St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(31)
Berlin wished Roberts hadn’t brought that up. He had managed to keep Scheiner out of his mind for the whole ride back from the city. ‘Twenty thousand feet apart isn’t exactly crossing paths, Bob, and some nights there were up to a thousand bombers in the air. We couldn’t see them and they couldn’t see us, except if you got picked up by a searchlight.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it must be different face to face, like in the jungle or the desert I mean. They reckon the Jerries in North Africa and Crete never liked it when our blokes got in close and used the bayonet. They didn’t like the idea of cold steel.’
Berlin had briefly used the army-issue Lee Enfield .303 rifle in his early air force drill training and the 1917 model bayonet that came along with it. Seventeen inches of razor sharp steel on the end of a rifle – who would be able to stand up to the thought of having that pushed into their guts? Or having to push it into some other poor bugger’s guts, for that matter.
After the tea was finished Berlin walked Roberts back out to the sports car.
‘Do we have a next step, Charlie? I’ve got ... people I have to keep informed.’
I’ll bet you do, Berlin said to himself. ‘Not right now. I need some time to go through the files and once I figure out what to do next I’ll give you a ring. But you need to keep yourself ready to go.’
Roberts climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Sounds fair enough.’ He looked up at Berlin. ‘You reckon we’re in with a chance? Of finding the girl, I mean.’
Berlin thought about the autopsy photograph of the Marquet girl and the rope marks on her wrists and ankles. ‘I know it sounds cruel but if it is just one bloke and the bastard isn’t killing the girls straight away, if he’s keeping them tied up, locked up for pleasure or whatever it is he wants from them, then it means we might have a shot at finding her.’ But of course what went on in the meantime really didn’t bear thinking about. ‘I might be out for a bit tonight so I’ll leave any messages for you at Russell Street. You should ring in every hour or so.’
Berlin took the envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. ‘You’re a bloody idiot, Bob, you know that, don’t you? Those bastards you’re working with would sell you down the river without even stopping to think about it.’
Roberts opened the Triumph’s glove compartment and stuffed the envelope inside. He slammed it closed and started the engine. After a moment he switched it back off.
‘You know, you might be a smart bugger, Charlie, and okay at your job, but you don’t know everything. Just because I’m a bad husband and a crook father doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a not a good copper. You might want to try to remember that.’
‘And you remember to check in on the hour, Bob. And leave any message for me at Russell Street as well, let me know as soon as you hear of any developments with Tony Seldens’ investigation, whatever they are.’
Roberts started the engine again and backed the Triumph out of the driveway, revving the motor a few more times than Berlin thought was strictly necessary. Standing on the nature strip, he watched the sports car until it turned right at the end of the street. From the sound of it Bob Roberts floored the accelerator once he was out of Berlin’s sight.
He stopped to check the letterbox but it was too early for the afternoon post. The front lawn would need a good trim soon, that was for sure. Why hadn’t he done it on the weekend? he wondered. He looked up the street towards the corner. The sound of the Triumph had faded and far in the distance he could hear the bells at the railway level crossing. What could Gudrun Scheiner hear right now, if she could hear anything at all? And if Bob Roberts was a good copper, what was he doing with an envelope stuffed full of cash in the glove compartment of a brand-new sports car he couldn’t really afford?
THE MISSION
School was from eight till noon on weekdays when there were no crops to harvest. Incorrect answers or insolence could earn a student a beating from the brother giving the lesson, but the boy was a surprisingly good student. His reading and comprehension improved dramatically, but not from fear of punishment. He knew he had to be smart to succeed but not so smart as to stand out. On most of the tests he realised he could easily score 100 per cent, but decided a 60 per cent mark was the one to go for. More than that might draw praise and attention, and less could earn him a belting with the leather strap on his open palm or bare bottom. Pain he didn’t care about but drawing attention to himself was something to be avoided.
Once school was done there was lunch, and then allocated tasks to be completed before the evening meal. On Saturdays, if there were no crops to be harvested or animals to be rounded up, there was football in the winter and cricket in the summer. But before cricket or football, Saturday mornings were dedicated to cleaning the mission buildings and grounds and gathering wood to feed the kitchen fires over the coming week.
Firewood-gathering was a preferred occupation because there was only minimal supervision. The boys would spread out in different directions, gathering fallen branches and helping to cut up trees felled by some of the older boys or one of the brothers swinging an axe. They worked in teams, pulling handcarts to haul the wood back. The carts also contained a jerry can full of the brackish artesian water because it was thirsty work.
Three months into his stay at the mission the boy was sent out wood-gathering. Brother Brian was sick with the flu and there was no photographic work to be done so a task had to be found for him. Around mid-morning the boy strayed away from the main party with-out being noticed and a half-mile into the scrub he came upon a circle of half a dozen other defectors. With shorts around their ankles they were practising the solitary vice in concert and with a high degree of concentration. It seemed to be some kind of race. When he declined to join in he was instructed to keep his mouth shut about what he had seen. Jacka, the gang leader, the biggest boy in the group and the mission’s acknowledged head bully, decided to demonstrate what would happen to the boy if he told anyone.