St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(94)
She said no to the pills with a shake of her head so he put them in his trouser pocket to flush down the toilet later. ‘You know I’m right, you should head home. I’ll be there as soon as I can, I promise.’
Rebecca nodded. She gave him a kiss and a hug and if it hurt this time he didn’t notice.
FORTY-SEVEN
Over the next hour Berlin was subjected to interrogation by several senior officers about his investigation and the events of the night. There were questions about Tim Egan that he couldn’t answer. If Egan really was from Queensland like he’d said it could take weeks or months to track down his details. The home address typed on the Victorian driver’s licence folded up in Egan’s wallet was false, they told him, as was the licence itself. Telexes were going out to all the other states with a description of the killer and his methods, seeking to find any matching crimes. Berlin really hoped they wouldn’t but wasn’t going to hold his breath.
Throughout the questioning, the top brass were also warily trying to suss out Berlin’s relationship with Scheiner, and with the premier, if there was one. Berlin understood they were trying to work out how to position themselves to get the best out of the situation for themselves. He also knew it would probably be several days before he discovered exactly which unknown senior officer or officers had been closely supervising him during his investigation and could therefore claim a large part of the credit for its successful resolution.
After the fourth bout of questions, Berlin had had enough and decided to call it a night. He should have just gone home with Rebecca, he realised. If the premier had already turned up Berlin hadn’t seen him, and it seemed like half of Russell Street was milling about out in the hospital corridors. One copper less wasn’t going to make any difference to this circus, especially one with a bruised and battered face, dressed like a derelict and, what was probably worse, a St Kilda supporter.
He stepped out into the hospital corridor and practically bumped into the premier. Henty Bolte was surrounded by reporters and senior police, including Chief Commissioner Rupert Arnold. Bolte gave him a confused, dismissive look, and Berlin could smell whisky. Bolte looked tired, probably worse than Berlin felt, if that was possible. A senior police officer brushed Berlin to one side as they herded the press into a group next to television and newsreel cameras set up on tripods and framed by a battery of lights and microphones.
Berlin found himself stuck behind a large group of senior police who were standing slightly behind and to the left of the premier, probably hoping to get their faces on television. The chief commissioner was standing just behind the premier in a spot guaranteed to get maximum press coverage. The officers were smiling, leaning in close from time to time to make quiet comments to each other.
The premier appeared to be a little confused as to what to do until a clipboard holding a typed foolscap page was pushed into his hands. He took a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket and ran his eye over the text, glancing several times across to the other side of the corridor, towards a second group of senior officers. There were no smiles in the second group, Berlin noticed. Most of the faces were impassive, though a couple of the men seemed nervous, their eyes flicking back and forth between the premier, the assembled press and the smiling officers across the corridor. The senior officer who had confronted Berlin at the Scheiner house was at the front and his eyes found Berlin’s for a moment and then moved on as if he didn’t recognise him.
‘Pen.’
The premier said the word without looking up from the clipboard.
A half-dozen ballpoints and fountain pens were immediately held out to him. He took one of the fountain pens and scribbled notes on the typed page. Several lines were also crossed out before he screwed the cap back on the pen and put it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
When the premier looked up and towards the camera and reporters, all noise in the corridor ceased. Berlin saw Bolte run his eye slowly across the assembled press pack: the TV cameramen, the kneeling press photographers and the reporters with notebooks open or microphones in hand. His contempt for the people in front of him was obvious and all-encompassing.
‘Gentlemen, earlier this evening a missing girl, the daughter of one of the state’s best-known citizens, was rescued from captivity due to the diligence and hard work of members of a special task force of the Victoria Police Force.’
Berlin was glad that Rebecca had gone home but he was a little sorry Bob Roberts wasn’t still around to hear the pair of them described as a task force. The premier looked up from the typed statement and spoke directly to the assembled reporters.
‘A police force which, as I have often said, is the finest in this country, and this evening’s events prove that once again.’ He glanced over towards the second group of senior officers. ‘Despite the ill-informed nattering of people who should know better. This special task force was under the direct supervision of Chief Commissioner Arnold, who reported back to me on developments as they occurred. Events came to a head this evening and culminated in the missing girl being rescued from premises in South Melbourne where she was being held captive.’
The premier looked back down at the paper. ‘The officer who effected the rescue was forced to confront the kidnapper, who it appears may also have been responsible for a number of other missing girls, missing girls who were the subject of an exhaustive and ongoing investigation by the task force over the past many months. This investigation was kept secret for reasons of security and to avoid unduly alarming the public at large.’