Brunswick street blues, p.12
Brunswick Street Blues, page 12
‘And who was on the board at that time?’ Mitchell asked.
‘The usual bunch of men with very little imagination beyond the dollars. There was a school interested in buying the convent, but of course they couldn’t offer as much money as Dave Mullet.’
‘But isn’t the Catholic Church rich? What did they need the money for?’ I asked.
‘I think it was more a case of someone’s pockets being lined,’ said Margaret.
‘Any idea whose?’ asked Mitchell.
‘Well, from memory there was one board member in particular who favoured the Dave Mullett proposal.’ She paused for dramatic effect—a Catholic isn’t a Catholic unless they like dramatic effect. ‘Our late mayor, Mr Dickie Ruffhead.’
Mitchell raised his eyebrows, but I got the impression it was to humour the old lady. He’d obviously done his research and already knew that Ruffhead had been on the board. ‘What I need though, Margaret, is any kind of proof that Ruffhead may have used undue influence regarding the sale.’
Margaret paused again. This time I sensed it wasn’t for dramatic effect.
‘I actually still have a lot of the convent’s paperwork in storage,’ she said eventually. ‘I shouldn’t have it, I know. But the convent was in a state of chaos at the time of the sale. The Mother Superior was in the early stages of what turned out to be Alzheimer’s. I was afraid that the records might end up being dumped or burnt. There are some important documents there, you know, of the children who were put up for adoption. Quite a few people have come to see me over the years, wanting to find out about their parents or their children or siblings. A man came to see me just a few weeks ago.’
‘How do people know you have these records?’ Mitchell asked.
‘A few people who are still part of the church know I have them. They’re discreet. They don’t want them destroyed either.’
‘This man you mention, was he looking for information about a family member?’ Mitchell asked, no doubt concerned for his scoop.
‘He was looking for the children of an old friend—a woman who’d stayed at the convent for a time with her two sons. He said she disappeared, leaving the boys behind at the orphanage. This was well over thirty years ago.’
‘Do you think the woman’s sons were his own children?’ Mitchell asked.
Margaret shook her head. ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t think so. I remember the boys, actually. They were identical twins, but one had been injured in a house fire and he had terrible burns on one arm. He’d needed therapy because the scar kept tightening up, so I often saw him in the infirmary. He’d cry so much we’d have to bring his brother in too. But I don’t think this man could have been their father. He was Black. He said his father was a Black American, a GI posted to Australia during the war, and his mother was Aboriginal. Such a lovely man. A musician.’
My heart was beating fast. She had to be talking about Baz. Was he really looking for an ex-girlfriend? And did this have anything to do with his disappearance?
‘How long ago was this, do you remember?’ I obviously sounded a bit frantic because Mitchell looked at me strangely.
‘About four weeks ago.’
I tried to cover up my sudden interest with a follow-up question. ‘What happened to the twins? Do you know?’
‘They were adopted, thank goodness. They needed more care and attention than the orphanage could provide.’
Mitchell was still watching me. It was an expression I’d seen before on Sue and Selena: the look of a reporter who’d caught whiff of a good story. He turned back to Margaret.
‘Would you have any records from the sale of the convent as well?’ he asked.
Margaret nodded. ‘Probably. I took everything from that time. I haven’t destroyed anything—not even the photos from the protest that created all the brouhaha. I didn’t really understand the fuss. Nuns are just people—and I was wearing full body paint …’
A mouthful of Earl Grey very nearly came out my nose. So that was why she was threatened with excommunication. The church really doesn’t like its people to get naked in private, let alone in public. Paint or no paint.
‘Have you got those files here?’ Mitchell was so focussed on finding hard proof I don’t think he’d even heard the sister’s last comment.
‘Goodness, no. Barely room to swing a cat here as it is. I’ve got them in one of those self-storage places. Not far away from here—I can give you the key. I’d go as well, but it’s too hard to get around these days. I’m sure I can trust a well-respected journalist like yourself.’
Margaret retrieved a key ring from a drawer and put it in an envelope. ‘It’s just before the main road. Look for the sign: Vigilante Storage. I think it’s a mistranslation. Let’s hope so, anyway.’
‘Did you come by car, Brick?’ Mitchell tucked the envelope with the key in his pocket. ‘My battery was flat. That’s why I was a bit late—I had to find a taxi. Assistants do have their uses.’
‘And if you come across those photos from that particular protest—’
‘Don’t worry, Margaret,’ said Mitchell, cutting her off. ‘We’ll respect your privacy.’
‘No. It’s not that. If I were a prude, I hardly would have done it, would I? I just wondered if you could bring me back the negatives? I wouldn’t mind making some copies. I’m writing a memoir. To be published after I’m gone, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’
I returned the tray and cups to the kitchenette. It was a comfy little flat in which to live out the end of your days, but slightly impersonal.
‘Margaret,’ I said as I was leaving, ‘I know you said there wasn’t room here to swing a cat. But you wouldn’t happen to like a pet cat, would you?’
* * *
It was only about a five-minute drive from Margaret’s unit to Vigilante Storage. It was a grim-looking outfit with the feel of a pay-by-the-hour motel. This was partly due to the proprietor, Serge, who had two visible gold teeth and at least five gold chains snuggled in his ample chest hair. Since Margaret had given us the key, we were shown to the unit with a minimum of fuss and soon we were in a windowless, fluoro-lit shed. Yellowed storage boxes were stacked everywhere.
‘Okay, research assistant,’ said Mitchell, ‘you may as well make yourself useful.’ He pointed me towards a wall of boxes on the left side.
‘What exactly am I looking for?’ I asked as I lifted a dusty lid off a box.
‘Anything that looks like board minutes or letters regarding the sale of the convent.’
‘If money was being siphoned off, do you really think they wrote it down? I didn’t think criminals left records.’
‘You haven’t heard of the Nazis then?’ Mitchell grabbed a box, sending up a plume of dust. ‘Just start checking files and pass anything business-related to me, then let me do the thinking.’
I didn’t like his tone, but I couldn’t help but notice he was looking a little shaky so I let it slide.
The first box I opened contained a mass of ageing manila folders, their cardboard brittle with age. It seemed they were files on the children who’d passed through the orphanage and contained faded photos showing the gap-toothed smiles and bad haircuts of kids who had gotten a raw deal early in life. The boxes were labelled with letters of the alphabet and dates, which went up to 1985. With a sideways glance to check Mitchell was preoccupied, I scanned through the wall of boxes for L.
Before I was adopted by Baz, my name was Brick Lane. Apparently I’d been named after the lane where I was found; no doubt someone’s idea of a joke. I didn’t really think I would find anything, but my heart was still beating strangely fast. Over the years I’d toyed with the idea of finding out more about my origins, but I’d always come up with some reason to put it off. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t living in a Dickens novel and that there was very little chance of me ever discovering the identity of my parents. And perhaps I didn’t want to discover their identity. I had a parent who loved me. I had Baz.
I opened the box and started rifling through the files to scan the names. When I saw ‘Brick Lane’ scrawled on a file in old, faded ink, I felt sick. My hands were shaking as I drew the folder out of the box. Was it about me or was there more than one kid with my name? Maybe Brick Lane was a well-known dumping ground for unwanted children. Already I could feel that it was a slim folio, so I took a breath and opened it.
It was empty. Completely empty. My breath came out in a weird juddery exhalation. Why would there be a folder if there wasn’t anything in it? The only explanation was that the contents of the folder had been removed. This was turning out to be a very strange day, although I’d had a few strange days in recent weeks.
‘Have you found something?’
I jumped to find Mitchell standing right behind me.
‘It’s nothing.’ I hastily shoved the folder back in the box. ‘I just thought I saw a file about someone I know.’
‘We’re not here to pry into the affairs of people you know. We’re here to find out about the sale of the orphanage.’
I was glad my skin tone was resistant to blushes. ‘You’re not very pleasant. Has anyone told you before?’
‘Frequently.’ Mitchell smiled in a patronising manner.
‘Well, have you found anything?’
‘Not yet. But this filing cabinet is locked, which makes me curious.’ In the corner of the room was an ancient-looking filing cabinet with boxes stacked all around it. ‘None of the keys from Margaret work. I tried already.’ Mitchell wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was starting to look shaky again, like an alcoholic in need of a drink.
‘Let me have a look at it.’ I examined the filing cabinet. Its lock was a standard mechanism. Baz had a similar one in his office and he frequently misplaced the key. I took out my lock-pick kit and in less than a minute the cabinet was open.
Mitchell hesitated, then did a quick inventory. ‘Bingo. It looks like a bunch of correspondence between board members from the days before email.’ He rubbed his forehead again. ‘It’s going to take hours to go through. But I think I need to get some fresh air first.’
I looked around. The room was rather like a prison cell. I remembered he’d been kidnapped and held hostage and I realised why he was so testy. ‘Maybe we should just take the stuff from the filing cabinet, go through it somewhere else and bring it back later. I’m sure Margaret wouldn’t mind. These boxes of photos need going through too, to find the ones she wanted.’
Mitchell agreed and we carted the boxes to the car before driving back to Margaret’s unit. I was still annoyed at Mitchell’s bossy attitude, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy checking the rearview mirror every thirty seconds as if we were in a seventies cop show.
Margaret had no problem with us borrowing the files and insisted we keep the storage unit’s key until we’d had time to look through everything. She’d call us if she needed it.
Mitchell was suitably gracious, for a change. ‘You’re a gem, Margaret. I’ll return these boxes as soon as I can. And … um … I haven’t found those photos for you yet, but I’ll drop them off too.’
‘So what’s our next move, Mitchell?’ I asked as we headed back to the council car. There was no way I was letting him out of my sight until I understood the reason for Baz’s visit to Margaret.
‘What do you mean our next move?’
‘I mean, I helped you get these files and I want to know what’s in them.’
‘You didn’t help me, Brick Brown. You stole my notebook and I’d like it back. But if you want to make it up to me, I could use some help going through all these files.’
I was suspicious at this sudden change of heart, but I was going to have to take my luck where I could find it. ‘So where to then? Do you still think you’re being followed?’
‘I haven’t noticed anyone following me today,’ he said. ‘I took a cab here to be safe. I didn’t really have a flat battery; I actually don’t have a car.’
‘Where shall I take you then?’
‘I don’t have a place either. I was staying at my father’s old flat, but I think I’m being watched.’
‘Fine. We can go to my place.’
Mitchell’s gratitude was not overwhelming. ‘You obviously think that Margaret’s recent visitor was your uncle.’
‘No flies on you.’
‘Any ideas who your uncle was looking for?’
‘None.’
‘Any old girlfriends spring to mind?’
‘My uncle’s not Miles Davis or anything, but he is a Bluesman,’ I answered. ‘I suppose I could ask one of his old mates. But I’d say Baz’s visit to Margaret has nothing to do with Dave Mullett.’
‘Who’s to say they’re not connected?’ Mitchell seemed to be getting his energy back now we were out of the suffocating confines of the storage unit. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that your uncle, whose club is next door to a building Mullett is hell bent on redeveloping, has gone missing after going to see a former nun who may have some information about Mullett’s past shonky dealings? I’d say there’s a connection for sure.’
Was there a connection? I was almost afraid to make it in case it meant Baz was in serious danger. ‘But what if the vital information has been removed from these files?’
‘Then there’s a good chance it was removed by your uncle. In which case we need to find him.’
‘What do you mean “in which case”? That’s the only reason I’m putting up with you.’
‘And I thought it was my good looks and charisma.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was after six o’clock by the time we got back to my place, and it seemed that Melbourne wasn’t quite done with winter. It was gloomy, dreary and cold.
We needed somewhere to put the boxes of papers, and the lounge room with the heater in it was the obvious choice. We moved the dining table out of the poky, useless dining room that was generally used to park bicycles and set it up in the lounge room to give us a space to work on. Then I put the gas heater on full blast and made some coffee.
Mitchell insisted on switching on the TV news, but unless it had a newsflash on Baz’s whereabouts, then I wasn’t really interested. I thought I’d take the opportunity to ring Baz’s old friend Mick O’Toole and see if he knew anything about Baz’s visit to Sister Margaret. He’d known Baz since his first days in Melbourne when they both played football for Fitzroy.
‘Any word from Baz, yet?’ I asked when Mick came on the line.
‘No.’ Mick sounded tired. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t be able to find the old bugger either?’
‘Not yet. But I want to ask you something. Do you remember Baz ever having a girlfriend with identical twin sons? We’re talking more than thirty years ago—before he went to the US.’
‘Geez, that was back in our footy days, love. We were good-looking roosters back then,’ said Mick. ‘Baz was playing guitar at nightclubs most nights—they were the only places allowed to serve alcohol after six back then. Hard to believe now. And we spent a fair bit of time at the Phoenix. It was still run by Pascoe and his old lady, and he’d run an illegal casino some nights, with grog on the sly. I think Pascoe’s old lady had a bit of a soft spot for Baz. Of course, Baz and me weren’t allowed near the nice girls. I was too Irish Catholic and Baz was too Black. I remember Baz once had five shades of shit beaten out of him over some girl. Pardon my French.’ Mick paused, his raspy breathing amplified by the phone’s tinny receiver. He was a two-pack-a-day smoker. ‘Come to think of it, when Baz came back from America after all those years, he was looking for someone. Because I’m Catholic, he asked if I could help him. She’d stayed at one of those homes run by nuns, you know, for girls in trouble, and I put him in touch with my cousin. She was a nun herself, once upon a time. At the time I’d thought Baz had some bastard he was looking for. Pardon my French.’
‘Was the woman Betty Jones?’
‘No, I remember clearly that he was looking for a girl called Delilah, because it was like the Tom Jones song. Why, why, why, Delilah?’ he sang.
Delilah. It was another of the names I’d seen written on the paper in Baz’s office.
‘He went to see a former nun called Margaret the other week.’
‘Yeah, that’s my cousin. Margaret.’
‘Do you think Baz had been looking for this woman and her kids all this time? Since he came back from the US?’
‘Maybe he’s just going soft in the head.’
I really hoped Mick was right. Better soft in the head than dead. I relayed Mick’s information to Mitchell, who’d helped himself to the packet of Tim Tams I’d been saving for a special occasion or PMT, whichever came first. I was surprised to see one of the stray cats sitting on his lap. This particular cat had turned up about the same week I moved into Bunny’s house. It had a tendency to slam its head violently into doors, furniture, the TV, people—so I’d named it Head-butt. Perhaps it had been a goat in a former life.
‘Anything helpful on the news?’
‘Can hardly call it news, it’s all about the bloody Spring Carnival at Flemington bloody Racecourse. As if horse racing were the most important thing in the world right now.’ Mitchell offered me one of my own biscuits. ‘Even the bloody premier of bloody Victoria has nothing better to do than dress up like a bloody dandy and gamble on horses. If I was part of that nutty freeway protest gang, I’d throw myself in front of a horse like a suffragette—that’s how you get attention in this country. Mind you, that freeway protest mob did get quite a lot of media coverage with the poo projectile they hit the premier with the other week. Impressive aim.’
