St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(47)

He heard the noise of the lavatory door slamming shut then a click as it locked. The heat under the leather bag, under the dagger, was still there and stronger now. The young sailor and the girl were probably doing sex right now. Was she enjoying it? he wondered. If the carriage had been less crowded, if he had been stupid, if he had been the one to follow her inside, she would have had a totally different kind of experience. And it would have been a lot more pleasant for him than for her.

He remembered something he had read somewhere, something about Cerberus. Cerberus was a three-headed dog who guarded the gates of Hades. The idea of a three-headed dog didn’t appeal to him but having his own private Hades was a concept that had interested him for some time now. He had long ago decided that, despite what the conductor had said, Melbourne wouldn’t be the end of the line for him; it would be a new beginning.





NINETEEN


The Marquet property was up a dirt track running off the main road. The area was heavily forested and Roberts missed the turn-off and was forced to do a U-turn half a mile further on. He ran the Triumph into some mud on the side of the road and as he reversed, the spinning rear wheels spattered the back of the car with mud. Roberts cursed under his breath.

They didn’t have to go too far up the Marquet’s driveway before trees and high scrub cut off the view back to the main road. The house itself was a simple white-painted weatherboard that probably harked back to the 1930s. It had a rusty galvanised iron roof, a wide, bull-nosed veranda and a wooden single garage set off to the left. A dark blue, mud-speckled Chrysler Safari station wagon was parked outside the garage next to a four-wheeled trailer. The Safari was one of the largest station wagons on the road but for a bloke with a wife and five kids and a furniture business it was probably barely big enough. Four kids now, Berlin thought, mentally correcting himself.

Roberts parked the car facing back down the driveway and the two men got out. Through the scrubby bushland that surrounded the property Berlin could make out another structure. It was a classic one-room bush school house, painted white like the main building and had to be the sleepout O’Brian had mentioned. He thought he caught a glimpse of a face watching them from one of the large windows.

Roberts reached into the back seat of the Triumph and took out his clipboard. The two men crossed the veranda to the front door and Roberts knocked. The woman who opened the door was wearing an apron and had a dusting of flour on her hands. Her face had a sad expression that Berlin knew much too well. He let Roberts do the introductions.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Marquet, but I think Constable O’Brian telephoned and said we were coming? I’m Sergeant Roberts and this is Detective Sergeant Berlin. We’ve just got a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. It won’t take long. Is your husband at home?’

‘Clive came back from the shop when I rang and said you were on your way after young Shane called.’

That wasn’t what Berlin had hoped for but he knew letting O’Brian call ahead had still been the right thing to do under the circumstances, especially when he looked at Mrs Marquet’s face. Berlin had done enough missing persons cases to be able to gauge the pain in a parent’s eyes – too many, he realised. Where the child was missing for less than a week the eyes always had a strong glimmer of hope. That hope began to fade as more and more time passed, but of course any sign of hope was now long gone from Mrs Marquet’s face.

‘I was making scones and I’ve got the kettle on. It’s a bit of a drive from town so you probably want a cup of tea.’

Berlin nodded. ‘That would be lovely.’ The daughter had the mother’s eyes. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just that same strange look that he had picked up on.

Inside, the house was a jumble of mismatched furniture. The living room was cramped and the low ceiling gave it a claustrophobic feel. There was an upright piano against one wall but no sign of a television. Berlin noted the neat rows of books on the shelves and the fact that every spare flat surface had some kind of knickknack on it, from ceramic birds and animals to miniature Dutch windmills and vases and eggcups.

They crossed the living room, following Mrs Marquet to the kitchen. The smell of hot scones made Berlin’s stomach rumble. Clive Marquet was sitting at a laminex-topped table surrounded by a half-dozen mismatched kitchen chairs. He was short, with a stocky build and a reddish beard starting to turn grey. Berlin didn’t trust men with beards. The man was wearing dark blue overalls and work boots and his wristwatch had one of those snap on leather covers to protect the face. He looked up from the paper he was reading.

‘You took your time getting out here, get lost did ya? Have you arrested someone?’

Berlin shook his head. ‘I’m new on the case and Detective Roberts here is helping me fill in some background on the –’ He’d been about to say ‘victim’, but stopped. ‘I wanted to get some more information on your daughter.’

Marquet grunted. He was angry, which was understandable. Was it worse to have a missing child or a child you knew would never be coming home? Berlin wondered.

The kitchen windowsill had the same jumble of knickknacks as the living room. Mrs Marquet put a plate of scones in the middle of the table and took a plastic container of butter from the refrigerator. The two detectives sat at the table and drank tea and ate scones. The butter had a slightly odd taste and Mrs Marquet noticed Berlin hesitate after his first bite.