Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(12)

‘And you didn’t think to go to the police?’

She shook her head. ‘I was numb. And Mr Callahan called my sister, he said I was hysterical and imagining things, so she came by taxi to get me. And she drove us home in Cyril’s car. She called the doctor. I just wanted to take some Bex and have a lie down but he gave me a pill and everything got fuzzy. Then we were at the church and I knew Cyril was in his coffin without a leg. I got upset and your Rebecca was so kind.

‘And you’re sure his leg had only just gone missing? I mean, with the cancer and everything …’

She looked him straight in the face. ‘My husband came to trugo the week before he died. Cyril didn’t play, he was beyond that, only having one good lung, but he walked here to the clubhouse from the roadway. He had to lean on me and we went slowly, but you can ask anyone from the club – he walked in here on his own two legs.’





NINE


Callahan & Son Funeral Parlour was on Holmes Road, down towards the Maribyrnong River. Puckle Street was crammed with Friday morning bargain hunters, women mostly, hauling two-wheeled shopping carts. The traffic didn’t ease off till Berlin crossed over the railway line at Moonee Ponds station. The funeral home, a suitably sombre pre-war, two-storey red-brick building, was set back from the road with wide parking bays at the front and on the side. Berlin parked across the street. In the side parking bay a man in black trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves was washing a long black hearse.

There were no gates at the driveway. One of the brick gateposts was slightly off square, with a smear of pale blue duco at around knee height. It was a sharp turn off the road into the driveway and would be easy enough to misjudge.

As Berlin walked up to the front door he could see the man at the hearse watching him. A soapy sponge, held away from his body, dripped suds onto the concrete. Berlin nodded in his direction. The man didn’t respond. Berlin rang the bell and after a moment a doleful-looking man in a charcoal-grey suit opened the door.

‘And how might we be of assistance this morning?’ he asked softly, his voice full of feigned concern and solicitude.

Early thirties, Berlin judged, which would make him the son in Callahan & Son. There was cigarette ash on the lapels of his badly pressed suit and signs of breakfast on his tie. Neatly combed hair held evidence of a touch too much Brylcreem and Berlin decided he had weak eyes, not in terms of vision, but of character. If he were asked for one attribute that made him a good copper, Berlin would say that his snap judgements about people were more often right than wrong.

‘No one’s dead, if that’s what you’re thinking. My name’s Berlin and I’m here to ask you a few questions about someone you handled yesterday.’

The man cocked his head to one side and smiled. ‘Miranda Kelly, was it? Eighty-six, can you believe it, and sprightly to the very end. The floral tributes certainly said something about her and what she meant to her family. We had to put on a second car just for the flowers, there were so many.’

‘Cyril Moffit. Ex-military man, army. Wife came by early yesterday morning to pick up his medals.’

‘Ah yes.’ The smile faded a little. ‘Perhaps you’d best come inside, Mr … ? I didn’t catch the name. I’m Bertrand Callahan.’

‘Berlin, like I said. Detective Sergeant Berlin.’

Callahan’s expression didn’t change but there was a slight tightening around his eyes.

He led Berlin down a long carpeted corridor to a small office. The building was silent and cold. The carpet was very thick, muffling any sound of footsteps. They both sat down and Callahan offered cigarettes from a silver case on the desk. Berlin shook his head.

‘I’d offer you tea, Mr Berlin, but my girl is out posting some letters.’

‘No thanks, I’m right.’ Berlin was in fact almost awash with tea. He’d lost track of how many cups he had with Beryl at the Trugo Club and he realised he needed to pee.

Callahan sat back in his chair and put his palms together, fingertips against his lips like he was praying. His nails were stained brown – from nicotine perhaps, or maybe the chemicals he used in his work.

‘So why are you here?’ The undertaker’s voice was soft and solicitous again but Berlin sensed wariness. That was fine by him; coppers made people nervous and nervous people were often the best subjects to interview.

‘Mrs Moffit claims something was stolen from the body while it was in your care.’

The undertaker gave a good performance of someone appearing to be shocked. ‘My goodness, that is a most serious allegation and one that is totally, totally untrue.’

‘Totally?’

Callahan nodded. Berlin noticed a dew of sweat forming on his upper lip and he was breathing in through his nose in short sniffs. The man was getting rattled.

‘I will admit there was a most unfortunate mix-up with some medals being inadvertently placed in the coffin with the deceased, Mr Berlin, bur they were returned to the widow before the funeral.’

‘That’s not why I’m here. The story I got was that Mrs Moffit’s old man wouldn’t be playing trugo in heaven because when she looked in the coffin after you opened it up she noticed someone had half-inched his right leg.’

Callahan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his upper lip.