by Garry Disher
‘In that case, how about you give me a bit more detail about this excursion instead of sitting there as if you’d rather be somewhere else.’
Rebuked, Auhl outlined the backstory: Elphick, Vance, the LandCruiser, the ferry trip.
Claire chewed on that as the landscape unfolded. ‘But you don’t have actual proof of anything.’
Auhl shrugged. ‘The elegant neatness. It all comes together.’
‘All he has to do is deny.’
‘He can’t deny the numberplate, clear as mud on the cover of a notebook kept by a man he’d fallen out with, who died violently.’
‘You know what a lawyer will do with that. There’s no way of proving when the numberplate was written down. It could date back to when this Vance character worked for him.’
‘You’re a bit of a killjoy really, aren’t you?’ Auhl said.
He said it lightly, with humour, which he thought was an achievement given the state he was in. They rode into Moe on a tide of muted goodwill.
ROGER VANCE LIVED IN a block of flats, three up, three down, at the edge of town. A short, sad, overlooked street behind a timber yard, the kind of place where trees were a blight and weed-clearing was someone else’s job. At the kerb, a police divvy van. Glimpsed in the cramped residents’ parking at the rear, a Holden ute with a built-in metal canopy, stencilled Horse Sense Farrier.
‘Let’s hope he hasn’t got any,’ Claire muttered.
‘Let’s hope he’s home.’
They parked and got out. The police van was empty, but Auhl could see the local uniforms now, on the doorstep of a bottom flat. He could also see what they couldn’t: Roger Vance in the side yard, scurrying for his ute. Claire grinned. ‘You go one way, I’ll go the other.’ She paused. ‘If you’re up to it.’
‘I’ll throw my Zimmer frame at him.’
Claire sprinted the long way around, passing the local police, calling, ‘Quick and the dead, boys.’
Auhl took the shorter route, down the side path. By now Vance had reached his ute but—panicked by police knocking on his door, the running footsteps behind him—was fumbling his keys. He dropped them, bent to retrieve them, couldn’t find the right key. Gave up on all of that and darted a crazy look over his shoulder at Auhl. A pouchy face full of aggravations. Red hair and eyebrows and sallow skin, as though he’d walked off a dustbowl farm. Shorts, a T-shirt, runners with trailing laces.
He turned from Auhl, tensing to bolt the other way. The sole of one shoe stepped on a lace from the other and Claire was there, blocking his exit, placing a palm flat against his chest.
‘You going to behave?’
Vance reversed direction, as if he might dodge around Auhl. The same shoelace messed with that.
‘You want to smarten up before you leave the house,’ Claire said. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you that?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Also, language?’
‘Fucking bitch.’
Auhl said, ‘Settle down. Are you Roger Vance?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Name and rank, then Auhl said they needed to ask him a few questions. ‘At the police station, please.’
Vance had been born sullen. His disappointments were gathered on his face and in his voice. ‘What about?’
The Moe uniforms appeared finally, unhurried. The older one saying, ‘Guess you didn’t need us after all.’
‘If you could transport Mr Vance to the lockup,’ Auhl said, ‘we’ll follow.’
‘That’s all we’re good for,’ the Moe cop said, grinning.
A MOE POLICE STATION interview room, Vance sulky. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even know if I’m under arrest.’
Across the table from him, Auhl shifted to get comfortable in an unsafe plastic chair. ‘We simply want to ask you some questions.’
Vance was a twitchy mess. ‘So I can like, go if I want to?’
Claire, in a similar chair beside Auhl, was bored and contemptuous. ‘Look at it this way, Rog. Roger. Roger the Dodger. The moment you leave this room we arrest you for resisting arrest and—’
‘You said I wasn’t under arrest!’
‘—and assaulting a police officer.’
‘That’s a fucking lie.’
‘Or,’ said Auhl, ‘no big deal, you answer a few questions regarding a case we’re working on and we take you home.’
Vance was pale and clammy. Hadn’t showered or shaved and a dank murky odour gusted from the neck of his shirt.
‘Up to you,’ Auhl continued.
‘This is bullshit,’ Vance said.
Some years had passed since the murder and it was entirely possible he’d forgotten it, shelved it, and was thinking of a more recent crime. A minor theft. Speeding. The weed hidden in his bedroom. He shot glances at the two detectives as if trying to decide what was worse: Auhl’s unreadable mildness or Pascal’s hostility.
Auhl came in hard. ‘On the thirteenth of October 2011, you overnighted on the car ferry from Devonport to Melbourne. On the fourteenth you drove to Drysdale and murdered John Elphick. You caught the return ferry later that same day.’
‘What?’ Vance reeled. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Records have you on the Spirit of Tasmania, Roger. You came over on the thirteenth, left again on the night of the fourteenth. Quick killing trip. We even have a digital CCTV image of you on the ferry.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s go back to a period before your little trip. Life was hard. Plus, you were always fucking up. Do a bit of work, fuck up, get the sack. After you got the sack from John Elphick you decided to give it a go down in Tasmania. Of course, you came a gutser there, too…’
‘…and so eventually you got it into your head that it was all Mr Elphick’s fault,’ Claire said.
‘We’re not unreasonable, Roger,’ Auhl said. ‘As we understand it, Elphick could be a bit of a prick.’
‘You can say that again,’ Vance said.
And now Auhl knew they had him. ‘Arrogant, would you say? A perfectionist. Always having a go at something. Even his family hated him.’
Auhl had no idea if that was true, but it resonated with Vance. He flicked his tongue over his lips, swallowing. ‘Totally unfair what that arsehole done to me.’ His eyes narrowed, a look of calculation chasing away the wounded air. ‘But I never laid a finger on him. Never went near the bastard. I come over to Melbourne to see a mate.’
‘You knew Mr Elphick had died, though.’
A shrug. ‘Heard it somewhere.’
‘Perhaps on the news?’
‘I guess so. I’m not much of a news person.’
‘You came over to see a mate. This mate have a name? Phone number?’
‘I think he’s gone back to the UK. We sort of lost touch.’
Claire Pascal said, ‘Why would you want to stab Mr Elphick?’
‘I never stabbed him,’ Vance said with a touch of scorn. He gathered himself to put her right on the details, remembered where he was, shut his jaws with a click.
‘He taped it,’ Auhl said.
‘What?’
‘Taped the whole thing on his phone. You shouting at him like a whiny kid, him telling you to piss off, the sounds of a struggle. No problem for the lab to match the voice print of this interview to his recording.’
All bullshit. But they hadn’t arrested him yet, so—no caution. And no lawyer present.
Auhl slid a photograph across the chipped table surface. ‘And to top it all off, here’s a note he made of your numberplate. He saw an unfamiliar vehicle pulling alongside the fence, wrote down the plate number.’
Vance stared at it. Auhl nudged it closer. Vance reared as if it might strike.
‘Go on, look closely.’
Vance worked his dry mouth. He looked for a way out. His eyes filled.
‘Fucking ruined me, that cunt.’
17
AUHL DANGLED the car keys at Claire. ‘You drive.’
But before s
he could turn on the ignition, her phone pinged with an incoming text. Auhl waited, a part of him certain the caller was Debenham or Colfax, ordering her to arrest him. He could see tension rising in Claire. They were telling her to watch her back.
Then, as the seconds lengthened and she didn’t move—simply stared at her phone—he said, ‘What? Something wrong?’
She blinked awake. ‘Nothing. Look, would you mind driving?’
‘Sure,’ Auhl said, getting out. Whatever had unsettled her, it didn’t seem to relate to him. Something personal?
He walked around the front of the car, Pascal the rear. She looked pale, suddenly. Drained of energy. When he was strapped in behind the steering wheel, he said, ‘Claire? Tell me.’
She said miserably, ‘My best friend just texted me.’
‘Okay.’
‘She says my husband’s having an affair.’
‘Hell,’ said Auhl.
He reached out to touch her arm. Saw the hideous ridged scars where her cuffs had ridden up and thought better of it.
Pascal didn’t move. Her hand was white-knuckled around her phone. Auhl reached for it. ‘May I?’
She didn’t resist. He read the screen:
Darls, thought you shd know, Michaels shagging Oxley. Call me ok? Love you Jess—followed by a string of emojis: sad face, wailing face, puzzled face, red angry face, green sick face.
Auhl shook his head. The best friend relates some earth-shattering news by text message? ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. Pause. ‘Have you known Jess for long?’
Distracted, Claire said, ‘Since primary school. She wouldn’t… she’s not playing games.’
No, she’s really there for you, thought Auhl sourly. He didn’t understand modern etiquette. He handed back the phone. Claire took it, still shocked, teary, bewildered.
‘I knew he was up to something.’
‘Who’s Oxley?’
‘Deb Oxley, a friend of ours. Former friend.’
Auhl started the car. ‘Late afternoon by the time we get back. Why don’t I take you straight home?’
Claire slapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘For me to do what? Wait for Michael to walk in the door? I’m not ready for that. I can’t think.’
‘So, back to the office.’
‘No. I mean, yes. No. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Could you stay with this Jess person?’
Pascal gave an empty laugh. ‘She lives across the street. And no, I don’t like her boyfriend.’
Lives across the street, Auhl thought, but too much trouble to walk a few metres and give Claire the news in person, along with a comforting hug.
‘Look, I have a spare room. Come and stay with me until you sort out what you want to do.’
She blinked at him. ‘That’s kind of you, but I couldn’t.’
‘No, no, it’s a huge old place in Carlton. My daughter lives there, various international students and odds and sods in need of a temporary roof over their heads.’
Claire Pascal was distracted enough to say, ‘Really? I had this image of you as…as…’
‘As a sad old bastard in a bachelor flat,’ Auhl said. ‘But actually I’m a sad bastard with a spare room in a big house.’
A long pause. ‘Can I think about it?’
‘Deal,’ Auhl said, putting the car in gear.
Presently he said, ‘What does he do, your husband?’
‘He’s in IT.’
What can you say to that? Auhl drove.
And finally, breaking a silence that had lasted until they were crossing the eastern suburbs, Claire Pascal said, ‘Is your spare room still available?’
‘Last time I looked.’
FIRST A QUICK STOP AT her house.
Claire directed Auhl to a narrow sloping side street in Abbots-ford, a tight squeeze between residents’ cars on either side. ‘Drive past,’ she said, ducking below the sill of her side window.
Auhl glanced at the house as he steered along the street. A cream weatherboard with a Brunswick green door and window frames, a few shrubs in the pocket handkerchief front garden, an empty carport.
‘He’s not home yet,’ Claire said, sitting upright. She pointed to a house across the street. ‘That’s Jess’s driveway. Pull in there, she won’t be home yet either.’
Auhl guessed this was a street where you knew your neighbours’ business. He barely knew who his neighbours were. Drummond Street was broad, with big houses and busy lives and a fast turnover of students in houses like his own.
‘Want me to come in with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Toot if you see a white Golf pull into my driveway and I’ll slip out the back.’
She was quick, five minutes, returning to the car with a stuffed gym bag and a suitcase on wheels bumping over the bitumen’s cracks and erosions.
Auhl said, ‘Toothbrush? Comb? Phone charger? PJs? Spare… things?’
Claire looked at him. She was ready for some lightness and humour, but she’d also just walked out on her husband and was wound tight. And Auhl was a much older man, a work colleague she barely knew, taking her to a room in his house. Second thoughts chased each other across her face.
Auhl stopped teasing, gave her a sad, sweet smile. ‘Ignore me. All set?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
THEY RETURNED THE CAR to the police garage and caught a tram along St Kilda Road and up through the city to Carlton. Early evening now, the city streets teeming with people knocking off work or heading to evening classes or pre-show meals in Chinatown. Claire, lulled by the tram, fell silent. She stared out, registering nothing.
They alighted outside the university and walked across Carlton to Auhl’s house. Claire stared. ‘You live here?’
‘In all its glory.’
‘I mean, it’s yours?’
‘Yes.’
She gave him a look. ‘Are you rich?’ She caught herself, shook herself. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’
‘Inherited the place when my parents died,’ Auhl said. ‘Not rich. I might be comfortable if I sold it, I suppose. After giving my wife her share.’
Claire stood her wheelie case upright on the footpath while Auhl patted his pockets for his keys. ‘I somehow thought you were divorced.’
‘Separated, but friends.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Here. Part of the time.’
Claire glanced doubtfully at the house, at Auhl. ‘I don’t know, Al.’
‘Look, it’s fine, no tension, nothing to worry about.’
‘If you say so. But isn’t it weird, her living here too?’
‘It’s only some of the time,’ Auhl said.
Claire Pascal’s expressions were fleeting: pity, puzzlement, sympathy, what-have-I-got-myself-into?
Acceptance, finally, which was okay by Auhl. He could see, though, that he would never be quite the same man in her eyes.
‘Whatever works, right?’ she said.
‘Whatever works.’
She grabbed her suitcase handle and squared her shoulders. ‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Like strange pairings and weird fetishes?’
‘For starters.’
‘There’s a cat named Cynthia.’
‘I can cope with a cat. Not sure about the name.’
‘Meanwhile the human population is quite normal. My daughter sometimes has a boyfriend to stay. A couple of postgrad students, including a married couple from Sri Lanka, live here. And a woman and her daughter who need somewhere to doss down during a custody battle.’
‘And me,’ Claire Pascal said. ‘A pathetic workmate running out on her husband.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first one,’ Auhl said, finding the correct key. Noticing the crack in Claire’s voice, the slump of her shoulders, he gave her a brief hard hug and showed her into Chateau Auhl.
*
THE FIRST THING TO happen was Pia charging down the corridor to greet him, skidding to a halt when she saw Claire.
 
; ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ Claire said, shooting Auhl a glance. Then, sensing Cynthia winding around her ankles, she looked down. ‘And hello to you.’
‘That’s Cynthia,’ Pia said. ‘Are you allergic?’
‘No.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Claire.’
‘Are you A. A.’s girlfriend?’
Auhl looked on with interest.
‘No,’ Claire Pascal said. She paused. ‘We work together.’ And, ‘We’re friends.’
‘Bub, show Claire to the spare room.’
‘He calls me Bub,’ Pia said, clattering away down the corridor to the junk room. ‘There’s the bathroom, there’s the kitchen, that’s upstairs,’ she said, pointing.
‘Okay.’
Auhl relieved himself of wallet, keys and jacket, changed into jeans and a T-shirt and headed for the junk room. Pascal was sitting on the bed, texting. ‘I’m just…’
Just texting the husband. Auhl moved boxes of junk into the corridor and left her to it. Presently Bec came downstairs in a pre-exam-cramming daze, Neve appeared, still in her cleaner’s overalls and Tiv and his wife walked in with meat and vegetables from an Asian grocery and announced they were cooking. It was as good a start for Claire Pascal as Auhl could have hoped for.
18
WEDNESDAY. AUHL walked, showered, and by 7.00 a.m. was reading the Age as he ate his muesli and listened to the ABC news. According to floor thumps and gurgles in the pipes, Neve and Pia were showering. Bec would emerge at 9.55 to start work at ten o’clock in GewGaws Gifts, around the corner. Tiv and Shireen were flying to Sydney for a conference. Auhl didn’t know when he’d see Liz again. The doctoral student in the room next to his had crept in late last night, out again at dawn. He hadn’t clapped eyes on her for a month. Thus was his life.
That left his newest waif or stray, and she entered the kitchen tentatively, hair damp, scowling. ‘I drank too much last night.’
‘There’s muesli. Eggs in the fridge.’
Claire shuddered.
‘And coffee in the pot.’
Another shudder, possibly of relief. She sat at the table with him and sipped coffee, reviving in stages, life coming into her face, eyes, neck, hands. Not much joy, though. Suspicion, if anything, suspicion in the hard look she gave Auhl, as if waiting for a particular response.