Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Collection

Chapter 24

Franklin found a box of tissues and crouched, offering it to Cathy. His knees cracked, thanks to past footy injuries, making her giggle. She alternated between laughter, tears and hiccups for the next few minutes, then wiped her face with the bottom of her dress.

‘Are you right to go on?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m wearing my policeman’s hat, not being a nosy parker, okay? I need to ask several questions so I can piece this together.’

She bobbed her head.

‘Tyson’s father? I noticed he doesn’t feature in your brag book.’

Franklin had a terrible gut feeling.

‘Oh, yeah. Tyson’s father. Well, he was a nice guy – or so I thought, until I went out with him. Unfortunately for me, he thought buying a girl dinner gave him prerogative to have his way with her. And he didn’t stop at no. So, he wasn’t a nice guy after all… Tyson and me, well, we’re on our own and likely to stay that way. Not that I’d change it. It just wasn’t how I’d planned to have a family.’

Franklin’s skin burned in a rush of anger. He was pissed off but not at Cathy.

‘You didn’t report him?’

‘No.’ She anticipated his next question. ‘And I still won’t. We used to work together, and everyone knew I had a huge crush on him. So maybe I did ask for it.’

‘Cathy –’

‘Maybe I sent the wrong signals. Gave him the impression I’m easy and would put out.’ She hooked her fingers.

put out‘You’re the victim. He’s a criminal. Date r**e is as serious as other types of s****l assault. You have to realise that.’

Franklin leaned across and took her hands. She gave a half-smile.

‘You’ve got to report it.’

‘No.’

‘You need to, if only to protect other women from this predator.’

‘I get what you’re saying. But it’s a small town and everyone would gossip. Plenty of people would point their finger and blame me – and some of them would be my friends. I wouldn’t care so much if it affected just me. But Tyson’s my number-one priority. I won’t have him growing up with the stigma… I won’t let him think he wasn’t wanted!’

Franklin couldn’t argue. As a parent, he sympathised. Kids were about the only true innocents and deserved to be protected.

Cathy stonewalled further discussion about the r**e, so he reverted to the poison-pen missives.

‘You have no idea who this Solomon is?’

She shook her head.

‘You had Tyson at Ballarat Base on December 16th. Did anything odd happen while you were there? Incidents with staff members or other patients? No one strike you as obsessive or judgmental?’

‘Nothing.’ She sighed.

‘Do you belong to a mothers’ group?’

‘No, I expected there’d be awkwardness over Tyson’s dad.’

Next, he jotted down details of her doctor, medical clinic and maternal health centre. He’d map the links between the victims, hoping that not all roads would lead to the hospital, which contained too many possible but not altogether probable suspects. In any event, he still had local angles to investigate.

‘The staff at the health centre? Anyone there a potential Solomon?’

She hesitated, then shrugged.

Franklin scrutinised her face while he finally asked, ‘Have you ever come across a bloke by the name of Art Hammer? Arthur Hammer.’

Cathy thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ever been to one of the local pubs and seen an old man on his soapbox about women?’

She looked perplexed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He actually stands on whatever’s to hand outside the pub and rants about women taking babies into pubs or breastfeeding in public. Or, one of my favourites, condemning them for going to the pub without a suitable male chaperone.’ Franklin snorted, and Cathy looked stunned. ‘He rotates around places here and outside town too.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope.’

‘I’m not keen on pubs and haven’t been near one since before I fell pregnant.’

He nodded.

‘So you think this Arthur Hammer is Solomon?’

Franklin lifted a palm. ‘No, it’s just a line of inquiry. Don’t read anything into my questions, okay?’

‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise.’ Franklin rubbed his chin and contemplated other common denominators between the mums and the letters.

He slowly reread Cathy’s two letters.

An idea struck. He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Are you religious?’

‘No. Well, I’m Christian but don’t go to church. Haven’t done since my teens, except for weddings and funerals.’ After a small pause, she voiced what he’d thought, ‘It sounds straight out of the Bible, doesn’t it?’

‘It does,’ he agreed. ‘If you were to label yourself—Catholic, C of E, Uniting—what would it be?’

‘Presbyterian.’

‘Oh.’ Franklin was disappointed. Lauren had considered speaking to a priest. He knew that Roman Catholics had priests, whereas Presbyterians referred to their preachers as ministers. The women didn’t even have a mutual lapsed faith.

The hospital’s odds shortened.

Georgie picked around the house, checked each window. Thick white lace draped all but the fanlight over the back door. She climbed on top of Margaret’s wheelie-bin and peered into a spotless kitchen. The younger Pentecoste woman belonged to the Proud Housekeeper league with her aunt.

Unfortunately, the niece was less naïve than Susan. Both external doors were locked.

Foiled, Georgie scanned the back garden and spied a garage tucked at the bottom. Like their rental in Richmond, vehicular access was a rear laneway. She jogged down and circled the windowless, coloured steel construction. One access door to the garden was padlocked. She let the lock drop against the door.

Did the shed hold Margaret’s car? Susan’s Land Cruiser?

She wished she knew.

So far, the detour had proved to be another time waster. Georgie pushed a note and her business card underneath the front door and backtracked towards the Alfa.

‘Yoo-hoo!’

She pivoted.

‘Hello there,’ a woman with a cherubic face called. She waved a dimpled arm over the paling boundary fence. ‘Are you looking for Margaret?’

Georgie managed a ‘Yes’ before the other woman talked on.

‘She’s not home.’ Aqua eyes shone inquisitively, then flicked towards a honking car. ‘Oops, I have to run!’

The chubby woman trotted to the vehicle. As she hopped into the back, Georgie heard a gaggle of excited female voices. They sped towards Sturt Street.

Pained by anticlimax, she counted on the note working when Margaret returned.

Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt to dig elsewhere.

Where the Western Highway had earlier dissected Sunshine to Ballarat in its bland, anonymous motorway manner in around seventy minutes, Midland Highway meandered from the regional gold town to Daylesford in about thirty-five.

Despite it being a weekday, Georgie couldn’t shake free a couple of cars. Every time she pulled the Spider away, either the white Nissan Skyline or the black Ford F-150 would leapfrog the other and sit on her tail.

At a tiny town called Newlyn, she veered onto the gravel shoulder outside a church-come-antiques store to dig out her ringing phone. The cars passed. No doubt mates having a bit of fun. She checked the mobile’s screen as she slid it into the cradle.

Then flicked to her watch and swore, ‘f**k. The b****y deadline!’

She thumbed the connect switch. ‘David!’

‘It’s past twelve –’

‘It’s past twelve –’‘Yes, I’m –’

‘You need to take this seriously.’

‘You need to take this seriously.’‘I am. Just –’

‘We need to meet.’

‘We need to meet.’‘Oh?’ Her stomach dropped.

‘Your script needs severe editing, and, well, we need to meet. All of us, to get this thing back on track. How are you for tomorrow?’

‘Your script needs severe editing, and, well, we need to meet. All of us, to get this thing back on track. How are you for tomorrow?’Georgie hated to admit it, but she needed payment for the project to cover her imminent credit card bill and rent share. They agreed to gather at Miller Street at ten the next morning.

She swiped sweat from her brow and shifted on the leather seat. High twenties already; the sun held a vicious kick. Tempted to stop at Daylesford’s ice cream parlour, she instead gravitated towards Abergeldie. It had to hold a clue to Susan’s absence.

Simultaneous with an empty-stomach growl, Georgie strode into Susan’s kitchen. As she did, she experienced something she’d often sensed at Bron’s. The house wrapped her into a hug and welcomed her to come and go. She did a quick walk-through.

First disappointment: Oscar didn’t materialise, even when she called.

She inhaled stale air. Saw no change since yesterday, right down to the crusty plates piled in the sink.

Bigger let-down: Susan hadn’t returned.

Georgie’s energy waned. She was sapped by the anticlimactic start, clueless about what to do next and needed to refuel her body. She attacked a packet of chocolate chip biscuits and necked the coke lurking in the back of the fridge. Flat but cold, it hit the spot.

She re-paced the house, searched more thoroughly. Even so, she knew it was time wasted, that second-guessing her instincts and the Patterson-Stewart network would result in the same answer.

Back in the kitchen, she kicked out a chair and slumped onto it, elbows on the table. She munched on a biscuit, brain-strained, still clueless but determined to make a breakthrough.

She returned to Susan’s bedroom, ran a hand over the bed and under the mattress. Found nothing.

‘Where are you, Roly?’ Georgie addressed the musty men’s clothes in the left wardrobe. Glancing at the barren pillows, she added, ‘Where are you both?’

In the study, she swivelled in the desk chair until the sofa, bookcases and filing cabinets swirled. She grabbed the edge of the desk. Drummed her fingernails. Focused on one bookcase. Narrowed in on the mate to the album she had borrowed on Saturday and reached for it.

Consistent with the one back in Richmond, it contained newspaper clippings. Or rather, photocopies and printouts of archived stories at the beginning, followed by cuttings of more recent articles.

Subject matter for all: John Schlicht.

Franklin couldn’t throw off his dark mood. And he couldn’t say if it related more to Cathy’s r**e, Solomon’s threats or Art Hammer’s vanishing act.

Okay, that was probably a bit Kat at her Drama Queen best. But while the old man normally turned up like a bad smell and had fairly predictable habits, now when Franklin wanted to find him, he couldn’t.

A drag past Art’s Mollongghip property and checks with the publicans at Burke’s and the Rush Hotel all bombed. Rather than spend the next hour trawling the other nearby pubs to come up with more nothing, he decided on a new tack.

‘Why the hell would you have a scrapbook on Schlicht?’

Georgie flicked through Susan’s book, frequently shaking her head. She remembered stories about Schlicht and his thugs and the notorious Honoured Society, Melbourne’s so-called Mafia. A curious kid, Georgie had curled at the feet of Grandma Harvey, enraptured, yet also suspicious that the accounts amounted to urban myth.

Susan’s articles tracked allegations against Schlicht and his counterparts. That they used the vegetable markets to conceal d**g activities and launder the proceeds, while extorting a fortune from other merchants. They produced, imported, transported and distributed c******s, h****n, cocaine and amphetamines. s*x, drugs, violence. Deadly reprisals from rival gangs. The police impotent or in the pocket. All there in the articles, some journalists more gloves-off in their approach than others.

Urban myth or fact, it sold newspapers and generated big bucks for the commercial TV stations currently cashing in on one sleazy underworld show after another.

Her recollection hazy, Georgie knew that Schlicht had somehow lost his stake in the markets and dropped away from the underbelly of organised crime. She hadn’t seen his photograph for several years and the bushy grey brows, frigid grey-blue stare on a long, bony face that earned Schlicht the nickname ‘the Iceman’ spooked her.

Not the type of guy you’d want to meet in a dark alley.

Nor was he an obvious subject for a scrapbook.

Intrigued but time-poor, Georgie tossed the album onto the Spider’s passenger seat for later and headed away from the homestead.