Seeking True North

By Elizabeth Kleinhenz

Hannah Goldberg, Grace Valentine, and Kate Fitzgerald have been friends since they were boarders at an exclusive Catholic convent school in Melbourne's Toorak in the 1960s. As 16-year-old schoolgirls, they all had their first sexual experience with charismatic media personality, Atticus Ford. For the next thirty years, e

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Kleinhenz
• Release date: Jan 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645004120

Elizabeth Kleinhenz

Elizabeth Kleinhenz was born in Melbourne, where she has spent most of her life. She enjoyed a long and distinguished career in the Victorian Education Department as a teacher and administrator of English, History, and German. In 2001, she joined the Australian Council for Educational Research and recently retired from the position of senior research fellow. Elizabeth is the author of A Brimming Cup: the Life of Kathleen Fitzpatrick, which was her PhD thesis.

Book preview

Seeking True North

Elizabeth Kleinhenz

© Copyright 2021 Elizabeth Kleinhenz. All rights reserved. The moral right of Elizabeth Kleinhenz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

The cover is based on Fresque by Rupert Bunny (1864-1947).

Book and cover design by David Grigg.

ISBN: 978-0-6450041-1-3

Published by Rightword Enterprises, Melbourne, Australia

First edition, December 2021.

For sales information, please contact:[e-mail]

To Jenny and Jane

1

Old Friends

Hannah reached for the pitcher to pour her second martini. Kate and Grace were drinking daiquiris.

Hannah was holding a newspaper. ‘We’re in the social pages again,’ she said. ‘The Herald Sun. Shall I read it to you?’

Her question was rhetorical.

She began:

‘The Herald Sun, 4 September, 2010, page 20: Among the guests at the wedding of Elizabeth Burke, daughter of Mr John Burke MLA, Minister for Agriculture, were her mother Margaret’s three old school friends, Ms Hannah Goldberg, heiress to the Goldberg Brewery fortune, Mrs Grace Valentine, wife of the Chair of the Jiltex Petroleum Board, Mr Henry Valentine, and Kate Fitzgerald.’

‘Typical,’ thought Kate. ‘I’m the only one who has done anything useful with her life and I don’t even rate a Ms.’

In fact, Kate had a Ph.D., but the Herald Sun editors knew how few of their readers would want to know about that.

‘Shall I go on?’ asked Hannah. Again, the question was rhetorical.

‘In her speech at the wedding reception, which was held at the Princess Louise Club, Hannah’s mother, legendary philanthropist Dame Esther Goldberg, spoke of the bride’s mother’s lifelong commitment to the cause of single mothers and their children.’

‘Well, that’s not so bad is it?’ said Grace.

‘It’s a load of rubbish,’ said Kate. ‘Margaret Burke, to her credit, has given away a lot of her husband’s money in her time but I doubt if she’s ever met a single mother – well, not a poor one, anyway. And I’m not sure she even likes children. She only had one, after all.’

‘Do you think she likes her?’ asked Hannah.

The three friends laughed. Over forty years, they had learnt how to defuse uncomfortable situations with humour.

They were gathered in Hannah’s library, a gracious room that admitted the late afternoon sun through small-paned French windows that opened out onto a leafy terrace.

But now the sunlight was fading and the warmth was leaving the room.

‘Well anyway,’ Hannah was saying. There’s something else.’

Kate and Grace waited.

‘I have been contacted by someone who calls herself Ruby Jones.’

‘What?’ Kate exclaimed. ‘No one is called Ruby Jones. Must be a fake.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Hannah replied, ‘but she had something to say that concerns all of us. Shall I go on?’

‘You have our full attention,’ Kate replied.

‘She’s a prostitute—’

‘You don’t call them prostitutes now,’ interrupted Grace. ‘You’re supposed to say sex workers.’

‘Well, she was a prostitute in 1998 when all this happened.’

‘All what?’

‘Whatever happened on the day Atticus Ford disappeared.’

Kate and Grace froze.

‘Let me remind you,’ Hannah continued. ‘We all remember Atticus Ford. Right?’

Grace cleared her throat.

‘Of course. Atticus Ford was the most famous Australian investigative journalist and television personality of the twentieth century. He was charismatic, sexy, wild and—’

‘And we all—um —knew him,’ Kate said.

‘Yes, but that was back in the sixties, when we were still practically children,’ Grace protested.

Hannah responded quickly. ‘As I remember it, that was the problem at the time. I think our parents wanted to see in him jail.’

‘But nothing much came of it all in the end,’ said Grace, ‘we all grew up and got on with our lives; he became ever more famous and successful. And then, suddenly, he disappeared! One day there he was on television as usual, next he was gone. I remember reading in the paper about how the police were hunting for his body in the bush. I felt terrible at the time, thinking of him just lying somewhere, injured or dead. Even though it had been so long since I had seen him.’

‘I found out about his disappearance when I read about it in the paper too,’ said Kate. That must have been more than thirty years after we all first met him. I remember I was in the supermarket—’

Hannah interrupted her. ‘Ruby reminded me of exactly what happened then, and how,’ she said. ‘The facts were – or are – that thirty-two years after we, er— Atticus Ford disappeared without trace one day in August 1998. That’s when you two read about it in the paper. It was exactly thirty-two years after we first became involved with him. He became very rich during those years. Dodgy investments, I suspect. He had bought a yacht with its own crew, and he used it for cruising in warm waters with his mates and their girlfriends. He was still married, had a daughter, but his wife tolerated his behaviour. Strangely enough, she said she always loved him.’

‘Well he was like that,’ Grace murmured, ‘the sort of person you couldn’t imagine anyone disliking.’

Hannah continued. ‘On the day of his disappearance, as you may have read, he had lunch at Florentino’s with his good friend and legal adviser, Marcus Gillon. Five women – prostitutes, sex workers, whatever – were with them. One of the women was Ruby Jones. She was then Madam of Happy Endings, Melbourne’s most exclusive brothel.’

‘Was she called Ruby Jones then?’ asked Kate.

‘How would I know?’ Hannah snapped. ’Anyway, the reason the five – er – girls were invited to the lunch was that Ford and his friend Marcus Gillon wanted to look them over. They had decided to choose two of them to join them on their next cruise.

‘After lunch,’ Hannah continued, ‘the girls were asked to leave while Ford and Gillon made their decision and negotiated payment with Ruby. Then the plan was that Ruby and the two selected girls would join the men at Marcus’s bachelor flat in South Yarra for dinner and sex. Atticus got very drunk at that lunch, according to Ruby.’

‘The yacht was called Summertime,’ said Grace.

How does she know that? Kate and Hannah wondered.

‘And was Ruby definitely invited to the dinner?’ Grace asked.

‘According to her, yes. She seems to have been a pretty hands-on sort of Madam.’

Only Kate laughed.

‘We kind of already know what happened next,’ Hannah continued. ‘Atticus never turned up at Gillon’s flat. Gillon, Ruby and the two girls waited for him for about two hours before they gave up on him. His wife notified the police after he had been missing for a couple of days and there was a huge police hunt and investigation. But no trace of him was found. Has ever been found.’

‘There have been all sorts of theories,’ said Kate. ‘Some said suicide, but I always knew in my heart that couldn’t be true. He was far too full of life. My suspicion has always been that he staged his own disappearance.’

‘Wasn’t there something about a contract killing?’ asked Grace.

‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘Apparently, a well-known criminal who was in jail boasted to his cell mate that he knew who had killed Atticus Ford, but then he was bumped off himself by that cell mate. Now, Brigitte Ford, Atticus’s daughter – his only child – is determined to get to the truth. The investigation has been re-opened as a cold case. This Ruby woman reminded me that it was all in the media about a week ago.’

‘Brigitte!’ said Grace. ‘She must be over forty now. And what about Sabine, the German wife?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Hannah replied. ‘One news report said that Atticus and Sabine had always lived separate lives, but they were never actually divorced. Apparently, she’s been living in London for years.’

‘Did you read all this in the paper, Hannah?’ Kate asked.

‘Er – no – most of it is what I discussed with Ruby Jones. But it has been reported in the press.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Kate doubtfully. ‘So why is this Ruby woman interested in us?’

‘Well, she only called me yesterday,’ Hannah replied. ‘I think she was drunk, or stoned.’

‘What did she want?’ asked Grace.

‘She said she has important information about Atticus Ford’s disappearance. She is thinking about telling the police but she wants to talk to all three of us first. She insisted that her information concerns all of us.’

‘Blackmail?’ asked Kate.

‘No!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘That’s ludicrous! None of us has seen Atticus Ford for years.’

‘Well, whatever,’ said Hannah, ‘she wants to talk to us all together. She wanted to come today but I put her off till next month. She seemed to be obsessing about joining us for cocktails.’

‘Our next meeting will be at my house,’ said Kate. ‘She’ll be sadly disappointed if she’s expecting a Toorak mansion. Maybe we should have the meeting at your apartment, Grace? She sounds like the sort of person who would appreciate your gold-plated taps!’

Again, no one laughed: an awkward silence had descended upon the room. Kate coughed, embarrassed, before accidentally overturning her glass which shattered on the small tiled table beside her. At that moment, as they all gazed confusedly at the broken glass and trickle of liquid, each woman realised separately that something else had shattered. No jokes, no careless laughter would ever restore the lost equilibrium.

2

Kate

‘I’m here to see the Principal!’

He was a belligerent little terrier of a man. Karen, the school secretary, had dealt with his kind before.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

He ignored the question.

‘Dr Fitzgerald is in a meeting,’ Karen said icily.

For a moment she feared he was about to jump the counter and attack her, but he turned away and marched down the hallway, out the front door, and into the garden.

Through the window, she saw him lean against a tree and light a cigarette.

It had been a difficult day. Kate’s meeting with her senior staff was almost over but it was not going well.

‘The thing is,’ Deputy Principal Neil Herriot was saying, ‘that if a place has rules, then it’s the job of those of us in authority to police them.’

Jane Langdon, the Student Counsellor, glared at him. ‘You just love those words, Herriot, don’t you?’ she hissed. ‘Authority, police. This is not about discipline, it’s about your ego!’

Kate allowed the ‘discussion’ to continue for a couple of minutes before calling the meeting to order.

‘We’re talking about whether the boys should be allowed to wear their shirts untucked, outside their trousers,’ she said. ‘We’re not trying to prevent a Trade War with China.’

Before someone started an argument about racism, she continued:

‘Actually, there is no rule about shirts being tucked in or out. But it’s confusing for the kids if some teachers insist they wear them in and others ignore them if they don’t. Given that boys in every other government school in the district seem not to be tucking their shirts in, I suggest we allow our boys to follow their example. But we do need consistency. Now, I would like to get home before midnight tonight, so can I please have a show of hands of people who agree with that proposition?’

Every hand went up but Herriot’s. Each hand’s owner knew that Herriot would continue to patrol the schoolyard issuing his signature command: ‘Tuck ya shirt in!’

Alone again in her office, Kate reached for her lipstick and mirror. Her next appointment was with the charismatic Education Department Regional Director, Wes Miller.

Female teachers across the region swooned over the Byronic Dr Miller, a former national president of the teachers’ union and articulate defender of public education, but they swooned in vain, for Wes Miller was as morally upright as he was attractive. He and his wife Faith were lay preachers in a conservative branch of a Christian church. They grew organic vegetables and went to church every Sunday. Both of their fathers had been Methodist ministers.

Miller had not arrived yet, Karen informed Kate, so Kate had better deal with the unpleasant man who had just come in from the garden. Rising to her feet but remaining behind her desk, Kate observed him as he was ushered into her office. He was waving a piece of paper at her.

‘I’ve come because I want you to explain the meaning of this,’ he shouted before she had a chance to speak.

‘I’m sorry, Mr – er – but I have no idea what you are trying to say.’

‘What I’m saying is, this is a disgrace and I want an apology to me and my family and my son.’

‘May I see?’ She took the paper from his hand and read.

‘Oh, so you are Jason Mooney’s father. What is the problem, Mr Mooney?’

She sat down, and invited him to do the same. He leaned menacingly across her desk, his head thrust forward. She allowed him to shout at her for a few moments before she interrupted.

‘Now just a minute, Mr Mooney. What has happened here – what my letter referred to – was a bullying incident in the school yard that involved your son Jason and a Year 7 girl. He punched her in the face and body and smashed her pencil case against a concrete wall. There were plenty of witnesses. This letter informs you of the incident and asks that your boy apologise to the girl and offer to replace the pencil case and its contents.’

‘It’s all lies. She is a spiteful little piece of work.’

Kate leaned back in her chair.

‘Mr Mooney, I would tell you that you are setting an appalling example to your son, but I doubt that you would listen. You will be sent another letter with an invoice for the payment of a new pencil case and contents which the school will purchase for this little girl to replace her damaged property. You will also, again, be requested to insist that your son apologise to the child. If the invoice is not paid, and the apology is not forthcoming, I will report the assault to the local sergeant of police who, I’m sure, will be happy to say to your son the words he needed to hear from you.’

‘I’m wasting my time here,’ said the angry parent. ‘I should have known better. I’ve heard all about you and your carrying on. Shagging—’

‘Be very careful, Mr Mooney. We have clear laws in this country relating to slander.’

‘Never mind all that. I want to talk to someone in proper authority. A man at the Education Department.’

Well you could be in luck, thought Kate.

‘Just wait one moment please Mr Mooney,’ she said as she buzzed Karen in the outer office. ‘Oh good, yes, show him in now please.’

The door opened to admit the Regional Director. Introductions were made. The two men sat down in front of Kate.

‘Is there a problem?’ Wes asked.

‘There’s a problem all right, mate,’ said Mooney, and proceeded with his complaint. ‘Oh dear,’ said the Regional Director. ‘We’ll certainly have to do something about this.’

‘There is something else we hadn’t quite got to,’ said Kate, reaching into the top drawer of her desk, and handing over several dirty sheets of paper for the men’s perusal.

‘See! See!’ shouted Mooney, clutching at one of the examples before him. ‘What sort of so-called school principal keeps this kind of filthy stuff in her desk drawer?’

Wes Miller interrupted him. Yes, these are certainly pretty basic – and unpleasant – examples of adolescent smut, he said laconically (so attractive! thought Kate). ‘Although, mind you, the artist has a certain talent as a cartoonist. Er— can you explain how these come to be in your desk drawer, Dr Fitzgerald?’

‘Easy,’ Kate replied. ‘The cleaner found them in a classroom and gave them to me just this afternoon. They are the work of your son, Mr Mooney.’

Mooney, who seemed to have shrunk in the presence of the Regional Director, puffed himself up again as he rose to his feet.

‘That’s it!’ he cried ‘That’s it! Now we know! This woman’s a paedophile. As if my son—’

‘He’s something of an artist, that boy of yours, isn’t he?’ Wes spoke calmly. ‘Proud of his work, too. See he’s even signed some of it, and he’s written some little dedications. Do you recognise his handwriting? Quite distinctive isn’t it?’

Suddenly speechless, Mooney gazed helplessly at the drawings.

‘Look maaate,’ Wes drew out the vowel deliberately. ‘Why don’t you go home and have a good talk to Jason? He’s still young – got a long way to go – this kind of stuff’s pretty normal for boys of his age, but he needs guidance, a role model. You.’

Jason’s deflated little dad had no more words. He stumbled to his feet, and at the door, he recovered himself and paused to face them. ‘I’m gunna kill ’im!’ he shouted before heading out to the garden for another cigarette.

Kate wanted to laugh, but she thought Wes would not approve, and she was right. ‘That poor man,’ he said. ‘What chances did he ever have in life, I wonder. His father was probably the same, and his father before him. How to break the cycle?’

‘Would a glass of wine help?’ asked Kate. ‘It’s after six o’clock.’

The Regional Director hesitated.

‘Well, yes, why not?’ he answered, even though he was unaccustomed to drinking alcohol. Rising from her desk, Kate poured two glasses of red wine. ‘It’s getting a bit late for an official visit,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we just call this a social call and then take ourselves home. I’ve had a bugger of a day. We can talk about the School Review on Thursday, perhaps.’

Wes Miller found himself admiring the slim figure of the woman who was now moving to sit beside him. That combination of green eyes, pale skin and luxuriant dark hair! She must be nearly sixty, but she was the type of woman who got better looking with age. And he loved the way she said ‘bugger’!

Just in time, he managed to stop himself from breaking into a giggle.

scene_break

Kate’s house was less than half the size of Hannah’s but it was on the edge of the same exclusive suburb. Set in a small, attractive old garden, it had been built in Edwardian times in the style of that period. Red brick with a terracotta tiled roof and a sunny return veranda on which Kate had placed several cane chairs with bright cushions, a long low table, and numerous pot plants.

As she walked up the path, her front door opened and her daughter Sally came rushing out to meet her.

‘Oh Mum! I’ve been trying to call you. I wish you wouldn’t turn off your mobile.’ She burst into tears.

‘Darling, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’ But in her heart, she knew. ‘Sam?’

‘Yes, he’s inside. He tried to lock me out but I had another key. He’s completely—’

Kate moved past Sally and entered the house. All the blinds and curtains had been drawn so that everything was in semi-darkness. She heard a banging, then her son, dressed only in his underpants, came out into the hallway.

‘G’day Mum,’ he said in an almost-normal voice. For a self-deluding second, she thought he was all right.

He was holding his cricket bat across his body. ‘NO!’ he shouted suddenly, ‘you’re not my Mum!’ Looking at Sally, he said, ‘My sister! Huh?’ Then he started to babble incoherently for what seemed quite a long time as the two women looked on. ‘Witches!’ he screamed. ‘Leave me! Get away from me!’ He staggered down the passage, heading for the living room at the back of the house.

His mother and sister were afraid of him.

‘I’ve called the CATT team,’ said Sally. ‘But they’ve called the police. They say they won’t do anything unless the police are present.’

‘Fair enough. Let’s wait on the veranda till they come.’

Some five minutes later, two police cars pulled up in front of the house. Four uniformed policemen, three males, one female, all carrying guns, marched up the path.

‘Where is he?’ said the first, who appeared to be in charge. The other three were silent, their faces and body language a mixture of aggression and boredom.

‘Inside,’ said Sally, ‘but he’s having a psychotic episode.’ The Crisis Assessment and Treatment Team from Marsden hospital are on their way, you should wait till they get here.’

The men ignored her and strode into the house. Kate and Sally followed them down the central passage to find Sam cowering in a corner at the back of the living room.

‘Get up!’ demanded the tallest policeman. Sam knew the routine. He stood up, faced the wall and put his hands above his head.

‘Been on the choof again, eh? Where is it? Where have you got it stashed?’

Sam gestured wordlessly to indicate he had no drugs on his almost naked person. While two policemen stood over him, the other two headed for his bedroom in the centre of the house. Kate followed them, realising that their behaviour was out of order. As she suspected, they were looking around speculatively, preparing to search her son’s room.

‘Do you have a search warrant, officers?’ she asked. Both policemen turned, surprised, to face her.

‘Because if you don’t, I shall report this as a serious incident.’

This was the second time today, she reflected, that she had threatened to report someone to the police. Except this time, it was the police she was threatening to report. To whom? Themselves?

It worked. Both policemen left the bedroom and returned to join their colleagues in the living room.

A knock at the front door announced the arrival of the Crisis Assessment and Treatment Team.

This time there were three people, two middle-aged men and a young woman. They looked tired, but kind.

Kate explained the situation. ‘This has happened several times before,’ she said. ‘The CATT teams have always been marvellous. The diagnosis on previous occasions has been drug induced psychosis.’

‘We can talk to him,’ said the older of the two men, who introduced himself as Peter, ‘but the police will have to remain in the house. They may have to escort him to hospital. Do you think you could wait with them in another room?’

Kate and Sally ushered the four policemen into the front sitting room, but they refused to sit down. Soon they were back on the veranda, pacing up and down, talking on their mobile phones, fingering their guns.

‘He’s agreed to go to hospital with you and your daughter,’ announced Peter after what seemed like hours of uneasy waiting. Kate’s heart contracted as a now-dressed Sam came out on the arm of the young female CATT worker. Gently, the woman took him outside into the driveway and, with Sally’s assistance, helped him into Kate’s car. ‘We’ve given him a sedative,’ she told Kate. ‘But it’s quite mild, and until it’s known what drugs he’s taken—’

‘One police car will need to follow you to Marsden Hospital,’ said Peter. If you’ve experienced this before you will know the drill. You proceed to Emergency, but two policemen must go and stay with you to ensure the safety of everyone, including Sam.’

They all moved back onto the veranda to join the policemen. ‘Bloody waste of police time,’ said one of the male policemen, spitting into the garden. Peter ignored him.

Kate had been in this situation before. She knew about the long wait she would face in Emergency as Sam was kept under control by his police guards. She knew that the moment he thought the police were leaving, Sam would attempt to escape. He would be assessed by at least two doctors, who would try, with little success, to make some sense of his addled brain. For part of the time he would appear quite ‘normal’ in his desperate attempts to fool them into thinking he could be let go.

Kate also expected that at some stage of this weary night, she would be approached by a female of whose role she would be uncertain, and asked to answer a set of questions, the purpose of which she would be equally uncertain. Last time, such a female had recorded Kate’s answers on a laptop computer as they spoke. With a stunning lack of ethical awareness, she had also allowed Kate to view some data that showed the names of several other Fitzgeralds who had been admitted with conditions similar to her son’s. Kate had her own reasons for doubting that these Fitzgeralds could be related to Sam. Still, this bizarre little cameo, within the context of the total horrific episode, had been a diversion. Welcome in its way. A distraction from the main game. Maybe that was why the woman had done it?

She knew that somewhere around midnight, several hefty male nurses would emerge as if from some under-floor Hades but in reality from the psychiatric ward. They would be carrying a stretcher with restraints to admit her mad son as a non-voluntary patient. She knew that Sam would be kept in hospital for the briefest time possible, that he would be given strong medication and released in a state of stupor that would be, if anything, worse than the manic condition he was in now.

‘You should go home now Sally,’ she told her daughter as soon as they arrived at the hospital.

‘No Mum, I’ll wait with you. I am a nurse, after all.’

‘Yes, but you’re a theatre sister.’

They won’t be doing a lobotomy tonight, she almost added before she remembered that this daughter did not share her sense of humour. She would be shocked at such a remark. Sally’s sister, Rivkah, would have laughed for sure, but Rivkah was far away, in London.

‘No, please go, darling. Drago will be wondering what’s happened to you.’

3

Grace

Henry Valentine, Chair of the Jiltex Petroleum Board and holder of a number of lucrative company directorships, could not be happy in the company of unattractive women. Their physical shortcomings embarrassed him, and the charm he drew on so effortlessly when conversing with beautiful women like his wife Grace, deserted him.

Now he was suffering a kind of verbal paralysis as he faced his wife’s daughter Joanna across the sitting room of his and Graces’ luxury apartment several storeys above busy Toorak Village. The chair he was sitting in