Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(54)

Berlin slid the paper into the drawer and it buckled against something at the back. He pulled the drawer right out. The pages had butted up against a cheap plastic wallet. It was soft and oily to the touch and had a nasty chemical smell. Inside was an oval pressed-metal badge. Berlin smiled. It looked like the police badge featured at the start of the Dragnet program on TV. But instead of reading ‘Los Angeles Police’ it simply had the number 90 in the middle, with a smaller 36 below it.

The phone on the desk in front of Berlin rang, startling him. Somewhere upstairs he could hear an extension ringing. He rested his palm on top of the handset and waited. When it stopped mid-ring he quickly lifted the receiver, covering the mouthpiece with his right hand as he put it to his ear.

‘Yes?’ The voice was Callahan’s.

‘We’ve been held up, probably won’t get there till around three, three-thirty.’

Berlin didn’t recognise the second voice.

‘But I thought I heard … ’ Callahan again.

‘Heard what?’

‘Never mind.’

Callahan broke the connection and Berlin put the handset quietly back in its cradle and waited. He didn’t have to wait very long. He heard the footsteps in the upstairs hallway and a creak on the stairs. There was a glow under the office door when Callahan turned on the downstairs hallway light. The doorhandle turned slowly and then the door was quickly pushed open. Callahan was wearing a paisley-print dressing gown over pale blue pyjamas. He had leather slippers on his feet and a wrought-iron fireplace poker in his right hand, held over his head.

‘I win,’ Berlin said. He was sitting forward at the desk with the Browning pistol held directly under the lamp. Callahan couldn’t miss it, and at this range Berlin couldn’t miss Callahan. ‘Why don’t you drop the poker in that rubbish bin over yonder and take a seat on the couch? I think we need to chat.’

Callahan lowered the poker to his side. ‘You think so, do you?’ It was all bluff in his voice and not a lot of conviction.

‘That’s right, I do,’ Berlin said, ‘and me having this gun means I pretty much get what I want.’

Callahan appeared to be considering the logic of this argument. After a moment’s thought he crossed the room to the couch, dropping the poker into the wastepaper bin as he passed. He sat down on the couch, keeping his knees primly together and crossing his arms over his chest. It was cold in the office and Berlin was glad he had his overcoat.

‘Tell me about the Ninetymen, Mr Callahan.’

Callahan shook his head. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

It wasn’t a very convincing response. Berlin picked up the plastic wallet containing the metal badge. ‘You should pin this on, it would look rather nice on that dressing gown.’ He dropped it into his coat pocket. ‘My kids have got badges too, they’re in the Mickey Mouse Club.’

Callahan stayed quiet, but his mouth was slowly working side to side. In the silence Berlin could hear the other man’s jaw clicking.

‘Okay, let’s do it this way.’ He pulled open the bottom-left desk drawer and took out the German magazine, tossing it in Callahan’s direction. It landed at the undertaker’s feet.

‘I’ve got a seven-year-old daughter, you bastard. I could shoot you right now and after seeing that they’d probably give me a medal and a promotion.’

Callahan had suddenly gone very pale. ‘It isn’t what you think.’

‘For your sake I hope to God it’s not. Now, once again, tell me about the Ninetymen.’

Callahan’s eyes went from Berlin’s face down to the magazine and then up again. He took a deep breath and there was a slight catch in his throat as he exhaled slowly. He folded his hands like he was praying before he spoke. ‘I, I mean we, we are a group working for the government.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I was recently approached to help supply … certain material.’

‘Material?’

‘For research that is very important to the national security of this country and the free world.’

‘Sounds like a big job for a suburban undertaker. What exactly do you mean by material? Can we get to the point?’

‘Samples of. .. bone.’ Another pause. ‘From deceased persons.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ It was Berlin’s turn to suck in a lungful of air.

‘This is important work, Mr Berlin, you need to believe that. Vital work. It was an honour to be approached to help.’

‘I believe that you believe that, Callahan, not that it makes any difference. Who approached you?’

‘His name was Mr Smith, from the Health Department.’

Berlin shook his head. ‘Was he with a Mr Jones and a Mr Brown, by any chance? Did they show you any identification, give you a business card at least?’

‘They explained that there are security concerns.’

‘Of course they did.’ Security concerns was the current catch-all phrase used to cover a range of activities. ‘So tell me about this “material” they were after.’

Callahan’s answer was given slowly, reluctantly. ‘They needed samples from a variety of subjects – male and female, different ages, varying geographical locations and occupations. There was a list I had to memorise. When I had a suitable subject I was to telephone a certain number.’