by Garry Disher
Dirk? No one had much time for Dirk. But Dirk was young and foolish rather than evil. Looked up to his brother.
No one could back up the aunt’s claim that the boys were twisted.
It was a relief to hear the phone ring and have Superintendent McQuarrie summon him to regional headquarters in Frankston. ‘As soon as you can, inspector.’
‘Sir.’
The old, peremptory McQuarrie. Challis finished eating and clattered down the stairs and out to the carpark. Maybe it’s going to be Outer Woop-Woop for Ellen or me after all, he thought, as he steered onto Frankston-Flinders Road.
Twenty minutes later he was threading around a series of shopping-centre carparks, looking for somewhere to leave his car. Frankston, a suburb on the outermost southeastern edge of the sprawl that was Melbourne, was the kind of place that says there is no such thing as too much commerce. He found a slot in the baking sun, trotted across a busy street to the complex that housed the police and the magistrates’ courts and took the lift to the top floor.
Superintendent McQuarrie answered, ‘Come,’ to Challis’s knock. Challis found him sitting behind a vast desk, looking small and tidy—in full dress uniform today, for some reason, loads of braid, chrome and brass hanging from his chest and shoulders, as if to diminish the size of the desk and inflate his own. An open laptop sat before him; beside him was a portable screen, the Victoria Police logo shimmering there in hazy focus.
‘Inspector.’
‘Sir,’ countered Challis.
‘I know you’re a busy man. I won’t waste more of your time than is necessary.’
So not the sack; a demotion or a transfer? wondered Challis.
‘In order to achieve benchmark aims and improve forward efficiency, I’m proposing three new initiatives for the Peninsula.’
Challis gazed at the super, wanting to say: You summoned me all the way up here to listen to some gobbledegook? Besides, he was pretty certain that the initiatives had come from Force Command, not McQuarrie.
McQuarrie began to peck at the keys of his laptop as if it might bite him. ‘First, a specialist sex crimes unit.’
Well, Challis would welcome that, they all would, but the image that swam into view on the screen showed a crime scene, detectives with clipboards and shirtsleeves standing around watching forensic experts in disposable oversuits and overshoes searching on and around a body on a stretch of waste ground.
‘Wrong slide,’ said McQuarrie crossly. All right, let’s leave the sex crimes unit for now. Another proposal is for a self-contained IRU, or initial response unit, which will attend crime scenes and carry out all the tasks currently undertaken by several disparate individuals. It will consist of thirteen officers: a sergeant, eleven senior constables and one constable. It will be solely responsible for securing the scene, recording it via photos and video, and collecting evidence such as fingerprints, DNA and fibres. This evidence will then be passed on to the relevant divisions for analysis—the fingerprint division and the Forensic Science Centre, for example. Once the information has been recorded and analysed, it will be handed on to CIU for further investigation.’
Challis had mixed feelings. What if the evidence got lost? What could be done about the inevitable delays when there were three stages in the process? Would an officer in such a unit feel ‘loyal’ to the evidence he or she had collected, and want to follow through? Then again, it would free a CIU head like himself to manage targeted operations more simply, and also free up uniformed police, who often got bogged down at crime scenes and spent hours standing around.
But he didn’t say any of this. He wanted to see what else McQuarrie had in mind.
‘Any questions?’
‘The idea has merit, sir.’
McQuarrie narrowed his gaze at Challis, expecting a trap. When it didn’t come, he said, ‘Right, let’s see the next slide.’
It was a breakdown of the proposed unit, with boxes and arrows. McQuarrie skipped over it. Another image appeared: a roomful of desks, computers and analysts.
‘Right, Project Nimbus. As you know, this has been trialled successfully in other regions. Briefly, tactical intelligence officers will be employed to target particular crimes, monitor the movements of known criminals and their associates, including those recently released from prison, and identify geographical hotspots on the Peninsula.’
Challis said, ‘An extension of the work currently done by the collators, sir?’
McQuarrie frowned. ‘If you like. But the collators are still only useful after the event. Our aim is to become increasingly strategic and proactive.’
He began to count on his fingers. ‘Imagine being able to identify crime and traffic hotspots and place officers there before there’s trouble. Or being able to anticipate the intentions of a loose confederacy of individuals. Or knowing when certain types of offences are likely to occur.’
This would have helped Ellen and Murph with Schoolies Week, Challis thought.
‘We need to make informed decisions based on evidence,’ McQuarrie said. ‘What we have now is a culture in which information is not shared between stations and districts, where a vital piece of intelligence is locked inside a computer somewhere, and young or lazy officers fail to complete or write reports, or do follow-ups.’
Challis quite liked the idea. What kinds of data would he log into such a system? Environmental factors, certainly. For example, drought. With drought came the theft of water and livestock, and increased social distress leading to domestic violence, suicide and threats to public officials. He went into a kind of musing daydream, staring past McQuarrie’s head at the sky outside the window, the wispy cloud and scrappy birds flying past. Economic factors like recession, he thought; there’s always an associated increase in property crimes. And ethnic clustering. One of the Frankston inspectors had told him what a headache it was, educating young Sudanese men: they reacted aggressively to being arrested or questioned by female officers, for example, and believed that a learner’s permit was a full driving licence and one car registration payment covered them forever.
And Challis thought about the recent spate of car break-ins around the little three-screen Waterloo cinema: was he correct in thinking they occurred mostly on Tuesday nights, when the cinema offered half-price tickets and the adjacent carparks and streets were full?
But would Ellen want to head such a task?—assuming that’s where McQuarrie was going with this meeting. Challis couldn’t see it. She’d want to be more hands-on in any new prospect being mooted for her.
‘Finally,’ McQuarrie said, irritably searching for the correct slide, ‘we come to sex crimes.’
* * * *
21
At 4 o’clock that afternoon, John Tankard arrived at the Waterloo cop shop, feeling pretty rested. After leaving Cree in the Fiddlers Creek yesterday he’d driven out to Berwick, where his parents and little sister lived. He’d downed a couple of coldies with the old man—who’d been a copper in London before bringing his young family out to Australia, and was now groundskeeper of a golf course—and ‘helped’ Natalie with her Bog People homework project, Nat grabbing the mouse and keyboard from him because he was so slow and clumsy, and so fascinated. Then he got stuck into his mother’s shepherd’s pie—she hadn’t wanted to migrate, and still clung to the things that brought comfort and reminders of home—and was tucked up in his own bed by eleven o’clock. He’d slept in this morning, knowing he wasn’t on duty until this afternoon.
He was nursing a coffee in the canteen when Pam Murphy— looking good in jeans and a close-fitting white T-shirt—was in his face, saying, ‘Where’s Andy?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Well, has he come in yet? Tonight could get messy and I need to brief you guys.’
Tank wanted to say, Don’t take it out on me, I’m not the one who’s late. He drank his coffee.
‘Could you find him for me?’
Feeling maligned, Tank went looking. ‘Seen Andy Cree?’ he said, in the cantee
n, the carpark, the sergeants’ common room, the front desk, the gym. No sign of Cree. All he found was some guys watching porn in a forgotten storeroom in a back corner of the police complex.
‘You fucking morons,’ he said.
A guy from the Traffic Management unit, three probationers, and the guy who washed dishes in the canteen. They were huddled around a DVD/VCR combo, watching five guys jacking off onto a kneeling woman. They all turned half lidded eyes on him, sleepily aroused.
‘Turn that crap off. Get back to work,’ Tank said, feeling like someone’s father or teacher.
‘Come on, Tank,’ drawled the guy from Traffic, ‘pull up a pew and pull on your pecker.’
They all sniggered, arranged around the screen on milk crates. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and something thick and undefinable, as if some ugliness were exuding from their pores. John Tankard, who for years had been the bad boy of Waterloo, found himself snarling like one of his old sergeants. ‘All of you, back to work.’
The kitchen guy and the probationers scuttled away, edging around Tank, who filled the doorway and watched expressionlessly as the guy from Traffic made slow work of turning off the machine and boxing up the DVD. Tank guessed they’d been watching stuff that had been seized on a raid. ‘Seen Andy Cree around?’
‘Not me.’
Tank, feeling even more like the wise old man of policing, sighed and went back upstairs to report to Murph. He tracked her down to the CIU briefing room, where photographs of Lachlan Roe, Dirk Roe, the Landseer School, a teenage girl and a man he realised was Ollie Hindmarsh, the local member of parliament, were arranged on whiteboards. And there was Cree, standing with her at the far end of the briefing table, near a stack of folders and leaflets. Before he could stop himself, Tank retorted, ‘Jesus, Andy, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
Cree gave him a mild look of inquiry. ‘Well, here I am, John.’
Tank managed to keep his trap shut. But what really pissed him off then was Murph saying briskly, ‘Gentlemen,’ as she got down to business. The word and its delivery didn’t feel right. The old Pam, who until a few months ago had been his patrol partner, would never have sounded like this, as if she’d had a senior-officer transplant. Plus she was barely noticing him, and in his dim way he realised that her body was taut, humming, and it certainly wasn’t him doing that to her. Fucking Cree. Tank jerked out a chair and plonked himself down and folded his arms, making it clear he didn’t have all day.
No one noticed. ‘This is Lachlan Roe, our assault victim,’ Murph said, handing them each a photograph. ‘Tonight, as we keep an eye on the schoolies, I’d like you to show it to everyone you meet.’
Cree got there quickly, the prick. ‘CIU thinks Roe was hanging around the schoolies? What, selling drugs? Buying? Looking for pussy?’
She smiled at him. ‘Just a possibility. Your main task tonight is to keep an eye on the kids. It’s the eclipse, and they’re all hyped up about it. Maybe the sight of a red moon will bliss them out and we can all go home to bed early, maybe it will stir them up.’
Her gaze lingered. Cree gazed back. To break up the love-fest, Tank said, ‘So how do we play it?’
She turned to him reluctantly and said, ‘Mingle, John. Let yourselves be seen. Talk to the kids, let them know you’ve got their backs if they get into strife. Warn off the toolies, step in if an argument looks like brewing, confiscate car keys from kids who are too drunk or high to drive. And turn a blind eye to minor infringements. Don’t make unnecessary paperwork for yourselves. Let the kids have their fun, so long as no one gets hurt—schoolie or local.’
She swung around to Cree again, as if seeking his okay. ‘Any questions?’
‘How do you mean, mingle?’ Tank demanded. ‘We’re coppers. We look like coppers. We’re old, to them.’
With a quick glance at the ceiling and down again, Murph said, ‘That’s the whole point. We’re not there to spy, we’re there to give help and comfort. Be a presence. Get chatting. Give advice. If anyone needs food or water or money, provide it.’
‘We get reimbursed?’
Pam merely smiled. Tank said in disgust, ‘Terrific.’
‘I’m talking about ten bucks for a bus fare, Tank, not your annual salary.’
She was glancing at Cree. Tank felt very lonely in the world. ‘Whatever.’
* * * *
By late that same afternoon, Ellen Destry had finished at the Landseer School. She’d re-questioned the library staff and anyone who’d taught Zara Selkirk, learning only that the girl and her two Facebook friends were no better or worse than other spoilt-brat bullies who’d passed through the school. Ellen heard stories of binge drinking, drug taking and sexual romps, and the careless, unreflective and vulgar culture that allowed it to happen. Moorhouse said, ‘I’m a generation older than many of these parents. It’s as if they don’t know how to be parents, how to apply discipline. Of course, they’re also too rich and too busy. Needless to say, we’ve placed filters on the school’s computers, banning access to sites like Facebook.’
Good luck, thought Ellen. The kids have home computers. They can access software that will get through any filter a school or a parent cares to install.
Next she drove to a small brick house beside the railway line in Baxter, where the spring weeds were rampant and Merle Richardson spoke in a defeated whisper: ‘I just want to forget about it and get on with my life.’
Ellen said gently, ‘How did you feel when the school offered an apology, to be mediated by the chaplain?’
Richardson screwed a damp handkerchief between her knuckly fingers. ‘Too little, too late.’
‘Did you resent the chaplain’s role? Could he have been more supportive of you?’
‘I know what you’re implying. I want nothing to do with an apology. My brother urged me to get legal advice, and the lawyer told me that accepting an apology would compromise my chances of getting a financial settlement from the school.’
‘Did you tell the school that you were seeking legal advice?’
‘My lawyer did.’
‘Did you cancel the meeting with the chaplain?’
‘My lawyer did.’
‘Did the chaplain try to change your mind?’
‘I’ve had nothing to do with the school or anyone in it since the abuse happened.’
Ellen nodded, wondering if she could charge Zara Selkirk and her friends with stalking, misuse of a telecommunications device, and manufacturing pornography. ‘Okay, thank you,’ she said, hoping that Merle Richardson got millions in compensation.
She was trudging toward her car, head down, when she saw that she was missing a wheel trim. She cursed, blaming the rough dirt roads near Hal’s house—her house. Two weeks earlier, she’d lost another wheel trim, finding it again on one of her walks. Could she keep losing and finding wheel trims?
By now it was early evening. Before starting the engine she called Challis. It went to voicemail. ‘It’s only me,’ she said. ‘Heading for home. See you when I see you.’
It was often like this: they wanted to see each other, eat with each other, spend the evening together, but always the job’s obligations intervened, the overdue reports, pending phone calls, last-minute interruptions.
As Ellen drove away she could feel Merle Richardson behind a curtain, watching, waiting, feeling unsafe. Distracted by feelings of impotence, she at first didn’t realise that she’d made a wrong turning, one that took her up into the southern edge of Frankston. She drove past little houses, parks and shops, past kids on bikes and commuters returning from the station or the city, and wondered how it would be to live like that again, amid neighbours. Quite a few of the houses were for sale. Could she afford to buy one? Did she want to live here?
More to the point, did she want to live alone? Would that hurt Hal? Could she hurt him?
She corrected her direction at the next roundabout. The traffic was streaming out of Frankston and boxed her in. She was deeply fatigued, and on the
outskirts of Somerville saw a broken-backed magpie in the waning light, its bewildered mate hopping out of the path of her car with what seemed to Ellen to be a look of reproach and appeal.
* * * *
Challis had ended up spending the entire afternoon with McQuarrie. He returned to Waterloo feeling fired up, wanting to talk to Ellen. But she wasn’t in CIU, and, instead of driving straight home, he made the mistake of checking his e-mails and message slips. Soon evening settled and he was returning phone calls from the media and handling a stack of paperwork. His in tray, like the top of his desk in general, was overflowing with material from numerous cases, including the Roe assault: forensic reports, investigation and crime-scene worksheets; witness lists and statements; field notes; sketches, photographs and cased videos; interview transcriptions; and ongoing investigative narratives, which were updated from time to time as needed. No murder book just now, thank God.
