‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘A proper drink.’ His blond hair was almost gone from the top of his head, his face an unhealthy tan that must have come out of a bottle because it was very rare that he was awake, let alone out, during the hours of sunshine.
‘It’s a very long story, Staro,’ I said.
‘You could tell me,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’d understand.’
‘Maybe you would,’ I said.
‘But I’m on the ’done now,’ he reminded me, ‘to replace what I used to use. What do you use instead?’
I considered. It was a good question, better than Staro realised. ‘Clean hands and a clean heart,’ I said. ‘And a job I enjoy. If you hear anything,’ I added, ‘about under-age girls…’
Staro picked up his new double and actually touched the back of my hand. He must have seen my look of amazement at this familiarity, because he pulled his hand back fast. ‘You know,’ he said quickly, ‘if I heard anything, I’d let you know asap.’
I felt bad that I’d been so transparently startled by Staro’s breach of protocol and, looking away, I noticed a fellow nearby reading a paper with “
New Mutilator Murderer Fears
” heading the page. Staro followed my line of sight and also saw what I was reading. ‘What about this character who removes the three piece suite?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘Is there anything going around about that?’
Staro’s eyes widened. ‘There’s a lot of talk,’ he said ‘about the DNA result.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, it’s not right to go tampering with nature. It starts off with soya beans and then you get something like this happening.’
I knew Staro had done himself a lot of brain damage over the years, but I was getting more irritated by the minute. ‘Staro,’ I said sternly, ‘what are you talking about?’
‘The DNA result on those two murders you just asked me about. You’re a scientist. You should know. What killed them?’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘A human being killed them,’ I said. ‘I’m working with that investigation.’
‘Jeez, are you? I’d be careful if I were you.’
‘Let me put you straight, Staro,’ I said. ‘I presume you’re referring to the report about non-human DNA in connection with the first of the killings?’ Staro nodded, reddened eyes wide.
‘It was a dog,’ I said.
Staro paled. ‘My God. That’s horrible. Some sort of human and dog mix?’ He was looking at me in an accusatory sort of way, reminding me of how these sorts of conversations often go with Staro. When Staro fastens onto something, getting him to unfasten was a bit like turning the
Queen Mary
around. It could take a nautical mile or two.
‘Just plain dog,’ I said. ‘Not human. Before Gumley’s body was found, it seems a dog had licked the body’—Staro’s face was a picture—‘and left traces of saliva. This resulted in a DNA profile that was non-human. We sent it to the relevant experts. Because it
was
a dog. That’s all. There’s no mystery. There’s no genetic modification. Just some dickhead journalist failing to check out a story properly. So can we please drop the wolf-man theory?’
Now Staro looked hurt and drew lines in the condensation on the side of his glass. ‘Have you heard anything else about the killings?’ I asked. I wasn’t very hopeful. Even without all the complications of an urban myth I knew this question was a long shot. The sort of crime we were dealing with in this case was very different from armed holdups or drug deals. Or even more run-of-the-mill murders which usually turn out to be family or business affairs and where someone’s usually heard something or, in the case of the more professional killings, someone wants to do a deal. But the sort of killer who’d dealt with Ernest Nesbitt and Cecil Gumley was invariably a loner, despite the conjectures Bob and I had tossed around, someone who preyed on random victims when and where the opportunity presented itself. We’d come to understand that killers like this operated outside of a relationship with anyone. Over the last twenty years, there’s been an exponential growth in psychological understanding about murderers, murders and victims. But this doesn’t reduce the need for the age-old basics of good investigation: diligence, tenacity and experience. My mobile rang and I took it into a corner. It was Bob wanting me to come into town.
‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘And I’ve got something for you, too, Bob. I want you to listen to something.’ I’d decided to play him the tapes about Jacinta. Bob and I made a time for the next day and I rang off.
Staro could see that the drinks were drying up. ‘You know who you should talk to?’ he began, but I was already standing up. Reluctantly, Staro tossed back the ice at the bottom of his drink. A split second before he said the name, I’d remembered, too. ‘Ask Marty Cash,’ said Staro. ‘Old Pigrooter knows everything. Knows where the bodies are buried.’ It was true. Because Marty Cash, who used to be Marty Kaczsinsky, had buried a couple of them himself.
Staro and I gathered up our keys and phones and walked past the poker machines to the back entrance of the pub.
‘That bloody queen must have been bullshitting me,’ he said out of nowhere.
‘What queen?’
‘The one who told me about the sub-human DNA profile. She…he…said his aunt worked in the lab and had seen the result. Talk about lying.’ He sniffed. ‘Typical. She’s always playing for drama, that one.’
I was going to remind Staro that years ago, I’d heard he wasn’t averse to a frock and false eyelashes as well as other things, but now wasn’t the time to mention it. ‘Not sub-human,’ I said, ‘
non
-human.’ I started walking away. ‘Did your draggie mate say his aunt’s name was Florence?’
‘What?’ Staro looked bewildered.
I kept going, then turned to see him walking away across the carpark to his battered old Renault. In that moment, his real name came to me. There was something about Robin Anthony Dowzer’s lonely life, his isolation, the weird worlds he moved between, that was familiar and for a second, I felt we had something in common.
•
The next day when I walked into the House of Bondage’s beige and white entrance showing my ID card and asking for the manager, the platinum blonde receptionist didn’t look at it and rolled her eyes.
‘You people have already been here,’ she grizzled. ‘It’s bad for business. You scare clients away.’ She stood up and walked to the stairs.
‘Jules?’ she called, ‘can you come down here a sec?’
The proprietor, Miss Juliana, descended, looking like a prim headmistress in her navy dress with white earrings. She must have retired from the more active work here, I thought, and now manages it. One look and she knew what I was. I wondered if she’d remember me from the old days, simply because I was one of the few she hadn’t serviced. She gave no hint of that, however, and took me into a room to the right of the entrance area where there was a bar and a lot of pink and gilt furniture. Bad paintings of naked women hung in ornate frames. Miss Juliana positioned herself near the bar and poured herself a lemonade. She didn’t offer anything to me. ‘Our licence is in order,’ she said, indicating the certificate on the wall behind the bar. ‘We’ve had fire doors installed. What’s the problem now?’ I looked at the frowning woman in front of me, her pencilled eyes, the red lipstick painted over the lip line on a narrow top lip, the sun-coarsened skin under too much make-up. A tiny tatt on her temple had smeared into an indecipherable bluish stain, and the smell of cigarettes staled her breath.
‘It’s about a missing juvenile,’ I said, finding some detachment in the jargon. ‘Jacinta McCain. We’re acting on information received that she was working here.’
Miss Juliana swung round behind the bar and found a packet of cigarettes, pulling the cellophane off, getting one out, putting it between her lips.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard all that and it’s not on. I’ve got kids of my own. I’ve got a daughter. Just because I run an establishment doesn’t mean that I’m some sort of pervert. Hell, I told all this to the baby-faced kids who came round yesterday. I want a quiet life. I’m not interested in that sort of thing. I’ve had kids come here wanting to work and
I’ve
rung up Missionbeat or the Wayside Chapel for godsake.’ She swung round to face me. ‘I even talked one girl into using my phone to ring her dad and she waited here till he came and picked her up. No drugs, no under-age. House rules.’
‘Why do you think someone would make such an allegation?’ I asked.
Miss Juliana started walking with me towards the door. ‘Use your head. Why wouldn’t they?’ she asked. ‘It’s a competitive business I’m in. There are illegal joints everywhere. If I wanted to put someone out of business, I’d start a rumour like that. Or say the place was used as a distribution centre for drugs. Say something like that, have the place crawling with bloody cops. Our gentlemen don’t like that sort of thing. They’d start going elsewhere.’ She paused on her way to the front door. One of their ‘gentlemen’ was going upstairs with the platinum receptionist. Miss Juliana took in the situation, flashed him a fabulous false smile, then hurried to the front door, opening it slightly, standing there till I joined her.
‘Can you tell me where I’ll find Marty Cash these days?’ I asked her.
‘Why should I?’
‘For old times’ sake,’ I tried. Miss Juliana peered at me. ‘I remember you. You used to work round here. And I also remember there
were
no old times.’
‘What about just for the hell of it?’
‘He used to have an office in Victoria Street, down near St Vincent’s,’ she said, frowning. ‘But he lost his licence. And I don’t know where he is.’ Satisfied, she opened the front door wide. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to see you lot again. It’s harassment. I do the right thing and it’s been nothing but trouble.’
I stepped outside into the real world again, but the woman was still grizzling behind me. ‘I wish we could go back to the old days when we just paid the cops. Things were simpler then.’
I walked away, and the door slammed behind me.
•
I drove home, all the while considering my impressions of Miss Juliana. The experts on counterfeit notes in the Fraud Squad spend a very long time going over and over the real thing, note after note, poring over each portrait and number, every little flourish and curl, every detailed area of cross-hatching, the different gradations of colour and density, the feel, the size, the texture of every denomination of paper and metal currency. All they study for months is the genuine article. After that sort of intensity, a faked note practically jumps up at them and screams, ‘I’m a dud!’ Likewise, when you’ve spent as much time as I have with people who lie to you, you discover that when people tell the truth, it shines out. Even though I was pretty sure Miss Juliana was telling the truth, I decided to keep an eye on the place anyhow. I’d get Staro to ask around as well and keep me informed on street talk and I’d certainly chase up Pigrooter. If anyone knew what was going on in this town, ex-cop, ex-private investigator Marty Cash certainly did.
While the coffee was perking, I cleared a spot on the dining table and made room for my cassette player. Then I sat down with a strong brew and listened to the tapes Chris Heyden had given me, playing them, rewinding and playing again. I kept listening over and over to the way the caller’s full voice spoke the words: ‘I want to talk to someone in charge of the investigation dealing with those two—’ and the way she repeated the first eight words in her second statement although the information after that was quite different. I was intrigued by the way the tone and the energy in the woman’s voice changed so much during that first tape. I was sure there was something important about those changes and I wanted Bob’s opinion.
I did some more sorting of my boxes and then realised it was a very long time since lunch. I looked in the fridge. There was exactly the same pathetic line-up as there’d been when I last looked, so I went up the street and bought some Italian take-away from the waterside café, bringing it home and eating ravioli in my disorganised kitchen, realising it was about time I rang Alix in Canberra and told her about my new single status and address. Clear-eyed and sharp, with an excellent memory, she was the opposite of my wife. She had a lovely, long, golden body with a boyish figure. Once, she’d covered herself with some glittering oil, from top to toe, so that every move she made caused her body to scintillate and flash. It was, as I told her, like making love to a sparkler. For days afterwards, I’d see tiny flashes on my skin and smile, remembering how they’d got there. She was a producer of educational videos for the corporate world and I knew she was often in Sydney for her work. She laughed at my jokes, and she loved sex; she said she especially loved sex with me. I had no idea if she meant that or not, but she was always keen to get in the cot.
I finished my meal and looked around my new domain. The good thing about starting over again was that there was almost nothing of Genevieve and absolutely nothing of Jacinta here. At the marital home, Genevieve kept her bedroom like a shrine with linen changes and fresh flowers every few days. There was something funereal about that, and I couldn’t be part of it. I had once made the mistake of voicing my feelings, that if Genevieve had been as attentive to the girl as she had been to the room, things might have been different. It was a harsh thing to say and I’ve always regretted it. I can’t know what it’s like to be a mother.
My memories were taking a gloomy turn so I deliberately changed my thoughts. Apart from the nasty letter, my life was greatly simplified. I had a fresh start and a new investigation to keep my mind occupied. And a lot of boxes to unpack.
I was repacking the Rosie box when I found a package I’d forgotten and opened it. On top was a folded pair of shorts and T-shirt together with Rosie’s favourite book,
The Sword in the Stone
, one that she’d read over and over. We’d used it years ago to get her prints on record in case we ever found a suspect and a place to search for her presence, but so far, we’d never had occasion to use them. Right at the bottom of the box in a plastic bag was her old bear, Mrs Gumby, an almost bald teddy she’d had since kindergarten. Rosie had slept every night with that bear, chewing on its ears like a puppy. I’d taken it and hidden it when all my sister’s things were rounded up and removed because my mother couldn’t bear anything around to remind her of her vanished daughter. Now, I looked at the bear through the plastic. One eye was missing, the other hung on a thread. I pushed the bag down into the box again and picked up the book. I turned it over in my hands then opened it and read:
To dear Rosie, Christmas 1973, from Mother and Dad with love
, in my mother’s stiff handwriting.