Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Collection

Chapter 20

Before Franklin wasted more energy on Christina van Hoeckel’s half-arsed call for help, he would throw himself into the poison-pen case.

While the letters reeked of an unhinged religious element, he couldn’t ignore the obvious common denominator for the young mothers: Ballarat Base Hospital. He rang the hospital registrar and after a few minutes on hold ran through the preliminaries with the woman. Her astute questions gave him a positive first impression.

He broadened the inquiry period to three months, noted details for the core maternity team and received a promise from the registrar to email the rota along with a list of admissions for that timeframe. Although the Birkley and Morris babies were four weeks old, a wider picture might reveal something pertinent.

She provided names of the medical staff on the ward when Tayla and Lauren went into labour but hastened to add, ‘Of course, you can’t forget the volunteers, cleaners and personnel that move between the wards. We’re a public hospital – we don’t have the luxury of St John’s. My staff has to multitask, doing quite a bit outside the official job description.’

‘Of course, you can’t forget the volunteers, cleaners and personnel that move between the wards. We’re a public hospital – we don’t have the luxury of St John’s. My staff has to multitask, doing quite a bit outside the official job description.’Franklin mentally tacked on paramedics, specialists, administrators, catering crew and orderlies. In all, he faced an extensive suspect base from this line of inquiry alone.

Added to his pet theory, and if he also considered family and friends of the two women, he would be resource-challenged, yet a thrill tickled his spine.

That’s what I’m talking about!

That’s what I’m talking about!He panged with guilt. Lauren and Tayla’s privacy had been violated, and they’d been intimidated. More than that, Solomon’s letters arguably constituted threats to kill. It was vital that he narrow the list of suspects, then apprehend the perpetrator before those threats escalated into actuality.

Franklin wrapped up with questions for the registrar to put to her midwifery team.

‘I’ll do my best to get back to you soon, but it’ll depend on how busy the mums keep us!’

‘I’ll do my best to get back to you soon, but it’ll depend on how busy the mums keep us!’He had to be content with that for now.

Luckily, that was just Franklin’s warm-up.

Next he caught a few envious looks as the blue-over-white Kawasaki chewed the Midland Highway. He hugged the curves of the bushed area on Daylesford’s outskirts and full-throttled through the open plains of the spud and crop country that followed. He smirked as he always did when he passed the Swiss Mountain Hotel in Blampied. Whoever named it must’ve had a great imagination. The humble weatherboard pub with its one ute parked outside couldn’t be further from a chalet hotel on a lofty mountain.

Not far past the pub, he hooked left onto the Blampied–Mollongghip Road. After the long straight and three more left turns, he reached Dingley Dell Road. Then, his destination: a bush block and its rutted single track in lieu of a driveway.

On arrival, he reflected wryly that the upside to his slow battle with hair loss was no worries about helmet-hair. He ruffled the fuzz on top and approached the weatherboard cottage.

Cottage? Franklin corrected himself to house. That ugly square box without eaves or verandahs and in constant darkness from the thicket of trees that overhung it couldn’t be called a cottage or a home.

Cottage? At this point, he realised his brain had gone into overdrive.

He admitted to the keyed-up sensation he got when in pursuit of a strong lead.

The hospital angle was necessary to check and could only be eliminated once he’d exhausted it – unless Solomon was just metres away, inside that bleak house.

Franklin was so tense he jumped when his mobile rang. ‘Shit.’ He fumbled through the pockets of his leather jacket.

When he answered, the hospital registrar leapt straight in. ‘I managed to speak to three of the girls who had contact with both your mums and none are aware of threats to patients or staff, then or now. Or nasty letters…’

‘I managed to speak to three of the girls who had contact with both your mums and none are aware of threats to patients or staff, then or now. Or nasty letters…’‘And did they recall anything unusual on or about the ninth of February?’ He’d asked her to question her staff specifically about the day of Tayla and Lauren’s births. ‘Odd or upset visitors? Commotion between the mums?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘No, nothing.’‘Did they remember Tayla Birkley and Lauren Morris?’

‘Oh, yes, especially Tayla. The girls said she was a rowdy one! She added a few words to their vocabulary that day, and that’s hard to do in our job.’ The registrar laughed, then seemed to hold the receiver closer to her mouth. ‘Can you tell me more about the case?’

‘Oh, yes, especially Tayla. The girls said she was a rowdy one! She added a few words to their vocabulary that day, and that’s hard to do in our job.’‘Can you tell me more about the case?’‘I’m sorry, not at this stage.’

He heard her sigh. She must have enjoyed something out of the ordinary.

‘I’ll talk to other staff—confidentially—and get back to you if we come up with anything. And I’ll email that info you asked for later today.’

‘I’ll talk to other staff—confidentially—and get back to you if we come up with anything. And I’ll email that info you asked for later today.’He thanked her and pocketed his phone as he rapped on the flywire door. Flakes of paint dropped off with the vibration and fluttered to the ground.

Franklin banged again. A kookaburra laughed, mocking him, but the place was otherwise hushed.

The front door had opaque glass panels and the house was raised on brick footings with just a few miserly windows up high, so he couldn’t see inside.

Just the same, instincts told him that Arthur Hammer wasn’t home.

He moved to the back door, the one sunny part of the property.

The fetid smell of a corpse hit him and he recoiled.

How could he forget?

Art had two potted plants, one each side of the doorstep. Two f*****g ugly cacti with flowers the colour of the rotten meat they smelled like.

He blocked his nose and knocked but knew it would go unanswered.

Art’s bicycle was also absent from its hanger outside the back door, so he might be in town for supplies or on one of his regular rounds of nearby pubs, preaching to the unconverted.

Franklin lost track of time as he traversed the local area. He checked the obvious places; no sign of Art or his ancient racer. His last loop past the man’s Mollongghip property meant he had to push the Ninja to make it back for change of shift at four. Fortunately he hadn’t passed a radar. That would’ve taken a fancy tap-dance. Or he would’ve copped a hefty fine, demerit points and a stern lecture about setting an example for the rest of the community: speed kills, even police officers.

‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ Scott Hart said.

One foot inside the station, Franklin replied wryly, ‘Hi, honey, I missed you, too.’

‘We’re going to Meeshan’s farm. The wife wants to hand in hubby’s unlicensed Winchester. She’s sick of him waving it around when he’s pissed – although she’s more worried he’ll shoot himself in the foot than anything. At any rate, she wants it out of the house while he’s in Shepp today.’

‘Keys,’ Franklin said and thrust out his hand.

Through her commercial litigation past life, Georgie had discovered it paid to approach inquiries with a veneer of pleasantness and a core of persistence. Generally that opened the vault of data – some useless, some priceless. And so with relative ease she obtained information from the local and Ballarat-based hospitals and medical centres. Good news–bad news: Susan Pentecoste had not been hospitalised or recently under the care of her doctor, who was Dr Ibrahams in Daylesford.

Similarly, the local shopkeepers knew Mrs Pentecoste from Hepburn but hadn’t seen her since at least the weekend before last, which corresponded with Ruby’s aborted telephone conversation with her old friend and the Pattersons’ story.

Georgie took a break in Daylesford to digest information gathered so far. Mid-afternoon on a Monday; back to sleepy-mode in the town. Most of the cars and people she picked as locals. There was abundant parking and a relaxed pace, even down at the lake.

Yet, as she sat on the deck of the Boathouse café and looked over the sparkling water, she almost ached with frustration and angst. In her legal job, she’d skip-traced, coaxed information, negotiated deals and even bullied the other side. That experience had been a debatable asset in court three days ago and she felt out of her depth now. Face it, commercial litigation revolved around deals gone wrong with money at the hub, not a woman’s safety.