‘Berlin, wasn’t it? You two turn up like a couple of bad pennies. And just when the morning was starting to get interesting.’
‘I reckon it’s even more interesting now.’ Whitmore’s voice came from behind Berlin. Roberts saw Whitmore was holding the jack handle from the Dodge.
Without taking his eyes off the three men, Blue leaned down and picked up an offcut of galvanised-steel water pipe. It was about five feet long and he held it at waist height, like a rifle at the ready rather than a club. He’d boasted that he’d been good with a bayonet, Berlin recalled.
‘You want yours first or last, Sarge?’
‘What, me? I’m just along for the ride – this is a civilian matter. Pretend I’m not here.’
Blue was ready to parry if the policeman came at him. Sunlight through the open roof glinted on the freshly cut metal tip of the makeshift weapon. Not sharp like the point of a bayonet, but still nasty enough.
The second carpenter had picked up a hammer. Blue’s face was swollen, with welts that looked like fingernail marks. The other man had a black eye.
‘The girl do that to you last night?’
Blue nodded. ‘Bitch. I taught her a bloody lesson though. It was fun while it lasted. This is gunna be fun, too.’ He grinned and raised the steel pipe but then his body twisted awkwardly. ‘Ow! Jesus, fuck!’
He spun towards Rebecca, who had jammed her hatpin into his left buttock. Berlin swung his lump of wood down hard, connecting with the man’s right hand where it held the water pipe. He could hear the crunch of bone as Blue’s knuckles were crushed between wood and steel. Roberts threw his club at the second man, who ducked. The throw was followed by a crash tackle that took both men out through the half-built wall of the hut.
Berlin knew Blue was still dangerous even with one hand out of action, so he swung the wood again, low this time, catching him on the left side of the knee. Blue’s leg collapsed under him and he went down hard.
Berlin tossed the piece of metal pipe out the window. Roberts had the second man face-down on the ground as he fitted handcuffs. He grinned at Berlin and gave him the thumbs up. ‘He was right, that was fun.’
‘You want to pace yourself, Bob,’ Whitmore said. ‘You’ve got that big match on Saturday, remember.’
Berlin was breathing hard, his heart thumping. Without Rebecca’s hatpin they would all have been in serious trouble.
Blue was on his back, grimacing again and cursing softly.
‘Tell me about the girl.’
‘Fucking tart. I paid my money and then she gets all uppity about what she will and won’t do. Bugger that. The boys almost tore that dump apart before the cops showed up.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Knocking shop over the border.’ It was Rebecca speaking. ‘They got stuck into the grog in town last night and picked up some tarts. When it got ugly around two in the morning the Albury cops showed up and piled on.’
Berlin looked down at Blue. ‘That how it happened?’
‘Sure, if she says so. Stumpy and the other blokes are in hospital. Couple of cops, too. Those Albury boys are a touch sensitive. Me and Thommo here got taken back to the cells for bit of a belting. Chucked us out first thing this morning without any breakfast even.’
Outside Thommo was propped up against the front wheel of the Dodge, in the shade. Roberts was examining a tear in the right shoulder of his tunic.
‘Cop this, Mr Berlin, the bugger ripped my sleeve. Sergeant Corrigan isn’t going to be happy.’
‘Take the handcuffs off him, Roberts, they didn’t kill the Lee girl.’
Roberts stood up. ‘What about the robberies?’
‘Not last night’s – they were indisposed. And the bikes are wrong. Take a look. They’re ex-military alright, but one’s a British BSA and the other one’s a Yank Indian.’
Roberts pulled Thommo to his feet and the man moaned. ‘Your mate’s dislocated my bloody shoulder.’
‘Tough.’ Berlin turned to Rebecca. ‘And what the hell were you doing out here?’
‘I went to use the darkroom at the Border Mail office in Albury, to develop those pictures for you. They were talking about the punch-up the night before so I thought I’d take a quick run out here to get some details and see if there was a story in it.’
‘All by yourself?’
‘I had my hatpin.’
‘Oh, that’s alright then.’
‘Hey, don’t you start having a go at the lady’s hatpin, Charlie,’ Whitmore said. ‘Damned thing saved your bacon.’
FORTY-THREE
After dropping Whitmore back at Bandiana, Berlin’s next stop was Cec Champion’s place. They followed South Street, the road beside the railway line that the gang had used for their getaway, turning right just before they got to the creek and the trestle bridge. Dick Street was really a muddy track, but on either side of the road there were new house allotments.
Roberts stopped the car outside a dilapidated asbestos-sheet house painted grey. Berlin wondered if the paint had once been destined for a battleship. The rusted wire gate squealed loudly on its hinges when Roberts pushed it open. The two men picked their way carefully down a muddy, overgrown path littered with junk. Berlin tried to keep clear of the worst of it.
‘Nice place Cec has here.’
‘Used to be better, I’ve seen photos from before. Back when Kenny and his brother and his mum and dad all lived here. She had the garden looking real nice, Kenny’s mum. Mr Champion started letting it all go to hell after she died and when Kenny’s brother went missing that pretty well finished him off.’
There was a tin billy can sitting in the sun on the verandah step. Berlin bent down and picked it up. The milko must have done this part of his rounds before finding the girl. The metal was warm and the milk inside it would probably be on the turn. He crossed the verandah, carefully avoiding several broken planks, and hammered on the door. It took a lot of hammering before Cec Champion opened the door. The fireman was barefoot, unshaven and wearing dirty striped pyjamas. He squinted at the man standing on his doorstep.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m DC Berlin. I think you know Constable Roberts.’
He stared at Roberts for a moment and then looked past him down the pathway to the street. ‘Hello, Bob. Kenny with you?’
‘Hello, Mr Champion. No, Kenny’s not with us. I’m here for work. There’s been a murder.’
‘Struth, a murder. Who got killed, Bob?’
‘That Chinese girl, Jenny Lee. You know, her parents run the grocery down by the railway gates.’
Champion nodded his head slowly. ‘That’s too bad. You want to come in for a cup of tea, Bob? Who’s this feller?’
‘This is DC Berlin, up from Melbourne.’
‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?’
‘That’s right, you almost ran us down in the loco yards on the day of the robbery.’
‘Any bastard gets hit by a train deserves it, or bloody wants it. Not as though them damn locos don’t make enough noise. I think I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I was in the pub last Friday night as well, Mr Champion. You remember that?’
Champion shook his head. ‘Memory’s getting a bit fuzzy. But you’re a copper and if you say you were there then I suppose you were. That cleared things up for you?’
‘You go out anywhere late last night or early this morning?’
‘I think I came straight home after my shift. Might have gone for a drink first, can’t remember. That sound right, Bob? Kenny’s not with you?’
Berlin handed Champion the billy can. ‘No, Kenny’s not with us, and we won’t be staying for that cup of tea. Here’s your milk. Might have got a bit warm.’
‘You’ll tell Kenny to come see me sometime, eh, Bob? I can’t find his mum’s engagement ring. He might remember where I put it.’
The gate squealed again as Roberts closed it behind them. Berlin had just opened the passenger
door when he heard a voice.
‘What’s a bloody can of oil cost, you reckon?’
He looked across the street towards a substantial brick house set back on a low rise. There were lace curtains in the windows and well-kept fruit trees in the garden. A man was leaning on the wooden picket fence watching them. He was about sixty, wearing a straw hat and overalls. Berlin crossed the muddy road, avoiding the bigger puddles.
‘Sorry, I missed that.’
The man was wearing gardening gloves and had a pair of secateurs in his right hand. ‘I said, what’s a bloody can of oil cost?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Champion’s bloody gate. Squirt of oil is all it needs. Man’s got no consideration for his neighbours. Starts early and comes home late all hours. Bad enough having trains down the end of the street without his bloody gate. And that place is a disgrace.’
‘You heard the gate last night?’
‘Course I heard it. A man’s not deaf, worse luck. Two soldiers brought him home, drunk as usual. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Totally inconsiderate.’
‘And after they left?’
‘Bloody milkman woke me and then nothing until you two showed up just now. You’re police, right? Can’t you do something about it?’
Berlin walked across the road to the car. He opened the passenger door then looked back towards the brick house. ‘You got a can of oil about the house, by any chance?’
‘Of course, out in the shed. Why?’
‘No reason, just asking.’
FORTY-FOUR
Rebecca came to Berlin’s room around ten, slipping quickly out of her clothes and into his bed. A small fire had been burning in the grate when he’d come up to the room and there were flowers in a vase and fresh sheets on the bed. Vern must have told Lily about the previous night, he guessed. And Lily obviously had a different point of view to her husband.
There was something about this evening with Rebecca that was different from last time. After they made love she slumped down beside him, gasping, sweat beading on her forehead and between her breasts. Berlin felt a strange electrical energy surrounding them both, cocooning them, not dangerous but disconcertingly protective. He thought of the blue crackling light of St Elmo’s fire, the static electricity he had sometimes seen dancing on the windscreen of the Lancaster as they droned towards their target. And this time when he’d looked across the room into the empty corner there was no one there.
‘That was bloody stupid, you know.’
‘You’re such a sweet talker, Charlie.’
‘You seem to go looking for trouble.’
‘You mean right now, or this morning?’
Berlin realised he wasn’t sure himself. ‘A bloody hatpin?’
‘They taught us how to fire Owen guns in the WAAFs but I couldn’t get my hands on one at short notice.’
He felt the soft fullness of her breasts on his chest and her pubic hair brushing his thigh as she reached across him for a cigarette, disturbingly casual in her nakedness. She lit the cigarette, took a drag and offered it to him. When he shook his head, she stubbed it out in the ashtray, slid back down next to him and put her chin on his chest.
‘Tell me a secret, Charlie.’ She was looking right into his eyes.
He put a finger to her lips and she kissed it. Why had she asked him that? His secrets were locked away down deep in a place that he didn’t want to enter. ‘You first.’
Berlin thought for a moment that she was angry but there was something else in her eyes. He waited.
‘I lied, Charlie.’
‘I’m a policeman, everybody lies to the police.’
‘When I said there was no one special, I mean.’
Berlin was surprised at his disappointment. Was it the lie or was it the man, he wondered. ‘Who is he?’
‘An American marine, a lieutenant.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Tarawa.’
‘Is that in America?’
‘It’s an island, in the Pacific.’
‘He’s not coming back?’
She shook her head.
Berlin was going to say he was sorry but decided it wasn’t enough. So he said nothing.
‘Do you have a secret, Charlie?’
He paused. ‘There was a girl, in Poland, and she … she was Jewish, I think, I mean she must have been.’
Rebecca understood it was her turn to wait. Berlin was staring across the room into a corner. She turned to look too but there was only emptiness.
‘I wanted to help her … but … there was nothing …’
After a minute of silence he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think I want to play this game any more.’
‘Charlie, if I can make it better I’ll do anything.’
He stared at her.
‘Anything, Charlie,’ she repeated, ‘I’ll do anything you want. Just ask me, just ask me right now. Anything.’
Charlie Berlin looked down at the incredible body of the woman sprawled on top of him in this bleak Wodonga hotel room. To his utter consternation he realised he couldn’t think of a single damn thing he wanted her to do. And he knew nothing in the world was ever going to make it better.
FORTY-FIVE
Roberts and Berlin were sitting in a booth at Dempster’s when Rebecca walked in. It was a little after half-past ten.
‘They said at the police station you’d be here. Looks like you boys are turning this place into your office.’
Berlin moved over in the booth and she sat down next to him.
‘It’s got a lot going for it,’ he said. ‘More room and less eavesdropping than the police station, you don’t have to make your own tea and they serve a mean mixed grill. What more could a bloke want from his workplace?’
‘Can I order you a cup of tea, Miss Green?’ Roberts offered.
‘That would be nice, thanks, Bob.’
While the constable was at the counter, Rebecca studied Berlin’s face.
‘You’re looking rested, Charlie. Must have had a good night’s sleep.’ She squeezed his thigh under the table and he jumped, spilling his tea. ‘So where do we stand, DC Berlin?’
Berlin poured tea from the saucer back into his cup. ‘If by “we” you mean the police, investigations are continuing. Details will be made public when we deem appropriate.’
‘C’mon, Charlie, help a girl out.’ She squeezed his thigh again.
Roberts sat down. ‘Tea’ll be here in a tick, Miss Green. They’re a bit behind this morning.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I was just asking DC Berlin here how it was all going.’
‘You want to give Miss Green a rundown, Roberts?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Alright, Constable Roberts. What can you tell me?’
‘Not too much I’m afraid, Miss Green. As far as the Lee girl goes, Kenny’s dad has a pretty solid alibi. And I checked up on Maisie and the salesman, Mr Berlin. That Ford he was driving was still parked outside her place at nine on Tuesday morning and she said he’d been in all night.’
Berlin glanced at Rebecca, his eyes narrowing.
She grinned. ‘I wasn’t going to say a word, Charlie, trust me. So what about the robberies?’
‘We’re in pretty much the same shape there too, I’m afraid. Since we know for sure it wasn’t those carpenters from Bonegilla tooling around on their motorbikes on Tuesday morning we seem to be up a creek.’
‘And short of a paddle?’
Berlin had noticed the broad shoulders of the man in the booth behind Roberts twisting, as if he wanted to hear more of the conversation. Now he turned halfway around.
‘You people after a bunch of blokes playing silly buggers on motorcycles early yesterday morning?’
The man was wearing a rumpled white shirt with a frayed and oil-stained tweed jacket. He had a fork grasped in his right hand with half a fat pork sausage impaled on the tines. From the squint of his eyes and his grimy hands and black-rimmed fingernails, Berlin picked h
im as a truckie.
‘You know something?’
‘Dunno, mate, maybe. I was bringing a truckload of cattle down to the saleyards early and the bloody bastards nearly ran me off the road on my way in to town.’ He glanced at Rebecca. ‘S’cuse my French, Miss.’
‘Apology accepted.’
‘When and where was this?’ Berlin asked.
‘Round about sunrise. It was just a bit past the Bandiana army camp, down the side road near that old footy oval out there.’
‘You know anything about this place, Roberts?’
‘Of course. Extra sports ground the army scratched out for the camp when it was first expanded.’
The truck driver nodded. ‘That’s the place.’
‘Construction people knocked up a couple of wooden sheds for changing rooms and such early in the war,’ Roberts continued. ‘Hardly ever gets used any more but we’ve played there a few times when our home ground is out of action.’
Berlin turned back to the truckie. ‘So what can you tell me about these blokes? The ones on the bikes.’
‘Not a hell of a lot, I’m afraid. Couldn’t really see too much, the sun was in my eyes and they were coming right at me. Two or three bikes at least I think, with sidecars. Ran me right off the road into the bloody gravel. By the time I got my wheels back on the tarmac and the dust settled, the bastards had completely disappeared.’
‘Thanks,’ Berlin said, ‘that’s a big help. Can I buy you another cup of tea?’
‘Okay, strong, with milk.’
Roberts ordered the tea at the counter and glanced at his watch when he came back to the booth.
‘Do you need the car for a bit? Sergeant Corrigan wanted me to run his brother’s wife and bub over to the baby health clinic at Albury Hospital. The bus doesn’t run all that often and Vern can’t drive, you know, because of his arm.’
‘Something wrong with the kid?’
‘It’s just a check-up but there’s polio and scarlet fever and whooping cough about, so you have to be careful.’
Rebecca had her head down, scribbling something in a notebook.
‘I don’t suppose you know how to get to this footy oval, do you, Rebecca?’
The Diggers Rest Hotel Page 17