Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(24)

A sharp knock on the door rattled the glass. Jessop looked relieved at the interruption. ‘Come.’

The man who entered was dressed in the standard white trousers and jacket. He was a big bloke, his bulk and stance and the cauliflower ears telling Berlin he’d probably been a boxer in his day.

‘This is Mr Stansfield, Detective Sergeant Berlin, our senior attendant. He’ll escort you back to your car.’

Stansfield smiled at Berlin. It wasn’t a friendly smile. Sizing me up, Berlin reckoned. Deciding whether I got the broken nose in the ring or on the street. Working out if he can take me, and if it should be a clean fight or a no-holds-barred free-for-all. For his part, Berlin already knew that if he ever mixed it up with Stansfield it would be a nasty little stoush.

‘Mr Berlin here was just asking about some Ninetymen or ninety-something. Do you have knowledge of anything by that name, Mr Stansfield?’

Stansfield shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I do, Dr Jessop.’ The man’s voice was distinctive, husky and low pitched. Had he been punched in the throat at some stage? Berlin wondered. And despite the huskiness there was also something else that Berlin picked up on, the way he called Jessop ‘Dr’. Stansfield might have been playing the role of a subordinate but there was something else going on here.

Jessop leaned across the desk, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m so sorry you appear to have wasted your morning.’

Berlin shook his hand. ‘Don’t be,’ he said, ‘it’s been most educational.’

Jessop was right about the place being a rabbit warren. Berlin followed Stansfield through a maze of corridors and out into a courtyard he didn’t recognise. In the courtyard a second man, a redhead and much smaller than Stansfield, was leaning against a wall. He was wearing the standard white uniform and appeared to have been waiting for them.

Stansfield led Berlin across the courtyard. As they passed a building underneath the tall chimney, someone came out of the doorway, looked at Berlin and turned suddenly back inside, slamming the door behind him.

‘One of the loonies.’ The voice came from behind Berlin. ‘They can be a bit shy.’

Berlin realised the second man, the redhead, was following them. He turned around.

‘You just let them wander about?’

The redheaded man grinned. ‘Not a worry. He’s okay, one of the tame ones, or at least he is now. Chopped up his granny with a meat axe, but they plug him into the mains once every six weeks or so and now he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Around the next corner they came to the courtyard Berlin had first entered. Len was standing by the outer gate rolling a cigarette.

‘You all done then, Charlie?’

‘All done, Len.’

‘Wouldn’t have a light on ya, would ya, cobber?’

Berlin tossed him a box of matches.

Len fumbled and the box fell onto the cobblestones. ‘Bugger it.’ He bent down and gathered up the box and half a dozen spilt matches before lighting up and offering the box to Berlin. ‘Here you go mate, ta.’

‘You can keep ‘em.’

Len tossed the box back. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be, Charlie. Me old mum used to tell me that.’

‘Shouldn’t you be doing the hydrotherapy about now, Manning? No bugger said you could have a smoko as far as I recall.’

Len looked over at Stansfield, who was holding the outer gate open.

‘Just going now, Mr Stansfield.’ He winked at Berlin. ‘Nice to meet you, Charlie, and thanks for the light. Keep in touch, eh?’

‘You should probably go with him, Blue,’ Stansfield said, ‘give the bloke a hand. I think I can see our visitor off the premises all by my lonesome.’

Blue nodded towards Stansfield. He followed Len back towards the main building while Stansfield ushered Berlin out into the parking area.

‘That your car, the Studi?’

‘It is.’

Stansfield trailed behind Berlin across the gravel parking area. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and Berlin had a fair idea of what was coming. At the car Stansfield put his foot on the rear bumper bar, pressing down a couple of times.

‘Nice car, the Studi, good suspension. Probably better on a smooth piece of paved city road than out in the bush, I’m guessing.’

‘She does okay, if you keep the speed down and pay attention.’

Stansfield walked slowly around the car, peering in the windows. ‘You been a copper long?’

Berlin nodded. ‘Before the war, and then after.’

‘I was police once, for a bit. During the war, but I got out. Not really my cup of tea.’

Berlin could guess what kind of copper he would have been. ‘All biff and no brains’ was his grandfather’s dismissive description of the type. ‘A knuckle sandwich just looking for a place to happen’ was how young Bob Roberts sometimes described men like Stansfield. Berlin’s granddad had used his fists when it was necessary, but always as a last resort. Berlin knew violence would be Stansfield’s opening gambit in making even the most minor of points.

Stansfield coughed and spat on the gravel. ‘You know, if you’re going back the way you came in you might want to watch yourself. She can be a bit of a treacherous old track.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Berlin said. He waited. About now was the right moment for the warning off and Stansfield delivered on cue.