St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(23)
Berlin’s nose twitched as the smoke blew past him. Why does that first puff always smell the best? he wondered. Predators and victims? That was unexpected. Whatever else Bob Roberts was getting out of Sunshine the uni student, the relationship was definitely helping with his vocabulary. Just like that section in the Reader’s Digest about how it pays to increase your word power but with a lot of barely legal sex thrown in as a sweetener. Predators and victims – Bob had that right. ‘And we have absolutely no witnesses? No one parked watching the submarine races out on the lake?’
Roberts smiled. ‘The uniforms who did the earlier sweep didn’t report seeing anyone and they’re both good blokes, they keep their eyes open. Besides, late-night submarine racing went out when the drive-in double features started. All the smart young Romeos have their panel vans fitted out with mattresses these days. They can watch the pictures in comfort and get their leg over before they send the lucky girls off at interval for pies and hot dogs from the snack bar.’
Berlin gestured for the clipboard again and went back to the autopsy report. There were multiple glass fragments from the headlight in Melinda Marquet’s left hip where the car had struck her. She also had a dislocated right shoulder. Berlin tried to recreate the moment of impact in his mind. She was running in the dark, panicked, terrified, running away from the bright lights of Fitzroy Street and what was back there, running into the imagined safety of darkness.
He thought about the commercial buildings lining Fitzroy Street and the big houses and the blocks of red-brick, tile-roofed flats behind them. It was a bloody rabbit warren, he decided, and then corrected himself; it was a rat’s nest.
‘How many flats and cellars and lock-up garages and boiler rooms out there, do you reckon?’
‘Too bloody many to search in under a month, Charlie, even if we had the time – and the men to do it, which we’re never going to get no matter how much pull the girl’s father has.’
He was right and Berlin knew it. St Kilda had too many places for a man to hide, or to hide things, and too many people who looked on the police as the enemy and knew how to keep their mouth shut. On the other side of the suburb, closer to the Bay, were the more wholesome amusements: a nice skating rink, the Palais Theatre for dancing and concerts, and Luna Park with its rickety wooden roller-coaster, merry-go-rounds and carnival sideshows. Beyond that was Acland Street with its continental cake shops and, beyond that, Café Budapest and Lazlo Horvay.
Berlin knew he was going to make a phone call at some stage and, like so many things in his life now, it was something he really didn’t want to do. But given the current circumstances, maybe it was something best out of the way as soon as possible. Lazlo might know what to do about the other thing, how to make inquiries, who to contact. Lazlo knew about a lot of things but would tracking down a ghost be one of them?
TEN
Trains leaving Flinders Street Station heading for Spencer Street and the northern line pass over a brick viaduct running parallel to Flinders Street. The arches under the viaduct had been turned into shops and storage areas, and Roberts parked the Triumph at the kerb outside one of the shops. The sign over the window read ‘Newsagent’, and in smaller letters ‘Books, Magazines, Newspapers, Smokes, Etc.’. Berlin knew the place by reputation and it was the ‘Etc.’ that gave it that reputation.
Roberts killed the engine and left the key in the ignition. ‘I’ll just be a tick, Charlie, you might as well wait in the car. Just need to grab a packet of smokes.’
As Roberts walked away Berlin opened the Triumph’s glove compartment. There were four packets of Craven A cigarettes inside, still sealed in their shiny cellophane wrapping. He closed the glove compartment and climbed out of the sports car, following Roberts into the shop. A small bell mounted over the doorway rattled as the two men entered. The shop was small and cramped, dully lit by a half-dozen fly-specked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
It always amazed Berlin that so many of the so-called raincoat brigade actually did wear raincoats. There were two or three of them browsing amongst the racks – frail, nervous men, pale-skinned and skittish, looking like a harsh word or sudden loud noise might frighten them to death. There was also a schoolboy, perhaps fifteen, in a blazer and shorts and battered school shoes, school tie loose and grey socks bunched around the ankles of his skinny legs.
The men in raincoats were looking at paperbacks with lurid covers or copies of Sun & Health and other imported European naturist magazines. The magazines featured photographs of laughing, naked girls playing volleyball and table tennis beside lakes or in forest clearings. The schoolboy was looking at one of the cheaply printed local magazines. Over his shoulder Berlin could see a full-page black and white picture of a nude girl smiling for the camera. Besides lacking clothes, the girl was also missing nipples and pubic hair. This air-brushing allowed the publication and dozens like it to skate past the obscenity laws. Berlin always wondered how confusing it must be when the young blokes who bought these magazines finally managed to get the clothes off a real live girl.
At the rear of the shop a man wearing a grey dustcoat over his suit was standing behind the counter. You didn’t see shopkeepers in grey dustcoats much any more, Berlin thought. He’d looked up when Roberts entered, reached down under the counter in front of him and straightened up with a thick, buff-coloured envelope in his right hand. Berlin was just behind Roberts and saw the detective’s head moving gently from side to side when he realised Berlin had followed him into the shop. The shopkeeper’s eyes left Roberts’ face and fixed on Berlin. The envelope went back under the counter and the shopkeeper gave the two men an uncomfortable smile.