Book of Lost Threads

21
Jilly Baker and Mr Pie

SENIOR SERGEANT GRAHAM PATTERSON WAS annoyed, uncharacteristically slamming his office door behind him as he left at the end of his shift. The commissioner hated bad publicity, and here he was, accused of missing vital evidence in a case in which he knew he’d followed every lead and obeyed every protocol. The file had been sent upstairs and now the system was going into damage control. Patterson was mortified to be second-guessed by his fellow officers. However, beyond his mortification, he felt some excitement. Amber-Lee’s death had been the first case of its type he’d investigated as the officer in charge. He’d given the girl—Fern, was it? No, Moss. He’d given Moss as much help as he could because he wanted the case closed, and this new piece of evidence could well provide the key. So he was waiting impatiently for Forensics to report on their findings. Meanwhile he had to deal with the fall-out from the press.
As he pulled out of the car park, he turned on the radio. The deputy commissioner would be interviewed in a few minutes. She was the consummate political animal, and Senior Sergeant Patterson had no great hopes of support from that direction.
He listened grimly as the interviewer began. ‘Good morning, Deputy Commissioner. You’re a busy person so we’ll cut to the chase. I presume you’re aware of the new evidence in the case of the accident victim known as Amber-Lee. What action are you taking now the photograph has come to light?’
‘Good morning, Peter. I’m sure your listeners will be pleased to know that Forensics is working on the photograph now in an attempt to identify when and where it was taken. You must remember, though, we only have Brenda Lefroy’s word that it did belong to Amber-Lee and that it was, in fact, a photo of her family.’
‘Of course, time will tell. But what about Graham Patterson, the officer in charge of the case—has he been reprimanded?’
‘Hold on, Peter. We’re looking at the files and in due course we’ll make a decision regarding the thoroughness of the original investigation. Senior Sergeant Patterson is a respected officer and must be given the benefit of the doubt until we learn otherwise.’
Graham Patterson was surprised by but grateful for this qualified support, and as the interview moved on to budget allocation for new police vehicles he switched over to a music station. He was heading for home, but on a sudden whim he pulled into the car park of the forensics laboratory. He went to reception, showed his ID, and followed directions to Lab 4 where he found his friend, Clara Thomasetti, hard at work.
‘The photo?’ she said. ‘That was easy. I’ve already sent out the report. You know how they’re hurried through when the press get their teeth into a story.’
‘So what did you find?’
‘It was common photographic paper for the time. Used all over by Kodak. The photo was developed around ’83, ’84, we reckon, which would fit with her estimated age. So would the clothes and hairstyles, according to our expert.’ She looked at him with sympathy. ‘Anyway, how are you? It must be a tough time right now.’
He shrugged. ‘Comes with the territory. I heard the deputy commissioner on the radio. She was okay. But to be honest, I’m just interested in what else you found out from the photo.’
‘There are two young girls in the photo. That Brenda person didn’t know which one was Amber-Lee, 282 but one of them is looking at the dog as though she owns it. Only a guess, but I reckon the other one’s our girl. She told Brenda that the dog was her cousin’s, remember?’
‘Yes, Mr Pie. Brenda said she thought the snapshot was taken somewhere in England . . .’
‘Easy, that one. Blackpool Pier. She either lived nearby or was there on holiday.’
‘If only I’d had that photo ten years ago.’
Clara squeezed his arm. ‘If Brenda didn’t want to give it to you, what could you have done?’
‘I could’ve leaned on her more, maybe. But she was a terrible mess after the beating. Not very professional, but I felt sorry for her.’
‘You did what you could with what you had. The word is they’re handing this new investigation back to you. Someone up there likes you, mate.’ She stood up and gestured at the bench in front of her. ‘I’d better get back to work. We’ll have to catch up for a drink. It’s been too long.’
Graham thanked her and left. If only it were true that he was to be given a fresh opportunity with this case . . . He found himself humming as he backed out of the car park, negotiating the peak-hour traffic with a lighter heart.
A few nights later, he received a phone call from Blackpool, England.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Are you the person I have to speak to about a girl who was killed in a car accident? Amber-Lee? There was a photo shown on TV here yesterday. I’ve got one just the same.’
Finn boarded the bus and sat gazing out the window at the ti-tree that hid the sea from view. Its dull grey-green was soothing in a way; he’d left the monastery knowing that it was the last time he’d see Father Boniface, and the colour matched his sombre mood. He pushed away thoughts of what might be waiting for him in Opportunity, and concentrated on the countryside and small towns as they flashed by. He realised that he could have ended up in any one of these towns: Sickle Bay, Seal Point where the surfers hung out, or, as the bus turned inland, Tarneesh, Currawong or even Mystic. But he’d chosen Opportunity, for better or for worse. Recalling his house, the sleepy main street, the old pub, and his friends, Mrs Pargetter and Sandy, he was inclined to think it was for the better. Would Moss have found him in another town? Probably, but he liked to think of the town’s name as a talisman. He’d chosen it for its name; he liked to think that names have power, and whatever had befallen Opportunity in recent years, it was still battling along somehow. The motion of the bus and the monotony of the countryside finally sent him into a half-slumber, and his mind rambled through forests of ti-tree until he finally fell into a dreamless sleep.
He awoke to see that the road unspooling before them had darkened and the shadows lengthened. As the bus sped on, the sun’s last rays randomly painted the embankment with a brief fiery palette, and the new gum tips glowed red in the slanting light. Leaning into the window, Finn felt a sense of place, of homecoming.
They were approaching Mystic, and Finn observed that the Lions and Rotary clubs were happy to welcome him to a town with a population of 3500. Most of the passengers alighted here. Finn shrank back in his seat as Helen Porter clambered untidily onto the bus, carrying two overflowing shopping bags. Don’t let her see me, Finn prayed, but she looked up and smiled as she approached, and he was forced to assist her to stow her bags. Why didn’t I bring a book or a newspaper? he thought as she settled beside him and commented on the weather.
He answered in a monosyllable, and she looked at him sharply. ‘Are you okay? We heard you left town.’
‘Embarrassed—TV show,’ Finn mumbled.
‘That may be, but you had us all worried. No-one takes that program seriously. Well, some do,’ she added dryly, ‘but they don’t have a very long concentration span.’
Finn nodded his gratitude, and Helen tactfully took out a magazine, allowing him to once again follow his own thoughts. As the bus approached Opportunity, he retrieved Helen’s bags and carried them the short distance to her house.
‘Thanks, Finn.’ She grasped his arm. ‘Look, the gossip will flare up for a bit now you’re back, but ride it out. This is your home.’
As he turned the corner into his street, he saw that Sandy’s car was parked outside his aunt’s place. He hoped Moss was there too. It was better to get it over all at once. Steeling himself, he knocked on the door to be greeted by Errol’s bark and the sound of his paws skittering down the passageway. The door opened, and in a moment he found himself swept inside and seated in the familiar kitchen. Moss was there, looking apprehensive.
‘Finn, I’m so sorry,’ she wailed, flinging herself at him.
He was startled by the intensity of her emotion and patted her ineffectually, murmuring, ‘It’s okay, Moss. It’s okay.’ She continued to sob until, holding her at arm’s length, he gripped her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. ‘Listen. It really is okay. In one way, it’s a weight off my mind and—who knows?—it might lead us to Amber-Lee’s family.’
Sandy couldn’t contain himself. ‘It has, Finn,’ he chortled. ‘Moss has heard from the police. A woman contacted them from England. She’s the other girl in the photo. She had a dog called Mr Pie. Remember? That’s what Brenda told the TV people: that Amber-Lee said Mr Pie was a stupid name for a dog.’