She was naked, just like the other girls in the photographs. The black tape over the eyes and mouth was the same as well. So were the cuts. Scabs had formed on the older cuts. Berlin wondered if there was a pattern, some sort of design to the position of the cuts. If there was it wasn’t obvious. The cuts were mostly above her breasts, with others below.
He tried to speak gently. ‘I want you to listen to me carefully, Gudrun. I’m a policeman, my name is Berlin and I’m here to get you out of this and back home to your dad.’
The girl whimpered again and lifted her head.
‘I’m going to have to go away for a little while and get some help and some tools to get you free.’
Gudrun moaned and shook her head.
‘You’re going to have to trust me. I’ll be back, I promise. I’m going to make a phone call and see if I can find some tools upstairs. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’
The girl moaned again and began shaking her head furiously from side to side.
Berlin reached forward to see if he could get the tape away from her mouth without hurting her too much. As he did, a drop of blood trickled down her right breast. It reached her nipple, hanging there on the tip, glistening and shiny, looking almost black in the dull blue light. Fresh blood from a still-fresh cut. How fresh? Half an hour, five minutes? Jesus!
Berlin swung round, lifting up the wrecking bar. His left foot slipped on something soft and yielding and he fell sideways, a dead girl saving his life. There were sparks when the edge of the dagger clipped the middle of the wrecking bar and skipped off. The force of the downward sweep of the dagger pushed the iron bar sharply back into Berlin’s face, catching him on the cheekbone, just under his left eye.
Berlin was on his back now, the stairs and trapdoor entrance to his left, the girl to his right and Tim Egan standing above him, holding the dagger high in a two-handed grip, ready to drive it down into Berlin’s chest. Berlin swung his left leg up, catching Egan in the groin. Egan made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan but somehow managed to stay on his feet. Berlin swung the wrecking bar but his position made it difficult to get any power behind it. Egan kicked at the bar and Berlin lost his grip on it.
Egan dropped to his knees, straddling Berlin across the hips. The dagger was above his head now, poised for a final downward strike.
‘Time to die.’ He made the statement almost casually.
‘Flash, Charlie!’
Berlin heard Rebecca’s voice somewhere above him, from the direction of the trapdoor. He caught a quick glimpse of Tim Egan’s head swinging up and towards the trapdoor as he turned his own head away and tightly closed his eyes.
In the enclosed space of the cellar the light from the flashbulb was even brighter than in the vast black expanse of the cathedral. Even with his face turned away and his eyes shut tight Berlin’s eyelids glowed pink, almost white. He heard the crackle as the glass envelope of the flashbulb fractured in the intense heat and the plastic outer coating melted. The sound and the light faded as quickly as they had come and Berlin swung his head back, eyes open now.
Egan still had his head up, facing the direction of the trapdoor. He was swaying slightly to the left, disoriented and temporarily blinded. Berlin knew he only had seconds. He slammed his left fist as hard as he could into Egan’s solar plexus and then swung his left leg and hip up, tipping the man off him. He grabbed his right wrist and Egan began reaching blindly with his left hand, trying to place Berlin, find a target, find a spot to put his dagger. They tumbled over and now Berlin was on top. Egan’s eyes were wide open and Berlin could see the tiny pupils, like little pinpricks, already beginning to readjust to the dim light.
Egan’s left-hand found Berlin’s face, tearing at it. Berlin knew he couldn’t let the man get at his throat. He opened his mouth and bit down hard, tasting flesh, feeling bones give under his bite and then there was the taste of blood. Egan pulled his hand away without making a sound and swung his hips upwards suddenly. The two men were on their side now, Berlin with his hands on Egan’s left wrist, the dagger between them. Egan’s bloody left hand was grasping at the ground behind him, hunting for the crowbar. Berlin could feel the adrenaline kick in but he knew he was years older than Egan and would be the first to run out of energy.
Egan gave up his search for the crowbar and tried to get back onto Berlin, both hands on the dagger now. Berlin resisted with every ounce of energy he had and then suddenly gave way and rolled back. Egan, on top but momentarily off-balance and confused, took one hand from the dagger to steady himself. Berlin used his own two-handed grip to force the point of the double-edged blade away from himself and towards the middle of the other man’s chest. He gritted his teeth and shoved upwards as hard as he could.
Egan gave a short, sharp gasp, then exhaled slowly. Berlin’s hands were wrapped around the man’s fist, hard up against his chest. They were wet, Egan’s blood blue-black as it dripped off the clenched fists and down onto Berlin’s chest. Egan made one more gasp, then slumped as if he was going to sleep. He lay against Berlin’s cheek, mouth next to his ear, and Berlin heard one last, weak exhalation before the man went limp on top of him.
FORTY-FIVE
‘Jesus, mate, you’ve either got a pretty good tolerance for pain or that’s someone else’s blood. It didn’t all come from the gash on your cheek, that’s for sure.’
Berlin looked at the closest of the two ambulance officers, the one who had spoken, then down at the front of his shirt and trousers. There was no way in hell any of that blood was going to come out of his clothing, no matter how long he soaked it. The blood was already starting to harden and felt strange against his skin, but at least it was better than the warm, sticky wetness that had washed over him earlier.
‘It’s back that way.’ He was standing in the middle of the photographic studio area and he indicated the direction of the darkroom with a tilt of his head. ‘You’ll have to go down through a trapdoor and it’s a bit narrow so I wouldn’t bother with a stretcher. You should be able to walk the girl out after they get the chains off her. They’re using bolt cutters. And there are quite a few bodies down there as well. It’s all a bit grim.’
The ambulance officer nodded. ‘I’ve been around the traps, mate, I reckon me and Merv here can probably handle it. She’ll be apples.’
Poor bloody you, Berlin thought to himself. The day I say I can handle something like that is the day I pack it in for good.
‘Go gently with the girl. There’s a lady down there with her, listen to her.’
‘We’ll take good care of the girl, don’t you worry. She’ll be right, mate.’
No she fucking won’t, Berlin wanted to scream. How could anyone ever be right after going through something like that?
They brought Gudrun up five minutes later. The girl was shaking under the blanket they had wrapped around her shoulders. Rebecca walked beside her, holding her hand and murmuring in her ear. The ambulance officer who had spoken to Berlin was white-faced and there were flecks of something on the corner of his mouth and on his chin, his dinner probably. He glanced at Berlin for a second and then turned his eyes away.
Berlin followed them out the front door of the studio, watching from the landing as they slowly made their way down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. It was raining again, just sprinkling really, and the flashing blue lights on a dozen or so police vans reflected off the wet black surface of the roadway. The press and TV people were being kept back across the other side of the road behind a police cordon. Berlin recognised Tony Selden amongst a group of detectives and uniformed senior officers. Selden seemed confused and when he spoke to the other officers they shook their heads.
The ambulance turned left out of the driveway with just the red lights flashing. A dozen or so reporters, press photographers and TV news cameramen broke through the police cordon and chased after it, looking for the words, for the photograph or the flickering moment of film that would sum up the horror and illustrate a headline
or lead into a TV news bulletin.
Berlin stood on the landing, looking down on the flashing blue lights and then up towards the trees on the median strip, then past them to the park and the lake lost in the darkness. He tried to imagine Melinda Marquet, trapped in the blackness of her prison on a Sunday night, hearing the electric lock click open, not knowing it was a power failure and not her torturer. How long did she wait in silence and terror for the cold touch of the knife before finally realising that no one was there, no one was coming, at least not then.
She had slipped the ropes somehow, despite her terror, pulled off the blindfold and gag, crawled up the stairs and pushed the unlocked trapdoor aside. In the darkness she had somehow found her way to the studio’s front door and smashed it open, not feeling or probably just ignoring the pain in her shattered shoulder. God knows she had already endured enough pain before that moment.
Had she stood where he was standing and hesitated? Berlin wondered. The street and the buildings around the studio would have been in darkness from the power failure. In the distance, past the park, Berlin could see the yellow glow that was Fitzroy Street and St Kilda. Did the glow of the street lights and neon signs remind her of the city lights on the horizon from the old schoolhouse in Melton? For whatever reason that was where she had headed, naked, running out of the darkness and towards the safety of the warm yellow light.
She must have followed the edge of the lake through the darkness, almost making it to that safety before stumbling into the path of a driver who had braked hard but hadn’t had time to swerve and miss her. For reasons they would never know he’d made the time to toss her into the water. In her nakedness had he perhaps taken her for just another St Kilda junkie whore on the run from a pimp or a punter or a dealer? Whoever it was they had callously dumped her in the lake like just so much of the rubbish that filled the St Kilda streets.
FORTY-SIX
Out on Albert Road a uniformed constable told him they had taken Rebecca and the girl over to the Alfred Hospital. The young copper kept looking away from Berlin’s battered face and his blood-matted clothes and hair. A repeated swallowing motion told Berlin the lad was working very hard at keeping his dinner down. The hospital was off St Kilda Road and a fair distance away, so Berlin organised a ride across in a divisional van. He threw Rebecca’s car keys to the young constable and told him to follow the van to the hospital. He didn’t want to get any of Egan’s blood on the Mini’s leather seats. The vinyl seats in the divvy van would be easier to clean, and thank God he wouldn’t be the one doing it.
Gerhardt Scheiner’s gold Cadillac was blocking the entrance driveway when they arrived at the hospital ten minutes later. The vehicle’s doors were open, headlights on, engine running. It was probably safe enough though, Berlin decided, given the number of uniformed coppers milling about. Eventually someone would wake up to themselves and move it out of the way. They must have phoned Scheiner as soon as it was confirmed that the girl had been found alive. It was a fair run in from Brighton but given the time of night and quite possibly a police escort, Scheiner had made excellent time. Berlin knew that if it had been his daughter he would have run every red light with his headlights on high beam and a hand pressed down hard on the horn.
His face was aching now, and the ache made him forget about how much he hated the look and the smell of hospitals. All he could smell was blood, the blood on his face and on his clothes. Casualty was full of small groups of doctors, nurses, coppers, ambulance officers and reporters and photographers. There was a low murmur of conversation that stopped dead as he walked in. One of the press pack lifted up a camera.
‘If anyone takes a photograph I swear to God I will fucking kill them right here and now.’
His voice was soft, his tone conversational, the threat clear and succinct. The photographer lowered the camera down to his side very slowly, warily, as if afraid of suddenly spooking a wild animal. A young nurse was beside Berlin, her hand on his left elbow. She spoke very gently. Was she a country girl? he wondered. Lots of nurses were country girls, he knew, drawn to the city for a different sort of life, girls from big families who were raised to caring for younger siblings and used to the sight of blood because that was all part of country life. She guided him through the silent mob, down a fluorescent-lit corridor to an empty examination room with a bed hidden behind a curtain and Berlin knew he was finally safe.
He had stripped naked there, refusing to have the doctors come near him until he’d taken a shower. Blood came out of clothes best in cold water, and it might be the same for skin. He stood naked under an icy spray for five minutes, not feeling a thing. Then he ran the water hot and used a coarse-bristled scrubbing brush and a bar of soap with an antiseptic smell. He watched the water at his feet swirling round and round the drain until it ran clear and clean and then he washed himself some more.
After the shower he awkwardly towelled himself dry, feeling the pain in his torn and bruised muscles. He wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and then wished he hadn’t. He needed a shave, the antiseptic soap had left his hair looking thick and matted and the nasty bruise under his left eye was spreading.
‘Finally seen the light have you, Charlie?’
Rebecca was in the doorway. While he was washing away the horror they had taken his bloodied suit and shirt and tie to the hospital incinerator. A male nurse had rummaged through enough staff lockers to find him a flannel shirt, some well-worn trousers, a pair of felt slippers and a St Kilda football jumper. St Kilda was Rebecca’s team.
‘It was this or Carlton and you know I wouldn’t be seen dead in Carlton colours.’
She smiled at his joke and beyond the smile he saw the pain and the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She gently stroked his already swelling left cheek and waited by his side while the doctor examined him. The injury to the cheek was a worry but it was finally decided there was little chance of it actually being fractured, though they would investigate more in a few days. It didn’t need stitching up, which was good. He had almost certainly strained and possibly torn muscles and tendons in the struggle, the doctor said, and some heavy bruising was beginning to show. There would be more, and more pain, but apart from that he was in surprisingly good shape. Fighting fit, all things considered, was the doctor’s final pronouncement, but Berlin didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything.
The doctor handed him a dozen pills in a small plastic container. ‘You can have a rest in here until you feel ready to go home, if you like. Take two of these and you’ll sleep like a baby, probably the best thing for you.’
Berlin took the offered pills to be polite.
When the doctor was gone Rebecca produced a comb and ran it through his hair. Scheiner had been waiting when the girl came in, she told him, and he and Gudrun had been whisked away to a private room almost immediately. That was the last she had seen of either of them.
Bob Roberts showed up ten minutes later. He pulled the cubicle curtain aside and the smile on his face faded when he saw Berlin sitting on the metal-framed hospital bed next to Rebecca.
‘Jesus, Charlie, they told me you were okay out the front but you look like a hatful of dog’s arseholes.’
‘Thanks, Bob, but I don’t even feel that good.’
Roberts leaned in. ‘He break your cheekbone under that cut? We might have matching scars.’
Rebecca slid off the bed, trying not to jar it. ‘Most likely nothing more than a bad bruise, but we might get it X-rayed later on. I’m going to see if I can rustle up a cup of tea for Charlie. You want something?’
Roberts shook his head. ‘I’m good. People are saying you saved Charlie’s life, something about a flashgun.’
‘She makes a habit of it, Bob. That’s why I like having her around.’
Rebecca gave him a hug and he made an effort to hide the pain but failed.
‘Sorry, guess I’ll have to handle you with kid gloves for a while. But I draw the line at breakfast in bed. I’ll be back as quick as
I can.’
Roberts found a chair and pulled it next to the bed. ‘You did it, Charlie, you found her and you found her alive.’
‘We should have found her sooner, we missed things. Derek said Egan wanted to be just like him, remember? He must have seen Egan at dances with a camera and flash, chatting up the girls, looking for the shy ones or the lonely, trusting ones like Gudrun.’
‘You can’t blame yourself for that, Charlie.’
Who should I blame then? Berlin asked himself, remembering Gerhardt Scheiner’s comment on Monday morning. Good God, was that really only four days ago?
‘I guess after they fingerprint Egan’s body they might get some evidence proving he stopped by Derek’s flat with those photographs of the missing girls and that bottle of rotgut.’
Berlin shook his head. ‘He was too careful for that, but it doesn’t matter now, does it?’
‘I suppose not. But the girl is safe and you’re safe and looking like a bit of a hero.’ He paused. ‘Apart from the clothes, that is.’ He looked at Berlin’s football jumper and slowly shook his head. ‘Bloody St Kilda, really? That is desperate, mate.’
‘Remember our chat in the car on Monday morning on Honeysuckle Drive, Bob? About who would get the credit if it all panned out? This was your show, wasn’t it?’
‘Right now, Charlie, things are a wee bit complicated. People in high places are a bit nervous it seems. Newspaper editorials about the premier might have to be rewritten and the word is some of the crime inquiry initial recommendations will be softened a bit. Everyone loves a winner but in my case it might be a while before we see how things shake out. I’ve made some phone calls but people are a little slow in getting back to me. At the moment I think I might be a bit light on for friends.’
St Kilda Blues Page 29