Blood Junction (28 page)

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-witted, 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.”

“Didn’t your husband report the boys to the police?”

The woman rolled her eyes as though impatient at India’s stupidity. “You obviously don’t grasp the situation. These boys came
from wealthy, well-connected families. Families who believed Aborigines were an inferior race, who taught their children the
same, who wouldn’t care if a dozen indigenous boys had been fed to the sharks that day. The police felt pretty much the same.
John wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on. They would have destroyed him and me.”

India frowned. “Your husband was a man who was scared of the authorities. That was it?” She looked at Catherine Buchanan-Atkins.
“Did something else stop him from reporting the boys?”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“There may have been something that made him vulnerable. Something the boys’ fathers could have used against him.”

“Why should you think that?”

“It’s the only explanation I can think of for such a strong and moral man backing off like he did.”

Suddenly the woman looked intensely weary. She gave a sigh and walked to the wall of photographs, staring at a picture of
a young girl breastfeeding her baby. “Perhaps I should have done something about it years ago. But I didn’t.”

“About what?”

Catherine Buchanan-Atkins appeared to struggle with herself as she spoke. “John’s life was this school. He built it. Made
it what it was then, and is now. One of the best in Australia. It was his heart, his soul”—she paused briefly and took a breath—“but
he made some mistakes. All to do with scholarship pupils. Children who were incredibly bright, but whose parents couldn’t
afford even the lowest fees. He ended up terribly frustrated. Thought how unfair it was that a child of low intelligence from
a wealthy family could get the best education, where another child, extremely bright, couldn’t. So John redressed the balance.
Altered the accounts. Nobody knew, not even me for a while, that four scholarship pupils were paying less than fifty dollars
a term.”

“But the boys’ fathers knew about this?”

Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers.“Yes.”

“So your husband never pressed charges?”

Catherine swung around. “John had no choice. It was either that or lose the school. If it came out he’d been doctoring the
accounts and favoring students, just about every parent would have taken their child away. Those men had him over a barrel.
Eventually he came to the decision not to let three boys ruin the education of hundreds of others, present and future. Poor
John,” she said again. “He saw their picture in the newspaper last month. Said it was one of the most frightening days of
his life, seeing them together as grown men. He had a heart attack two days later and now he’s dead.” She closed her eyes.
“I blame those three for his death.”

India was finding it difficult to stand still. The adrenaline rush of an explosive story was pulsing through every vein. “Are
you sure you won’t let me quote you?”

Catherine Buchanan-Atkins reacted violently. “Absolutely not. These men are not to be played with. They’re dangerous. Cunning
and dangerous. If you expose them in your search to find your friend’s killer, all well and good. Otherwise I’ll deny we ever
met.”

M
IKEY STOOD OPPOSITE THE POST OFFICE IN MARTIN
place, waiting. Sam was five minutes late. He scanned the streams of office workers and tourists pouring down the broad pedestrian
street, studied people sitting and eating out of takeaway cartons on the post office steps, searching for a man who might
be nervous, perhaps checking over his shoulder.

Nobody. Mikey wiped his brow with the back of his hand, glad he was in the shade. If he had to stand in the sun with the humidity
levels as they were, he’d melt. He touched the back of his neck, glad to feel the knobbly scabs that had formed. No infection,
and no pain aside from when he knocked his bruises. India’s first aid had done the trick.

A young couple were snogging on one of the post office’s steps, and he watched the varying expressions of people as they passed;
some amused, some disapproving. A fit-looking man with a buzz haircut, dressed in dark trousers and white shirt, stood a little
distance away, seemingly oblivious to the snoggers. Mikey took in the man’s alert stance and followed his gaze.

There. A balding man walking behind a fat woman laden with shopping. Mikey was sure he recognized him, tried to place him.
When their eyes met the balding man looked away and slowed as though hesitating. Then he nodded once, and weaved through the
crowd to come and stand beside Mikey. His shirt was wet with sweat.

“Nice to see you again,” said Mikey. “Shall we take a walk?”

Sam fell into step beside him. Out of habit, Mikey checked the man with the buzz cut and breathed easier when he saw he’d
gone.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Sam said.

“Yes, I do. I just can’t recall your name.”

“It’s Stirling.” The man’s eyes were jumping over the crowd as he spoke. “Rodney Stirling.”

“So, Rodney. What have you got for me?”

Rodney fiddled with his tie. “I want to show you something, but I don’t want anyone to see us.”

“The files, right?”

Rodney nodded.

“At the Australian Medical Association’s offices?”

Rodney jerked his head around. His brown eyes were scared. “How did you know?”

“Come on, Rodney. They’re just over the bridge in St. Leonard’s. It’s also where we met, albeit very briefly, during my investigation
into your colleague’s death. You do remember Alex Thread’s murder, don’t you?”

Rodney gave a jerky nod. “How could I not?”

They crossed over Pitt Street and to the left of a broad water feature. Mikey relished the brief sensation of damp cool as
they passed.

“So, how do you like your promotion?” he asked.

“I wish I’d never got it. Jameson used to be our head of ethics. He died soon after he was transferred. Alex became head of
ethics and then he was murdered. Now I’m head I’m utterly terrified.”

“Where’s the stuff you want to show me?”

“In the office.”

“Tell me what it’s about.”

“I only found them by accident. I was changing a fluorescent strip, the maintenance man always takes so long, and the ceiling
panel came loose.”

Mikey glanced over his shoulder as Rodney turned left into Castlereagh Street. No buzz cut. Nobody seemed to be following
them. Good.

“What’s in the files?”

“Personal notes. Technical profiles. From a British defense establishment.”

“Porton Down?”

Rodney halted outside a dry cleaner’s and looked at Mikey. “I couldn’t understand much of it. It’s way out of my league. Apart
from the DNA profiles and the notes Alex made. Some horrifying accusations. A list of names. Alex highlighted three though,
which I suppose are important.”

“Which three?”

“Sergeant Patterson, Lauren Kennedy and Peter Ross.” He frowned for a second. “Oh, and a solicitor’s name. Something Italian.
I can’t remember it offhand.”

“Why don’t we just go and get the files, then we’ll know what his name is?”

“Christ,” said Rodney, and ran a hand over his pate. He looked close to tears. “I’ve a wife. Two kids. I’m terrified for them,
not just me.”

“Come on, Rodney. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to give them to me. Share the burden—”