Blood Junction (27 page)

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 still 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.