Blood Junction Read online

  “I wish I recognized his voice,” said Mikey. “He says he knows me but I don’t know who the hell he is.”

  “Who’s Sam?” asked Polly around a mouthful of turkey and honey-mustard marinade.

  “A friend,” said India.

  Mikey had barbecued some leftover turkey and corn on the cob, and she’d eaten so much her stomach felt like a bowling ball. India found it hard to believe it was Boxing Day. Even harder was the sensation of peace and contentment. It may have been one of the most unorthodox Christmases she had ever experienced, but it was also unique. It was the first one she’d spent not being pressured to be someone she wasn’t.

  “You like India, don’t you?” said Polly to Mikey after a while.

  He raised his head to stare into the sky. India found herself holding her breath.

  “Not always,” he said finally.

  “Me neither,” agreed Polly.

  India startled them by giving a bark of laughter. “Thanks, guys!”

  Scotto rang as they were washing up. He was so excited he could barely speak.

  “I’ve found some notes of Lauren’s,” he said, “at her mother’s. She was drafting an article. It’s explosive stuff, Indi. Unbelievable. She hasn’t anything to substantiate her story, but if it’s true we’ve got to do something about it.”

  “God, that’s great! Send it up!”

  “No. No, I’m not trusting anyone with it …”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Some pretty wild stuff about the Karamyde Cosmetic Research Institute. I think we should meet. Go over the stuff and form a game plan.” He paused a second. “Can you come to Sydney?”

  India didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I can get a lift with Mikey.” She looked across at him, eyebrows raised. He nodded.

  “We’ll be there Thursday. How about lunch?”

  “Let’s make it Friday,” Scotto said. “We can celebrate New Year’s Eve at the same time. And while you’re here, you’ve got to see Geraldine Child. Remember I mentioned her before? The doctor Lauren saw before she left for Cooinda? It’s important.”

  India took down Dr. Child’s details again.

  “Where shall we meet?” she asked.

  “You still like oysters?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Broken your record yet?”

  “No,” she laughed. “It still stands at just two dozen.”

  “How about you go for broke and make it three? My shout. Sydney Cove Oyster Bar, one o’clock, Friday.”

  She hung up, and told Mikey about Lauren’s article. “She was obviously close to breaking the story, but she needed evidence. Which is why she went to meet Peter Ross and Tiger.”

  Mikey was nodding. “She wanted that disc.”

  While India packed, Polly sat on the divan. She was wearing a new dress the color of saffron and had India’s miniature teddy bear propped on her knees. She was gazing, downcast, at the backpack. “When will you be back?”

  Not knowing how to respond, India pretended she hadn’t heard. “I’ll send you a postcard. Several in fact. Shall I mail them here?”

  The smile she received made her feel even more guilty, and to compensate India knelt down to hug Polly. “I’ll miss you,” she said, and pressed a kiss on the girl’s hair, which smelled of smoke and something that she couldn’t identify. India took in some air over the back of her tongue, and breathed out, but she still couldn’t identify it.

  When they left for Rick Sullivan’s airstrip the next morning Polly stood in the middle of the street, still in her saffron dress, watching them go. She clutched the little bear in both hands.

  The pilot lit a cigarette and offered the pack around.

  Ignoring Mikey’s look of disapproval—which he tried to hide but she caught—India dragged deeply on the untipped Camel cigarette and exhaled, watching the thin stream of smoke being sucked through a hairline crack in the rubber lining by the window. Her head spiralled pleasantly with nicotine and she smiled as something clicked into place inside her head.

  Nutmeg. Polly smelled of nutmeg.

  The heat in Sydney was incredible. It was heavy as a wet woollen blanket, suffocating India. Hanging over the city was a haze of pollution the color of tobacco. The air-conditioning in their rental Ford was going full blast, but they were both sweating in spite of it.

  If it hadn’t been for Lauren’s murder, she’d never have returned to Sydney. India stared at the city skyline, amazed at how much it had changed, how it was changing. Millennium fever, she supposed, as well as Sydney’s hosting the 2000 Olympics later in the year. She could feel the fever of transformation in the cranes leaning against the sky, the foundations being built in massive holes, the glittering new office blocks and freshly planted parks and gardens. She found herself smiling, glad she was here—that Sydney still sparkled and danced like a professional performer never tiring of her audience.

  “For goodness’ sake, woman, concentrate,” snapped Mikey. “We’re meant to be heading north, not south. Don’t you possess a sense of direction?”

  “I’m sure Kent Street will get us on the Harbour Bridge,” she insisted.

  “It would if we were going the right way.”

  “Right, that’s it.” India leaned over and grabbed the steering wheel, and heaved the car to the side of the road. “I’m driving.”

  He sat there looking perplexed.

  “If I haven’t a sense of direction,” she said reasonably, “then it’s only sensible you map read.”

  They crossed the Harbour Bridge. India craned her neck briefly to glance through the windscreen and up at what was known as the coat hanger. In two days’ time the bridge would be ablaze with lights and fireworks to celebrate the new millennium. The harbor would be filled with anything that floated: booze cruisers, dinghies and the smallest skiffs. It would be the biggest party Sydney had ever thrown, and India felt a trickle of excitement at joining in.

  “What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” she asked Mikey.

  “Taking you and an Eski of champagne to the Cahill Expressway,” he replied.

  “We’ll be run over!”

  “Didn’t you read the road sign back there?”

  “What road sign?”

  “The one that said they’re closing it for New Year’s Eve.”

  She took the Neutral Bay exit from the freeway and halted at a set of traffic lights.

  “I’m going to stop at a bank,” she said. “I need an injection of cash for DJ’s food hall. We’ll need some sort of sustenance with all that champagne.”

  She pulled over outside an ANZ on Military Road and Mikey slid across and drove around the block while she withdrew the maximum amount available. Five hundred and forty bucks. That should see her through the weekend and well beyond.

  They headed east down the busy arterial Military Highway, thick with exhaust fumes and heavy three-lane traffic towards Mosman. Before their meetings with Sam and Scotto, they needed to follow up the photo that Elizabeth Ross had given India. Ten minutes later they dropped into a lush tree-bordered avenue lined with houses. The houses on either side were three or four storeys high and draped in hibiscus and bougainvillaea. Tall gum and palm trees stood in the gardens. Some houses had wrought-iron balconies and gates, others stained or painted wood, but they were all old, affluent-looking and splendid. Porsches and Mercedes were parked in broad open driveways and rosellas flashed from tree to tree, chattering madly. Little triangles of white sailed across the harbor, glittering silver in the distance.

  “Wow,” said India after a few minutes.

  “No shit,” said Mikey. “It’s beautiful.”

  Erskin School blended into its surroundings perfectly. Sandstone walls gleamed like honey in the sun and a long lawn, perfectly mown, stretched to immaculate grass tennis courts and an Olympic-size pool. India drove up to the main steps, flanked by twin stone lions, and stopped the car. She pulled out Elizabeth’s photograph and studied it. “I wonder if John Buchanan-Atkins is st
ill here?”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Mikey.

  She pocketed the photograph and climbed out of the car. She could smell fresh grass and hear the rhythmic tick of a sprinkler system.

  “I wish the comprehensives in the UK were as nice,” she remarked.

  “Give them a few million each and they could be,” Mikey retorted. “I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half.” He scrambled over to the driver’s seat. “I’ll wait until you’re in, okay? Everyone might be on holiday.”

  India walked up the steps to the school, which was deserted. She felt a longing to dive into the pool and wash away the sweat, lowering her body temperature by ten degrees.

  As she put her hand to the door, a woman of about sixty with iron gray hair opened it. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see John Buchanan-Atkins.”

  The woman continued to study India. “Why exactly would you like to see him?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t really say. It’s a personal matter.”

  “Are you a reporter?” She made it sound like child-abuser.

  “No, I’m not,” India lied. “I’m simply someone seeking an answer.”

  The woman arched an eyebrow. “To what?”

  “I’m sorry,” India apologized again, “but John Buchanan-Atkins is the only person who can help.”

  “Well, since he’s dead,” the woman said, “you’d best leave.”

  India could feel the shock register on her face. “Dead? When?”

  The woman stared at her. “Why should ‘when’ matter?”

  India was thinking of the body count. Of six people murdered. Or was it now seven?

  “It’s just that … several people have died recently.” India wiped away the sweat from beneath her eyes with her fingers. “Including a very good friend of mine. I want to find out why she was murdered.”

  For a second the woman looked genuinely shaken, but she regained her composure fast. “You truly believe John might have been able to help you?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman continued to stare fiercely at India, as though making up her mind about something.

  “Please, come with me.” She turned and walked into the building without waiting to see if India would follow. India turned and gave Mikey the thumbs-up before entering the hallway. Inside, the air smelled of toasted cheese and floor wax. There was a corridor to each side and a staircase straight ahead. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the silence as the woman turned left, past two open classrooms equipped with desks, chairs, blackboards and computers, and entered a third room.

  Sunlight blazed across a thick royal blue carpet and lit up the pale silk Chinese rug in its center. India took in the large oak desk and the cabinets filled with silver trophies, but what really amazed her were the photographs.

  Every square inch of one wall was taken up with photographs of varying sizes pinned to a massive board. They were all photographs of Aborigines. There were withered old men wearing battered hats, toddlers with enormous eyes and snot-caked noses, men with gray stubble, women with floppy breasts and cheap cotton dresses, children with impudent expressions …

  Some were life-size glossy black-and-white portraits, beautifully lit, but the remainder were a jumble of Polaroids, color snapshots and passport photographs. Each picture had a sticker showing two names, one white name and one skin name, written in neat black ink.

  For a moment India was so stunned she merely gaped at the photographs. “It should be in an art gallery. It’s incredibly powerful.”

  The woman looked surprised. “How clever of you. The Australian National Gallery showed it last year. I hadn’t meant it to be a work of art, but a visual document of my work.” She looked casually at the wall. “All of these people are part of the stolen generation. Some still haven’t met their real parents.”

  India stepped close to the massive montage and started scanning it. “I don’t suppose there’s a photo of Bertie Mullett here?”

  The woman studied her for a few moments. “I can check for you, if you like.”

  “That would be great.”

  The woman moved to her desk and withdrew what looked like a ledger. She opened it and flipped through the pages. She ran a thin finger down a column and shook her head. “I don’t have a Bertie Mullett, but there’s a Louis Mullett. Apparently he’s reunited with his family.”

  She crossed the room and scanned the bottom right corner of photographs. “Here.” She plucked a Polaroid from the wall and passed it to India. A young man, early twenties, with his arm around a girl of about the same age, was grinning into the camera. He had a downy moustache, a scar the shape of a quarter moon at the corner of his mouth and happy eyes. LOUIS MEBULA MULLETT AND JINNY POLLARD.

  India closely examined the picture. “I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?”

  The woman checked her large bound book. “No fixed address. But his girlfriend Jinny has one.” She gave India an address in Redfern, Sydney. Then she held out her hand for the photograph and pinned it back on the wall.

  “Now it’s my turn,” India said, and took out the photograph of the four men and the dead shark. “I take it the older man is John Buchanan-Atkins?”

  When the woman looked at the photograph, she flinched as though she had been slapped and thrust it back at India.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Alice Gibbons,” said India. She held out her hand.

  The woman ignored it, saying, “That’s not your real name.”

  India let her hand drop to her side. “India Kane,” she admitted. “And I am a journalist. But I’m here for my friend Lauren.”

  “Well, India Kane, would you mind telling me what is going on?”

  “My turn to ask a question.” She fixed the woman with a hard gaze. “In what capacity was John Buchanan-Atkins involved with the Karamyde—”

  “He wasn’t.” The woman’s eyes flashed. “He never had anything to do with it.”

  Ah. A raw nerve.

  “I’m sorry I suggested it.”

  The woman’s features softened. “You weren’t to know.”

  “Would you mind telling me your name?” India ventured.

  The woman rearranged her scarf. “Catherine Buchanan-Atkins.”

  “He was your husband?”

  She nodded.

  “Would you mind telling me who the three young men in the photograph are?”

  There was a long pause while the woman considered her.

  “Roland Knox, Carl Roycroft and Gordon Willis,” she finally said.

  Knox was all too familiar to her while Gordon Willis, India recalled, was the ground-breaking scientist Mikey had spotted at the Institute, driving a Bentley.

  “I know Knox and Willis, but who is Roycroft? What does he do?”

  The other woman wouldn’t meet her eye. “Roycroft’s head of ASIO. Australia’s secret intelligence organization.”

  India gulped.

  “Where did your friend die?” asked Catherine Buchanan-Atkins.

  “In a remote area of northwestern New South Wales. Fifteen kilometers east of a town called Cooinda and thirty-five Ks from the gates of the Karamyde Cosmetic Research Institute.”

  Catherine Buchanan-Atkins closed her eyes momentarily.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  The woman forced her eyes open. “Was your friend black?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Was she black?”

  “No. She wasn’t.”

  Catherine Buchanan-Atkins seemed to relax at that, so India decided to press the advantage. Keeping her tone soft, she said, “Your husband taught these three men, am I right?”

  A nod.

  “What did he teach them?” She knew from Mikey, but wanted the woman to tell her.

  “History and political science, what else? He was a charismatic teacher, one of the best.”

  India nodded encouragingly.

  “Amusing, quick-w
itted, able to encourage as well as discipline with a single word. The brightest of students adored him.”

  “Including Knox, Willis and Roycroft.”

  “Especially them.”

  India swallowed the urge to ask why and waited.

  “This is all off the record,” Catherine continued. “If you print any of it, I’ll deny it.”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “I do. The three boys were exceptionally bright. Separately, they were very intelligent, each destined for a degree and a distinguished life in academia, but together they spelt brilliance. My husband used to say that if ever they got together as adults, working towards the same goal, they could rule the world.”

  She smiled wryly and went on. “The boys were mad keen on fishing. John introduced them to the ultimate sport—hunting shark. Tiger, hammerhead or bronze whaler, they didn’t care. They’d head out most weekends and come back sunburnt, backs red as brick, and John and I would light a barbecue and they’d feed on their catch.” She paused. “He was the only teacher they respected. They worshipped John. Would probably have died for him.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “In 1958 we officially adopted an Aboriginal boy, Robbie. Because of his fair skin, Robbie had been taken from his parents just after he was born. When we met we took an instant shine to him. He was intelligent and had a lovely nature.” The woman pressed a hand to her forehead, her face drawn with emotion. “The three boys hated Robbie. Loathed him. They tormented the poor boy like a pack of hyenas. It was racism. Pure and simple. Because Robbie was black … I was at my wit’s end. Even John, normally so calm, grew alarmed. He called them his little Hitlers, but despite his best efforts to guide them …”

  Her blue eyes intense, the woman leaned forward. “Those boys murdered Robbie.”

  India stared.

  “On a normal day … a fishing trip. They’d only dragged the burley a few miles when the boat was surrounded by sharks. John had never seen so many at once. He’d gone to fetch his camera from down below, when he heard a shout. He wasn’t supposed to see what happened. The boys still don’t know he actually saw them tip Robbie over the side. He lived for about a minute after he hit the water.”