[Challis #5] Blood Moon

by Garry Disher

‘You’ll see.’

  Ricky DaSilva was tiny, no bigger than a child. They found him in the pub with the old woman’s purse in his pocket. But was Cree impressed with Tank’s deductive powers? All Cree said was, ‘It has me quite baffled.’

  Instinct told Tank to bite his tongue. He knew that envy was making him exaggerate Andy Cree’s faults. Envy, jealousy, sexual jealousy...

  After lunch they were called to a domestic in the Seaview housing estate. They found a woman with a black eye and a bruised torso, revealed when she lifted the edge of her T-shirt. ‘Me ex-husband done this,’ she said. ‘Coupla days ago. I want the bastard charged.’

  There was a code of practice for these kinds of assaults. First they took the woman back to the station, where a doctor examined her. The next stage was a photographic record of her injuries, ideally in the presence of a senior female officer, but Destry and Murph were out, and no one else was available—same old story, the general and chronic shortage of staff at Waterloo. So they roped in a young female constable from Traffic and took the battered woman into the victim suite, where Cree set up a camera. ‘We need to photograph your injuries,’ Tank explained.

  The woman gulped, nodded, and removed her T-shirt, revealing pillowy breasts inside a grimy bra and a pattern of old and new bruises. ‘Not your usual look?’ joked Cree, snapping away with the camera.

  The young cop giggled. Cree grinned at her. The woman blushed and looked away. Oh, fuck, thought Tank, grabbing the camera. ‘Andy, maybe you could take a coffee break, start the paperwork or something?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  When Cree had left the room, Tank took the young Traffic constable out into the corridor. ‘She’s a victim, okay? She’s vulnerable. It’s taken her a lot of courage to report this.’

  Those words had been said to him, once upon a time. The constable looked at the floor. ‘Sorry, Tank.’

  ‘Enough said.’

  They went back in and finished the job. Afterwards he told Cree: ‘Look, pal, if you and I are going to spend time together, you might want to rethink your attitude.’

  ‘What attitude?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Tank said.

  * * * *

  Four o’clock in the afternoon. Pam Murphy had spotted Tank with that cute new guy but was too busy to chinwag with them. First she made her way down High Street to the foreshore, where the schoolies were already partying. A number of cars were parked facing the mangroves and the yacht basin, tailgates up, revealing mattresses and sleeping bags, surfboards and eskies full of beer and bourbon-and-cola cans. A few dome tents had been pitched nearby. Otherwise the scene was full of kids, most of them standing around blearily, holding bottles and cans, others standing on the roofs of their cars, dancing to the music that blared from competing sound systems. They were all having a bad hair day, and the guys hadn’t shaved for some time. Guys and girls, they wore shorts, boardies, singlets or T-shirts, often over bathing suits. Most were in bare feet, grimy feet. These weren’t the swimming, surfing or bike-riding schoolies, but, by the same token, they weren’t overdosing, harassing the locals or fighting, either. Plenty of energy, though: the girls were on the lookout for a hot guy, the guys for a hot girl. Looking for love. Like everyone.

  All kinds of regulations were being broken but Pam turned a blind eye. She wandered among the kids, introducing herself, handing out ID bracelets, informing them about the Chillout Zone, telling them to eat, drink plenty of water; advising them to stay in their own groups and look out for each other.

  Then she wandered back up High Street. Many of the shoppers and shopkeepers knew her and nodded hello. There were schoolies here, too, in clumps and pairs strolling, window-shopping. Some of them knew her; some she’d helped. One group, clacking through the T-shirt racks outside HangTen went into a mock panic. ‘Cool it, guys, ditch that ecstasy, hide the vodka, it’s ... Schoolie Patrol!’

  ‘Very droll,’ Pam said.

  She lingered to chat with the kids. High Street was mild and docile under the springtime sun. Then a car pulled into the kerb, glossy red, a hot little Subaru—the kind of toy your well-heeled schoolie might drive, she thought enviously. She’d been known to buy the wrong kind of car and pay too much for it. She saw a young guy get out from behind the wheel, his girlfriend from the passenger seat, and saunter into HangTen as if they owned it.

  A minute later, they came out, the guy looking royally pissed off.

  * * * *

  Caz Moon, working one of the cash registers in HangTen, saw the red Subaru pull into the kerb. For just a moment then, everything clenched tightly inside her, but by the time Josh strolled in, holding the hand of a female version of himself, she had recovered.

  Before she’d quite known she was going to do it, Caz called across the shop, ‘Hello, Josh. Raped anyone yet?’

  He was good-looking in that blond, vacant, mouth breathing, never-had-to-think, -feel, -question-or-want-for-anything private school way. Right now he was staring about vaguely. Perhaps he was stoned, perhaps he hadn’t heard her. ‘Josh?’ she said again, lifting her voice above the racks of brightly coloured scraps of cotton. ‘Raped anyone so far this season?’

  She rang up a sale, gave a kid her change. HangTen was pretty cool for Waterloo; had the right labels. The local kids liked to hang out there, occasionally buy a Billabong T-shirt or some Rip Curl board shorts. Not her scene, however.

  She continued to stare at Josh. Finally he woke up. He looked at Caz, a dangerous flush settling over him. There were two other sales assistants, a handful of customers, and all were watching, waiting.

  ‘How about it, Josh?’ said Caz.

  He didn’t rise to it. Instead, he said, ‘Fuck you,’ and dragged the girlfriend out. She wore painted-on jeans and heels she couldn’t manage. She wailed ‘Joshua!’ and he told her to shut up.

  Caz smiled at her customers, shrugged, said ‘Schoolies,’ as if that answered everything.

  When that young copper came in, wanting to know if there was anything wrong, Caz put on a brilliant smile and said, ‘Not a thing.’

  * * * *

  12

  Late in the afternoon Challis’s desk phone rang, the duty sergeant. ‘Sir, Superintendent McQuarrie’s here.’

  Challis had been expecting this, or at least a summons to regional headquarters. ‘Send him up.’

  ‘He wants you to come down, sir.’

  It was petty and needless, meaning that the super was summoning him and not the other way around. Challis trundled down the stairs, but backtracked before he reached the bottom, re-entering his office and grabbing the White Pride e-mail and the photocopied pages of the Roe Report.

  As expected, the superintendent was in the ground floor conference room, a dim, quiet enclave that resembled a boardroom done up on the cheap. What was not expected was that McQuarrie hadn’t come alone. He was standing with Ollie Hindmarsh.

  ‘Inspector,’ said McQuarrie, a small, tidy individual who always wore the look of a man who’d been adored, but only by his mother and long ago. He shook Challis’s hand, then gestured at the politician. ‘I’m sure you know Mr Hindmarsh.’

  Challis nodded, reaching his hand to the Leader of the Opposition, who turned the shake into a brief contest of strength and said, ‘In the interests of my electorate, including the school community and Mr Roe’s many friends, I thought it important to see at first hand how the investigation’s going.’

  Challis nodded gravely, intimating that he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Lachlan Roe is a very fine fellow. I don’t want this swept under the rug.’

  Challis regarded Hindmarsh carefully, wondering how to play it. The man was clearly attaching great importance to the case, coming all the way down to Waterloo when Parliament was in session. That was one thing. The other was that he’d apparently said ‘jump’ to McQuarrie and McQuarrie had jumped—maybe because Hindmarsh was notoriously critical of the police and the superintendent wanted to make a good impressi
on. Would there come a point at which McQuarrie placed his officers ahead of pleasing a shithead like Hindmarsh?

  ‘We’re in the process of following several leads,’ Challis said flatly.

  ‘What does that mean, “in the process?” The processes of the Victoria Police don’t withstand much scrutiny, in my opinion.’

  Challis had sympathy with some of Hindmarsh’s publicly expressed criticism of the police. Surely when you chose to be a police officer you were making a profoundly simple vow to yourself and the world to be one of the good guys? Challis knew all the arguments—that most police officers were honest and hardworking, but a handful were bound to burn out, err or act dishonestly because they were only human, the work was nasty enough to turn anyone’s mind, and like all large organisations the force was open to nepotism and inefficiency—but he thought there was a limit to how far you could push that line. He was capable of turning a blind eye, even of tweaking legalities a little, so long as justice was served and no one got hurt, but he was beginning to believe that only a kind of cultural rottenness in the police force explained the growing instances of bullying, cronyism, sexism, racial thuggery, homophobia and resistance to change. Not to mention plain old criminal activity. Sure, Ollie Hindmarsh liked to use these instances to political advantage, but they were real, not beat-ups.

  Not that Challis would ever say any of this. Wishing McQuarrie were not so gutless, he gazed steadily at Hindmarsh, fixing on the man’s fierce, hooked face.

  It was the face of an outraged but boozy prophet. Hindmarsh, big and barrelly, fifty years old and a womanising ex-league footballer and Army veteran, was an anachronism in a world of sleek lawyers and publicists. He’d been known to fiddle his expense account, assault reporters and photographers, and harass the young women who worked for him. A union basher, a hawk in military matters and suspicious of immigrants, he was the kind of stern father figure that most Australians—despite their veneer of cheery individualism and non-compliance—yearned for.

  And there were plenty of men like Hindmarsh around. Challis met them from time to time, and had a pretty fair understanding of what formed them. They were often born into money, but not necessarily love and intimacy. They’d be sent to exclusive boys-only boarding schools which filled that void with a competitive and repressive masculinity, and where the few women they ever saw had teaching, nursing or servant roles. No wonder they went on to become aggressive and autocratic CEOs and politicians, driven to succeed but also aloof, insecure and blinkered.

  Challis himself had had two encounters with Hindmarsh. He was sitting in a Qantas jet one Monday morning, about to fly to Sydney to extradite a woman wanted for murder, when Ollie boarded. He’d delayed taking his seat at the head of the plane and remained standing for several long minutes, so that everyone saw and recognised him. And during a charity dinner in the Waterloo town hall a month later, Challis had gone looking for the men’s room in a warren of corridors and found Ollie screaming into the face of a waiter: ‘Do you know who I am? I’ve half a mind to grab you and run you against a wall, you scumbag. You’re an absolute joke.’ Hindmarsh was red-faced, his veins popping, spittle flying. It seemed reasonable to assume that hotel staff, airport clerks and chauffeurs around the country had received the same treatment over the years.

  The guy was also Mr Everywhere. Challis kept finding Ollie’s publicity leaflets in his letterbox, two or three photographs of the man on every fold—turning a sod for another housing estate, singing to a roomful of pensioners, cutting a ribbon, introducing a chaplain to a school community.

  ‘Perhaps we should sit, Mr Hindmarsh,’ Challis said now, taking charge.

  That threw both men for a moment, but Challis sat and they followed. Hindmarsh made an effort. ‘Look, we’re reasonable men here and—’

  Challis cut him off. He dealt out the photocopied e-mail and blog pages one by one across the heavy table. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a provocative and racist e-mail forwarded to Lachlan Roe by his brother, Dirk. Lachlan then forwarded it to others.’

  He glanced at Hindmarsh and McQuarrie. He had their attention. ‘And these pages’—he stabbed them with a forefinger—’are taken from a blog called the Roe Report. It is viciously racist, to the extent that it breaches racial vilification statutes. Criminal charges may be laid. The material appears to have been written and posted by Dirk Roe, with contributions from Lachlan Roe. Dirk Roe is the manager of your electoral office, Mr Hindmarsh, am I correct?’ Challis didn’t give the man a chance to answer. ‘And Lachlan Roe was appointed chaplain of Landseer with your support? One of my best detectives has spent the morning at the school. She assures me that Roe is deeply disliked there, by staff and students. I have also learned that Lachlan Roe heads a...fringe religious sect.’

  Hindmarsh patted his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some remained. He coughed. ‘I happen to believe in the fundamental decency of his platform. The fact remains—’

  Finally, McQuarrie stirred. ‘The fact remains, Mr Hindmarsh, that you employed one racist and assisted another,’ he said, his voice starting with a squeak but gaining in strength. ‘One would like to see how that plays out in the media.’

  ‘You little shit,’ growled Hindmarsh. ‘I’ve a good mind—’

  Challis had never seen McQuarrie so firm and dignified. ‘My officers and I are not vindictive. We don’t play games. We don’t play politics. It hardly needs to be said that Dirk Roe’s blog is public property. There’s a very good chance that members of the media already know about it.’

  Hindmarsh opened and closed his mouth. ‘Fucking Dirk, fucking stupid little...’

  McQuarrie tipped back his chin. He didn’t like the language. ‘Will that be all?’

  Hindmarsh nodded. He looked lost.

  * * * *

  When the man was gone Challis said, ‘Thanks, sir.’

  But the honeymoon, if that’s what it had been, was short-lived. The superintendent gestured dismissively, as if he’d forgotten Hindmarsh already, and said, ‘Certain things have come to my attention.’

  Ellen, thought Challis.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Are you.. .How do I put this.. .Are you and Sergeant Destry...?’

  ‘In a relationship sir, yes.’

  McQuarrie blinked. Some of the irritation faded. ‘Hal...’

  Challis waited.

  ‘You work together, man.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘In the same unit, the same police station.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Surely you see the pitfalls...’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘For a very good reason, there are regulations.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Hell of a mess,’ McQuarrie looked away, then back at Challis. ‘You could be accused of undue influence. Of bias and favouritism. What do your colleagues think? Or the constables who have to answer to you both? And what happens if events in your “relationship” spill over into your day-to-day police work? It’s not on, inspector.’

  Challis had thought of all these things and more, but said nothing. There was something in McQuarrie’s manner, if not his words, to indicate that the man wasn’t being his usual autocratic, blowhard self. He was beginning to sense that McQuarrie wanted to find a palatable solution rather than punish or reprimand. It can’t be that he’s a romantic, Challis thought. No. Maybe he’s developed a streak of humanity though—or vulnerability.

  The super had a lot to thank Ellen Destry for, at any rate. When Challis had been away last month, she had uncovered a paedophile ring with links to the senior sergeant at this very police station, a man whom McQuarrie had entrusted to be his eyes and ears. That man was dead now, but only after murdering another policeman at Waterloo. It was evident at the time that McQuarrie hadn’t believed Ellen was up to the job.

  And he owes me a debt, thought Challis. I tracked down his daughter-in-law’s killer.

  He wants to do the right thing by us.

  ‘For God’s sak
e, Hal, is it serious? I mean, do you intend to marry?’

  Challis wanted to laugh. ‘Too soon to say, sir.’

  McQuarrie shook his head and the late afternoon sunlight angled in, picking out dust motes in the air and streaks on the window glass. ‘I’ve been giving it some thought, Hal.’

  ‘Sir, I have, too, but it’s all so recent and—’

  ‘In the old days, one of you would have been posted to Outer Woop-Woop. It would have been nipped in the bud.’

  Challis waited.

  Suddenly the superintendent sprang to his feet. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said, and left the building.

  * * * *

  13

  It had been a long, dull Tuesday for Ellen Destry. By 4 p.m. she’d finished questioning staff and students at Landseer and was driving to the Mount Eliza home of Zara Selkirk, the Year 11 girl who’d been Lachlan Roe’s only appointment the previous day. Winding roads took her to a couple of acres at the highest point of the town, to a house and terraced grounds on a slope that faced south along a curve of Port Phillip Bay. Here the hills folded in and out, giving an impression of privacy to the people who could afford the land and the views.