Chapter
TWENTY-ONE

The slim, attractive woman stood in the foyer of the modern south suburban police complex. At 9:00 a.m. Friday, the reception counter was unattended. She saw a sign and rang the bell. No one came. She felt as though she had been standing for hours in this barren place. She noticed a grubbiness and lack of pride already appearing in the new building and felt unwelcome.

Behind her, glass doors banged opened. Two young policemen dripping with weapons, handcuffs, radios and mobile phones bustled out. One carried a large black brief case, the other, a street directory. She turned, thinking they had come to her aid. Laughing and talking, they barely glanced at her and continued on through the foyer. She felt like running from the place but rang the bell again and waited.

Senior Constable Aleisha Campbell pushed through the glass security doors on her way home. She was tired. It had been a long night dealing with a fatal accident. The stupidity of drivers depressed her. Already two hours past knock off, she was looking forward to a hot shower and bed. Entering the foyer she saw the solitary woman at reception. Her bearing bespoke despair, anxiety and grief. The woman looked at her pleadingly.

‘Are you being attended?’ asked Campbell.

‘No,’ said the woman, in a strained and husky voice.

‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s my husband, he’s missing.’ Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

Aleisha introduced herself. ‘Come in,’ she said kindly and thinking, Lazy sods inside don’t give a shit. They must have heard the counter bell! She held the door and ushered the woman into a passage and along to a large room with rows of desks and computers. Several uniformed police chattering to each other, drinking from mugs and working on computers were oblivious to their presence.

‘Sit down here,’ said Aleisha. ‘Now, tell me, what’s happened?’

Still weeping silently, the woman made an effort to compose herself. ‘My name is Marnie Baker,’ she said. ‘My husband is Lance Baker, Minister for the Environment. He hasn’t been home since Wednesday. I can’t reach him at his office, he’s not answering his mobile and his secretary hasn’t seen him since late Wednesday afternoon. I’ve contacted a few of his friends and they haven’t seen him either. He’s vanished. I know he’s been under pressure getting ready for the election and so forth. We had a row about that on Wednesday morning. I thought, when he didn’t come home Wednesday night, he was punishing me and the girls. Sometimes he gets into moods … But when I heard nothing Thursday, and he still wasn’t home Thursday night, I started to worry that something had happened. And now, I know it has. I am sick with fear.’ Fresh tears ran down her face.

Campbell listened. Her radar screamed at the words “missing” and “Minister.” She drew close to Marnie Baker and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s have a cuppa eh, while I get the details. But could I ask, why on earth didn’t you call us to your home? I mean, your husband is a Government Minister.’

Marnie’s eyes welled with tears again. ‘I know. I just didn’t want to make a fuss if I was wrong. You know, police cars at the house and so on. Lance can get so upset, especially about mistakes.’

Privately, Aleisha read ‘bully’ into the comment and assessed Marnie as a somewhat timorous woman. ‘Okay. Stay here Mrs Baker, I won’t be long.’

Marnie looked grateful. She dabbed fresh tissues to her eyes but couldn’t stem the tears.

Campbell left the office to find Tom Daley, the Duty Sergeant. He was in the mess room and as she made the tea, she briefly filled him in on the missing Lance Baker. ‘Sarge, we’d better pull our finger out on this. No one bothered to attend this poor woman at the counter and if her politician husband is missing and we muck around, the shit’s gunna hit the fan.’

Daley agreed. ‘I’ll deal with it. But, and I know this is an imposition, would you mind staying on while I get the ball rolling. I’ll see you right for overtime. Bring her up to the Sergeant’s Office, it’s more private.’

Campbell returned to the general office with the tea. As she entered, a loud hoot of laughter came from the police at the computers. Marnie Baker seemed to shrink even further and slump in her chair, tears streaming.

‘Here you are then Mrs Baker.’ Campbell passed a mug of tea and spoke encouragingly. ‘I’ve briefed Sergeant Daley; he will take over right away.’ Marnie Baker looked apprehensive at the prospect of being passed on to someone else.

Sensing her concern Campbell said, ‘It’s okay, I’ll stay with you while we get things underway.’ Gesturing towards the passage she led Baker to the Sergeant’s office.

Tom Daley was gentle, reassuring and patient. Aleisha Campbell sat quietly as he explored and recorded the details of Baker’s absence. At the end of his information gathering Daley concluded that not only was Baker missing, but that his shy, sensitive wife was verging on shock. He arranged more tea and took Campbell aside. ‘Would you mind staying with her a little longer? I know you’re on night shift, but you’ve got a rapport with her and she needs support right now. I’m going to have her driven home. We need to make sure she’s got someone with her and that she can cope with the kids. I’ll pass this straight up to the Super. The last politician I recall going missing was Harold Holt, and we know how that finished up.’

Campbell nodded and returned to Baker. It was 10:00 a.m. and she was very weary. She tipped out her tea and made herself a strong black coffee.

At that time, a spunky blonde in a red and white top and designer jeans parked her sports car in Alexandra Avenue, Prahran. She walked to the tall apartment building at the corner of Chapel Street. The front entrance of the block, normally locked, was propped open as removalists struggled to take a large couch through the door. Frustration with the size of the couch and the narrowness of the opening was obvious from their spicy profanities blistering the air.

Teresa stood silently watching the Herculean pantomime, amused by the language. Unabashed by her presence, the two sweating, straining men continued their colourful invective. At last it was through and Teresa followed them inside, showily fishing keys from her shoulder bag. Waiting for the lift she scanned the resident directory and memorized some names on floors nine to twelve. Stepping into the lift she hit the button for the twelfth floor, relieved the removalists were continuing their battle via the stairs. As she ascended, she pulled on some clear surgical gloves.

In the foyer on twelve, Teresa saw doors to four units. All but Aldrittson’s bore the owner’s name in a slot beneath the door bell. She inserted the key and held her breath, praying it was not alarmed. When the door opened quietly she entered and closed it behind her.

Standing just inside, she took in the size, shape, texture and atmosphere of the unit. The city view was expansive, breathtakingly close and clear. The unit itself was rectangular. To her immediate right was a small and tasteful kitchen. Ahead, a broad and generous open space divided into dining and lounge areas. Aldrittson’s taste was elegant and expensive; nothing, it seemed, was wanting.

At the entrance beside her were four long blackwood doors. She opened one and found a neat work space with a computer, stationery shelves, dictionaries and other texts. She fired-up the computer, found it needed no password and quickly scanned the contents. The files were innocuous: letters to constituents, parliamentary speeches, family details, business matters and accounts. Innocuous or not, a copy was going with her. She plugged in her memory stick and commenced downloading. Silently, she moved forward and looked into a doorway on her left: Aldrittson’s bedroom.

The big western windows allowed city views to flood the bedroom. These views were bounced around the room by floor to ceiling mirrors on the southern wall. A king-sized bed with side cabinets and lamps stood in front of the mirrored wall. To the left, a sliding door led to a walk-in wardrobe and small stylish bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, everything was tasteful and well designed. Yet, something about the bedroom bothered her. Compared with the rest of the unit, it was Spartan and didn’t fit the prevailing style.

She commenced her search in earnest. First the bathroom, next the walk-in robe and then the two bedside cabinets. The left cabinet contained several books, the right one was empty. She checked the bed, the mattress and under the bed: all clean. She found nothing, not even in the pockets of his clothes.

Quietly, methodically and carefully, she worked her way around the lounge, dining and kitchen areas and back to the cupboards at the entrance. In effect, she had nothing to show for her visit apart from the contents of Aldrittson’s computer on her memory stick. Knowing his reputation and some of his antics, she refused to believe he was without records of some kind. She wondered where he kept his most private information – at his parliamentary office or some other location? If it was another place, Giuseppe’s soldiers could find it. In the meantime, she would think about it.

It was almost midday. She had turned the place over meticulously and was satisfied she had neither missed nor left anything out of place. Before leaving she checked Aldrittson’s answering machine. It contained a call from someone named “Spence” who wanted to discuss Ben’s gym program. She didn’t know Spence and was not surprised that Aldrittson worked out. She surveyed the foyer through the front door spy glass: all clear. She left as quietly as she had arrived and found the removalists still working on the ground floor. Nonchalantly, she walked to the car.

She now had another task. Today marked the beginning of her search for information about her parents. Driving towards the city, she felt a growing apprehension.