Frank's Secret - Episode Sixteen of an Original Australian Mystery Novel

This is Episode Sixteen of Paternity in which Frank reveals a secret and Pip has some thinking to do.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR

And please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.



Frank seemed to take a deep breath, as though he was about to jump into a deep pool of water. And then he leapt:

‘Ah. I talked to a mate over at the court – the forensic bloke. He knows about DNA tests. He got one for me..

‘You? For you? Have you been doing something you shouldn’t have been doing Frank?’

‘No – I don’t think so. Nothing I wouldn’t be proud of …’

‘Anyway this mate got this DNA test and he’s given me the result.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And .. What if .. what if .. Robson wasn’t your father after all?’

‘I’d cheer. Of course.’

Then Pip got a gist of what Frank was trying to say. Was he suggesting? No. It couldn’t be …

‘Come on Frank. Put me out of my misery.’

‘That’s really what I’m trying to do Pippin. Just that. In a way.’

Frank bent even further forward towards her.

‘Your mother Selene and I were very good friends years ago. Very good friends. In fact we were together for more than a year when she broke off our relationship without warning. It nearly killed me.’

Frank stared at his wine.

‘That’s when I really got on the grog. That’s how much she meant to me …’

For a moment Pip wasn’t sure she was hearing this …

‘Gosh Frank. I had no idea you even knew each other.’

‘We knew each other all right. She was the centre of my existence and always has been.’

‘So why didn’t you say this before? Why on earth not?’

‘Well mate. For a while I didn’t twig that Violet Selene was the Selene I knew. Your name is Holmes and I knew your mother as Selene O’Rourke. That was the name in the court report in the paper remember? And that’s how I knew her.’

‘But you saw her pic …’

‘That hit me hard that did. I thought I’d better do a bit of research in case I put a foot wrong, so I didn’t say anything. I knew she had broken up with me months before the court case.

‘I hated the fact that she had been in so much trouble. Especially with those characters. A pack rape was nothing I could connect with my Selene.’

Frank’s eyes were swimming as they connected with hers across the check tablecloth.

Pip felt numb.

‘So … what about the DNA test?’

‘Well, by itself it was just a DNA test, and doesn’t tell us much. But I’ve been thinking about dates.

‘I reckon there is a very good chance that I could be your Dad.’

Pip looked closely: rapt.

The man who gazed towards her with such an earnest expression was the person she had known and admired as a young cadet. The Frank of old – confident and capable; trustworthy and empathetic. It was something of a transformation.

For Pip, his demeanour carried more weight at that moment than the words that tumbled into the quietness of that beautiful spot.

‘I’m sure I have at least as good a chance of being your father as Robson has, and given justice and fair play, I have a lot more.’

It was then that the words came together to produce a meaning – a meaning that could hold the key to her very existence.



A flock of galahs flew screeching from a nearby tree and a goanna skittered across the clearing. Then the clearing became quiet, but for the hum of cicadas in the distance.

‘I needed to talk to you. To see if you wanted to follow this further Pippin. Whether you really want to know beyond doubt. If it was me …’

Frank was staring intently at his hands, as though something minute on his skin could hold an answer to their dilemma.

Could he be right? Could this man be her father? This person whom she had admired for so long and who had been her mentor?

Frank was wondering if she wanted to follow through on his theory. How could he wonder that? How could he imagine she would not want to banish the possibility of Con Robson?

‘I would understand it mate if you didn’t want me in the picture. I can understand that …’

‘Frank please …’

‘We need never know – if that’s what you want. I just believed I had to tell you what may be …’

Right then there was hope in Pip’s heart. There was hope that the gang rape with all of its misery did not have far reaching consequences beyond those which had already destroyed her mother’s life. She did not want to imagine herself as the seed of that evil.

‘Of course I want to know. We must know! How could you think otherwise?’

She reached across the tablecloth to the nicotine stained hand lying there, and held it gently.

‘I’d love it if you were my Dad.’

A tear trickled down Frank’s weathered face.

'But what about you? Do you want to do this?'

'I'd be the proudest man on the planet ... if it was me.'

The tear mingled then with a broad grin.



There was a lightness in the air as the two of them enjoyed the wine and laid plans which might solve the mystery for once and all.

Pip felt sure that Denzy would come to the party, having Frank’s DNA results compared with her own. She could get those from the Macquarie Street specialist who did her test.

Frank said his research had clarified that he and Selene had broken up on June 30 1975.

‘I remember wondering if there was anything significant about it being the end of the financial year. They’re the sort of crazy things I was thinking.’

He had wracked his brain for reasons when Selene came back from ten days away to announce out of the blue that their relationship could not continue. She’d been travelling on her own, as she often did, exploring the countryside.

‘She seemed so distant when she got back that I thought she may have met someone else. Had another relationship going.

‘But she didn’t seem right somehow. She was lifeless and I felt deeply that there was something wrong.’

Selene had resigned her job soon afterwards and left Sydney.

Frank’s eyes were still moist. ‘I never saw her again.’



Pip was thinking fast: Frank and Selene broke up their relationship on 30th June 1975 and
the rape happened just six days previously, on June 24, while Selene was on her holiday. Pip herself was born on March 27 1976.

Almost nine months later. It was possible that Frank was her father.

On the other hand the rape date was also filled with possibilities.

‘You’re thinking that Selene got back after the rape in a complete panic …’

‘Yeah. Whatever, she wasn’t being rational. I mean if she thought she was pregnant at that time she’d have known that it wasn’t a result of the rape… I don’t think she knew at that stage.

‘I also think she couldn’t cope with any sort of closeness after that experience. Our relationship was just too much for her as well.’

‘The reports said that Selene was a virgin at the time of the rape.’

‘Shows you can’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ said Frank with a very large grin ‘I tell you she was no virgin. She was great!’

Pip remembered that Selene had changed her surname just before she gave birth. They both had been known by the name Holmes ever since.

Altogether, it was entirely reasonable that Frank would not have made the connection any earlier.

‘You’re making sense Frank. We need that DNA comparison!’

‘Mmmm. We do.’

As the sun lost its heat they piled into the car and meandered back into town. The two of them even sang along with a CD of ‘Give Me a Home Among the Gum Trees’.



After dinner with Frank at the Greek cafe Pip went back to her pub bedroom to find a single pink rose lying on her pillow, with no sign of where it came from.

Although puzzled, there were more pressing matters on her mind. She made a long phone call to her friend Denzy, the pathologist.

Denzy agreed to compare the result of Frank’s DNA test with the one of Pip’s which had been done through the Macquarie Street doctor’s. It would be ready in a day or so, depending on the time it took to have the test delivered from the CBD.

She hadn’t given Denzy too many details.

Pip made herself a cup of instant coffee in the pub kitchen and took it to the upstairs verandah outside her room. By this time the half moon was showing itself low above the horizon, and she leaned on the balcony railing to watch its glow as she mulled over the afternoon’s events.

Pip was also analysing her feelings.

She knew her immediate reaction to Frank’s suggestion was a positive one and now, thinking again on the possibilities, she still felt comfortable with the prospect of him being her father.

She’d always had a good friendship with Frank, right from the beginning of her cadetship when she’d arrived at the Sydney daily as a raw university graduate.

They’d had their ups and downs when she made mistakes.

And Pip had reservations about Frank’s increasing reliance on alcohol. Over the years they worked together she saw the blunting of the sharpness which had made him one of the city’s most respected journalists.

She had never understood why he let the demon drink enmesh him so completely in the end, and had watched the strange on-again-off-again relationship he had with Flo, the press bar attendant he lived with in between emotional explosions. Pip had always respected Flo and felt sorry for her.

It was a strange feeling, to imagine that Frank could be the source of her existence.

On the other hand, she had to be realistic. It was also very likely that her real father was Con Robson, the monstrous solicitor.



Pip’s dreams that night were a strange mixture.

She tossed and turned in between horrific images of werewolves and moons, strangely entangled, and with more peaceful dreams in which she seemed to be floating on quiet seas. Here, the moon remained with her, as though for protection.



The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

So - what will be the news from Denzy? What will happen next?

GO TO EPISODE SEVENTEEN

What a Picnic! - Episode 15 of 'Paternity' an Australian Mystery Novel

millon


This is Episode Fifteen of 'Paternity' in which Pip goes on a picnic and support comes from a mate in Sydney in her quest to find out who her father was.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR

And please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.

The bedroom door swung back and Frank stared at her from the corridor. ‘What is wrong Pippin? You look terrible.’

Pip hadn’t given a thought to her appearance. She had simply wanted to see a friendly face.

She turned into the room and glanced at the dressing table mirror, hardly recognising herself – red face still with an expression of fright, and hair on end.

They sat on either side of the bed and Pip told Frank what had happened with Robson and Gazza, including the sighting in the bar and the ambush at the dark end of the main street.

Frank became obviously furious. He began pacing between the bed and the door, not saying much, but with jaw set and fists in a ball. He was probably resisting lighting up a make-your-own cigarette.

‘Those bastards must be stopped!’ he roared suddenly ‘They have been terrorising people for too long.’

‘Yep.’ Pip was looking at the carpet, not noticing the stains, but thinking of the long line of people these men had damaged with impunity – beginning naturally, with her mother Violet Selene. ‘Yep. They must be stopped.’

Frank said he’d heard over at the District Court that the sergeant was working on implicating Robson in the rape. He had hopes that Gazza would succumb to pressure as his own assault trial drew near, but Gazza had been given bail.

It occurred to Pip that Frank did not know about George’s death.

‘You don’t know about George do you?’

‘George? In Westmead Hospital?’

‘Frank … George died.’

‘Dead?’ Pip nodded.

‘Irene Rouse told me today that he died only hours after he was taken off the helicopter. The road trip and the flight had been too much for him.’

Stunned, Frank was silent for a full minute, struggling with his feelings.

‘Poor old George.’

Then he turned to Pip. ‘Mate, that makes it murder! Those blokes are facing murder. That certainly raises the stakes. I wonder if they know.’

‘Oh I reckon they’d know and I reckon it’s quite likely that Gazza will be sitting in a cell again real soon.’

'We can only hope,' said Pip.

‘And my police sergeant friend will be working on him about the rape as well.’

Frank said that splitting on Con could become a matter of self-preservation for Gazza now that the assault charge was one of murder. The police will say ‘You help us, we’ll help you,’ and make a deal, he said.

‘Gazza will have a lot more bargaining chips if he gives evidence against Con on the rape matter as well as the murder. He’ll be sorely tempted, and that would sure bring down Con’s little deck of cards.’



Pip felt full of beans next morning and beat Frank to the dining room for breakfast. She was chopping a banana to give some flavour to her bowl of cornflakes when the house maid came in from the kitchen and walked straight to her table.

The cook had just relayed the news that Gazza was in gaol after being re-arrested overnight and was likely to be charged with George’s murder any time soon.

‘It’s the best thing I’ve heard for months!’ Maisie the maid had no time for Gazza.

The heavy young woman was making off with a pile of dirty plates from the next table when Pip’s mobile rang.

It was Joe in his office at the city daily. ‘G’day Magee. The agencies are saying there’s been a murder in your favourite country town and that the mechanic fella Gazza has been charged. Didn’t you think he was the rapist?’

‘Yes Joe. One of them …’

‘Crikey!’

‘Yes and the man who was murdered was another.’

‘Another of the rapists? How did you know about this?’

There was a silence but Pip seemed to feel that Joe’s brain was whirring, making connections.

‘This hasn’t anything to do with those investigations of yours? You haven’t stirred up a hornets’ nest?’

‘You could say that Joe. You could say that there may be a connection.’

More silence. More imaginary whirring.

‘Pip. Where are you? You’re not …’

‘Yep. I’m here Joe. Right at the scene of the crime.’

‘You are mad!’

‘It’s where I want to be mate.’

‘Please Pip. Please have some sense…’ Joe seemed to be almost in agony, ‘Hey. Just how many rapists were there? One’s in gaol and one’s dead. Is that it?’

‘There were four all up. Another one dead and the fourth is the local solicitor here. He’s the cutest of all.’

‘Shit mate … Are you there alone? Do you have anyone helping out? I mean how long do ya reckon on staying?’

‘Joe I’m okay. Do you remember Frank Rolls?'

‘The old chief of staff?’'

‘The same. Well he’s come a bit of a cropper and is the editor of the local rag here. He’s with me – and helping out.’

‘I can’t believe you sometimes! He’s a good bloke but he’s past it - no help at all. You need a keeper. I’m comin’ down.’

‘But your job …’

‘I’ve got some time off coming to me. And I could file a story or two anyway. I’m coming down!’

Pip stared at her suddenly silent mobile. Joe was in his mood that will not take no for an answer. She took hold of the little phone and placed its still bright face against her cheek, remembering Joe’s blue eyes.

She found the proximity very comfortable.



Frank had finally made it down to breakfast and asked her if she’d come for a drive with him, as he had something important to say. He didn’t want to discuss the matter where they could be interrupted … and that excluded the pub and his office.

Pip’s theory was that he had news about police interrogations of Gazza.

Later that morning Frank picked her up in his Holden and turned north, leaving the pub and the town in their wake.

The old journo seemed a bit on edge and remained quiet except for an occasional bit of stilted small talk. They drove for probably five kilometres and turned down a track that led to a meandering burbling creek in a little valley.

Here Frank pulled into a clearing. It was a beautiful spot, and the day was blue with a gentle cooling breeze.

To Pip’s great surprise, Frank opened his car boot to extract a picnic table and two canvas directors’ chairs. He set them up under a sprawling gum tree and spread out a check tablecloth from a hamper. Then he laid out a bottle of red wine, two glasses and some soft cheese and crackers, and invited her to be seated. There were even table napkins to match the cloth.

It was an understatement to suggest that Pip was astonished.

When Pip was settled on one of the chairs and facing the sparkling creek, Frank sat on the other, opposite her.

He uncorked the Cabernet Savignon, poured a regulation amount into each glass and placed one in front of Pip and left one for himself. He placed the cheese platter within easy reach of Pip. Frank leaned forward until his green eyes looked deeply into hers.

‘I .. I..er .. have some news.’

‘Mmmm?’

‘I’ve been over at the District Court as you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘And doin’ some research in between my stories.’

Frank shuffled his feet and re-settled himself on the director’s chair.

‘This is very difficult.’

‘That’s okay. Shoot.’


The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

Do you enjoy picnics?

GO TO EPISODE SIXTEEN

Attack on a Dark Night - Episode 14 of 'Paternity' my Australian mystery novel

Red soil and spinifex of the Australian Outback - Kimberley Region WA


This is Episode Fourteen of 'Paternity' in which an Australian outback town is the scene of an attack on a dark night, and Pip gets closer to her goal.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR

And please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.


The hour’s sleep had stretched into two before Pip’s feet hit the floor again and wandered down the hall to the ladies’. On the way she met the bar manager who said that Frank was still not back from the District Court.

It was creeping towards dinner time and she didn’t feel like risking any chance meeting with Robson at the pub so decided on a meal at the Greek café – the third of the day. Cosmos would be pleased with her patronage …

Daylight saving time meant the sun was still hot in the sky, but she decided on exercise and walked down the main street, past the sad petrol pump and the leaning houses caressed with tall weeds, and almost to the end of the town …

She didn’t want much to eat but made an order anyway and opened her book to read it then and there on the sticky table top.

Pip had left the John Le Carre spy thriller in her room when she’d gone back to the city, and decided to have another go at it now. An hour later Pip was savouring the last of the apple pie and cream and her second cup of coffee sat lukewarm beside her elbow.

She had been completely entangled in the story and was disappointed to get to the last page: ‘The gun, Bill Roach had finally convinced himself, was after all a dream.’ Good stuff.


Pip realised it was all but dark outside, paid the bill and stepped onto the footpath and into the gloom. Clouds blotted out the moon, and a skittish wind sent a scurry of dust into her eyes. She could taste the grit between her teeth.

She quickened her pace.

Pip’s footsteps seemed to echo against a teetering wall of bricks sitting very close by on a vacant lot to the right – the surviving remainder of a one-time substantial home. The ruins looked ghostly against the black-blue sky.

Abreast of the wall, she heard a slight movement. The skin on her neck tingled and her frame stiffened.

From the piles of bricks and rubbish two dark figures loomed – one short and nuggetty and the other a mountain of a man who lumbered towards her, surprisingly speedy, and breathed a stink of rotten eggs into her face.

For a split moment she froze and she knew that Robson and Gazza were so close that the three of them were almost touching, with Pip herself wedged in the small space against the crumbling brick wall.

The stink intensified and Gazza’s breath became tangible as he let out an almost inaudible chuckle. Robson made no sound.

The three of them stood there as though fixed. Then, galvanised, Pip did move and felt her arm scrape against the jagged wall as she squeezed past the two men and into the open on the other side.

The young woman quickly gathered speed, running along the interminable footpath towards the pub. She shot glances over her shoulder to see that the men were not following, and fancied she heard laughter wafting towards her on the wind.

Pip got to the front door of the hotel and here, lungs bursting, she paused and gathered herself for a slow long walk down the corridor and past the bar.

She reached the carved staircase and mounted them two at a time, tripped over the carpet runner in the hall and finally made it to the door of Room 22.

It was an eternity before the key did its job, and Pip shot through the opening, slammed the door and collapsed against the old timber, breathless, on the other side.

Pip's heart had only just slowed to its normal pace when she heard Frank’s voice at the door. At that moment there couldn’t have been anything more welcome.


The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

Have you ever had a scare on a dark night?

GO TO EPISODE FIFTEEN

Frying an Egg on a Hot Road - Episode 13 of 'Paternity' an Australian mystery novel

This is Episode Thirteen of 'Paternity' in which Pip returns to the town where her mother was pack raped. The young journalist may soon know who her father was.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR

And please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.

As she humped her bag across the scalding bitumen Pip thought again of her cadetship days and another of those stand by fillers that Frank pulled out of his kit when there was a shortage of copy.

On a hot Australian summer day he’d get the newest of the photographers to crack an egg on the road outside the office and take shots as it gradually fried in the rays of the sun. Often, it was also a sort of twisted initiation for the cadet.

The city cooks in forty degrees heat the heading would scream.

Sure enough, Frank was wetting his whistle in the bar when she wandered downstairs after her shower. He caught sight of her and grinning hugely, enfolded her in a bear hug.

‘So you’re back mate.’ He held her at arms length and the smile in his eyes turned to worry.

‘You’ll have to be damned careful my girl.’

Pip shrugged with fabricated bravado. ‘Con will be the one who has to be careful. What’s the latest?’

‘Some bad news about George. He’s been flown from over at the regional hospital by helicopter to Westmead Hospital in Sydney. I’m afraid that his broken ribs have pierced his lung and there are other issues too. The doctors say he’s in a bad way.’

It seemed that George was in such a bad way that the assault charge could easily become one of murder.

It was a while before either spoke again, and Pip broke the silence.

‘This is getting out of hand … Perhaps I should let everything drop Frank.’

‘What difference would that make now mate? The damage is done. On the other hand Robson could get his comeuppance, if we’re lucky.'

Frank said the sergeant was still working on Gazza in the belief that self preservation would produce information to incriminate Robson.

‘I reckon Con is a goner,’ he said with conviction.

‘Let’s hope you’re right. Is the beer cold?’

‘They’re not game to serve it any other way … I’ll get you one.’

Frank was as good as his word. The beer was icy cold and as the fluid slipped down she could feel herself relaxing. Her old friend was looking intently towards her.

‘I don’t get why you’re here right now Pippin. What do you hope to achieve?’

Pip glanced outside the window and into the distance. The bare brown paddocks seemed to stretch forever. This land could be so impersonal. Her mind came back into the bar and her eyes met those of this kindly man.

‘It’s just a feeling that I needed to be here. It’s as though I’m looking after Selene’s interests … I can tell myself it is a holiday too.’

‘Well don’t do anything stupid.’

Pip hoped the look she gave him conveyed a confidence she didn’t really feel.

She had been given the same bedroom upstairs – Room 22 with its faded pink chenille bedspread and the swirling pattern of English-style roses embossed on the fake plaster ceiling. It was like old home week.

The trip had been long, hot and dusty and she really needed an early night. The mattress objected with a squeak when Pip threw herself full length on the sheets and opened her latest thriller at the post-it note book mark.

Tired or not, a couple of chapters were mandatory if she was to get to sleep easily.

It wasn’t too long before her eyelids drooped and the book threatened to drop to the floor. The central light still burned bright in the ceiling but she wouldn’t interrupt that dreamy feeling between waking and sleep for anything right now … right now …

The mobile shrieked her awake only half an hour later with a full blast of the William Tell Overture.

She’d left it on loudest for the trip so that she could hear any ring above the CD player.

Groggy, Pip staggered off the bed and over to the oak dressing table, and lifted the phone from where it lay on the starched doyley.

‘It’s Denzy – were you asleep? Sorry …’

‘Thatsh okay mate … wotchawant?’ She was half in dreamland.

‘I thought you’d want to know ASAP. It’s the Raven thing … They’ve ruled him out as well. Nothing like a match it seems.’

The news wasn’t a huge surprise. She had never thought that Raven was the one.

‘Pip? Still there?’

‘Yep. Sorry. And thanks Denzy. You’re a good mate. So it looks like I don’t have any African American in me eh?’

‘Seems not. Look I’ll let you get back to bed … I could do with some sleep myself.’

Pip let the phone drop on the sheets and gathered the pillow beneath her cheek. Of course she WAS awake now.

Not Raven. Not Gazza. Not Wimpole.

Surprisingly though, within five minutes Pip was lightly snoring.

Next morning Pip faced the distinct likelihood that Robson was her father. Con Robson, the sleaze who masterminded the pack rape and yet turned up for some spoils only after the others had kidnapped Selene.

Con Robson, the corrupt country solicitor who did old ladies out of their trust accounts. Robson who could have killed her that dark night out on Rouse’s farm. The guy who had the most to lose in all of this.

When Denzy rang Pip had been too sleepy to take in the reality. Now it hit her. Con Robson. But how to prove it?

She knew Frank wouldn’t be downstairs. He’d said he had to leave early to get over to the District Court before the 10am start.

The old journo would have to be told the news when he got back that night.

Someone had remembered her request to leave the newspapers outside the door, so she read them in her room. Even the front pages were full of the latest test cricket. When would they wake up that not all Australians were sports mad?

She checked her emails and then wandered down the hall for a shower and rinsed out some undies in the bath tub, rolling them in a towel so they wouldn’t drip all the way back to her room. There she spread them on the backs of two chairs near her bed.

Pip had promised herself a meal down at the Greek café. Anything but soggy toast and hard eggs at the pub. That meant a very late breakfast, so she drove the couple of doors to the petrol pump at the store and filled up before the café opened.

Irene Rouse was in the shop with her children when she went in to pay the bill, and the farmer’s wife rushed over to Pip with an anxious look on her face.

‘Miss Holmes have you heard?’

‘Heard? Mrs Rouse?’

‘The teacher just told me that George Wimpole is dead. He died just after they got him to the hospital in Sydney … George is dead.’

It was murder.

Pip gunned her car mercilessly down the main street, screeched left just past the warrior and roared down the straight dirt road that led into the bush. Here she slammed the car door and almost ran to the space of her mother’s nightmares.

In a rage of torment Pip gathered rocks. Gathered rocks and threw them in a flurry at the dusty ground and towards the trees. A dozen missiles she let fly, each one serving to lessen the pent up fury and anger that had been hers alone for too long.

Eventually, energy spent, Pip’s frame melted to the ground. A tear found its way down her cheek and became a flood. She howled with emotion.

Her rage had spoken of her mother’s years of agony. It screamed at the rapists who had lived their lives untrammelled, while others suffered. It bellowed at injustice wherever it was felt. Most of all it scarified Con Robson.

George’s death may have been the catalyst for this release, but Pip’s crisis was much more than that – it was a leap in which the past and the present melded into an understanding.

At this moment in the Australian bush the jigsaw puzzle that had been the lives of her mother and herself became one whole: an entirety that must now be cherished and nurtured; set into its own special safe place in the scheme of things; a basis that would become a springboard towards her future.

Pip now knew that life had to be lived and that the future would not look after itself. George’s death and all that went before had writ large the truth that life was no rehearsal but must be lived full the first time around. Life needed to be faced and dealt with, and the past placed gently in position ― prized yet no longer dominant.

Many minutes later, she grew quiet. She felt a relief that she had never known before.

It was still morning time, but Pip believed that she saw the moon – her mother’s moon – in the sky above. And it comforted her.

Calmed, Pip drove back to the Greek café feeling very hungry. She ordered spinach and fetta cheese pie and olives, biscotti and thick black coffee.

Cosmo, the son of the proprietor, was full of George’s death. Naturally it had by now become the talk of the town, and he was keen to chat. Even his father, the plump old Greek with the drooping moustache, seemed energised by the news.

Everyone knew Gazza was being held for the assault and it seemed the mechanic had few real friends in the town. According to the Greeks, he’d bullied too many of the locals over the years and now they had no sympathy to spare for him.

On the other hand George was well thought of, and regarded as an excellent teacher and a good bloke – even if he was believed to be rather strange.



Back at the pub, Pip walked through the rear door and along the corridor that passed the bar.

The place was just beginning to fill with thirsty workers and most were milling around the bar waiting to be served, or lighting up the first really relaxed smoke of the day.

Her eyes swept the room and came to a stop at the far corner where two figures were huddled at a small round table, sitting on tall stools. Gazza and Robson were deep in private conversation.

Pip slipped across the open door way as quickly as she could, and hoped she hadn’t been seen.

She’d imagined that Gazza would have still been in remand but of course assault wasn’t the most serious crime in the book and he’d have got bail okay – if he’d actually been charged.

The huddle put the two men together in common purpose. It was certainly unusual to see a solicitor and a mechanic like Gazza in a social situation, and showed they were reasonably sure of themselves. Although Con could always pass off the meeting as ‘legal advice’.

It was most unlikely that Gazza would have sought out Con if he’d actually dobbed him into police about the rape.

This probably meant that Gazza hadn’t split on Robson despite the police sergeant’s best efforts, and that they were comparing notes on how to face future events.

You can bet they would soon hear about George’s death – now murder.

Pip spared herself a smile as she thought that it would only be a matter of time before the sergeant put two and two together – and acted. That was good dream material, so she decided to have an hour’s sleep.


The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.


Have you ever fried an egg on a hot road?

GO TO EPISODE FOURTEEN
Before I sign off, may I vehemently disagree with the latest Google literary quote:
‘It seems, in fact, that the second half of a man’s life is made up of nothing, but the habits he has accumulated during the first half.’ Fyodor Dostoevsky (Russian novelist)

What do you think? Is this true for either man or woman?

Meet Pip in the Flesh

Portrait of Pip - Vikki North of The Red Chair Gallery


Meet Pip in the flesh.

Staggeringly talented Vikki North of California’s The Red Chair Gallery has done a conceptual portrait of our heroine Pip Holmes and allowed me to publish it here so that we can all share …

What do you reckon?

The character Pip is a Sydney journalist, a pocket dynamo who faces all sorts of dangers to track down her father who could have been a member of a pack of rapists. We're now up to episode twelve of her story.

To my mind she has Pip down to the finest detail.

Vikki posted her portrait on her blog and waited for me to make my usual visit there, so that I’d get a surprise.

Wow! Was I ever thrilled.

To come face to face with someone you’ve been gradually building in your mind for eight years is an amazing experience.

And to agree with someone on the other side of the world about just how your creation would look is truly something else. As I said to Vikki ‘we’ve been a good team’.

Vikki has been following Pip’s adventure since episode one and I’ve loved her comments. She knows our young journalist inside out – and that’s informed her portrait.

(I wish more of my readers would be less shy and tell me what they think of the story. No need for flash words and phrases. Just fair dinkum feelings. And if you pick up any mistakes that would be particularly great.)

Vikki said this week ‘Pip is like a contradiction to her appearance. She’s pixy in size but huge in personality.

'Everyone always thinks that’s revealed in the eyes. I think it’s actually in our jaw line, how we hold our head and simply pose our mouth.’

She sure captured that in the picture.

The picture has stirred up quite a hornets’ nest on Vikki’s blog.

Steve Emery an artist of North Carolina wrote a comment to Vikki about her Pip – and he hadn’t even read the story:

‘Wow - this is strong stuff, especially from your head! The eyes are gripping, and beautiful.
I DO get a self assured, confident, no-time-for-appearances feeling from this face - but it's also a very sexy face, a face with beautiful bones beneath it. I immediately felt I would be at ease AND intimidated by her, both at once. And I assumed it had to be a real person to get this much complexity into the portrait.’

How about that as a confirmation of Vikki’s skill?

When I stumbled over the portrait a day after it was posted (and Vikki was sitting on pins waiting for me to see it) I wrote:

‘That's Pip! You have filled in our blank space - her visual appearance. I'm quite teary that you have been caught up enough in my story to do this. I looked long and hard at your portrait. I felt her. Then I knew. Pip has come out of the shadows to find her light.

'Those eyes are so right. She does have a secret doesn't she? Those eyes tell us so ... A sense of humour and humanity are also lurking there. Her hair is perfect - no curlers for sure. THE NOSE. Determined independent mouth. Sexy. High intelligent forehead.

'She was a shock to begin but now I know her so well after just ten minutes. (And of course the eight years I've taken to write her into existence! And your profound skill and insight.)’


Detail original Portrait of Pip - Vikki North


Now - Pip hates her nose and wonders if it's a leftover from her unknown father. Pip's mother called it 'aristocratic'. Both Vikki and I had slight reservations about the original size (above), and Vikki offered to change it slightly to the version at the top of the post. Perfect.

I had written:
'Yes, I do think the nose MAY be a tiny bit too large. You know us women - we're often more dissatisfied with features of our appearance than we should be! However, I think you know Pip every bit as much as I do - and I have NO desire to mess with your skill. So it's entirely up to you whether a teensy bit of shadow goes or not.'

BUT WAIT! There’s more to this story …



This is a picture of me when I was 21. And (below) my blogging profile pic at 72 years.



Compare these with Vikki's Pip (below). Any comments?


Portrait of Pip by Vikki North

Next day I noted what I thought to be certain similarities in these pix and asked Vikki if she had somehow taken in the profile pic on my blog at all - even perhaps unconsciously, and sent her a large copy and one of me at 21 years.

Vikki was stunned. My profile pic on the blog was very small and she certainly hadn't examined it.

'It's eerie! You are Pip!!! I'm stunned. Except - sorry- you don't have the 'aristocratic snozola.' You 'unfortunately' have a perfect little girl nose - or it would be an exact match. Wow! I can see why the image so affected you.'

It’s well know that many authors put a lot of themselves in their characters, and I’m the first to admit that there is some Pip in me – we’re both journalists for instance.

But I feel Pip would always be a bit wilder and gamer than I have been throughout my life. And that's fine. She needs to be!

My younger picture shows a similarity in bone structure (thanks to Steve for the unintended flattery), and the shape of the eyes in the older pic have ‘the same little cat like turn’ as Vikki puts it.

I do think I have more symmetrical eyes in reality and that the shape in the profile pic is accentuated by the weight of my hand under my left eye. But ...

Then there’s the hair line …

What a wonderful all round story this is. Vikki’s generosity has given me many kicks and I now ask that my bloggy mates have fun with this too. Let’s know what you think in a comment.

And don’t forget to visit Vikki at The Red Chair Gallery. I really am so greatful for her generosity.



She's a cool dude and a great artist. Here's her impressive profile.

Please tell me in a comment what you think about Pip's pic - is she what you'd imagined? Does her personality 'fit'?

Next episode of ‘Paternity’ coming very soon.

You can beginning at the beginning of the story here. Then click 'Earlier Posts' at the bottom of the episode to continue your story.

Cheers from
June

DNA and Its Secrets - Episode 12 of 'Paternity' an original Australian mystery novel.

This is Episode Twelve of 'Paternity' in which Pip gets to know more about DNA and its secrets. The young journalist may soon know whether her father was a rapist ...

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR

And please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.


Wikipedia pic

Back at her apartment Pip called Denzy’s number. She wasn’t in her office and the operator said she would be out of town until the following day. Pip’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling in frustration. She had promised to get this stuff back in just four hours. Now what?

The day before she’d printed off some information from the genome site and now leafed through the A4 pages. What every law enforcement officer should know …

Pip read intently for several minutes and then grabbed her wallet and made for the door. Half an hour later she was back with two large shopping bags — one from a medical supplies store, one from a supermarket.

The photographic section at the newspaper agreed to a session at four o’clock. She thought she’d better cover herself by getting pix, even though she may never write a story to go with them.

She had decided to have a go at collecting the test samples herself.

DNA evidence can be contaminated when DNA from another source gets mixed up with DNA relevant to the case. This can happen when someone sneezes or coughs over the evidence or touches his/her mouth, nose or other part of the face and then touches the area that may contain the DNA to be tested.

Pip slipped a mask onto her face and adjusted the elastic to ensure the protection was snug. The pair of new surgical gloves slipped easily onto her hands.

Already she seriously needed to scratch an itchy spot on her nose.

She peered into the bag, sizing up its contents. The mouth guard would be too difficult and may easily prove unreliable. It had lain in the glass case uncovered and certainly touched by human hand — for one, she saw the manager pick it up and put it in the bag.

The inside of the head guard might be a different matter. Benny said Pug wore it on the morning of his death and that it had been incorporated in the exhibition immediately after being taken from the dead man’s locker.

She could take a bet that no-one would have tried it on for size — such a liberty would have seemed blasphemous in the circumstances. It was odds on that any traces of Pug would be there intact, inside the headpiece.

Pip moved the black shiny leather closer to the reading light on her desk. It still smelled new.
She noticed it was lined with soft suede.

Source of DNA on a hat being used as evidence: sweat, hair, dandruff. Dare she take a small piece from the lining? Nothing ventured nothing gained.

She placed a piece of gauze, folded double, ready on the desk, then took a pair of sterile scissors from their shrink wrapping and snipped a tiny patch of suede from a spot where the lining creased just above the ear.

Only a few cells can be sufficient to obtain useful DNA information … She put the piece on the gauze. Air-dry evidence thoroughly before packaging.

She looked again and discovered a small dark hair curled on the soft suede. Great. She extracted it carefully with sterile tweezers and put it on new gauze beside the patch. Then she moved quickly to the other side of the room and took off her mask.

The itch on her nose had become insufferable. She scraped at her skin. Bliss.

Pip replaced the mask and put on a new pair of gloves. Denzy would be proud of her.

The hand wraps were her next choice. She opened the zip bag and held the tangled strips in her hands, unravelling them until she reached the very centre of the roll. Here she snipped — again with a fresh pair of scissors — and placed her trophy on a fresh piece of gauze.

If there wasn’t some sweat or a skin fragment on that she’d give up.

Pip realised she’d been holding her breath, and let out a satisfying gasp of air. Almost done.

She stared at the fragments lying on the gauze. What would they reveal?


In the newspaper business Pip was known for her thoroughness and attention to detail and the photographer looked puzzled when she showed every sign of wanting to rush the job with the boxing gear. But he wasn’t complaining. It was the end of a long day.

By five-thirty the head gear, the hand wraps and the mouth guard were all back at the gym, in the glass case.

By six-fifteen Pip was drinking herbal tea in her kitchen. The fragments she’d collected lay on the gauze on her desk, alongside several paper bags.

When transporting and storing evidence that may contain DNA it is important to keep the evidence dry and at room temperature … never place evidence that may contain DNA in plastic bags because plastic bags will retain damaging moisture.


Finally she got hold of Denzy. The pathologist’s voice was friendly, as ever, but there was something in her tone that made Pip uneasy.

‘You have some results on the Robson stuff haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have. No go, I’m afraid. He’s not on the Department of Prisons data base.’

‘Hell. I was hoping …’

‘It was a slim chance Pip. You knew that.’

‘ ’Course. Can’t help being disappointed though.’ She felt for a moment as though someone had kicked her in the ribs. It was about time she made some headway on this. She still didn’t know whether it was Robson or not! She could not believe how difficult this was becoming.

Keep faith Pip, she told herself. There were other possibilities …

‘Hey, might I ask another favour?’ Pip sensed a cautious silence on the phone.

‘Mmmm?’

‘I have some samples from another rapist. Can you recommend somewhere I could have them tested?’

‘What sort of samples?’

Pip reeled off details of her quest to gather DNA evidence on Pug Raven, emphasising the care she had taken with the boxing gear.

‘Well done. You’ve been thorough. You might find it difficult to get someone to do the tests without permission from the relatives though.’

'I could be a relative!’ Denzy shrugged.

‘That’s pulling a long bow isn’t it?’

‘It’s true …’

‘Yes yes…’

‘Come on Den …’

‘I suppose I’ll do it on the quiet for you. In the lab. But there will be nothing legal about it — not so far as proof is concerned. You realise that?’

‘That’s not what it’s all about.’

‘There’ll be no hope of using the results down the line …’

‘I understand. It’s just knowing, that’s all. For myself.’

‘Okay. I see that Pip. I’ll be passing close to your place tonight, so I’ll drop in and pick up the stuff.’

‘We’ll have a bite to eat.’


Pip was in the shower fully soaped up when her mobile rang. Normally she’d let it buzz away, but somehow there was an urgency about the way this signal cut through the sound of streaming water. So she turned off the tap and dripped across the carpet to the phone lying on her bedside table.

It was Frank. ‘Big news Pippin.’

‘News?’

‘A goon waylaid George Wimpole when he was on his way home from a parents’ meeting at the school last night. Bashed him senseless. To put it mildly, he’s not well.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Nup. Afraid not. I went to see him this morning over at the regional hospital. He’s black and blue and hardly able to speak through very thick lips. The quacks reckon he has three broken ribs and they say he might have done in his spleen …’

‘Jesus Frank …’ Pip could feel a mix of pity, frustration and anger rising within her. George didn’t deserve that – no-one did.

‘There’s something else.’

‘What?’

‘I could see that George wanted to tell me something, so I bent down real low … He whispered to me. He said Gazza did the number on him.’

‘No …’

‘You sure rattled their cages my girl. Robson must have cooked this up. Would have told Gazza about what you said at Rouse’s.’

Frank was right of course, thought Pip. The crooked solicitor still had the wood on Gazza sufficiently to blackmail him into doing this.

At the other end of the line Frank was also working things out for himself: ‘Con wouldn’t do the bashing — it’s not his style at all. He works in the shadows and doesn’t put himself in the way of any physical stuff.’

‘He doesn’t mind letting a car do the job though. Robson was pretty riled that night out at the Rouses’ place. He could have killed me on that track, and he wouldn’t have given a damn.’ The night out at the farm came back in sharp detail.

‘There were no witnesses were there? We know the stuff these blokes are made of, so it shouldn’t be any sort of surprise … I figure they decided to shut George up at all costs.’

Frank reminded her that George was the only person likely to give evidence against Robson in the rape case, and that it was quite likely that someone in town had seen her car at George’s place.

‘It’s a small town Pippin. You saw George at his place twice, as well as having lunch with him at the Greek’s?’

‘Not exactly. I was having lunch and he spoke to me for about two minutes.’

‘That’s enough in a little town. Anyone could have told them. Cosmo at the café … anybody.’

‘Yeah. You’re right. Of course … poor George.’

Frank went on to lecture her about being careful where she went on a dark night. Apparently Robson had left town, supposedly making for the city.

‘You can’t be serious Frank. He wouldn’t dare! A journalist on a city daily?’

‘Like I said mate – he’s a quiet worker.’

She updated her friend on the failure of her prison database theory and they called it a day.

Pip put the phone back on its base and had just made it the lounge with a fruit juice when it rang again, seeming a lot louder than it should have been.

Frank.

‘I mean that about being careful Pippin. I don’t want you makin’ headline news.’

‘Yeah - fair enough. Thanks for caring.’

‘Look – I’ll do what I can to push George towards getting the cops to lay charges.’

‘Is that wise? For George’s sake?’

‘If he doesn’t take a stand mate his life won’t be worth living for ever more. He’ll be safest if he can get those bastards into gaol and out of the way.’

‘But he hasn’t got anything on Robson so far as the bashing is concerned …’

‘You never know how cookies might crumble Pippin. I’ll keep you posted.’


The lift doors closed on Denzy’s grin, and Pip turned and walked back into her apartment. They’d been good mates since meeting during one of her news investigations five years before.

Denzy seemed impressed with Pip’s choice of material for the Raven DNA testing, and her collection technique.

‘I’ll get you a job as a lab assistant any time you’re thrown out of journalism,’ she’d said, hopefully with some irony.

Although Pip ordered pizza and she and Denzy had sipped their way through a bottle of cabernet merlot, it was still only ten, so she logged in to collect her email.

She had authorised her solicitor to send the report of the DNA test results, and here it was in a baldly named attachment: Paternity.doc. She double clicked.

It was a strange and clinical way to hope to discover your origins.

Institute of Forensic Medicine: Paternity Screening — Summary of findings. Donor One (Wimpole): Excluded Donor Two (Bullfinck): Excluded Please note: In the absence of maternal profile exclusion rate is 99.6%.

The full report followed, with detailed results of each test and a statement that 99.6% was generally accepted as providing a ‘probability of exclusion’ from paternity, and that each donor had met this criteria.

So George Wimpole and Gazza Bullfinck were ruled out as being her biological father, and Pip couldn’t say she was sorry. But that could mean …

She stood on tiptoe to see her likeness reflected in a mirror on the dining room wall. In her wildest dreams she would not have pinned that face down as having African American blood … She would soon know.

And her nose. Like it or not the photograph of Con Robson highlighted his nose, and its uncanny resemblance to her own. That shape which her mother was always at pains to call aristocratic.

Two suspects down and two to go …


Raven or Robson … Robson or Raven …

Next morning Pip lay on her back, hands behind her head, staring towards the decorative patterns on her bedroom ceiling. She had decided to have a lazy start to the day and had been trying to read a John Le Carre thriller.

Even the master spy writer couldn’t hold her at that moment.

Well, she had sworn to unravel this mystery of Selene’s. Now it looked as though the answer lay with one or the other of two men — a boxing promoter, for god’s sake, and a crooked solicitor — neither of them averse to a walk on the wild side to satisfy their urges, at least in their younger days.

She could never be proud of coming from that stock. But which one?

She might be within an ace of ruling out Pug Raven (or in, she remembered).

If Denzy’s answer was no or inconclusive — what then? If her answer was yes … Then it would be a matter of adjusting; knowing she had come to the end of her road. Coming to terms with the reality of her dad.

But if the answer was no …

Pip jumped as the phone beside her bed shrilled its metallic ring. It was Frank, seeming spry for that time of the day.

‘More news Pippin. They’ve got Gazza on George’s assault and he’s being held for questioning. He was silly enough to rave on about it to a mate at the pub and they got him this afternoon.’

‘That’s great Frank. Now what though? Will they charge him do you reckon?’

‘They intend to. But even better mate. I had a word in the police sergeant’s shell like.

‘He’s gunna accidentally open up the question of the rape with Gaz. He’ll suggest that it would go well for him if he had some information he hadn’t split about.’

‘All those years ago?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘With Robson in his sights?’

‘Yeah. And with any luck Gazza will implicate Robson for George’s assault as well. To help save his skin.’

‘Take care Frank. We have to protect George …’

Frank said the sergeant had been a raw cadet at the time of her mother’s rape and saw some things during the investigation that he didn’t like.

‘It’s enough to keep George out of the picture. The copper reckons the police prosecutor ignored the fact that forensics found three lots of semen at the site.

‘He blurred the facts and as a result the jury overlooked the reality that George’s sample wasn’t among them.’

‘Making it a matter of mathematics?’

‘Yes. If George didn’t leave a sample behind and if there were three lots of semen found, there had to be a fourth man in on the act that night. Primary school addition and subtraction …’

‘And the raw cadet was good at his numbers?’

‘That’s about it. I simply dropped a hint or two and the cadet, now a sergeant, grabbed them with two hands.’

‘Fascinating. Keep me posted Frank. If things develop it might even be worth my while going out there to follow events.’

Once again Frank finished their conversation with dire predictions about Pip’s safety.

The war memorial shimmered in the intense heat as Pip’s car made its way down the steep hill and into town. The heavy uniform of the warrior of World War 1 was incongruous in this climate, and his gun looked big and awkward. She felt sorry for him, having to stand there through the decades, keeping alive the ideals of his generation …

Summer had closed in with a vengeance in the west.

Pip had turned off the air conditioning a few kilometres back to save petrol, and could now feel the globules of sweat lined up on the strip of skin beneath her nose. She’d perspired a lot throughout her life and often found it an embarrassment. Her hair dripped after even the slightest exertion in the heat, destroying any semblance of a coiffure.

She remembered those teen years when appearances seemed so important, and the times when she cringed to see patches of wet beneath her arms. Now mostly she felt sufficiently self possessed not to care too much. The pub shower would be good though ― clinging shower curtain and all.

As her car crawled into town, she found herself looking around the main drag and up the side street for any sign of Robson’s big black Mercedes.

She arrived at the top of the main drag with no sighting, and turned into the parking area at the back of the pub, where she found a small area of shade in the lee of the building.

What would the next few days bring?

The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.


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Has DNA testing ever solved a mystery in your family? Or has it been useful in other ways? Please tell me in a comment ...