Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(35)
It was a description that matched the pair Lazlo had described leaving Callahan’s, and could easily fit Stansfield and his offsider out at the Blackwattle Creek asylum. Berlin glanced across at Lazlo again, but the man’s face was impassive.
‘Seems like quite a few drivers have clocked ’em at odd hours,’ Bruce went on, ‘hanging around some of the other parlours.’
‘Any idea how long this has been going on?’
‘Can’t help you there, but I can ask around if you like.’
‘No need, Bruce, thanks very much, that’s all very interesting. Probably best to just let it go.’ With Bob’s injuries still on his mind the last thing Berlin needed was someone else asking about the panel van and its mystery drivers.
‘If you say so, Charlie. You know, it takes a lot to spook you in this business, dealing with dead ’uns regular, but it seems like a few of the blokes find it all a bit creepy. Some funny bugger up and nicknamed them the Angels of Death.’
‘Why the Angels of Death?’
Lazlo smiled. ‘Hearse drivers, Charlie. What can I tell you? We have a somewhat mordant sense of humour.’
Berlin smiled too. He had no idea what a mordant sense of humour was exactly, but he knew Rebecca would.
TWENTY-THREE
He put in a surprisingly productive afternoon on the darkroom. The weather stayed good, which was a blessing, and Bruce and Lazlo had helped him cut the rest of the floorboards before they left, taking turns with the saw. The boards were all finally nailed in place by lunchtime, and after a quick sandwich he managed, with Rebecca’s assistance, to get two of the wall frames up. She was strong and fit and lean and he studied her figure as she stood arms outstretched, legs braced, supporting a frame while he ripped the top off a new cardboard box of four-inch nails.
She grinned at him. ‘Do you mind hurrying things along? This thing is heavy. Or are you just enjoying the view?’
Her breasts were pushing hard against her jumper and Berlin was indeed enjoying the view.
‘You best get a wriggle on, Charlie, I want to pick up the kids from school and it will be three o’clock before you know it. Get this done quick enough and we might just have time for an afternoon tea treat.’
‘I thought we finished all of Lazlo’s cakes this morning?’
‘We did, but who says I was talking about cakes?’ Berlin knew that look in her eye. He calculated that while a dozen nails would be needed to hold the frame permanently in place, right now six would be more than adequate. And if it fell down then he could simply lift it up again, if he had any strength left after Rebecca was done with him.
The structure survived afternoon tea and so did Berlin. He showered and dressed and hammered in the final nails before calling it a day. It was finally starting to look like a real building and he was happy with the progress. When Rebecca and the kids came home from school, Sarah and the dog chased each other over the new floorboards and in and out of the open frames, while Peter helped his father gather up the off-cuts of timber and stack them neatly by the fence.
Around nine-thirty that evening, when the children were both asleep and Rebecca was cleaning up in the kitchen, Berlin sat reading the paper while waiting for In Melbourne Tonight to start on GTV9. In Melbourne Tonight was a new variety program that had been an instant hit with audiences. Berlin found Graeme Kennedy, the young host, a little crude at times, though he had to admit some of the show’s comedy sketches were very funny. They reminded him of the vaudeville acts he’d seen at the Tivoli Theatre before the war.
Berlin could hear Rebecca cursing softly as she clicked the silver gas gun repeatedly, trying to get the stovetop burner to light. After a dozen tries she called out to him. ‘I think I’ve run out of flints. Do you have some matches handy?’
Berlin had just used his last one and the box on the mantelpiece over the fireplace was also empty. They seemed to be going through matches at a rate of knots lately. Peter was obsessed with making things out of dead matches glued to wood with Tarzan’s Grip. ‘Might be some in my overcoat pocket,’ he suggested, ‘it’s hanging up by the back door.’
He heard the clatter of the kettle on the stovetop a few moments later. Rebecca came in to the living room with a plate of biscuits. ‘Tea won’t be long. Who’s Len?’
‘Len who?’
She put the plate on the coffee table and held up a crumpled piece of paper. ‘This was folded up inside the matchbox. There’s an address and a phone number and it says, “Please call me – urgent. Len.’”
She handed him the paper. It looked like it had been torn from a notebook. The writing was in pencil and the word ‘urgent’ was underlined.
‘Len’s a bloke I met Saturday morning when I was out sniffing around. Ex-army chap, said he remembered seeing me at the repat hospital after the war. I couldn’t place him.’
Len had dropped the matchbox in the courtyard, Berlin recalled, in front of Stansfield and the other bloke, and he must have stuffed the note inside while he was picking it up.
Berlin glanced at his watch. ‘I might give him a quick call while the tea’s brewing.’
The phone rang a dozen times before a woman answered. She sounded sleepy.
‘Sorry to call so late. Is Len there?’
‘He went out to the garage to do some work after tea. Is it important? Can I take a message?’