Matthew Flinders' Cat (49 page)

As to identity marks, it probably doesn’t help much to know she has a small birthmark on her right buttock about the size of a ten-cent piece and it looks remarkably like the head of a man, maybe a Roman emperor, because there is even the suggestion of a laurel wreath upon his head. I don’t suppose she’d happily bare her bottom for you, though.

There is only one other thing that will identify her without question. When Caroline was eight she was bitten by a brown snake (King Brown) directly on the Achilles tendon and Trevor sliced the bite open and sucked out the poison. Caroline recovered but limped about for months and Trevor was sick for nearly three weeks, but what remains of this experience is a thin, white, slightly jagged line where Trevor’s pocketknife sliced down the Achilles. If you find her and she will bare her heel for you, this would be positive identification.

Billy, we are so very grateful to you for even agreeing to try to locate Caroline. These last five years have been very sad for both Trevor and myself, we love her very much and only wish that she will come back to us. If my tears could bring her back, then she would be washed home on the crest of a tidal wave.

Trevor and I will, of course, travel to Sydney on a moment’s notice should you have any success. We quite understand that the chances of finding Caroline are very slim and that Trevor’s travelling to Sydney on the last attempt to find her wasn’t very well-advised. But he’s a bushie and stubborn as hell and you can’t tell him anything, even if it’s for his own good. I’m pleased to say that he’s well and completely recovered.

Trevor tells me that you are a great man, the finest whitefella he has ever met. If he says so, then I am happy to agree with him. Trevor doesn’t hand out too many bouquets, black or white. The last person who got one from him was Eddie Mabo. Trevor reckons his mob on Murray Island stuck to their guns on Aboriginal land rights and ‘they’re fair dinkum heroes’. When he told me about you returning his money I can understand why he feels the way he does. You must have an extraordinarily generous and loving nature.

I apologise for this rather rambling letter. I know I haven’t been very specific even though Caroline is my daughter. You think you know every inch of your child’s body, which you’ve held and cherished since she was clutched to your breast as an infant. Suddenly you realise she is a stranger. The soft, innocent parts you kissed and pampered have long since gone away, turned into muscle and sinew.

Unfortunately we’re not on the phone or fax out here as this is only a shearing camp, but a letter will eventually reach us.

We both send our sincerest good wishes to you and thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Whether you find Caroline or not, the fact that you are willing to try fills our hearts with goodwill towards you.

We remain your friends whatever happens,

Trevor and Bridgit Williams

P.S. Trevor says to tell you he’s started on ‘The Ballad of Billy O’Shannessy’ and it’s coming along ‘real nice’.

B.W.

P.P.S. Careless. I forgot to tell you that Caroline is twenty-eight years old.

Billy smiled as he completed reading the letter. Trevor, he thought, despite the terrible tragedy of his daughter, was a lucky man. Bridgit Williams seemed a strong woman and he could feel her affection for Trevor in her letter. He examined the photograph of Caroline. It showed a very attractive young girl in cap and gown, though it was a full shot and taken at some distance. It would be difficult to make a match if she’d changed a fair bit since it had been taken, as Bridgit Williams had suggested.

He thought of Morgan asking him to visit his de facto and, from his description, it just might be a fortunate coincidence. Although the names were not the same, Morgan’s partner calling herself Kartanya, the fact that she was part-Aborigine and also a singer seemed to fit and Billy told himself that she may well have used an Aboriginal name, which was common enough among many of the younger liberated indigenous women.

Morgan had said that Kartanya’s forebears came from the Kaura tribe on the Adelaide plains. Caroline had been educated at the Adelaide Conservatorium and Trevor may well have originated from the Kaura tribe. Wilcannia and Broken Hill, the area he now lived in, were closer to the Adelaide plains than they were to Sydney.

While Billy knew he must make the search for Ryan his immediate priority, Morgan had left him his girlfriend’s phone number and address and he decided he would visit her as soon as he could possibly arrange a time.

In fact, Billy was finding himself with little disposable time, which was a good thing, he supposed. It meant he didn’t have too many idle moments to think about his craving for drink. One thing he told himself he must persist with, under all circumstances, was his routine. He must only substitute the time he would have normally taken up drinking with something else.

Billy knew that he was a creature of habit, that he was apt to panic when his routine altered. It was a strange contradiction in his personality. As a lawyer his mind had been famously agile, constantly capable of speculation that more often than not proved to be accurate. He had been known for his ability to remorselessly follow a convoluted argument, setting mental traps on the way and exploring the dark corners in the minds of others, discovering the secrets they hoped to conceal.

But, paradoxically, in the physical world, he craved order without complication. It was the reason he had wanted the button sewn back onto his shirt when Davo had come to his rescue. It was unlikely that any of the other alcoholics at William Booth would have even noticed it missing from a garment they were wearing. Billy would only be able to attempt to track Morgan’s partner in what he considered the time previously occupied with grog.

Perhaps this was selfish, an allocation of time that best suited him, but Billy knew that unless he was very careful he could easily lose the plot. Rigid adherence to a plan was required. He reasoned that to aimlessly wander around the Cross, hoping that he might run into Ryan, wasn’t a sensible way to behave. He felt sure sooner or later Ryan would find him. That he had only to stick to his routine and the boy would eventually sniff him out. That was, of course, if he wanted to do so.

He’d do all the sensible things, leave Ryan’s name and description at all the food vans and refuges, such as Father Riley’s group. He would also maintain his vigil in the lane at night. The Sheba sex club was the only connection he had to the boy’s mother. Freddo’s description of what happened to kids of Ryan’s age who suddenly found themselves on the street was the gloomiest of all possible speculations, but the sex club and what lay concealed behind it was the one very fragile and tenuous connection he possessed and he was obliged to maintain his observation.

Billy’s speculative mind had put together a scenario which, for once in his life, he hoped from the bottom of his heart, was incorrect. If Ryan’s mother had been ill with Hepatitis C, as had been the case, and if she had desperately needed heroin and was too weak to get out of bed to make a connection with her supplier, as had also been the case, then she may have begged Ryan to procure it for her. Assuming that Ryan was initially successful, her need for heroin would soon have left him without any money. With no money to buy heroin, Ryan had gone to Dorothy Flanagan for some of Billy’s funds. He had failed and thereafter had tried to flog his grandmother’s wedding ring and locket and his own skateboard. Billy further reasoned that Ryan couldn’t have needed the money for food, he’d get that easily enough from the Just Enough Faith van. There could only be one possible reason why he needed the money. Dorothy Flanagan’s instinct had been correct, it was to feed his mother’s addiction.

Billy now attempted to think out the rest of the scenario. Based on what Freddo had told him, Ryan’s mother would tell the boy where to go, where they might give him heroin. Freddo had said that most addicts get their shit away from home, he’d suggested Ryan’s mother probably got it at the place where she worked. As an exotic dancer, she was a freelancer at The Queen of Sheba, among other places. It was just possible that her dealer came from there, the heroin supplied to her by the proprietor or one of his henchmen, a doorman, someone like that.

Billy was aware that he was drawing a long bow, that a small boy trying to obtain heroin for his mother was an unusual circumstance. But he also knew heroin addicts had no conscience, all that mattered was that they fed their habit. They’d steal, lie and betray and it was even possible that a mother might use, even sacrifice, her son to satisfy her craving.

Billy hated himself for his next hypothesis but his legal mind was forced to make it. Ryan goes to The Queen of Sheba and Mohammed Suleman, the Assyrian proprietor, sees this tender little boy. Ryan was a beautiful-looking child and, with ‘the club’ out back, the notorious crim might agree that heroin could be supplied ‘under certain conditions’. Billy winced inwardly, ashamed for even thinking in such a way. He prayed that it was merely his febrile imagination that was taking him to places he didn’t want to go. His fervent hope was that Ryan had simply panicked when he heard the police were after him and was hiding in a squat somewhere, hungry and miserable, but safe from such vile predators.

To confirm either his fears or his hopes, Billy first had to find out why the police were looking for the boy. His next task was to visit the police at Kings Cross. He was even willing to break his precious routine and skip his usual visit to the Gardens as well as his mynah-bird duties. But he knew of old that mornings are chaos in a busy police station, that it was much better to call in during the afternoon if you hoped to speak to the patrol commander or one of the detectives. He would spend the early part of the afternoon in the library and then arrive at the police station about three o’clock. A cop with a bit of lunch in his belly was always in a better mood and easier to talk to. Billy entered the Kings Cross Police Station just after three and asked if he could see the patrol commander.

‘Can you tell me why you want to see him, sir?’ the young policewoman at the counter asked.

Billy smiled, then said politely, ‘Yes, of course, I’m a lawyer and I wish to inquire about a client.’

The young woman looked a little bemused. ‘You’re a lawyer?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘That’s right and I wish to see the patrol commander, please,’ Billy repeated calmly.

‘Just a moment, sir,’ she said and left the front desk. Billy was tired from the walk so took the opportunity to sit down. After perhaps another ten minutes the young policewoman returned accompanied by the patrol commander. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, the new breed, sharp, intelligent and businesslike. ‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’

‘My name is O’Shannessy, I’m a barrister and I wish to inquire about a client, a juvenile whom I believe you wish to question in relation to a drug-related incident.’

‘Oh, I see. His name, Mr O’Shannessy?’

‘Ryan Sanfrancesco, like the city, only with an
e
where the
i
is usually found.’

The policeman smiled, ‘Thank you, bound to have typed that incorrectly.’ He moved over to a computer and tapped in Ryan’s name. ‘Yes, here we are, Ryan Sanfrancesco. You will need to speak to a detective, if you can wait a moment.’ He turned to the younger policewoman, ‘Constable, will you see if Detective Barker is in.’ Turning back to Billy, he said, ‘Will you excuse me please, sir?’ Without waiting for Billy’s reply, he turned and left the reception area.

A couple of minutes later a detective in his fifties, almost a dead ringer and of the same vintage as the dreaded Sergeant Orr, Billy’s Parliament House nemisis, came into the reception area. Billy thought to himself that men like Orr and Barker were probably a dying breed, too stout, too tired and too long in a police force that had long since passed them by.

He heard the older cop say to the younger police woman in a voice intended for him to overhear, ‘That him?’ He stepped up to the desk some two metres from where Billy stood and leaned both his elbows upon it, sticking his chin out, his overlarge gut dented by the edge of the counter. ‘Over here, please, sir!’ he commanded.

Billy had seen it all before, belligerence, impatience and intimidation all implied with body language and a short, sharp, commanding opening statement that ended with the obligatory and deprecating ‘Sir.’

Billy rose slowly and walked over to the detective, showing he wasn’t to be bullied. ‘Good afternoon, detective, my name is William O’Shannessy, I’m a barristerat-law, and yours is?’

The older policeman was caught momentarily off guard. ‘Barker, Detective Sergeant Barker.’

‘Pleased to meet you, detective, I would like to inquire about a missing juvenile whom I believe the police are looking for in connection to some matters and I would prefer the discussion to take place somewhere other than at the front desk.’

Billy could see that the policeman was responding to the authority in his voice. Only politicians and senior lawyers talked to policemen with such polite firmness and, despite Billy’s appearance, Barker’s years in the force had given him a finely tuned ear, so that he usually knew when to bite and when to keep his mouth shut. He gave an obligatory sigh. ‘I knock off at three-thirty, sir.’

Billy glanced at the station clock. ‘Good, that gives us twenty minutes detective.’

He followed the detective through a door to the left of the counter and along a small corridor and then down a set of steps into a downstairs corridor, past an openplan area and into a small interviewing office. The room was only just big enough to contain the usual table and three chairs. On the table sat what looked like a black box with a snorkel sticking out of it. It pointed directly to where Barker asked Billy to sit. The box, Billy was to learn, was called an ERISP (Electronic Recording Interview Statement Provider) and contained three tape decks and various knobs. The snorkel turned out to be a video camera focused on Billy. The policeman reached over and switched on one of the tape decks. Then, leaning back in his chair and still remaining silent, he scratched delicately at the corner of his nose. He appeared to be thinking. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere, sir?’ he finally asked.