by Megan Norris
‘Don’t dance to the music,’ I said to my six-year-old Rachel, ‘dance as if you are a part of the music.’ She will forever be a part of the music.
Later that Saturday night we watched a building in Church Street, Richmond. ‘Keep an eye on the grey stone building. It’s a halfway house with about forty rooms,’ Mike was told by a man in a local restaurant. The man had a friend who lodged there. Didn’t like what he saw. Kept to himself. There was a steady flow of male-only traffic that did seem suspicious. Was this a drug drop-off and collection point? Were there prostitutes inside? Could this have been why Rachel had disappeared so quickly?
Shaun went across to ask one of the waiting taxi drivers what they were doing. The driver told him through a mouthful of food that they dropped off clients.
In an adjacent block of flats Michele’s attention was drawn to the top floor where a group of men, naked down to their pubic hairlines, were dancing and drinking beer. We stood on a low concrete fence on the opposite side of the road, watching these men, who were drunk and obviously enjoying themselves, in the seclusion of their own unit. We felt like Peeping Tomasinas – invading their privacy.
Then the place took on a more sinister feel. No women were visible, and Michele did not like the way the men were apparently taking turns going into a side room.
‘Imagine,’ she said. ‘Rachel could be there.’
‘Holding her hostage.’
‘Taking turns.’
Mike could see our concern and gestured he would investigate. He walked around the back of the older-style block of flats. There were curtain-free windows but when he climbed the wooden steps to look inside all he could see was blackness. It was amazing he was not reported to the police for prowling.
Obviously Rachel could not be in all these places at once, but our emotions were extreme. We were, as the policewoman said, making quantum leaps. We felt abandoned, and in our despair, our anger and our fear, it was what we believed.
But I am imparting this to help local police understand why parents faced with missing children are not consoled by the known facts, or the statistics. It wasn’t irrational fear that made me swear abuse at the policewoman who did not know our daughter. It was absolute despair. Was Rachel crying, slumped in a slimy dark corner of a Melbourne street, wondering why we hadn’t saved her? Was she about to face death, or had she already faced the hurt of death? It was this that sent us searching into the hidden stories behind Melbourne’s streets.
It’s strange that family members also felt the need to justify excessive behaviour. We were adamant we were right and the local police were adamant we were wrong: go home to your two smaller children and seek special counselling. How much we wished we were wrong.
We regrouped at McDonald’s in Richmond, just before closing time. We were laughing. It’s an odd experience to laugh when faced with exhaustion and looming defeat. Nature’s way of saving your sanity, perhaps. I’ve always thought so. ‘Even in war,’ my dad once told me, ‘laughter can keep you on track.’ Not only were we laughing, but noshing into hot chips and coffee.
Shaun or Renée suggested we visit the refuge houses for young people. I argued that she wouldn’t be there, but we needed to cover all options. But where do you find refuge houses? We borrowed the McDonald’s Yellow Pages. Nothing under ‘Refuge Centres’. We looked under ‘Emergencies’ and found a reference to ‘Organisations – Family Welfare.’ Four columns. It all looked so confusing.
We were tired, couldn’t think straight, and wanted an answer now. Two or three main refuge centres, listed in the Yellow Pages under ‘REFUGE CENTRES’, holding information for the others. We wanted to visit them. Now. In the middle of the night.
‘There’s a public phone across the road. I’ll ring Lifeline.’
Renée came with me. We felt exposed. A dishevelled-looking man crab-walked unsteadily towards us. An offensive body odour hung on him. Trousers soiled? Dried vomit? He turned around and crab-walked away.
The phone number was engaged. Continuously. I thought if I was on the brink of suicide I’d kill myself out of frustration simply because I couldn’t get through.
I rang Telstra. ‘Suburb please.’
Poor woman got a life story. She became my lifeline. We whinged sympathetically together about the engaged phone number. My inability to find a refuge centre. Her inability to satisfy others who needed Lifeline.
‘It’s always engaged this time of night.’
She wished me luck in our quest, but couldn’t help us without a name. She suggested that perhaps refuge centres were not listed as refuge centres because then they would not provide refuge.
Michele and David left first. Shaun, Renée, Mike and I drove around the streets of Richmond again, finally making our way home at about 2.00 a.m. We stopped off at the Ringwood police to tell them about posters we had taped to telephone boxes in the district. Mike told the police what we were told regarding fines and posters. Their response: ‘Who’s going to fine you when your daughter’s gone missing? Just do it.’
10
THE POSTER CAMPAIGN CONTINUES
Day 6: Sunday, 7 March
My fortieth birthday. The avoided day. I can’t remember even considering my birthday on the Sunday morning, other than being thankful that a large parcel had not been delivered by courier.
Mike phoned Richmond police about 10.30 a.m. to see if the woman detective had been informed about our Saturday report of the man. The woman detective asked Mike if we were still concerned about him because records showed he didn’t have any prior convictions. Mike told her we had checked him out ourselves and felt with hindsight he was not involved.
We organised a railway station walk. Shaun, Renée and Manni would cover the Frankston and Pakenham lines from Malvern. David would cover Glen Waverley and possibly the Alamein line. Mike and I would cover the Belgrave line from Ringwood and from Richmond to Malvern, and the Carellas would break up and cover Zone 1 of the western suburbs. Our plan was to place a poster in most of the Zone 1 and Zone 2 railway stations, on both platforms.
Sunday was a boiling hot day and it took two days to achieve our goal. But we had to make the public aware of Rachel’s disappearance.
‘Yes, this is Rachel Barber,’ I wrote on the posters for East Camberwell station because it was the station most of Rachel’s old secondary school friends used. But within two days most of these posters had been pulled down by diligent cleaners.
David decided to walk around the Glen Waverley shopping centre as well. We had received a phone call saying that security personnel at a department store reported seeing a girl answering Rachel’s description at a checkout counter. David said he would drive around the suburb.
It was the last day of the Grand Prix, so if the Carellas and my father were right, Rachel may have shown up this day, this night. She didn’t. Could the police have also been waiting for the end of the Grand Prix?
We met up at Carlo’s single-storey terrace house in Richmond, in the late afternoon. Carlo was a close friend of Mike’s brother’s family, and had on occasion taken the girls to the zoo with Tamzin, our niece.
Police thought it a possibility that Rachel may have absconded with her cousin. ‘York Street, Prahran. Who lives there?’ we were asked. ‘Telephone records indicate a phone call to this number in the last three months.’
‘Tamzin did. Rachel’s thirty-year-old cousin. But not any more.’
‘And who lives at Windsor?’
‘Tamzin.’
Tamzin drove round the Prahran streets at night, looking for her little cousin and distributing posters.
Carlo said he would organise a website and also help with the posters. Tate, a friend of Carlo’s who led youth discos and knew gang leaders of street kids, said he would see if they had heard any whispers. I was not aware that a lot of street kids hung around in gangs, providing a network of comparative safety for themselves.
Then Carlo ordered in pizza.
We were sitting there
in the comfort of Carlo’s living room. I remember thinking that I wished we’d known he’d lived so close to the dance school. It could have been a safehouse for Rachel. But then we didn’t know she’d needed one.
Carlo’s friends were preparing a fruit salad, tossing chunky pieces of fruit into a giant-sized glass bowl. The atmosphere was relaxing.
‘I suppose,’ said Carlo to Manni, ‘we should be asking, is Rachel pregnant?’
This comment was said in jest but I could sense a sudden change in Manni’s demeanour. He was sitting alongside Mike, on a cosy two-seater couch.
Manni’s pizza hovered in front of his opened mouth. ‘No,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She couldn’t be.’
‘Why not?’ asked Carlo, completely unaware of Manni’s earlier interview with the police.
‘Impossible. We haven’t done it.’ He studied his piece of pizza.
This was not an ideal conversation to have in the presence of your fifteen-year-old girlfriend’s parents, particularly when sitting on a cosy couch with her dad.
Mike leaned across him. I thought, be careful, Mike.
‘Are you sure, Manni?’ he asked in a knowing but friendly manner.
‘Definitely,’ replied Manni.
‘Manni,’ I said, in the same tone as Mike. I placed my hand on Mike’s arm, cautioning him.
‘Are you absolutely sure, Manni?’ Mike asked again.
‘Never,’ said Manni, his face turning beetroot red.
Everyone paused, their attention suddenly on Manni. ‘Jeez, Manni,’ said Carlo, reading between the lines. ‘My big mouth. Sorry, mate.’
‘Manni, are you absolutely sure?’ persisted Mike. ‘Because information we have has it otherwise.’
Manni smiled nervously. ‘Really,’ he said.
We both nodded.
‘It’s okay, Manni,’ I said, trying to ease his embarrassment. ‘Normally I wouldn’t have been so impressed but …’
‘Only just,’ he blurted out. ‘It was protected, and … lovely.’
Every man in the room, even Mike, suddenly found themselves in Manni’s place. Everyone was waiting for Mike’s reaction. They didn’t expect what they got.
I started to laugh.
Manni was looking confused.
‘Elizabeth,’ said Carlo, ‘it’s not a laughing matter.’
I knew that, but sometimes laughter is very close to tears. Mike looked at me.
‘It’s okay, Manni,’ I said. ‘Really, look, we’re okay with it … now,’ and I thought, was I really? Or was I just trying to relax this incredibly embarrassed young man?
Mike put a reassuring arm around Manni’s shoulder. ‘Not fair, is it?’ he said, sympathetic. Mike knew how it felt.
‘N-no,’ Manni stammered. ‘But please don’t tell Mum and Dad. They don’t know.’
Everyone laughed then, with nervous relief. Manni must have been terrified about our reaction, but now he seemed more worried about what his mum and dad would say.
He really is a sweet kid, I thought.
Manni’s parents were unaware that Manni had been interviewed by the police at the dance school with his teacher. And they felt, considering he was under-age, that they should have been present, or at least contacted. And Manni had been nervous of the detective senior sergeant: he seemed to think Manni knew where Rachel was.
We left Carlo’s at about 10.30 because we were absolutely beat. We felt guilty about going home, but we needed rest.
There were a few presents for me on our return. One of them was a collage from Ashleigh-Rose with a ‘I miss you heaps from your middle daughter with love’ message on the back.
Shaun, Renée and Manni decided to continue with the posters. They went into the city and obtained permission to put posters up at the Moomba ticket offices and at all the rides. The annual Moomba festival, which covered the Labour Day holiday weekend, brought many thousands of people – tourists and families – into the city of Melbourne to enjoy the entertainment. The Moomba office advised security men to make sure none of our posters were pulled down. Shaun said one ride manager told him ten thousand people a day rode on his ride and would see the posters.
The Carella brothers continued working through the night as well. Frank said he was taken aback by the number of street kids he met. One said, ‘I hope you find her. She’s too beautiful to be on the streets.’
Any kid is too beautiful to be on the streets. I wondered how many of these street kids were listed as missing persons.
Into the second week there was so much knowledge about Rachel’s disappearance that if someone had recognised her they would have reported it. It seemed that every second person the Carellas spoke to knew of her story.
My brother Drew arrived this Sunday afternoon and sent Mum home for a rest, but she was back the next day. Drew added more phone messages to Mum’s list. Our former neighbour Gail had rung in the morning, distressed by Rachel’s disappearance, and offered to help. And at 9.15 p.m., although I was not aware of it until much later, Gail’s eldest daughter, Caroline Reid, had also rung and left her silent number.
11
ESCORT AGENCIES
Day 7: Monday, 8 March
The beginning of the second week. Our obvious defeat was disillusioning. I had to act positive. I could not help Rachel with a defeatist attitude. I still couldn’t sense Rachel’s spirit so I chose to believe she was alive, being held captive.
It was decided that Renée, who was a catwalk model, should pretty herself up and walk around the streets of Richmond, trying to entice the woman who had followed the dress-shop girl off the train. Obviously this woman didn’t work for the Daily Planet, but she was working for someone. Thankfully, though, Renée in the end didn’t need to offer herself as bait.
On the Sunday or the Monday, against my better judgement, Mike visited Rachel’s old dance school in Prahran and left a poster. (We all decided that when Rachel was found safe we would distribute ‘I HAVE BEEN FOUND’ posters to celebrate and thank people for their support.)
Then Elaine, a secondary school friend of mine and Rachel’s godmother, rang to say she had some thoughts about the old female friend. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said, ‘this friend could not be a school, church or dance friend, because Rachel would have said – old school, church or dance friend.’
She was right. Why hadn’t we thought of this? So, who were we looking for then? A friend of the family? A friend of a friend? Perhaps someone more distant?
Mike and I were at Carlo’s when a phone call came through from Drew. The mother of two of Rachel’s past dance school friends had rung. The older girl, Alison, had arrived home from work to hear her younger sister, who had been in the same class as Rachel for six years, say, ‘You’ll never guess who’s gone missing! Rachel Barber. She was last seen in Richmond at 5.45 p.m. last Monday.’
From a very early age Alison was known to have an almost photographic memory and she could remember seeing Rachel on the same night, Monday 1 March. Rachel, she said, had climbed quite happily onto the number 6 Glen Iris tram, at the intersection of Chapel and High Streets at about 6.40 p.m., with another girl. Drew said that Alison had reported this sighting to the police.
I rang Alison’s mother immediately. Mike and I would go and speak to her. We had not seen each other for about two years, but it felt as if little time had passed. The younger sister had been one of Rachel’s closest friends at the old dance school and quite often I drove both sisters home.
‘How sure were you that it was Rachel?’ I asked Alison.
‘I saw her last week at the Princess Theatre, and anyway I couldn’t mistake Rachel for anyone else. I couldn’t get over what she looked like.’
I felt a bit embarrassed because I thought she was going on about how scantily dressed Rachel may have been. ‘Didn’t she have a windcheater on? I’ve told her time and time again to wear something over her dance top when she leaves the school. The students don’t realise how “undressed” they sometimes look.’
&
nbsp; ‘She was fine. She had a little top on. I meant, she looked beautiful.’
I realised she would have thought nothing of Rachel’s little top because she was dressed in very similar clothing.
‘Who was she with?’ asked Mike. ‘Can you give a description?’
‘For starters, I couldn’t work out why Rachel would be with her. Although they were very chatty, and obviously knew one another. And I don’t like saying this about people but the girl was heavy set and not attractive at all. Very plain. She obviously wasn’t a dance student.’
‘Where did they get off?’
‘At the corner of Williams Road and High Street. They stood outside Honda for a while.’
‘I’ll just ring Carlo,’ I said. He would meet us there shortly.
‘I met Rachel at the “hire a crowd” night at the Princess Theatre,’ said Alison. A number of dance schools had been approached because a crowd was needed for a show by an American choreographer. ‘I don’t know whether I should say this or not, but I think Rachel got tipsy that night,’ she said.
‘Tipsy?’ I said. I found it very surprising and felt further embarrassed. I had never seen Rachel tipsy, although I suppose there is always a first time.
‘Well, she was all over her boyfriend.’
‘No, she wasn’t tipsy,’ I scoffed, remembering that Rachel had come home about 9.30 that night, with an empty bottle of soft drink. She’d kept the bottle because of the star logo. She’d gone to Planet Hollywood for a little while with some friends, before being brought home by Domenic and Manni. ‘It was Rachel being Rachel,’ I said, and reminded her how over-the-top Rachel could sometimes be. ‘Yes, Rachel was very giggly this night, but no more giggly than usual. She was being happy. Exuberant with love.’ I found out later, much later, that she was tipsy that night. One of her friends had put some vodka in her soft drink, and with her knowledge. Oh dear.
Alison told us the number 602 bus travelling down Williams Road ended up at Brighton. Perhaps they had caught this.