St Kilda Blues (27 page)

Rebecca parked in the space behind number 100 Albert Road. Berlin left her in the car and told her to wait. He took the wrecking bar and a torch from Rebecca's glove box with him. The rain had stopped and the skies were clearing. As he passed the windows lining the side of the closed-down lolly factory underneath the studio, his eye caught a glint of light. One of the glass windowpanes was reflecting moonlight. He stopped and looked closer. The other three panes in the window were old, probably original from when the place was built, with ripples and bubbles and small imperfections in the glass. The lower-right pane was newer, smooth flat glass that had been spattered with dirt and mud in an attempt to make it match the others. The earlier rain, driven almost horizontally by the wind, had lashed this side of the building, washing most of the dirt away.

Berlin pressed his finger into the putty around the glass and felt it give slightly under the pressure. He checked an original pane and found the putty dried-out and brittle. This newer glass was obviously quite recently installed, the putty smeared with dirt to conceal its newness and then left to dry. Using the sharp end of the wrecking bar he smashed the glass in and carefully cleared away the remaining shards as best he could. Reaching in and up he felt for the latch at the top of the frame. His hand came away covered with more dirt but the metal latch felt new and it turned easily. He still had to use pressure from the wrecking bar to force the window up.

Inside, he stepped over the broken glass and swept the torch over the empty space. He could smell rat droppings, and when he swung the torch up across the ceiling beams he saw reflections from more than one pair of tiny eyes. As he walked between the tables the rats scuttled away. At the rear of the room was a large brick structure with a single metal door. The door was rusted shut all the way around the frame, which was solidly bolted into the brick wall. He brushed powdery red rust off a painted sign that read, ‘Boiler Room, No Unauthorised Admittance.' The door had obviously been unused for at least twenty years. The mortar between the bricks had been protected from the weather by being inside and was still thick and solid. Berlin rapped on the door with the iron bar but there was only silence. Getting that door open would take more than his wrecking bar; an oxy-torch was probably needed.

He walked back to the double doors at the front and studied the layout of the empty room. Pacing out the distances he walked slowly forward, trying to mentally superimpose on the space what he remembered about the layout of the studio above. When he got to the back, to the solid brick face of the locked boiler room, he looked up. That had to be the darkroom up there above him, located right over the brick room in front of him.

It took five minutes to break his way in through the locked studio door. Egan had done a good job of installing it and entry wouldn't have been possible without using the wrecking bar. Once inside, he worked his way towards the back of the studio, enough light filtering through the grubby windows to let him reach his destination without switching on the overhead lighting. He counted off the paces, making allowances for the dogleg through the studio part of the building. By his calculations the darkroom was situated directly over the bricked-up boiler room below.

The sliding door into the darkroom was open. A cord dangled from the ceiling and a quick tug turned on an overhead fluorescent light. The darkroom was neat, clean and empty. The trays of developing chemicals had been washed out and stacked against the splashback of the stainless steel sink to drain. Orange and yellow boxes of photographic paper were neatly stacked on shelves above the workbenches. He recognised the enlarger as a Yank-made Omega D2, the same as Rebecca had in her Collins Street darkroom.

The floor of the darkroom was covered with rectangular rubber mats. One of the mats was slightly misaligned, turned up in one corner, showing the wooden floorboards underneath. Berlin pulled it aside. The trapdoor underneath was neatly fitted, the hinges hidden and a pull-up handle recessed into one edge. He bent down and tugged at the handle but the trapdoor didn't move. It must have been locked from underneath and there was no sign of a place to insert the key.

He stood up and looked around the darkroom. One of the vertical beams that helped hold the roof up had a series of Bakelite switches mounted on it. He worked his way down the switches, testing each one to see what it did. Safe light, exhaust fan, enlarger, radio – there was an on–off switch for each one. Metal conduit attached to the pillar and running down from the ceiling held the wiring for each of the switches. Right at the ceiling he noticed another wire painted white to match the pillar and ceiling looping round to the back. He reached behind the pole and found another pair of switches.

He flicked one on and off but nothing happened. He switched on the second and there was a metallic click somewhere under his feet. Bending down, he tugged at the trapdoor again and this time it opened. There were wooden stairs leading down from the trapdoor into the cellar. The space under his feet was in total darkness. He reached back for the first of the hidden switches. Somewhere in the blackness under his feet a weak blue light flickered on.

He steadied himself with his left hand as he worked his way down the stairs. His right hand held the wrecking bar. There was a bad smell in the cellar and the smell of some sort of chemical trying to cover it up. He spotted where the light was coming from; it looked like a 25-watt bulb set in a fitting in the ceiling and covered with blue plastic or cellophane. The ceiling itself was covered in thick grey fabric stapled to the beams, which Berlin guessed might be soundproofing.

Boxes and crates and rotting hessian bags were stacked up around the walls. There was a spade next to several newer bags, bags in heavy brown paper that had been torn open and were spilling white powder onto the floor. Berlin stepped off the last step and onto something soft. It gave under his foot, a squishy, runny kind of sensation and his stomach turned over. He lifted his foot and the beam of his torch showed black industrial plastic sheeting and heavy adhesive tape. He knew now that the white powder was quicklime, and also what was inside the plastic he had stepped on. Were they all down here, all wrapped in plastic? He didn't want to think about it.

He lifted his foot and found firmer ground. A whimper came from somewhere behind the stairs. He moved carefully in that direction and stepped on another of the soft places. His eyes were acclimatising to the dull light, his pupils dilating, opening, letting him see more clearly. The clarity only made the vision of the girl more horrifying.

It was the setting from the photographs they'd found with Derek's suicide note. Gudrun was in a sort of sitting crucifixion position, her arms were spread wide, the chains running from her wrists to metal hooks screwed into the beam above. The chains were new and he remembered that the girls in the photographs, the girls before Gudrun, had been held with rope. A lesson had obviously been learned. Had Melinda Marquet worked her way free after she heard the electric lock click open during that Sunday blackout, or was she already free when it happened? There was no way Gudrun was getting free of her chains without a hacksaw or bolt cutters, and Berlin had neither.

She was naked, just like the other girls in the photographs. The black tape over the eyes and mouth was the same as well. So were the cuts. Scabs had formed on the older cuts. Berlin wondered if there was a pattern, some sort of design to the position of the cuts. If there was it wasn't obvious. The cuts were mostly above her breasts, with others below.

He tried to speak gently. ‘I want you to listen to me carefully, Gudrun. I'm a policeman, my name is Berlin and I'm here to get you out of this and back home to your dad.'

The girl whimpered again and lifted her head.

‘I'm going to have to go away for a little while and get some help and some tools to get you free.'

Gudrun moaned and shook her head.

‘You're going to have to trust me. I'll be back, I promise. I'm going to make a phone call and see if I can find some tools upstairs. I'll be back in a couple of minutes.'

The girl moaned again and began shaking her head furiously from side to side.

Berlin reached forward to see if he could get the tape away from her mouth without hurting her too much. As he did, a drop of blood trickled down her right breast. It reached her nipple, hanging there on the tip, glistening and shiny, looking almost black in the dull blue light. Fresh blood from a still-fresh cut. How fresh? Half an hour, five minutes?
Jesus!

Berlin swung round, lifting up the wrecking bar. His left foot slipped on something soft and yielding and he fell sideways, a dead girl saving his life. There were sparks when the edge of the dagger clipped the middle of the wrecking bar and skipped off. The force of the downward sweep of the dagger pushed the iron bar sharply back into Berlin's face, catching him on the cheekbone, just under his left eye.

Berlin was on his back now, the stairs and trapdoor entrance to his left, the girl to his right and Tim Egan standing above him, holding the dagger high in a two-handed grip, ready to drive it down into Berlin's chest. Berlin swung his left leg up, catching Egan in the groin. Egan made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan but somehow managed to stay on his feet. Berlin swung the wrecking bar but his position made it difficult to get any power behind it. Egan kicked at the bar and Berlin lost his grip on it.

Egan dropped to his knees, straddling Berlin across the hips. The dagger was above his head now, poised for a final downward strike.

‘Time to die.' He made the statement almost casually.

‘Flash, Charlie!'

Berlin heard Rebecca's voice somewhere above him, from the direction of the trapdoor. He caught a quick glimpse of Tim Egan's head swinging up and towards the trapdoor as he turned his own head away and tightly closed his eyes.

In the enclosed space of the cellar the light from the flashbulb was even brighter than in the vast black expanse of the cathedral. Even with his face turned away and his eyes shut tight Berlin's eyelids glowed pink, almost white. He heard the crackle as the glass envelope of the flashbulb fractured in the intense heat and the plastic outer coating melted. The sound and the light faded as quickly as they had come and Berlin swung his head back, eyes open now.

Egan still had his head up, facing the direction of the trapdoor. He was swaying slightly to the left, disoriented and temporarily blinded. Berlin knew he only had seconds. He slammed his left fist as hard as he could into Egan's solar plexus and then swung his left leg and hip up, tipping the man off him. He grabbed his right wrist and Egan began reaching blindly with his left hand, trying to place Berlin, find a target, find a spot to put his dagger. They tumbled over and now Berlin was on top. Egan's eyes were wide open and Berlin could see the tiny pupils, like little pinpricks, already beginning to readjust to the dim light.

Egan's left-hand found Berlin's face, tearing at it. Berlin knew he couldn't let the man get at his throat. He opened his mouth and bit down hard, tasting flesh, feeling bones give under his bite and then there was the taste of blood. Egan pulled his hand away without making a sound and swung his hips upwards suddenly. The two men were on their side now, Berlin with his hands on Egan's left wrist, the dagger between them. Egan's bloody left hand was grasping at the ground behind him, hunting for the crowbar. Berlin could feel the adrenaline kick in but he knew he was years older than Egan and would be the first to run out of energy.

Egan gave up his search for the crowbar and tried to get back onto Berlin, both hands on the dagger now. Berlin resisted with every ounce of energy he had and then suddenly gave way and rolled back. Egan, on top but momentarily off-balance and confused, took one hand from the dagger to steady himself. Berlin used his own two-handed grip to force the point of the double-edged blade away from himself and towards the middle of the other man's chest. He gritted his teeth and shoved upwards as hard as he could.

Egan gave a short, sharp gasp, then exhaled slowly. Berlin's hands were wrapped around the man's fist, hard up against his chest. They were wet, Egan's blood blue-black as it dripped off the clenched fists and down onto Berlin's chest. Egan made one more gasp, then slumped as if he was going to sleep. He lay against Berlin's cheek, mouth next to his ear, and Berlin heard one last, weak exhalation before the man went limp on top of him.

‘Jesus, mate, you've either got a pretty good tolerance for pain or that's someone else's blood. It didn't all come from the gash on your cheek, that's for sure.'

Berlin looked at the closest of the two ambulance officers, the one who had spoken, then down at the front of his shirt and trousers. There was no way in hell any of that blood was going to come out of his clothing, no matter how long he soaked it. The blood was already starting to harden and felt strange against his skin, but at least it was better than the warm, sticky wetness that had washed over him earlier.

‘It's back that way.' He was standing in the middle of the photographic studio area and he indicated the direction of the darkroom with a tilt of his head. ‘You'll have to go down through a trapdoor and it's a bit narrow so I wouldn't bother with a stretcher. You should be able to walk the girl out after they get the chains off her. They're using bolt cutters. And there are quite a few bodies down there as well. It's all a bit grim.'

The ambulance officer nodded. ‘I've been around the traps, mate, I reckon me and Merv here can probably handle it. She'll be apples.'

Poor bloody you,
Berlin thought to himself.
The day I say I can handle something like that is the day I pack it in for good.

‘Go gently with the girl. There's a lady down there with her, listen to her.'

‘We'll take good care of the girl, don't you worry. She'll be right, mate.'

No she fucking won't,
Berlin wanted to scream. How could anyone ever be right after going through something like that?

They brought Gudrun up five minutes later. The girl was shaking under the blanket they had wrapped around her shoulders. Rebecca walked beside her, holding her hand and murmuring in her ear. The ambulance officer who had spoken to Berlin was white-faced and there were flecks of something on the corner of his mouth and on his chin, his dinner probably. He glanced at Berlin for a second and then turned his eyes away.

Berlin followed them out the front door of the studio, watching from the landing as they slowly made their way down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. It was raining again, just sprinkling really, and the flashing blue lights on a dozen or so police vans reflected off the wet black surface of the roadway. The press and TV people were being kept back across the other side of the road behind a police cordon. Berlin recognised Tony Selden amongst a group of detectives and uniformed senior officers. Selden seemed confused and when he spoke to the other officers they shook their heads.

The ambulance turned left out of the driveway with just the red lights flashing. A dozen or so reporters, press photographers and TV news cameramen broke through the police cordon and chased after it, looking for the words, for the photograph or the flickering moment of film that would sum up the horror and illustrate a headline or lead into a TV news bulletin.

Berlin stood on the landing, looking down on the flashing blue lights and then up towards the trees on the median strip, then past them to the park and the lake lost in the darkness. He tried to imagine Melinda Marquet, trapped in the blackness of her prison on a Sunday night, hearing the electric lock click open, not knowing it was a power failure and not her torturer. How long did she wait in silence and terror for the cold touch of the knife before finally realising that no one was there, no one was coming, at least not then.

She had slipped the ropes somehow, despite her terror, pulled off the blindfold and gag, crawled up the stairs and pushed the unlocked trapdoor aside. In the darkness she had somehow found her way to the studio's front door and smashed it open, not feeling or probably just ignoring the pain in her shattered shoulder. God knows she had already endured enough pain before that moment.

Had she stood where he was standing and hesitated? Berlin wondered. The street and the buildings around the studio would have been in darkness from the power failure. In the distance, past the park, Berlin could see the yellow glow that was Fitzroy Street and St Kilda. Did the glow of the street lights and neon signs remind her of the city lights on the horizon from the old schoolhouse in Melton? For whatever reason that was where she had headed, naked, running out of the darkness and towards the safety of the warm yellow light.

She must have followed the edge of the lake through the darkness, almost making it to that safety before stumbling into the path of a driver who had braked hard but hadn't had time to swerve and miss her. For reasons they would never know he'd made the time to toss her into the water. In her nakedness had he perhaps taken her for just another St Kilda junkie whore on the run from a pimp or a punter or a dealer? Whoever it was they had callously dumped her in the lake like just so much of the rubbish that filled the St Kilda streets.