The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Molly.’ The line crackled and he paused. ‘Molly, I think you’ll be a wonderful writer, a great journalist.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But don’t be too impulsive. Don’t throw away teaching just like that, not until you at least get your foot in the door with writing.’

  ‘How can I make a go of writing if I’m shackled to the Education Department?’

  ‘Perhaps you could be a relief teacher or some such? I don’t know, but just think about it carefully. We’ll talk, I promise, but sleep on it now, please?’

  Molly was silent for a moment, trying hard not to cry, nor to let her voice betray the fact tears were close. ‘Fine. I’ll see you at the weekend then.’

  ‘We can look at it from every possible angle and make a plan.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I should go now or I’ll miss the last tram.’

  ‘Just sleep on it, Molly, and it will be okay. You’re going to be famous.’

  Molly’s mouth twitched. Of course he’d try to flatter her now. ‘Goodnight, Colin.’

  ‘Goodnight, Molly, sweet dreams.’ Once again, it was Colin who ended the call.

  1999

  I phone John from the car before I leave Hillview.

  ‘Daphne has never heard the name Donald Raeburn in connection with Molly Dean.’

  ‘Not surprising. The whole thing seems to have been a massive cover-up.’

  ‘Are we back to your conspiracy theory?’

  ‘It makes sense and you know it.’

  ‘At the moment I don’t know anything, but I’ll call Raeburn junior and organise a time to show his father the painting. I’m assuming you’re in.’

  ‘Is the atomic weight of cobalt 58.9?’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Of course it’s a yes. I’ve got about another hour of work on the painting though.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning then. Does that work?’

  ‘Yeah, but how are you going to play it? I mean, would you sell Molly to him? And if the answer’s no, how do we politely back out the door with the painting once we’re there?’

  John has a point. ‘I didn’t really have a plan beyond getting in there and eyeballing Donald Raeburn, maybe confronting him with Molly’s notes, but that is a fairly significant detail.’

  ‘Rather.’

  ‘Well what’s your plan then?’

  ‘You could name a ridiculous price. Oh wait, you’ve already sort of done that. I could feign sudden illness.’

  ‘Or …’ I raise my voice to drown John out before he can make any other stupid remarks. ‘Or, you could stop working on the painting right now. Then we just say it needs further work, and I never sell anything in that condition, blah blah, your reputation, blah, blah. Then we get the hell out.’

  ‘I could muss it up a bit.’

  ‘Not helping, John.’

  ‘Sorry Alex. I think I’m a bit nervous about the whole thing. We – well, mostly you – have been running around unravelling the story behind Molly’s murder, but it was all so long ago. I didn’t really expect that we’d end up facing down the person who may well be the killer.’

  ‘That’s still up for debate. We certainly haven’t got enough proof of anything to go to the police.’

  ‘Even if we did, what would the cops do? Investigate a ninety-plus-year-old man for a seventy-year-old crime? Assuming they didn’t just hustle us out the door, given our complete lack of solid evidence, wouldn’t there be a statute of limitations on stuff like that? Or Raeburn could just say Molly had an active imagination and that would be that. Except for the bit where his pricey lawyers sue the crap out of you. I mean, you could talk to the police, but I think – unless you just want to walk away – this is really the only option.’

  ‘Agreed. I’ll make the call now and be at the studio in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘No rush. If I’m not going to work on Molly, I might even tidy up the studio a bit.’

  ‘Sure you will; knock yourself out. And before you get too attached to your cover-up idea, I’ve discovered a couple of other things we need to discuss.’

  ‘Intriguing. I’ll be waiting.’

  I jab the button, ending the call. Outside the car, I can see the wind has picked up a bit, pushing swollen grey clouds across the sky to a point where they begin to back up and insulate the world, obscuring the sun and the infinite blue beyond. I think of the colours Turner would have used to paint that sky, or Constable. How would Tom Roberts have captured the elements of this gathering storm? The patches of light and dark that now dapple the ground and the agitation of the trees. I know I’m procrastinating, but thinking about art is very calming. Bringing my attention back inside the car, I scroll through the numbers on my phone, select the name Raeburn, T, and press the button with the ironic icon of a rotary dial phone receiver. I clear my throat as it starts to ring.

  ‘Thomas Raeburn.’

  ‘Mr Raeburn, it’s Alex Clayton.’ My voice sounds strange in my ears. ‘Good news. My client has decided against the painting, so as promised I’m giving your father first right of refusal.’

  ‘He definitely wants it.’

  ‘We haven’t agreed on a price yet and it’s still undergoing cleaning.’

  ‘I’ve been asked to tell you that you can name the price.’

  ‘We can finalise that when I deliver the painting. I’m anticipating that the conservator will have finished the work by late tonight, barring any sort of emergency. That means I could bring it round tomorrow morning, say about ten?’

  ‘I’m more than happy to collect it. In fact, it might be simpler.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s part of the service.’ I’m grasping a bit, so I decide to play the trump card. ‘Besides, I want to make sure your father is completely happy. I’d hate to be the reason you found yourself in a difficult position.’

  I hear him swallow. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  Raeburn senior must be scary as hell when he’s worked up.

  ‘Excellent. Where am I delivering the painting?’

  ‘Number 13 Bannock Avenue, Toorak. I’ll make sure the gate is unlocked.’

  ‘See you at ten, then. I’m looking forward to meeting your father.’

  ‘Yes, see you at ten.’

  The phone is still against my ear when the line is cut and it’s another few seconds before I drop it onto the passenger seat. John isn’t the only one who’s nervous. I twist the key in the ignition and the engine doesn’t so much roar to life as excuse itself in a very Gallic manner, accompanied by the prolonged shrug of the suspension. I feel quite cold all of a sudden, so I crank on the heater and leave it blasting all the way to John’s studio.

  ***

  ‘I still think Adam Graham looks good for it.’ I’m sprawled in the yellow basket chair. ‘But I need to run a couple of things past you.’

  ‘Go on.’ John hands me a coffee and moves to the other chair.

  ‘First, I found out – well, Daphne told me – that someone else confessed to killing Mena and Hazel.’

  ‘That rules out the random psycho theory then.’

  ‘Well there was a psycho, but he had nothing to do with Molly’s death.’

  ‘Melbourne must have been a lovely town in 1930.’

  ‘I know. It still leaves the spate of non-fatal attacks on women unsolved. I don’t know if they’re related to anything, but they were very close to Molly’s house and they stopped after her murder.’

  ‘So back to Adam Graham or the man Molly was writing about. And I’m going on record and saying I think she was writing about Donald Raeburn.’

  ‘Well I agree we can rule out the idea of an unknown killer. I mean, what are the
odds Molly Dean would be the victim of a random attack when she already had a vicious mother, Adam Graham stalking her, some very jealous acquaintances and eleven pages of explosive material on someone who sounds like a crime boss?’

  ‘Let’s call him Donald Raeburn, shall we?’

  I sigh. ‘Would you just listen for a moment?’

  ‘Fine. Tell me what you’ve got.’

  ‘I was thinking again about the idea that the killer could be a woman.’

  John raises his eyebrows but I hold up a hand before he can speak.

  ‘What if the man in the coat and hat following Molly was a woman? The strange gait the witnesses described could be because it was a woman trying to walk like a man.’

  John takes a breath but I move my extended hand sharply, pushing the air in front of his face.

  ‘I’m thinking either Ethel Dean, in which case she was probably in it together with Graham … or Betty Roland.’

  ‘You think this tops my Donald Raeburn conspiracy theory?’

  ‘I found out Betty Roland gave Molly the theatre tickets. She would have known Molly would be coming home alone.’

  John shakes his head. ‘First, Ethel Dean. If Graham was the killer, she might have known something, but I don’t think she dressed as a man to follow Molly home. Why do that when we know he was happy to do her bidding on that score?’

  ‘You don’t think he was lying in wait and Ethel was …’ I trail off. ‘Okay, maybe that is a bit of a stretch. But what about Betty Roland? Possible rival for Colin’s affections?’

  John gets up and rummages around in his bookcase for a moment. When he turns back, he’s already flicking through the pages of a yellow hardback. It’s Betty Roland’s biography.

  ‘Betty Roland could not possibly be involved. The police questioned her, like they did everyone in that social group.’ He turns the book around and thrusts it toward me. ‘Read that.’ He taps a spot halfway down the page.

  I scan the text. Betty Roland was 200 miles away from Elwood on the night Molly was murdered. I snap the book shut and sigh. ‘So tell me your theory then.’

  ‘Theories!’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Number one. Donald Raeburn killed her and paid off the police.’

  ‘But if we assume he’s the man in Molly’s notes, he was powerful enough not to need to kill her. Threats and intimidation would have done the trick. Plus I think Percy Lambell wouldn’t have spent the rest of his life agonising about the case if he knew who did it but had been bought off. I think Daphne’s right about her dad – he must have been squeaky clean.’

  ‘I agree about Lambell, but Raeburn could have bribed someone higher up the food chain. And he might have killed Molly just because he was a sadist and knew he could do it and get away with it. Or maybe it was a warning to others not to cross him.’

  I screw up my nose. ‘What’s the second theory?’

  ‘Molly was getting too close to a police corruption story so the cops – not Lambell – eliminated her.’

  I shake my head. ‘I hope there’s a third theory.’

  ‘Adam Graham did it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yep.’ John nods. ‘But Raeburn paid him to do it. Somehow their paths crossed and they realised they had a mutual interest in Molly Dean.’

  ‘That’s a huge reach.’

  ‘Ahh! But remember how Adam Graham was so relaxed after the committal, he fell asleep in the police cells? And how his enormous bail was posted immediately by a stranger?’

  ‘That was a retired farmer. I don’t remember his name.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We know from experience Raeburn likes using false names.’

  ‘You really have a thing about Raeburn.’

  ‘Molly hid those notes for a reason.’

  ‘But she doesn’t name Raeburn.’

  John snorts. ‘You said yourself it was too much of a coincidence for Molly to have all those nasty people in her life and still get murdered by a random stranger.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘It’s also too much of a coincidence for her to have written about a powerful and intimidating man and for just such a person to be trying to buy her portrait seventy years later. Unless it’s the same man.’

  ‘I’m not sure about any of these people anymore.’ I fold my arms. ‘But I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.’

  #xa0;

  The next morning, Hogarth and I collect John and Molly from the studio just after nine. Last night’s storm has blown itself out, but it will be a few hours before the sun manages to erase the lingering traces of damp from the glistening streets. Hogarth is aware that we’re on edge, so he does what any self-respecting wolfhound would do under the circumstances: sits bang in the middle of the back seat and inserts his head between John and me in the front. Occasionally he drags his tongue across my cheek in a reassuring manner. I’m going to need to exfoliate the rest of my face to catch up.

  ‘Is your wrist still bothering you?’ John nods toward my hands on the steering wheel.

  ‘I overdid it a bit yesterday, the bandage is just for extra support. But never mind about that. Your Raeburn theories made me paranoid, so I ran off three copies of Molly’s papers last night.’ My voice sounds loud. ‘I didn’t want to bring the originals, and I stuck one copy in the post to Daphne, and another to your home address.’

  ‘Good, good.’ John looks across at me. ‘I keep telling myself this is an old man we’re going to see, but I’m shit scared.’

  ‘Let’s call that a healthy degree of caution. It doesn’t sound quite so bad then. It will be okay. I’m freaking out too, but we agreed we can do this. We need to do this.’

  ‘Can we have a code word? If things are getting too, I don’t know, psycho-killer-ish?’

  ‘We won’t need one. We’re just going to go in, show him the painting, drop a few broad remarks about Molly’s murder and her notes, and see what happens.’

  ‘Okay. But if I mention Max Meldrum, you can take that as a sign that I’m about to bottle it.’

  ‘Duly noted.’

  I flip on the indicator and we swing into Bannock Avenue. It’s the sort of street where the air feels like it’s freshly piped in every morning. Nature strips are mown with military precision and there is not a single car parked on the narrow road. It’s a vista of high walls and imposing gates, like some sort of medieval battlement that has been gussied up by an assortment of decorators, all trying to outdo each other without tipping over into tackiness. Except for number 13.

  Number 13 Bannock Avenue appears to be the house time – not to mention paint and landscaping – forgot. Whatever the tall fence was made from, the whole thing is dense with vines. Not an attractive russet-coloured Boston ivy or something delightfully floral and aromatic like wisteria or honeysuckle, but the sort of vine for which the term ‘creeper’ is particularly apt. The leaves are thick and dark, and the tangle of tendrils stretches up and out from the fence, looking for somewhere new to attach their suckers. They crowd in on the gate, or rather the solid door that crouches midway along the property line. Beyond the top of the fence, tall cypress trees and what looks like the top of a monkey puzzle tree crowd together, fighting toward the light. The upper storey of a Victorian house, rendered grey, is just visible. If I was a kid, this is the sort of place I’d run past on my way home from school.

  ‘Talk about setting the scene. This place is straight from central casting.’ I roll the car to a stop directly across from the gate.

  ‘Does it strike you as deeply ironic that it’s number 13?’ John leans around me to get a better look.

  The gate shifts slightly as we watch, and both John and I crane forward, holding our breath. Nothing. ‘Tom said he’d make sure it’s unlocked. They must have chocked it open and the wind is
catching it.’ I’m not sure if I’m saying it for John’s benefit or mine.

  ‘Sure, the wind.’ John licks his lips. ‘How about a couple of rules? No opening any closed doors at the end of long hallways, and if we hear any music in a minor key, we get the hell out.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable. At least there’s no trouble getting Hogarth into the garden.’

  ‘What about the house though?’

  ‘Depends. When they open the door, I’ll go first with the painting and try to keep the attention on me, then you get Hogarth to tail you in and ask him to chill in the hall. And try to leave the door off the latch in case we need to beat a hasty retreat. Crap, it’s giving me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about going in there.’

  ‘I reckon it’s time we stopped thinking and just did this or we’ll be here for ever.’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s go.’

  We clamber out of the car and I retrieve Molly from the boot and wrap a blanket around her while John grabs Hogarth’s collar. We regroup next to the rear bumper.

  ‘Have you got Molly’s notes?’

  I know I do, because I’ve checked a dozen times already this morning, but now John has asked I have to pat my pocket again. It’s like when I’m on the way to the airport and someone says, ‘Have you got everything? Passport?’

  ‘C’mon.’

  I start across the road with John and Hogarth close behind. The gate is indeed propped open with a brick, and as we pass through I make sure there’s no chance it can be blown shut. Inside the fence, the garden is wildly overgrown. There are glimpses here and there of its former glory: a fragment of path now meandering into a solid wall of green; the lichen-covered face of a statue peering out from a dark corner; and, to one side of the house, a swimming pool. The design just visible in the broken line of tiles is enough to show the pool was probably the last word in sophistication back in the 1950s, but today the water is dark, black and overlain by a thick blanket of algae and scum. I don’t want to think about what might be on the bottom of that pool.