by Jean Bedford
‘Diana,’ he says, sitting, tasting the name. ‘Diana, you know it’s a while since I’ve been with a woman like this. I don’t even remember how to begin.’
‘Well,’ she says. ‘It’s up to you entirely. Whether I’m a woman or not, too.’
‘Is that why you’re dressed like that?’ He leans back. ‘Have you got any dope?’
‘Beside you.’
He turns his head and on the coffee table are three large joints in a silver ashtray. He picks one up and lights it. He inhales deeply and passes it to Diana. She takes a small puff and passes it back. ‘You smoke it. It only makes me sleepy,’ she says.
‘So, anything goes, right?’ he says, drawing in the sweet herb.
‘Well, short of physical damage, yes,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to go elsewhere for that.’
He chokes on his next inhalation. ‘No, that’s OK. I’m not into that stuff. To be absolutely truthful, I’m not sure what Iam into these days. Can we try a few different things?’
‘Of course,’ Diana says. She gets up and pours herself a straight vodka from the bottle on a sideboard. She lets it trickle down her throat while she watches him. He goes on smoking the joint, his eyes half closed. Finally he stubs it out. ‘I don’t know,’ he says lazily, half giggling. ‘I can’t think of a single thing I want to do.’
She downs what’s left in her glass with a single swallow and goes to the door. ‘Just wait a minute,’ she says. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He waits, absorbing the monotonous music until he finds it mildly irritating, then he lights another joint. He is halfway through it before she reappears. She has put on a short cropped blond wig and she is wearing a grey cotton school shirt with a bottle-green tie, above grey serge shorts. Her grey socks droop over bulky black laced boots. He starts laughing and he can’t stop. He chokes on smoke and laughter.
‘Is that what you think?’ he says. ‘Why not a nurse’s uniform? Or a cop’s?’
‘What doyou think?’ she asks, not at all put out by his amusement. She comes over to him and unbuttons her shirt. She presses his head to her breast. His laughter subsides, gradually, and he begins to suckle, making small, inarticulate sounds.
She takes the joint from his hand and puts it in the ashtray. She helps him off with his clothes. She pushes him back on the couch and takes him into her mouth. When he is hard, she rips open the fly on her shorts and straddles him, licking her fingers to moisten things further. When he is inside her, thrusting, his eyes widen in amazement. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he says. ‘Oh Christ, no. No.’
‘Shouldn’t I have worn something?’ he says later, vaguely, lying sprawled anyhow half off the couch, dazed and depleted.
‘Yes. Next time,’ she says. ‘I figured I wasn’t in much danger. You’re practically celibate, aren’t you Paddy?’
‘Practically, yes,’ he says, giggling again.
She stands up and takes off her shorts and shirt. ‘That’s it for tonight, dearie. You can have a shower if you want.’ She goes into the bedroom and re-emerges wearing a towelling bathrobe.
‘Holy hell,’ he says. ‘You don’t muck about, do you ... Diana?’
‘No,’ she says, her voice cool and teasing. ‘I don’t. Next time come with a few ideas of your own, OK?’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘I think I can do that. When is the next time?’
‘I’ll ring you,’ she says. ‘Don’t try to contact me, ever. That’s important, Paddy. Do you agree?’
‘Sure,’ he says, making for the bathroom. ‘Will it be soon? The next time?’
‘Oh yes, it’ll be soon. I promise.’ She hunches herself up in the armchair and pours another glass of vodka. ‘It will be very soon,’ she says to his back, half under her breath.
*
Sharon arrives at Noel’s flat in the early evening and they sit by the window with a glass of wine. ‘I thought it was dinner again,’ Sharon says. There are no smells of food, no evidence of any preparation.
‘I’ve ordered Chinese,’ Noel says. ‘For eight o’clock. Tony can’t get here before then.’
‘Did you have anything to do with getting me onto the investigation?’ Sharon asks, squinting at her, slightly defensive.
‘No. I was as surprised as you probably were. I thought he was pissed off at you for interfering. He was muttering to that effect, anyway. Seemed to think we were conspiring behind his back.’
‘That explains it then,’ Sharon relaxes. ‘He’s got me where he can keep an eye on me.’ But she can’t hide her gratification that Tony’s asked to have her seconded to the case. She sees it as a chance to move into more demanding work, perhaps into Detective Division. ‘He told the brass that he needed someone with first-hand experience of domestic violence. Mick says we could sue.’
Noel grins. ‘He would. So, anything new?’ The circumstantial evidence had turned up at the caravan at the coast, pat enough and careless enough to make Tony, at least, take her theory more seriously now. A brickie’s hammer, kept in a lean-to beside the caravan, still had Justine’s blood and hair on it. A sheet, soiled with the child’s vomit, was wadded into a plastic bag under a bench, and there were signs that someone, presumably Justine, had been kept in the van for some days.
Sharon frowns. ‘The higher-ups are hassling us to charge the foster parents. We’ve had them in since last night. Prosecutors’ says there’s enough evidence for a conviction. So far Tony’s holding them off on an actual arrest.’
Noel had seen the couple being taken in for questioning on the television news. They’d huddled under concealing coats, bundled from the unmarked into the police station at speed. The presenter had said in her falsely concerned voice that they were ‘assisting police in their enquiries’. She’d also picked up on Noel’s article about the statistics of child murder inside the family unit. Rafferty had been pleased. He wasn’t so pleased when she told him she didn’t have the full story yet.
‘Let it go this week,’ she’d told him. ‘The other papers’ll have egg on their faces next week, I promise.’
Now she wasn’t so sure. ‘What are they saying? The Jamisons, I mean?’
‘It’s their hammer, but it’s been missing for weeks. They don’t know how the sheet got there — Missus insists it’s not one of hers, and it’s true it doesn’t match any in the house, or the old flannelette ones they keep in the van. Not that that means anything — people always use cast-off, mismatched stuff in their holiday places.’ She takes a mouthful of wine, Noel waits.
‘Well? What else? Doyou think one of them did it?’
‘Jesus, Noel. If you hadn’t got me trying to think laterally, like you, I’d be betting my savings on it. They’re pretty convincing in their denials, but they’ve had a few weeks to get their stories straight. We’ve offered them both the chance to dob in the other and that’s no go. That’s one thing in their favour — often they crack at that point if they’re guilty. The other big thing in their favour is that no-one can put them there, at the van. They both clocked in for work every day, in Sydney. Of course, Prosecution would argue that it’s not a very long drive down to that part of the coast. They could have kept the kid there and visited her at night with no-one knowing.’
‘What do the Stanwell Park neighbours say?’
Sharon swills her wine round in the glass and leans back, closing her eyes. She is exhausted, having been up half the night observing the questioning of the Jamisons. ‘There aren’t any real neighbours,’ she says. ‘It’s a funny little cove with caravans and shacks, more Otford than Stanwell Park, and it’s mostly weekenders. No-one saw any lights or heard anything when theywere there. You can’t actually take your car down that far, so nobody would have noticed headlights or anything.’
‘What are they like?’ Noel asks. ‘The foster parents?’ Sharon opens her eyes again and immediately narrows them in anger. ‘Oh, I’d prefer them to go down for it, no question,’ she says. ‘They’re pretty much the scum of the earth. They’re into fostering for the
money and for the opportunity to indulge their nasty little sadistic habits. Hard to tell which takes priority.’
‘Is Justine the first kid they’ve had control of?’
‘No, there’ve been a few. I spent most of today with DOCS people, going through the files. Not a pretty story. One of the kids is grown up now — some enterprising lawyer should get hold of her and persuade her to bring a retrospective suit for abuse. There’s plenty of evidence there for that. I got the hospital records faxed over, as well.’
‘But they kept giving them kids to foster?’
‘Personnel in that department get replaced every few minutes, and no-one ever has the time or the inclination to check back through the case histories and make an assumption or two. If you’re on their books, you’re on their books. They could do with a fucking bomb under them.’
Noel hesitates, her hand holding the bottle in mid-air, about to top up their glasses.
‘What? Sharon says. ‘Had an inspiration? It’s about time for one, I think.’
Noel pours the wine and sits back, staring out at the city spread below them. ‘Hang on a minute. Something you said; it’s so obvious. Almost too obvious. Let me think it through.’ Sharon lies back in her chair again and has almost drowsed oil when Noel speaks.
‘The hospital,’ she says slowly. She can almost grasp where her thoughts are leading, and she doesn’t like it.
‘OK. The hospital,’ Sharon prompts her. ‘I can follow you so far. Which hospital?’
‘The Children’s Hospital. Both of them. The old one in Camperdown, and the new one, where is it?’
‘Westmead. Right out west. What about it?’
‘It’s the other common factor, isn’t it? Apart from there only being forensics? Where does all the evidence come from for the abuse history? Fragments of it are in police files, some of it’s in the abandoned labyrinths of DOCS. But every single one of these kids was admitted to hospital at least once.’
‘Well, it tends to happen,’ Sharon says patiently. ‘Abused children tend to need medical care.’
‘But Sharon, I know someone who’s worked at both hospitals. Someone who knew at least two of the kids I picked out.’ Now that she’s got to the end of her train of thought she’s appalled. ‘And he was questioned over Belinda Carey, too. He was a waiter in that wine bar she used to sneak off to.’ Sharon sits up, wide awake now. ‘What? Who?’
‘Listen Sharon, has Mick ever told you anything about Paddy Galen?’
‘Paddy? The ageing hippy with the sheepdog grin?’ Noel nods. ‘Well, not much. Just what you know — they were all at university together. And Paddy had a nervous breakdown or something and was in a loony bin for a while. He was supposed to be the most promising mind of his generation until they fried his brains with shock treatment. That’s all.Paddy?’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Noel says. She pulls her legs up into the chair and hugs them, resting her chin on her knees, her wine glass teetering in her dangling hand. ‘He’s a bit weird — lost, somehow. But I’ve never sensed anything violent in him.’ She is silent for a while as pieces lock into place. Paddy’s strangeness. His own history of abuse. The way he asked her all about the investigation and what the police thought.
‘That’s what everyone says,’ Sharon says.‘He was such a quiet boy; or:He was a good neighbour; or:He was so attentive to his poor old mum.’
‘Oh, hell, Sharon. He keeps really odd hours — has part-time jobs, comes in at dawn sometimes and sleeps all day. He’s a muscle-builder — fabulous physique, but, remember, I told you he doesn’t give off any sexual vibes?’ She laughs. ‘Why do I automatically assume that a body-builder could be a serial killer?’
‘Perfectly reasonable assumption,’ Sharon says. ‘It’s probably item three in the FBI’s profile sheets. Listen, we have to tell Tony all this. Even if it’s bullshit, it’s enough to warrant a closer look.’
‘Of course.’ Noel’s voice is bleak. ‘I like Paddy. I feelsorry for him.’
‘Calm down,’ Sharon says. ‘He’s not behind bars yet. There’s this tiny problem called sufficient grounds to get past first.’ She thinks. ‘Mind you, there’s enough grounds for suspicion already, I think. But there’ll have to be some real evidence to back it up.’
Noel’s reaction to this is peculiar. Her eyes widen and she nearly says something, then she loses the thought. She shakes her head. Something about evidence, she thinks. The word’s become an obsession with her. She can’t hold on to the almost-glimpse she had of something else, a frisson of wrongness. She lets her mind go blank and sips at her wine, but it doesn’t come to her.
*
Tony arrives full of energy and looking pleased with himself. ‘Where’s dinner?’ he says as he comes in the door.
‘Nice to see you, too, Tone,’ Noel says, kissing him. ‘Glad you could make it.’
He pokes his head into the living room. ‘Hi Sharon, how they hanging?’ He turns back to Noel, ‘Got any beer for a bloke?’
‘In the fridge,’ Noel says. ‘Jeez, I was just telling Sharon what a sensitive New Age guy you are under that King Kong exterior, too. Now you’ve blown it.’
‘Blew it years ago,’ Sharon says. ‘Hi, Shagga.’
He winces and gives Noel a swift look. She returns it blandly. He goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. The women laugh.
‘Reminds me of being at home with my fucking sisters,’ he mutters, coming back into the room. ‘Doesn’t matter what Herculean feats of investigative brilliance you’ve just pulled off, two women together can make you feel as if you’ve just shat your nappy.’
‘So, tell us,’ Noel says. ‘We’ve got something to run past you, too.’
‘Well, first the bad news.’ He plonks himself down on Noel’s chair and pats his knee, inviting her to sit there. She settles on the floor instead and rests her head against his legs. He takes a pull of his beer and goes on. ‘Full autopsy arrived this afternoon; nothing helpful. No scrapings, no semen — though there’s traces of lubricant again, from a condom. But it’s practically a household brand. Vaginally raped at or near the moment of death. The blow to the head might not have killed her instantly; it could have induced a coma, and that complicates things, apparently. Wound matches the hammer found at the van, but that’s not startling news — Blind Freddie could have told you that.’ He swallows another mouthful and waits.
‘Well, go on,’ Noel says, impatient with him. ‘What’s the good news?’
‘There’s an eye-witness,’ he says, playing with her hair, deliberately drawing out his story.
‘Where’;’ Sharon asks. ‘At the caravan?’
‘Nah. Sydney — Balmain. An abandoned goods yard, up for redevelopment. The night Justine went missing. The guy’s a hooker, it’s a gay beat, apparently — a new one on the local cops. He saw a little girl wander through, it surprised him. Then he saw someone come out of the shadows and take her hand. They talked for a little while and went off in the other direction.’
‘Man or woman?’ Sharon says.
‘Could be either, he reckons. Longish hair — that is, shoulder length. But jacket and pants.’ He looks at their faces. All right. I know it’s not much to go on, but it puts her here, in the city, not at fucking Otford in a caravan.’
‘But,’ Noel says, ‘she wasn’t found anywhere near Balmain. It was Ashfield. Why do you think it’s Justine? It could have been any kid, meeting her mother or father or her sister or brother. Anything.’
‘Because he recognised the description of her clothing we published. He saw the re-enactment of her coming home from school. Mind you, it’s taken him over a week to decide to let us know. The Jamisons live in Rozelle, too. It’s not too far for her to walk. It’s quite close to her school, in fact.’
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ Sharon says. ‘Something more definite?’
‘Yep,’ he looks smug and takes another swig of his beer. ‘We had guys out there combing the site this afternoon. We found h
er schoolbag; her name written nice and clear on her pencil case and her books. She must have shoved it down behind a post before she met whoever it was.’
‘That’s a bit odd,’ Noel says. ‘Why wouldn’t she take it with her, wherever she was going?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps they’d arranged to meet. Perhaps he’d told her he’d look after her from now on, and she thought she didn’t need all that shit any more. Jesus, Noel, you can’t have everything wrapped up for you.’ He empties the can and gets up. ‘Nothing in a tinnie, these days. Let me get another one, then you can tell me your bit.’
There’s a ring at the door and the food arrives. They busy themselves with bowls and forks and plastic containers. While they eat, Noel explains about Paddy and his connection to the hospital and two of the victims. Eventually they all sit back. ‘He’s got long hair, right?’ Tony says.
Noel nods. ‘He usually wears it in a pony-tail, but not always. I’ve seen him with it out. He’d look gender-ambiguous from a distance.’
‘Gender-ambiguous? That’s a new one. You mean he could be taken for either a man or a woman, right?’
Noel is irritated. ‘Fuck off. Stop pretending you’re a moron. The wind’ll change, and you’ll be stuck with it.’
Sharon wags a finger at them. ‘Now, now, children. Little birds in their nests agree.’ She spears the last satay prawn and swallows it, then rubs her stomach. ‘I’ve eaten far too much. So, Tony, what’s the next move?’
‘We’ll talk to Galen,’ he says. ‘Might as well do it now.’
‘He’ll be at work,’ Noel says. ‘At the kids’ hospital. He’s night watchman there. He gets back about seven a.m.’
‘It can wait till then,’ Tony says. ‘Got an alarm clock?’ He knows she has; she glares at him.
‘Well, I know when I’m a crowd,’ Sharon says, standing up. ‘Anything I should be doing in the morning, Tony?’