[Challis #5] Blood Moon

by Garry Disher

  The Villanova Gardens was named after an Italian sailor who’d jumped ship a hundred years earlier, when Waterloo was a huddle of fishermen’s makeshift tents and cabins. Challis parked, got out and glanced both ways along the street, spotting Pam Murphy and a uniformed constable knocking on doors. Few street lights in this part of town, he noticed. He eyed the apartments. They were double-storeyed, in a row of ten, each with a small, incorporated garage, hedges for privacy, and an upper-level balcony that he guessed gave a view across the yacht basin and Western Port Bay to the distant smoke stacks of the refinery on the other side. Uninspiring, but you could honestly call it a view.

  He approached number 6, fishing ID out of his suit coat and showing it to Andy Cree, the constable who’d been stationed to keep a log of all those authorised to enter or leave the building. Cree was a new recruit to the station, young, athletic, engaging, always wearing the easy air of a kidder. Challis preferred that to shyness, ineptitude or flunkeyism, but Cree was in a lazy mood today, in no hurry as he logged the details. Keeping it light but firm, Challis said, ‘I’ve got all day, Andy.’

  Cree flushed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who’s here? Who’s been and gone?’

  Cree checked the log. ‘Ambulance guys have taken the victim to hospital. Constable Murphy’s doing a doorknock along the street with Constable Tankard. The crime scene technicians aren’t here yet. DC Sutton from CIU, and the victim’s brother, name of—’

  Challis said, ‘The brother? What’s he doing here? This is a crime scene.’

  Cree’s face flickered, then cleared. ‘He said he wanted to take toiletries and pyjamas to the hospital. Constable Sutton gave the okay, sir.’

  Challis made to go in, then paused. ‘Where was the victim found?’

  There was a low hedge running beside the footpath. Cree pointed over it to the small patch of lawn between the street and the front door. ‘Lying right there, sir.’

  There were also hedges on either side of the yard. Given the hedges, the sparse street lighting and the darkness of night, it was possible to see why Roe hadn’t been spotted by his neighbours or passers-by until daybreak.

  ‘And there’s blood on that rock,’ Cree said, pointing to a hefty stone lying on the concrete pathway leading to the door. It was painted white and had been removed from the border around a bed of roses. Nodding his thanks, Challis walked up the short, narrow path to the open front door and into a hallway that led to a cramped living and dining area with a kitchen through an archway, and beyond that a door that probably led to the laundry and a bathroom. Minimalist but expensive fittings and furniture, he noticed quickly, before glancing up the plain staircase to the upper level, where the bedrooms would be. And where voices were raised.

  Challis pulled hard on the banister to propel himself up the stairs. He tracked the voices to a small office at the rear, where Scobie Sutton stood by helplessly as a man dressed in jeans and a polo shirt wrapped a power cable around a laptop computer that had been on the desk under a window. Sutton looked up. ‘Sorry, boss...’

  The detective had the bony narrowness and angularity of an undertaker, an impression reinforced by his dark suit and glum air. He gestured feebly as if to grab the laptop. Meanwhile the other man dodged him and turned to Challis. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Challis told him coldly.

  ‘Well, my name is Dirk Roe and for your information my brother was almost beaten to death last night. Or this morning.’

  Challis glanced at Roe’s hands: they were well kept and unmarked. He shifted his gaze to the man’s face, which wore the sour look of someone who’d once been admired and was waiting for it to happen again. Roe was no more than twenty-five, with a round, faintly stupid schoolboy face, reinforced by spiky hair, black jeans, a pale yellow polo shirt and running shoes, which were two fat slabs of vividly-coloured rubber. There was a soul patch above his pudgy chin, rings in both ears.

  Challis stepped into the room, saying, ‘I can sympathise, Mr Roe, but I must ask you to leave. This is a crime scene, and our crime scene officers haven’t processed it yet.’

  ‘But Lachie was bashed outside, on his front lawn.’

  ‘His attacker might have been inside the house before the assault.’

  ‘My brother doesn’t know people like that.’

  ‘People like what?’

  ‘Violent people. Criminals,’ Dirk Roe said. He tucked the laptop under his arm and made to edge past Challis.

  ‘Sir,’ Challis said, ‘I must ask you to leave the laptop behind.’

  A flicker of something passed across the young man’s face. ‘But Lachie might need it. He could be in hospital for days.’

  Challis shook his head. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid. The computer could hold information that would help identify your brother’s attacker.’ He paused. ‘Did you meddle with it in any way?’

  Dirk Roe wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Me? No. Why?’

  ‘Either way, the computer stays.’

  ‘I don’t think you know who I am,’ Roe said.

  Challis was immediately weary of this game. ‘So, who are you?’

  Roe drew himself up. ‘I manage Ollie Hindmarsh’s electoral office—and you know what he thinks of the police.’

  Ollie Hindmarsh was Leader of the Opposition in the state parliament and his electoral office was a short distance away, around the corner in High Street. Hindmarsh was a law-and-order tyrant and his way of attacking the Government was to accuse the police force of corruption, cronyism and being run by union thugs. Most cops loathed the man.

  Challis smiled emptily. ‘You manage his electoral office?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Meaning you answer the phone and lick envelopes.’

  ‘Listen here, you. I—’

  ‘Sir, I must ask you to wait outside. Scobie?’

  Sutton had been wearing an expression of faint alarm, as if aware of undercurrents that he couldn’t identify. A man with a decent narrowness of range, he went to church regularly, was loyal to his wife, and had almost no insights into human nature. He wasn’t a bad cop. He was dogged. But he wasn’t quite a good cop, either. He shuffled forward apologetically and, after a tussle, removed the computer from under Roe’s arm and took him by the elbow. ‘Sorry, Dirk.’

  Challis frowned. Did the two men know each other? He filed it away and they all walked downstairs, reaching the living area just as the forensics officers appeared in their disposable overalls and overshoes. ‘Great,’ said one, ‘a contaminated crime scene.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Challis. ‘Your main area of focus is the lawn outside the front door.’

  ‘And the bloodied stone on the pathway. What about inside?’

  ‘Dust for prints, check for blood and fibres, the usual.’

  Dirk Roe swayed and stumbled a little, as though finally registering the fact that violence had been used against his brother. Scobie escorted him outside, saying, ‘Don’t stay here Dirk, head across to the hospital. Are you okay to drive?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Why hadn’t Roe gone straight to the hospital? Challis wondered. He joined Sutton on the footpath and together they watched Roe drive away in the black Astra. Challis said, ‘Scobie, you and Pam finish up here. I’ll check on the victim. Briefing at noon.’

  ‘Boss.’

  Challis paused. Andy Cree had abandoned his station to chat with Pam Murphy, half a block away. He was a head taller than Pam, languid and suave, and Challis heard her break into laughter. Then she spotted him, flashed him an embarrassed smile, and turned to continue her doorknocking. Cree wandered back, saying, ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Constable.’

  Challis turned to Sutton. ‘Check if there’s any CCTV coverage from local businesses.’

  ‘Boss,’ Sutton said.

  * * * *

  4

  Ellen Destry had reached the Waterloo police station, which was on the roundabout at the head of High Street, with a Caltex service station, a McD
onald’s and Waterloo Stockfeed on the other three corners. The building itself was a low-slung tan brick and glass structure set amongst some bark-shedding gum trees with access from a little side street. It was a major regional station, serving Peninsula East, and employed uniformed police, CIU detectives, crime-scene officers, probationary constables and several civilians: clerks and canteen staff, and the collators, who gathered, analysed and cross-referenced all intelligence relating to solved and unsolved crimes and the movements and associations of known criminals on the Peninsula.

  She parked outside the station and entered through the foyer, where a middle-aged woman was watching the duty sergeant witness a statutory declaration. She tapped in her code, entered the network of offices and corridors behind the reception desk and checked her pigeonhole: a circular for the end-of-year Police Ball, a reminder that she owed $12 tea money, and a copy of the November Police Life magazine. Hal had been on the front cover once, years ago, after he’d played a role in the arrest of the Old Peninsula Highway killer. He hadn’t liked the attention. He liked to slip through life unnoticed.

  The cells, interview rooms, admin offices and canteen were on the ground floor. Ellen took the stairs to the upper level, which housed CIU, a couple of briefing rooms, a small gym and a tearoom. The Crime Investigation Unit was small, with four detectives rostered on nights, four on days. It never worked out quite like that, of course. There was always someone away sick, attending a training course or giving evidence in court. When extra hands were needed they were seconded from other CIU teams, mainly from Mornington and Rosebud.

  Sitting at her corner desk in the controlled chaos of the open-plan CIU room, Ellen routinely checked her e-mails—and began to realise that she felt faintly miffed about being asked to do desk work today. It was great having Hal back, but she’d headed a major inquiry while he was away, and she’d acquitted herself well. She wanted to be out and about, not stuck behind a desk.

  Still, there was never anything minor about a sexual assault. Seeing no e-mails from the forensic science centre, she phoned, identifying herself and the case number. ‘Sexual assault,’ she prompted, ‘in Waterloo last Saturday night.’

  She heard the tapping of a keyboard on the end of the line, and eventually the forensic technician said, ‘Semen on the victim’s clothes, right? We’re backed up here, Sergeant Destry. DNA takes time.’

  Ellen sighed. ‘Just checking,’ she said, and hung up.

  She stared at the ceiling battens, not seeing them. There was nothing unusual about a sexual assault on a Saturday night; nothing unusual about that anywhere in the world. But the victim in this case had been a schoolie, she’d been assaulted during Schoolies Week, and her attacker might have been a fellow schoolie.

  Or a ‘toolie’. one of the locals who preyed on the school leavers. Older men, mostly, some with records for theft, dealing drugs and sexual assault. They were sly and predatory, and seemed to hate the schoolies for everything they lacked: education, job prospects, money, youth, good health, a clean record.

  Had toolies been active at last year’s Schoolies Week? Waterloo hadn’t been the least bit prepared for the event. The police had had to deal with three drug overdoses, two claims of drink spiking, the theft of tents, sleeping bags and backpacks, and a vicious mugging that placed a kid in hospital minus his runners, iPod, mobile phone and wallet. They’d made several arrests, for serious assault, drunk and disorderly, drug use and obstructing police, and Ellen had also heard rumours that some local girls had been sexually assaulted.

  Meanwhile the local residents had been up in arms over the noise, the brawling, the drag races and burnouts on the foreshore, and the stoned, drunk, drug-addled or distressed and weeping kids wandering the streets and through the shops and passing out in pools of blood, piss or vomit on front lawns. The street cleaners worked overtime, raking up condoms, beer cans, unpaired shoes, knickers, makeshift bongs and paper scraps from the beach and parkland areas.

  What made it worse, in many ways, was the behaviour of the rich kids. They arrived in costly cars and were indifferent to the money they splashed around. They expected it to get them out of trouble. Accustomed to expensive overseas holidays, they were viciously bored and disappointed in humble little Waterloo, and took it out on the locals and the poorer kids.

  It was a conundrum for the town’s worthies. On the one hand, they deplored the bad behaviour; on the other, they estimated that the schoolies would inject up to $200,000 into the local economy, and no one wanted to deny these kids a holiday by the sea. So the mayor and the councillors had worked out a strategy. The community would provide camping areas, counselling and general information. The police would liaise and mingle with the schoolies, but also strike hard against public drunkenness and hooliganism, levelling $100 on-the-spot fines for drinking or possessing alcohol in an open container in a public place, lighting campfires on the foreshore, and sleeping in a car rather than a designated campsite tent or a room in a hotel, a motel, a boarding house or a bed-and-breakfast establishment.

  Ellen had selected Pam Murphy to be the main liaison officer for the police, figuring the young detective would be more sympathetic and understanding than Scobie Sutton. But Ellen also kept a watching brief, and so now she logged on to the Schoolies Week website. She hadn’t known it existed before Murph told her. Maybe the kids didn’t know about it, either, or maybe it was poorly designed, or inadequate. She should find out.

  The site, mounted by the state government via the Education Department, was out of date, concentrating on the traditional schoolies hotspots of Lorne, Portsea and Sorrento. We’re not big enough yet, Ellen thought.

  She checked the ‘useful phone numbers’ list. The obvious ones were there—state-wide numbers for the police, fire brigade, ambulance, twenty-four-hour drug and alcohol advice, poisons information, sexual assault and suicide hotlines—but no local numbers. What if the schoolies camped at Waterloo wanted a youth worker or a clean needle? Even a bus or a taxi?

  She scrolled down. All reasonable advice: check home regularly, look out for each other, keep your room locked, secure your valuables, carry ID at all times, together with enough money—separate from your wallet—to pay for phone calls and transport. If in trouble, seek help from the police and official volunteers.

  She read on. Never swim under the influence of alcohol or drugs. Drink plenty of water. Eat at least one solid meal a day. Space your drinking. Be alert for drink spiking and dodgy strangers. Don’t get into a car with a stranger or an inebriated driver. Don’t let your friends go off with strangers, get hassled by others or sober up alone. At Portsea two years ago a kid had drowned in his own vomit.

  Next, accommodation. Last year some kids had trashed a motel room and been thrown out of a bed-and-breakfast joint near the boardwalk. It occurred to Ellen that maybe kids were being ripped off by landlords. The website advised them to check the fine print on their accommodation contracts—would she have thought to do that, when she was eighteen?—and get a receipt for the bond money. She scanned through: complaints procedures, Accommodation Code of Practice, blah, blah, blah.

  Ellen rubbed her eyes. She hated computer work. As she continued to follow the links she had to admit that the information was useful and solid—but did the kids read it? She thought of further local information that was sorely lacking. Like where to swim safely, for example. How Western Port Bay emptied treacherously when the tide went out, so that you could find yourself stranded on a mud bank and drown when it came racing in again. The black spots in the mobile phone coverage. The fact that it can be cold at night, and that November can be rainy. The fact that many shops and restaurants in the little burg of Waterloo closed early.

  Also, where the town of Lorne offered its schoolies a free clinic, a free shuttle bus and plenty of youth workers wearing distinctive orange T-shirts, Waterloo offered a handful of untrained volunteers from the local church communities operating from a safe haven called the Chillout Zone, in the grounds of the
Uniting Church behind High Street. Ellen had called in last night and found herself helping Pam Murphy to dispense drinks and snacks to wasted, lonely, bored and befuddled kids, or those who were simply broke.

  And Scobie Sutton’s wife, Beth, had been lurking there. According to Murph, Beth Sutton had been at the Chillout Zone since Friday, handing God-bothering leaflets to the schoolies and murmuring to them in an intense monotone.

  Ellen looked up from the monitor and into the distance. The volunteers. Pam Murphy had introduced her to last night’s bunch— she’d vetted them all, she said—but Pam couldn’t be everywhere at once, and wouldn’t it be easy for some pervert to pass himself off as an official volunteer or youth worker?

  ‘Nothing about this job gets any easier,’ Ellen muttered. She looked at her watch. The others should be returning from the Trevally Street assault soon.

  * * * *