St Kilda Blues Read online

  The studio area was spread across the width of the building. The ceiling height was about fifteen feet but there was no ceiling, just open space and beams, and above the beams, two-dozen feet up, was the apex of the tiled roof. By the wall to the left was a carpentry area with sawhorses and power tools. The space around it was neatly stacked with timber off-cuts, and a wide broom rested next to a sugar bag full of sawdust. Against the back wall of the studio was a miniature, stylised city skyline made from pieces of thick, black-painted plywood with openings cut out for windows. Behind the simulated skyline a canvas backdrop painted to resemble the night sky with clouds and a full moon had been stapled to the wall.

  In front of the skyline and towering above it was a tall blonde girl in platform shoes that made her taller still. She was holding a couple of large ostrich feather fans which covered her body. Berlin got the impression that she was probably naked underneath. A stocky, heavy-set man with a shock of black curly hair was standing in front of the girl, bent over a camera mounted on a tripod. Around them was a forest of silver light stands holding photographic umbrellas and flash heads connected by cables to electronic flash packs on the floor.

  The photographer was looking down into the camera viewfinder, yelling instructions to the girl. She turned side-on towards the camera, lifting one foot off the ground. The photographer pressed a button with his right hand and there was a loud clunk and then a pop and a blinding flash as the lights fired. He looked up at the girl and cranked a handle on the side of the camera.

  ‘Get your act together, Delvene, for God’s sake. We need to know you’re naked but we can’t see your bits, remember? Not in The Herald, at least. Use those fans like I showed you.’

  The girl lifted her foot off the ground again and one fan went up and one went down but she stayed covered. The lights popped and the camera crank turned. A younger man was standing to the right of the model, waving a large square of plywood quickly up and down. The upward motion of the plywood directed gusts of air towards the feathers, making them flutter and lifting the girl’s long blonde hair away from her face and out behind her. The flashes fired again.

  ‘Groovy, baby, I love it! More wind, Derek, more wind.’ The photographer fired again and turned the crank on the right side of the camera. The crank just kept turning, making a ratcheting noise.

  ‘New film magazine, Derek, when you have a moment. And you’re supposed to tell me when I run out of film, I’m not supposed to tell you, so get it together.’

  The young bloke who had been waving the board put it down and moved towards the camera. ‘You got it, Beast.’

  The photographer turned towards the model. ‘And you can take a break too, baby, while I talk to our visitors. But don’t sit down, we don’t want to see any creases on your ass. Well, no more than you’ve got already.’

  The model dropped her arms to her sides, the white ostrich feathers bending at the tips on contact with the floor. She was wearing a G-string, like the strippers at the George Hotel, and nothing else. The photographer looked at her and shook his head.

  ‘Oh, put them away, for God’s sake, Delvene. I’m sure these guys have seen more and better. And can you touch up your lipstick? You must have something redder in that big makeup bag you lug around.’

  The girl walked off the background and towards a small room set off to one side. Inside the doorway Berlin could see a long mirror above a bench and above the mirror a row of small round light bulbs. The girl walked languidly despite the platform shoes and she seemed quite comfortable in her semi-nakedness.

  The assistant was fumbling with the back of the tripod-mounted camera and the photographer shook his head. ‘Let’s move it, Derek, if it was a bra you would have had it off in two seconds.’

  The accent was definitely American. A beer belly pushed at the front of the man’s T-shirt and bulged over the belt that was holding up his blue denim jeans. He was wearing cowboy boots, the Cuban-heeled ones that gave a short man that extra inch or two of height.

  Berlin walked across the studio and studied the camera on the tripod. ‘Nice-looking camera. It’s a Hasselblad, a 500C, right?’

  ‘My goodness, a flatfoot who knows his cameras.’

  ‘Flatfoot?’

  The photographer smiled at him but didn’t mean it. ‘Back in Brooklyn where I’m from, flatfoot is a term of endearment for our cops.’

  Berlin smiled back with equal insincerity. ‘Not in any Yank gangster film I’ve ever seen it doesn’t, but right now I’ll take your word for it. My wife is a photographer; she’s got a Hasselblad on her wish list.’

  The photographer put his hand on top of the camera. ‘It seems a lot of the ladies are playing around with photography these days. She does understand the Hasselblad is a very sensitive and expensive piece of professional equipment, doesn’t she? And really quite complicated.’

  ‘That’s okay, my wife is quite complicated too. And sensitive.’ And Berlin knew if she was here right now Rebecca wouldn’t let the comment go by. If she got her dander up he knew she wouldn’t be beyond suggesting they test the Visual Beast’s own sensitivity by shoving that Hasselblad up his arse, sideways.

  ‘This camera chat is nice but we’re in a bit of a hurry right now Should we call you Mr Beast or just Beast? Or would you have a real name?’

  There was a pause before the photographer answered. ‘I was born Sheldon Shapiro but it’s my relentless, almost animalistic pursuit of ethereal beauty and feminine perfection through the camera lens that has made me the Visual Beast.’

  ‘I guess I’ll take your word for that too.’

  Roberts was standing behind the photographer. He looked at Berlin, shook his head and made a wanking gesture with his right hand.

  ‘So tell me, Sheldon, what did you mean when we came in, when you said it was about time?’

  The photographer walked past Berlin to a refrigerator standing against the wall and took out a bottle of Coca-Cola. Yellow boxes of Kodak colour film were stacked up in the fridge. Both Berlin and Roberts declined the offer of a soft drink.

  The photographer pulled the cap off his bottle with an opener attached to the wall on a short chain. ‘We had a robbery here a few weeks back. The uniformed coppers who turned up said they’d be sending detectives to have a look but nobody ever came by.’

  ‘Did you lose much stuff?’

  ‘That was the funny part – they just kicked in the front door and knocked over a few light stands and things, but as far as we could see nothing was taken. Might just have been kids, I suppose. We have a lot hanging around, because of the recording studio out front.’

  ‘I just saw a bunch of hardened criminals hanging around when we arrived, real hard cases. You’re lucky nothing got nicked, but we’re not here about a robbery. I need to talk to your assistant Derek there about something else.’

  Derek looked up at the sound of his name. Berlin could see he was nervous.

  ‘Any chance we can have a bit of privacy, Sheldon, and maybe get that music turned down a smidge?’

  The photographer nodded. ‘Out the back is private enough, I suppose, but can you make it quick? Delvene is getting paid an outrageous amount of money to not show us her tits and it’s by the hour.’ He walked across to a stereo next to a stack of LP records and turned the volume knob down

  ‘Just give me a shout as soon as you’re done, will you? I’ll be out in the front office giving my favourite bitch a rub on the tummy.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They followed Derek down a window-lined side passageway to an area behind the studio. Berlin’s nose wrinkled at the familiar, acrid smell of photographic processing chemicals. The smell told him there was a darkroom somewhere back there. They passed a large, slowly rotating shiny chrome drum that Berlin knew dried the paper prints and put a gloss surface on those intended for newspaper reproduction. There were cupboards and shelves everywhere, filled with photographic supplies and paraphernalia. Berlin could see the place was designed and put togeth
er by someone who really knew how to use a tape measure, a T square and a hammer.

  Derek stopped at a bench mounted under a window and dropped the rolls of film into a cardboard box marked ‘To be developed’. A sheet of white perspex set into the top of the bench was lit from underneath to make a light box. The light box was strewn with large colour transparencies in clear plastic sleeves. Berlin leaned over the light box and used a magnifying glass to get a closer look. The transparencies were crisp and sharp with rich colours. They showed a shiny two-door car on a mountain road with the sun just rising behind it.

  ‘That’s the new Holden, the Monaro, won’t be out till next year. You shouldn’t be looking at those pictures, actually, it’s all very hush-hush till the official launch.’

  Berlin put the magnifier down and turned to Derek. ‘That’s okay, I can keep a secret. Plus, I’m a policeman so I can be trusted.’

  Derek Jones looked as if he was about to say something in response but then changed his mind and scooped up the transparencies. Good move, boy, Berlin said to himself. After yesterday’s run-in with the bloke at the Buddha’s Belly he wasn’t really in the mood for any more smartarse comments.

  Up close Derek Jones wasn’t quite the boy he’d first appeared. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with long shaggy hair that was in need of a good wash. When he bent over the bench to put the transparencies into an envelope, Berlin saw a rash of pimples where his greasy hair had rubbed against the back of his neck.

  ‘Like I said, Derek, we need to talk to you about a photograph. The people at GEAR said you took it at a dance.’

  Derek tossed the envelope full of transparencies into a wire tray and turned around. ‘I probably did, then, if they say so.’

  Berlin was trying to place the tone of Derek’s responses. He was being polite enough, most young people still were with policemen, but he was a bit edgy. Berlin caught Bob Roberts’ eye. He inclined his head towards Derek Jones and nodded slightly. Maybe Roberts could get a handle on him

  Roberts picked up the envelope full of transparencies from the wire basket. He pulled one out and held it up to the overhead fluorescent light. ‘Nice-looking car, might have to get myself one. So, tell me, Derek, are you a photographer or an assistant? I’m confused.’

  ‘At the moment I’m a bit of both. That’s how it works. Sheldon’s a good photographer but a cheap bastard and he doesn’t pay his staff much.’ He glanced towards the front of the building and lowered his voice. ‘Except if you’ve got big tits, of course, and you’re on the pill. He works me hard but he lets me use the studio and darkroom nights and weekends to practise and to make a few extra quid shooting jobs for small clients, little jobs he wouldn’t bother with.’

  ‘For people like GEAR you mean?’ Roberts asked.

  Jones nodded. ‘That’s right, they’re my biggest customer right now.’

  Roberts tossed the envelope back into the basket and handed Derek the clipping from GEAR. Derek studied it briefly before handing it back.

  ‘Just a couple of Charlies. I suppose I photographed them if you say so. Don’t remember who, don’t remember where, don’t remember when. I do at least two or three a week.’

  ‘You do two or three dances a week or two or three Charlies?’

  Derek grinned and shrugged. ‘That depends. Sometimes it’s both, sometimes more. More Charlies, I mean.’

  Berlin was leaning against one of the benches, watching, listening. Derek Jones was laying on the young Romeo tale pretty thickly but there was still an edge there that Berlin was having trouble with.

  ‘You’re a real little charmer aren’t you Derek?’ Roberts said, smiling. ‘You must be beating them off with a stick.’

  Derek smiled back. It was obvious he had missed the sarcasm.

  ‘Girls just can’t resist a good-looking young bloke with a camera these days, you know, we’re something special. Sometimes I do have to beat them off with a stick. Have you seen Blow-Up yet?’

  Berlin had seen the movie, he’d gone with Rebecca a few months back. It was all about the life of a swinging London fashion photographer and featured a lot of nudity and sex, with pretty young models rolling about on the background paper. After the film Rebecca had said people should get ready for life to start following art in the photography business and it looked like she was right.

  Berlin decided it was time for him to wade back in. ‘I’m happy you’re getting your leg over on a regular basis, Derek, but we need you to think really hard about that photograph. The girl on the right has just gone missing. You took that shot at Opus three weeks back. Do you remember anything about that night, anything unusual? Any odd-looking people hanging about, maybe?’

  Roberts handed over the clipping again and Derek squinted at the picture. ‘Could be Opus, I suppose, hard to say for sure.’

  Bob Roberts shook his head. ‘Jesus, sunshine, is that the best you can do?’

  Derek handed him the photograph. ‘Look, mate, all I see is what is in front of my camera and that’s it. You smile at them, and if they smile back and if they’re pretty enough and in the right kind of gear for the magazine you just take a picture. Frame, focus, bang, and Bob’s your uncle, then you move on. Sometimes you give them a bit of chat but that depends on how good-looking they are; you know, blonde and big tits and a nice arse is pretty much the minimum.’

  ‘I guess a cool bloke like you has pretty high standards.’

  Derek smiled and nodded.

  ‘And bucket loads of charm too, I see.’

  Derek smiled again and shrugged, missing the tone in Berlin’s voice. ‘Look, I can’t really tell you any more than that. You’re welcome to look at my negatives and proof sheets if you want, could be some weirdo hanging around in the background of some of the snaps for all I know.’

  ‘I suppose we could take a look, might be useful. You see many weirdos?’

  ‘Sometimes. The odd old bloke trying to crack on to a young sheila, that kind of thing happens a bit. Sort of disgusting, really.’ Derek paused and looked at Bob Roberts. ‘No offence meant when I said old blokes, you understand.’

  The smirk on his face said that offence was indeed meant. Berlin wondered if Derek had possibly run into Bob Roberts and young Sunshine at a discotheque late one Saturday night. Was there a photograph of that somewhere?

  ‘You know what, Derek? I think we will take you up on that offer of your negatives and proof sheets, if you don’t mind. And did you shoot any pictures at the Buddha’s Belly on Saturday night by any chance?’

  ‘Might have done, I think it was on my list, but I don’t recall anything special.’ He grinned a grin which Berlin assumed was meant to look conspiratorial and lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes all the smoke in some of those places can make things a bit hazy, if you catch my drift.’

  Berlin smiled back. ‘Any chance we can move things along with getting those negatives and proof sheets?’

  Derek nodded. ‘Sure thing, no problem. He crossed to a wall opposite the light box bench and hammered on a closed sliding door. When there was no immediate response he yelled out, ‘Hey Cockroach, hands off cock and get your lazy arse out here.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  After a pause the door slid open in response to Derek’s shouting. The smell of photographic chemicals was suddenly much stronger. A black curtain was pulled aside and a bloke about the same age as Derek stepped out of the darkness, squinting and blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. Before the curtain fell back Berlin saw that the room behind him was in darkness apart from a couple of red lights hanging from the ceiling. The man, wearing a stained white dustcoat, was a touch taller than Derek with a similar build and hair cut a bit shorter. The hair was cleaner as well as being shorter.

  Derek made the introductions. ‘This is Timmy, little Timmy Egan, he runs the darkroom. Dim Tim, we call him. Or Dim Sim at lunchtimes because he likes his Chink food. I’m Tim’s hero, aren’t I, Timmy boy? Tim wants to be a great big photographer like me when he grows up.’

/>   Berlin had a lot more of the Derek Jones picture now. A smartarse and a bully but definitely someone who would turn to jelly if his victim fought back. But he knew there was still something else he was hiding.

  ‘These blokes are coppers, Timmy. Give them my negs and proof sheets of the stuff I do for GEAR.’ He turned round and looked towards Berlin. ‘How far back do you wanna go?’

  ‘Let’s say six months, that should do it.’

  Derek turned to Tim. ‘You heard the man, chop chop. And see if you can arrange it before Christmas, okay?’

  He turned back to Berlin and winked. ‘Not too bright, our Cockroach here. Must be breathing in all those chemicals or maybe too much wanking in the dark. He’s gonna go totally blind one day soon, I reckon.’

  Egan blushed and under the red skin Berlin could see that his jaw was clenched tight.

  Music started up again in the studio and the Beast yelled out Derek’s name. Derek took a packet of film from one of the shelves. ‘Time to get back to work if there isn’t anything else.’

  Berlin took him by the arm as he tried to pass. ‘Just one thing, Derek, does the name Melinda Marquet mean anything to you, by any chance?

  Berlin watched Derek’s face but there was no reaction to Melinda’s name.

  ‘Never heard of her. She somebody special?’

  Berlin nodded. ‘She’s dead, so that makes her special to us.’

  Again there was no reaction from Derek. ‘Can’t help you. And I like my sheilas alive and lively. Really lively, if you know what I mean. But I need to get back to work now.’ As he walked towards the studio Derek yelled back over his shoulder. ‘And you should get a courier to take that colour film to the lab for processing, Cockroach, and make it snappy, eh?’

  Berlin turned back to Egan. ‘Your mate there is a bit of a charmer, Mr Egan.’

  Egan was looking down towards the studio, to where Derek had gone. His jaw was still set, still tight. He turned to face Berlin and smiled. ‘Call me Tim, please, and Derek is no mate of mine, believe you me.’