by Jean Bedford
Kylie, then twelve, had said she was going over to Beth Channing’s after school to play tapes and stay for tea. At about seven-thirty she’d rung her mother and asked if she could stay the night. Apparently this wasn’t unusual — the girls went to the same school, although Kylie was older and two years ahead of Beth — and Mrs Johnson had agreed. When Kylie didn’t come home at the usual time the next day, her mother had rung Leonie Channing, thinking perhaps she’d gone back there again. The police had been called as soon as it was clear that Kylie hadn’t been at the Channings’ at all.
Beth knew nothing about it — she hadn’t seen Kylie since the day before. They were home friends, and played with girls from their own years at school. She hadn’t been asked to lie for her — she said she had no idea of Kylie’s plans. The police had finally been satisfied by her denials, and no other kids at the school seemed to be in Kylie’s confidence.
It was clear that she was meeting someone she knew — it was a deliberate and premeditated story — and the investigation centred naturally on family and friends, finally homing in on poor old Joe, the last to talk to Kylie before she supposedly went over to Beth’s house. He’d thought the girl seemed ‘happy, excited’, but assumed that was because she liked ‘going out to play’. He couldn’t provide an alibi after 6 p.m., which is when Mrs Kominsky went out for her euchre evening. There were no witnesses to back up his story that he’d eaten the supper left by his mother, watched TV, fiddled with a kite he was building and gone to bed. He’d been vague about what he’d watched on television — ‘No. 96’ and then a film, but he couldn’t remember its name and clearly hadn’t followed the plot very well, either.
The most damning thing of all was that he’d gone out in his Ute very early the next morning to dump the Johnsons’ garden rubbish at a tip where a friend of his worked. It was one of those places where they crush and pulverise all the trash, then plough it into the ground somewhere. By the time the police got around to following it up there’d been no hope of even knowing where to look for the possible remains of Kylie Johnson. In the end, after questioning Joe extensively, taking him in several times, there was just not enough evidence to prosecute on. The case had been listed ‘unsolved’ and filed away.
The Johnsons had moved to Melbourne, and Glenn had provided their last known address and telephone number. Apparently Mrs Johnson was now active in a ‘Parents of Murdered Children’ organisation down there, though her husband refused to admit that Kylie was dead, even after four years. Glenn had also provided the name and address of Joe’s friend at the tip, with a note saying he’d also been taken in for questioning, but hadn’t had anything to add.
I sat back and thought about it, enumerating the things that might make the two cases possibly connected — that the girls had been friends, that they lived four streets apart, and, I had to admit, that they both knew Joe.
But there the similarities ended. Graham had also taken up my intention to check all the newspaper reports on Beth’s disappearance, and the photocopies lay under Glenn’s information. I started at the lurid headlines of the Sunday papers, all running the same unflattering, grim-faced photo of Leonie. The earlier edition carried fairly detailed reports of the bail hearing.
Leonie Channing hadn’t reported Beth missing. It had been Rex, checking at her school, who had established when she was last seen alive. She’d gone out for one of her regular meals with her father on a Friday night. Neighbours had seen her at the newsagent’s on the Saturday morning, and after that, nothing. She hadn’t gone to school — Leonie had rung them once to say the girl had bronchial flu. She’d told Rex Beth was too ill to go out and couldn’t see him. He’d rung several times to talk to his daughter, and Leonie’s excuses had got weaker. As he’d told me, he’d thought Leonie was playing games, trying to up the maintenance, or just to make him squirm. Their divorce had been acrimonious, according to the papers. He’d driven over twice, he said, and waited for Beth at the school, finally asking one of the kids, who said she hadn’t been there for weeks.
That’s when he’d apparently panicked and called the police.
I wondered about Leonie and Rex. Who’d divorced whom? And why? I decided to ring Lorna, who hadn’t reported back yet about Rex’s business interests.
“Hi,” she said. “Info on its way. Should get it tomorrow. Sorry it took so long but I was flat out on something else. Haven’t even read the papers. How’s Rex’s missing kid going?”
I was relieved that she didn’t seem to know I had been out of circulation. I was trying to put my ‘accident’ to the back of my mind — perhaps hoping that if I ignored it then it would go away.
“She’s still missing. Listen, Lorna, d’you know anything about his divorce?”
“Sure do,” she said cheerfully. “I know how many times that arsehole goes to the loo.”
“Well, then…?”
“He’s a wife-basher. And she said he was violent towards the kid. That’s why she tried to have him denied access. He counter-claimed that she was unstable and she backed down. Apparently she did have some psychiatric history. He fought the property claim and maintenance, too. He’s been to the Family Court twice since then over being denied proper access.”
It surprised me that Leonie had been the complainant. I’d imagined Rex abandoning her for some floozy as he got richer and more powerful. I thought of what it would be like to be thumped by those meaty fists.
“Gotta go,” Lorna said. “Let me know if you find out anything juicy. I really am going to do a number on him, one day.”
As soon as I put the phone down it rang again. At the sound of Rex Channing’s rasping voice I crossed my fingers against talking of the devil.
“I’ve got nothing to report, yet.” I said. “I’ve been in hospital.”
“Yeah. That’s what I rang about. It won’t happen again.”
“What? Hey — did you have something to do with that?”
“Your… accident? No. But I’ve made sure you’re off the hook now. Leave it alone. Just concentrate on finding my daughter.” He rang off and I sat there in a rage. I believed him — if Rex said I was off the hook, I was. But now I really wanted to know just what sort of hook it had been.
Chapter 5
Lorna’s ‘info’ arrived priority paid the next morning. Photocopied lists of Rex’s business interests — building contracting firms, a couple of restaurants in the Cross, massage parlours, a nightclub in Liverpool, housing developments, and, surprisingly, a funeral parlour. Lorna had put an asterisk beside this and a note: ‘Visits his mum’s grave at Liverpool every week. His mates call him ‘the undertaker’.’
On the last page she’d added her own comments: ‘Nothing much here to show who he owes or who’d have a grudge — put the names in a hat — but these are mainly legitimate fronts for drugs and prostitution. Also been a stand-over man in his past. Long association with a bent cop called Birkett — old footy club pals — probably started in drugs together. Eat this.’ I didn’t, but I burnt it carefully in the fireplace. The name Birkett rang a bell. I riffled through the newspaper cuttings again. Yes, Detective-Sergeant Terry Birkett; he’d led the Channing investigation. According to Paul Whitehouse, it was his unsigned record of interview that was likely to be used in court.
I stared into space for a while, trying to work it out. I was still convinced that Rex didn’t know what had happened to Beth, so why was his bent mate involved? Things had a habit of coming back to Rex, I thought. Even being pushed off a ferry wharf. That reminded me. I went outside to where Evan was doing a spot of weeding by the fence, Toby sunning himself nearby.
“Evan,” I said. “Do you ever do anything in the tailing line?” I told him I had it on good authority that there’d be no more threats to my life, and I gave him Rex’s address. He looked doubtful, but he set off willingly enough.
I scooped up the cat and carried him back into the house, picking up the paper on the way. I really didn’t know what good would come of f
ollowing Rex, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I’d asked Evan to get photos of any visitors to the mansion, or anyone he saw Rex meeting. I thought viciously that if I could get a line on the bastard who’d pushed me I’d do something really horrible to him, like stick him with a hatpin. I laughed at myself, and settled down to the crossword.
Half an hour later I gave up — I just couldn’t get into it. I made coffee while I waited impatiently for Graham to come in. When he finally did, he looked pleased with himself. I made more coffee and we moved to the alcove.
“Well,” he said, “I saw Leonie again.”
“Really? What story did you give her this time?” I was jealous — I wanted to meet her myself.
“I came clean.” He looked sheepish. “Well, nearly. I told her I was a private investigator hired by Mrs Kominsky to clear up Kylie’s disappearance, so that’s why I was interested in Beth. It helped a bit — she was more prepared to talk about Kylie — but not much. Apparently Kylie used to go out to McDonald’s with Beth and Rex sometimes.
Rex again, I thought sourly. Graham misunderstood my expression.
“It’s okay, Anna. I saw Mrs K too, and she sort of did agree to hire us, but she can’t afford to pay us anything. She’s a great old duck, you know. Makes fabulous pastries.”
“What else did Leonie say?” I couldn’t work out why he looked so smug.
“Not much. Except she kept insisting that Kylie’s disappearance had nothing to do with Beth. I thought she seemed frightened of raking it up again. But then, she seems generally frightened — it’s hard to know what of. I reckon she’s on tranquilisers, too. But she did say she refused to believe Joe had done anything to either girl.”
“God. She must have been positively babbling. Her own solicitor can’t get anything out of her.”
“Yeah. But that’s it. However…” he made a broad expansive actor’s gesture that nearly knocked over his coffee. “However, I did a bit of checking on Rex while I was out there. His old stamping ground, etcetera. Went down the footie club and had a yarn with the caretaker. And guess what I found out?”
“Birkett?” I said, and his face fell.
“Shit. How did you know?”
“Lorna,” I said, and filled him in on what had happened the day before. When I’d finished we were both silent for a while.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Graham said finally. “Why should Birkett want to put Leonie away? If he’d had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance — like revenge against Rex, falling out amongst thieves and all that — he’d be keeping a low profile on the investigation, wouldn’t he? I mean, he’d be leaning on Rex. And then Rex would know what was going on and he wouldn’t be so anxious for us to go poking around.”
“In a nutshell, Watson,” I said. “Buggered if I know, either. Perhaps it’d help if I had a violin, like Sherlock…”
“Or some cocaine,” Graham said hopefully.
It was Friday, and we kicked it around for a while longer, then decided to give it a rest. A nice long lunch at the Satasia seemed like just the thing to get our brains working, we thought, and we headed off.
“Why don’t we have brilliant hunches like other detectives?” I complained, as we trudged up the hill.
“I do,” he said. “Mine is that you’re going to order a maans curry. D’you want to know how I reached this deduction?”
I punched him in the arm, almost deciding to order prawns rendang instead. But I didn’t.
*
After a frustratingly quiet domestic weekend, pottering about, watching TV, doing the laundry, sleeping in, etcetera, I felt eager and energetic on Monday morning. My ribs had just about stopped aching, too. I did the cryptic in half an hour — a personal best — which seemed a good omen. Then I rang Glenn Sheedy.
“Talk to me.” He’d answered his phone this way ever since he saw Rod Steiger do it in In the Heat of the Night. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like Steiger in that role
— beer-gut, dishevelled clothing, red face.
“What’s it all about, Anna?” His voice was gravelly like Rex’s, but not menacing, just boozy and nicotine-eroded. “You taking this private-eye stuff seriously?”
“Fairly,” I said. “Glenn, thanks for all the stuff you sent. Could you possibly do me yet another favour?”
“Depends what it is.” I could hear erratic two-finger typing in the background, and the energetic hum of voices of a busy police station.
“Leonie Channing,” I said. “How can I find out if she’s got a psychiatric history?”
“You mean, will I find out for you? You know damn well hospitals won’t release that sort of information. Just can’t do it, mate. Cops are the last people they’d give it to.” He was one of those men who like to call women ‘mate’. I suppose it’s a blow for non-sexist language.
“Why are you still working on it? Don’t you think she’s guilty?”
“Dunno. Don’t even know what it is she isn’t guilty of yet, for a start.”
“Perhaps a dingo did it…” He wheezed a laugh at his own wit.
“Not funny,” I said primly. Since I’d seen Evil Angels I was on Lindy’s side. “Thanks anyway, Glenn, I’ll shout you lunch. Soon.”
“Cops don’t get time for lunch,” he said and wheezed again before he rang off. His second office was a byword — the Malaya in George Street. I had the restaurant’s number under his name in my book.
I put the phone down. The psychiatric angle had seemed like a good one — just to check if there was a reason for Leonie’s erratic behaviour, if there was anything in her past that might have led her to feeling murderous towards her daughter. I wondered if Rita would be able to find out anything through her contacts. I rang her, but she was in a meeting so I left a message.
“There’s an awful lot of sitting about waiting in detective work,” I complained to Graham later. I was full of frustrated energy. I wanted to talk to Leonie Channing myself, to get some idea of what she was like, but I couldn’t very well go in right on Graham’s heels. And she’d probably already told him all she’d tell anyone. Graham was bored, too, practising push-ups dangerously near to Toby, and making endless cups of coffee. I finally gave up pretending to work, had a sandwich and thought I’d spend the rest of the day gardening.
I got out my favourite disposal-store overalls — so paint and grime-bespattered you could hardly see their original dark blue colour — and spent a happy hour with my hands plunged in rotting compost and chicken shit. I once had my chart done and the astrologer had looked at me with awe when she realised I had all air and fire signs. “You must find day-to-day reality awfully hard,” she said. “I hope you like gardening.” Her prescription had been at least an hour a day touching ground, and I’ve always found it good therapy. So I was annoyed when Graham yelled from the window that I had a phone call.
I washed my hands hastily at the laundry tap and loftily ignored Graham’s pained sniff as I passed him.
“It’s Evan,” he said. “It’s a great accent.”
Evan sounded tired. “He’s seen lots of people. He eats out three times a day, doesn’t he? He’s had lots of visitors, too. And he’s been out to Liverpool cemetery. How long d’you want me to stick, d’you know?”
“Have you got any photos?” My desire for revenge rose again.
“Reels. Why don’t I get them printed up at one of those instant places and come in for a cup of tea and a sit down then?”
“Okay.” I went upstairs to shower and change and when I came down again Graham was leaping about like a chimpanzee.
“I got it!” He grabbed me and waltzed me roughly around the room, bumping into furniture. “They just rang. I got it, Anna honey, ah got the part…”
“Shit,” I said ungraciously. “Let go of me, dickhead. When do you have to start rehearsals?” I looked at him balefully from the chair he’d dumped me in, rubbing my thigh where a table had got me.
“Not for a fortnight. Plenty of tim
e to clear up this little business.” He waved regally towards our desks. “Come on, Anna, me old love. This calls for champagne.” He went to the fridge and got out a bottle of the Bollinger I was saving for the day we solved our first real case.
I managed a smile. “It’s great, Graham. Really good. I’m pleased for you, really. But, shit.” Evan arrived then and we poured him a glass, too. Graham opened another bottle and we sat down to look at the photos: lots of lookalike men in dark expensive suits getting in and out of pale expensive cars; exteriors of restaurants; Rex and a blonde woman on a wharf, about to get onto a sleek yacht; same blonde outside Rex’s gracious home, looking bleary in the morning light.
“A bit young for Rex,” I commented.
“She’s even younger, close up,” Evan said disapprovingly. “Hardly above the age of consent. I’ve got a daughter looks older than that, doesn’t she?”
“Hang on,” I said, looking at the next picture. It was a shot of Rex and yet another man in a dark suit. Rex was in a low-slung sports car, outside the gates of his place; the other man leaned on the car, talking through the driver’s window. He looked angry. He also didn’t look quite as mass-produced as the others. He had dark curly hair and was built like a heavyweight boxer. “Who’s that?”
Graham peered more closely. When he looked up his eyes were narrow with frowning. “That’s Terry Birkett,” he said. “I saw old photos of him at that club, in the footie teams. Detective-Sergeant Terry Birkett.”
The next photo showed Birkett again, talking to a man in a tracksuit on a bridge. Behind them was what looked like river and scrub. I stared at Evan.
“I followed him for a while,” Evan said smugly. “Rex had gone back inside and it wasn’t lunchtime yet, so I thought I’d leave him to it. I was interested in this bloke, too, wasn’t I? He looked to be having a right old row with Mr Channing. That’s over near Liverpool, near an old power station. There’s a golf course there, too, and that’s the Georges River. Nice spot.”