St Kilda Blues (26 page)

It started raining heavily on the way back into the city. The Triumph slipped and slid a couple of times on the slick tram tracks, the wipers would only operate intermittently and the inside of the windscreen began to fog up. Roberts used a handkerchief to clean a patch on the glass so he could see the road.

‘It's bloody funny, eh, Charlie? They make these cars in a country known for its wet weather and as soon as it gets a bit damp they go all temperamental.'

There were several open parking spaces behind Rebecca's Mini. Roberts pulled in close to the kerb, splashing water from the overfull gutter up onto the pavement. He kept the motor running.

‘I won't come up. It's been a bloody long day and I've taken just about as much grief as I can handle.'

Berlin reached behind his seat for the photographs from Derek's flat. They should stay dry enough, he decided; it was only a foot or so to the shelter of the awning stretching out over the footpath.

Roberts turned his scarred face to Berlin and smiled his jagged smile. He put out his hand. ‘You mind how you go there, Charlie.'

The wipers were off and harsh street lighting through a windscreen running with raindrops projected images of the trickling rivulets onto his face. It almost made him look like he was crying.

Berlin shook his hand. ‘Thanks, Bob. And you remember, a bloke who tries to play both ends against the middle can sometimes wind up getting crushed from both sides. Don't trust anybody.'

Berlin tucked the Agfa box containing the photographs under his arm and made a run for the awning that sheltered the dress shop and the doorway to the stairs leading up to the studio. He watched the tail-lights of the Triumph through the rain until the vehicle turned left on Spring Street in the direction of Carlton.

There was a darkroom in a cupboard under the staircase and Rebecca was washing the films from Lauren's shoot when he let himself in.

‘How's Mabel?'

Rebecca had insisted that the darkroom was haunted after the first time she used it and had named the ghost Mabel. Berlin had kidded her about it until she suggested he spend ten minutes in there in the dark; after that he was convinced. Whoever Mabel was or had been they had decided she meant them no harm, and Rebecca liked the idea of having someone to chat to during the long developing process.

‘Mabel is fine and she suggested I leave the camera equipment in the car until a big strong man comes along to help me carry it upstairs. Despite my feminist leanings I could see her logic.'

Berlin gave her a kiss on the lips. ‘Mabel didn't happen to say where we might find a big strong man this time of night, did she? And we should probably wait till it stops raining. The equipment is safe enough – we're on Collins Street, after all.'

‘Fine with me. Do you want to put the kettle on, make us a cup of tea? And get that coat off, you're a bit damp. We don't want you getting a chill.'

Berlin tossed the box of photographs he'd found in Derek's trunk on top of the file box containing the
GEAR
magazine proof sheets. He turned the electric jug on, spooned tea-leaves into the pot and hunted through a fridge full of packets of film for some milk.

A bell rang in the darkroom as he was pouring boiling water into the pot. Rebecca walked past with a dozen stainless steel developing spirals in a plastic tray. ‘Time to hang up these films. When they're dry I'll number and sleeve them and then I'm done for the day. At least we get to ride home together.'

They drank their tea while the film-drying cabinet did its work.

‘Something on your mind, Charlie?'

He realised he hadn't spoken for five minutes. Rebecca always knew when he was silent because something was bothering him, as opposed to when he had nothing to say. He walked across the studio to get the Agfa box from on top of the file box.

‘I found these hidden at Derek's place. The developer stains on your tea towel told me what I was missing. He had one of those Zenit folding enlargers squirreled away with some tanks and trays, blackout curtains and a red safelight bulb.'

Rebecca looked through half a dozen of the images before sliding them all back into the box and handing it back to Berlin.

‘I guess that explains why Lauren thought his heart wasn't in it. You have to wonder if he was trying to give himself some cover or really wanting to make a relationship work with a grown-up.'

Berlin tossed the box on the table. ‘I've been a copper too long to wonder about things like that. I already have enough things that keep me awake at night.'

Rebecca reached across the table and put her hand over his. ‘But you are wondering why he would confess to the kidnapping and torture and murder of a bunch of sixteen-year-olds with pictures to prove it but keep this secret.'

‘That part doesn't make a lot of sense, no.'

‘Do you have any of the photographs of the missing girls?'

‘Just the one of Gudrun I hung onto.'

‘Can I see it?'

Berlin sat silently for a minute. ‘You sure you want to do that? It's not . . . pleasant.'

Rebecca took the print and studied the image of the bound and brutalised teenager. Apart from some obvious tension in her jaw and a narrowing of the eyes she didn't react. She took a picture of one of the ten-year-olds from the Agfa box and compared the two prints. After a minute she handed him both photographs.

‘These pictures and prints were made by two different people, Charlie.'

Berlin held the two pictures side by side and studied them. ‘Are you sure? How can you tell?'

‘The picture of the ten-year-old was shot on 35 mm film and printed through a cheap enlarging lens, very soft at the corners. Like the lens you'd find on a Zenit. Also, the paper is the wrong contrast grade and that overall greyish look comes from stale chemicals and a not very safe safelight, like a red-coloured light bulb.'

‘And the other one?'

‘Medium-format camera, possibly a Hasselblad, good quality enlarging lens, properly calibrated professional enlarger, nice fresh chemicals and a safelight that was actually safe. The . . . the skin tones are good and whoever printed it used the right contrast grade of photo­graphic paper as well.'

Berlin put the prints back on the table face down. ‘Derek Jones had access to the darkroom at the studio too.'

Rebecca shook her head. ‘As junky as that Zenit enlarger is, in the right hands it can be used to make acceptable prints. Whoever printed the pictures of the kidnapped girls really knew their way around a darkroom, and that wasn't Derek.'

The images on the contact sheet were small and Berlin quickly realised just how bad his eyes were getting. He found a magnifying glass next to a lamp on the old roll-top desk that Rebecca used for her accounts. There were thirty-six pictures on each of the contact sheets and even with the magnifying glass it was difficult to clearly identify people in the photographs. He pulled the desk lamp down closer.

Rebecca came into the room five minutes later. ‘What are you looking at?'

‘These are proof sheets from Derek's job shooting at dances over the past few months. I've got no idea of what I'm looking for but if he didn't make the prints of the missing girls there must be something in here that I'm missing. But I'm buggered if I can see what it is.'

‘Want me to help? Those negatives of Lauren need another ten minutes so just tell me what we're looking for.'

‘For something I missed, I suppose.' He passed the pile of contact sheets over to her, along with the magnifying glass.

Rebecca worked her way through the contact sheets. She stopped and went back a couple of times, using the magnifying glass on several of the images. Berlin smiled when he realised she was humming softly. One sheet seemed to hold her attention. After a minute of careful study it was put to the side and she continued through the rest. When she was done she picked up the sheet she had isolated and studied it carefully with the magnifying glass. She stopped humming and held up the page of photographs.

‘Who took these pictures, Charlie?'

Berlin leaned across and looked at the contact sheet. ‘Derek, like I said. He took all of these.'

Rebecca shook her head slowly. ‘No, I don't think so. Someone else took these, this sheet of pictures, I mean. It definitely wasn't Derek.'

Berlin looked more carefully at the contact print. To him it looked just like all the others. ‘How can you be sure?'

Rebecca picked up a second contact sheet from the pile on the desk. ‘Okay, first of all the other films were Kodak Tri-X, you can see the brand name and code number on the top edge of the negatives here. Now, this other one was shot on Ilford HP5. Similar films but photographers tend to go for one or the other – it's a sort of a Holden versus Ford thing. Whichever one you choose to use, the other is considered to be garbage.'

‘Maybe Derek ran out of Tri-X and used a roll of the Ilford stuff.'

‘That could have happened, but not in this case. In all the Tri-X shots the flash is mounted on top of the camera, you can tell by the shadows. On that other sheet it's mounted on the side. Also, Derek was using a wide-angle lens, maybe a 28, and whoever shot this was using a standard 50 mm focal length by the look of things.'

‘Are you sure?' Berlin tried to see the differences that she had pointed out. They were fairly subtle.

‘Hold the sheet up in front of the desk lamp,' Rebecca suggested. ‘You might be able see a little bit more clearly when it's lit from behind. I'll be back in a tick, I just want to check on those negatives of Lauren.'

Rebecca was right about having the lamp behind the contact print – light coming through the paper did make it easier to see. He ran the magnifying glass slowly across the rows of images, examining each of them. On the second last row he stopped. He held his breath. He put the proof sheet down and walked across to the telephone. There was no need for his address book, he knew the number for the South Melbourne cop shop by heart. Peter had been taken there after he was arrested and charged with breaking and entering.

The boy had been in the cells for four hours before the desk sergeant made the connection with the Berlin name and put a phone call through. There was a lot of back and forth over the next week, with Berlin trying desperately to stop the case going to court. The station's senior officer wasn't having any of it, even if the desk sergeant was on Berlin's side. The sergeant liked the fact that Peter hadn't tried to use his father's name to get special treatment.

The phone was answered after just three rings. It must have been a quiet night in South Melbourne. The desk sergeant recognised Berlin's voice immediately.

‘G'day Charlie, a little dickie bird tells me you're in a bit of grief at Russell Street. They reckon you're suspended.'

Even the police D24 radio network couldn't spread news as quickly as the rumour mill. ‘Nothing to fret about, Sarge, just a bit of a misunderstanding.'

‘That's good to hear. How's the boy doing, he okay?'

‘He's good, I suppose. He writes to his mum and tells her that he's keeping out of harm's way.'

The desk sergeant grunted. Berlin knew the man had fought in Korea and so he understood the lies soldiers wrote home to their mums.

‘Just a quick question, Sarge, about something that happened a couple of weekends back. Don't know if you were even on duty that night but a photographic studio on Albert Road reported a break-in, rear of number 100.'

Berlin heard the sergeant click his tongue. ‘Can you be a bit more specific, Charlie?'

‘Might have been the weekend Richmond won the second semi-final.'

‘Righto, gotcha. Hang on a tick, let me have a look in the book.'

There was a pause and Berlin could hear pages being turned.

‘Okay, I've found it. That was a bugger of a night, even without that dead girl showing up in the lake on the Monday morning. You hear about that? Face down in the water and cut to ribbons by some maniac they reckon. Naked as a jaybird.'

‘That's what I heard too, Sarge.'

‘I'm glad the St Kilda boys found her down their end of the lake because we certainly had our hands full up here on the Sunday night. Not that I'm glad she's dead, you understand.'

‘Of course not, Sarge. Why were your hands full, you mind telling me?'

‘A drunk driving a panel van hit a tram on Clarendon Street. Stupid bugger got himself killed and took down half the electrical wiring in the street doing it. Most of South Melbourne was blacked out for hours, so no traffic lights either. Good thing it was late on the Sunday night, not enough blokes rostered on to do point duty at the intersections and cross streets. The SEC fellers didn't get the power back on till around five in the morning.'

‘And the break-in at the studio on Albert Road, the place behind the recording studio? What can you tell me about that?'

Berlin heard some more page-turning.

‘That call was actually the next morning, the Monday. I was off duty by then. It says here the call came in about 7:45. The receptionist at the photo place showed up early for work and she was the one who found the damage, the front door was kicked in.'

‘Do you happen to know who got sent out to investigate? The way I hear it, some uniforms stopped by and they were going to send detectives but it never happened. I want to find out why and also if there was anything odd about that visit.'

More page-turning. ‘Murchison did the interview on that one. He's on the road at the moment but I can get him on the radio and have a natter if you can hang on for a sec.'

Berlin tilted his head to keep the phone up against his ear. He held the contact sheet up to the ceiling light and used the magnifying glass to confirm what he had seen one more time.

‘You still there?' The sergeant was back on the line.

‘What do you have?'

‘Murchison remembers that one for a couple of reasons. He said the shift was well over and he should have been home by then but he got stuck with one last job. Worked out well, he said, the receptionist at the photo place had the biggest norks he'd seen in a month of Sundays. He put the acid on her but she wasn't having it, said she already had a boyfriend. With tits like Murchison described I don't wonder at it. He said the bloke who owned the studio was some porky, long-haired septic tank, a real wanker. He picked him as a poofter first off then figured he was probably the one rooting the receptionist and good luck to him.'

‘What did Murchison say about the break-in? Did he give any details?'

‘He said he told the photographer bloke that he'd have the detectives stop by just to shut him up but when he got back to the station he decided it really wasn't worth bothering them.'

‘Why not? Did he say?'

‘Reckoned it was an inside job. But there didn't seem to be anything missing, which was a bit odd. If there was stuff missing Murchison reckons you could have called it as an insurance job, you know, fake the break-in, nick your own stuff, flog it off down the pub and buy new gear with the insurance money.'

‘What made him think it was an inside job?'

‘Well, him and his offsider had a quick look around and they said a few things had been knocked over, lights and such, but it didn't really look like the joint had been ransacked. And he reckoned for his money the front door to the studio looked like it had been forced out rather than jemmied or kicked in.'

‘Did he say why?'

‘He just said some handyman bloke who apparently works in the darkroom was already halfway through installing a new front door but the old one was still on the ground downstairs. Murchison reckoned it was pretty obvious the lock had come away when the door was forced open from the inside. Piss-weak door in any case, white ants in the doorjamb so getting it open wouldn't have been too bloody difficult. Murchison said a halfway decent shove probably would have done it.'

‘Thanks, Sarge. Tell Murchison I owe him a beer, and you too.'

Berlin hung up and tried to call Roberts but there was no answer at any of the numbers he had for him. When Rebecca walked back into the room he already had his overcoat on. He was also holding a three foot–long iron wrecking bar that had been left in the studio after a hardware catalogue shoot.

‘Lose our house keys, did we?'

‘No but I need your car keys and right now.'

‘Is something wrong, Charlie? Did you find something out?'

‘Just that you were right about Derek Jones not taking the pictures on that sheet. It must have been included with the others by accident.'

‘What confirmed it?

‘It's all in frame number 26a. Derek Jones couldn't have shot that particular roll of film because he's standing off in the background with his camera around his neck, chatting up a blonde. We've been looking at the wrong person, and I just figured out we've been looking at the wrong end of the lake too. I need to get to the photographic studio in South Melbourne right now so I need your keys.'

Rebecca was already moving towards the door. ‘They're in my coat but I'll drive. I go faster than you do.'