by Garry Disher
‘When will he be back?’
The aide was about twenty-five, dressed in a slimline black dress, stockings and heels. A recent law graduate, guessed Challis. She gazed at him unblinkingly over the rim of chic half-lenses. ‘Justice Marlowe is giving a paper at a conference in San Francisco.’
‘When will he be back?’ said Challis again.
She cocked an eyebrow faintly as if to say that while police officers were as much on the side of law and order as lawyers and judges, their job was grubbier, and it showed in their manner and breeding. ‘He’s staying on for a couple of weeks.’
‘Skiing at Aspen?’ said Challis idly, but saw to his surprise that he’d scored a hit. The aide flushed and said, ‘May I ask what this is about?’
He outlined the matter swiftly: the Ebelings, the demolition of Somerland, the development of the site and how it involved Ludmilla Wishart.
The aide swallowed. Challis intuited that behind the severe grooming she was young and insecure and probably adored the judge. Raising doubts about the judge’s bias wasn’t going to get him very far, so he said, ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, a group of Penzance Beach residents—old-timers and preservationists and historical society people—have lodged an objection to the development.’
‘I cannot comment on cases before they’ve been heard. Not even then.’
‘I was wondering, did the victim correspond with the judge at all? Have the Ebelings?’
‘Justice Marlowe will be back in a fortnight,’ the aide said, turning on her gleaming high heels.
‘An off-the-record confirmation is all—’
‘Put it in writing,’ she said over her shoulder, heading for the lifts with a scrape of fabric and a trim clatter.
* * * *
Challis headed out of the city again, taking the Monash Freeway and striking heavy traffic. Melbourne was a city that preferred motor vehicles and roads to trains and trams, even though the road system didn’t work because there were too many cars because the public transport system didn’t work because...
He exited at Blackburn Road and wound his way behind Monash University to the Westall Extension, which bypassed Springvale and put him on the Frankston Freeway. It wasn’t much of a freeway: road works had limited the speed to 80 km/h for years now.
After Frankston he headed across to Somerville and a house on several hectares of cleared land abutting French’s Reserve. The owners had cleared the land without first lodging an application. According to Ludmilla Wishart’s files, Planning East had threatened to take the owner and the clearing contractor to the magistrates’ court, where they’d be liable for fines of up to $120,000 and a requirement to undertake replacement planting.
He pulled to the side of the road and re-read the file. The air outside his open window was mild, full of cut-grass odours and something heavier, marshier. That made sense: the nearby paddocks had been slashed for hay, and French’s Reserve was, according to a report in the file written by a Melbourne University ecologist who’d studied it for ten years, ‘a regionally significant wetland’. Challis read on: ‘Any clearing of the land adjacent to the reserve will have a detrimental impact on a rare orchid, “Astral ladies’ tresses”, and on the growling grass frogs, the southern toadlets, the swamp skinks, the dwarf galaxias and the southern brown bandicoots.’
Challis glanced out at the denuded land, which lay torn and sunbaked between his car and the Reserve. He thought that $120,000 plus an appearance in court and other reparations was a pretty fair motive for murdering the person who’d brought it all upon you. Then he saw the For Sale sign, and when he drove in to the farmhouse, he saw that it had been cleared of all furniture and all desire for a future there.
He made a note of the real estate agent’s phone number, and headed further southeast to Bittern, where a husband and wife named Read had removed indigenous trees from a house block in a residential zone without a permit. When warned by Ludmilla Wishart to cease, they went on to remove understorey vegetation. They were fined $16,000 in the magistrates’ court in Waterloo, and from the dock had hurled abuse at Wishart.
He found the Reads on their property, directing as two teenage boys planted trees and grasses on the area that had been illegally cleared. The Reads were elderly and grossly overweight, Tom Read wheezing in a wheelchair and Bev Read in a walking frame.
‘We paid the fine,’ said the husband, gasping the words out.
His wife was smoking. ‘We’re putting in new trees and that.’
‘So leave us alone.’
Challis said firmly, ‘After sentencing, you were heard shouting “You’ll get yours, bitch” at Mrs Wishart.’
‘I been drinking,’ wheezed Tom Read.
‘He was that upset,’ his wife said, the cigarette bobbing in her mouth, grey smoke wreathing her grey face and hair.
They were unlikely murderers. They’d probably cheated, thieved and lied for all of their lives, but they weren’t killers. They were the kind to sulk and blame others when they got caught, not get violent.
Challis’s last call was to the environment protection manager for the eastern zone. ‘I’ve just been to French’s Reserve,’ he said.
Jessie Heinz looked like a Girl Guide leader: tanned, energetic, comfortable in a khaki shirt and shorts, probably never owned a dress in her life. ‘That one’s a nightmare,’ she said. ‘The owners put the place on the market a month ago and skipped to Queensland.’
‘Do you know if they threatened Mrs Wishart in any way?’
‘They threatened me. Set their dogs on me.’
‘But Mrs Wishart?’
‘Her role in this one was behind the scenes,’ Heinz said. She paused. ‘They’d have a greater motive to murder me. I made an issue out of the threat to the ecology of the reserve. They couldn’t seem to get it into their heads that it was serious. They kept saying, “We can clear our own land if we want to” and “What ecology?” and “The reserve’s on the other side of the farm and a breeding ground for mosquitoes.” They called me a tree-hugger.’
It was said with a grin and Challis grinned back. ‘Are there any other sensitive ecological issues that you and Mrs Wishart were investigating? We’re aware of the tree clearing at the property where her body was found,’ he said, ‘but what else was she working on? Particularly issues that hadn’t made it as far as a written report.’
‘Trees,’ said Heinz. ‘It’s always trees.’ She crossed her office to a wall map. ‘About a hundred trees have been vandalised along this part of the bay in the past year.’ She indicated the coastline between Waterloo and Flinders. ‘It’s the same on the other side of the Peninsula. People drill holes in the trees and fill them with poison. The trees die, we have to cut them down. Or they skip the poisoning and come along after dark with a chainsaw.’
‘People with homes overlooking the sea?’
‘And property developers. There’s been a flurry of apartment developments all along both coastlines in the past decade.’
Heinz paused and grinned again. ‘We’ve had to get quite creative. Sure, we plant five trees for every one killed, but we’ve also been wrapping the poisoned trees in bright orange plastic, and we’re seeking council approval to erect view-blocking screens like they have along the Surf and Bass coasts.’ She paused again. ‘Ludmilla’s ideas.’
‘That would have made her very unpopular.’
‘But who would have known it was her?’ Heinz demanded.
Deciding that he could trust her, Challis said, ‘Tell me about Mr Groot.’
She looked at him steadily. ‘Pro-development.’
‘For example?’
‘He doesn’t appreciate the village atmosphere of the coastal towns. Twice now he’s approved the commercial development of a general store, one dating back to the 1920s, another to 1935. Sweet little buildings, kind of the village hub. Sure, they needed some tender loving care, but he was allowing Melbourne developers to put up six-storey shop and apartment blocks in their place. The othe
r planners hate his guts, but he always knows the fine print and can be pretty insistent and persuasive.’
‘A slash-and-burn kind of guy.’
‘An over-development kind of guy.’
* * * *
39
There was no point in mobilising an armed response team to protect Caz Moon. By the time a team had geared up, found its way from the city to this corner of rural Victoria and been briefed, Josh Brownlee would be long gone.
And so, as Pam raced them down and across the Peninsula to Waterloo, Ellen put contingency plans into motion. First she ordered a chopper from Frankston and then ordered the police station at Waterloo to send a couple of cars down High Street to HangTen.
‘Our person of interest is driving a red Impreza and should be considered armed and dangerous. Received?’
‘Sarge.’
‘If you can, evacuate the nearby shops and divert traffic at each end of the block.’
‘Sarge.’
Then she called HangTen, Caz Moon grasping the situation swiftly, not asking Ellen to repeat who she was or her connection to Pam Murphy.
‘I’m using the cordless phone,’ she told Ellen, sounding breathless. ‘I’m at the back door now, locking it. ..done. I’m moving to the front door…done. Are you sure he has a gun?’
‘Highly likely. Are you alone?’
‘No customers. Chloe’s with me, the other sales assistant.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you sure he’s coming after me?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘If we stay here in plain view, he could shoot through the glass.’
‘Yes.’
‘If we leave the shop, he could ambush us.’
‘Yes.’
Ellen had a sense of wheels turning, and asked, ‘Is there a secure room you can hide in? A storeroom, maybe?’
‘Storeroom. It has a steel door and no windows.’
‘Hide there now,’ Ellen said.
Something then, a sixth sense, a shift in the quality of the connection, an intake of breath, told Ellen that they were too late. ‘Caz?’ she said, trying not to convey the panic she felt. Paddocks sped past her window, trees, a dam, a horse with a couple of birds upon its back. They were still several kilometres short of the town. Traffic was sparse. ‘Caz?’
Caz’s voice came then, sounding steady enough. ‘He’s here. Outside, two wheels up on the footpath. Nearly hit someone. He’s getting out. Yep, a gun.’
‘Caz, for God’s sake, take Chloe and run to the storeroom.’
Ellen heard scrapes, breathlessness and whimpering, as though the two women were duck waddling to the rear of the shop behind the only available cover, glass-topped counters and racks of clothing. ‘Are you nearly there?’
‘Nearly. He just rattled the door.’
‘Are the lights on or off?’
‘Off. First thing I did.’
‘So he might think you’ve closed the shop and gone home?’
‘No. I didn’t have time to wheel the sales racks in from the footpath.’
‘Please, Caz, hide in the storeroom.’
More sounds and then Caz said, ‘He’s pounding on the window and yelling.’
‘Caz—’
‘I know, I know, hide.’
A radio transmission cut in. It was John Tankard. ‘Suspect sighted. I can confirm that he’s armed. A shottie. He looks agitated.’
‘John,’ said Ellen, as Pam Murphy floored the throttle and expertly flicked past a delivery van, never once glancing at her passenger, ‘be very careful. Did you evacuate the area?’
‘Didn’t have time, but people started evacuating themselves when they saw the gun.’
‘No shooting, John, not if there are people about. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. We’ll try to talk him into surrendering. Received?’
‘Sarge.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Andy Cree’s with me. We’ve got a second car at the roundabout.’
Ellen put a face to the name: the good-looking rookie, Pam Murphy possibly sweet on him. ‘Impress on Constable Cree and the others, no shooting. I don’t want any headlines.’
‘Sarge.’
‘What’s our person of interest doing?’
‘Pounding on the window of the surf shop.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Other side of the street, waving people to get out of the way.’
‘Get them well out of the way.’
‘Sarge.’
‘Check his car—any other head on board?’
‘He’s alone, Sarge.’
Switching back to her mobile phone, Ellen said, ‘You there, Caz?’
The reception was scratchy suddenly, the young shopkeeper’s voice fading in and out. ‘In.. .locked...’
She’s in the storeroom and the walls and steel door are interfering with the reception, Ellen guessed. Then John Tankard cut in again: ‘He’s spotted us.’
‘Keep your heads down.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Getting back into his car.’
‘Be prepared to follow, but don’t panic him. I’ve called for a chopper.’
‘He’s already in a panic, Sarge.’
‘Don’t aggravate it, John, okay?’
‘Okay, Sarge.’
‘You drive, not your partner.’
‘Sarge.’
She knew that Tankard had done an advanced-driving course; she didn’t know about Cree and didn’t have the time to find out. But when Pam Murphy gave the briefest recriminatory flicker just then, she guessed she’d trodden on toes. Couldn’t worry about that now: ‘All we do is track him, okay?’
‘Received.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Heading for the roundabout.’
‘Tell them to let him through.’
‘Sarge.’
Pam and Ellen were no more than two minutes away from Waterloo now. If Josh Brownlee headed for home, he’d pass them going the other way. But there were other possible exits from the town: further south toward Penzance Beach, or directly across the Peninsula to Mornington, on Port Phillip Bay. Pam said, ‘All we need to do is get him on a straight stretch of road, Sarge. Take him when there are no cars around.’
‘But how?’
‘Mobile take-out.’
‘You know how to do that?’
‘Yes.’
Ellen knew that the younger woman had received pursuit car training. ‘Does Tank know?’
‘Yes.’
Ellen switched to the radio, saying, ‘John?’
‘Sarge.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Heading for Jamieson’s Road.’
Pam and Ellen were on Jamieson’s Road. It was quiet and straight for long stretches. Pam braked immediately and did a U-turn. Ellen looked back over her shoulder. ‘We’re on Jamieson’s now.’
‘Facing which way?’
‘We turned around so he should be coming up behind us any minute. Where are you?’
‘Just behind him.’
‘Are both Waterloo cars on his tail?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘We do a mobile take-out. You up for that?’
‘Am I?’ Tank said. ‘Just say the word.’
Ellen visualised the gleam in the eyes of the beefy young cop. ‘By the book, John. This isn’t the Grand Prix.’
‘Sarge.’
The voices were quieter after that, calmer but more tense, as Pam Murphy mapped out the strategy and Ellen relayed instructions to the pursuit cars. ‘He’ll come up behind us. Pam will keep her speed down. Before he pulls out to overtake, your two cars need to come up fast behind him, one on his rear bumper, the other beside him. He’ll be boxed in and have nowhere to go.’
‘Sarge.’
‘John, you need to be the one to come alongside him.’
‘Sarge.’
‘If we meet oncoming traffic, drop back and let it through.’
‘Sarge.’<
br />
‘I’m hoping the chopper will give us plenty of warning if there is other traffic ahead.’
Then there was silence, only the rush of their passage through the air and the muted howl of their tyres. Pam Murphy was driving at 110 km/h. She dropped back to 90, then 80, her eyes on the rear-view mirror, finally murmuring, ‘There he is.’
