St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(97)
The flowers from Gerhardt Scheiner arrived in a delivery van painted with a South Yarra address. Berlin was tempted to take the floral arrangement, beautiful as it was, to the backyard incinerator and set it on fire. But the incinerator was surrounded by drinkers needing a place to rest their glasses and he didn’t want to make a scene. Scheiner had his own problems, he knew that. While his daughter was in as good shape as could be expected physically, they’d heard she had lapsed into a catatonic state. Gudrun Scheiner now lay in her bed in an expensive private hospital staring intently at the television, whether it was switched on or not.
Bob Roberts had telephoned to apologise for his absence. His reward for helping to find the Scheiner girl was a promotion to heading a regional detective squad. The postings available were sunny, scenic Rutherglen in the state’s northern wine-growing district, or Portland on the desolate southwest coast. Portland was known for saltbush, sheep shit and freezing winds blowing straight in off the Antarctic. They’d given him Portland, of course. While his undercover work with the now-defunct corruption inquiry was both laudable and commendable, it was also unforgivable and he was a marked man for life. Right now he was down in Portland looking for a house so Alice and the kids could join him. Sunshine, as it turned out, was not a big fan of the bush.
Laszlo arrived in a gold, open-topped Mercedes-Benz sports car with the girl Maya beside him. He parked just down the crowded street in a spot recently vacated by the local doctor and his distraught wife. A gang of local kids gaped in wonder, the younger ones at the car and the older boys at Maya. Maya was dressed demurely given the event but she also drew stares from the men in attendance.
Laszlo hugged Berlin and held him for a long time. ‘There are no words, you understand that, Charlie. Nothing that can be said.’
The florist’s boy was leaving after yet another delivery and Lazlo grabbed him by the arm. He gave him ten dollars and the keys to the boot of the Mercedes and minutes later the boy struggled back with a case of whisky. Lazlo stopped him on his way inside and took a bottle from the case.
‘It’s the good stuff, Charlie, and people will understand if a man has to take a drink.’
Understand? Understand what? Berlin wondered. Understand that my daughter is dead in a foreign land that is beyond my understanding? Dead in a stupid accident? Dead on a mountain road when a truck packed with idealistic young kids just like her took a corner too quickly?
Berlin accepted the bottle just to make Lazlo happy and sent him inside to see Rebecca. He found a patch of shade next to Rebecca’s car and sat down. He noticed that the front lawn had been mowed. When had he done that? Had he done that? The garden was neat, recently pruned shrubs stood tall. That can’t have been Rebecca.
He heard a car turn onto the street. Good luck with parking, mate. There were cars down both sides of the road, down almost as far as the golf course at the end.
The person driving hesitated for a moment and then swung hard left into the driveway, his driveway. Cheeky bastard. Berlin stood up. It was a Holden sedan painted matt khaki and the licence plate on the bumper said it was army. He watched as a sergeant climbed out of the front passenger-side door. Sent to tell me Peter couldn’t get leave, he guessed.
The sergeant was tall, lean and wiry, his face tanned. He opened the back door of the car and took a slouch hat from the rear seat. When he looked up and saw Berlin he put the hat on the roof of the car and started towards him. His pace quickened and then he was running. Confused, Berlin put his fists up, ready to take a punch. Then the man was on him, his arms around him holding him tight.
‘Oh, Dad, what are we going to do without our little Sarah?’
FORTY-NINE
The grip of the arms holding him was strong, almost crushing. Peter stepped back and took his father’s hands. Berlin stared at the boy. Had he grown taller in the army? He’d lost weight, that was for certain. And his tanned face was narrower, even gaunt, the skin void of the pimples that had plagued him since he was twelve. His hair was cut short too, and it suited him.
‘Sorry it took so long for me to get here, Dad, there was a mix-up with the communications. I was out in the bush, on a patrol. They pulled me back in and put me on the next plane home when my CO finally got the notification.’
The boy even spoke differently – concisely, firmly, and with a sense of authority. Berlin looked at the uniform, a short-sleeved khaki shirt with three chevrons, the trousers neatly pressed, the shoes polished a glossy black. A row of ribbons sat above the left breast pocket. There was another soldier standing behind Peter now, the Holden’s driver. Two stripes on the shirt sleeve, Berlin observed. A corporal. He was young, too young for the army, too young for a corporal. His face was as pale as Peter’s was tanned, and freckled.
‘You should introduce your friend.’ Berlin instantly regretted the tone. This wasn’t the Peter who had gone away, this wasn’t his boy, his disappointment, his worry.
‘Oh sorry, Dad, this is a mate, Wayne. Wayne Collins. Wayne, this is my dad, Charlie.’
Berlin had never heard his son use his Christian name before. He liked hearing it.
Collins took off his slouch hat and shook hands with Berlin. His close-cropped hair was ginger. Shouldn’t he be called Blue? Berlin wondered, and then wondered why he had thought that.
‘I’m really sorry, Mr Berlin, sorry we had to meet under circumstances like this. Peter’s told me all about you, and your wife and Sarah. I’m really, really sorry.’