The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘And that’s your ambition? Journalism?’ Constance leaned forward to stub out her cigarette, her eyes never leaving Molly’s face.

  Molly was about to say yes when a maid approached bearing a tray with coffee and biscuits. She waited while the girl laid out cups, saucers, pot and all the other associated paraphernalia on a low table and poured coffee. ‘I’m actually writing a novel.’ She wasn’t quite sure why she’d revealed that. ‘That’s my real ambition.’ Molly stopped, realising the interview was going entirely the wrong way. She busied herself adding milk and sugar to her coffee, offering each in turn to Constance and receiving two shakes of the head. It was Constance who broke the silence.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Molly, and you shouldn’t be. Good for you, I say! I’ve no doubt it won’t be long before you’re invited back to the Lyceum as a member; you’re just the sort of woman this club is all about. Forget your Alexandra Club types. The only reason I’m asking you about yourself is that I like to know exactly who I’m dealing with. And truth be told, I heard a couple of well-heeled ladies talking about you at a fundraiser last week. It made me wonder why you’d want to speak to me. I don’t exactly “do” the social scene as they do, and you made no mention of charitable causes when you requested this interview, which is the only link I have with those particular women. So I confess I’m intrigued, Molly.’ She paused to sip her coffee, watching Molly over the rim of her cup. ‘I’m intrigued to know what it is you’re really writing about.’

  Molly could feel her cheeks getting warm. For once she was at an absolute loss for words.

  ‘Oh come on. Most of the women in this room,’ Constance waved an arm expansively over her head in the general direction of the lounge, ‘have spent their adult lives concocting stories and treading carefully to get to where they are today. Even if you’re planning on riding roughshod over the masculine powers that be, you have to disguise the fact you’re going to do it. I promise not to be shocked or offended, and who knows? I may just tell you everything you want to know. Perhaps more.’

  Molly ducked her head slightly, dropping her gaze to her lap and away from Constance’s probing eyes. Then, resolutely, her chin came up and she returned the look with as much strength as she could. ‘I want to write a piece on Donald Raeburn. He’s the real story, but he’s refused an interview, and since I started talking to women who’ve met him I’ve become more and more convinced that there is a story. Every time I manage to work his name into the conversation, it’s as though I’ve committed some dreadful social faux pas. People either ignore the question or bluster through a jolly answer, then quickly change the subject.’

  Constance sat back in her chair with an emphatic whump. ‘Well that was the absolute last thing I expected you to say. Donald Raeburn, eh? How very interesting. And how very perspicacious of you, Molly Dean. Donald Raeburn is a charming gentleman, good at sports and an astute businessman.’

  Molly sighed and her brow furrowed.

  ‘That is, until you catch a glimpse behind his polished veneer or happen to catch one of his former business associates for a quiet word when he’s drowning his sorrows. I can tell you a few things you probably won’t be able to print. Hearsay, and besides the people involved would most certainly not want their names bandied about. But I can also point you in the direction of some people who may be prepared to give you something solid to work with.’ She paused and craned around the edge of her chair, surveying the room. ‘I wish they served something stronger than coffee here. The thing is Molly, you must be very careful. Raeburn, despite appearances, is a nasty piece of work. He can be quite ruthless, and he has a lot of powerful friends. Or at least, he’s owed favours by powerful people. Take your pick, the end result is the same. You’d be far better off writing the nice society piece you’ve been using as a smokescreen.’

  ‘I don’t want to write about cooking tips or how to beat a rug or why primrose yellow shouldn’t be worn near the face. I started on this because I thought Donald Raeburn would have an interesting rags-to-riches story and no one had done it yet. Now when you confirm the story is so much bigger, how could I possibly back away? This could make my name.’

  ‘I thoroughly approve of your ambition, but do tread carefully.’

  Molly nodded eagerly.

  ‘In that case, I’ll give you two people to talk to, although you’ll need to give me a day to speak to them first, let them know you’re coming. What they decide to tell you is up to them, and it may be nothing.’

  ‘Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. I’m not at all sure this is sensible.’

  1999

  John has been working hard on Molly’s portrait, but he’s deliberately left half her face uncleaned so there is a distinct line running through the middle of the painting. It’s a good way for the uninitiated to appreciate exactly what it is John does, but we figured it might also put a damper on Tom Raeburn. Who wants to buy something that’s only half finished?

  At ten to five, Hogarth’s ears twitch and he lifts his head. Seconds later we hear the crunch of tyres on gravel.

  ‘Showtime!’ John gives it the jazz hands then half untucks his shirt and rumples his hair. ‘I’ve decided to go for the socially inept boffin approach as a foil for your smooth art dealer persona,’ he says, although I detect a note of irony when he uses the word ‘smooth’.

  ‘Chill buddy.’ That’s Hogarth’s signal to just hang out without necessarily holding a solid stay. He arranges himself into an alert-but-not-alarmed drop and stares expectantly at the door. I’m actually a bit scared. Although I didn’t think the voice on the phone sounded like my swearing attacker, what if it’s the same guy? Or what if this guy brings the thug along? I know I won’t recognise him, so I’ll take my cue from Hogarth; he never forgets a bastard.

  Peeking out the window, I see a late model Audi sitting smugly in the car park, its tinted windows obscuring my view of the driver. I step back and take a few deep breaths. There’s a knock on the door and, for a moment, John, Hogarth and I eyeball each other like this is a B movie and we’re all about to run in different directions.

  ‘Coming,’ I call, and the spell is broken. John turns back to the canvas, Hogarth takes a moment to scratch his ear, and I step across the floorboards and open the door wide. ‘Mr Raeburn?’

  ‘Call me Tom, please.’ He’s not as tall as I expected, and his light grey hair is in retreat from both temples. He may play golf or social tennis, but his physique isn’t screaming assailant so much as accountant. Besides, both arms are also fully functional, so at least I know this isn’t the guy Hogarth chased. I glance at my hound to be sure and he has his head on his paws. Okay then.

  ‘Alex Clayton.’ Automatically I stick out my hand and shake. I encounter a soft, indoor hand and such a weak grip there’s barely a twinge from my injured wrist. Definitely not my attacker. I draw Tom Raeburn across to the easel and clear my throat. ‘John.’

  ‘Mmmm? Oh sorry, completely wrapped up in this.’ And he thought I could lay it on thick. ‘Shan’t shake hands.’ He brandishes a grubby mitt to emphasise the point, then steps slightly to one side so Tom and I can square up in front of Molly.

  ‘Well, this is the painting I purchased, and from what you’ve said the painting your father is interested in.’ I take a half-step back so he can have Molly to himself. Both John and I are trying to watch his reaction closely without looking like we’re staring. I’d like to think I look pleasantly enquiring, while from where I’m standing John just looks shifty.

  After a moment Tom inhales sharply and turns to me. ‘It certainly looks like the painting he described to me, and I saw the catalogue picture, so I suppose this is it. Although frankly I have no idea about art and can’t for the life of me work out what the attraction is.’ He must see my slightly startled expression, becaus
e he adds, ‘I mean, Father’s attraction to this painting.’ He pauses again and looks at Molly. ‘That is, she’s a charming looking girl but …’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I rescue him from the hole he seems determined to dig. ‘I understand what you’re saying. Your father is not usually an art collector and you can’t get your head around why he’s so keen to acquire this particular painting.’

  Tom nods gratefully.

  ‘All I can say is I’ve been doing this for years and I still don’t know why some people collect what they do.’

  ‘The eye of the beholder!’ John emotes from where he has been standing, quietly arranging brushes.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Tom had clearly forgotten about John.

  ‘Art.’ John flaps a hand toward Molly. ‘The appreciation thereof is in the eye of the beholder. Like beauty.’

  Tom’s blank expression is like a bucket of iced water. John turns back to his brushes, turning his head in an up-and-over curve that somehow suggests the artiste is offended.

  ‘I’m pleased you were able to come and have a look at the painting.’ I direct Tom’s attention back to Molly and me. ‘At least now we know we’re all on the same page.’

  Tom relaxes again. His sort always respond to a good cliché. It’s hypnotic, like listening to a football coach after the team has lost. The more you can say without really saying anything, the more soothed the audience is. Alex Clayton School of Psychology.

  ‘When I told Father I’d managed to locate the painting he was pleased, but very insistent that I repeat my offer to buy, now. He told me you can name your price.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Raeburn, but as I’ve already told you, the painting is under offer to someone else and, until that’s settled, it is not on the market to you or any other buyer. All I can do is assure you that if this deal does not go ahead, you will be the first person I call.’ I’m holding out for a high price, but at the same time, part of me wants to find out why Raeburn senior is so desperate to own Molly.

  ‘I know what you paid at auction, and we’re prepared to triple it right now.’ He’s starting to look a little fevered.

  ‘The answer is still no.’ John stops fiddling with his paints and comes to stand next to me, all traces of the dotty artist gone. In the corner, I can see Hogarth has noted the change in the room’s atmosphere and is lying very still, eyes trained on our little tableau. ‘I’m happy for you to photograph the painting if you wish, so you can confirm it with your father.’

  Tom Raeburn shakes his head, but does not meet my eye. His entire focus is on Molly. ‘No, it’s the right painting.’ He rubs the palms of his hands down the sides of his trousers, and Hogarth lifts his nose, scenting the air. This guy is giving off major stress vibes. ‘I’m sorry to be so insistent. I do understand, and I wouldn’t normally push like this. But Father is an old man, a frail old man …’

  I hold up both hands, a double stop sign. ‘It’s not negotiable. The best I can do is talk to my client and see if he’s made a decision.’

  He sighs, ‘Yes, thank you.’ His shoulders are rounded and his head has dropped forward. ‘This will not be an easy conversation.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Oh and for my records, what’s your father’s name?’

  ‘Of course, I should have said. It’s Donald.’

  We shake hands again and, under Hogarth’s watchful eye, I see Tom out. Shutting the door, I turn and lean my back against it, eyes closed, while I listen to the sound of his car recrossing the gravel and accelerating away down the street.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong …’

  I open my eyes. John is back in front of the easel, but he’s not working. He’s looking at me with those feverish Mulder eyes again.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, Tom Raeburn is shit-scared of his ninety-something-year-old father.’

  ‘I was hoping that idea was just me, but you saw it too, huh?’

  ‘Hard to miss. Do you think Raeburn senior knew Molly?’

  ‘He must have. But why not say so?’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Now? You finish bringing Molly back to her radiant best. I’m going to check on a couple of details about the night Molly was murdered, as well as find out a bit more about Mena Griffiths and Hazel Wilson. I also want to do a bit of digging about Donald Raeburn. Then I’m going to take everything we know to Daphne Lambell and see what she thinks.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I think we might give Raeburn junior a call and organise a home visit for Molly Dean.’

  1930

  Constance’s contacts, once they were assured of Molly’s intentions, were both willing to talk and sounded as though they would be veritable fountains of information. Provided, of course, their names were kept well out of it.

  Molly met the first man at the Robur Tea Rooms, opposite the town hall in Swanston Street. She found him at a table in the back, trying to make himself invisible amid the shining displays of teapots, trays, vases and the variety of other things proudly bearing the Robur company name. He was seated in the corner, surveying the room and the comings and goings of the patrons. But when he stood to greet her, the man ushered Molly into the corner chair, placing himself with his back to the room. He was a tall man with thinning black hair and shoulders rounded as though he carried a great weight. His tie was already slightly askew, but he tugged at the knot as he sat down, pulling it even further off centre. His jacket hung loosely on his lean frame, as though he had lost a considerable amount of weight.

  ‘Thank you for meeting with me, Mr –’

  He held up a hand, cutting her off. ‘No names, please. Never know who’s listening. Perhaps just call me Mr Smith.’

  Molly’s eyebrows rose. She wondered if the man in front of her had endured a particularly hard war and if this would prove to be a wild goose chase.

  ‘I see what you’re thinking and it’s perfectly understandable. But I’ve been through enough. My family …’ He faltered, looked down at the tablecloth for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘Donald Raeburn has made our lives almost unbearable. The only reason I agreed to this is that we’re moving to Sydney. And something needs to be said.’

  Molly pulled out her notebook and set it on the table, just as the waitress in her green apron and orange cap bustled over, her own notepad and pencil at the ready.

  ‘A pot of the Refresher Blend, please.’ Molly ordered while her companion dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. Once the waitress had gone, Molly flipped to a clean page. ‘I gather you were in business with Donald Raeburn? What sort of business?’

  ‘Import export.’ The answer came after a pause and set the tone for the interview. Molly framed each question carefully, lest she cause this anxious man to bolt, and for the first twenty minutes each answer was slow and short: no embellishments, and no real information.

  It was only once they were each on to their second cup of tea that Molly decided she was going to have to push to get what she wanted. ‘What happened with Donald Raeburn? What did he do? From what you’ve told me the business was profitable, so what changed, Mr Smith?’

  He toyed with his cup for a moment, twisting it around, then raised it to his lips and sipped. When he put the cup back down, it rattled against the saucer. ‘I suppose I was naive. I’ve been in business with other people before and it’s all gone swimmingly. This was the same. We’re both gentlemen, well …’ Mr Smith gazed at the dregs in the bottom of his cup. ‘That’s what I thought, anyway. Turns out I put too much faith in the concept of a handshake and a gentleman’s agreement. I found out Raeburn was importing a lot more than was recorded on shipping manifests, and a lot of cash was moving through the business but not showing up anywhere. I realise now he must’ve been running a second set of books, but back then, when I first noticed, I j
ust thought it was an accounting slip.’

  Molly remained silent, her eyes fixed on Mr Smith while her pencil scratched furiously across the page.

  ‘Stupidly, even once I discovered what was going on, I didn’t think Raeburn was behind it. Thought it must be the manager or the warehouse boss. Of course I went to Raeburn with the proof I’d uncovered and as soon as I started talking the look on his face told me just how stupid I’d been.’

  ‘He was shocked that you’d found him out?’

  ‘He couldn’t care less that I’d found him out. I think he was quite delighted. You see, everyone in our employ had been chosen by him. I was right about the manager, and the warehouse manager, and probably the woman who came to sweep the floor, come to mention it. Donald Raeburn gleefully informed me I was senior partner in a criminal enterprise.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just go to the police?’

  ‘My signature was on a lot of the paperwork and he told me I’d go down for it. He also said he had plenty of friends high up in the force – how did I think things ran so smoothly anyway, he asked – and if I even tried to report it, he’d know and he’d make me pay. And then he started talking about my wife and daughter. In detail. How they look, where they shop and play tennis. I may have been slow on the uptake once, but there was no mistaking his meaning. Shut up or he’d ruin me, and my family …’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Signed my interest in the company over to Raeburn and made plans to move interstate.’

  Molly put her pencil to her lips, considering what she’d been told. ‘How do you know he wasn’t bluffing? About his contacts in the police department and such?’

  ‘A few days later I received an envelope in the mail with a photograph of my daughter leaving school. About a week after that, I was at a fundraiser when a senior police officer came up and told me, “Mr Raeburn sends his regards.” I’ve also seen the warehouse manager slipping envelopes to the local constabulary. Once Raeburn was aware I knew what was going on, he made a point of rubbing my nose in it.’