by Unknown
‘Why were you asked to formally identify the body?’ I said when Novak was finished with the tissue. ‘Why not his family?’
‘Family?’
‘His parents live in Collingwood. In the commission flats.’
‘Well, Dallas might have had a biological mother and a stepfather, but I wouldn’t call it a family.’
I waited, suspecting there was more.
‘Like most of my clients, Dallas was also a client of the Department of Human Services, you understand? Child Protection, to be precise. I can still remember the first time I saw him, just a little kid covered in bruises. He could hardly walk.’
‘Did he have any recent contact with his parents? Visiting arrangements?’
Novak let out a long breath, fished through a file on his desk and handed me a folded-up piece of paper. I unfolded the page and recognised it as a pathology report on a urine specimen. The patient’s name was Rachel Boyd.
‘Dallas was worried about his little sister,’ Novak explained. ‘Rachel was crying every time she went to the toilet, said it hurt to pee. So just last December, we brought her in here and had a nurse take a urine sample.’ He took the pathology report back and folded it into the file. ‘Rachel had chlamydia. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one reason why a five-year-old girl gets chlamydia.’
My stomach tensed.
‘Who was it?’
‘The stepfather. Complete scum of the earth.’ Novak clenched his jaw. ‘Being a social worker, I don’t say that about many people.’
‘Does the girl still live with them?’
He eased back in his chair, shooting me a look of suspicion. ‘Pardon my cynicism, but like I said before, I’ve been through this with other clients who’ve passed away in similar circumstances. I don’t recall there being this level of depth in the investigation.’
‘Depth?’
‘The questions you’re asking. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the interest. I’m just not used to seeing this level of inquiry from cops regarding a heroin overdose. You wanna level with me here?’
He was right to be curious. Mostly ODs were written off quickly, so it was no wonder he found my questions peculiar.
‘Call it the new face of community policing.’
‘Hey, I’ve never held out on you, man. I’ve always played ball.’
‘I know that, Will. I’m just being thorough. You said you helped Dallas find his own accommodation. Was that through the Ministry of Housing?’
‘No. Part of my role is to source government grants for my clients. The grants pay for all sorts of things like accommodation, food, travel, study, even gym membership. With Dallas, I was able to help him rent and furnish a one-bedroom unit off Barkly Street. Nothing flash, but he was learning to survive on his own.’
‘What’s the address?’
‘Of Dall’s apartment?’
‘Yeah, I’d like to have a look. Help polish off my report.’
Novak leant across his desk. ‘Hey, if something’s going on here, I have a right to know. I basically raised that kid as if he were my own.’
I felt the human element of Boyd’s death weigh heavily upon me. Workers like Novak weren’t unlike many of the dedicated detectives I’d met on the job. They worked long hours for little pay and were relentless in supporting their clients. That the clients were often the scourge of society was inconsequential to them. They saw beyond that and dedicated their lives to helping these people. And I admired that.
‘There’s some things that don’t add up, that’s all. But don’t go shooting your mouth off. I’m keeping it close to my chest until I get a better picture.’
‘You think he was murdered?’ he said.
I looked over my shoulder, as if the office had ears. I wasn’t expecting the question, and wasn’t sure I knew the answer.
‘Like I said, there are some anomalies. I can’t go into it yet, but if it turns out something untoward did happen, I’ll let you know as soon as I can. How does that sound?’
He gave me a conspiratorial nod. ‘Sure, and I’ll do what I can to help.’
‘Can you tell me the address?’ I asked.
‘I can do better than that.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, he searched around and fished out a key with a yellow tag on it. ‘As part of my agreement with the government, I go on the record for these kids when I get them a place to live,’ he explained, tossing the key over. ‘The government requires that I have a key to access the property if need be. More often than not, they’re just useful for when they lock themselves out.’
Novak read out the address and I wrote it down. On the page I saw a notation about the mobile phone and it reminded me to ask whether he could confirm if Dallas Boyd had one.
‘Sure. Everyone has a mobile these days, don’t they?’ he said.
‘You have the number?’
‘Of course.’ He got up and opened a drawer in a filing cabinet, then removed a folder. ‘Forgive my inquisitiveness,’ he said, looking genuinely puzzled, ‘but what benefit will having his number be?’
I looked up from my notes and considered the question.
‘Well, he didn’t have a phone on him when he . . . when we found him. He probably left it in his flat. I’m sure it’ll turn up.’
‘Fair enough.’
He opened the folder, read out the number and I copied it down next to the address.
‘One final thing,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to trace Boyd’s final steps. When did you last see him?’
‘A couple of days ago. We had lunch, actually.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Fine. I mean, he was a bit worked up.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, he was in contact with Child Protection again, trying to have his sister removed so that she could live with him. The Child Protection Unit assigned to the case had been out to the flat. They were investigating the stepfather, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, the removal of a child from the family unit is a last resort. They don’t make those decisions lightly and the wait was causing him a bit of stress.’
‘Okay, so that was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Yes.’
I thought about how removing the girl might have resulted in charges against the stepfather, possibly even prison time. It would be enough to make anyone angry.
‘The stepfather, what’s his name?’
‘Vincent Rowe. Look him up on your system. I’m sure he’ll have a thousand hits.’
I scrawled the name down and underlined it as Novak slid two business cards across the desk, one his own and the other belonging to a woman named Sarah Harrigan from the Department of Human Services.
‘It’s past five on a Friday,’ Novak said, ‘so you won’t get any joy at DHS now, but she’s the Child Protection Unit manager for the southern metro region. I’ll tell her you’re a good guy, get her to call you.’
I thanked him and passed my own card over. ‘Just for the record, where were you around midnight last night?’
‘Ah, you’re asking me for an alibi?’
‘For elimination.’
Novak looked out the window and exhaled slowly. ‘I was helping out at the soup kitchen on Fitzroy Street.’
‘At midnight?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Shit, I went into the 7-Eleven on the corner of Grey Street at one point and bought a packet of smokes to give out to the homeless. That’s the only time I was away from the van.’
Glad the awkward moment was out of the way, I held out my hand. ‘Sorry, Will. Part of the process.’
‘Just let me know if you hear anything,’ he said as we shook hands. ‘Dall was a popular kid. If something happened to him, you’ll have a lot of angry people around here. Could get ugly.’
I thought of the boy I’d seen outside and knew Novak wasn’t exaggerating. Street kids were a tight bunch.
‘Thanks, Will,’ I said, sliding the keys to Dallas Boyd’s apartment into my pocket. �
�I’ll be in touch.’
6
MAJESTIC VIEWS WAS THE NAME of the apartment block where Dallas Boyd had lived. It was squashed between two near-identical 1960s blocks on a narrow cul-de-sac and I wondered if it had been named as such because it had once been possible to glimpse water from the upper floors. If so, the growth of trees and urban development had put a stop to that. I drove past Majestic Views and parked a hundred metres down, watching the street through my rear-view mirror.
A prostitute leant against a telephone pole in the shade of a nearby tree. She was dressed in a pink bikini top and hotpants. I’d never seen her before and figured she was new to the stroll. She wasn’t scrawny and undernourished like most of the girls I knew in St Kilda. Looking around for her spotter, I found him hidden behind a sun visor in a nearby Valiant.
Within minutes, a white HiAce van slowed and the girl bent to the driver-side window. A quick glance over her shoulder, a flash of headlights from her eyes in the Valiant, and she was gone. Before I started working St Kilda I’d never understood the male desire to pick up street girls, risking arrest, robbery or disease when you could easily go to any legal brothel and get a better service with virtually no risk. I’d since come to suspect it was the risk itself, as much as the sex, that was the attraction for many men.
From the back seat I grabbed the white polo T-shirt I’d been wearing earlier and changed into it. It was too hot for a shirt and tie, and I didn’t want to look like a cop for what I was about to do. I tore a blank page from my daybook and folded it into my pocket, then walked back to the apartment block, ignoring the suspicious glance from the spotter, still slouched in the Valiant. Just as I reached the entrance to the apartment block a loud bang reverberated down the street. I dropped to a squat, my shoulder tense and blood pounding in my ears. A few seconds went by before I realised it was just a car backfiring. I leant against a brick letterbox and drew a breath.
The spotter in the Valiant was laughing at me. I snarled abuse at him before going through a gate and walking up to the third floor. Finding Boyd’s apartment, I slid on a pair of gloves and used the key Novak had given me to open the door.
A carpeted entranceway intersected with a door on the right and another ahead. I opened the door on the right – the bedroom. It was warm and musty, the blinds closed, double bed unmade. Posters of black American rappers plastered the walls. I continued up the short passage into the living room. It was also badly in need of airing. An old sofa faced a television and there was a stereo in the corner. Other than an ashtray on a glass coffee table and a few dishes near the sink, there was no mess.
Through the kitchenette, a sliding door led into a bathroom and laundry. This room wasn’t so clean, old flecks of toothpaste and shave bristles around the basin and vanity. I found a packet of OxyContin in the cabinet and remembered fondly the floating relief the same pills had given me during my initial rehabilitation. I also remembered the constipation, stomach pains and flu-like withdrawal when I finally decided to give them up. I closed the cabinet and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The grey etchings and stress lines around my eyes betrayed my age. I was only thirty-nine but looked ten years older. Women used to say I was handsome. While I still had the chiselled jaw Ella had once fallen for, my skin now looked moist and pasty, like the junkies I saw roaming the streets every day.
Back in the kitchen, I opened the fridge and found it stocked with leftover takeaway cartons, soft drink and VB beer. No Amstel. Next I opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found the bin, but it was empty. Above it on the bench was an answering machine, digital and more expensive than my own at home. Both this and the designer clothes Boyd was wearing when we found him seemed at odds with his status as a welfare recipient and ward of the state. I pushed play on the machine, a flashing light indicating he hadn’t heard the message.
‘Yeah, Dall, Sparks here, mate. I’ve got what you wanted me to get. I went to the park last night like we said, but you weren’t there, man. I’ve been ringing ya moby all night but no answer. What the fuck, man? Hanging on to this thing’s freakin’ me out, you better come get it soon or I’m gonna ditch it. That’s it, man, I gotta run.’
A mechanical voice stated the call had come through at nine fifteen that morning. I played the message again. The caller sounded agitated, his desire to see Boyd urgent. I checked the machine for other messages but there weren’t any. I wrote the name ‘Sparks’ and the time of the call on the page I’d torn from my daybook and began a methodical search of the kitchen, starting in the corner, working my way through all the drawers, checking the oven and above each cupboard. I found little of value beyond a small stash of marijuana and ecstasy tablets in the freezer. The ecstasy pills had a different branding from what Anthony had shown me earlier and revived my unease about my brother’s request. What was I supposed to do? Show Chloe pictures of dead people, tell her horror stories?
I left the drugs in place and moved back into the bedroom, where again I had the impression Boyd wasn’t your average state ward. There were five pairs of runners in the wardrobe and maybe a hundred CDs in a vertical display stand. This kid had money. Pondering how, I noticed a Nokia phone charger plugged into a power socket and again wondered about the missing phone. Even Sparks, whoever he was, had said in his message that he’d been trying to call Dallas on his mobile phone. Had somebody removed the phone from his body? Wouldn’t be the first time a deceased junkie was robbed by his own kind. But why not take his wallet and watch, even his runners?
I squatted down to search the bedside table. In a drawer with socks and underpants was a reminder letter from the YMCA in Prahran advising Boyd that his gym membership was due to expire. The letter was dated 1 December the previous year, less than three months ago. Clipped to the letter was a map of Surfers Paradise. I spread the map out on the bed and saw that someone had highlighted several streets in orange felt pen. Ella had family in Queensland and I’d been to the Gold Coast a number of times, so I immediately recognised the streets as popular tourist precincts. Cavill Avenue. Tedder Avenue. Orchard Avenue. In the top corner of the map was a name and address, obviously written by somebody with poor literacy skills: Derek Jardine, 4/678 Sunset Cresant, Mermade Worters.
Who was Derek Jardine? And why was the map clipped to the YMCA reminder letter? Anthony worked at the Docklands YMCA and would have access to client names. I made a note to call him, then searched the rest of the room but still failed to find a mobile phone. There was a shoebox under the bed with a collection of blank DVDs inside. The title Die Hard With A Vengeance was scribbled on one of the cases. Underneath it were others like Goodfellas and Scarface. I slid the box of pirated movies back and noticed a photo on a stand by the door. It was Dallas Boyd and a girl about the same age posing at St Kilda beach, white sand contrasting against the blue water and a burning red sunset behind them. The photo appeared recent, possibly taken this summer. Boyd even had on the same red baseball cap he’d been wearing when he died.
Who had taken the picture? I hadn’t found a camera in the apartment anywhere. Maybe the camera belonged to the girl and they’d asked somebody to take it for them. But the photo looked so professional this was unlikely; nor was it likely that the picture had been taken with Dallas Boyd’s missing phone, or any phone for that matter. While I was in rehab I’d bought myself a digital camera and done what I could to learn how to use it properly. It hadn’t been nearly as easy as I’d expected. Whoever took this shot had experience. If taken by an amateur with a mobile phone or with a camera by somebody simply strolling past, the sunset in the background would leave the picture washed out with too much light. Instead the couple had been brought to the foreground by a keen eye and technical know-how.
I let some ideas roll around but nothing jogged. I focused on the girl. She was familiar, attractive but trashy, with a pink bikini top and a Celtic tattoo around her navel. Suddenly I recognised her. Replacing the picture, I locked the front door and ran down the concrete walkway to find t
he Valiant turning into Barkly Street. I chased after it, but was too late. As the Valiant took the corner, the hooker stared back at me from the passenger seat. The girl in the picture.
7
WHEN I GOT HOME THE PHONE was ringing. I fumbled with the keys, trying to balance my briefcase in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. Inside, I tripped over Prince and damn near fell over as I snapped up the handset.
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of way is that to answer the phone?’
I smiled. It was Ella.
‘Ah, sorry, just got in and had to rush for it.’
‘Right. Are you decent?’
‘Indeed I am,’ I said. ‘Every week I make a donation of ten dollars to the tips jar at the Stokehouse. They have university students working there. My tips help pay for their study. I’d call that decent.’
‘I’d call it bribery. You’re just paying for quick service on busy nights. No long waits at the bar.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith. You’ll ruin my image, you pessimist.’
‘Realist, more like it. And I won’t ruin your image at all. You do a good enough job of that yourself. I bet at least one item of your clothing has a food or drink stain on it.’
I looked down at my clothes and felt embarrassed. Sweat had soaked through my polo shirt and for a second I thought about stripping off just to prove her wrong.
‘Am I right?’ she prodded.
‘Possibly.’
She laughed. ‘Well, fair enough. Before we crap on any longer, I’m standing out the front. We agreed to meet at seven o’clock. It’s now seven. Should I come up or stay out here looking like a desperate woman?’
‘I like the sound of desperate.’
‘Not funny, Rubens. It’s bloody hot out here.’
‘Well, get up here then!’
Ideally I would’ve preferred time to prepare for her arrival, but the massage and the search of Boyd’s apartment had drained my afternoon. I stored the beer and groceries in the fridge, turned on the cooler and opened the blinds. In the bathroom, I wiped the toilet seat, washed my hands and sprayed on cologne.