St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(73)
The inquiry’s public hearings were being held in rented office space on Spencer Street but they drove Berlin to a terrace in Parkville. He sat in the back of the Ford Falcon and the two men sat up front. There was no chitchat on the short ride and they parked in a back lane. The shorter man stayed with the car while the taller one escorted Berlin into the terrace through a well-kept rear garden. In the kitchen the Honourable Justice Llewellyn Luscombe, the man tasked with assessing the depth of corruption within the police force, was making a pot of tea. His suit jacket was draped neatly over the back of a chair.
‘I’m Lew Luscombe, Detective Sergeant Berlin, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Yet another interesting character buzzes into our little hive.’
He put down the teapot and shook Berlin’s hand.
Berlin liked the idea that the man still wore a waistcoat with the chain of a pocket watch looped across the front and that he introduced himself as Lew. But is it a hive, Berlin wondered, or have I buzzed my way into a web?
‘And an aviator too, they tell me, with active service under his belt,’ Luscombe continued, ‘it seems we have a lot in common. Can I pour you a cup of tea? Please pull up a chair, I believe we have biscuits somewhere.’
Berlin already knew some of Justice Luscombe’s history from stories in the press and from reading what was available in the State Library. When the newly retired judge was appointed to head the inquiry into police corruption, Rebecca had suggested that any copper with his head screwed on right should make it their business to find out all they could about the man.
Part of what Berlin knew was that in July 1910, at the age of twelve, young Llewellyn Luscombe had watched awestruck as John Duigan, a neighbour’s son, had taken off in a homemade aeroplane at a property near rural Kyneton. Though only a short hop it was one of the earliest powered flights in Australia and the boy decided to become a pilot, though his wealthy farming family already had plans for him to study law. In late 1918 flying over France with No. 4 squadron, Australian Flying Corps Luscombe’s Sopwith Camel was brought down by ground fire. Two broken knees kept him out of the air till the war was over. He returned to Melbourne and after a long and distinguished legal career was appointed a judge of the State Supreme Court. Now retired, he had been asked to conduct the current inquiry into possible police corruption.
Berlin sat down at the table and accepted his cup of tea. The tall man had searched cupboards till he’d found a tin of biscuits. He put the tin on the table and after a nod from Luscombe left the two men alone.
‘Nice house.’ Berlin felt he had to say something.
‘I rent it for my granddaughter. She’s at the university so it’s convenient. For me also, some place peaceful to get away. She’s doing medicine.’
He pronounced it med-sin. Berlin briefly wondered if his granddaughter knew Sunshine but decided the two girls probably moved in different circles.
‘You have a daughter I hear, Detective Sergeant Berlin, and also a son, in the army.’
Berlin nodded. He wondered what else the judge might have heard about Peter and his problems. Was this how it would go? Threats about revealing Peter’s past transgressions for information about crooked cops.
‘My own son was shot down and killed in Korea, you may have heard. I hope your child stays safe.’
‘Thank you, that’s what I hope too.’
‘I raised my grandchildren myself, Detective Sergeant Berlin. I mean myself and my wife. My grandson is in the RAAF now, that makes it three generations. He’s training to fly the Mirage, you know the French fighter plane. He took me down to Point Cook once to show me one. Quite beautiful and nothing like the old Camel, let me tell you. You and I both flew sitting on our parachutes, I believe, but these days if there’s a problem he just has to press a button and his whole seat with him in it shoots right out of the aircraft. Marvellous stuff.’
Berlin nodded again. Luscombe had a pleasant, open smile and Berlin was trying to figure out if this polite old man was just that, and perhaps getting a little doddery, or was he someone much, much smarter.
‘Your wife has a career, and a most successful one too, they tell me. That must be ... gratifying.’
Berlin was wary now. He was proud of Rebecca’s hard-won success in the male-dominated photo industry, but did they think her photography business was just a way for him to justify money made through corrupt enterprises as a police officer?
The judge was right about Rebecca being successful but it was a long way from the early days of their marriage when she began shooting weddings to help supplement Berlin’s totally inadequate police pay. Rebecca’s career had taken off after someone had shown one of her wedding albums to a busy Collins Street photographer named Mark Sturgis who was looking for someone to help lighten his workload.
The top of Collins Street, referred to as the Paris End because of its outdoor cafes and expensive dress shops, was where the most successful advertising and commercial photographers had their studios. Mark Sturgis’ clients weren’t quite as glamorous as his address or his bright, spacious and well-equipped studio that occupied two floors above a frock shop that now called itself a boutique. The high-end advertising and fashion photographers treated Sturgis with mild pity or polite contempt since the majority of his work involved shooting jumpers and cardigans for the weekly women’s magazines and knitting pattern books. It seemed every woman in Australia was frantically knitting non-stop and these regular assignments kept the studio fully occupied. Rebecca quickly found she enjoyed the fast pace, the short deadlines and the interaction with models and thrived on the experience.