Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  ‘Did she stay in Adelaide?’ Hamish asked.

  ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘Nuh. Haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘What was her married name?’ Moss asked.

  Damara had already told them more than she’d meant to, and recollected herself in time. ‘That sort of information doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘How much?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Five hundred.’

  Hamish put a warning hand on Moss’s knee. This was where he could be useful. ‘One fifty. That’s more than fair.’

  Threads ‘Three hundred.’

  ‘Two fifty. Final offer,’ said Hamish, preparing to stand up. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Moss held her breath. She would have been happy to pay the five hundred.

  ‘Okay. Two fifty.’ Damara waited while Moss counted out five fifty-dollar bills. ‘She married a man called Ivan Lefroy— don’t ask me how to spell it.’ Picking up the half-empty bottle of wine, she pushed back her chair, a warning in her dark eyes. ‘I hope you’re not going to give her any grief. We used to look out for each other.’

  The other diners looked on with interest as she swaggered out of the restaurant. What on earth are those two nice young people doing with someone like that? I’m sure I saw them give her money. Buying cocaine or ecstasy, maybe? And the remainder of their meal was piquant with the sauce of speculation.

  ‘Lefroy,’ said Moss as they drove away. ‘There can’t be many Lefroys in Adelaide. How would you spell it?’

  ‘L-e-–f-r-o-–y? Or it could be two words, L-e F-r-o-–y.’

  ‘Or “i” instead of “y”. No, probably not.’

  ‘She mightn’t have changed her name. Or she could be divorced. What was her maiden name again?’

  ‘Watson. There’d be a few more of those.’

  As soon as they returned to Moss’s house, they went online and searched the telephone directory.

  ‘Adelaide has three Lefroys and one Le Froy,’ said Moss. ‘Let’s see: there’s one I. Lefroy. And a B. What do you think?’

  ‘Write them all down,’ said Hamish. ‘And Moss, let’s think this through before we go making the calls.’ He could see her excitement at their success so far was in danger of propelling them into precipitate action. ‘We don’t want to scare her off.’

  Moss nodded impatiently. Hamish was always so cautious. She was aware that she often acted impetuously, but surely here her impatience was understandable. Acutely conscious of the fact that she had left reconciliation with Linsey too late, she was desperate to settle the matter of Amber-Lee. She delicately scrolled her fingers around the little gold treble clef. So much thought had gone into her father’s gift. Well, she decided, she wouldn’t let him down.

  Hamish helped her to plan what she would say. They decided to contact I. Lefroy first. He turned out to be an elderly man called Ian. He told them that he did have a younger cousin called Ivan who may have married a Brenda, but they’d lost touch years ago.

  ‘There were rumours that she was a working girl.’ He sniggered. ‘Just like Ivan to do something like that. I heard he dumped her soon after they moved to Christies Beach. Not sure where he went. Took the kids, as far as I know. Anyway, my wife wouldn’t have anything to do with them, so I didn’t either. Suited me fine.’

  ‘Let’s hope “B” is for Brenda,’ Hamish said as Moss dialled the next number.

  The voice that answered was thick with smoke. ‘Brenda here.’ The woman gave a chesty cough.

  Moss began her prepared spiel but Brenda cut her off. ‘Yeah, Damara told me you might ring.’

  So Damara had been in touch with Brenda all along, Moss thought crossly. ‘Are you willing to talk to us?’

  ‘Two hundred an hour,’ she said promptly, clearly having been schooled by Damara. ‘And a nice meal.’ Easiest money ever, Brenda thought, reaching for the cigarette packet that was never far out of reach. She absentmindedly stroked her jaw. It still ached in a cold wind. She remembered the day she first saw the inexperienced Amber-Lee working the streets. Not a bad-looking kid. Very young, though. She looked like a schoolgirl in spite of the heavy makeup. Brenda still had a heart in those days, and she almost advised the girl to cut her losses and go to the Ward Street Shelter. But Vince had sent her to recruit this newcomer, so what could she do? The more girls Vince had, the less likely he was to pay her special attention. At least, that’s what she’d thought then. She drew on her cigarette and mused on their separate fates. Sometimes she wondered whether Amber-Lee was better off where she was.

  Moss ended the call after making a time and date to meet in Adelaide. ‘Will you have time to come with me, Hamish?’

  Hamish once again felt the burden of the responsibility he had taken on. Moss was becoming increasingly reliant on him. He could try to back out, plead study commitments. But when Moss had her heart set on something, he found her hard to resist. Besides, he rather liked the way she relied on him for advice. Companionship too, he hoped. He was confident that she enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed hers. He shrugged his shoulders and accepted the inevitable. ‘Okay, Moss. As long as it’s no more than two or three days.’

  ‘You’re a star, Hamish. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Hamish and Moss arrived in Adelaide two days later. ‘I’ve booked us into the Grosvenor,’ Moss said as they boarded the airport bus. ‘We have adjoining rooms.’

  Hamish felt a stab of rejection. He’d expected them to share a room. There was no particular reason for this expectation other than his wish that it were so. He and Moss had been getting on so well and he thought that this trip might be the catalyst that would move them to the next level. Still, he reminded himself, the rooms were adjoining . . .

  After dinner, they stopped in the corridor outside Moss’s door. It’s now or never, thought Hamish as he leaned forward to kiss her lips. To his chagrin, he found himself offered her cheek.

  ‘See you in the morning, Hamish,’ she said, returning his kiss with a comradely peck. ‘Remember we’re meeting Brenda at twelve thirty.’ She looked at him gratefully. ‘You really are a mate, Hamish.’

  Not quite in the sense I’d hoped, Hamish thought peevishly as he unlocked his door. A mate! It wasn’t much fun being Mr Nice Guy. Did he have a sign on him saying, Buddy/Mate/Pal ? A sign that only women could read? He glared at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth with unusual vigour. Women always called on him when they needed something—a tap washer repaired, a partner for a special occasion, a shoulder to cry on after a break-up . . . He was everyone’s ideal friend, and apparently nobody’s ideal lover. He went to bed feeling very badly done by.

  Brenda was a full head taller than Moss, with spiky red hair and a pale, pinched face. She was nervous and twitchy, her restless hands moving the pepper mill, the cutlery, her water glass; twisting her bracelet, smoothing her sleeves and folding and refolding her napkin until Hamish felt quite dizzy.

  Moss came straight to the point. ‘As you know, we need information, anything you know about a girl called Amber-Lee.’

  ‘I told the police all I knew at the time,’ replied Brenda, eyes narrowing. ‘But I might have something you’d be interested in. What would you say to a photograph of Amber-Lee’s family?’

  Moss leaned forward, eyes gleaming. ‘Go on.’

  I hope Moss never plays poker, Hamish thought. He was in a more sanguine mood this morning.

  The other woman saw she had the upper hand. ‘I told Vince—he was her pimp—I told him where she hid her things, and he just tipped everything onto the bed. He took the money and left the other bits and pieces. He wanted her stash, but I didn’t know where it was. He beat me up real bad, the fucking bastard. I’d of told him if I knew. Anyway, I don’t know why, but when he left, I took the photo and stuffed it in my bra. That was just before the police arrived, so they didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give it to the po
lice?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Why should I help them? Anyway, if I told them I had that, they would’ve thought I took her other stuff.’

  ‘And did you?’ Hamish felt the need to assert some authority.

  ‘You a cop or something?’ Brenda scowled. ‘If you must know, all I got was a couple of fucking T-shirts and a poxy dress.’

  ‘The photo,’ Moss persisted. ‘Do you still have the photo?’

  ‘Yeah. As a matter of fact I do. Thought I might take it back some day or something. Then Damara said they might charge me—withholding evidence or obstructing the course of justice . . .’ Her exaggerated vowels mocked all poncy lawyers.

  ‘I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t do that,’ said Hamish.

  ‘You a lawyer? I don’t want to do anything till I’m sure I won’t be charged. I’ll deny it all. I’m not even sure I know where the fucking photo is now. It was a long time ago.’ She sat back, gauging their reaction.

  Moss chose not to believe her. That photo was still in Brenda’s possession. She wanted to see it for herself and also wanted to ensure that it ended up in the hands of the police. Her aim, after all, was to discover the dead girl’s identity. She had a sudden thought. ‘What if I got you some legal advice? Would you hand it over then?’

  Brenda couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Sure,’ she said casually. ‘But first we need to talk money. Information doesn’t come cheap.’

  As they made their way back to the hotel, Moss was almost dancing with excitement. ‘We’re so close,’ she crowed, giving Hamish a hug. ‘Let’s find ourselves a lawyer.’

  Hamish returned the hug, but his thoughts were troubled. He didn’t trust Brenda one bit.

  Moss’s cousin Cal was a solicitor and recommended them to a Petra Gould. ‘I’ll give her a buzz and see if we can expedite matters,’ he said.

  Hamish had to return to Melbourne for a meeting with his supervisor, but Moss stayed on. She had arranged to pick Brenda up in a taxi to ensure that she kept her appointment, and having some time to spare, wandered vaguely around the city. She was so desperate to keep occupied that she even went to the Bradman Museum, despite the fact that cricket had always been a mystery to her. Linsey had loved cricket. It was the only sport she had any interest in at all. Such a precise sport, she used to say. It’s so tactical. ‘Physical chess,’ she’d called it. Moss looked at the photograph of the Invincibles, read about the infamous Bodyline series, and compared photographs of the dapper old gentleman Bradman had become with that of a fit young sportsman, signing a cricket bat for a fan.

  There was an elegiac mood to the museum. Bradman and his teammates, most of them dead now, were remembered and honoured for the part they’d played in the nation’s history. More than just sporting history, she learned; they gave Australians hope and pride during the long, hard Depression years.

  But who would remember Linsey? When would her name be spoken for the last time? There would be no museum or newspaper cuttings or films to honour her life, yet she had lived honourably. In the midst of these thoughts, Moss began to see her situation with a clarity she had never before achieved. She had been focusing on herself, on her own pain and guilt. She must now focus on Linsey. She silently thanked the museum trustees. I think I know what to do now.

  After Petra confirmed she’d met with Brenda, Moss returned to Melbourne where she was even more restless. Brenda had been reluctant to hand over the photograph immediately, saying she needed to give it to the police first. So Petra Gould agreed to hold Moss’s payment to Brenda until she was assured that Brenda had carried out her part of the bargain.

  Moss was beginning to regret not staying in Adelaide but was somewhat distracted by her new project.

  ‘Come over for a meal,’ she begged Hamish. ‘I’m going crazy waiting for Petra to call. We can talk about a new idea I have.’

  Hamish groaned. ‘Let’s get idea one out of the way first. And Moss, I still don’t trust that Brenda.’

  In the event, Hamish’s doubts were well-founded. 254 Two days after Brenda met with the solicitor, Moss received a phone call. It must be Petra, she thought, snatching up her handbag and scrabbling eagerly for her phone.

  ‘I’m ringing on behalf of Scott Macleod from Across the Nation, Channel 8,’ purred the disembodied voice. ‘We would like to interview you for a story about a young woman called Amber-Lee who was killed in a car accident. We believe we have a clue as to her identity, and our source has given us your name.’

  Moss felt her body liquefy. She could barely stand up, let alone speak. ‘I have no comment,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Well, could you tell us the whereabouts of a Mr Michael Finbar Clancy? We’d like to give him the opportunity to tell his side of the story.’

  ‘No comment.’ Moss was so distraught that she failed to hang up straightaway. What on earth had she done? Finn was such a private man, so fragile in his guilt. And she’d delivered him up to the press. Holding the phone at arm’s length, she looked at it with revulsion. At that moment it seemed like a living thing, oozing black bile. With shaking fingers, she finally hung up. When the phone rang again seconds later, she flung it across the room, where it continued to ring every few minutes.

  When Hamish arrived, he found her pacing the length of the carpet, grinding her heel into the floor with each turn. Her story came out in short, disconnected spurts; she actually tore at her hair, and he had to capture her hands and hold them still.

  ‘Listen to me, Moss. Listen. You did what you thought was right. You were dealing with people who don’t play by the rules. You expected them to act as you would in similar circumstances.’ She tried to move away, but he continued to grip her hands. ‘You must calm down. We have to warn your father. They’ll find him easily enough. You did.’

  Moss nodded dumbly and picked up the phone. She hoped it wasn’t too late.

  When he’d finally taken in the gist of Moss’s frantic call, Finn stood frozen in the middle of the room. He had told his daughter his secret and she’d interfered, with appalling consequences. His mind was refusing to function and he struggled for something to say. Finally he croaked, ‘Thank you for warning me,’ and replaced the receiver, then simply stood, waiting for something to happen. He was almost indifferent as to what it might be, so long as it didn’t require any action on his part. Then, dimly aware of a banging on his door, he moved towards it with something like relief. They were here. He might as well get it over with.

  He opened the door to find Sandy, breathing stertorously in the night air.

  ‘Finn! Grab a toothbrush and come to Aunt Lily’s. Quickly.’ Sandy pushed Finn into the bathroom and began packing a toilet bag. ‘Socks and jocks,’ he muttered, moving into the bedroom. ‘A couple of T-shirts. Grab a jumper. Hurry up! Here—out the back way.’

  Before he knew it, Finn was sitting in Mrs Pargetter’s kitchen, where the old lady was twisting her apron in distress.

  ‘Moss called,’ she explained. ‘She was worried about you. We all are.’

  ‘We need to get you away,’ added Sandy. ‘What about your mother? Could you go there? Or to Moss’s mother’s place?’

  Finn continued to stare in disbelief. His mind seemed to be several steps behind the conversation. ‘You know about Amber-Lee?’ ‘Moss had to tell us, Finn,’ replied Sandy. ‘You’re a mate and we’re not going to let them find you.’

  ‘Those wicked people, bringing it all up now. Well and good if they can find the girl’s family, but why should you be dragged through the mill?’ Mrs Pargetter’s teeth clacked in indignation. ‘We’re here for you, Finn.’

  Finn was moved by their loyalty, and squirmed with shame. Shame for his past and shame that he’d hidden it from such good and open people. They offered me friendship, he thought miserably, and this is how I repaid them. He couldn’t bear to look them in the eye a moment longer. He wasn’t the man they’d believed him to be, and it was best that he get away. He knew this, but somehow couldn’t translate thought into action.
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  There was urgency in Sandy’s voice. ‘Finn, concentrate! We have to get away before they come. I’ve got the car. Where can you go?’

  ‘I know a place,’ said Finn suddenly. ‘Can you take me there, Sandy?’

  Moss returned to Opportunity in time to watch the program with Mrs Pargetter and Sandy. Hamish had put up at the pub, and he joined them as they switched on the TV, good-–naturedly fielding Mrs Pargetter’s sly questions about Moss.

  ‘We’re just friends, Mrs Pargetter,’ he said, to her evident disappointment, and settled down on the floor while the other three crowded onto the couch.

  ‘Shh. It’s starting,’ said Moss.

  ‘Across the Nation, with Scott Macleod.’

  ‘Bastard,’ muttered Sandy. ‘Sorry, Aunt Lily.’

  Scott Macleod’s pleasant young face beamed from the screen. ‘Good evening and welcome to Across the Nation. Tonight’s stories include the plumber from hell and why diet pills don’t work. But first, Lisa Morgan with another of our series of reports on unsolved mysteries of Melbourne. This time we bring you the tragic story of an unidentified young woman who died in a car accident just over ten years ago. Tonight we reveal a new clue to her identity, but we must ask once again: is this another example of police incompetence and cover-ups? Do our law enforcers show equal concern for all members of our society? Does an Oxford degree put you above the law? Lisa speaks to someone who was there when a young prostitute died on our streets.’ The footage cut to a pretty blonde woman standing on a street corner.

  ‘Thank you, Scott. Well, I’m standing within a few metres of where a young girl, known only as Amber-Lee, met her tragic end. It was here, on a warm night in March 1996, that Amber-Lee, a young prostitute, went for a hamburger with her friend, Brenda Watson. It was here that she ran out onto the road, when a car came around the corner and threw her into the path of an oncoming truck. Her true identity was never uncovered, but all these years later, Brenda Watson, now Brenda Lefroy, has come forward with a photograph that may well be the clue the police missed.’ Cut to Brenda smirking at a square of paper. ‘Brenda, tell us about the photo.’