St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(89)
‘Lose our house keys, did we?’
‘No but I need your car keys and right now.’
‘Is something wrong, Charlie? Did you find something out?’
‘Just that you were right about Derek Jones not taking the pictures on that sheet. It must have been included with the others by accident.’
‘What confirmed it?
‘It’s all in frame number 26a. Derek Jones couldn’t have shot that particular roll of film because he’s standing off in the background with his camera around his neck, chatting up a blonde. We’ve been looking at the wrong person, and I just figured out we’ve been looking at the wrong end of the lake too. I need to get to the photographic studio in South Melbourne right now so I need your keys.’
Rebecca was already moving towards the door. ‘They’re in my coat but I’ll drive. I go faster than you do.’
FORTY-FOUR
Rebecca parked in the space behind number 100 Albert Road. Berlin left her in the car and told her to wait. He took the wrecking bar and a torch from Rebecca’s glove box with him. The rain had stopped and the skies were clearing. As he passed the windows lining the side of the closed-down lolly factory underneath the studio, his eye caught a glint of light. One of the glass windowpanes was reflecting moonlight. He stopped and looked closer. The other three panes in the window were old, probably original from when the place was built, with ripples and bubbles and small imperfections in the glass. The lower-right pane was newer, smooth flat glass that had been spattered with dirt and mud in an attempt to make it match the others. The earlier rain, driven almost horizontally by the wind, had lashed this side of the building, washing most of the dirt away.
Berlin pressed his finger into the putty around the glass and felt it give slightly under the pressure. He checked an original pane and found the putty dried-out and brittle. This newer glass was obviously quite recently installed, the putty smeared with dirt to conceal its newness and then left to dry. Using the sharp end of the wrecking bar he smashed the glass in and carefully cleared away the remaining shards as best he could. Reaching in and up he felt for the latch at the top of the frame. His hand came away covered with more dirt but the metal latch felt new and it turned easily. He still had to use pressure from the wrecking bar to force the window up.
Inside, he stepped over the broken glass and swept the torch over the empty space. He could smell rat droppings, and when he swung the torch up across the ceiling beams he saw reflections from more than one pair of tiny eyes. As he walked between the tables the rats scuttled away. At the rear of the room was a large brick structure with a single metal door. The door was rusted shut all the way around the frame, which was solidly bolted into the brick wall. He brushed powdery red rust off a painted sign that read, ‘Boiler Room, No Unauthorised Admittance.’ The door had obviously been unused for at least twenty years. The mortar between the bricks had been protected from the weather by being inside and was still thick and solid. Berlin rapped on the door with the iron bar but there was only silence. Getting that door open would take more than his wrecking bar; an oxy-torch was probably needed.
He walked back to the double doors at the front and studied the layout of the empty room. Pacing out the distances he walked slowly forward, trying to mentally superimpose on the space what he remembered about the layout of the studio above. When he got to the back, to the solid brick face of the locked boiler room, he looked up. That had to be the darkroom up there above him, located right over the brick room in front of him.
It took five minutes to break his way in through the locked studio door. Egan had done a good job of installing it and entry wouldn’t have been possible without using the wrecking bar. Once inside, he worked his way towards the back of the studio, enough light filtering through the grubby windows to let him reach his destination without switching on the overhead lighting. He counted off the paces, making allowances for the dogleg through the studio part of the building. By his calculations the darkroom was situated directly over the bricked-up boiler room below.
The sliding door into the darkroom was open. A cord dangled from the ceiling and a quick tug turned on an overhead fluorescent light. The darkroom was neat, clean and empty. The trays of developing chemicals had been washed out and stacked against the splashback of the stainless steel sink to drain. Orange and yellow boxes of photographic paper were neatly stacked on shelves above the workbenches. He recognised the enlarger as a Yank-made Omega 02, the same as Rebecca had in her Collins Street darkroom.
The floor of the darkroom was covered with rectangular rubber mats. One of the mats was slightly misaligned, turned up in one corner, showing the wooden floorboards underneath. Berlin pulled it aside. The trapdoor underneath was neatly fitted, the hinges hidden and a pull-up handle recessed into one edge. He bent down and tugged at the handle but the trapdoor didn’t move. It must have been locked from underneath and there was no sign of a place to insert the key.
He stood up and looked around the darkroom. One of the vertical beams that helped hold the roof up had a series of Bakelite switches mounted on it. He worked his way down the switches, testing each one to see what it did. Safe light, exhaust fan, enlarger, radio – there was an on-off switch for each one. Metal conduit attached to the pillar and running down from the ceiling held the wiring for each of the switches. Right at the ceiling he noticed another wire painted white to match the pillar and ceiling looping round to the back. He reached behind the pole and found another pair of switches.