St Kilda Blues (19 page)

They followed Derek down a window-lined side passageway to an area behind the studio. Berlin's nose wrinkled at the familiar, acrid smell of photographic processing chemicals. The smell told him there was a darkroom somewhere back there. They passed a large, slowly rotating shiny chrome drum that Berlin knew dried the paper prints and put a gloss surface on those intended for newspaper reproduction. There were cupboards and shelves everywhere, filled with photographic supplies and paraphernalia. Berlin could see the place was designed and put together by someone who really knew how to use a tape measure, a T square and a hammer.

Derek stopped at a bench mounted under a window and dropped the rolls of film into a cardboard box marked ‘To be developed'. A sheet of white perspex set into the top of the bench was lit from underneath to make a light box. The light box was strewn with large colour transparencies in clear plastic sleeves. Berlin leaned over the light box and used a magnifying glass to get a closer look. The transparencies were crisp and sharp with rich colours. They showed a shiny two-door car on a mountain road with the sun just rising behind it.

‘That's the new Holden, the Monaro, won't be out till next year. You shouldn't be looking at those pictures, actually, it's all very hush-hush till the official launch.'

Berlin put the magnifier down and turned to Derek. ‘That's okay, I can keep a secret. Plus, I'm a policeman so I can be trusted.'

Derek Jones looked as if he was about to say something in response but then changed his mind and scooped up the transparencies.
Good move, boy
, Berlin said to himself. After yesterday's run-in with the bloke at the Buddha's Belly he wasn't really in the mood for any more smartarse comments.

Up close Derek Jones wasn't quite the boy he'd first appeared. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with long shaggy hair that was in need of a good wash. When he bent over the bench to put the transparencies into an envelope, Berlin saw a rash of pimples where his greasy hair had rubbed against the back of his neck.

‘Like I said, Derek, we need to talk to you about a photograph. The people at
GEAR
said you took it at a dance.'

Derek tossed the envelope full of transparencies into a wire tray and turned around. ‘I probably did, then, if they say so.'

Berlin was trying to place the tone of Derek's responses. He was being polite enough, most young people still were with policemen, but he was a bit edgy. Berlin caught Bob Roberts' eye. He inclined his head towards Derek Jones and nodded slightly. Maybe Roberts could get a handle on him

Roberts picked up the envelope full of transparencies from the wire basket. He pulled one out and held it up to the overhead fluorescent light. ‘Nice-looking car, might have to get myself one. So, tell me, Derek, are you a photographer or an assistant? I'm confused.'

‘At the moment I'm a bit of both. That's how it works. Sheldon's a good photographer but a cheap bastard and he doesn't pay his staff much.' He glanced towards the front of the building and lowered his voice. ‘Except if you've got big tits, of course, and you're on the pill. He works me hard but he lets me use the studio and darkroom nights and weekends to practise and to make a few extra quid shooting jobs for small clients, little jobs he wouldn't bother with.'

‘For people like
GEAR
you mean?' Roberts asked.

Jones nodded. ‘That's right, they're my biggest customer right now.'

Roberts tossed the envelope back into the basket and handed Derek the clipping from
GEAR
. Derek studied it briefly before handing it back.

‘Just a couple of Charlies. I suppose I photographed them if you say so. Don't remember who, don't remember where, don't remember when. I do at least two or three a week.'

‘You do two or three dances a week or two or three Charlies?'

Derek grinned and shrugged. ‘That depends. Sometimes it's both, sometimes more. More Charlies, I mean.'

Berlin was leaning against one of the benches, watching, listening. Derek Jones was laying on the young Romeo tale pretty thickly but there was still an edge there that Berlin was having trouble with.

‘You're a real little charmer aren't you Derek?' Roberts said, smiling. ‘You must be beating them off with a stick.'

Derek smiled back. It was obvious he had missed the sarcasm.

‘Girls just can't resist a good-looking young bloke with a camera these days, you know, we're something special. Sometimes I do have to beat them off with a stick. Have you seen
Blow-Up
yet?'

Berlin had seen the movie, he'd gone with Rebecca a few months back. It was all about the life of a swinging London fashion photographer and featured a lot of nudity and sex, with pretty young models rolling about on the background paper. After the film Rebecca had said people should get ready for life to start following art in the photography business and it looked like she was right.

Berlin decided it was time for him to wade back in. ‘I'm happy you're getting your leg over on a regular basis, Derek, but we need you to think really hard about that photograph. The girl on the right has just gone missing. You took that shot at Opus three weeks back. Do you remember anything about that night, anything unusual? Any odd-looking people hanging about, maybe?'

Roberts handed over the clipping again and Derek squinted at the picture. ‘Could be Opus, I suppose, hard to say for sure.'

Bob Roberts shook his head. ‘Jesus, sunshine, is that the best you can do?'

Derek handed him the photograph. ‘Look, mate, all I see is what is in front of my camera and that's it. You smile at them, and if they smile back and if they're pretty enough and in the right kind of gear for the magazine you just take a picture. Frame, focus, bang, and Bob's your uncle, then you move on. Sometimes you give them a bit of chat but that depends on how good-looking they are; you know, blonde and big tits and a nice arse is pretty much the minimum.'

‘I guess a cool bloke like you has pretty high standards.'

Derek smiled and nodded.

‘And bucket loads of charm too, I see.'

Derek smiled again and shrugged, missing the tone in Berlin's voice. ‘Look, I can't really tell you any more than that. You're welcome to look at my negatives and proof sheets if you want, could be some weirdo hanging around in the background of some of the snaps for all I know.'

‘I suppose we could take a look, might be useful. You see many weirdos?'

‘Sometimes. The odd old bloke trying to crack on to a young sheila, that kind of thing happens a bit. Sort of disgusting, really.' Derek paused and looked at Bob Roberts. ‘No offence meant when I said old blokes, you understand.'

The smirk on his face said that offence was indeed meant. Berlin wondered if Derek had possibly run into Bob Roberts and young Sunshine at a discotheque late one Saturday night. Was there a photograph of that somewhere?

‘You know what, Derek? I think we will take you up on that offer of your negatives and proof sheets, if you don't mind. And did you shoot any pictures at the Buddha's Belly on Saturday night by any chance?'

‘Might have done, I think it was on my list, but I don't recall anything special.' He grinned a grin which Berlin assumed was meant to look conspiratorial and lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes all the smoke in some of those places can make things a bit hazy, if you catch my drift.'

Berlin smiled back. ‘Any chance we can move things along with getting those negatives and proof sheets?'

Derek nodded. ‘Sure thing, no problem. He crossed to a wall opposite the light box bench and hammered on a closed sliding door. When there was no immediate response he yelled out, ‘Hey Cockroach, hands off cock and get your lazy arse out here.'

After a pause the door slid open in response to Derek's shouting. The smell of photographic chemicals was suddenly much stronger. A black curtain was pulled aside and a bloke about the same age as Derek stepped out of the darkness, squinting and blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. Before the curtain fell back Berlin saw that the room behind him was in darkness apart from a couple of red lights hanging from the ceiling. The man, wearing a stained white dustcoat, was a touch taller than Derek with a similar build and hair cut a bit shorter. The hair was cleaner as well as being shorter.

Derek made the introductions. ‘This is Timmy, little Timmy Egan, he runs the darkroom. Dim Tim, we call him. Or Dim Sim at lunchtimes because he likes his Chink food. I'm Tim's hero, aren't I, Timmy boy? Tim wants to be a great big photographer like me when he grows up.'

Berlin had a lot more of the Derek Jones picture now. A smartarse and a bully but definitely someone who would turn to jelly if his victim fought back. But he knew there was still something else he was hiding.

‘These blokes are coppers, Timmy. Give them my negs and proof sheets of the stuff I do for
GEAR
.' He turned round and looked towards Berlin. ‘How far back do you wanna go?'

‘Let's say six months, that should do it.'

Derek turned to Tim. ‘You heard the man, chop chop. And see if you can arrange it before Christmas, okay?'

He turned back to Berlin and winked. ‘Not too bright, our Cockroach here. Must be breathing in all those chemicals or maybe too much wanking in the dark. He's gonna go totally blind one day soon, I reckon.'

Egan blushed and under the red skin Berlin could see that his jaw was clenched tight.

Music started up again in the studio and the Beast yelled out Derek's name. Derek took a packet of film from one of the shelves. ‘Time to get back to work if there isn't anything else.'

Berlin took him by the arm as he tried to pass. ‘Just one thing, Derek, does the name Melinda Marquet mean anything to you, by any chance?

Berlin watched Derek's face but there was no reaction to Melinda's name.

‘Never heard of her. She somebody special?'

Berlin nodded. ‘She's dead, so that makes her special to us.'

Again there was no reaction from Derek. ‘Can't help you. And I like my sheilas alive and lively. Really lively, if you know what I mean. But I need to get back to work now.' As he walked towards the studio Derek yelled back over his shoulder. ‘And you should get a courier to take that colour film to the lab for processing, Cockroach, and make it snappy, eh?'

Berlin turned back to Egan. ‘Your mate there is a bit of a charmer, Mr Egan.'

Egan was looking down towards the studio, to where Derek had gone. His jaw was still set, still tight. He turned to face Berlin and smiled. ‘Call me Tim, please, and Derek is no mate of mine, believe you me.'

Berlin put out his hand. ‘My name is Charlie Berlin, Tim, and the gentleman yonder is Bob Roberts. And we are police.'

Roberts was bent over the light box studying the transparencies of the Monaro again. Berlin knew he would have taken them back out of the envelope just to show Derek he could, and who was going to stop him? He looked up at Egan and nodded.

Egan smiled and shook Berlin's hand after wiping his own on the dustcoat. ‘Mr Berlin, Mr Roberts, pleased to meet you both.' It was a good firm grip and Berlin felt calluses on Egan's palm and fingers.

‘What's this all about, Mr Berlin, if I can ask? You said something about a dead girl, that sounds terrible. You don't think Derek might have something to do with it do you? He's not a very nice person but I can't believe he'd be mixed up in something like that.'

Egan seemed to be genuinely concerned and Berlin smiled to reassure him. ‘We're looking at all sorts of people right now, Tim. It's how we do things. The dead girl disappeared from a dance and some others have also gone missing from dances. We thought there might be some useful information in some of the recent photographs Derek took for
GEAR
magazine. Do you think you could get those negatives and proof sheets he mentioned together for us? We don't have a lot of time.'

‘Of course, I'll do it straightaway, should only take me five minutes. I imagine it's terrible for the parents of these girls, they must all be heartbroken.'

Berlin nodded. It was the only response possible though heartbroken didn't even begin to describe what the parents of the missing girls would have been feeling

At the back of the processing area a row of shelves held quarto-size cardboard spring binders. Egan took down about a dozen and Berlin opened the first one Egan handed to him. It was crammed full of the same sort of filing pages that Rebecca used to keep track of her 35 mm negatives. Behind each page of negatives and punched to fit the two-ring binder was a black and white proof sheet, a series of same-size positive images of the negatives in the sleeve above. A number written on the proof sheet matched the number on the corresponding negative page. It was going to take a fair amount of time to go through all these pictures.

‘I can put these into a file box if you want, Mr Berlin, make them easier to carry.'

‘Thanks, Tim'

‘No worries. Anything I can do to help, you just have to ask me. It's a terrible thing.'

Egan emptied copies of
Queen
,
Honey
and British
Vogue
out of a box, replacing the magazines with Derek's file folders.

‘Do you want me to carry it down to your car?'

Roberts shook his head and picked up the box. ‘She'll be apples, mate, but thanks for the offer.'

Berlin followed Roberts down the corridor towards the studio where the flashlights were popping. The music volume was suddenly back up and he almost missed Tim Egan's voice when he called out after them.

‘Good luck, Mr Berlin, Mr Roberts. I'll say a prayer for you both, and for those poor girls.'

Tim Egan's prayers didn't help Berlin a whole lot with his search through the pile of proof sheets. Some of the faces were so small that it was hard to make out who was who. After an hour of looking he found Gudrun in the picture taken at Opus. He also found her in a shot taken at Bertie's. The location was easy to identify by the marble staircase and art deco furnishings and he wondered if her being photographed by Derek more than once was a coincidence. Tim Egan was right, Derek Jones wasn't a very nice person. But just how far did that go?

After several hours of searching through the proof sheets his head started to ache and when Rebecca telephoned to say she was on her way back from the city and offered to pick up fish and chips he decided to take a break. When she arrived home he accepted a kiss and a hot newspaper-wrapped parcel. She also dropped an envelope on top of the jumble of negative files and proof sheets in the living room. It was from Lazlo and had been delivered to her studio on Collins Street in the city by someone she described as an Amazon on a Norton Commando. Trust Lazlo to have a glamorous girl on a motorbike making his deliveries; he knew how to leave an impression.

Berlin picked up Lazlo's envelope when dinner was done and the dishes were washed and put away. Lazlo had thoughtfully included a carbon copy of one of his own recent inquiries to the Wehrmacht records office, with the name and information concerning the person he had been inquiring about carefully inked out. Berlin would be able to copy the format of the letter, inserting the personal details he had been able to gather on Gerhardt Scheiner during a quick visit to the library in the city on his way home.

Mid-evening Rebecca had decided to take a bath and as these sometimes lasted an hour or more, Berlin used the opportunity to have a go at writing his letter. It would be good to get it out of the way. There was typing paper in a hallway cupboard along with a small Olivetti typewriter. Rebecca's old ex-
Argus
newspaper typewriter had been replaced by a much more compact Olivetti Lettera 22, its incongruous tartan dust cover made less so given it had been manufactured in Glasgow.
Just like my old granddad
, Berlin had mused when Rebecca had first brought the typewriter home.

He set the typewriter up on the kitchen table, inserted two sheets of foolscap with carbon paper between them and began the letter. He'd just typed Gerhardt Scheiner's name when Rebecca came out of the bathroom in her white bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel. She leaned across him, hand on his shoulder, and looked at the sheet of paper in the typewriter carriage. She was warm and desirable as always but right now what was going through Berlin's mind forced those thoughts away.

‘Shall I make some tea while you do that? Or would you like coffee? I brought a fruitcake home from the city.'

He asked for tea and sat and stared at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. Rebecca lit the gas under the kettle and then came and sat next to him. He felt her reach for his hand.

‘Is it the girl, Charlie? Is that why you couldn't sleep last night?'

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you awake.'

She squeezed his hand.

‘Last night was the third night.' He wanted to say more but couldn't. If it was the same person who took Melinda Marquet then the knife or whatever it was would have been used by now. How many times? Where? How much pain?

Rebecca stood up and moved across to the teapot on the bench by the sink. She had her back to him as she scooped tea-leaves out of the caddy and into the pot. When she spoke he understood that having her back towards him was a concession, it was her making a safe place for him if he chose to answer.

‘It's not just the Scheiner girl, though, is it, Charlie? It's the girl in Poland too, isn't it? The one on the road.'

He knew she knew but it was how much she knew that he was unsure of. What had he told her, drunk or sober, and what had she pieced together from what he said in his nightmares? He had tried to tell her the whole story several times, knowing he owed her at least that, but he could never get the words out. It was all a confused mess, a jumble of real or imagined memories, except in the nightmares when it was all crystal clear and too terrible to talk about. Sometimes in the nightmares he walked a long corridor with Rebecca appearing in doorways, reaching out a hand to him and saying, ‘Tell me, Charlie, trust me,' but the doors always slammed shut before he could speak.

They drank their tea and ate the fruitcake in silence and he knew she loved him despite everything. She rinsed off the dishes and then came up behind him, put her arms around him and kissed him on the top of the head.

‘You want to save everyone, Charlie, don't you? You want to set everything right, bring everyone home, but you can't. And I love you because you know that you can't but you still have to try.'

Rebecca was in bed and asleep by the time he finished the letter and sealed and addressed the envelope. He would post it first thing in the morning by airmail and then he would be able to concentrate on finding the girl or girls, if they were still alive, which he doubted. They were being taken at regular intervals and the intervals suggested how long each of them had taken to die.
Was it better to die suddenly or have time to reflect on what was happening?
he wondered.

His crew had gone quickly, there one minute and gone the next, with their pilot and skipper and leader blown clear by the same blast that vaporised them. He had seen burning Lancasters and Halifaxes tumbling away from the bomber stream in what seemed like slow motion and he decided faster was better. Better than being trapped inside a jammed steel and plexiglas gun turret or held fast against a bulkhead by centrifugal force in a spinning, burning, out-of-control bomber with the escape hatch just inches away from grasping, desperate fingers.

Rebecca was breathing lightly next to him, close but sometimes so far away. She was naked as always and he knew just a gentle touch on her back or shoulders or that lovely round bottom would rouse her, arouse her, sleepy still but ready for love, her lips soft and comforting or hard and urgent against his as the mood took her, and it was always a surprise to him what that mood might be. But he was angry tonight, or as angry as he allowed himself to get. His anger with suspects was real but kept compartmentalised now, as a part of his job. He was still scared of the places he could go when he let the anger loose, though somehow it had been held in check for years.

He stared up at the ceiling. It was twenty years that they had been together. He'd been a shambles when they met, and why she hadn't turned and walked away he would never understand. But she hadn't and she had saved him. She had eased the bottle from his lips and the pistol from his temple more than once and had washed the blood and vomit from his clothes and left the children with the neighbours to spare them the distress of seeing him in pain and had never asked why.

She knew that his crew, six young men he was responsible for, were dead and gone, and that he had been a POW. She knew he had been marched at gunpoint through snowdrifts and howling winter blizzards from the camp in Poland back into Germany in '45, just days ahead of a steadily advancing Red Army whose artillery rumbled and flashed constantly on the horizon behind them.

What else he had told her or she had pieced together he really didn't know. What had he said on those days and weeks when he fell into despair, seeking solace in drugs or grog? He still had nightmares, and though the visitations from his dead crew had stopped a long time back, putting his head down on a pillow was still an effort. Did he talk in his sleep? he wondered, did he tell the story? Did he say what he had seen and could never unsee, never erase, never block out?

He remembered she had watched as he pulled the first potato from the backyard plot when the house was still new, the concrete paths white and dusty, the suburban street outside still a dirt track, and young Peter hadn't yet begun to crawl. He had taken a spade and, using the sharp side like an axe and with tears in his eyes, savagely hacked into the earth he had so carefully tended, trying to destroy all evidence of what he had grown. She had asked him once about it but he had shaken his head and he guessed something in his eyes must have warned her not to ask again.

Rebecca rolled over. Her left leg rested against him and her right lay against his belly. Her right breast was on his chest, her hand soft against his cheek, their skin crackling in contact as if they were both alive with static electricity and then she was kissing him. Sometimes she spoke, sometimes she was loud, foul-mouthed if she thought it excited him, or sometimes just gasping and moaning, fingernails cutting into his back, sweat pooling between her breasts or dripping down on him when she was on top, which she knew he liked. She was on top of him now, moving, rocking, twisting, her eyes on his. The pleasure would come soon, but it was what came after that frightened him.

On a bombing mission, being awake and alert could save your life and drowsiness could kill. The aircrew were offered the amphetamine Benzedrine by the station medical officer for alertness, to stay wide awake on the night missions, to be fully conscious, with every nerve-ending active and tingling as you waited for the flak burst or night fighter cannon shell that would cripple you or the aircraft or hopefully quickly and painlessly end your young life, if you were lucky enough to be unlucky that way. And now, strangely, with the war long finished, sleep was still his enemy.