Perverse Consequences

by Robert Blain

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘C’mon mate. Everyone knows he did it. They just couldn’t prove it without the body.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Remember when Lindy Chamberlain was accused of murdering her baby? Turned out to be a dingo. Things aren’t always as cut and dried as they seem.’

  ‘It’s not your job to form an opinion on this. They’re just paying you to gather evidence.’

  The kettle flicked to off and Birtles filled the mugs with steaming-hot water.

  ‘Anyway, looks like people in high places agree with you. They must reckon they’ve got a strong case against him,’ said Schlakier.

  Birtles yanked open the fridge and pulled out a plastic carton of milk. Schlakier idly observed the magnetised letters randomly stuck on the back of the fridge door. It always reminded him of some sort of scrambled ransom note.

  ‘You know what this is don’t you?’ said Birtles, as he topped up the mugs with milk. ‘It’s political. The state government’s embarking on one of its law-and-order sprees. You know the drill. Leak figures to the media showing how much violent crime and robbery has dramatically increased over the past twelve months – then set about fixing the problem. It’s a guaranteed vote getter. Why else would they reopen a ten-year-old cold case? If they get a conviction it plays well with the public.’

  ‘You always were a cynical bastard.’

  Birtles shrugged. ‘That’s just the way it is. How much are they paying you by the way?’

  Schlakier briefly outlined the payment terms of the contract.

  Birtles let out a low whistle. ‘Man, that sort of deal could set you up. I’m envious.’ He handed Schlakier a mug of coffee and took a sip from his own.

  ‘Thing is,’ said Schlakier, ‘I’m a bit worried about it. I think I might be out of my depth with this. Not to mention the workload in a case of this size.’

  ‘Well that’s you – Schlakier by name and Schlakier by nature.’

  ‘That joke gets funnier every time you tell it.’

  ‘Seriously though,’ said Birtles, taking a long luxurious sip of his coffee. ‘You’ve got to take this gig. A big job like this is a great experience. And anyway, how else are you going to pay the bills?’

  4

  =====

  DISTRACTIONS

  Andy Schlakier looked up from his Friday-morning paperwork as he heard yet more shouts emanating from the street. As a private investigator, now working on his own coin, such distractions were unwelcome.

  He had the office to himself. Birtles was out on a case for a suspicious wife. Tracking a husband and his alleged lover having an alleged dirty long weekend down on the Surf Coast.

  Schlakier’s ground floor office in one of the less fashionable parts of Collingwood had the unfortunate distinction of having a Telstra public phone positioned in front of it. Such phones were a dying breed – Schlakier could recall only seeing a handful around the city as they gradually became phased out as the rise of the smartphone swept the globe.

  Still, that didn’t stop a procession of oddballs, loners, druggies and losers periodically using the phone. More often than not it ended in the user shouting down the line at the unseen person on the other end or – if things escalated – smashing up the handset or vandalising the phone booth itself. Schlakier speculated that they were probably calling social services about their dole being late (or cut off). It was one of the drawbacks of the location. The advantage was that the rent was cheap. There was certainly no way, as Schlakier was starting out as a private investigator, that he could afford one of the plush, high-rise offices along Collins Street, at the so-called Paris end of Melbourne. But as his old man used to say: ‘Never work in an office with chandeliers.’

  So Collingwood it was. Just a stone’s throw from the inner-city suburb of Richmond, the city’s drug capital for heroin users and dealers alike. The druggies often spilled over onto the streets of Collingwood, looking for a hit and occasionally begging for spare change from passers-by. Sometimes the drug-taking was of a more general nature. Schlakier had once seen a bedraggled young man passed out at the tram stop a few shops away with his face enclosed in a plastic bag containing an open can of paint. The paint was an eye-catching shade of electric blue, Schlakier recalled. He’d made something of a hero of himself with the early-morning commuters by pulling the unconscious man’s oxygen-starved head out of the bag of paint fumes.

  It was times like this, as the shouting in the street continued, that he missed the cool, enclosed space and camaraderie of life as a copper at the Russell Street Police Station. It had been a hard decision to quit but, Schlakier felt, the right one. After his girlfriend left him, he realised his drinking was turning to alcoholism. The blokey hard-work-hard-play atmosphere at Russell Street was not helping. Given his impressionable state of mind, it was either become engulfed by it or get out. Schlakier chose the latter.

  It had been a slow week. A matter of clearing his desks of smaller projects so he could focus on his one special client and the target at hand. One Christopher Hohl. Schlakier had received a weighty dossier on Hohl from an old contact in the police force and had set about researching his subject on how to proceed to unearth fresh evidence against him.

  After a complete reading of the dossier, Schlakier had spent the rest of the work unearthing news stories on the Internet. There was plenty of material on the Hohl family: the rise of the Boomerang clothing range, the shift to property, the wealth, the big deals. One or two articles on the tragic death of the mother: Did she fall or was it suicide? Then an avalanche of stuff on the disappearance of Hohl’s wife and speculation of foul play.

  Schlakier stumbled across a YouTube clip on the disappearance of Justina Doble. The documentary starts with a melodramatic reenactment of the suspected suicide of Hohl’s mother, which he witnessed as a boy, with actors playing him and his father. It then fast forward’s to Hohl’s blossoming relationship with his future wife. Schlakier is taken aback by a series of happy snaps of the young couple. The pair looked carefree and fresh-faced. Hohl almost resembles a young Bill Gates – windswept medium-brown hair and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. Almost smiling. A subsequent image is more telling. It’s a family gathering at Justina’s family. Hohl is formally attired in a suit and tie. The glasses are gone but he sports a thick beard and wears a haunted, pensive look. Much more like the images Schlakier recalls from the media.

  The doco then becomes more hard hitting. Hohl’s movements are tracked after the disappearance of his wife. He makes a phone call to the family headquarters in Melbourne from Kinglake. The doco narrator speculates that Hohl may have driven the body up to the Talangi State Forest and buried her there, drawing attention to his close friendship with criminal lawyer, Sarah Chisholm. The doco then went to make rather sensational (and Schlakier thought unsubstantiated) claims about her involvement in Justina’s disappearance.

  Schlakier paused the YouTube clip with the closing credits and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. After a week’s research, he’d drawn a blank and was unsure how best to proceed with the case. At least the loony out in the street had stopped shouting.

  The door chime trilled. Schlakier looked at his watch. It was a couple of minutes to midday and he remembered that their receptionist came in on Friday afternoons. He heard her bustling her way through the outer area until she appeared at the open doorway of his office.

  ‘Hi ya,’ she said, flicking her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Busy?’

  The part-time receptionist, Vicky Tran, was a student at Monash University in her final year of a combined Eco/Law degree. She was soberly attired in a grey sweater over black pants. Schlakier wished she would wear skirts to work more often. She had come to Australia from Vietnam at a young age with her family. Schlakier thought there was more to the story but had never found a way to broach the subject.

  ‘Somewhat. I’ve been working on a new case for the State Government,’ said Schlakier.

  ‘Ooh, sounds interesting.
’

  ‘Yeah maybe. Except I’m getting nowhere. Might be time for some lunch.’

  Vicky lingered in the doorway. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I have to quit.’

  Damn. This was not good news. It had been difficult to fill the role. They had a trialled a number of receptionists each of which had proved either slothful, tardy or simply incompetent – turning up late and forgetting to write down important messages form potential clients. Vicky had been a godsend, organised and competent. And brightening things up in the male-only workplace.

  ‘How come?’ enquired Schlakier.

  ‘It’s my last term at Uni. I want to focus on my exams – make sure I pass.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll pass. Look, if it’s about the money–’

  ‘It’s not that. I want to get good grades. Is two weeks’ notice all right?’

  Vicky smiled a little to take the sting out of the bad news.

  ‘OK, sure.’

  The phone began to ring in the outer office.

  ‘I better get that.’

  She left. Schlakier turned his attention to the file on Hohl provided by Michael – which was providing more questions than answers. He needed to meet the State Corporate Affairs man in person.

  5

  =====

  DOG DAY

  Christopher Hohl was playing with his toy soldiers in his bedroom when he heard the dog whimpering. It was more fun playing with Russell but his younger brother was at his friend’s house that day. Then he heard his mother. A sound so piercing, it made him forget all about the miniature battle before him. Then came his father’s voice, low, angry. Like he was growling. Young Christopher put down his toys and went downstairs toward the kitchen, where all the noise was happening. He went furtively but urgently. Something strange was going on and he didn’t want to go. But he loved the dog very much, maybe more than anything else in the world. There was another agonised whimper.

  It was the Hohl family pooch: a border collie. No longer a pup but not quite an adult. A smart dog. An excellent retriever. Christopher loved to throw tennis balls for it in the yard. It never seemed to tire of the game of fetch.

  Unfortunately, the pooch had a tendency to relieve itself in the house. Not often, only when it was very scared. Such as when it was driven indoors by a thunderstorm. Such as they’d had that Saturday morning. Christopher knew from experience that this angered his father. Scared to leave the house, the dog had crapped in the hallway. On the small rug underneath the Chippendale table. A small, incriminating twist of dog shit. Christopher saw it is approached the entrance of the kitchen. Furtively but urgently.

  He heard a bang.

  ‘No!’ shouted the mother.

  Then another loud bang.

  Christopher peered through the doorway into the kitchen and tried to make sense of what he saw. His father was facing away from him with his leg raised. He brought it down hard into the dog’s side, taking the air out of it with an ‘oomph’ and propelling it into the closed pantry door. Christopher’s mother was on the seat of her pants staring incredulously at her husband. Then she looked at her son in the doorway.

  ‘Christopher. Go to your room!’ she snapped.

  His father had the dog trapped in the corner of the kitchen. The dog was whimpering. But when he began kicking it repeatedly, it yelped with each blow. Then the mother was up trying to put her arms around her husband and drag him away but he shrugged her off and shoved her to the floor again with the palm of his hand. Then it was Christopher’s turn. He ran up to his father and tugged at his shirt.

  ‘Dad, stop,’ said Christopher. ‘Let me punish him.’

  His father’s head jerked around – a red-faced fury. He seemed not to recognise his own son. A backhand across the ear sent Christopher sprawling across the kitchen floor.

  Christopher’s father continued kicking the dog, now a crumpled ball of black-and-white fur in the corner. Christopher raised his head and saw something red smeared across the pantry door. At first it didn’t register, as if it had nothing to do with the scene. But then he realised. It was his own pet’s blood.

  6

  =====

  ROAD TRIP

  Schlakier was about to leave the office and drive up to Castlebrook when Birtles arrived. Schlakier found him banging about in the kitchen, putting together his morning heart-starter.

  ‘How were the dirty weekenders?’ said Schlakier.

  ‘Very lively. Let’s just say he was caught with his pants down.’

  ‘You didn’t get evidence of that did you?’

  ‘Everything but,’ said Birtles with a smirk. ‘Needless to say, his wife’s not impressed. Another dissatisfied customer.’

  ‘We aim to please.’

  ‘How goes the big case?’

  ‘Slowly. I found some discrepancies in what Hohl told his neighbour when he was living in Castlebrook in an old police testimony. So I’m heading up there this morning’

  Schlakier shrugged. ‘It’s as good a place to start as any. I was also thinking of head up to Talangi State Forest.’

  ‘You think he buried the body there?’

  ‘I’m not saying he buried the body anywhere. I mean even if he did, trying to find any evidence in the forest would be like looking for a needle in a haystack anyway.’

  Birtles nodded. The two old cops knew from experience that Talangi State Forest was a popular location for criminal gangs to bury their victims – given the vast, impenetrable nature of the terrain. Unless someone knew where to find the body, it would stay lost.

  ‘Apparently Hohl made a phone call from a public phone in Kinglake a few days after his wife disappeared.’

  ‘But assuming he did bury the body there – and I am – how we he know about such an ideal location?’ said Birtles.

  ‘Turns out he’s friends with the lawyer, Sarah Chisholm.’

  ‘The criminal-loving lawyer?’

  ‘The very same. Hohl’s known her since university. Speculation is that she provided intelligence to Hohl on one of the criminal gangs favourite burial spots. But as I say, it’s just speculation.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘So anyway, after Castlebrook I might head over to Kinglake. Just snoop around – go over some old leads.

  ‘Sounds like a plan. You want a brew before you go?’ said Birtles, holding up two mugs.’

  ‘Nah, I better hit the road. I told the Olsens I’d be there by one.’

  ‘The Olsens?’

  ‘Hohl’s neighbours in Castlebrook. Oh and by the way, Vicky’s quitting.’

  ‘Fuck. We find someone half decent and she wants to leave. Did you offer her more money?’

  ‘That’s not it. It’s her final year at Uni. She wants to focus on her studies apparently.

  ‘What a good girl.’

  Schlakier gunned his lapis blue Honda Accord Euro and headed toward Alexander Parade, hoping the traffic wasn’t too bad. Every year Melbourne traffic seemed to get worst – even extending to non-peak-hour periods. The car was only five years old but already had its fair share of dints and scrapes. Schlakier hadn’t bothered to repair this minor damage reasoning that most panel beaters charged way too much. He preferred to drive it beaten up.

  He opened up the compartment next to the driver’s seat and rummaged around for a CD. His hand briefly hovered over a James Blunt CD – one of Zoe’s favourite artists. Schlakier had meant to throw it out but somehow hadn’t got around to it. His hand kept going until he found what he was looking. He pushed a CD into the disc player. He liked old-school Aussie classics. Today he was going way back with The Best of the Easybeats. It was the first warm day of the spring. It was like that in Melbourne. It was as if winter was never going to end and then suddenly there was a burst of heat and dazzling sunshine. Schlakier wound down the car windows – preferring fresh air to air con – and cranked up the volume. As Stevie Wright hit the open vocals of Wedding Ring, Schlakier
began to mull over the case.

  Hohl had opened a bookshop in Castlebrook with Justina shortly after they were married. They called it All Good Reads. A bookshop tucked away in a country town with online purchasing gathering steam couldn’t have been much of a money spinner. Schlakier reasoned that it must have been bankrolled with Hohl’s family money.

  The bookshop had been boarded up and closed about six months after Justina’s disappearance. It had recently been sold, according to Castlebrook council records. But it was the next door neighbours that Schlakier was interested in talking to. There were discrepancies in Hohl’s story on the fateful night that he hoped the Olsen’s could shed some light on. Unlike the boom of retired people heading up to Castlebrook for a so-called tree change – the town had been dubbed North Northcote – John and Barb Olsen were Castlebrook born and bred. He was retired and she a still-active housewife.

  As Schlakier hit the Tullamarine Freeway he checked his watch. Provide the roadworks on the Tulla weren’t too bad, he’d make it in good time. As the opening riff of Friday on My Mind boomed out of the CD player, he tapped out the beat on the steering wheel and accelerated to keep pace with the traffic.

  Schlakier found the house he was looking for and stepped out of the car.

  ‘Just look for the old place next to the Kookaburra Café,’ John Olsen had told him over the phone. The establishment was well signposted, with a billboard out front boasting its name in large orange capitals and a sketch of a laughing kookaburra looking particularly chipper. But apart from a few outdoor table and chairs a few cars in the parking space, it appeared deserted. It was as if All Good Reads and its gristly aftermath had never existed.

  The heat had built on the drive up to Castlebrook on the unseasonably warm spring day. Schlakier walked up the Olsen’s driveway in a dead-flat landscape bathed in sunshine, swatting away a fly as he went. He was struck by the silence and stillness of the place. The rambling, one-story house bore a porch around its entire circumference. A couple appear through the house’s fly screen door to greet him – he was tall, angular and white haired and she smaller, squatter and improbably dark haired, dyed Schlakier presumed. He would have guessed they were both about seventy.