St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(95)

So the missing girls were still just missing, not decomposing in the dirt of a closed down confectionery factory in South Melbourne. That news would come later Berlin knew, the gruesome details released bit by bit to soften the awfulness and keep a dazed and horrified press and public from asking difficult questions.

The premier paused and waited for the press reporters, bent over their shorthand pads and scribbling furiously, to look up in his direction. Berlin noticed that every time Bolte paused and looked up there was a blizzard of camera flashes from behind and beside the TV and newsreel cameras.

‘In the ensuing violent confrontation,’ the premier continued, ‘the offender lost his life while the officer concerned escaped unscathed, for which we can be grateful. I of course commend all the police officers who took part in this investigation and most especially ... ’ The premier paused and looked at the clipboard for a moment. ‘And most especially Detective Inspector Charles Berlin, an experienced, dedicated and conscientious officer and a man who is well known to me. The girl in question is now safe and well and back with her father, who has asked us to respect her privacy. Our best wishes go out to her for a speedy recovery. You can get more information from my secretary in the morning. Goodnight.’

The premier tossed the clipboard in the general direction of an officer and turned around. The phalanx of smiling officers directly behind him parted to allow him to pass. Berlin was squashed up against a wall of the corridor behind two senior officers. As soon as the premier was gone they began conducting a post-mortem of the press conference with their voices lowered.

‘Nice jab at the inquiry, that should shut the bastards up for a while. The press will have to start singing a different tune now as well.’

‘Too bloody right, and a few of our people are going to have to keep their heads pulled well in for a bit, stupid bastards. Bolte hasn’t survived this long without knowing who his friends are and how to put the boot in when it’s needed’.

‘I thought that Berlin chap was just a DS. A bit of a no-hoper was what I heard.’

‘Well the prick’s a bloody Detective Inspector now, the premier has spoken. Paperwork will need to get pushed through first thing in the morning and backdated a month or so. And make sure everyone who talks to the press knows what to call him. Lucky sod too. A little bird told me he was going to be one of the sacrificial lambs to the inquiry, but that was dropped thanks to that backstabbing bastard Roberts. I suppose all this means Roberts has to be up for some sort of commendation too now. For God’s sake, do you mind?’

The last comment was directed at Berlin, who had forced his way past the two officers. He wanted air and he wanted out, out of the smell of the hospital, which was starting to get to him, and away from the worse stink of politics. He turned back around to the two officers with their neatly pressed uniforms and shiny silver buttons.

‘As a matter of fact I do mind. I mind very much.’

He turned away and headed down the corridor in his too-big footwear, hoping he wouldn’t slip and fall on the waxed and highly polished hospital hallway floor.

***

A constable took a van round to a side entrance to avoid the press, and if any of the reporters actually saw Detective Inspector Charles Berlin leaving the casualty department they didn’t make any notes of it. The only person waiting for him was Warren Sunderland, standing outside in a gentle drizzle of rain. Droplets of water were beading on the shoulders of the reporter’s suit and a nasty bruise was beginning to show on his jaw.

‘You might be smiling now Berlin,’ Sunderland said, ‘but you have made yourself some pretty powerful enemies.’

Berlin lifted his head up and felt the soft rain on his face. It felt good and fresh and clean, better than any hospital shower. ‘I’m not smiling, Sunderland, and the higher the rank the more powerful the enemies from what I can see. But right now all I want to do is go home to my wife and go to bed so I won’t stop and chat if it’s all the same to you. And don’t you have a special edition of your rag you need to pulp?’

Sunderland smiled a cold, hard smile. ‘You will keep, Berlin, you will bloody keep.’

There was very little traffic given the time of the morning. It finally stopped drizzling when they reached Pascoe Vale Road and the streets were already starting to dry. Berlin had told the constable to turn the police radio off and he was enjoying the peace and quiet. He’d had quite enough crime and mayhem for one night and if a Detective Inspector couldn’t order a constable around, what was the point of the promotion?

God, he was tired. He sat back in the passenger seat of the police van, half dozing, watching the streetlights Rash by through partially closed eyes. He thought about the premier’s press conference, remembered all the flashes from the press photographers. Afterwards, one of the senior coppers who’d had him backed in against the wall had said something about backdating his promotion and he hazily wondered if that would mean back pay. Then he remembered the other one had said something else, something about the inquiry and then something about Bob Roberts.

When they turned into his street he could see Roberts sitting on the front fence, smoking. The Mini was parked up close to the side gate and all the lights in the house were on. Rebecca was sitting on the porch. Roberts stood up when the divisional van arrived, crushing his cigarette out on the footpath with the toe of his shoe. Berlin was about to tell him about the press conference and ask about the inquiry but he stopped. The expression on Bob Roberts’ face was one that he’d never seen before.