The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 29

  Her eyes softened. Obviously she was relieved I wasn’t just pointing a finger at her.

  ‘I can’t think of anyone. Tracy didn’t have family other than me. She never met her father, and my parents live in Queensland. They never call, so I don’t bother.’

  ‘Have you begun a relationship with anyone recently?’

  She seemed puzzled.

  I elaborated, ‘You know, a boyfriend, someone staying over?’

  ‘I wish. I’m a single mother, and believe me, single mothers don’t get to have many men coming in and out of their lives.’

  Now didn’t seem like the appropriate time to tell her I was also a single mother, who had more men after her than she could handle.

  ‘What about friends? Could anyone have been jealous of you or Tracy for any reason? Can you think of anyone who might have wanted revenge of one kind or another?’

  Mrs Noland stared vacantly at the empty space in front of her. ‘I don’t think so,’ she finally said, emptying the rest of her mug into the sink. ‘I really don’t think I can help you. My life is so bare of other people, I can’t see a connection between who I know and what happened to Tracy. I’m really not that important for someone to want to revenge themselves against me. All I want is the killer to be found so I can get on with my life.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  When Mrs Noland walked me to the door, I added, ‘I might come back some other time. Maybe I’ll need you to come down to the station to answer more questions.’

  She gave me a stern look. I thought she was about to hit me.

  ‘Look, Dr Melina,’ she said, surprising me by remembering my name and title, ‘I don’t have anything else to say to the police. I’ve already told you everything I know. I’m getting tired of repeating myself. Don’t you keep all this stuff on record?’

  ‘It’s procedural stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, well, procedural, my arse. Get that sonofabitch and stop harassing me.’

  She slammed the door in my face.

  She could have punched me in the nose, the effect was the same.

  It was 9.32 p.m. when I finished visiting my sixth house. As anticipated, everyone came up with the same story: Tracy Noland didn’t deserve to die, but, hell, was she a troublesome and miserable child.

  All that my findings had achieved was to get me depressed. Not only was I investigating the death of child, but to add to the difficulty, the child was detested by everyone who ever met her. Hell, for all I knew so far the killer could have been any of the people I had interviewed. My list of suspects was now inconclusive because there were far too many people who could have been the ideal killer. I was looking for some kind of inconsistency of character, something in a person which would trigger my mind.

  I decided to make house number seven the last one for the day. I would continue the rest of the interviews first thing the following morning.

  The entire street was plunged into darkness, giving it a creepy feeling.

  A mild chill rippled down my body, despite the high-twenties temperature.

  Not a soul in sight.

  Did people sneak in and out of their homes through the back door? If Tracy Noland had been abducted in her own street, it was easy to understand why.

  House number seven was actually the biggest one in the cul-de-sac—a double-storey Edwardian house with grey rendering and French windows and a front yard which made the botanical gardens look like a backyard. Whoever lived there must have had a lot of money to burn or invest, and nothing much to do other than gardening.

  There was a new, grey Mazda 626 parked in the cobblestone driveway, one which I had seen recently advertised in one of the weekend newspapers. Dual air bags and some kind of steel vertical crash-proof column to save the occupants from turning into sardines in sauce if the car ever rolled over.

  According to the size of the house, the maintenance of the front yard, and the late model of the car, the occupants had to be retired. When the front door opened on the fourth knock, I realised I’d been right. I hadn’t expected the door to be answered so suddenly, and, as a result, I felt my pulse race.

  ‘I saw you coming from down the street,’ said the old man with white hair. ‘Great view from the living room. I can see the entire street from there. Come in, I’ll show you.’

  The old man’s face was loosened by extra flesh, and I guessed he must have been overweight at a younger age. Even thought he was at home, he wore a blue shirt and a mismatched brown tie with slacks. He reminded me of those old people at the Balaclava Hotel, where I usually had my Sunday lunch, hunched over the bar, drinking as if they were in a Guinness Book of Record challenge, dressed in their slacks, shirts and ties, which they’d been wearing for the last forty years.

  I was surprised that he didn’t even ask me who I was and why I was here.

  My high heels sank into a thick burgundy carpet, as I followed him down the hallway.

  ‘This way,’ he said before I had time to place a word.

  Three ceramics ducks hung on a wall, following each other on their way to the other end of the hallway.

  The inside of the house smelled of recent cooking, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what the familiar sweet aroma was.

  I followed the old man past an entrance to the right into what I presumed was the living room. The furniture was a mixture of new and old, mismatched dark woods and pines with frames and useless bric-a-brac dangling from every conceivable place. I immediately sensed no woman lived in the house.

  The old man was standing erect in front of a huge bay window, which I’d noticed when I’d walked up the stairs before. His white hair was thinning at the back, giving way to pink flesh and a mild skin rash.

  ‘See what I mean. Look at that.’ He waved his arm across the window as if he was a presenter on Sale Of The Century. ‘The entire street, I told you.’

  I rattled my throat and said, ‘Do you have any idea who I am and why I’m here?’

  He turned around. ‘You’re a cop or something. It’s about little Tracy. I saw you going from house to house, so I figured out it had something to do with Tracy. Plus I rang the police yesterday to talk to them. They took a message and said the person in charge of the investigation would get in touch with me.’ Now I remembered the phone message Frank mentioned. So, this was the person who called.

  The old man smiled with all his teeth, which surprisingly did look as if they were his. His face was pleasant and looked as if it had been etched from leather. I kind of liked him straight away. There seemed to be something honest about him, like a no-nonsense, no-bullshit attitude, which is hard to find in this day and age.

  I presented my hand which he shook vigorously. ‘I’m Dr Kristina Melina from the Victorian Forensic Science Centre. You’re right. I’m investigating the murder of Tracy Noland.’

  ‘I’m Jason Harvey.’ His grey eyes gazed into mine for a few seconds. ‘An awful tragedy, Dr Melina. She was such a lovely little girl. Always playing with the other kids, always friendly.’

  I froze for a few seconds, puzzled by what he’d just told me. ‘I heard she didn’t get on that well with other kids.’

  He shrugged and said, ‘You know what people are like. Gossip. She was just a young girl. Say, you wouldn’t want anything to drink? I can make you a coffee. Tea, maybe? How about a glass of water.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I looked down the darkened street from his window. He was right about being able to see the whole street. Maybe he did see something that would help my investigation. It was interesting that he found Tracy a friendly person. Maybe he never really spoke to her. If he saw her from his lounge room window, the impression must have been that she was getting on fine with everyone else.

  ‘Did you see much of Tracy Noland from your window? I heard from the other kids that she was friendly with a seventeen-year old.’ I removed a notebook from my handbag, flipped a couple pages and added, ‘who lives at number twenty-two, down the end of the street. Ever heard
of this young man?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She was always hanging around Malcom, especially in the evening. That’s why I called the police. Don’t really like him. He’s kind of old for her. I mean the girl was only ten or eleven, and he’s seventeen. Don’t understand why no one said anything. If you ask me, I reckon he did it. Was too fond of her. And I think she kind of liked him too. Straight after school, she went and sat on his fence, waiting for him to come back from god-knows-where. Then they stayed outside, talking for hours.’

  The plot was thickening. I had to admit this was not common behaviour for a twelve-year-old and a seventeen-year-old. I certainly would be more than concerned if Michael hung around a twelve-year old girl at the age of seventeen. I wondered if his parents were aware of the friendship.

  ‘Did he ever take her inside his home?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him do that. But then, I’m not in front of the window twenty-four hours a day. There’s a rumour going around that he has an extensive amount of photographs in his house, things he’d taken himself. Pictures of kids, I heard.’ He winked at me, but I wasn’t sure what it meant.

  ‘And who told you?’

  ‘Just a rumour. People talk. I’ve never seen the pictures, but you know, rumours usually come from somewhere.’

  I agreed with him on that point. The kids in the street had already told me the same thing. ‘And do you think he took pictures of Tracy Noland?’

  ‘I don’t know. I shiver at the thought. It made me want to turn away and not think about what he was up to. I guess I should have, but then there was nothing much I could have done. She chose to befriend him. Don’t know what she saw. The kid is good for nothing. Wastes his life. Today’s generation. Computers, television and sex. It wasn’t like that when I was a young man. We used to go out, get some fresh air, live our lives. But today’s kids, they’re just so messed up inside. Kind of sad, if you ask me.’

  Although I didn’t agree with his analysis of today’s generation, he’d been so helpful that I hated to contradict him. The fact was if less people complained about youth and alienated teenagers, the less problems we would have with them. But on the other hand, I could understand Jason’s frustration. Having lived an entire life, it wasn’t always easy to reject the ideals and beliefs accumulated over the years.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want anything to drink?’ he added. ‘It’s really not a problem.’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s actually getting quite late, and I should let you get some sleep. I still have to get home and eat something.’

  He waved his hand. ‘Ah, don’t worry. I haven’t eaten either. Tell you what, I’ll make something for the two of us.’

  I thought about Michael at home all by himself and said, ‘I really have to get home. I’ve got a son waiting for me.’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh, well. It would have been nice to have some company.’

  I noticed the wetness in his eyes and couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He reminded me of my mother who died of a sleeping-pill overdose two days before I turned sixteen. My father had been convicted of child abuse six months prior, making me ward of the state. Jason Harvey wore the same expression my mother did when my father was found guilty, and it broke my heart knowing this old man was probably spending a good deal of his time all by himself, feeling alone and isolated like my mother must have felt when she knew what my father had done. Human loneliness had a way of etching itself on its victims’ faces.

  ‘I’d love to have a bite one day,’ I said, ‘but tonight is really not the right time.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’ His eyes glittered with excitement.

  ‘Mmm...’

  ‘That would be great. We could talk more. I’d love to help. It broke my heart when I heard the poor girl got killed.’ He’s face creased, and I could feel his pain.

  He walked me down the hallway and to the front door.

  ‘How do you keep busy during the daytime?’ I asked as he unlocked the door.

  ‘I worked as a banker for thirty years. Now I’m a professional entertainer.’

  ‘An entertainer?’

  ‘I do mind reading acts at the local RSL club two night a week and on the weekend.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. I better keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow. And all this time I was thinking you’d be spending most of your time between these four walls.’

  He laughed gently and said, ‘You’re a nice person. It’s written all over you. I knew it the moment you walked into my home.’

  I blushed. ‘Thank you, Mr Harvey, that’s a lovely thing to say.’

  ‘You can call me Jason. Out there with the formalities. Why don’t you come back for some lunch? We can talk some more.’

  ‘All right, Jason. Saturday, lunch. You’ve got a date.’ I wasn’t sure why I agreed, but it must have been him insisting. It was a gut-feeling, impulsive response. Although he wanted to have lunch the following day, I thought I’d give myself an extra two days, just to ensure I wouldn’t be tied up with important work. The reality was that I’d probably be up to my neck with this investigation, seven days a week for the next few months.

  He smiled and said, ‘Wish I was thirty years younger.’

  I was about to shake his hand, but he took me by surprise and gave me a hug instead. I don’t know why, but I felt all mushy inside, tears coming to my eyes. Something about Mr Harvey kept reminding me of the father I never had. Maybe it was the gentleness in his smile or the warmth in his eyes. His citrus aftershave smelled familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Probably one of those cheap bottles from K-mart or Safeway that my son was using.

  While making my way down the stairs and towards my car at the opening of Vincent Court, I could feel his stare roaming from the large bay window of his living room. I glanced over my shoulder a few times, but couldn’t see a thing.

  And yet I knew he was watching me walk off into the darkness of the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I jumped out of bed when the telephone on my side table went off at 9.02 a.m. I couldn’t believe I’d slept in, but since I’d suffered from insomnia from the moment I hit the sack, it didn’t exactly surprise me that I felt as if I’d only slept for a couple of hours.

  At 11.32 p.m. the previous night, I turned off the light of my bedroom, my mind filled with all the interviews I’d conducted during the day. Perhaps the strangest thing was that everyone felt Tracy Noland had been a bad person, except for Jason Harvey. Maybe it was because of his mind reading ability, a skill I didn’t truly believe he possessed, but it sounded nice to theorise that only he could see goodness in Tracy Noland because he could read her mind.

  And then there was that Malcom person who took pictures. I knew that the very next morning I would have to make a priority visit to his place. The rumour of his photographic collection matched the unusual personality characteristic I’d been hoping for. At least now I had a probable suspect.

  I’d fallen asleep at 1.22 a.m. believing this case would be resolved in no time.

  But this morning, Friday the 19th December, my sleep was interrupted once more by the damned telephone.

  ‘Dr Melina?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Goosh. I’d like to see you in my office at ten o’clock.’

  I rubbed my eyes with my left hand. ‘This morning?’

  ‘Yes, this morning. It’s about the Tracy Noland case. Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, no, I was just—’

  ‘Good, then, I’ll see you at ten.’

  He hung up before I had time to say another word.

  Not a nice way to wake up in the morning.

  I showered and dressed in under twenty minutes. Breakfast consisted of a multivitamin and an E-supplement, washed down with a cup of coffee, no sugar, no milk. Not a breakfast rich in fibre, but as far as fat content was concerned, it wasn’t something I had to worry about.

  I made my way down from my second-floor apartment on Chapel Street, checked the letter-box for mail, eve
n though I knew the mail wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon, and slid into the driver’s seat of my Lancer.

  I cracked the gears into reverse, did a u-turn in the driveway, and came out on Chapel Street, between the kerbside and a green tram stopped at a red light, dropping off passengers. When the light went green, I sped and overtook the tram. I took a left on Princes Highway, where the Astor Theatre resides and headed towards the police complex on St Kilda Road.

  I unwound the driver’s window fully, letting a cool breeze roam through my auburn hair. Grey clouds hovered over the South-West, giving me hope that it wasn’t going to be another thirty-five-degree day. Although I was wearing marine pants with matching jacket and a white blouse, I’d taken the precaution of packing a dress in the boot in case the weather turned Melbourne into something which resembled the inside of a baker’s oven.

  A fresh smell of seawater blended with exhaust fumes, and I could see the deadly smog slowly rising above the skyscrapers, turning city dwellers’ lungs into two charcoal sponges, which would eventually proclaim many lives in the form of asthma and heart attacks.

  The traffic was slightly congested, but not as chaotic as it would have been half an hour ago. By nine o’clock most office staff had parked their cars somewhere and begun sorting through their in-trays or gossiping over their first cup of coffee, leaving the main roads to late risers, the unemployed, housewives, company directors, CEOs and self-employed people like me.

  It was 9.53 a.m. when I parked in front of the building at 412 St Kilda Road. There were no parking spaces left outside, so I pulled into a police-restricted parking area, even though I wasn’t actually a police person as such.

  After passing the security check-point, I climbed into the elevator, realising it was not even ten o’clock. It kind of annoyed me that I made it on time. Goosh would think more of his power over me now. He clicked his fingers, and I was there on the spot. Oh, well, I didn’t feel like waiting in a sandwich shop with an over-priced coffee and stale croissant from the previous day.