St Kilda Blues (15 page)

The Marquet property was up a dirt track running off the main road. The area was heavily forested and Roberts missed the turn-off and was forced to do a U-turn half a mile further on. He ran the Triumph into some mud on the side of the road and as he reversed, the spinning rear wheels spattered the back of the car with mud. Roberts cursed under his breath.

They didn't have to go too far up the Marquet's driveway before trees and high scrub cut off the view back to the main road. The house itself was a simple white-painted weatherboard that probably harked back to the 1930s. It had a rusty galvanised iron roof, a wide, bull-nosed veranda and a wooden single garage set off to the left. A dark blue, mud-speckled Chrysler Safari station wagon was parked outside the garage next to a four-wheeled trailer. The Safari was one of the largest station wagons on the road but for a bloke with a wife and five kids and a furniture business it was probably barely big enough. Four kids now, Berlin thought, mentally correcting himself.

Roberts parked the car facing back down the driveway and the two men got out. Through the scrubby bushland that surrounded the property Berlin could make out another structure. It was a classic one-room bush school house, painted white like the main building and had to be the sleep-out O'Brian had mentioned. He thought he caught a glimpse of a face watching them from one of the large windows.

Roberts reached into the back seat of the Triumph and took out his clipboard. The two men crossed the veranda to the front door and Roberts knocked. The woman who opened the door was wearing an apron and had a dusting of flour on her hands. Her face had a sad expression that Berlin knew much too well. He let Roberts do the introductions.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Marquet, but I think Constable O'Brian telephoned and said we were coming? I'm Sergeant Roberts and this is Detective Sergeant Berlin. We've just got a couple of questions, if you don't mind. It won't take long. Is your husband at home?'

‘Clive came back from the shop when I rang and said you were on your way after young Shane called.'

That wasn't what Berlin had hoped for but he knew letting O'Brian call ahead had still been the right thing to do under the circumstances, especially when he looked at Mrs Marquet's face. Berlin had done enough missing persons cases to be able to gauge the pain in a parent's eyes – too many, he realised. Where the child was missing for less than a week the eyes always had a strong glimmer of hope. That hope began to fade as more and more time passed, but of course any sign of hope was now long gone from Mrs Marquet's face.

‘I was making scones and I've got the kettle on. It's a bit of a drive from town so you probably want a cup of tea.'

Berlin nodded. ‘That would be lovely.' The daughter had the mother's eyes. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just that same strange look that he had picked up on.

Inside, the house was a jumble of mismatched furniture. The living room was cramped and the low ceiling gave it a claustrophobic feel. There was an upright piano against one wall but no sign of a television. Berlin noted the neat rows of books on the shelves and the fact that every spare flat surface had some kind of knick-knack on it, from ceramic birds and animals to miniature Dutch windmills and vases and eggcups.

They crossed the living room, following Mrs Marquet to the kitchen. The smell of hot scones made Berlin's stomach rumble. Clive Marquet was sitting at a laminex-topped table surrounded by a half-dozen mismatched kitchen chairs. He was short, with a stocky build and a reddish beard starting to turn grey. Berlin didn't trust men with beards. The man was wearing dark blue overalls and work boots and his wristwatch had one of those snap on leather covers to protect the face. He looked up from the paper he was reading.

‘You took your time getting out here, get lost did ya? Have you arrested someone?'

Berlin shook his head. ‘I'm new on the case and Detective Roberts here is helping me fill in some background on the —.' He'd been about to say ‘victim', but stopped. ‘I wanted to get some more information on your daughter.'

Marquet grunted. He was angry, which was understandable.
Was it worse to have a missing child or a child you knew would never be coming home?
Berlin wondered.

The kitchen windowsill had the same jumble of knickknacks as the living room. Mrs Marquet put a plate of scones in the middle of the table and took a plastic container of butter from the refrigerator. The two detectives sat at the table and drank tea and ate scones. The butter had a slightly odd taste and Mrs Marquet noticed Berlin hesitate after his first bite.

‘It's unsalted. I am sorry, I've forgotten your name, Detective.'

‘That's not a problem. It's Berlin, but just call me Charlie.' He took another bite of the scone and smiled at her.

‘My husband only likes unsalted butter, Mr Berlin. Charlie.'

Mr Marquet grunted again and looked at his wife, or rather, through her. Mr Marquet gets what he wants, Berlin decided. Was that anger there a long time before his daughter went missing, was murdered?

There was a photograph of the five Marquet girls on a sideboard beside Berlin. Melinda, the victim, was obviously the oldest. If it was a recent photograph, Berlin guessed the ages of the next two at perhaps thirteen and twelve, and then there was a gap to a child who looked around seven, and another, possibly aged five. Any other time he might have joked about a man surrounded by six women, but now wasn't the time. In any case, Clive Marquet didn't seem like the type who appreciated a joke.

There had been no sign of liquor in the living room but if he opened any of the kitchen cupboards Berlin wondered what he would find. Not beer – beer drinkers were usually convivial, and Clive Marquet looked like the kind of man who took his alcohol in private. But of course, it takes one to know one, Berlin thought.

Robert had his clipboard out and was asking questions. Mrs Marquet sat quietly and let her husband do the talking. The man grunted and snapped and said they were questions he'd answered before, for the uniformed men, and afterwards for the detectives, and then again when the body had been found.

Berlin watched and listened. Clive Marquet was a bully, he decided, and he didn't like bullies.

Mrs Marquet refilled Berlin's teacup and he suddenly realised he had to piss. He also remembered Constable O'Brian's cryptic suggestion that he should have a look at the toilet.

Mrs Marquet pointed him to a doorway down the hall. He passed two doorways opening off the passageway. The one on the right was obviously the master bedroom, with a double bed and wardrobe taking up most of the space. The other bedroom had two bunk beds and a small dressing table painted pink. Each of the bunk beds had a jumbled assortment of dolls on the pillows. A two-bedroom house was a small space to raise five daughters, which was no doubt why the Marquet's had installed the old schoolhouse out the back.

He walked into the bathroom and turned to lock the door behind him. There was no lock. On his left was a large bathtub with a showerhead suspended over it. The shower curtain was clear plastic. There was also a small washbasin and facing it a flush toilet with a wooden seat. A floor-to-ceiling window filled the wall next to the toilet. Berlin recognised the hand of an amateur carpenter in the construction and installation of the window frame. He unzipped and pissed into the toilet bowl. Outside in the yard, through the window, he could see the circle of bright green grass that indicated the presence of a septic tank. Was the window one-way glass, he wondered? Was it mirrored on the outside, reflecting the bush surroundings, while from inside you could sit in privacy and do your business looking out over the bushland?

He zipped up and flushed and washed his hands at the basin. Above the basin was a mirror and above the mirror was a light fitting. The bulb in the light fitting was one of those mirror-backed globes that threw a strong directional light. Berlin had installed a fitting like that above his back door years ago, after someone had tried to burn down a darkroom he had been building. When he first turned it on at night he hadn't liked the effect, the harsh light reminding him of the lights along the barbed-wire perimeter fence of the prisoner of war camp in Poland. When the bulb burnt out six months later he hadn't bothered to replace it.

At the bathroom door he stopped and looked back. The lamp fitting was angled down in a way that would illuminate whoever was sitting on the toilet. That was the moment when Berlin knew the glass in that tall window wasn't mirrored on the outside.

Back in the kitchen, he studied Clive Marquet, trying to suss out what the man was about. While he had compassion for any father who had recently lost a child there was something definitely unsettling about the man. He decided to make the first approach to the mother.

‘Constable O'Brian told us your daughter Maud was home sick today.'

Mrs Marquet nodded. ‘That's right, she's in bed out in the sleep-out, poor little dear. She and Melinda were so close.'

‘I understand but I'm afraid I need to have a quick word with her, if that's okay.'

Mrs Marquet seemed confused at being asked her permission and turned to her husband.

Clive Marquet pushed his chair back from the table. ‘If it's necessary I'll go out with ya.'

Berlin kept his tone neutral, conversational, friendly. ‘If it's all the same to you, Mr Marquet, I'd rather have a word in private. I have a daughter about Maud's age myself and I know sometimes mum and dad can make them a bit uncomfortable. And I'm sure Detective Roberts here has a few more things to ask you both. I'll only be a minute, I just have a couple of questions.'

Clive Marquet was on his feet now, short and gruff and aggressive. ‘I'm not sure I want a man talking to one of my girls outside my presence.'

Mrs Marquet put a hand on her husband's arm. ‘But he's a policeman, Clive, and he has a daughter.'

Marquet shook his arm free of her hand. ‘You shut your hole, woman.' The comment was barely out of his mouth when he realised he might have gone too far. He softened his tone. ‘It's my decision to make if a man talks to my child.'

Berlin stood up and faced Clive Marquet across the table. The height difference between the two men was six or perhaps eight inches. But Berlin recalled his grandfather saying that it wasn't always height or reach that made the difference, it was the questions you asked. ‘You're right of course Mr Marquet but it's only a couple of little things I need to clear up. You don't have anything to hide, do you?'

Clive Marquet stared at Berlin for a moment then sat down again. He unsnapped the leather cover over the face of his wristwatch. ‘Five minutes, that's all you can have, you hear me?'

Thick tea-tree scrub partially blocked the view of the cabin from the house. Berlin made his way down a gravel path to the side door of the white-painted building. He knocked once.

‘It's not locked.'

As he turned the handle Berlin saw the reason the door wasn't locked. Like the bathroom in the main house, there was no lock. Inside the single room the light was almost as bright as outside. This was because of the white-painted walls and ceiling, and because the large windows along one wall had no curtains or blinds. There were three single beds with white quilts and pillows, a large dressing table with a big mirror and, in the rear of the room, a shower alcove and a toilet. The shower had the same clear curtain as the bathroom in the house, and the toilet was fully open to view.

As a one-room country schoolhouse the building might have had desks for up to forty kids, so there was a lot of room. Even with the beds and dressing table and bathroom area there was still plenty of space for three freestanding wardrobes and a wood-burning heater in one corner. The room was warm enough. In the middle bed, Maud Marquet was sitting up against a couple of pillows with a quilt pulled up to her chin. Her long auburn hair stood out starkly against the white pillows and quilt.

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Berlin, Miss Marquet, I need to ask you a couple of questions about your sister. I'm very sorry about what happened to her. Can I call you Maud?'

She studied his face briefly, then nodded. ‘Okay, if you like.'

Berlin turned his head and looked around the room. ‘This must be a very interesting place to sleep.'

‘You have to be twelve.'

He turned back to face her. ‘Twelve?'

‘When you turn twelve you get to sleep out here.'

‘That must be fun.'

The girl shrugged. ‘I suppose.'

‘You told Constable O'Brian, Shane, that Melinda had a boyfriend, remember? And that she used to sneak out at night.'

Maud looked towards the doorway. ‘Does my dad know you're here?'

‘He does, but right now he's back in the house talking with my friend, so it's just us.'

‘Is he a detective too, your friend?'

‘That's right. His name is Robert Rob Roy Roberts. That's true, by the way.'

The girl smiled a brief smile. ‘How did he get that scar on his face? I saw it when you arrived.'

‘From the window? You've got very good eyes, you must eat a lot of carrots.'

The girl shook her head. ‘I don't like carrots. I do like mushrooms, though.'

‘Me too, especially on toast for breakfast, they're yummy.'

Maud give him a look that indicated she found his last comment a little childish. He remembered Sarah had been around ten when she first gave him that look, the look that said, ‘I'm not Daddy's little girl any more so please don't treat me like a child.' He remembered both the humour and sadness he felt in that moment.

‘Was he in an accident, your friend, Mr Roberts?'

‘Not exactly. He did me a favour a long time ago and some people beat him up for it. They almost killed him, in fact.'

The girl was looking at his face, looking into his eyes. ‘Is that really the truth?'

‘I always tell the truth, Maud.'
Except to myself.
Can she see that?
‘I thought maybe you might want to tell me the truth, tell me about . . . about Melinda's boyfriend and that last night when she sneaked out to meet him. It will stay just be between you and me, I promise.'

The girl considered the suggestion for a moment. ‘Okay.'

‘That's good. For starters, did he have a name?'

‘She wouldn't say. She told me it was a super secret and no one could know about them for now. All she said was that she met him at Catcher.'

‘Catcher?'

‘It's a dance place in the city. He drove her home and she went out to meet him again, that next Saturday. He was going to wait for her down the road in his car. That's all I know.'

‘Had Melinda been sneaking out for a while?'

Maud considered the question for a minute before she answered. ‘We're not supposed to go out with boys or to dances till we turn twenty-one and she didn't think that was fair. She'd only done it half a dozen times, and she was always back before breakfast.'

‘And you can't tell me anything else about the boyfriend?'

‘He was a photographer; he said she could be a model. He was going to take some pictures of her so she could join an agency and go to London and be famous. Sometimes famous models get to keep the dresses after they get photographed in them. Did you know that, Mr Berlin?'

‘No I didn't, Maud. Now, that last Saturday night, can you tell me what happened right up till the time she left? Just tell me everything, even if it doesn't seem important; every little thing can help.'

‘All right. Saturday nights we turn the lights out at nine.'

‘Nine?'

‘Friday night is nine too but all the others it's eight o'clock on the dot, because of school. I had my shower first and then Sally and then Melinda. I always try to be quick because there isn't a lot of hot water. If you go last you can freeze sometimes.'

‘That's nice of you, thinking about the others.'

‘We got into bed and Sally went to sleep straight away. She always does. She snores too. Then Melinda had her shower and afterwards she put on a bit of a show because she was planning to meet her boyfriend at nine-thirty.'

Berlin waited for a moment before he asked the question. ‘She put on a show?'

Maud's arm came out from under the quilt and she pointed across the room. Her arm was bare. ‘Over there, by the window. Should I show you?'

‘Okay, if you don't mind.'

The girl threw the quilt back and stepped out of bed. She was naked. Berlin saw pale, almost translucent skin, thin calves, long legs, wisps of pubic hair, pinkish nipples on just-budding breasts. As she padded past him to the window he looked at her feet and had the odd thought that she would grow into them, like a German shepherd puppy.

There was a hairbrush on the windowsill. She picked it up and began to brush her hair. Berlin remembered from the crime scene photographs that Melinda had hair almost down to her waist and full breasts. As she brushed, Maud swayed a little and moved her arms slowly, as if lost in a trance. Berlin's eye caught the movement of her left hand beginning to move slowly downward over her round, little girl's belly.

‘You should get back into bed now, Maud, you know, before you catch a cold.'

He stared out the window. Behind him he heard her soft footsteps on the boards and then the creak of the bed. The bungalow was on a slight rise and above the tree line he could just make out the city skyline. On a clear night it would be a glow in the distance. And below that glow the darkness of the scrubby bushland and whatever or whoever it was hiding, whoever the show was for.

He turned back from the window. The girl was staring at him from the bed with the quilt back up under her chin. She had the same sad eyes as her mother and as her sister in the school photo in Bob Roberts' folder. He went to speak but Maud anticipated the question and shook her head.

‘It's okay, Mr Berlin, really. He only likes to watch.'