Book of Lost Threads

18
Moss, Brenda and Sir Donald Bradman

TWO WEEKS AFTER MOSS AND Hamish met with Georgia, she rang Moss with welcome news. ‘Damara can help you, but you’ll need to buy her time,’ she said, and giving Moss the phone number, wished her luck. Moss could hardly wait for Georgia to finish. She hung up and called Damara straightaway.
‘Damara? My name is Miranda Sinclair. Georgia has spoken to you about me?’
The voice on the other end was cautious. ‘Yeah. I might be able to help, but it’ll cost you. I’ll need some money for expenses and loss of earnings.’
‘Georgia told me that. How much for an hour of your time?’
‘A hundred dollars. More if I’ve got the information you want. And you’ll have to throw in a nice lunch.’
Moss asked Hamish to come along, and he was more than happy to desert his studies. ‘Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything rash,’ he added. He wondered briefly how well she had thought through this quest. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see her when he picked her up from the station in his old Commodore.
‘Let’s get moving,’ she said. Hamish drove in his usual careful manner while Moss fretted. ‘You could have made that green light,’ she said impatiently, more than once. ‘You could overtake that truck.’
‘Plenty of time,’ Hamish responded curtly. ‘You can always catch the tram if you don’t like my driving.’
They arrived early at the small Greek restaurant that Damara had named, and looked curiously around at the other diners, in case she had already arrived.
‘I told her I’d be wearing a black jumper with an emerald-green scarf.’ Moss was rather enjoying the cloak-and-dagger aspect of their task. ‘She’ll be wearing a purple top.’
‘And the password is “The bird of night roosts in the banana palm”,’ Hamish muttered from the side of his mouth.
Moss giggled. ‘What an incredibly good guess! I . . . oh, this must be her.’
Damara sat down in the chair Hamish pulled out, and took off her sunglasses. Her dark brown eyes and olive skin indicated Mediterranean ancestry, and Moss and Hamish looked in awe at her pink mohawk, wondering why on earth she thought she’d needed to mention she’d be wearing a purple top. She met their astonished gaze with an ironic quirk of the eyebrow. She was clearly no fool.
‘I met Brenda just after the accident,’ she said, tucking into her calamari. ‘We both worked for Vince. What a f*cking bastard he was. He’d beaten Brenda up real bad and she couldn’t work for weeks. Broke her jaw. I had to take her in. He nicked all her money and the other girl’s too.’
‘Amber-Lee’s?’
‘Yeah. He wanted Brenda to tell him where Amber-Lee hid her stash, but she swore she didn’t know. She wasn’t going to mess about with Vince, so she gave him a box from under the poor bitch’s mattress and he found her money in it. But he just wouldn’t believe there was no stash. So, as I said, he beat her up real bad.’ Damara spoke dispassionately, as though she were describing a business transaction, spearing the calamari rings to make her point.
Hamish watched her with narrowed eyes. She was betrayed only by a slight tremor in the hand holding her glass.
‘Did you keep in touch with Brenda?’ Moss asked without much hope.
‘Yeah, I did for a while. We went to Adelaide and worked together for nearly three years, then she met a bloke and they got married. He knew she was on the game, and he didn’t want her mixing with her old friends, so we sort of lost touch. Last I heard she had a couple of kids.’
‘Did she stay in Adelaide?’ Hamish asked.
‘Far as I know.’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘Nuh. Haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘What was her married name?’ Moss asked.
Damara had already told them more than she’d meant to, and recollected herself in time. ‘That sort of information doesn’t come cheap.’
‘How much?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Five hundred.’
Hamish put a warning hand on Moss’s knee. This was where he could be useful. ‘One fifty. That’s more than fair.’
Threads ‘Three hundred.’
‘Two fifty. Final offer,’ said Hamish, preparing to stand up. ‘Take it or leave it.’
Moss held her breath. She would have been happy to pay the five hundred.
‘Okay. Two fifty.’ Damara waited while Moss counted out five fifty-dollar bills. ‘She married a man called Ivan Lefroy— don’t ask me how to spell it.’ Picking up the half-empty bottle of wine, she pushed back her chair, a warning in her dark eyes. ‘I hope you’re not going to give her any grief. We used to look out for each other.’
The other diners looked on with interest as she swaggered out of the restaurant. What on earth are those two nice young people doing with someone like that? I’m sure I saw them give her money. Buying cocaine or ecstasy, maybe? And the remainder of their meal was piquant with the sauce of speculation.
‘Lefroy,’ said Moss as they drove away. ‘There can’t be many Lefroys in Adelaide. How would you spell it?’
‘L-e-–f-r-o-–y? Or it could be two words, L-e F-r-o-–y.’
‘Or “i” instead of “y”. No, probably not.’
‘She mightn’t have changed her name. Or she could be divorced. What was her maiden name again?’
‘Watson. There’d be a few more of those.’
As soon as they returned to Moss’s house, they went online and searched the telephone directory.
‘Adelaide has three Lefroys and one Le Froy,’ said Moss. ‘Let’s see: there’s one I. Lefroy. And a B. What do you think?’
‘Write them all down,’ said Hamish. ‘And Moss, let’s think this through before we go making the calls.’ He could see her excitement at their success so far was in danger of propelling them into precipitate action. ‘We don’t want to scare her off.’
Moss nodded impatiently. Hamish was always so cautious. She was aware that she often acted impetuously, but surely here her impatience was understandable. Acutely conscious of the fact that she had left reconciliation with Linsey too late, she was desperate to settle the matter of Amber-Lee. She delicately scrolled her fingers around the little gold treble clef. So much thought had gone into her father’s gift. Well, she decided, she wouldn’t let him down.
Hamish helped her to plan what she would say. They decided to contact I. Lefroy first. He turned out to be an elderly man called Ian. He told them that he did have a younger cousin called Ivan who may have married a Brenda, but they’d lost touch years ago.
‘There were rumours that she was a working girl.’ He sniggered. ‘Just like Ivan to do something like that. I heard he dumped her soon after they moved to Christies Beach. Not sure where he went. Took the kids, as far as I know. Anyway, my wife wouldn’t have anything to do with them, so I didn’t either. Suited me fine.’
‘Let’s hope “B” is for Brenda,’ Hamish said as Moss dialled the next number.
The voice that answered was thick with smoke. ‘Brenda here.’ The woman gave a chesty cough.
Moss began her prepared spiel but Brenda cut her off. ‘Yeah, Damara told me you might ring.’
So Damara had been in touch with Brenda all along, Moss thought crossly. ‘Are you willing to talk to us?’
‘Two hundred an hour,’ she said promptly, clearly having been schooled by Damara. ‘And a nice meal.’ Easiest money ever, Brenda thought, reaching for the cigarette packet that was never far out of reach. She absentmindedly stroked her jaw. It still ached in a cold wind. She remembered the day she first saw the inexperienced Amber-Lee working the streets. Not a bad-looking kid. Very young, though. She looked like a schoolgirl in spite of the heavy makeup. Brenda still had a heart in those days, and she almost advised the girl to cut her losses and go to the Ward Street Shelter. But Vince had sent her to recruit this newcomer, so what could she do? The more girls Vince had, the less likely he was to pay her special attention. At least, that’s what she’d thought then. She drew on her cigarette and mused on their separate fates. Sometimes she wondered whether Amber-Lee was better off where she was.
Moss ended the call after making a time and date to meet in Adelaide. ‘Will you have time to come with me, Hamish?’
Hamish once again felt the burden of the responsibility he had taken on. Moss was becoming increasingly reliant on him. He could try to back out, plead study commitments. But when Moss had her heart set on something, he found her hard to resist. Besides, he rather liked the way she relied on him for advice. Companionship too, he hoped. He was confident that she enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed hers. He shrugged his shoulders and accepted the inevitable. ‘Okay, Moss. As long as it’s no more than two or three days.’
‘You’re a star, Hamish. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Hamish and Moss arrived in Adelaide two days later. ‘I’ve booked us into the Grosvenor,’ Moss said as they boarded the airport bus. ‘We have adjoining rooms.’
Hamish felt a stab of rejection. He’d expected them to share a room. There was no particular reason for this expectation other than his wish that it were so. He and Moss had been getting on so well and he thought that this trip might be the catalyst that would move them to the next level. Still, he reminded himself, the rooms were adjoining . . .
After dinner, they stopped in the corridor outside Moss’s door. It’s now or never, thought Hamish as he leaned forward to kiss her lips. To his chagrin, he found himself offered her cheek.
‘See you in the morning, Hamish,’ she said, returning his kiss with a comradely peck. ‘Remember we’re meeting Brenda at twelve thirty.’ She looked at him gratefully. ‘You really are a mate, Hamish.’
Not quite in the sense I’d hoped, Hamish thought peevishly as he unlocked his door. A mate! It wasn’t much fun being Mr Nice Guy. Did he have a sign on him saying, Buddy/Mate/Pal ? A sign that only women could read? He glared at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth with unusual vigour. Women always called on him when they needed something—a tap washer repaired, a partner for a special occasion, a shoulder to cry on after a break-up . . . He was everyone’s ideal friend, and apparently nobody’s ideal lover. He went to bed feeling very badly done by.


Brenda was a full head taller than Moss, with spiky red hair and a pale, pinched face. She was nervous and twitchy, her restless hands moving the pepper mill, the cutlery, her water glass; twisting her bracelet, smoothing her sleeves and folding and refolding her napkin until Hamish felt quite dizzy.
Moss came straight to the point. ‘As you know, we need information, anything you know about a girl called Amber-Lee.’
‘I told the police all I knew at the time,’ replied Brenda, eyes narrowing. ‘But I might have something you’d be interested in. What would you say to a photograph of Amber-Lee’s family?’
Moss leaned forward, eyes gleaming. ‘Go on.’
I hope Moss never plays poker, Hamish thought. He was in a more sanguine mood this morning.
The other woman saw she had the upper hand. ‘I told Vince—he was her pimp—I told him where she hid her things, and he just tipped everything onto the bed. He took the money and left the other bits and pieces. He wanted her stash, but I didn’t know where it was. He beat me up real bad, the f*cking bastard. I’d of told him if I knew. Anyway, I don’t know why, but when he left, I took the photo and stuffed it in my bra. That was just before the police arrived, so they didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Why didn’t you give it to the police?’ asked Moss.
‘Why should I help them? Anyway, if I told them I had that, they would’ve thought I took her other stuff.’
‘And did you?’ Hamish felt the need to assert some authority.
‘You a cop or something?’ Brenda scowled. ‘If you must know, all I got was a couple of f*cking T-shirts and a poxy dress.’
‘The photo,’ Moss persisted. ‘Do you still have the photo?’
‘Yeah. As a matter of fact I do. Thought I might take it back some day or something. Then Damara said they might charge me—withholding evidence or obstructing the course of justice . . .’ Her exaggerated vowels mocked all poncy lawyers.
‘I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t do that,’ said Hamish.
‘You a lawyer? I don’t want to do anything till I’m sure I won’t be charged. I’ll deny it all. I’m not even sure I know where the f*cking photo is now. It was a long time ago.’ She sat back, gauging their reaction.
Moss chose not to believe her. That photo was still in Brenda’s possession. She wanted to see it for herself and also wanted to ensure that it ended up in the hands of the police. Her aim, after all, was to discover the dead girl’s identity. She had a sudden thought. ‘What if I got you some legal advice? Would you hand it over then?’
Brenda couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Sure,’ she said casually. ‘But first we need to talk money. Information doesn’t come cheap.’
As they made their way back to the hotel, Moss was almost dancing with excitement. ‘We’re so close,’ she crowed, giving Hamish a hug. ‘Let’s find ourselves a lawyer.’
Hamish returned the hug, but his thoughts were troubled. He didn’t trust Brenda one bit.
Moss’s cousin Cal was a solicitor and recommended them to a Petra Gould. ‘I’ll give her a buzz and see if we can expedite matters,’ he said.
Hamish had to return to Melbourne for a meeting with his supervisor, but Moss stayed on. She had arranged to pick Brenda up in a taxi to ensure that she kept her appointment, and having some time to spare, wandered vaguely around the city. She was so desperate to keep occupied that she even went to the Bradman Museum, despite the fact that cricket had always been a mystery to her. Linsey had loved cricket. It was the only sport she had any interest in at all. Such a precise sport, she used to say. It’s so tactical. ‘Physical chess,’ she’d called it. Moss looked at the photograph of the Invincibles, read about the infamous Bodyline series, and compared photographs of the dapper old gentleman Bradman had become with that of a fit young sportsman, signing a cricket bat for a fan.
There was an elegiac mood to the museum. Bradman and his teammates, most of them dead now, were remembered and honoured for the part they’d played in the nation’s history. More than just sporting history, she learned; they gave Australians hope and pride during the long, hard Depression years.
But who would remember Linsey? When would her name be spoken for the last time? There would be no museum or newspaper cuttings or films to honour her life, yet she had lived honourably. In the midst of these thoughts, Moss began to see her situation with a clarity she had never before achieved. She had been focusing on herself, on her own pain and guilt. She must now focus on Linsey. She silently thanked the museum trustees. I think I know what to do now.
After Petra confirmed she’d met with Brenda, Moss returned to Melbourne where she was even more restless. Brenda had been reluctant to hand over the photograph immediately, saying she needed to give it to the police first. So Petra Gould agreed to hold Moss’s payment to Brenda until she was assured that Brenda had carried out her part of the bargain.
Moss was beginning to regret not staying in Adelaide but was somewhat distracted by her new project.
‘Come over for a meal,’ she begged Hamish. ‘I’m going crazy waiting for Petra to call. We can talk about a new idea I have.’
Hamish groaned. ‘Let’s get idea one out of the way first. And Moss, I still don’t trust that Brenda.’
In the event, Hamish’s doubts were well-founded. 254 Two days after Brenda met with the solicitor, Moss received a phone call. It must be Petra, she thought, snatching up her handbag and scrabbling eagerly for her phone.
‘I’m ringing on behalf of Scott Macleod from Across the Nation, Channel 8,’ purred the disembodied voice. ‘We would like to interview you for a story about a young woman called Amber-Lee who was killed in a car accident. We believe we have a clue as to her identity, and our source has given us your name.’
Moss felt her body liquefy. She could barely stand up, let alone speak. ‘I have no comment,’ she said faintly.
‘Well, could you tell us the whereabouts of a Mr Michael Finbar Clancy? We’d like to give him the opportunity to tell his side of the story.’
‘No comment.’ Moss was so distraught that she failed to hang up straightaway. What on earth had she done? Finn was such a private man, so fragile in his guilt. And she’d delivered him up to the press. Holding the phone at arm’s length, she looked at it with revulsion. At that moment it seemed like a living thing, oozing black bile. With shaking fingers, she finally hung up. When the phone rang again seconds later, she flung it across the room, where it continued to ring every few minutes.
When Hamish arrived, he found her pacing the length of the carpet, grinding her heel into the floor with each turn. Her story came out in short, disconnected spurts; she actually tore at her hair, and he had to capture her hands and hold them still.
‘Listen to me, Moss. Listen. You did what you thought was right. You were dealing with people who don’t play by the rules. You expected them to act as you would in similar circumstances.’ She tried to move away, but he continued to grip her hands. ‘You must calm down. We have to warn your father. They’ll find him easily enough. You did.’
Moss nodded dumbly and picked up the phone. She hoped it wasn’t too late.
When he’d finally taken in the gist of Moss’s frantic call, Finn stood frozen in the middle of the room. He had told his daughter his secret and she’d interfered, with appalling consequences. His mind was refusing to function and he struggled for something to say. Finally he croaked, ‘Thank you for warning me,’ and replaced the receiver, then simply stood, waiting for something to happen. He was almost indifferent as to what it might be, so long as it didn’t require any action on his part. Then, dimly aware of a banging on his door, he moved towards it with something like relief. They were here. He might as well get it over with.
He opened the door to find Sandy, breathing stertorously in the night air.
‘Finn! Grab a toothbrush and come to Aunt Lily’s. Quickly.’ Sandy pushed Finn into the bathroom and began packing a toilet bag. ‘Socks and jocks,’ he muttered, moving into the bedroom. ‘A couple of T-shirts. Grab a jumper. Hurry up! Here—out the back way.’
Before he knew it, Finn was sitting in Mrs Pargetter’s kitchen, where the old lady was twisting her apron in distress.
‘Moss called,’ she explained. ‘She was worried about you. We all are.’
‘We need to get you away,’ added Sandy. ‘What about your mother? Could you go there? Or to Moss’s mother’s place?’
Finn continued to stare in disbelief. His mind seemed to be several steps behind the conversation. ‘You know about Amber-Lee?’ ‘Moss had to tell us, Finn,’ replied Sandy. ‘You’re a mate and we’re not going to let them find you.’
‘Those wicked people, bringing it all up now. Well and good if they can find the girl’s family, but why should you be dragged through the mill?’ Mrs Pargetter’s teeth clacked in indignation. ‘We’re here for you, Finn.’
Finn was moved by their loyalty, and squirmed with shame. Shame for his past and shame that he’d hidden it from such good and open people. They offered me friendship, he thought miserably, and this is how I repaid them. He couldn’t bear to look them in the eye a moment longer. He wasn’t the man they’d believed him to be, and it was best that he get away. He knew this, but somehow couldn’t translate thought into action.
There was urgency in Sandy’s voice. ‘Finn, concentrate! We have to get away before they come. I’ve got the car. Where can you go?’
‘I know a place,’ said Finn suddenly. ‘Can you take me there, Sandy?’
Moss returned to Opportunity in time to watch the program with Mrs Pargetter and Sandy. Hamish had put up at the pub, and he joined them as they switched on the TV, good-–naturedly fielding Mrs Pargetter’s sly questions about Moss.
‘We’re just friends, Mrs Pargetter,’ he said, to her evident disappointment, and settled down on the floor while the other three crowded onto the couch.
‘Shh. It’s starting,’ said Moss.
‘Across the Nation, with Scott Macleod.’
‘Bastard,’ muttered Sandy. ‘Sorry, Aunt Lily.’
Scott Macleod’s pleasant young face beamed from the screen. ‘Good evening and welcome to Across the Nation. Tonight’s stories include the plumber from hell and why diet pills don’t work. But first, Lisa Morgan with another of our series of reports on unsolved mysteries of Melbourne. This time we bring you the tragic story of an unidentified young woman who died in a car accident just over ten years ago. Tonight we reveal a new clue to her identity, but we must ask once again: is this another example of police incompetence and cover-ups? Do our law enforcers show equal concern for all members of our society? Does an Oxford degree put you above the law? Lisa speaks to someone who was there when a young prostitute died on our streets.’ The footage cut to a pretty blonde woman standing on a street corner.
‘Thank you, Scott. Well, I’m standing within a few metres of where a young girl, known only as Amber-Lee, met her tragic end. It was here, on a warm night in March 1996, that Amber-Lee, a young prostitute, went for a hamburger with her friend, Brenda Watson. It was here that she ran out onto the road, when a car came around the corner and threw her into the path of an oncoming truck. Her true identity was never uncovered, but all these years later, Brenda Watson, now Brenda Lefroy, has come forward with a photograph that may well be the clue the police missed.’ Cut to Brenda smirking at a square of paper. ‘Brenda, tell us about the photo.’
‘Well, I was, like, her friend, and when she died, I kept the photo as a sort of keepsake. It shows her family at the beach somewhere. England, I think. She reckoned she was English.’ Cut to close-up of photo.
‘Did she tell you about her family?’
‘Not really. Only that the dog was called Mr Pie. She thought it was a stupid name for a dog.’ For effect Brenda tossed back her hair, which had been cut and coloured especially for her TV appearance. (The appearance payment allowed her to splurge a little.)
Lisa affected a frown. ‘So why didn’t you give this to the police at the time? It may have helped them identify this poor girl.’
‘I was beaten up by my pimp. He wanted her money. The photo was the only thing I could save. I was really out of it for a while, and by the time I was feeling better, I was too scared to go back to the police. I was, like, only young at the time.’ Cut to a photo of a young Brenda, surely taken when she was still at school. (The current Brenda took on a tragic air. She thought it suited her.)
‘Well, that’s all we have, but maybe there is someone out there who recognises the photo, and we can help a family find closure. Back to you, Scott.’ One lingering shot of the photograph, and then a cut to Scott in the studio.
‘Thank you, Lisa, and thank you to Brenda for coming forward. In the interest of balance, we asked for an interview with the officer in charge of the case, without success. We’ve been given an official statement that the lead would be followed up once they have the photograph, which a courier is delivering as we speak.’ (Pause to emphasise the program’s integrity.) ‘The question remains, however. Why wasn’t this case investigated fully at the time? Why wasn’t the car’s driver charged? We have a filmed interview with a witness who says that the driver was speeding.’
Cut to an elderly man, blinking into the camera. ‘He was going a bit fast, I suppose,’ the man said doubtfully.
Scott oozed virtuous outrage. ‘We wanted to allow the driver, former Oxford Fellow Michael Finbar Clancy of Opportunity, to answer these serious allegations, but he bolted before we could speak to him.’ Cut to reporter and camera crew knocking on Finn’s door. ‘The neighbours were less than helpful.’ Cut to Sandy pushing away the camera. ‘Let’s hope that if this photograph is recognised, the family will demand a full investigation.
‘We’ll return after the break with the rogue plumber who preys on the vulnerable.’
The producer was happy. ‘Not a bad filler for a slow news week. We can milk it some more if the rellies turn up.’


‘I can’t believe it,’ said Sandy. ‘They managed to insinuate that Finn was to blame. I wish I’d beaten the shit out of them. Sorry, Aunt Lily.’
‘I wish you’d beaten the shit out of them, if you’ll pardon my French,’ said the old lady grimly. ‘They’re vultures, that’s what they are.’
Moss sat in appalled silence. She knew that Finn already blamed himself, although Channel 8 wouldn’t know this. And poor Senior Sergeant Patterson. He’d simply tried to help her, and now they were accusing him of dereliction of duty. She’d made a complete mess of things and could think of no solution.
‘Finn and I were getting along so well, and now he’ll hate me,’ she said miserably.
‘Not true, Moss,’ said Sandy. ‘He knows you were just trying to help. He particularly asked us to look after you.’
‘And so we shall,’ confirmed Mrs Pargetter stoutly. ‘We’re all family, here in Opportunity.’
Hamish hugged Moss sympathetically. ‘I have to go now. Take care,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’
The young man returned to the hotel. He couldn’t help but smile at Mrs Pargetter’s obvious interest in what she thought was a budding romance. She was wrong, but surprisingly that was okay. Despite his disappointment at the hotel in Adelaide, he realised that when he thought of Moss now it was with affection and concern, not passion. We’ve been mates for too long to be lovers, he decided with surprisingly little regret.