St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(88)

‘That’s good to hear. How’s the boy doing, he okay?’

‘He’s good, I suppose. He writes to his mum and tells her that he’s keeping out of harm’s way.’

The desk sergeant grunted. Berlin knew the man had fought in Korea and so he understood the lies soldiers wrote home to their mums.

‘Just a quick question, Sarge, about something that happened a couple of weekends back. Don’t know if you were even on duty that night but a photographic studio on Albert Road reported a breakin, rear of number 100.’

Berlin heard the sergeant click his tongue. ‘Can you be a bit more specific, Charlie?’

‘Might have been the weekend Richmond won the second semi-final.’

‘Righro, gotcha. Hang on a tick, let me have a look in the book.’

There was a pause and Berlin could hear pages being turned.

‘Okay, I’ve found it. That was a bugger of a night, even without that dead girl showing up in the lake on the Monday morning. You hear about that? Face down in the water and cut to ribbons by some maniac they reckon. Naked as a jaybird.’

‘That’s what I heard too, Sarge.’

‘I’m glad the St Kilda boys found her down their end of the lake because we certainly had our hands full up here on the Sunday night. Not that I’m glad she’s dead, you understand.’

‘Of course not, Sarge. Why were your hands full, you mind telling me?’

‘A drunk driving a panel van hit a tram on Clarendon Street. Stupid bugger got himself killed and took down half the electrical wiring in the street doing it. Most of South Melbourne was blacked out for hours, so no traffic lights either. Good thing it was late on the Sunday night, not enough blokes rostered on to do point duty at the intersections and cross streets. The SEC fellers didn’t get the power back on till around five in the morning.’

‘And the breakin at the studio on Albert Road, the place behind the recording studio? What can you tell me about that?’

Berlin heard some more page-turning.

‘That call was actually the next morning, the Monday. I was off duty by then. It says here the call came in about 7:45. The receptionist at the photo place showed up early for work and she was the one who found the damage, the front door was kicked in.’

‘Do you happen to know who got sent out to investigate? The way I hear it, some uniforms stopped by and they were going to send detectives but it never happened. I want to find out why and also if there was anything odd about that visit.’

More page-turning. ‘Murchison did the interview on that one. He’s on the road at the moment but I can get him on the radio and have a natter if you can hang on for a sec.’

Berlin tilted his head to keep the phone up against his ear. He held the contact sheet up to the ceiling light and used the magnifying glass to confirm what he had seen one more time.

‘You still there?’ The sergeant was back on the line.

‘What do you have?’

‘Murchison remembers that one for a couple of reasons. He said the shift was well over and he should have been home by then but he got stuck with one last job. Worked out well, he said, the receptionist at the photo place had the biggest narks he’d seen in a month of Sundays. He put the acid on her but she wasn’t having it, said she already had a boyfriend. With tits like Murchison described I don’t wonder at it. He said the bloke who owned the studio was some porky, long-haired septic tank, a real wanker. He picked him as a poofter first off then figured he was probably the one rooting the receptionist and good luck to him.’

‘What did Murchison say about the breakin? Did he give any details?’

‘He said he told the photographer bloke that he’d have the detectives stop by just to shut him up but when he got back to the station he decided it really wasn’t worth bothering them.’

‘Why not? Did he say?’

‘Reckoned it was an inside job. But there didn’t seem to be anything missing, which was a bit odd. If there was stuff missing Murchison reckons you could have called it as an insurance job, you know, fake the breakin, nick your own stuff, flog it off down the pub and buy new gear with the insurance money.’

‘What made him think it was an inside job?’

‘Well, him and his offsider had a quick look around and they said a few things had been knocked over, lights and such, but it didn’t really look like the joint had been ransacked. And he reckoned for his money the front door to the studio looked like it had been forced out rather than jemmied or kicked in.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘He just said some handyman bloke who apparently works in the darkroom was already halfway through installing a new front door but the old one was still on the ground downstairs. Murchison reckoned it was pretty obvious the lock had come away when the door was forced open from the inside. Piss-weak door in any case, white ants in the doorjamb so getting it open wouldn’t have been too bloody difficult. Murchison said a halfway decent shove probably would have done it.’

‘Thanks, Sarge. Tell Murchison l owe him a beer, and you too.’

Berlin hung up and tried to call Roberts but there was no answer at any of the numbers he had for him. When Rebecca walked back into the room he already had his overcoat on. He was also holding a three foot-long iron wrecking bar that had been left in the studio after a hardware catalogue shoot.