Perverse Consequences

by Robert Blain

  Schlakier and Olson took refuge under a big gum tree in the backyard. Barb brought out a pitcher of lemonade full of chunks of ice clinking refreshingly. She poured them each a glass.

  ‘There you are Mister Schlakier,’ said Barb. ‘That’s an interesting name. Is it Swedish?’

  ‘Danish. There’s supposed to a royal connection somewhere in the distant past.’

  ‘John’s grandfather come to Australia from Sweden in the twenties. No royal connection as far as we know. I’ll get something for you to nibble on.’

  ‘Don’t mind the birds,’ said Olsen, as Barb disappeared back into the house.

  The gum tree was peppered with highly active, bright-red rosellas, chirruping as they frolicked among the branches looking for seeds. It reminded Schlakier fondly of his childhood growing up in the Dandenongs when his father used to put out birdseed every morning to attract the birds from the nearby trees. Rosellas, green parrots, lorikeets – a colourful cacophony.

  The smell of eucalyptus filled Schlakier’s nostrils.

  ‘It’s a big old manna gum,’ continued Olsen. ‘We used to get koalas when it was less built up. Last year we had a flock of yellow crested cockatoos. Noisy, destructive buggers. This year it’s rosellas. Much better than the cockatoos.’

  ‘And the flies,’ said Schlakier swatting another away.

  ‘It’s ‘cos it’s dead still. They're not a problem when there’s a bit of a breeze up. I’ll get Barb to fetch you some Aerogard.’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry about it, I’ll be right. So what do you do here?’

  ‘Been retired just on two years now. I used to teach history at the local high school. So these days if I’m not out playing golf I’m writing a book on the First World War.’

  ‘What aspect?’

  ‘Australia’s involvement in the Dardanelles. It’s sort of inspired by my grandfather – he was a medic on the front line there.’

  ‘That must keep you busy.’

  ‘It does. There’s a lot of research involved. I’ve got 600 pages so far.’

  ‘I don’t know why you just don’t try and publish the bloody thing,’ said Barb, reappearing with a plate of Tim Tams.

  ‘It’s not finished yet,’ said Olsen tetchily.

  ‘He’s been working in it for years,’ she said to Schlakier. ‘Anyone would think he was writing the next War and Peace.’

  She rolled her eyes in Schlakier’s direction and left them to it.

  Schlakier took a long gulp from the glass of lemonade. The hot drive up had left him thirsty.

  ‘Refreshing.’

  ‘Home made. The woman does have her talents.’

  Olsen stared at Schlakier intently from under a pair of bushy white eyebrows. ‘So what can I help you with?’

  ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Justina Doble.’

  ‘Yes, you told me as much on the phone. But why now? She disappeared almost ten years ago.’

  ‘I’ve been contracted by some people to look into the case.’

  ‘Her family?’

  ‘No.’

  Schlakier didn’t elaborate. Off in the distance, Schlakier heard the high-pitch drone of what sounded like a whipper snipper suddenly firing up.

  ‘That’s just old Ted up the road trying to keep the spring growth at bay,’ explained Olsen.

  ‘Mind if I take a few notes?’ said Schlakier, pulling a small notebook from his pocket, his pencil stub poised in the air.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Justina? She was a lovely girl. Very bubbly and friendly. Always smiling. We didn’t see that much of her. I mean she wouldn’t be interested in a couple of old fogies like us. She spent most of her time in Melbourne studying her course.’

  ‘That would be for her Master’s degree. Her MBA.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about her husband? Christopher Hohl.’

  Olsen gave Schlakier another piercing look from under his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘He was an entirely different kettle of fish altogether. Kept to himself. Withdrawn. Don’t get me wrong, he was always polite, cordial. I actually didn’t mind the guy. Barb didn’t care much for him though.’

  ‘I see.’

  Schlakier took another long drink of the lemonade, the icy liquid giving him a slight brain freeze.

  ‘I’d like to focus on the night of the disappearance,’ Schlakier continued.

  Olsen nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Hohl said in a sworn testimony that on the night he came over to your place and you shared a glass of wine.’

  ‘That categorically did not happen. I don’t know why he said that. I told the police as much at the time.’

  Schlakier knew this but he wanted to hear it from Olsen.

  ‘Can anyone verify the events of the night? Your wife perhaps.’

  ‘Nope. She was over at her sister’s in Maryborough. It was just me and Jessie.’

  ‘Jessie?’

  ‘Our dog. He’s passed on two years now. But Hohl was not here that night.’

  ‘I wonder why he lied about it,’ said Schlakier, deciding to back Olsen’s version of events – he might have been getting on a little but he still seemed pretty sharp.

  ‘Can’t say I know,’ said Olsen, not being drawn into speculation.

  Old Ted’s whipper snipper abruptly stopped.

  ‘But another odd thing,’ continued Olsen, lowering his voice in the sudden silence. ‘I don’t think Justina Doble left the house on the night of her disappearance.’

  ‘I suppose it would be something that’s easy to miss.’

  ‘True. But I’m certain she didn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Jessie would have barked. Never missed a trick that dog. Sharp as a tack.’

  Schlakier looked up over the half-finished glass of lemonade in his hand and shot Olsen an intense look.

  ‘That’s a quite a revelation. According to Hohl’s sworn testimony, she went to Melbourne for an Australia Day barbecue with her university friends.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘What about the next day?’

  Olsen shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say. I was teaching and Barb was still at her sister’s place in Maryborough.

  Schlakier hastily jotted down several comments in his notebook.

  ‘Now don’t get too carried away about what I just told you. It was all so long ago and it probably doesn’t mean anything,’ said Olsen, seemingly a little ill at ease with Schlakier’s interest.

  ‘But one thing I’m certain of. Justina Doble did not leave that house on the night of her disappearance.’

  Schlakier looked up from his scribbling.

  ‘At least not of her own free will.’

  Schlakier traversed a tricky network of back roads on his way to Kinglake. And finally, after several wrong turns and backtracks, he arrived at his destination. Late afternoon sunshine filtered through the gum trees and onto a row of shops along the main strip – all of which looked like they had been freshly erected. In fact, every building he passed looked new: the petrol station, the post office, the police station. Kinglake had suffered a direct hit in the Black Saturday bushfires and no building had been left standing – government premises, retail shops, family dwellings. All had been turned to ash with indiscriminate impunity. Thirty-eight Kinglake residents perished in the terrible blaze.

  Schlakier poked about the placid alpine town, asking shop owners if anyone remembered Christopher Hohl and his missing wife. He drew a blank.

  On the way out of Kinglake, Schlakier stopped at the local Caltex petrol station for fuel. Like almost every other building he had seen, it looked new – undoubtedly constructed post-Black Saturday.

  ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’ asked the man at the counter. Schlakier took him to be a local in his late fifties – sporting a faded brown baseball cap and a grey-streaked beard.

  Schlakier explai
ned his interest in the Christopher Hohl case. The man gave him a startled look.

  ‘Yeah, I mighta seen him.’

  Schlakier was stunned. He had all but acknowledged to himself that his trip to Kinglake was a wild goose chase.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re still looking,’ continued the service attendant, ‘but I remember it clear as a bell. He made a phone call from the public booth across the road.’

  Schlakier looked out the window on the street but just saw a fish and chip shop.

  ‘It’s not there anymore. It was destroyed in the fire and Telstra hasn’t replaced it yet.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else about him?’

  ‘He was driving a gardener’s truck or something. With some tools in the back tray.’

  Schlakier felt a tingle go through him.

  ‘What sort of tools?’

  The man hesitated, trying to recall.

  ‘Was there a spade?’ prompted Schlakier.

  ‘Might have been… might have been. I couldn’t say for sure.’

  7

  =====

  FIRST DATE

  Birtles let out a low whistle. ‘You smell nice, mate. What’s the occasion?’

  ‘I’ve got a date with Vicky.’

  ‘When did you arrange that, you sly dog?’

  Schlakier just smiled in response.

  ‘Go for it. It’s about time you got back in the saddle.’

  Birtles was about to leave the office for the day and had stuck his head in to see if Schlakier wanted to join him with an old colleague they both knew from their police days.

  ‘But I can see – or at least smell – that you’ve got a better offer. Anyway, I’m off-skee. There’s a chilled stubby of VB with my name on it.’

  Birtles gave him a mock salute and left.

  Schlakier had procrastinated about phoning Vicky. But when he finally did, she sounded at first surprised and then pleased. They agreed to meet at a tapas bar on Brunswick Street. So here he was, about to embark on his first date. Post Zoe. But he still had an hour to kill before their rendezvous. Rather than go home, he decided to review the Christopher Hohl case – to prep up for his upcoming interview with Hohl’s supposedly closest friend, Sarah Chisholm.

  Vicky was already seated when Schlakier arrived at the bar. It was dimly lit and loud, with the obligatory Latin-themed music blaring out over the premises – a lively tune of trumpets, strummed guitar and a male voice singing in Spanish. She waved him over to her corner. As he approached, she tried a smile and almost made it. He guessed she was nervous. How did he feel? Certainly not nervous. He’d had a sort of ‘here-we-go-again-on-the-dating-scene’ dread as he’d approached the bar but now that he’d actually seen her out of a work context, he felt a little better. He’d forgotten how pretty she was.

  He ordered a tapas platter for them to share, a glass of chardonnay for her and a James Boag’s beer for him.

  ‘Cardonnay you back of chunts,’ Schlakier thought to himself as the drinks arrived – harking back to the line from the TV show Kath & Kim.

  Out loud he said: ‘So you mean to say this is the first time you’ve had tapas?’

  ‘This is the first time I’ve had Spanish food at all,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Seriously?’ said Schlakier. ‘You need to get out more.’

  She laughed. A natural spontaneous sound that penetrated Schlakier’s grim state of mind. Vicky’s silky black hair flashed vivaciously as she reached for her glass of wine. It was shorter now, Schlakier noticed. Styled. It suited her. As did the casual white T-shirt, faded blue jeans and boots she wore. The brown leather jacket she had worn to the venue was slung over the back of her chair. Student clobber. Schlakier reminded himself that was what she was. A student.

  ‘You got that right,’ she said. ‘I’ve promised to spoil myself once I’ve got my degree. I never did get out much during high school. While my girlfriends were all out at parties and sneaking underage into bars I was stuck working in the family restaurant.’

  She took a small sip of her wine.

  ‘Which is why,’ she continued, ‘I’m now completing my degree at the tender age of twenty-eight, when all my friends are pursuing their careers and making money. Am I talking too much? I’m a bit hyped up. I had a bat-shit crazy day at Uni.’

  She looked directly into his eyes for the first time. Schlakier was taken aback by the intensity of her gaze – it felt like the first time in a long time a woman had looked at him that way.

  ‘Nah your good. Where was the restaurant?’

  Schlakier took a long slug of his beer.

  ‘Richmond. You know that long strip of Vietnamese restaurants in Victoria Street? We were smack bang in the middle of them.’

  ‘So why were you working there – rather than going out underage drinking with your friends?’

  ‘It was hard for mum after we lost dad. He had lung cancer – he was only fifty-three.’

  ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘Yeah, well. The funny thing was, he never even smoked. So anyway, us three kids had to muck in. I was the oldest so I had to help out at the restaurant and look after my sisters as well. So see you later social life.’

  A white-shirted waiter in a skinny black tie arrived with a platter of food – a combination of snack-sized grilled fish, cubes of fried potatoes, olives, sliced meats, cheese, aubergines, sun-dried tomatoes and small rectangles of toasted bread.

  ‘Do you think your parents regretted it?’ said Schlakier. ‘Coming to Australia, I mean.’

  ‘Not mum. But I think dad did a bit. We had a pretty good life back in Vietnam. My dad’s family owned a silk factory in Hanoi. But then when the communists took over we lost almost everything. Dad arranged for us out of the country. Illegally of course. The borders were pretty much closed by this stage. We fled to Australia. My parents used what little money we had left to start the restaurant.’

  Schlakier took a swallow of his James Boag’s and appraised his date in a new light.

  ‘That’s quite a story,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky you didn’t try to come here twenty years later – you’d have ended up in a detention centre.’

  She put her hands up as if to clear the air. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you my life story. The food looks great by the way.’

  ‘Tuck in.’

  She perused the platter. ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘Give the sardines a go – it’s best to eat them while they’re still hot.’

  There was silence for a while, as they munched away on their tapas.

  ‘How’s work?’ asked Vicky, as she washed down the last of her tapas with a sip of wine.

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘It’s funny. I sort of miss working there.’

  ‘Seriously? It must be all those shady characters we get coming in wanting us to go through their wife’s old knickers in the trash, looking for clues of infidelity.’

  She laughed. An easy, natural sound. Schlakier found her high spirits were helping to loosen him up. Or maybe it was just the James Boag’s.

  ‘Still working on that big case?’ she said.

  Schlakier hesitated. He shot her a look, wondering how much he should reveal.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. There’s not much to tell really. The people who hired me have been pretty circumspect about what they want. I just know that I’m looking for dirt on a guy on a ten-year-old disappearance.’

  Schlakier briefly outlined the case, even going as far as to mention Hohl’s name but it didn’t seem to ring any bells for her. Not surprising really, Vicky would have been a teenager when Justina Doble disappeared. A lifetime ago for her.

  ‘It must better than being a policeman. Running your own business, I mean.’

  Schlakier felt the pressure of her foot touching his under the table. But she kept her gaze neutral. Her hands clasped around her wine glass. Her fingernails were painted tangerine. It looked freshly done, tho
ught Schlakier.

  ‘Kind of,’ he admitted. ‘Although earning a steady salary certainly didn’t hurt.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘The police force was good for a long time. I made some great friends. Bill for one. But in the end it just wore me down.’

  ‘What area did you work in?’

  ‘Homicide.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I guess I just saw too many things in too short a space of time. Then I started drinking too much… then girlfriend problems… then more drinking… in the end it was just easier to walk away.’

  It was funny talking about this stuff to another woman. Another woman who wasn’t Zoe. But the world didn’t collapse. Vicky kept her eyes sympathetically on his as he unloaded his tale of woe.

  ‘Another drink?’ he asked, draining his glass.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  Vicky was red-faced and seemed a little giddy after her one drink but Schlakier didn’t want risk being a party pooper by pointing it out. He caught the waiter’s attention and signalled for another round.

  ‘I guess I just saw too much of the wrong side of human nature,’ Schlakier continued. ‘I began to think poorly of people. And myself.’

  Vicky looked at him curiously. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I guess seeing death close up.’

  ‘You saw dead bodies?’

  ‘Yep. Occupational hazard, you might say.’

  ‘Whoa.’

  ‘But you also got to see the worst of human nature close up, what people are capable of. That it can just be a random act. Just the wrong combination of circumstances… and a person can be set off. To commit such horrible acts’

  ‘I guess it depends on the person.’

  ‘Not really. From what I observed at my time on the force, I came to a very unpleasant conclusion.’

  ‘What’s that?’