[Challis #5] Blood Moon

by Garry Disher

  But then he came across an internal alert notifying him that one of his officers had accessed the Law Enforcement Database that morning. It was a touchy issue: when the system was first set up, bored coppers had used it to look into the private lives of TV stars and celebrity footballers, and before long the abuse had grown more serious. One officer had been demoted for accumulating information on his estranged wife’s new lover, a handful of others admonished for searching the files of a parliamentary candidate who’d campaigned on the issue of police corruption, and one detective sacked for leaking LED material on one drug dealer to a rival dealer.

  Challis didn’t know why Pam Murphy had logged on, only that an audit had triggered automatically when she logged out. He didn’t doubt that she’d searched the database as part of her official duties, but she hadn’t advised him first and now he was obliged to follow it up.

  He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. He was a very private man. He hated for anyone to know anything about him, but they did know things, and there was little he could do to control the flow of information. At the same time, his daily work demanded that he uncover people’s secrets. The issue of privacy ceased to exist, in many investigations. Achieving justice, and maintaining public safety, demanded that he dig up, expose and use the things that people wanted to hide. It was another illustration of the great divide: us and them, the police and the general mass of people. That’s why access to the LED database had to be tightly controlled. A lesser man than Challis might want to use it to learn if his new lover had secret debts, for example, or if his lover’s daughter was involved in the drug scene.

  Meanwhile, who was Hugh Ebeling, and why had Pam Murphy been looking into his affairs?

  The phone rang again and the front desk said, ‘Sorry, Inspector, but we’ve got a missing person and there’s no one else available.’

  Challis groaned. Mis per cases were a headache. A spouse, partner or child might have very good reasons for disappearing, and police attention might make things worse for them. Many returned of their own accord, or at least made contact, but some feared they’d be harmed if they did. Of course, others were missing because they’d been murdered and their bodies disposed of. ‘Details?’

  ‘Best if you came down and talked to the gentleman concerned.’

  The time was eight o’clock.

  * * * *

  22

  Challis clattered down the stairs and joined the duty sergeant at the front desk. Night had settled; there was deep darkness beyond the light outside the main entrance. ‘This is Mr Wishart, sir.’

  Wishart thrust his hand over the desk, knocking the sign-in book askew. ‘Adrian Wishart,’ he said. His grip was firm but so moist that Challis cringed.

  He made a rapid scan of Wishart. Age, mid-thirties. Medium height. Artfully tousled hair, unmarked hands, and casual but costly looking jacket and trousers, so he probably worked indoors for good money. Clean-shaven: in fact, freshly shaven, his lean, ascetic features almost gleaming. Some kind of cologne drifted faintly in the disturbed air, disturbed because Wishart was trembling, suppressing powerful emotions, or giving that appearance. Challis read the body language and decided that Wishart was inventing it, behaving as he imagined a husband should behave. Still, Challis wasn’t about to read too much into that. He’d been wrong before, people behaved oddly in the presence of the police, and Wishart’s concern might not be loving but material: she’d run off with all of his money, for example.

  ‘Your wife is missing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wishart in a rush. ‘Ludmilla. Today’s her birthday and we’re supposed to go out for dinner.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She normally gets home at half-past five.’

  Challis checked his own watch. Just after eight o’clock. ‘Perhaps she went straight to the restaurant?’

  ‘No. I was expecting to find her at home, we’d have a drink, get changed, go out.’

  Challis looked past him into the darkness. The light was odd out there. The eclipse. He turned to Wishart and said, ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘About six.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  Wishart frowned. ‘At home.’

  Challis frowned. ‘I thought you said you came home about six.’

  Wishart’s expression cleared. ‘What I mean is, I work from home but I’d been up to visit my uncle in Cheltenham. He had a present for Mill’

  ‘Is “Mill” short for Ludmilla?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, she turned thirty and he had a present for her. We’ve been close, you know—since my parents died.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Terry.’

  ‘Terry Wishart? I’ll need his contact details.’

  The man looked perplexed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Architect.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘She’s the infringements officer at Planning East.’

  Challis frowned, placing the office mentally. ‘Next to Centrelink?’

  ‘Yes. She’s not there, her car’s not there, and she’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait at home for her and call us instead of coming in?’

  ‘I did wait. I waited for ages, then thought to check the carpark, and was passing the police station and thought—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Challis smoothly. ‘Have you rung her work colleagues? Her friends, family?’

  ‘Her mother’s in Sydney. She wouldn’t go there. I rang her friend Carmen. She said she saw Mill at lunchtime, said Mill was going to be out and about for work all afternoon. I’m worried.’

  Challis said carefully, ‘I have to ask you this: have you argued with Ludmilla recently? Is there anything in your relationship that might lead her to pack a bag and leave?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Have you checked her belongings?’

  ‘Yes. First thing I did. Nothing’s missing.’

  ‘The first thing you did? So there was a reason why she might have packed a bag and left?’

  ‘No! I mean, after it became clear she was late, I made several phone calls, and it was Carmen who said I should check to see if she’d done that, packed a bag and left.’

  ‘Has she done this kind of thing before?’

  ‘Never! It’s not like her.’

  How many times have I heard that? thought Challis. It was another of mankind’s great lies, like a poor man can get into the White House. In his experience, most people were blind to their loved ones’ inclinations and potential. On the other hand, it paid the police to listen, just in case. He said, ‘Another hard question: do you have any reason to believe there could be someone else in her life? Phone calls she takes in another room, alterations to her habits, new clothes, returning late from work...’

  Wishart looked wretched. ‘I don’t know. I doubt it very much. It’s not like her. She was so busy at work. She never stays away overnight. If she has a conference interstate or overseas, I go with her.’

  ‘You said she could be out in the field. Doing what?’

  ‘Inspecting, issuing warnings, following up on things. She said something about an old house that had been illegally demolished. People are always clearing vegetation without a permit. Stuff like that.’

  ‘She could be inspecting a property some distance away. She forgot the time, or she has a fiat tyre or engine trouble. You called her?’

  ‘Went to voicemail.’

  ‘The Peninsula is full of black spots where there’s no mobile reception.’

  Wishart’s bony white fists beat the desk gently while the duty sergeant looked on. ‘I know that. I’ve thought of that.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should go home,’ said Challis, ‘and sit by the phone.’

  ‘But I did the right thing, didn’t I, reporting it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Challis firmly, knowing all he could do at this stage was put in a few calls to hospitals and other police districts. It was far too soon for anyth
ing official.

  ‘What if she’s been in an accident? What if she’s unconscious?’ Tears spurted. ‘What if she’s dead?’

  ‘The best you can do this late in the day,’ said Challis, ‘is go home. I’ll start making some enquiries. Go home and call someone to be with you, a friend or family member. This uncle, for example. I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.’

  ‘That’s all? For God’s sake.’ Wishart moped out.

  ‘She’s done a runner,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘You could be right.’

  Challis went out to examine the moon. He’d missed most of the eclipse. All he saw was a reddish smudge amongst the stars and the hard edges of the trees around him.

  * * * *

  23

  Scobie Sutton, his wife Beth and his daughter Roslyn joined the other hundred or so adults and kids in filing out of the school hall at eight o’clock and on to the basketball courts. ‘Just for ten or fifteen minutes,’ the school principal said. ‘It’s not every day the moon turns red.’

  They stood there, looking up. Wispy cloud above, atmospheric streaks, and there was a partial moon above them, blurred, a kind of wine colour. Some enterprising types tried to photograph the effect, the kids began to run around and there was an air of giddiness. Roslyn had already played her piano solo and sung ‘Zulu Warrior’ with her little choir, and ‘Smoke on the Water’ had been mangled—twice—so Scobie was feeling pretty good, his wife’s oddness temporarily forgotten. Until he looked down at her and saw that she was bunching the neck of her blouse in one hand and muttering some kind of incantation, as though encouraged in further madness by the moon.

  * * * *

  Ellen Destry looked at the moon shadows from Hal’s kitchen window. It was eight-thirty and she was warm and pink from her bath, wrapped up in pyjamas and thick socks. Then a peacock sounded its unearthly cry from the farm on the other side of the hill and the light painting the yard was sufficiently altered to draw her out onto the lawn. She craned her neck, but couldn’t see what the fuss was about, and went back inside to zap a lean beef casserole in the microwave.

  She was pouring herself a glass of Elan red when the kitchen phone rang.

  ‘Destry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘I left a message—’

  ‘I got it. I could be late: a woman’s missing.’

  Ellen closed her eyes. ‘Young? I mean, a schoolie?’ She’d have to take charge if it was a schoolie.

  ‘No.’

  Ellen said, ‘Do you want me to come in?’ She did and didn’t want to.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. Don’t wait up.’

  But she would, and they both knew it. She replaced the handset, removed the casserole and ate it with the wine in front of the TV, some crap on one of the commercial channels. It was during an ad, her attention wandering, that she began to take stock of the sitting room. She switched off the TV and stood on the worn rug between the armchairs and wondered what, exactly, bothered her about it.

  The dimensions were pleasing. The room was long, broad, with a high ceiling and a large window looking out onto a few shrubs and a paling fence. Bookshelves took up the end wall, with one shelf for CDs. Then, conscious that she was living a cliché, she began to note the things she itched to change. More colour, for a start: paint the walls, brighter cushions, a new rug. Vases of flowers every day. New curtains. A few—

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Destry.’

  A woman chirruped, ‘Is that Mrs Challis?’

  Ellen went very still, very tight. ‘No, it is not.’

  ‘Can I speak to her, please?’

  ‘What makes you think there’s a Mrs Challis?’

  ‘Er, this is Mr Challis’s number.’

  ‘So if a woman answers she must be Mrs Challis?’

  There was a long pause, freighted with doubt and confusion. Ellen said sweetly, ‘Now, as you know, we’re almost ten years into the twenty-first century: have you ever heard of a man and a woman with different last names living together, by any faint chance?’

  The woman sounded unsure. ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘All right, how about this: have you ever heard of a woman marrying a man and keeping her own last name? Think carefully, now.’

  The voice came in a rush, almost in tears, so that Ellen felt mean. ‘This is a courtesy call from Telstra, asking clients if they’re satisfied with their current plans. If I could speak to the man or the lady of the house...’

  Ellen slammed the phone down. Night was settling around the house and the light was very queer. She finished her glass of red and poured another.

  * * * *

  Pam Murphy stood on a patch of cropped lawn between the coin barbecues and the foreshore trees, watching the moon turn red in silent stages as the earth glided between it and the sun. She’d been expecting a blood red, but it was no red that she could name. It was a chocolaty red, a rusty red, a bruised red with touches of old blood, rendered mistily by thin, vapoury clouds high in the atmosphere. Like everyone around her, she stood transfixed. All human activity except the need to congregate and worship was suspended for an hour or so. If she’d been expecting the schoolies to hallucinate, turn strange, self-destructive or violent, she was mistaken. The red moon mellowed them. They swayed to inner choruses and seemed inclined to kiss and hug each other.

  As she gazed, a little dreamy, hard, slim arms slid around her. A pair of dry lips tugged briefly on her ear lobe. The sensation was there and gone before she’d quite registered it, leaving a tingle somewhere inside her.

  She whirled around. ‘That could be considered harassment, constable.’

  ‘Sorry, got caught up in the moment,’ Andy Cree said.

  He gave her a look. She’d seen the same look on the boys who’d snatched a kiss and a feel at high school socials and she’d seen it on young offenders, those who had good looks, nerve and invincibility on their side. She was fighting down a grin, trying to stop her body responding to the force-field of his, when she noticed John Tankard standing nearby, looking daggers at them. She sighed. They had a job to do. ‘Focus, constable,’ she said, stepping back.

  Andy snapped a salute at her. ‘Aye, aye, ma’am.’

  ‘You know the drill: mingle.’

  She watched Cree fade into the queer half-light, past the skateboard ramps and the barbecues toward the strip of half-a-dozen motels and bed-and-breakfast joints. Meanwhile Tank had wandered off toward the tents, where some of the kids were clustered around a campfire with blankets and guitars. They flickered in and out of the firelight and snatches of Dylan and Baez drifted toward her. Dylan and Baez. Even I’m too young for Dylan and Baez, she thought.

  Otherwise there seemed to be no purposeful movement anywhere, only a sense of dreaminess. Waterloo was spread beneath the gentle moon and so far there hadn’t been a single pub brawl, drag race or outbreak of tears.

  Pam took High Street first, going up as far as Blockbuster Video and the Thai restaurant, and back down to the foreshore reserve. She saw schoolies congregating outside the pubs and noodle and pizza outlets, but she also saw plenty of locals and their kids. Everyone was blissed out and so she developed a sense of waiting for things to go wrong. Midnight would come and the booze and drugs would run out and the buzz wear off, and disappointments and grievances would set in. She shouldn’t be alone then. The three of them would need to roam as a unit and watch each other’s backs.

  Time drifted and Pam drifted. She wanted to feel alert but the night air was mild, subtly perfumed—the gardens in bloom; the ozone tang of the sea; even the dope the kids were smoking—and full of benign fellow-feeling.

  Half hoping that she’d encounter Andy Cree, she drifted to where it was darkest, the rocks and the occasional scoops of sandy beach between the parkland and the mangroves. She picked her way left, toward the refinery, and then right, toward the next town, Penzance Beach, but not intending to walk anywhere near as far as that. Here and there she found lovers em
bracing, solitary dreamers, small huddles of murmuring schoolies, and all around her there was the suck and surge of the black water, the scrape of fabric against skin and soft moans, sighs and caught breaths. None of it was her business.

  Then she clambered over a breakwater, attracted by sounds of distress. In the shredded moonlight she saw the oily mud and spindly lines of a mangrove pocket, and a kid floundering there, sunk to his shins. She saw him retch violently, waver upright, wipe his chin, pitch over at the waist again. He was almost naked, wearing only red scraps over his groin, as though his underpants had become skewed as he struggled against the mud and his impulse to retch.