St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(58)
The hinges on the doors at the front were thick with rust as was the chain and padlock that kept the door secure. Weeds had grown up across the front of the door almost as high as the chain and padlock. Fading and flaking paint on the wood indicated the ground floor had once been the premises of Billabong Confectionery and the home of the ‘World Famous Sherbet Bomb’. The milk bar near Berlin’s house still had big jars labelled ‘Billabong Confectionery’ on its shelves, so the company must still have been in business – just not here and not for a long time.
To the right of the locked doors the word ‘Studio’ was roughly painted on the bricks in white with an arrow pointing upwards. A wooden staircase led up to a landing, then up to a second landing and what had to be the studio entrance. There was a pile of broken timber stacked beside the driveway, including an old door. The place where the lock would have been was splintered and broken. Berlin could see evidence of white ant activity in the door and the timber frame.
Roberts led the way up the stairs. The wooden banisters were unsteady, rotted in places, but the door on the top landing and the wooden frame around it was brand new. An also new steel security door, bolted into the brickwork, stood wide open. If the downstairs part of the building was silent, upstairs was jumping. Fleetwood Mac was belting out as they got to the studio entrance and over the music Berlin could hear the sound of someone yelling. A brass plate was screwed into the brick wall to the right of the doorway. The engraving on the plate said they were about to enter the Lair of the Visual Beast.
TWENTY-SIX
The reception area inside the front door had wrinkled silver mylar pasted over the bricks. A low bench seat was built around the right-hand corner and led to a large desk. The bench was covered with green vinyl cushions and a sleek black Labrador was asleep in the corner. A wide corridor led off the reception area towards the back of the building. Somewhere down the corridor the music was blasting, and there was yelling in what sounded like an American accent, interspersed with short, bright bursts of flash lighting.
Berlin and Roberts walked across to the reception desk. Roberts smiled at the girl sitting behind it. She had her arms folded and was sucking on a ballpoint pen. About twenty, Berlin guessed, olive-skinned with long, dark, almost black hair. She reminded him of an American Indian, and her tan suede jacket with leather fringing hanging down from the sleeves reinforced the image. She smiled back at Roberts. She had nice teeth.
‘Yair, how can I help youse?’
The voice totally dispelled the American Indian image. Berlin let Roberts do the talking.
‘Is the owner in? And I guess by that I mean the Visual Beast.’
The girl tapped the ballpoint pen against her lower lip. ‘And to what might this be in relationship to?’
‘We’re actually here to have a chat with Mr Beast’s assistant, Derek Jones. We’re police.’
The girl smiled again. ‘Derek been a naughty boy, has he?’
Roberts winked at the girl. ‘Just some questions about a photograph he took, love, nothing serious.’
The girl stood up at a desk and leaned forward. She was wearing a black silk shirt under the suede cowboy jacket. She was short and slender with remarkably big breasts. And a big voice to go with them.
‘Beast, a couple of blokes out here need to come back.’
Berlin winced and took a step back at the power of her voice. The American voice that had been doing the shouting down the hallway responded at a similar volume.
‘Bailiffs, are they?’
‘Nah, it’s a couple of coppers.’
‘And about goddamn time. Send them back if the sight of some bare tits won’t get me into trouble with the vice squad.’
The two men walked down the corridor towards the noise and the flashing lights. Berlin felt a give in the floorboards underfoot several times. The boards were old and scuffed and had dried out, shrinking back in places over the years. In several spots the gaps were so wide that you could see the building’s crossbeams underneath and on down into the blackness of the old lolly factory below.
The studio area was spread across the width of the building. The ceiling height was about fifteen feet but there was no ceiling, just open space and beams, and above the beams, two dozen feet up, was the apex of the tiled roof. By the wall to the left was a carpentry area with sawhorses and power tools. The space around it was neatly stacked with timber off-cuts, and a wide broom rested next to a sugar bag full of sawdust. Against the back wall of the studio was a miniature, stylised city skyline made from pieces of thick, black-painted plywood with openings cut out for windows. Behind the simulated skyline a canvas backdrop painted to resemble the night sky with clouds and a full moon had been stapled to the wall.
In front of the skyline and towering above it was a tall blonde girl in platform shoes that made her taller still. She was holding a couple of large ostrich feather fans which covered her body. Berlin got the impression that she was probably naked underneath. A stocky, heavy-set man with a shock of black curly hair was standing in front of the girl, bent over a camera mounted on a tripod. Around them was a forest of silver light stands holding photographic umbrellas and flash heads connected by cables to electronic flash packs on the floor.
The photographer was looking down into the camera viewfinder, yelling instructions to the girl. She turned side-on towards the camera, lifting one foot off the ground. The photographer pressed a button with his right hand and there was a loud clunk and then a pop and a blinding flash as the lights fired. He looked up at the girl and cranked a handle on the side of the camera.