Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(55)

‘That you also had to memorise?’

‘That’s right. But sometimes they would call me directly, if there was something specific in a newspaper death notice that caught their attention.’

‘And then you’d leave the paperwork in your top right-hand desk drawer and the side door to the building unlocked?’

‘Exactly.’

‘How many times?’

Callahan was confused. ‘How many … ?’

‘How many times have you left the side door unlocked?’

‘Fifteen, maybe twenty.’

This answer came quickly. The apparently unimportant details always do. Berlin was shocked but he hoped his face didn’t show it. The cheap tin badge was numbered 36. Were there at least thirty-five other undertakers leaving side doors unlocked? And how many more were there with higher numbers? Jesus!

‘One more quesrion – why did you tell me Cyril Moffit was cremated the first rime I visited? That’s pretty easy to check up on.’

Callahan had started chewing on a piece of skin at the corner of his left thumbnail. ‘I suppose I panicked a bit. Nobody was supposed to come around asking questions.’

‘And after I left you called Mr Smith, right? A pom with one of those goatee beards, was he?’

Callahan nodded.

That was what had set the wheels in motion, got the cover-up started. That was what got Roberts his beating and both Len and Beryl a visit from whoever was running the show. Beryl had come out of it a lot easier, with just a bunch of flowers and an oblique-sounding but effective warning-off. That warning hadn’t come from Callahan, though, he was just a pervert and a procurer of certain gruesome items on request, and a driver when required. And he did it all for a cheap tin badge and a chance to believe that his ordinary little life meant something beyond what it was, that he was working for a greater good.

Berlin put the gun back in his pocket as he stood up. ‘I was never here.’

Callahan stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Just what I said. Go back to bed, Callahan, and forget we ever had this conversation. If you mention it to anyone I promise you will regret it. People have been hurt because of you, friends of mine, and I wouldn’t want anything like that to happen again.’ He glanced down at the magazine. ‘And I know all about your area of special interest, remember. The Vice Squad might let a lot of stuff go by, but not that kind of thing. After they get finished with you there won’t be much left for the lads at Pentridge to play with. So just keep schtum and you stand a reasonable chance of staying healthy.’

Berlin left by the side door. He crossed the road back to the alley and the Studebaker parked in the shadows, with an unobstructed view of the undertaker’s driveway. It was really cold now, colder than before. He stepped into a recessed factory driveway to take a piss and light up a cigarette. After a couple of quick puffs he stubbed out the butt on the wall and got back into the car on the passenger side. Running the engine to use the heater might attract attention so he decided against it. Jesus it was cold. Why didn’t he have a scarf and gloves? That was stupid.

The white panel van didn’t arrive until a little before four, and it was gone ten minutes later. The driver was the redhead who’d escorted Berlin off the premises on his first visit to Blackwattle Creek – the man Lazlo’s friend had called Blue – but Berlin didn’t recognise the other bloke. The upstairs lights stayed off the whole time. Berlin didn’t follow the van; there was no need, he knew where it was going. And he knew he’d had more than enough truth for one night.





THIRTY-FIVE


Security at Blackwattle Creek was now more at the level Berlin expected from a place dealing with the criminally insane. There was no answer at the rear door, so he had driven around to the front of the building and leaned on a door buzzer for ten minutes before getting a response. He didn’t recognise the face of the attendant who let him in but everything else was familiar. White jacket, white trousers, calloused knuckles and a body obviously used to punishment, both giving and taking.

It was a longer walk to Jessop’s office from the front of the building, and if the place had been quiet on his first visit today it was as silent as a tomb. Their footsteps echoed down the corridors and there wasn’t even the sound of a door slamming or a human voice. Had they finished shipping the last of the inmates out? he wondered.

Dr Jessop closed the manila folder on his desk and looked up. ‘DS Berlin, good morning, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

The look in Jessop’s eyes told Berlin it wasn’t all that much of a pleasure. But when you were a cop it was a look you were used to. The doctor nodded to the attendant standing bedside Berlin. ‘You can go now, Mr Johnston. I’ll call when our guest is ready to leave.’

Jessop opened a drawer on the left side of the desk and slipped the folder inside. He indicated the chair facing his desk and Berlin sat down.

‘I rather thought we’d covered everything the last time you dropped by, DS Berlin, so why are you here?’

From the condescending and almost casual tone in the doctor’s voice Berlin guessed that Callahan had been a good little boy and stayed well away from the telephone.

‘A couple of things came up, Dr Jessop, so I thought I’d take a drive out this way and have a word.’

‘How interesting. However, I’m still a very busy man so I’m afraid we do need to make this brief. I’d offer you coffee but since I assume you won’t be staying …’