St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(67)
‘Okay, Charlie, you’ve bought us some time, so what do we do with it?’
Berlin had been asking himself the same question, running back over the evidence in his mind. ‘We go back to the studio to talk to Derek Jones again. Something’s not right there and he’s the only link we have to the girl, even if it is just about him being at the same place on the night. It’s not a whole lot but right now it’s all we have.’
They were halfway down Honeysuckle Drive when a yellow ball rolled out from between two parked cars followed closely by a cocker spaniel puppy. Roberts jammed on the brakes and Berlin was flung forward and upwards out of his seat, banging his forehead on the metal edge of the windscreen surround. His hands splayed out on the dashboard held him back and lessened the impact a little. He sat back in the seat and touched his forehead. No blood but there would be a bruise and a bump for sure.
‘Sorry, Charlie, you okay?’
Berlin glanced across at Roberts and nodded then rolled down the side window for some air. A smell of burned rubber was coming from under the car.
The cocker spaniel scooted back across the road with the ball in its mouth. A man standing between two cars picked the dog up and walked over to the passenger side of the Triumph. His shoes were pricey and well kept, stylish, possibly by Raoul Merton. The suit and shirt and tie were all top-shelf items as well. Manicured nails, and the man’s hair was neatly cut, probably this morning from the hint of talcum powder and bay rum Berlin’s nose could detect over the smell of burnt rubber.
‘Sorry about that, looks like you might have a bit of a bruise. It’s the new wife’s new dog and she just loves going after balls. The dog, I mean, not the new wife. Thanks for stopping.’
Berlin opened the passenger-side door and climbed out. ‘That was the idea, wasn’t it?’
The man in the suit casually tossed the dog in through the open window of a red Jaguar saloon parked at the kerb. The spaniel yelped as it missed the seat and landed on the floor.
‘I’m Warren Sunderland, but my friends call me Woz.’ He put out his hand.
Berlin ignored the outstretched hand. ‘I know who you are and I can’t imagine you have too many of those – friends, I mean.’
Sunderland had started as a copyboy at The Argus just after the war, Rebecca had told him, so that made him maybe forty. The shiny red Jag and Sunderland’s puffy pink face both said the man lived as well as he dressed. The shrewd look in his eyes and a cruel twist to his mouth told Berlin the man would do whatever was necessary to keep living that way.
Sunderland lowered his arm and smiled. ‘So you’re the bloke who landed Rebecca Green. Could have had her myself, back in the old days at The Argus, but she wasn’t really my type.’
Was the remark meant to goad him? Berlin wondered. ‘Some men just can’t handle good-looking, smart and talented, I suppose. Or was it that Jewish thing?’
Sunderland puffed out fat pink lips in what looked almost like a pout. ‘Bugger me, Charlie, old son. You got the girl, no need to be a sore winner.’
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Berlin. I don’t know you personally but I know a bit about you and I don’t like you. I also don’t like your paper and what you write in it. And I especially don’t like you mentioning my wife, so don’t do it. If it was me driving and you chasing that ball I wouldn’t have used the brakes.’
Sunderland leaned down and looked over at Roberts, who was still sitting in the car. ‘You should buy your mate some breakfast, Bob, or maybe get him a double Scotch; he’s a bit too bloody toey for this time of the morning if you ask me.’
Roberts didn’t respond.
‘You and Bob know each other?’ Berlin asked when Sunderland straightened up.
The fat lips twisted into something vaguely resembling a smile. ‘I know lots of coppers, Detective Sergeant Berlin, good ones, bad ones, the boring, the mediocre, the talented and the ones just getting by on their looks. It goes with the job.’
Sunderland had dropped the Detective Sergeant Berlin bit into his response with a hint of sarcasm and again Berlin wondered if the man was trying to goad him. It also sounded like a well-rehearsed little speech. Rebecca had once told him that since journalists were always meeting new people and seeking to quickly create a friendly relationship most of them kept a stock of carefully prepared casual comments and anecdotes and jokes to establish some kind of instant rapport. Sunderland’s response was that maybe he knew Bob and maybe he didn’t. But he knew something. And was that ‘double Scotch’ comment supposed to show he also knew something about Berlin’s past problems?
‘We’re very busy Mr Sunderland, so if you have a point you’re trying to get to, can you move it along?’
The insincere Sunderland smile flashed again. ‘Just doing my job, keeping my readers up on the latest news. I was wondering if you might like to make a statement about your ongoing investigation. Get your side of the story out to the public.’
Berlin’s head was starting to ache. What was Sunderland after exactly?
‘I’m not sure what you mean by my side of the story.’
‘Jesus, you can’t be that bloody naive. Young girls going missing, turning up dead and the police and press keeping a lid on it for months. Collusion in high places, premier doing favours for wealthy and influential friends and a suspect copper brought in on the quiet to help sort things out.’