The Disappearances of Madalena Grimaldi

by Marele Day

  ‘Yes, doctor, perfectly all right.’ Beryl skulked away down the corridor.

  ‘What a morning! I’ve got to get a cup of coffee, do you mind?’ I thought Sofia would open a cupboard, drag out a jar of Nescafe, but no. She meant a takeaway coffee from up the street. She led me out the back way, past the delivery dock. ‘Beryl wasn’t annoying you, was she?’ Sofia asked when we were outside.

  ‘Only mildly. What does she do?’

  ‘She does the laundry.’

  Sofia took me up to a tiny cafe on a corner. There were hessian sacks on the floor opened to reveal their cargo of coffee beans. There was coffee from Eastern Europe, from Italy, from Brazil and Nicaragua. The place smelled like heaven.

  ‘Cappuccino to go,’ she told the woman behind the counter.

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ I said.

  We were on our way back when Carol walked round the corner. ‘Well, well,’ Carol greeted us. We looked at each other quizzically, each wondering what the other was doing there but, in the presence of a third person, too cool to ask. I was about to introduce her to Sofia but they seemed to know each other already.

  ‘You haven’t brought me more bad news, have you?’ Sofia said to Carol.

  ‘Not today. I’ve got business in the other half of the building. See you later.’

  ‘You know Inspector Rawlins?’ Sofia sounded surprised.

  ‘Quite well,’ I said.

  Sofia dropped me at the common room then disappeared. She came back with a folder under her arm, and a moustache of foam from the cappuccino, which she deftly licked away. She laid the folder down on the table and took out something that looked like an X-ray.

  ‘This is an autoradiograph,’ she announced. ‘DNA analysis. People call it genetic fingerprinting but it’s more akin to blood grouping, a highly specific and individualised blood grouping. Do you know how it works?’

  I had the feeling she was going to tell me anyway, whether I knew or not.

  ‘The testing involves a polymerase chain reaction. The polymers show up like this,’ she said, holding the autoradiograph up for me to see. I saw vertical blotches of varying length, similar to the barcode on goods at the supermarket. ‘This is your DNA patterning.’

  She took a second autoradiograph from the folder. ‘And this is … well, analysis of the blood sample from the body identified as Guy Francis Valentine.’ She superimposed one DNA patterning on the other. ‘You can see for yourself, not the remotest resemblance. To check, we also tested the histology sample.’ Yet another autoradiograph came out of the folder. ‘These two are identical—the tissue and the blood specimen from 1985. They’re definitely from the same body. But neither of them remotely resembles your patterning. I don’t know who that person was, but he’s not your father. There’s no way the two of you are related by blood.’

  Even though I had gone over this possibility in my mind, told myself this was the only logical explanation, it was still a shock to actually hear someone say ‘He’s not your father.’ The sentence seemed to echo like a sonic boom.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sofia sympathetically. ‘I hope I haven’t upset you.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how I feel. It’s not as if I wasn’t anticipating this result. I wouldn’t have asked you to do all this otherwise. Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Not a problem. If there’s anything else, just let me know. I’ll take you out the back way,’ said Sofia. ‘It’s quicker.’

  She accompanied me as far as the delivery bay. There was now an ambulance in the dock. Two men were lifting out a body on a stretcher. There was a sheet running the length of the stretcher but the corpse beneath it was small. A child.

  ‘Sofia, there is something else.’ I showed her the photo of Madalena. ‘Her name’s Madalena Grimaldi.’ I didn’t have to explain any further.

  ‘No,’ Sofia shook her head. ‘In fact in the last few weeks there’ve been no unidentifieds at all.’ She handed me back the photo. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Claudia!’

  It was Carol. I must have walked straight past her car without realising it.

  ‘He’s not my father.’ I explained about the DNA testing. ‘Not even a remote connection.’

  ‘Claudia,’ Carol said with gravity, ‘I know this is really an outside chance but it’s something you should at least consider.’ She paused, as if it was something she didn’t even want to consider herself. ‘Is it possible that Mina … I mean, perhaps the person she was married to wasn’t your father. These things happen.’

  I knew the answer to it without even thinking.

  ‘No. Definitely no.’ If there was any way she could have disavowed him she would have. ‘Are you sure you’re not just denying the possibility? I’ve seen that photo you have of him, there’s no family resemblance.’

  ‘So?’ I didn’t look like Guy but David did. The short robust build, the freckles.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks Carol.’

  ‘I’m off to Melbourne for a couple of days. We’ll have a game of pool when I come back, OK?’

  I watched her drive off then continued on to my own car.

  But I didn’t go home. At the Darling Street-Victoria Road intersection, instead of turning right into Balmain I went straight ahead. Before the Iron Cove Bridge I turned left and drove down one of the quiet backstreets. Then I got out and walked. Across the oval to the waterline of Iron Cove. Not fast enough to call it power walking but briskly. My intention wasn’t to exercise, it was to think. The left-right movement, the coordination of limbs. Walking balances the brain.

  The body found at Rushcutters Bay on Anzac Day, 1985, was not my father. I would probably never know who that body belonged to. The chances of it being someone else with the name Guy Francis Valentine were one in a million. I was almost sure that the man who died that night had somehow ended up with my father’s Social Security form. Hindley had botched it. Either he’d not checked it out thoroughly or he’d somehow got hold of the form and planted it on the body. To save himself the paperwork. I’m sure he’d even managed to justify it to himself. One dero is the same as the next, why not save the taxpayer some money? Conveniently, the Report of Death to the Coroner was missing, the body was cremated. No way of checking this little misdemeanour.

  So if my father wasn’t in the wall at Rookwood Crematorium, where was he? Was he buried somewhere else, under someone else’s name? Or was he still alive?

  I had passed through the quiet gardens of Rozelle Hospital and was walking beside the traffic roaring along Henley Marine Drive. There were a few other walkers and joggers around, even though it was now midday and the day was hot.

  Off the road now and on the Drummoyne side of the cove. All I had to do was cross over the Iron Cove Bridge and I’d be back at the car, the circle completed. I climbed up to the walkway. It was windy on the bridge and the traffic was even louder. Through the gaps in the safety railing I could see the murky blue water below, flowing all the way in to the city. Somewhere along the way was an invisible line where the water stopped being the Parramatta River and became the harbour. Only real estate agents knew exactly where that demarcation lay.

  I had come this far, I couldn’t back off now. I was going to look for him. All these years and all these streets I’d walked, I’d never made a concerted effort to seek him out. Because always in the back of my mind lurked the fear that I might not like what I found. But now I was determined to find him.

  I turned off the bridge and into the street where the car was parked. There was a car parked behind it now, a Holden Commodore with tinted windows, the owner no doubt down here for his lunchtime jog around the bay. Suddenly the door opened and in this quiet street I felt a small round pressure in the middle of my back.

  ‘Get in the car.’

  It was Hindley. I was trapped in a square of footpath. The open door blocked my way ahead, a brick wall on one side, the length of the car on the other. Behind me stood Hindley with a gun in my
back. I thought it best under the circumstances to get in the car. I was dismayed to see who was sitting in the driver’s seat. The lovely young cop from Parramatta, hands gripping the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.

  The small round pressure was gone from my back but had now found a new home near my left ear. Without moving my head I glanced sideways and saw Hindley’s hairy hand holding a Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Police issue. Carol had one just like it. Despite the heat of the day the metal was knife-edge cold, as was the interior of the car. They were running the airconditioning. Despite the coolness of the air I could smell Hindley’s stale sweat as he leaned forward.

  ‘So maybe we didn’t try as hard as we could have but that matter is now dead and buried.’ His hot wet breath turned to ice on my neck. ‘I’m looking at retirement in a couple of months and I intend going out with a clean slate. I’m not having some dero from ten years ago stuffing it up for me. There’ll be no further enquiries made, understand? You keep pursuing this matter, it’ll be more than just a friendly little chat, missy.’

  The lovely young cop was still looking ahead, face rigid. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

  ‘This giving you a hard-on, Hindley?’ I enquired.

  The answer to that was a whack across the back of the head. The door was flung open. ‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say to you. Get out of the car.’

  ‘But I was just beginning to enjoy the conversation.’

  ‘Start the car,’ he ordered the driver.

  The lovely young man did as he was told.

  ‘You can get out while the car is stationary or we can drop you off on the bridge. Literally. Take your pick.’

  I took my pick. The car drove off, leaving me standing on the footpath. A jogger came by and crossed to the other side of the street, looking at me strangely.

  How could Hindley do that? Bring that kid out here and make him take part in this? Job training, I suppose he’d call it. I guess that’s the way the corruption starts.

  I returned to the van. I went to put the key in the door but my hand was shaking like a leaf. I tried to calm myself. Hindley was showing me his muscle, that was all. I got the door open. I sat sweating in the hot stifling air of the van. But it was better than the cold sweats I had in the police car. With the DNA results I had good grounds to get the coroner to reopen the case if I wanted. Under other circumstances I might have done it. But right now I wasn’t interested in having slack cops like Hindley get wrapped over the knuckles. I just wanted to find my father.

  NINETEEN

  When I got back to the pub the answering machine was blinking with messages. Including messages from Danny and from Rosa. Danny’s had to do with the never-ending saga of the Daimler and Rosa wanted me to ring as soon as possible.

  ‘Rosa? It’s Claudia.’ She was so pleased I’d called. Her voice sounded different—stronger, more purposeful. ‘I went to see my husband,’ she announced ominously. There was no stopping her. I got the whole story from beginning to end.

  ‘I went to the restaurant. I said to the woman there that I want to see Arturo. She tells me he is upstairs, she’ll get him for me. I told her I am Mrs Grimaldi, I can go upstairs myself. It is years since I have been to the restaurant but I still know where the upstairs is. Besides, she has customers in the restaurant, she shouldn’t leave them.

  ‘So I go up, thinking the stairs look dirty. It doesn’t matter they’re at the back, they should be kept clean. I try to turn the door handle but it is locked. I can hear voices in there, men’s voices, so I knock loudly. Then I notice the door has one of those little spyholes in it. Before I have time to think about why there needs to be a spyhole in this door, it opens—just a little—and a man asks what I want. “To speak to Arturo.” “Arturo who?” he says. “Arturo Grimaldi,” I say. “Tell him it’s his wife.” “Uno momento.” He means me to wait at the door but I step in. I can’t believe it. The room is full of smoke and men playing cards. For money. I saw lots of money on the tables.

  ‘Arturo comes to the door very quick. “What you doing here?” he demands. I could ask him the same thing! Anyway, I tell him it’s about Madalena. “Deviamo parlare, Arturo.” We gotta talk. He looks back in the room, he doesn’t want to bring me in there. “Let’s go to the restaurant,” I say, thinking Arturo won’t get too angry if there are other people present.

  ‘Downstairs he pours himself a drink and asks if I want one. I think yes, a drink is a good idea. He sits down. Then he says, “Did Madalena come home? You’ve heard from her?” He seems different. Not since she left has he spoken her name. Perhaps because we are in the restaurant, not in the house that he built for the children that has no children in it now.

  ‘I told him no, Madalena has not come home. I asked him why he didn’t tell me Madalena came to see him the day she disappeared. He looked very surprised and said she didn’t come that day. Then I took a big breath and told him about you, Claudia. I waited. I thought he would get very angry but he seemed almost relieved. He sat there slowly nodding his head and said, “Yes … yes. It’s the best thing.”

  ‘And then when I finish being surprised that he’s not angry I think it’s a bit strange he didn’t tell me he already has an investigator. He said no, why do I think that? I asked him if he knows someone called Fabio. “Fabio?” he repeats, like he knows the name. “Who is he?” I ask. Fabio is the nephew of one of his business associates. From Italy, but he stayed three years in America before coming to Australia. He’s doing odd jobs for Arturo, running errands. “Do odd jobs mean watching your house?” I asked. “Following your wife?” Arturo doesn’t understand a thing. “Where is he now?” Arturo told me he is not here all the time, he does jobs for the uncle as well. “So how do you keep in touch with him?”

  ‘Arturo was getting annoyed with all the questions. Perhaps it’s time for me to go home now. I said, “Why don’t you come home with me?” He tells me he’ll come as soon as he can. He’s playing cards with some friends, he can’t leave right away. I say, “Arturo, you sure have a lot of friends. How come I never meet all these friends?” He just shrugs.’

  I could almost hear Rosa taking a deep breath at the other end of the line. It sounded as if the confrontation had given her newfound strength. At the very least she and her husband were talking to each other.

  I thought about the phone conversation as I drove to Danny’s garage in Lilyfield. Lilyfield is the suburb next to Leichhardt where Arturo had his restaurant. Apparently Madalena hadn’t shown up there that day. I didn’t get the impression from Rosa that Arturo was lying about it. Nor did he seem to know about Fabio’s extracurricular activities. Why was Fabio so interested in Madalena’s whereabouts? Perhaps it was Fabio she saw that day, not her father.

  ‘Hi Danny, how’s it going?’

  ‘You like the van?’ he asked.

  ‘I like the Daimler better but then maybe I’m biased. You got bad news to tell me?’

  Danny wiped a hand across his forehead. ‘Yeah, mate, I have.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked with a sinking feeling.

  ‘Can’t get that colour anymore. It’ll have to be specially mixed.’

  ‘Look, Danny, I don’t care. Near enough is good enough.’

  Danny didn’t seem too keen on the idea. ‘It’ll ruin the resale value,’ he pointed out.

  I smiled. ‘But, Danny, I’m going to sell it to you. Eventually. Then you can paint it any colour you like.’

  ‘OK, suit yourself,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll try to get as close as I can but you’ll be able to tell it’s not the same.’

  I looked around at the array of cars parked in the garage. Danny could service anything. His personal favourites were classic cars. Didn’t have to be European, he liked the Americans too.

  ‘You ever get a Chrysler in here, light blue, mid-sixties vintage? Personalised plates—FABIO.’

  Danny pulled a face. ‘Yeah,’ he said, not relishing the memory, ‘once. What a dipstick that guy
was.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He brought the car in for something minor, grease and oil change I think. Anyway, when he comes to pick it up he notices this smudge on the duco. The guy grabs hold of my T-shirt. Honest, I thought he was going to knife me. He tells me he brought the car all the way from America without a mark on it. I says to him, “Listen, mate, maybe that’s how they get service over there but it’s not the way we do things round here.” Cheryl must have seen what was going on because next minute she comes out of the workshop with a monkey wrench in her hand. “Everything OK, Danny?” she says. The guy backs off. I wiped the smudge off with one of those Chux things and he’s never been back since.’

  ‘You don’t have an address for him, do you?’

  ‘No. He brought the car in. I told him it would be ready in a couple of days, he came back in a couple of days. Paid cash.’

  I didn’t particularly want to visit Fabio. While I was still looking for Madalena I didn’t want to go anywhere near him. More importantly, I didn’t want him anywhere near me. There wasn’t any need for it at the moment but having his address up my sleeve might have proved useful.

  ‘Give me a call when the paint job’s done, OK?’

  ‘You want to change cars?’ Danny offered me the pick of the garage.

  ‘No, the van’s fine. For the moment.’

  Fabio was after her for some reason and she was scared. So scared she couldn’t go back home. So scared she couldn’t even tell her friends where she was. But if she was alive she had to be somewhere. Where does a kid go when she’s so scared she’s got nowhere else to go?

  ‘Vince? G’day, it’s Claudia … Yes, I know it seems like only yesterday. What are you doing?’ He was at home, waiting for the sun to be over the yardarm so he could crack a few cold ones.

  ‘What are you doing indoors on a beautiful afternoon like this? Why don’t we crack a few cold ones at Bondi?’

  We parked the van in the parking area on the beach front. It would feel right at home on this spot. Later at night, especially Sunday nights, people the papers describe as ‘youths’ gathered down here to show off hotted-up cars like this van. Hanging out, mucking around. Easy pickings for the cops who cruise by. But they weren’t here yet.