and Ben couldn’t wait to tell the story when we got back to school.’

  Moss grinned. ‘And that was the end of your seafaring ambitions?’

  ‘No, I’d still like nothing more than to be able to sail the world. But I have to accept that it’s never going to happen.’ He looked at her earnestly. He didn’t want to see her hurt. ‘Some things that we want are just not possible. We can try to find Amber-Lee’s identity, but there may be a point where we can’t go any further. We have to be able to recognise that point when we reach it.’

  ‘If we reach it.’

  ‘Yes. If we reach it.’

  At three o’clock they were back at the Collective for their meeting with Georgia. Patterson had told them a little about the organisation, which had been set up as a kind of union for prostitutes. It promoted safe sex and provided information to newcomers. There was a register of violent clients, and staff cooperated with the police to protect the safety of their members and, in some cases, the general public.

  Georgia was a full-figured woman in her mid-forties, with rich chestnut hair caught in a clasp at the nape of her neck. She welcomed them in a pleasantly modulated voice and stood aside as they entered her office. They were surprised to find that it was like any other office—an untidy desk with a framed photo and a vase of daffodils, a phone, a computer and some shelves lined with dark blue folders. Quality Procedures, Moss was astonished to read on the spine of one folder. What was I expecting? she asked herself. Crimson velvet curtains? Erotic artworks? Silk kimonos?

  ‘So Graham Patterson sent you to me. How is he?’

  ‘He’s well,’ replied Moss, relinquishing her thought with a guilty start. ‘Says to tell you hi.’

  Georgia smiled. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

  Moss told her story as succinctly as she could, and Georgia listened without comment.

  ‘. . . so if we could find Brenda,’ Moss concluded, ‘we might find the key to Amber-Lee.’

  Georgia sat back in her chair. ‘I remember the accident. I was working at the Kasbah at the time, but I knew some of the streetgirls. Didn’t know this Amber-Lee, though. I knew Brenda a little. Just enough to pass the time of day. She was one of Vince’s girls. He was a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the accident?’

  ‘Only that it happened and the police were trying to find out who the victim was. Brenda disappeared soon after.’ She looked at them sharply. ‘Look, I might know someone who can help, but I need to know I can trust you. What’s in it for you?’

  ‘It’s just as I told you. I want to help my father to give Amber-Lee back her name, her identity. Honestly, I don’t have any other motive.’

  Georgia measured Moss with her eyes. She was usually a good judge of character, and this girl seemed sincere. So many street people died without a name and were buried without mourners. She’d been a streetworker herself in her younger days and was painfully aware of the fragility of identity in such a world
. It was her sense of responsibility that had drawn her to work for the Collective, and in helping Moss discover Amber-Lee’s real name, she was helping all the girls, in a way. There but for the grace of God . . . she thought grimly as she opened her desk drawer and took out a notepad.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Damara. I think she kept in touch with Brenda. Give me your number and I’ll let you know if she’ll speak to you. It might take a week or two.’

  Thanking Georgia, they left, feeling elated. They hadn’t reached that dead end yet. Moss returned to Opportunity to await developments, and Hamish went back to his studies. The interruption had been welcome. He needed to come up with an idea for a major project to support his thesis, but time was running out and ideas were elusive.

  Finn was worried about Moss. She seemed so dejected, and her interest in her music had waned again. She was too young to drift into the lassitude that infected so many in Opportunity. She needed cheering up, but he was at a loss. What did young women enjoy nowadays? She didn’t have a boyfriend; Mrs Pargetter had mentioned this a couple of times. The problem was that he didn’t know any suitable young men. He’d have to come up with something else. Women always like a nice dinner, he thought. Some hopeful calculations indicated that it must be close to her birthday. A present too, then. Dinner and a present.

  He was due to meet with the Commission for the Future next month, but, impatient to execute his plan, he brought the meeting forward and travelled down to Melbourne by bus and train.

  Wandering aimlessly around the shops, he had a sudden inspiration. Jewellery. Women loved jewellery, didn’t they? He slid diffidently into several jewellery stores and was finally captured by a well-dressed young man who looked doubtfully at his customer’s dishevelled appearance.

  ‘May I assist you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’m looking for a gift. For a woman.’

  ‘Our selection is very fine. Many items are hand-crafted.’

  The assistant’s tone implied that Finn couldn’t possibly afford such merchandise.

  Finn stood his ground. ‘I was thinking of a pendant. You know—a thing on a chain. Gold. I want gold.’

  Now there was a tinge of impatience underlying the studied politeness. ‘All our gold is eighteen carat or more, sir.’

  ‘Show me what you have. She’s only twenty-four, so I don’t want anything old-fashioned.’

  The young man raised his eyebrows and Finn blushed. ‘My daughter,’ he snapped. ‘Do you have anything to show me?’

  Finn looked at the various lockets, heart-shaped, oval, with and without gems. There were tiny gold dolphins (Very popular with young girls, sir). Finn rather liked the pearl drops, but thought they might be a bit middle-aged. He felt helpless and wished he could ask a woman’s opinion. Then he saw it. A gold filigree treble clef hanging from a finely wrought, tubular chain.

  ‘That one. I’ll have that one.’

  The sales assistant sniffed. ‘It’s one of a kind, sir. Hand-crafted. Very expensive.’ He indicated the price tag.

  ‘Gift wrap it, please,’ Finn said. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

  Finn was pleased with his find and couldn’t keep the smile from his face as the train sped through the familiar countryside. When he got home, he carefully unwrapped the parcel to look at the pendant again, then rewrapped it before clumsily retying the bow.

  When Moss came in from walking Errol, her father was waiting at the door.

  ‘Are you doing anything on Saturday night?’

  Moss was surprised. When she was in Opportunity, she never did anything on Saturday night. ‘No. Why?’

  Finn hunched his shoulders and looked at her from under his eyebrows. ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner. Somewhere nice. Chez Marie, in Cradletown.’

  Moss was surprised and touched. ‘Thank you, Finn. I’d love 217 to come.’

  She was unsure what to wear. Mrs Pargetter assured her that Chez Marie was indeed a very nice place. ‘Very fashionable. It’s won the regional Fine Dining Medal five years in a row. It said so in the local paper. The couple who do that cooking show own it. You know the one—on Wednesdays: Classic Chefs.’ When she heard this, Moss was glad that she’d brought a few more clothes back with her.

  At the agreed time, Finn appeared, squirming self-consciously in a suit and tie. He looked at his daughter in her black scooped-neck dress. She was even wearing high heels.

  ‘You look beautiful, Moss,’ he said in genuine admiration. ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting. Let’s go.’

  Finn ordered wine, and Moss was surprised to see that he tasted it and allowed the waiter to fill his glass.

  ‘Special occasion, Moss. I’m not an alcoholic. I just choose not to drink most of the time. But with a good meal and good company . . .’

  They touched glasses. The restaurant was in the old assay building, and the renovators had kept the mosaic floor tiles, the intricate timber panelling and Art Nouveau stained glass. A fire was burning in the grate and individual lamps cast a glow on fine glasses and silver.

  Moss was impressed. ‘What a wonderful place, Finn.’ She was even more impressed by the ease with which her father ordered. Clearly, he’d been used to this at some time in his life.

  Finn’s response to his surroundings came from the subliminal impulse of memory. He didn’t stop to think about how he should act, and his natural courtesy gave him a dignity that charmed his daughter. As they waited for their soup, he lifted his glass again.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘happy birthday, Moss.’

  ‘It’s not . . .’ Moss began.

  ‘I know,’ her father said gently. ‘But I’ve missed so many; you’ll have to allow me this one.’

  Moss grinned to cover her emotion. ‘As long as I don’t have to age another year.’

  Finn reddened and fished in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a present. For your birthday.’ He looked on apprehensively as Moss fumbled with the now awkwardly tied parcel. ‘I hope you like it.’

  Moss was embarrassed and took longer than necessary to unwrap the gift. Presents always made her feel uncomfortable, and a gift from the undemonstrative Finn would take them a step further in their relationship. She finally opened the box and took out the pendant, which caught the light of the table lamp. Her eyes widened. It was exquisite.

  ‘Finn, you shouldn’t have . . .’ She saw the disappointment in his eyes. ‘But it’s wonderful. Beautiful. Truly, I love it.’ She took off the silver chain she was wearing and clasped the pendant around her neck. ‘There. What do you think?’

  The old charm surfaced as Finn smiled at his daughter. ‘You look like a princess,’ he said.

  As the meal progressed, Finn ventured a question about her plans. ‘Did you catch up with your course supervisor?’

  ‘I’ve got till February to decide,’ Moss replied shortly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Moss. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s Linsey, Finn. I know I should continue for her sake as well as my own, but I feel so bad about the way I treated her and—I don’t know . . . I went to the memorial wall and . . . She asked for me to sing, you know? That’s a good sign, don’t you think?’ She looked at her father hopefully.

  Finn was appalled to see her tears. This outing was supposed to cheer her up. He searched his mind for things to say: wise, compassionate things that would smooth the tension from her face and, most of all, stop her from crying. But he’d always been at a loss when women cried.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get back to your singing,’ he said, ignoring her last question. ‘Let’s talk about something more cheerful. You’ll never guess what Sandy’s been up to.’

  Moss sighed and brushed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me we’re getting a giant cockatoo as well!’

  16

  Lily Pargetter and her baby

  EAGER AS USUAL TO GET his plans underway, Sandy asked Moss and Finn to meet him at the pub for lunch. ‘I don’t want Aunt Lily to know for now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got som
e information, and I need to discuss where to go from here.’

  ‘It’s like this,’ he said after they’d ordered their meal. ‘There are identifiable places where babies were buried, but there’s no record of Aunt Lily’s baby anywhere. The woman from SANDS suggests taking her to the Church of England section of the cemetery. It might comfort her to see the burial place and the memorial—give her another focus. What do you think?’

  ‘All I know is that she needs some sort of help,’ said Moss. ‘She’s in pain, Sandy. She hides it well enough, but I’ve seen her with her defences down.’

  Sandy sipped his beer thoughtfully, and they sat in silence while the pub noise rose and fell around them.

  Finn finally spoke. ‘So you don’t know whether to tell Mrs Pargetter that the gravesites have been found, or whether to let it go.’ Sandy nodded. ‘Moss tells me that your aunt feels the baby’s still in the house. She never said anything like that to me.’

  ‘It only started happening again since Moss came back. Aunt Lily seems to think that Moss can bring the baby out of hiding.’

  ‘It’s become a bit distressing,’ Moss admitted. ‘Sometimes I find her standing in the doorway of the room. Other times I come back and find her sitting on the bed. When she sees me, she just says, I’m looking for my baby. Then she goes about her business as though nothing has happened.’ She paused. ‘The room does have a strange feeling . . .’

  Sandy nodded. ‘From what I overheard as a child, she brought an imaginary baby home with her from the hospital. Used to take it for walks, buy it clothes and everything. That’s why they put her in Chalmers House. That was the mental institution just out of Cradletown. It was closed down in the seventies after a fire. Good thing too, from what you hear.’

  Finn didn’t feel qualified to comment on Mrs Pargetter’s emotional state. ‘You know your aunt best, Sandy,’ he said. ‘What’s your gut feeling?’