*****
The Bishop’s rented house was not unlike what I’d expected. The suburb was full of these bungalow-style semi-detached houses thrown up on divided larger blocks of land immediately after the First World War. Originally planned as houses for returned soldiers, who, as it eventuated, couldn’t afford the upkeep, they were usually sold on to people with money. Two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a tiny laundry/bathroom at the back, and the dunny at the bottom of the garden, which backed onto a narrow lane for the night-soil cart.
I’d read there’d been development applications put in to turn all of these small houses along Byron Street into blocks of modern flats. I supposed the apartments were intended to be for families with children that could attend the primary school on the other side of the street.
We’d made a quick detour via my flat. I’d been baking fruit cakes ready for Christmas presents since before we went to Melbourne. I wrapped one in Cellophane and tied a bit of Christmas ribbon around it.
“Why thank you, Mr. Smith,” Margaret Bishop said. “I’ll put this aside for the children when they come home. They love fruit cake. I normally make my own, but this year I’ve been so distracted …”
I was used to crime, both violent and opportunistic. Families of victims, unless they saw the body, nearly always believed there’d been some mistake, that the person who was either dead or missing would just miraculously walk through the door.
It never happened like that. Adults and teenagers that ran away never wanted to be found. After breaking the news of a death, the next most unpleasant aspect of my job had been to accompany family members to the morgue to identify the bodies of their loved ones. In my experience, those who’d protested they didn’t have the strength to accompany their husband or wife never accepted the finality and lived in hope that everyone had made a mistake and their husband/wife/child would walk through the door one day, quite unexpectedly, and with tales of being sorry to have caused so much grief.
One of my first cases had been a young boy, pushed from a moving tram by another spiteful child, who’d fallen under the wheels and had been killed. None of the family had come to formally identify the body and had left the task to a neighbour. Even now, nearly nine years later, they still wrote to me asking if I’d had any news about their missing boy.
The relief on the Bishop’s faces when I told them the “stolen” mannequin had been a prank, perpetrated by local boys who hadn’t thought of the consequences of their actions, was accompanied by tears of relief. They fell into each other’s arms and wept. It made me feel terribly awkward sharing the lie I’d devised, but I could imagine how they must have been feeling. They were of the class of people that were brought up never to discuss anything private, and that included their feelings, with people who were not family. If they were anything like my parents, they probably didn’t even share those things with each other.
I hated the idea of them shuffling around the house, both thinking miserable thoughts, and yet not having the courage to speak them for fear of upsetting the other one. I’d seen it far too many times in the past.
Eventually, I cajoled Mrs. Bishop into cutting into my fruit cake. I explained there was plenty and it would keep for months. There was no doubt they were doing it tough. Everything in the house was as neat as a pin and it was obvious the Bishops didn’t have idle hands. As I looked around the room, almost the first thing I noticed was the sewing machine cabinet in the corner, on it an eleven-shilling radio, of the type one got for turning in tea-packet coupons. The curtains, cushions, and seat coverings were all expertly sewn, but very obviously not shop-bought.
“Did you make that, Mr. Bishop?” I asked, nodding at a beautiful model of a sailing ship on the mantelpiece. “It must have taken you no end of spare time after work and on your weekends.”
Cyril Bishop was six years younger than I. I’d looked him up. He’d been an apprentice in the tramways department as an electrical engineer during the war. Some industries were vital and those that worked in them were exempted from conscription. Protected industries, they called them. My da had worked in the shipyard at Garden Island, driving a crane. He’d closed his cobbler shop for the duration, even though he’d still managed to pay the rent.
“Yes, my mates at the tram works all pitched in and helped me out with the smaller metal bits and pieces—I gave it to David for his last birthday. All the wood’s cast-offs from replaced tram benches.” His voice quavered when he spoke his son’s name.
“Well, it’s a marvel, you should be proud of yourself.”
Tom stood to have a look at it. “I’d have loved something like that when I was a kid,” he said over his shoulder.
“I bet your dad made toys for you though.”
“No, Mr. Bishop, I was five when Dad left for the war, and he never came home. There’s just Mum and me.”
“You’ve turned out a very fine lad,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”
“Why thank you, Mrs. Bishop. Yes, you’re right, my mum is very proud of me, especially now I’m working as Mr. Smith’s right-hand man.”
“He’s the Pat Patton to my Dick Tracy,” I said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood a little.
“Pat who?”
“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t know if you read the comic strips … he’s a detective.”
It was plain they had no idea what I was talking about.
“Why do you think the person who took Susan and David would be sending those strange notes to us, trying to get us to make contact with you, Mr. Smith? I don’t understand.” Margaret Bishop wanted to talk about her missing children. We’d been avoiding it since Tom and I had arrived.
“Well, I don’t think they’re from the person who abducted them, to be honest. I think the notes come from someone else, outside the case, who thinks I might be able to help the police.”
“But the package? You still haven’t told us what was in it.”
“There were some items in it we’re still trying to connect to the investigation. Once we’ve worked out what they mean, we’ll let you know. But I can assure you there was nothing in the package to worry about. I’m sure Mr. Jones explained that to you while you were in my office?”
“Yes, but—”
“If there was anything in it that would give you any hope we could find your children, any clues, we would have told you. Please believe me. With public cases such as that of the disappearance of your children, we often get sent things from well-meaning strangers who think they’re being helpful.”
“Despite your reassurances, I’m sure you understand we haven’t been able to stop wondering what was in the package. It’s made my wife very anxious, Mr. Smith,” Cyril Bishop said.
“There was a statue and a flag. We’ve no reason to believe they are connected to David and Susan, Mrs. Bishop. If there’d been anything sinister, I wouldn’t be sitting here smiling at you. We’d be having a very different sort of conversation.”
Margaret Bishop looked puzzled. “A statue and a flag? Well, that is strange. Are you sure it has nothing to do with the children …?”
I could tell she still thought I was hiding something from her. “Please, Mrs. Bishop, for the moment we’re treating the box and its contents as some sort of enigmatic nonsense. Be rest assured that we’re doing everything humanly possible to find your children. Worrying about the unknown will only make you more upset—”
“We’ve done nothing but worry, Mr. Smith. Imagine if it was your own child—”
“I’m not married, Mrs. Bishop, but I’m not a stranger to loss and grieving.”
“Do you think David and Susan are unharmed?”
“I think it’s best if I speak plainly. There’s no reason to think they’ve come to any harm, but I also don’t want to give you false hope that now I’m involved, I’ll find your missing daughter and son and have them back home around your kitchen table in time for Christmas. I do have to say is I think it’s inc
onceivable they’ve just wandered off and got lost, just in case you’ve that desperate hope in the back of your minds. If that was the case, your children would be distressed and people are still very aware of young ones wandering around by themselves. Your daughter’s what, ten? She’s old enough to knock on a door and ask for help. Someone would have taken them in and phoned the police.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Smith? Please—”
“I’m not saying anything just yet. Until I can liaise with D.C. Paleotti and see what’s already been done, I can’t even suggest possibilities. However, I have one major hope, and that is that this is a ‘Mrs. Keepit’ case.”
“What on earth is that?”
During my account of similar cases I’d run across and had read about, I could see hope begin to glimmer in her eyes. Their arms went around each other as I came to the end of my explanation, and she clutched her husband’s hand, blotting her eyes with her handkerchief, retrieved from the sleeve of her cardigan.
“And that’s common?” she said, smiling for the first time since we’d arrived.
“It’s not uncommon,” I said, although I could only remember two occurrences over the course of my nine-year career as a detective in the police force.
“And that’s your hope?”
“It’s one of them, Mrs. Bishop. I don’t want to give you false promises, and I don’t want you to dwell on the worse possible outcomes. However, what I will promise you is that I’ll do my best and I’ll keep you informed of my progress—and you must do the same, tell me if you hear of anything, or remember anything, no matter how insignificant you think it might be. Now may I look around the house?”
“You may as well, Mr. Smith,” Cyril Bishop said. “Everyone else has.”
*****
The clothes in the children’s wardrobes were beautifully handmade, neatly finished with obvious care and love. Even their socks and underwear in the twin chests of drawers in the room David and Susan shared were carefully ironed and folded.
“It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it, Tom?” I said, idly stroking the counterpane of the bed we’d been sitting on. The craftsmanship of the patterned piecework was extraordinary. Horses and kangaroos on a blue background on David’s bed, and dogs and cats on a pink background on Susan’s.
“I wish you’d been my D.S. when I first started, Clyde. You’re a lesson in how to handle sensitive issues.”
I laughed. “You’re about the only person I’ve met who’d say that, Tom. Most of the buggers up at the station thought I was a thug with a badge.”
“Well, you were very kind to me, Clyde.”
“We both got slugged with the same cricket bat, mate. It almost makes us relatives.”
He smiled and then leaned back on the bed, craning to look out the window, which overlooked the tiny, but very neat backyard. “I checked out there. There are no vantage points overlooking the garden. There’s that block of flats the man who saw the dog and the children lives in … Medina Court, wasn’t it? I had to stand on the back-fence railing to have a look, but you can only see the brickwork at the corner right at the top.”
“And you didn’t notice anything else?”
“Nothing. Where do we go from here, Clyde?”
“I’d like you to see if Vince is free this evening, Tom. Ask him if he has files on the searches that were done immediately after the children went missing. I’d like to reinterview anyone who was spoken to at the start of the case, and I’d also like to check out places that only us locals know about. Places kids can go, or get trapped in, that the police who grew up in other areas aren’t aware of.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“It’s Christmas Day on Tuesday. When were you thinking of going home to see your mother?”
“Well, I was going to catch the first train on Tuesday, but Mum’s told me she’s going up to see my Uncle Jerry, who lives in Grafton. We don’t get on, so I told her I’d book a phone call through to his house and speak to them instead on Christmas morning. Besides, not only does it take forever to get there, but Mum’s brother also gets pissed rotten and always picks a fight with me or my cousin, his eldest son. I’d rather stay away, thank you very much.”
“So what will you do?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. The Oceanic Hotel has a Christmas lunch with all the trimmings for seven and sixpence, thought I might try that.”
“You’ll do no such thing, mate. Harry’s mum is hosting a dinner for all the waifs and strays. Come spend Christmas Day with us. There’s plenty of room in their house if you want to sleep over. Bring someone if you like. The more the merrier. We’ve all been preparing food for weeks. Trixie is coming and bringing her kids. And do you remember Elizabeth Broadbent, the teller from the bank who helped us in the Morrison case?”
“Yes, I do. She has two sons, doesn’t she?”
“We’ll have a houseful of kids and young adults, and the backyard’s big enough for a game of cricket before lunch. Please come, Tom.”
He blushed slightly and hung his head. “I have to thank you for too much already, Clyde. I still can’t get over the fact you offered me a job.”
“Vince and Sam had nothing to say about you that wasn’t good, and besides, you’ve seen how much I’ve got on my plate. It’s good to have someone to help.”
“Anything else you want me to do?”
“I have to write my column about the stolen mannequin being returned. I also need to get my regular food review written and make a start on my monthly crime report, so I’ll be in my study at home glued to the typewriter after I finish up at the office. Can you tell Vince to come to my place at around seven? Maybe we can throw something together to eat while he talks me through the case files.”
Tom stood and brushed down his strides with the palms of his hands and looked around the room. “Jesus, I hope these kids are all right, Clyde.”
“Me too, Tom, me too … oh, and before you disappear, will you see if the newsagent on the corner has a copy of Monday’s local rag? I forgot to pick one up. I wanted the page with the photos of Dioli and me for my files.”
“No need, Clyde. There’s one in the office already.”
“Why?”
“Harry asked me to place an advertisement for his new premises and to publicise his next adventure tour in January. I thought it would be a good idea to put one in for you at the same time. And, before you ask about how much it cost, they gave it to me for free: Clyde Smith, Private Investigator. No case too big or too small.”
“No case too big or too small? What the hell? I’ll be swamped.”
“No you won’t, Clyde. You have an assistant now who gets paid fifteen bob a case.”
He gave me a cheeky grin and then left to do what I’d asked.
*****
Harry and I had a quiet moment in the storeroom of his office before Tom returned. Well, it wasn’t really quiet, muffled more like it.
I’d given him a key to my flat. Although it was a really huge step for me, he’d grinned, kissed me, and put it in his pocket without saying a word. We talked a bit about Christmas Day and then he made me promise not to get upset. Mary had invited Billy and Sam to pop their heads in during the day. Oddly enough, I wasn’t annoyed, not in the slightest. Since our talk on Tuesday night, when I’d spilled my guts to him about what had happened to me in the P.O.W. camp during the war, I’d been feeling a lot less angry. It made me think that maybe my sessions with Dr. De Natalis might really be a way for me to come to grips with some of my internal demons. Harry had listened without comment, but after about half an hour had pulled me into his arms and had cried along with me when I’d eventually broken down and sobbed my heart out.
When I’d finished, he’d asked if I wanted him to stay, but I’d told him to go home, I’d have him in my bed for three days over the weekend. He’d promised to talk about his war at another time, saying he wanted that night to be about me. His experiences could wait. Maybe one day, he’d said, when we were out
in the bush together on one of his adventure weekends, we could find a rock to sit on while the group did chores, look out over the canyons of the Blue Mountains where there was nothing but blue, misty ridges and quiet, and then he’d start to tell me, a bit at a time.
By six, I’d not only knocked over my column for the Mirror, but I’d written a nice review on the authentic lunchtime specials at Stones milk bar. I’d called in on the way back to the office after visiting the Bishops and had spoken to the young German couple, Gerd and Liesl, asking a little about their history, how they came to migrate to Australia, and what sorts of lunchtime goodies the general public could expect. I’d made it a human-interest story. In the course of finding my journalistic feet, I’d discovered I could write stories about people that made the reader connect to them.
When I’d phoned in my pieces, the editor had pressed me for details of the vandals who’d stolen the mannequin, but I’d impressed upon him they were minors and therefore it was illegal to publish their names. He bought my fib, and he loved my Wiener schnitzel story too, saying he’d link it from page three as not only was it a food review but also a story of how new Australians were fitting into our community—it wasn’t only the Snowy Mountains scheme that benefited from our huge migration from the “old world”.
The crime report could wait. I was torn about reporting the Bishop case and the reappearance of the Silent Cop killer, neither of which I could really write about. I had a few ideas knocking around in my brain, but as it wasn’t due until the end of the month, I could take my time deciding what I’d focus on.
Vince knocked on my door about six thirty. I’d gone home at five to start writing my columns and still hadn’t got around to doing anything about the photos I’d taken of Harry’s blackboard layout to give to Dioli in the morning.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked me when I opened the door.
“I’d completely forgotten about food,” I replied. I’d been preoccupied.
“An Italian always comes prepared,” he said, lifting up a large shopping basket in one hand, his briefcase on the floor resting against his leg. “I’ll cook. You carry on with whatever you’re doing.”
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