The Bat(5)
‘Because first we have to say hello to her landlord.’
Pluto appeared unbidden in the firmament.
3
A Tasmanian Devil
GLEBE POINT ROAD turned out to be a cosy, not too frenetic street where small, plain and, for the most part, ethnic restaurants from various parts of the world stood cheek by jowl.
‘This used to be Sydney’s bohemian quarter,’ Andrew explained. ‘I lived here as a student in the seventies. You can still find typical veggie restaurants for people with conservation on the brain and alternative lifestyles, bookshops for lesbians and so on. But the old hippies and acidheads have gone. As Glebe became an “in” place rent went up – I doubt if I’d be able to live here now, even on my police salary.’
They turned right, up Hereford Street and went through the gate to number 54. A small furry black animal came towards them, barking, and revealing a row of tiny, sharp teeth. The mini-monster looked seriously angry and bore a striking similarity to the picture in the tourist brochure of the Tasmanian Devil. Aggressive and generally unpleasant to have hanging from your throat, it said. The species had been almost completely exterminated, which Harry sincerely hoped was true. As this specimen launched itself at him with jaws wide open, Andrew raised his foot and kicked the animal in mid-flight and volleyed it yelping into the bushes alongside the fence.
A man with a large gut who looked as though he had just got up was standing in the doorway with a sour expression on his face as they came up the steps.
‘What happened to the dog?’
‘It’s admiring the rose bushes,’ Andrew informed him with a smile. ‘We’re from the police. Crime Squad. Mr Robertson?’
‘Yeah, yeah. What do you lot want again? I told you I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘And now you’ve told us you’ve told us you’ve told us . . .’ A long silence developed as Andrew continued to smile and Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Apologies, Mr Robertson, we won’t try to kill you with our charm, but this is Inger Holter’s brother and he would like to see her room if that’s not too much trouble.’
Robertson’s attitude changed dramatically.
‘Sorry, I didn’t know . . . Come in!’ He opened the door and went ahead of them up the stairs.
‘Yeah, in fact I didn’t even know Inger had a brother. But now you say it of course I can see the family likeness.’
Behind him, Harry half turned to Andrew and rolled his eyes.
‘Inger was a lovely girl and a fantastic tenant – indeed, a source of pride for the whole house and neighbourhood too, probably.’ He smelt of beer and his diction was already a bit slurred.
No attempt had been made to tidy Inger’s room. There were clothes, magazines, full ashtrays and empty wine bottles everywhere.
‘Er, the police told me not to touch anything for the moment.’
‘We understand.’
‘She just didn’t come back one night. Vanished into thin air.’
‘Thank you, Mr Robertson, we’ve read your statement.’
‘I told her not to take the route round Bridge Road and the fish market when she came home at night. It’s dark there and there are loads of blacks and Chinks . . .’ He looked at Andrew Kensington in horror. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘That’s fine. You can go now, Mr Robertson.’
Robertson padded down the stairs and they heard bottles clinking in the kitchen.
The room contained a bed, a few bookshelves and a desk. Harry looked around and tried to construct an impression of Inger Holter. Victimology: putting yourself in the victim’s shoes. He could just about recall the impish girl off the TV screen with her well-meaning, youthful commitment and innocent blue eyes.
She was definitely not a home bird. There were no pictures on the walls, just a poster of Braveheart with Mel Gibson – which Harry remembered only because for some incomprehensible reason it won an Oscar for Best Film. Bad taste, as far as films go, he thought. And men. Harry was one of those who felt personally let down when Mad Max made a Hollywood star out of him.
A photograph showed Inger sitting on a bench in front of some colourful Western-style houses with a gang of long-haired, bearded youths. She was wearing a loose, purple dress. Her blonde hair hung down flat against her pale, serious face. The young man whose hand she was holding had a baby in his lap.
On the shelf there was a pouch of tobacco. A few books about astrology and a roughly hewn wooden mask with a long, bent nose like a beak. Harry turned the mask over. Made in Papua New Guinea, it said on the price tag.
The clothes that weren’t lying on the bed and floor hung in a small wardrobe. There wasn’t much. A few cotton blouses, a worn coat and a large straw hat on the shelf.