home.
I parked outside the front gate, half open, leaning, its hinge post broken at the base, and got out.
The rain had stopped but the wind had picked up, coming over the featureless green undulations with a whooing sound that acted on the brain the way organ dirges did. I went up the cracked concrete, stepped up to the verandah, avoiding a collapsed plank. The verandah felt unsteady, nails loose in rain-eroded boards. I stood before a screen door with holes in the flywire of the upper panels. They had the look of holes punched — drink and testosterone holes. I opened the door and the dents in the front door said mine was not an unreasonable assumption.
I could hear the television inside. I knocked, knocked again, less politely. After a while, I hit the door a few times with four knuckles and waited. It opened.
‘Yeah?’ A woman, short, plump, face pink with new makeup.
‘Mrs Ballich?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Jack Irish. I spoke to you…’
‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Didn’t think you’d be early.’
In the passage, we shook hands. She was in the last phase of pretty, doll-like, a small nose, rosebud lips.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, smoke and alcohol and mint toothpaste on her breath. ‘Back room’s warm, almost bloody warm, this fucking place.’
I followed her, walking on nylon carpet, feeling the sag of the floorboards. Down there in the underfloor, the stumps would be rotten, the air would smell of decaying wood, damp earth, of fluids leached through carpet and underfelt, there would be chewed bones and the skeletons of small creatures. It would be icy cold, cold a hundred sunless years in the making.
The back room had been two rooms once, the kitchen and something else, floors not level. Knocking out a wall left gaps, patched with whatever came to hand. A fire was burning in the kitchen hearth, logs smouldering, more smoke than heat. The curtains were drawn, two overhead lights on, one a pink plastic chandelier.
‘Whole fucking day to warm up,’ said Mary Ballich. She picked up a remote control from a chair, pressed several buttons before the television died. ‘Fire goes out, place’s a fucking freezer inside ten minutes. Start again next day. Sit down, have a seat.’
I had the choice of a squat leather chair, its arms folded and held down with buckles, and an old office chair. I sat on the office chair. Mary went to a counter, a two-litre cask of wine on it, wet circle on the carpet below the nozzle. She showed me a glass, half full, yellow liquid in a Vegemite container given a second life.
‘Little heartstarter,’ she said. ‘Shit, I slept so fucking bad, I can’t tell you. Take a wine?’
‘A small one,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
She found another Vegemite glass for me, filled it from the tap. I got up to take it from her.
‘Cheers,’ she said and went back to get hers, lit a cigarette, offered me the pack. I shook my head. She sat down on the yellow leather couch. It sighed.
‘A lawyer,’ she said. ‘Didn’t get the other bit.’
‘I’m acting for someone in a criminal matter. Janene’s name came up as a possible witness. I found out she was a missing person, so I rang all the Ballichs in the book.’
‘Witness?’
‘She might know something that would help our client.’
‘Can’t help if she’s missin, can she?’
‘No. But we might be able to help look for her. That would be up to you.’
‘Well, the cops done fuck-all. Not interested, don’t give a shit.’
‘You reported her missing in January 1995,’ I said. ‘That’s a long time ago.’
‘Yeah. Look around, another bloody year’s gone.’
‘How did you know she was missing?’
‘Didn’t answer the phone. Got a bit toey. Then I get a call from the real estate agency, they reckon she’s done a runner, left all her stuff behind.’
I tried the wine, wet my lips with it. Sweet, a strong smell of acetone. ‘Runner from what?’
‘This unit in St Kilda. We went up to Melbin, got the stuff.’
‘Janene was in touch regularly?’
‘Well, nah. I used to ring her. Sometimes ya need a talk.’ She inhaled deeply, blew smoke out of the corner of her small mouth. ‘Sometimes ya need a few bucks too. What’s the good of bloody kids they can’t help ya out, that’s what I say. Things I bloody went through for em, you don’t want to know. Don’t want to know.’
‘Janene had a job?’
‘Model,’ she said. ‘She was a model.’ She drank half her glass of sweet yellow wine. ‘There’s a photo over there.’ She pointed.
I crossed to the back wall, to two photographs hanging between the curtains.
‘Top one,’ said Mary. ‘That’s her. Other one’s Marie, my little one.’
They were both studio portraits, full length. I could see nothing of Mary Ballich in either of them. At about eighteen, Janene Ballich had a waif look, long fair hair, big eyes, long legs made longer in a little black dress by the photographer’s upward angle. Her sister was about fifteen when the picture was taken, dark, big-mouthed, a look in her eyes that said she would only be a certain kind of teacher’s pet.
I went back to my chair. ‘Tough business, modelling,’ I said, looking at Mary.
She looked back, pulled a face. Deep lines appeared between her eyes. ‘Yeah, well, she done a bit of escort on the side. Like between modellin jobs, y’know.’ She finished her wine and got up for more. ‘How’s ya glass?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
She filled hers to the brim, spilled a little on the carpet, drank some before journeying back to the sighing couch.
‘So, did she have an agency for bookings?’ I said.
‘Nah, Wayne done that. He was like her agent.’
‘Wayne?’
‘Wayne Dilthey. He come here with her once. Stuck on her, I reckon, the cuntstruck look, pardon me. They come in his Porsche. Grey one. Whole fucking street come out.’
I took out my notebook and guessed at the spelling, there wasn’t any point in asking. ‘Any idea of when you last spoke to Janene?’
Mary had a sip, blinked at me. Now I noticed the marks on either side of her nose. She was short-sighted and she didn’t want to be seen in glasses. ‘November,’ she said. ‘My birthday’s the twelfth of November. I was really pissed off, no fucking prezzie, not even a call. I give her a ring, get the message fucking thing. Next morning she rings, all sorry, sorry, sorry. Some crap about her friend in hospital, always a bullshit story to give you, Jan. From when she was little. Jay Bailey, she used to call herself. Didn’t like her name.’
‘November 13, 1994, that’s the last time she was on the phone?’
‘To me. The other time, I was at the pub with my fren. The bloke livin here, he was here, pissed half off his brain as per usual, she give him a message.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Fuck knows,’ she said. ‘The turkey tole me the next day, he can’t remember nothin. Reckons she was upset, that’s all, the fucking spagbrain.’
The smoke was getting to my throat. I had some wine — alcohol, sugar, acetone — the stuff could knock out any complaint. ‘Any idea when that was?’
‘Yeah. December 4.’
My throat felt better. The stomach would be the next problem. ‘You remember that?’
‘Nah. The cop said.’
‘What cop was that?’
‘Cop come here. He had the calls she made.’
‘That was after you reported Janene missing?’
She was lighting another cigarette. ‘Nah. Just before Christmas. Didn’t know she was missin then, thought she was just bein her usual mongrel. He come about her mobile, reckoned someone pinched it, he was checkin the
