Book of Lost Threads (31 page)
As he pulled out of the car park, he turned on the radio. The deputy commissioner would be interviewed in a few minutes. She was the consummate political animal, and Senior Sergeant Patterson had no great hopes of support from that direction.
He listened grimly as the interviewer began. ‘Good morning, Deputy Commissioner. You’re a busy person so we’ll cut to the chase. I presume you’re aware of the new evidence in the case of the accident victim known as Amber-Lee. What action are you taking now the photograph has come to light?’
‘Good morning, Peter. I’m sure your listeners will be pleased to know that Forensics is working on the photograph now in an attempt to identify when and where it was taken. You must remember, though, we only have Brenda Lefroy’s word that it did belong to Amber-Lee and that it was, in fact, a photo of her family.’
‘Of course, time will tell. But what about Graham Patterson, the officer in charge of the case—has he been reprimanded?’
‘Hold on, Peter. We’re looking at the files and in due course we’ll make a decision regarding the thoroughness of the original investigation. Senior Sergeant Patterson is a respected officer and must be given the benefit of the doubt until we learn otherwise.’
Graham Patterson was surprised by but grateful for this qualified support, and as the interview moved on to budget allocation for new police vehicles he switched over to a music station. He was heading for home, but on a sudden whim he pulled into the car park of the forensics laboratory. He went to reception, showed his ID, and followed directions to Lab 4 where he found his friend, Clara Thomasetti, hard at work.
‘The photo?’ she said. ‘That was easy. I’ve already sent out the report. You know how they’re hurried through when the press get their teeth into a story.’
‘So what did you find?’
‘It was common photographic paper for the time. Used all over by Kodak. The photo was developed around ’83, ’84, we reckon, which would fit with her estimated age. So would the clothes and hairstyles, according to our expert.’ She looked at him with sympathy. ‘Anyway, how are you? It must be a tough time right now.’
He shrugged. ‘Comes with the territory. I heard the deputy commissioner on the radio. She was okay. But to be honest, I’m just interested in what else you found out from the photo.’
‘There are two young girls in the photo. That Brenda person didn’t know which one was Amber-Lee, 282 but one of them is looking at the dog as though she owns it. Only a guess, but I reckon the other one’s our girl. She told Brenda that the dog was her cousin’s, remember?’
‘Yes, Mr Pie. Brenda said she thought the snapshot was taken somewhere in England . . .’
‘Easy, that one. Blackpool Pier. She either lived nearby or was there on holiday.’
‘If only I’d had that photo ten years ago.’
Clara squeezed his arm. ‘If Brenda didn’t want to give it to you, what could you have done?’
‘I could’ve leaned on her more, maybe. But she was a terrible mess after the beating. Not very professional, but I felt sorry for her.’
‘You did what you could with what you had. The word is they’re handing this new investigation back to you. Someone up there likes you, mate.’ She stood up and gestured at the bench in front of her. ‘I’d better get back to work. We’ll have to catch up for a drink. It’s been too long.’
Graham thanked her and left. If only it were true that he was to be given a fresh opportunity with this case . . . He found himself humming as he backed out of the car park, negotiating the peak-hour traffic with a lighter heart.
A few nights later, he received a phone call from Blackpool, England.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Are you the person I have to speak to about a girl who was killed in a car accident? Amber-Lee? There was a photo shown on TV here yesterday. I’ve got one just the same.’
Finn boarded the bus and sat gazing out the window at the ti-tree that hid the sea from view. Its dull grey-green was soothing in a way; he’d left the monastery knowing that it was the last time he’d see Father Boniface, and the colour matched his sombre mood. He pushed away thoughts of what might be waiting for him in Opportunity, and concentrated on the countryside and small towns as they flashed by. He realised that he could have ended up in any one of these towns: Sickle Bay, Seal Point where the surfers hung out, or, as the bus turned inland, Tarneesh, Currawong or even Mystic. But he’d chosen Opportunity, for better or for worse. Recalling his house, the sleepy main street, the old pub, and his friends, Mrs Pargetter and Sandy, he was inclined to think it was for the better. Would Moss have found him in another town? Probably, but he liked to think of the town’s name as a talisman. He’d chosen it for its name; he liked to think that names have power, and whatever had befallen Opportunity in recent years, it was still battling along somehow. The motion of the bus and the monotony of the countryside finally sent him into a half-slumber, and his mind rambled through forests of ti-tree until he finally fell into a dreamless sleep.
He awoke to see that the road unspooling before them had darkened and the shadows lengthened. As the bus sped on, the sun’s last rays randomly painted the embankment with a brief fiery palette, and the new gum tips glowed red in the slanting light. Leaning into the window, Finn felt a sense of place, of homecoming.
They were approaching Mystic, and Finn observed that the Lions and Rotary clubs were happy to welcome him to a town with a population of 3500. Most of the passengers alighted here. Finn shrank back in his seat as Helen Porter clambered untidily onto the bus, carrying two overflowing shopping bags.
Don’t let her see me
, Finn prayed, but she looked up and smiled as she approached, and he was forced to assist her to stow her bags.
Why didn’t I bring a book or a newspaper?
he thought as she settled beside him and commented on the weather.
He answered in a monosyllable, and she looked at him sharply. ‘Are you okay? We heard you left town.’
‘Embarrassed—TV show,’ Finn mumbled.
‘That may be, but you had us all worried. No-one takes that program seriously. Well, some do,’ she added dryly, ‘but they don’t have a very long concentration span.’
Finn nodded his gratitude, and Helen tactfully took out a magazine, allowing him to once again follow his own thoughts. As the bus approached Opportunity, he retrieved Helen’s bags and carried them the short distance to her house.
‘Thanks, Finn.’ She grasped his arm. ‘Look, the gossip will flare up for a bit now you’re back, but ride it out. This is your home.’
As he turned the corner into his street, he saw that Sandy’s car was parked outside his aunt’s place. He hoped Moss was there too. It was better to get it over all at once. Steeling himself, he knocked on the door to be greeted by Errol’s bark and the sound of his paws skittering down the passageway. The door opened, and in a moment he found himself swept inside and seated in the familiar kitchen. Moss was there, looking apprehensive.
‘Finn, I’m so sorry,’ she wailed, flinging herself at him.
He was startled by the intensity of her emotion and patted her ineffectually, murmuring, ‘It’s okay, Moss. It’s okay.’ She continued to sob until, holding her at arm’s length, he gripped her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. ‘Listen. It really
is
okay. In one way, it’s a weight off my mind and—who knows?—it might lead us to Amber-Lee’s family.’
Sandy couldn’t contain himself. ‘It has, Finn,’ he chortled. ‘Moss has heard from the police. A woman contacted them from England. She’s the other girl in the photo. She had a dog called Mr Pie. Remember? That’s what Brenda told the TV people: that Amber-Lee said Mr Pie was a stupid name for a dog.’
M
EG
T
URNER WAS NOT SURE what to pack. She would need something smart for the TV interview and had already spent some of her expected payment on a stylish new suit. She was a shrewd woman, and had negotiated herself a rather good package, which included accommodation, return airfares to Melbourne for two, plus a sum that would cover a nice little holiday on the Great Barrier Reef. All she had to do was take part in an interview regarding her missing cousin. She’d seen the photograph on the local news along with an appeal for anyone in the Blackpool area who might know its origins to come forward. The woman she’d contacted passed her details on to the producer of
Across the Nation
, who signed her up immediately, expressing the hope that the interview would be sufficiently emotional.
So the viewers can understand the depths
of your loss
, the producer explained. Meg also agreed to cooperate with the police investigation.
Folding her T-shirts and pants, she wondered how much she should tell. She’d never really missed Jilly. They were four years apart in age so they were never friends. She was quite a nice little kid, as Meg recalled. A bit shy, but biddable. To be honest, she could barely remember what her cousin looked like. She did remember the kafuffle when Patty ran away. Her own mother, Ellen, had pursed her lips and said,
I expected as
much of that sister of mine
, but the grandparents never ceased to mourn the loss of their granddaughter. When he failed to get his daughter back, Jilly’s father went crazy and took to the drink. He somehow managed to work during the day, but according to the whispered conversations Meg overheard, he would return home each evening to drink alone. Sometimes he would come to her house, crying. Meg had hated that. Adults weren’t supposed to cry.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ Meg’s mother would say, ‘but he should pull himself together. Even if they do find her, they’ll say he’s not a fit parent if he keeps carrying on like that.’
Meg paused as she held up her new swimmers and posed in front of the mirror. Very nice. Just the thing for a tropical holiday. It was all amazingly lucky. Still, her cousin owed her something. Her grandparents did nothing but talk about Jilly till the day they died: where she might be, what she might be doing, what she would look like at this age or that. By contrast, they treated Meg and her brother with an abstracted sort of kindness, and as children they always felt that they were poor substitutes for the missing Jilly. Meg felt some satisfaction in the knowledge that her cousin had been working the streets. What would Grandpa and Grandma have thought of
that
?
Pressing hard on the lid of her case, she closed the zip and picked up the photo. It belonged in the hand luggage, she’d decided. She couldn’t afford to lose the evidence.
Poor old Uncle Andy
, she thought suddenly, looking at the fresh young face smiling at his daughter.
It broke his heart. Maybe it’s just as well he’s not here to find out what happened to her
. Despite the fact that there was no firm evidence as yet, Meg was sure that this Amber-Lee really was her cousin Jilly. Ellen agreed. She wasn’t in the least surprised that Patty’s daughter came to a sorry end.
Ellen saw them off at Heathrow and reminded Meg that the family honour was in her hands. ‘Aunty Patty may have been a tart,’ she reminded her, ‘but you don’t have to broadcast that to the world.’
As it turned out, Meg did rather well. She managed to paint a picture of a family bereft when a headstrong (but not wicked) young woman took her daughter and ran away with her lover.
‘We all missed them so much,’ she told a nodding Lisa Morgan. ‘Jilly’s father died of a broken heart, and my grandparents never really got over it.’ She looked into the camera as she’d been instructed. ‘And now that we know, it’s too late.’ A discreetly applied tissue added to the effect.
The studio scene faded out to a shot of Meg placing flowers on the corner where her cousin died. She looked quite forlorn, standing there with her head bowed.
‘Cut,’ said the producer. ‘Good value for money, I think.’ She turned to her assistant. ‘We can get some more out of this one. How about this for an idea? Let’s try to arrange a meeting between the cousin and the bloke who killed her. That ought to keep the punters happy.’
Unaware of this plan, and having fulfilled her obligation with the interview, Meg was ready to cooperate with Senior Sergeant Patterson. She showed him her copy of the photograph and formally identified her cousin and family.
Graham Patterson was cautious. ‘Our problem is that we only have Brenda’s word that Amber-Lee said it was a photo of her family. She was paid by the TV station, you know. It makes her testimony a bit suspect.’ Meg had the grace to blush but the policeman went on, oblivious. ‘We’d like to do a DNA test. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Apparently the more distantly you’re related, the less accurate they can be,’ Meg told her mother later on the phone to England. ‘They’d like you to do one too, if that’s okay. Something to do with mitro-something-or-other DNA. The copper tried to explain—it’s something to do with the mother’s line— but I don’t really understand. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, they’ll get the local police to take your sample and compare by computer.’
The results were inconclusive. The DNA was not such a close match that identity was beyond reasonable doubt, but a relationship was considered to be ‘likely’. The existence of the matching photo strengthened the conclusion that the victim was Jilly Baker, but there was still no guarantee that Brenda was telling the truth regarding its origins.
‘On balance, I’d say that the victim was your cousin,’ Graham Patterson told Meg. ‘But the evidence isn’t absolutely conclusive. She had no siblings and her father is dead. If her mother planned on coming forward, she would have by now, you’d think. The case has had max publicity. This is probably as far as we can go.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Meg asked.
‘Just that the records will still show her as unidentified. The new evidence will be put on her file and referenced as a “probable” ID.’
‘Oh well, there’s nothing more we can do then,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Best be off. We only have another two days to see Melbourne.’
Meg’s off-hand response to this news didn’t surprise him. He’d sensed her lack of empathy in the earlier interviews.