The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  Molly shook her head vigorously and shoved hard against the gate, struggling for a moment before Adam suddenly let it go, sending her spinning into the front yard, almost losing her footing. The sound of his laughter followed her all the way up the path and into the house, and kept ringing in her ears deep into the night until sleep finally claimed her.

  1999

  It’s late now and my eyes feel like I’ve dipped my face in vinegar, so I decide to take Hogarth for a quick walk around the block before bed. We go out the gate and take a left, away from the main road. I love walking through residential streets. In the daytime I can admire gardens and architecture, but a night-time neighbourhood is a different thing entirely. At this time of year, there is a hint of wood smoke in the air from those enjoying the comfort of an early season open fire, the mulch smell of wet leaves, and occasionally a late-blooming gardenia lends its exotic flavour to the mix. But what I really love about night walks is the chance to spy on other people’s lives. Safely anonymous in the dark of the street, I take every open-curtained opportunity to gaze through the windows we pass; it’s amazing how much you can see in a well-lit room as you dawdle by. It’s not the people I care about, it’s the decor. Most important of all, it’s what they have hanging on their walls. I keep hoping I’ll spot an undiscovered masterpiece hanging over a dusty mantel and make a fortune, but no luck so far.

  As Hogarth and I amble along, my brain is a jumble of thoughts about Molly, Adam and the various other people in her world. I wish I could find out more about Molly’s relationship with Colin Colahan, but I might as well be chasing shadows. In the days immediately after Molly’s murder, before Adam Graham came to the attention of the police and public, Colin was briefly the main suspect for the killing. He was, after all, a bohemian, Molly’s lover and the last person seen in her company. Fortunately for Colin, Molly had phoned him after getting off her train, and the operator who connected the call had logged it in his register and remembered putting Molly through. The police theorised Colin could have taken the call at his Hawthorn home, jumped in a taxi and raced to Elwood in time to intercept and kill Molly. But that was wild speculation and quickly dismissed, particularly when no obliging cab drivers came forward to tell of a mad ride through the midnight streets. Colin’s testimony at the inquest also showed how much he cared for Molly Dean. He spoke of her with love and happiness, even stating that they were ‘betrothed’. Given his Don Juan ways, I wonder if this was true or simply a gallant attempt to protect Molly’s reputation when she was no longer able to defend herself.

  By the time we arrive back home, I’ve decided I need to hash this out with someone. And the best person I know for bouncing ideas around with is John. I’ll catch him first thing. Inside, I change into my PJ bottoms and wander through the house as I brush my teeth, checking all the door and window locks. Finding everything as it should be, I wash my face and slip into bed, cranking on my electric blanket for a few minutes. Hogarth scratches up the cover on his bedroom dog bed before folding himself up with a grunt of contentment. I pick up my book, but my brain is already occupied with Molly’s story and I toss it back on the cedar chest I use as a bedside table. Snapping off the light I close my eyes, but sleep is slow to come.

  #xa0;

  I’m awake at five as usual and Hogarth and I get out for an hour of real exercise. It’s still dark, but as we head home there’s a hint of the new day trying to assert itself in the east, and objects like cars and rubbish bins have become more than just looming shapes. I take a quick shower, throw on some jeans and a better class of t-shirt (solid colour, no writing), then head into the kitchen where Hogarth has the fridge staked out. I realise for the first time in days I haven’t been obsessing about Molly Dean.

  Our breakfast doesn’t take long and once I’ve tidied up, I grab my laptop, printouts and Daphne’s notes. I’ll be at John’s studio by eight, but he should be there getting organised for the day. A crap marriage is a great motivator for getting to work bright and early, and John’s wife, well … I did try to warn him: now I’m just waiting to pick up the pieces.

  Sure enough, when I swing the Citroën into the small church car park, John’s nondescript white van is already there. It looks like every other disreputable, beaten-up van on the road, and occasionally it causes his clients to flare their nostrils when he pulls into their Toorak and Brighton driveways. But why advertise the fact you may be carrying millions of dollars’ worth of art? The van’s only distinguishing feature is a plastic figurine stuck to the dash. It’s Buddy Jesus – a small statue of Jesus winking and giving the thumbs up – that I gave John after he’d had a particularly gruelling time restoring some religious paintings for a certain Melbourne church. It wasn’t the paintings he’d had trouble with but the priest’s attitude, and things got a bit heated. Now John tells his woes to Buddy Jesus and it’s all cool. The fact that he charged the diocese a fortune for his work also helped.

  John’s door is open and the sound of a lush piano and Latin strings pours out into the morning sun. I bounce up the four steps and knock on the door frame.

  ‘John.’

  ‘Shhh. He’s just getting to the good bit.’ John waves a laden brush in the direction of his sound system. I wander over and squint at the artist information on the CD case. Enrique Chia. The music soars and swoons its way to a flourishing finale and I tap the pause button before John can get lost in the next track. John dabs delicately at the canvas on his easel, a Dutch still life that has clearly had a long, hard couple of centuries.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘It’s about Molly Dean.’

  John glances in my direction. ‘And yet I see no painting. I was expecting you the day after the auction.’

  ‘Yeah, I got sidetracked and now … Well, I think she’s probably safer under Hogarth’s watchful eye for the moment.’

  John applies a final stroke of deep vermilion to the edge of a tulip petal, then places his brush in a jar of mineral spirits and sets his palette down before turning to stare at me. ‘Speak English. You are making absolutely no sense.’

  So I tell John about the dodgy underbidder, Rob’s weird reaction, the missing files and Daphne Lambell. While I’ve been talking, we’ve gravitated toward the two ’60s wicker bucket chairs near the fridge. John has sprawled into the red and white one, while I’m perched on the edge of the yellow chair, forearms resting on my knees. I pull out the stuff on Adam Graham and hand it across to John. As he flips through, I give him a rundown of what it says and also what it doesn’t say. I finally wind to a stop and sit there watching as John continues to eyeball the material, flicking between pages, arranging articles around his feet, and occasionally grunting in response to what he’s reading. He taps the papers he’s holding against his chin and frowns.

  ‘You’ve lost the fucking plot.’

  ‘Aren’t you even the tiniest bit intrigued?’

  ‘Look, it’s one thing to do a bit of provenance research or dig up a juicy backstory on a painting – that’s money in the bank – but this is nuts. Next thing you’ll be in here saying, “Oh by the way, John, I’ve been digging around and I have a theory on what Leonardo said to Mona Lisa that was so bloody hilarious.”’

  I cross my arms over my chest and flop back in the chair. ‘I’m not trying to go all Holmes and Watson here.’

  John snorts.

  ‘When I started it was like you said, a bit of backstory to boost a sale. But when I read about how she was killed, yeah, I wanted to know more. Then with all the stuff with Rob and the archives, it just sort of snowballed.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Forget about the fact you think I’m an idiot.’ I jerk my chin toward John and the papers. ‘What do you make of all that?’

  ‘The man was clearly a bastard of the first order, but I can’t decide if the mother was an above average cold-hearted bitch or an ab
solute psycho. I’m leaning toward the latter.’

  ‘Adam Graham was the main suspect and the coroner committed him for trial.’

  ‘Well, case solved then.’ John drops the remaining papers to the floor. ‘Was the mother in on it?’

  I spread my arms wide, palms up and give an exaggerated shrug. ‘She did ask the police to let the matter drop and told them they’d never catch the man who did it.’

  ‘Not exactly the response you’d expect from a grieving parent. Sounds like she knew something.’

  ‘I think so too. There are a couple of problems with Graham, though.’

  ‘Of course there are. Man’s a murderer. Or was. Your Miss Lambell’s notes say he carked it in 1980.’

  ‘Not that, problems with what happened after the coroner’s findings.’

  ‘What? The brother confessed? Molly had an evil twin who burst into court?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Despite the fact Adam Graham’s bail was set at £1000 – about four times the average annual income in 1930, remember – he was out forty-five minutes after the coroner remanded him in custody.’ I tick off a finger. ‘Bail was posted by a St Kilda resident, a retired farmer called Carter. I have no idea who the hell he is or what relationship he has to the whole thing.’ I tick off another finger. ‘Graham was completely calm through the whole inquest, even when the coroner fingered him as the murderer. In fact, he was so bloody calm that when bail was posted and a copper went to let him out, Adam Graham was fast asleep on the wooden pallet they had in the cell and had to be shaken awake so they could cut him loose.’ Now I hold up my thumb. ‘And most importantly, when Graham actually came to trial only four weeks later, the prosecution dropped the entire case before a jury was even sworn in.’

  John leans forward. ‘But all that stuff in the articles and notes. Following Molly, dodgy alibi, blood on his suit, the garage … How could they not go to trial? And since when do farmers retire to St Kilda?’

  I nod. ‘Oh yeah and one other thing. After they dropped the charges, I can’t find any further mention of the Molly Dean murder in the papers. Nothing to suggest the case was being pursued, and no cries of outrage from the media that there was still a brutal killer on the loose. The whole thing just disappeared.’

  John stares at me for a couple of beats then jumps up and starts fiddling with his Atomic coffee maker and the hotplate. ‘We’ll need coffee while we figure out what to do next.’

  ***

  While John messes with Arabica beans, I duck out and jog-trot around the corner to a trendy little shopping strip. In the bakery I order two croissants and a couple of pains au chocolat for variety, then double-time it back to the studio.

  We sit on the steps outside John’s studio, the morning sun warm on our faces, and enjoy the first few sips of coffee in comfortable silence. The crumble of flaky pastry as we begin on the croissants acts as a signal to the local pigeon population and they start appearing from all corners, flapping in to land at a distance before bobbing toward the steps. I’m not a fan of pigeons and I wave my arms and stamp my feet in a feeble attempt to move them away, but these feathered deros are a hardy lot and barely take a step back.

  John puts his coffee down. ‘Watch this.’

  He disappears inside and I hear the fridge open and close. Then he’s back with a small piece of minced meat. Standing on the top step, he looks up toward the top branches of a eucalyptus, a massive grey gum that must have been here since the church was built late last century. John holds out his hand and whistles, a strange, single tone that starts on a low note, swings up through an octave and then dips back down. Instantly, there’s a response from the tree canopy and a black shape appears, heading toward us like a missile. As the bird gets close, John tosses the meat out and up. I see a flash of white among the black feathers as the meat is caught with an audible clack of beak and the bird describes a tight curve and heads back to the tree. I’d been so transfixed by the display I’d hardly registered the panicked fluttering that was going on at ground level, but now I look down and see all the pigeons have decamped.

  I nod my head at John. ‘Impressive. Was that a currawong? He came and went so fast I couldn’t tell.’

  ‘Yeah. Pest control. Nothing more frightening than a dark shadow looming over you.’

  ‘How much real work do you do around here anyway?’

  ‘Speaking of not working, let’s consider this Molly Dean thing.’

  ‘Right. I guess the big question is, do you think it was Adam Graham? I mean, the cops had him pegged as the killer and the coroner thought so too. Everything we’ve read and talked about points that way, but I guess we’re only getting a certain perspective.’

  ‘Sure, but your Daphne woman’s notes seem fairly straightforward.’

  ‘Yes, but her dad was the cop trying to nail Adam Graham.’ I think about it for a moment. ‘Percy Lambell might never have told his daughter things that didn’t fit the case. Daphne believes in him 100 per cent, and even at her age you can tell she loved her dad to bits.’

  ‘Okay, so we’re Mulder and Scully. Trust no one.’

  ‘And you had the temerity to tell me I’m nuts.’ I raise an eyebrow at John. ‘But I get what you’re saying.’

  John nods enthusiastically, his eyes bright. ‘Oh and I’ve been meaning to ask: what happened to the murder weapon?’

  ‘Oh they never found it. Probably thrown into the Elwood canal – it’s just around the corner – but the police didn’t bother to look. They figured there’d be lots of things in the canal that could be the murder weapon, so it’d only be more confusing.’

  Now it’s John’s turn to arch his eyebrows at me. ‘So, no weapon, no other real suspects, no reward for information?’ He looks at me and I nod in confirmation. ‘Any other theories?’

  ‘A few. Colin Colahan was quickly ruled out, so that leaves random attack by crazed sex maniac, who may or may not be the same guy who killed Hazel Wilson and Mena Griffiths around that time. It could also be an escalation of the attacks on those six women; one of them happened opposite Molly’s house, and they all involved strangling and stockings. Then there was a suggestion of some other unidentified jealous lover Molly had supposedly hooked up with while Colin was out of town on a painting trip … Oh yes, and there was one idea the killer was a woman, based on the fact Molly was dragged not carried into the lane.’

  ‘A mystery woman? Motivated by the fact Molly stole her man?’ John puts a country twang on the last words.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘But we’re ignoring the oestrogen-crazed rival theory, right?’

  ‘Well …’ I tip my head from side to side.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think there were two women in the Meldrum circle who had the hots for Colin: Betty Rowland and Sue Vanderkelen.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Given Colin was a well-known Casanova, it’s a real stretch to believe one of those women decided to take out her rival so violently. A bit of slapping and scratching I could see, but not such a grisly murder.’

  ‘How very sexist of you, John.’

  ‘That’s not what I –’

  ‘Although you might be half right.’ I cut across him. ‘I checked out some crime stats and women don’t tend to beat people to death. They prefer to kill by poisoning or stabbing, but more importantly when they do kill, the victim is likely to be a man – husband or boyfriend. Plus in 90 per cent of cases the murder happens at home. Men are the outdoor lurkers and bashers.’

  ‘You need a different hobby. But does this mean we agree about the gender of Molly’s killer?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but let’s put the women aside for now. Which means we’re back to Adam Graham or unknown assailant, be he jealous lover or mad fiend.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  I think about the cast of chara
cters for a moment. ‘I don’t see the jealous lover theory. Molly was trying to get out of her life and into something better, so she wouldn’t have had a fling with anyone except someone else in Colin Colahan’s group.’

  John nods and waves at me to continue.

  ‘We know Colin had a string of lovelies and probably wouldn’t have been too upset if Molly, er … cast a wider net shall we say, but at the same time, anyone in that group would know she’d hooked up with Colin first. They’d know the score and I doubt any of them would care, not enough to bludgeon the girl to death anyway.’

  ‘I could maybe see a heated exchange but that’s about it. And from everything we know about her, I think Molly was too smart to risk being frozen out of that group. At least, not until she was far more established, until she’d well and truly left the old life behind.’

  ‘So no jealous lover and no women.’ I stop. ‘What about the mother?’

  ‘Nup. If she put Graham up to it, well that’s still Graham,’ John says, ‘but I reckon Ethel wouldn’t lie in wait. She’s a nasty piece of work, and I could imagine her stabbing Molly in a fit of anger in the kitchen or bashing her with the copper stick on laundry day, but she doesn’t strike me as a lurker and I can’t see a mother doing all that stuff with a stocking and underwear.’

  We sit with our own thoughts for a moment. I don’t know if John’s are as dark as mine, but from the bleak look on his face I guess they’re not far off. I sigh and drag a hand across one eye. ‘So why didn’t Percy Lambell look for someone else? Okay maybe at the start he was all gung-ho for Graham, but after that? Or why didn’t he try to get more evidence or something so they could reinstate the charges? It doesn’t make sense.’

  John has been leaning back on his elbows, head thrown back and eyes closed, but now his eyes snap open and he lurches upright. ‘Holy crap.’ He stares at me, mouth slightly open. I can almost hear the squeak of tiny cogs and wheels as his brain grinds toward an incredible thought. ‘Holy crap.’