Book of Lost Threads

15
Moss and Amber-Lee

MOSS’S DECISION TO SEEK AMBER-LEE’S identity was not wholly altruistic. Sandy’s quest for his aunt’s baby had been the catalyst, and the visit to the cemetery had moved her profoundly. She was truly saddened to think of the baby and the young woman, both buried without a name. She had also come to care for Finn and was disturbed to think of him growing old with his guilt and grief. But she had her own guilt and grief, and until she could return to the Conservatorium or some sort of employment, she knew that unfettered time would corrode her resolve. She was absurdly afraid of becoming an old lady who talked to her dog and knitted tea cosies for the United Nations. Or a person who spent hours a day in silence. She needed activity; she needed a challenge; and Amber-Lee’s identity could provide both while Moss sought to help the parent who still needed her. It was too late to reconcile with Linsey, but Moss still longed for redemption.
She debated within herself whether she should tell Finn what she had planned. There was still a remoteness about him, and she often felt that he would have retreated from the world altogether had it not been for his friendship with Mrs Pargetter and her nephew. And now her own arrival too, of course. There was something suspect in his apparent solidity. She had moments of insight when she felt that his component particles were only held together by an effort of will. That one day he would simply give up and allow himself to disintegrate. She would have liked him to know she was planning to help him, but feared what would happen if she were unsuccessful.
So she set out for Melbourne alone. Before leaving, she had dug out the files, feeling like a thief but excusing herself on the grounds of the greater good. Finn was off on his evening Silence, so she had time to take notes. As well as the dates and places of the accident and subsequent inquest, she had the names of key contacts, such as the police officer in charge, the social worker, the doctor and the prostitute, Brenda Watson.
She caught the bus in time for the morning train, and as she watched the houses and trees fly past, she wondered at the wisdom of her undertaking. If no-one could identify the young woman at the time, what made her think she could do any better now, over ten years later? True, she had found her father, but he was a well-published academic; he’d made a name for himself (she smiled fleetingly at the irony). This girl had appeared as if from nowhere and left as anonymously as she had come.
Amy was holidaying with friends in Darwin, so Moss had the house to herself. She unpacked, opened a few windows, threw some clothes into the washing machine, and made herself a cup of tea, smiling as she replaced the hand-knitted tea cosy over the pot. She flicked through a three-day-old newspaper, took out her notebook, closed it again and went to check on the washing. It was only halfway through its cycle.
When Amy had finally agreed that she was old enough to stay alone in the house, Moss had revelled in the sense of freedom and ownership of her space. Now the house seemed vast, its outer walls retreating until she was a mere speck in the midst of the vastness. At that moment she understood Mrs Pargetter’s sense of absence as a presence. Linsey, wherever she was, was not here.
Moss tried to dismiss these thoughts. Mustn’t become morbid, she told herself sternly. I need some company. Hamish, she thought. I wonder if Hamish is home?
As she dialled his number, she had the grace to feel guilty. She always seemed to contact Hamish when she needed something. And he always responded. He was like a big brother, and she treated him with the careless affection characteristic of such a relationship.
Hamish was delighted to hear from her. ‘We thought you’d dropped off the edge of the earth,’ he said, then recollected himself. ‘I mean, I’m so sorry to hear about Linsey. I would’ve come to the memorial service, but I didn’t even know about it until I spoke to Magda. I was in Sydney at the time.’
‘No need to apologise. Linsey hated a fuss. Now, what are you doing for dinner?’
‘Beans on toast, I should think. Or perhaps pizza, if I can’t be bothered cooking.’
‘How about coming over here? We can order pizza and open a bottle of Amy’s red.’
Hamish arrived promptly at seven with the pizzas, his grey eyes smiling behind thick-–lensed glasses. He stooped to kiss Moss’s cheek as she took the pizza boxes.
‘Come on through. We’ll eat in the kitchen. It’s cosier. The dining room’s a bit grand for pizza.’
As they chatted amiably over pizza and wine, Hamish looked across at Moss and wondered where all this was going. They’d known each other since high school, where they’d both been involved in the annual musical productions. He grinned to himself as he remembered their performance in Jesus Christ Superstar. Moss had played Mary Magdalene, and he was cast as an unlikely Judas. They’d gone their separate ways at university, she to continue her music, and he to study landscape architecture, but they had remained friends.
I wonder why she asked me over? he thought. It’s usually me who makes contact. He’d had a futile crush on her at school, but his temperament was phlegmatic, and when he received no encouragement, he moved on without rancour. An only child, he cheerfully took on the big brother role into which he was cast. Now, sitting in her kitchen eating pizza, he began to wonder, to hope that they might move on from ‘just mates’ to something more. He watched closely as Moss absently ran her fingers through her hair. She wasn’t actually pretty, but her features were regular and those dark blue eyes—they got to him every time . . .
‘Dessert,’ she said, embarrassed by his appraising look.
He did a mock double-take when she brought out a homemade ginger fluff sponge. ‘Don’t tell me you made that. What happened to our vow to never make a recipe that had more than two steps? That looks like a six-or seven-stepper to me.’
Moss had to confess. ‘An old lady I’ve been staying with— Mrs Pargetter—she made it for me. We can have it with our coffee.’
The sponge was a bit rich after the pizza, but Hamish wolfed down a second slice while Moss told him about Amber-Lee. She didn’t tell him about her relationship to Finn, just that she was making some enquiries for a friend.
‘The truth is,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where to start. I thought we could, you know, toss around a few ideas.’
Hamish sighed. So she did just want his help with something. The story of my life, he thought ruefully, but he accepted it with good grace and put his mind to the problem at hand.
‘As far as I can see, your best bet is to start with the police officer—what’s his name?—Graham Patterson. You may have some problems with the privacy legislation, though. And he might have moved on by now. Almost certainly, when you think about it.’
‘He was a senior constable at the Fitzroy police station. Finn, my friend, said he was quite nice. That’s all I know.’
‘Not much to go on. Tell you what. Mum’s friend, Judy— her daughter’s married to a copper—she might be able to help us. If we can’t trace your man through Fitzroy police, I’ll ask her.’
‘Sorry to bother you with all this, Hamish.’
‘No worries. Nothing like a mystery to put a bit of spice into life.’ He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Two heads are better than one, I always say.’
They finished their coffee, and Moss made some more. She enjoyed the uncomplicated company of someone her own age—someone she could laugh with. It was two am before Hamish left, promising to contact Judy’s daughter if Moss had no luck at the Fitzroy police station.
She went there the next day. There was no Graham Patterson and no-one was telling her where to find him. ‘They probably thought I was out to get him—that he’d arrested my lover or something,’ she said plaintively to Hamish. ‘Do I look like a gangster’s moll?’
‘Yep. It’s that big handbag you carry. Could hide a concealed weapon.’
Judy’s daughter proved to be a useful contact, however, and provided a phone number for Patterson—now a senior sergeant who was stationed at the large police complex in St Kilda Road. Moss rang him and arranged a meeting. The constable behind the desk was expecting them, and ushered them through a maze of corridors into the senior sergeant’s office. Moss noticed the overflowing intray and guiltily thanked him for taking the time to see them.
‘I remember the case quite well,’ Graham Patterson told them. ‘It was one of the first of its kind I’d dealt with. I’d seen plenty of road trauma and death, of course, but we’d always been able to identify the victim. I felt I’d failed her, you know?’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Then there was your father. He wouldn’t let it go. Used to come to the station all the time, asking if we’d found anything. Drove us mad, to be honest.’
Hamish looked up sharply. So this so-called friend was her father. Why hadn’t she trusted him with that information? Surely he was entitled. He suddenly became aware that Moss was speaking again.
‘He still hasn’t let go,’ said Moss. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ She was embarrassed to ask the next question. ‘I’m not suggesting you didn’t do all you could at the time, but . . .’
‘But I did do all I could. We all did. Have you seen the coroner’s finding? There was never any suggestion of negligence on our part.’ Moss began to apologise again but he cut her off. ‘The problem is, my investigation was hampered by the very fact that I was a police officer. I always felt that Brenda knew more than she let on at the time. But she didn’t trust the police. For instance, when we searched her room, there were so few of Amber-Lee’s belongings that we believe Brenda probably stole the rest.’
‘Did you ask her about them?’
‘Of course we did. She said that Amber-Lee was just a roommate: someone to share the rent. She had no idea what might have been missing. Brenda was a very aggressive witness, and she’d been beaten up badly by the time we spoke to her. I’m not even sure that I trust the description she gave us.’
‘It all sounds hopeless,’ said Moss. ‘We haven’t even started and we seem to have reached a dead end.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Patterson began writing on a pad and tore off the page. ‘Here,’ he said, giving it to Moss. ‘This is the address of the Prostitutes’ Collective. I’ve written a note to Georgia Lalor asking her to help you. You’ll find her there most days. She’s the only one I can think of who might be able to help.’ He stood up and shook hands with them both. ‘I always thought Brenda was the key. Funny—these things stick with you, even after all this time. I hope you find her.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Hamish.
Waiting until they were back out on the street, he turned to Moss. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this was for your father? You used to tell me you didn’t know who your father was.’ His tone was aggrieved.
Moss took his arm. ‘I’m really sorry, Hamish. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that my father told me about Amber-Lee in confidence. In the end I had to tell Judy when she rang me for the details. They needed to know why I was interested in the case.’ She searched his face. ‘Okay now? We’re still mates?’
‘Alright. Still mates. But tell me, how did you find your father?’
Moss related the story of her search as they made their way to the Prostitutes’ Collective, which was only a twenty-minute walk from the police station. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they almost walked past its unremarkable entrance. The Collective was housed in an old red-brick building, and they entered through a single glass door which led to a large room furnished with several armchairs and a cluster of desks. Some young women were looking at a noticeboard, and another was feeding the photocopier.
Moss and Hamish looked at each other. It wasn’t quite what they’d expected. An older woman, dressed stylishly in black, came over to where they were standing.
‘Are you the reporters?’ she said.
‘What? No, we’re here to see Georgia,’ said Hamish.
‘We have a letter of introduction,’ Moss added.
‘Georgia’s in a meeting at the moment. Did you have an 211 appointment?’
Moss was chastened by the woman’s tone. ‘Sorry. We didn’t know we had to have one.’
The woman sighed. ‘Who’s the letter from? I might be able to fit you in later today.’ Moss handed her the letter and she nodded. ‘Graham Patterson. Yes.’ She returned to her desk and referred to a diary. ‘She can see you at three this afternoon.’
With nearly four hours to fill, Moss and Hamish decided to walk along the foreshore and have lunch at one of the bay-side restaurants. It was a clear spring day, with a hint of summer in the sun’s rays. There were a few yachts bobbing on the water, sporting sails of red, yellow and sparkling white.
‘When I was a kid,’ Hamish told her, ‘I always wanted to go to sea. I used to read books about explorers and pirates— anything about the sea—but my parents didn’t even like the beach. We always went up to the mountains for our holidays. Anyway, one day my mate Ben’s parents invited me out for a day’s fishing on their boat. I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep the night before. We’d been on the boat for less than twenty minutes when I started to throw up. It wasn’t even rough. The sea was like a millpond. They were very nice about it, but I was so sick that they had to bring me back and ring my parents to collect me. I was mortified, and Ben couldn’t wait to tell the story when we got back to school.’
Moss grinned. ‘And that was the end of your seafaring ambitions?’
‘No, I’d still like nothing more than to be able to sail the world. But I have to accept that it’s never going to happen.’ He looked at her earnestly. He didn’t want to see her hurt. ‘Some things that we want are just not possible. We can try to find Amber-Lee’s identity, but there may be a point where we can’t go any further. We have to be able to recognise that point when we reach it.’
‘If we reach it.’
‘Yes. If we reach it.’
At three o’clock they were back at the Collective for their meeting with Georgia. Patterson had told them a little about the organisation, which had been set up as a kind of union for prostitutes. It promoted safe sex and provided information to newcomers. There was a register of violent clients, and staff cooperated with the police to protect the safety of their members and, in some cases, the general public.
Georgia was a full-figured woman in her mid-forties, with rich chestnut hair caught in a clasp at the nape of her neck. She welcomed them in a pleasantly modulated voice and stood aside as they entered her office. They were surprised to find that it was like any other office—an untidy desk with a framed photo and a vase of daffodils, a phone, a computer and some shelves lined with dark blue folders. Quality Procedures, Moss was astonished to read on the spine of one folder. What was I expecting? she asked herself. Crimson velvet curtains? Erotic artworks? Silk kimonos?
‘So Graham Patterson sent you to me. How is he?’
‘He’s well,’ replied Moss, relinquishing her thought with a guilty start. ‘Says to tell you hi.’
Georgia smiled. ‘Now, how can I help you?’
Moss told her story as succinctly as she could, and Georgia listened without comment.
‘. . . so if we could find Brenda,’ Moss concluded, ‘we might find the key to Amber-Lee.’
Georgia sat back in her chair. ‘I remember the accident. I was working at the Kasbah at the time, but I knew some of the streetgirls. Didn’t know this Amber-Lee, though. I knew Brenda a little. Just enough to pass the time of day. She was one of Vince’s girls. He was a nasty piece of work.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the accident?’
‘Only that it happened and the police were trying to find out who the victim was. Brenda disappeared soon after.’ She looked at them sharply. ‘Look, I might know someone who can help, but I need to know I can trust you. What’s in it for you?’
‘It’s just as I told you. I want to help my father to give Amber-Lee back her name, her identity. Honestly, I don’t have any other motive.’
Georgia measured Moss with her eyes. She was usually a good judge of character, and this girl seemed sincere. So many street people died without a name and were buried without mourners. She’d been a streetworker herself in her younger days and was painfully aware of the fragility of identity in such a world. It was her sense of responsibility that had drawn her to work for the Collective, and in helping Moss discover Amber-Lee’s real name, she was helping all the girls, in a way. There but for the grace of God . . . she thought grimly as she opened her desk drawer and took out a notepad.
‘I’ll have a word with Damara. I think she kept in touch with Brenda. Give me your number and I’ll let you know if she’ll speak to you. It might take a week or two.’
Thanking Georgia, they left, feeling elated. They hadn’t reached that dead end yet. Moss returned to Opportunity to await developments, and Hamish went back to his studies. The interruption had been welcome. He needed to come up with an idea for a major project to support his thesis, but time was running out and ideas were elusive.
Finn was worried about Moss. She seemed so dejected, and her interest in her music had waned again. She was too young to drift into the lassitude that infected so many in Opportunity. She needed cheering up, but he was at a loss. What did young women enjoy nowadays? She didn’t have a boyfriend; Mrs Pargetter had mentioned this a couple of times. The problem was that he didn’t know any suitable young men. He’d have to come up with something else. Women always like a nice dinner, he thought. Some hopeful calculations indicated that it must be close to her birthday. A present too, then. Dinner and a present.
He was due to meet with the Commission for the Future next month, but, impatient to execute his plan, he brought the meeting forward and travelled down to Melbourne by bus and train.
Wandering aimlessly around the shops, he had a sudden inspiration. Jewellery. Women loved jewellery, didn’t they? He slid diffidently into several jewellery stores and was finally captured by a well-dressed young man who looked doubtfully at his customer’s dishevelled appearance.
‘May I assist you, sir?’
‘Yes. Yes. I’m looking for a gift. For a woman.’
‘Our selection is very fine. Many items are hand-crafted.’
The assistant’s tone implied that Finn couldn’t possibly afford such merchandise.
Finn stood his ground. ‘I was thinking of a pendant. You know—a thing on a chain. Gold. I want gold.’
Now there was a tinge of impatience underlying the studied politeness. ‘All our gold is eighteen carat or more, sir.’
‘Show me what you have. She’s only twenty-four, so I don’t want anything old-fashioned.’
The young man raised his eyebrows and Finn blushed. ‘My daughter,’ he snapped. ‘Do you have anything to show me?’
Finn looked at the various lockets, heart-shaped, oval, with and without gems. There were tiny gold dolphins (Very popular with young girls, sir). Finn rather liked the pearl drops, but thought they might be a bit middle-aged. He felt helpless and wished he could ask a woman’s opinion. Then he saw it. A gold filigree treble clef hanging from a finely wrought, tubular chain.
‘That one. I’ll have that one.’
The sales assistant sniffed. ‘It’s one of a kind, sir. Hand-crafted. Very expensive.’ He indicated the price tag.
‘Gift wrap it, please,’ Finn said. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
Finn was pleased with his find and couldn’t keep the smile from his face as the train sped through the familiar countryside. When he got home, he carefully unwrapped the parcel to look at the pendant again, then rewrapped it before clumsily retying the bow.
When Moss came in from walking Errol, her father was waiting at the door.
‘Are you doing anything on Saturday night?’
Moss was surprised. When she was in Opportunity, she never did anything on Saturday night. ‘No. Why?’
Finn hunched his shoulders and looked at her from under his eyebrows. ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner. Somewhere nice. Chez Marie, in Cradletown.’
Moss was surprised and touched. ‘Thank you, Finn. I’d love 217 to come.’
She was unsure what to wear. Mrs Pargetter assured her that Chez Marie was indeed a very nice place. ‘Very fashionable. It’s won the regional Fine Dining Medal five years in a row. It said so in the local paper. The couple who do that cooking show own it. You know the one—on Wednesdays: Classic Chefs.’ When she heard this, Moss was glad that she’d brought a few more clothes back with her.
At the agreed time, Finn appeared, squirming self-consciously in a suit and tie. He looked at his daughter in her black scooped-neck dress. She was even wearing high heels.
‘You look beautiful, Moss,’ he said in genuine admiration. ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting. Let’s go.’
Finn ordered wine, and Moss was surprised to see that he tasted it and allowed the waiter to fill his glass.
‘Special occasion, Moss. I’m not an alcoholic. I just choose not to drink most of the time. But with a good meal and good company . . .’
They touched glasses. The restaurant was in the old assay building, and the renovators had kept the mosaic floor tiles, the intricate timber panelling and Art Nouveau stained glass. A fire was burning in the grate and individual lamps cast a glow on fine glasses and silver.
Moss was impressed. ‘What a wonderful place, Finn.’ She was even more impressed by the ease with which her father ordered. Clearly, he’d been used to this at some time in his life.
Finn’s response to his surroundings came from the subliminal impulse of memory. He didn’t stop to think about how he should act, and his natural courtesy gave him a dignity that charmed his daughter. As they waited for their soup, he lifted his glass again.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘happy birthday, Moss.’
‘It’s not . . .’ Moss began.
‘I know,’ her father said gently. ‘But I’ve missed so many; you’ll have to allow me this one.’
Moss grinned to cover her emotion. ‘As long as I don’t have to age another year.’
Finn reddened and fished in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a present. For your birthday.’ He looked on apprehensively as Moss fumbled with the now awkwardly tied parcel. ‘I hope you like it.’
Moss was embarrassed and took longer than necessary to unwrap the gift. Presents always made her feel uncomfortable, and a gift from the undemonstrative Finn would take them a step further in their relationship. She finally opened the box and took out the pendant, which caught the light of the table lamp. Her eyes widened. It was exquisite.
‘Finn, you shouldn’t have . . .’ She saw the disappointment in his eyes. ‘But it’s wonderful. Beautiful. Truly, I love it.’ She took off the silver chain she was wearing and clasped the pendant around her neck. ‘There. What do you think?’
The old charm surfaced as Finn smiled at his daughter. ‘You look like a princess,’ he said.
As the meal progressed, Finn ventured a question about her plans. ‘Did you catch up with your course supervisor?’
‘I’ve got till February to decide,’ Moss replied shortly.
‘I’m sorry, Moss. I didn’t mean to pry.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s Linsey, Finn. I know I should continue for her sake as well as my own, but I feel so bad about the way I treated her and—I don’t know . . . I went to the memorial wall and . . . She asked for me to sing, you know? That’s a good sign, don’t you think?’ She looked at her father hopefully.
Finn was appalled to see her tears. This outing was supposed to cheer her up. He searched his mind for things to say: wise, compassionate things that would smooth the tension from her face and, most of all, stop her from crying. But he’d always been at a loss when women cried.
‘I’m sure you’ll get back to your singing,’ he said, ignoring her last question. ‘Let’s talk about something more cheerful. You’ll never guess what Sandy’s been up to.’
Moss sighed and brushed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me we’re getting a giant cockatoo as well!’