by Garry Disher
She’d known something was going on in CIU, but after lunch had moved downstairs to a small office behind the lockup. It was her way of avoiding the sniggering and getting her work done. She was snowed under today and didn’t want Challis or Destry grabbing her for some trivial and time-consuming CIU matter. She’d yet to complete the paperwork on Josh Brownlee, and had been asked to write an informal ‘from-the-point-of-view-of-a-cop-on-the-beat’ contribution to the Schoolies Week reports that Sergeant Destry was compiling for Superintendent McQuarrie and the town council. The schoolies report promised to be a major pain in the bum. Pam didn’t quite trust her own impressions and decided to spend the afternoon reading the daily logs kept by the uniformed officers and drawing up a questionnaire she’d later distribute to the town’s shopkeepers, hoteliers and landlords.
Using an electrician’s van and a gum tree to screen her from the windows along the front of the station, she slipped across the road, heading for the side door. A voice said, ‘Excuse me? Pam? Excuse me.’
She turned in agitation. A teenage girl, a schoolie by the look of her: miniskirt, a short, tight T-shirt, sandals, a bouncy blonde ponytail, a pretty, untroubled face, confirming Pam’s opinion that a kind of natural selection was operating. If you were granted a private school education and a week beside the sea after your exams, you were also granted healthy blonde good looks. If you were poor, went to the local high school and dropped out before Year 12, you looked like crap.
And sometimes the blondes knew they were born to rule, but not always. This girl was one of the nice ones. ‘Bronte-Mae,’ said Pam with a smile.
It had been last Monday night, Bronte-Mae somehow misplacing her wallet, keys, friends, sobriety and dignity. Pam had saved her. Saving distressed kids was as much helping them see that their circumstances weren’t hopeless as it was lending them twenty bucks and putting them to bed.
And now here was Bronte-Mae again, bubbling over, saying, ‘I found this on the beach.’
A small woven bag, the kind they had in Oxfam catalogues. ‘I’m in the middle of something right now,’ Pam said. ‘Can you take it to the front desk?’
‘Oh,’ said Bronte-Mae, her face falling. ‘Okay.’
She was glowing but full of teenage hesitations and helplessness. Finally she said, ‘It’s just that I think it’s that lady’s, the one who got murdered.’
For a moment then, Pam grew very still. Then she motioned with her hand.
Greatly relieved, sparkling with it, Bronte-Mae released the bag. ‘I found it last night, near Shoreham. I forgot about it till this morning’—she blushed—’when I woke up.’ She looked stricken suddenly. ‘Was it okay to search it? I only wanted to know whose it was. I didn’t take anything.’
Pam worked her fingers over the surface of the little cloth bag, feeling something small, hard and rectangular within. If you were the kind of woman who bought Third World craft items, you’d keep your mobile phone, glasses or tampons in a bag like this. She couldn’t see a name anywhere. ‘What makes you think the bag is Mrs Wishart’s?’
‘There’s a little birthday card inside.’
Pam eased open the drawstring top. An iRiver MP3 player, with earphones, a USB cable, an instruction booklet and a tiny card. Reluctant to touch anything, she said warmly, ‘This is fantastic’
‘Really?’ beamed Bronte-Mae.
‘Really,’ said Pam. She lowered her voice confidingly. ‘This is off the record, but we’ve been looking for this. I have your contact details from last Monday. We may need a statement from you later.’
Glowing, Bronte-Mae began to retreat. ‘Okay, cool. Well, see ya! Thanks for everything! I’ve had the best week of my life!’
A sexual glow, thought Pam. I can relate to that.
She waved to Bronte-Mae, then hurried in through the front door of the station. There was no straightforward route to CIU from there. First she was obliged to use the security keypad beside the reception desk, and then enter the warren of corridors behind it, passing open office doors, the sergeants’ mess and half-a-dozen guys crowding around the noticeboards, before finally climbing the narrow stairs, swerving to avoid a couple of officers clattering down them. And, all the while, there was that continued sense of whispers and subterranean nastiness in the atmosphere of the building. Twice she out-stared a couple of guys who were gaping at her. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Nothing,’ they muttered, hot in the face.
She poked her head around the door of the incident room. Ellen Destry was there, gathering files together. ‘Sarge, I—’
‘Sorry, Pam, can it wait? We’ve just charged the chief planner with the Wishart murder and I—’
‘Ludmilla Wishart’s MP3 player, Sarge. Just been handed in.’
The CIU sergeant went tense. ‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where and when?’
Pam told her. The sergeant pulled out her mobile phone and dialled. ‘Hal? We’ve got Ludmilla’s MP3 player.. .Murph.. .the lab for prints...’
Pam began to edge away, knowing Ellen would find a dozen tasks for her to do. She needed to write those reports first. She reached the corridor, the head of the stairs, the bottom of the stairs, feigning deafness when Destry called, ‘Pam?’
* * * *
Her bolthole behind the lockup consisted of filing cabinets, shelves of reports, manuals and handbooks, and two computers. A constable from Community Liaison had been pecking away at one of the computers, but he’d been called away to an emergency, and so the room was hers for now. She settled herself at the other computer and began to write her initial impressions of Schoolies Week. Thirty minutes later, she completed the first draft, saved it to her memory stick, pressed ‘print’.
Nothing happened. A message came up to say that the computer was not connected to a network printer. Frustrated, she removed her memory stick, slotted it into the second computer and called up her document. Again she pressed ‘print’. The command went through.
Her gaze wandered to the bottom of the screen. Apparently the guy from Community Liaison still had a window open. Tucked away among the icons were a short banner and an abbreviated Web address. In an idle mood, she clicked on it.
And saw herself spread naked and pale on top of her bed.
Or rather, she didn’t know who it was until her eyes strayed from the groin and breasts to the face. The Web address was www.inandoutofuniform.com. Sure enough, there she was in uniform, too, a copy of that academy graduation shot she kept in the pewter frame on her dressing table.
Then her mobile phone rang and it was Inspector Challis, saying she was needed to help review the evidence against the planner, Groot.
* * * *
52
By now it was mid-afternoon, the station quieter, the CIU briefing room very quiet. Smith and Jones had gone home to mow their lawns or whatever it was the two men did on their weekends. Ellen Destry and Scobie Sutton were itemising and logging into evidence the contents of Ludmilla Wishart’s little woven bag before it was all sent to the lab. Challis was drumming his fingers, waiting for Pam Murphy to arrive.
She drifted in finally, looking stiff and tight to Challis’s eyes, as if holding powerful emotions in check. He raised his eyebrows at her. She shook her head and took her seat.
He started the briefing. ‘As you know, we’ve arrested the head planner, Groot. The thing is, both he and the husband had motive, both were in the vicinity, both acted strangely. So let’s compare them. Ellen?’
She stirred. ‘The husband had a history of following his wife around. On Wednesday afternoon he was acting true to form—mad and obsessive though it might seem to us. And he knew how weird it would seem to an outsider, so he covered it up. It was a “normal” day, so to speak. When we pinpoint what wasn’t normal about that day, we find Groot.’
Challis nodded. He turned to Pam Murphy, who was chewing the inside of her cheek, staring fixedly at the surface of the table, barely in the room. Was she thinking he’d made a terrible mi
stake in arresting Groot? ‘Pam? You don’t think Groot did it?’
She blinked. ‘What? I mean, sorry, I was trying to see it from his point of view.’
It was a quick recovery—and a lie. Her mind had been miles away. He couldn’t waste time on her. Crossing to the whiteboard, he scrawled Groot’s name at the top. ‘What do we know about this guy?’
‘He was at the scene,’ Ellen said. ‘He lied about it, but later admitted it.’
‘There’s also physical evidence showing he was there,’ Sutton said. ‘CCTV footage of him following her the day she was murdered.’
‘I’m thinking what he might argue in court,’ Challis said, grabbing the back of a chair in his habitual way. ‘He was railroaded by us. He was confused. He got his times and dates wrong. Yes, he was at the site of the murder—but at another time and for work-related reasons. He didn’t confront Ludmilla Wishart about anything. The police bullied him and he was confused.’
‘He was taking bribes,’ Sutton said. ‘Ludmilla Wishart found out and was going to expose him. He had motive.’
‘Do we have proof that he was taking bribes? The Ebelings will deny paying him. He can claim it was a beat-up, that Ludmilla was mistaken, or acting maliciously. As for the money, he won it on the horses.’
‘So we make sure he can’t argue these things in court,’ Ellen said. ‘We dig deeper into his past: financial records, friends, family and acquaintances, his work history, phone records, witnesses who can place him with the Ebelings or with other people who might have benefited from council tip-offs over the past few years.’
‘A huge job,’ muttered Sutton.
They sat in thoughtful gloom for a while. ‘Is this guy clever?’ Challis asked. ‘He makes a partial admission, a plausible admission, one that reflects badly on him, thinking we’ll see it as the truth, that he couldn’t be guilty of the greater crime?’
‘Much like the husband,’ Ellen pointed out.
‘Or they’re both telling the truth,’ Sutton said.
‘But what do we think?’
‘Groot did it,’ Ellen said. ‘We know he’s a bit of a bully, and finally he went that one step further.’
‘I agree,’ Sutton said.
Pam Murphy was miles away again.
Then there was a snap like a muted pistol shot and Murphy was looking in dismay at the two halves of her pencil. She swallowed, went red, said ‘Sorry,’ and slammed out of the room. Challis cocked an eyebrow at Ellen, who shrugged.
‘We need hard evidence that Groot was taking bribes and that Ludmilla knew about it,’ Challis continued. ‘Otherwise Groot’s barrister will attack the victim in court: Ludmilla Wishart was given to making crazy claims about her workmates, she was the one taking bribes to finance her lazy husband’s lifestyle, she had a secret lover, and so on. Or he’ll claim she was mugged—and how do we know that didn’t happen?’
He walked around the long table to peer down at the murdered woman’s MP3 player and woven bag. ‘But would a mugger toss this away?’
‘Unlikely,’ Sutton said, unfolding his long legs in a rearrangement of bony angles.
‘I’m trying to see it through Groot’s eyes,’ Challis said. ‘He kills her, then, to make it look like a mugging gone wrong, he pockets her cash and her phone and dumps the rest of her stuff down on the beach. But why not take her MP3 player as well? Wouldn’t that reinforce the notion that she was mugged?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘He was in a hurry. He took the obvious things. He didn’t bother to open that little bag, probably thought it had her sunglasses in it.’
‘Feasible,’ said Challis doubtfully.
He pulled latex gloves from his pocket, said ‘Glove up, Ells,’ and held the MP3 player before his nose. ‘How do you work one of these?’
‘You obviously don’t have a teenage daughter,’ Ellen said, with a snap of her glove.
They sat side by side; Challis felt a jolt of desire when their shoulders touched. She was subtly scented: not only her shampoo and soap but also an underlay of skin and hair. But she was all business, murmuring, ‘Let’s see,’ headphones plugged into her ears. He felt a twinge of disappointment; then, marvellously, she leaned against him, and he thought: To hell with what Sutton thinks.
They watched the glow of the little screen, the menus flickering from category to sub-category, category to sub-category, as Ellen worked her way through the contents. Suddenly she froze and removed the headphones: ‘She used it to record notes to herself.’
‘What kind of notes?’
‘Listen,’ she said, plugging him in.
* * * *
53
Testing, testing, one two three, the quick brown fox did a pee by the apple tree, etcetera, etcetera...
Then a faint click, Ellen guessing that Ludmilla Wishart had replayed the test run. The MP3 player was new, a birthday gift, so she’d have been playing with it, trying out the various functions.
The time is now. ..2.45 and I’m at lot number five, Harcourt Drive, in Tyabb, where the owners have laid the foundations for an unauthorised bed-and-breakfast establishment.
That had been listed on her desk diary. They heard Wishart announce her intentions and then there was a faint, atmospheric hiss, an interruption, before the voice returned, announcing the results of the meeting. Amicable results, apparently.
A pleasant voice, Ellen thought. Calm, unhurried, educated and a little self-conscious but pleased with her new toy.
The time is now 3.20 and my next destination is Bluff Road in Penzance Beach. I will need to buy petrol along the way.
Pause, and then her voice came back wryly: Not that this little gizmo needs to know that.
Ellen pictured Ludmilla Wishart’s journey from the Tyabb address to the site of the demolished house in Penzance Beach, with a stop for petrol along the way, Groot tailing her in his old Mercedes, Adrian tailing her in his uncle’s station wagon. Why hadn’t the two men spotted each other? And it all would have consumed forty minutes in real time, if Ludmilla had wanted to leave her gizmo recording while she narrated the conditions and events of her journey:
Taking this bend at eighty kilometres an hour.. .passing a school bus... just hit a bump... have finished putting 47 litres of unleaded petrol into the tank of my car...
But of course Ludmilla Wishart said none of these things but quickly stopped mucking around with her new toy and recorded only those observations that she would need later when writing up her notes.
There was a pause, a soft electronic interruption, and she returned:
Bluff Road, Penzance Beach. It is now 4.25 in the afternoon. Met with Carl Vernon as arranged. Discussed the demolition of the house known as Somerland. Local residents very upset, as noted this morning. I advised that I’d applied to the planning minister for an interim heritage amendment that would protect Somerland, but, unfortunately, Hugh and Mia Ebeling had exercised their right to demolish before it could be considered or granted. What I didn’t tell Mr Vernon was that my boss had almost certainly tipped off the Ebelings, and that I shall report him to the authorities.
And Groot had known that, Ellen thought. He followed her, intending to talk her out of it, and killed her when that failed.
In the meantime I advised Mr Vernon that the residents’ association should take steps to block the Ebelings’ intended development of the site or at least press for a drastic modification of the excesses of the planned building, which at present is a structure on three levels. My advice was that the association should attend any and all Development Assessments Committee meetings and present transparencies that show what impact the proposed structure would have on their views not only across the water but also in other directions. Pause. Leaving Penzance at 4.35 to drive to Shoreham.
Another pause, and when Wishart’s voice started again it was electric with suppressed emotions:
I need to get this down immediately, in case anything happens. I’m outside the property known as Westering, at 450 Frankston-Flinders
Road, which is accessed from Frankston-Flinders Road via a very long driveway down to a headland overlooking the beach. The owner, Jamie Furneaux, who is presently overseas, was charged and fined for removing 52 pine and other trees, and ordered to plant indigenous trees to compensate. I can confirm that Mr Furneaux has abided by the conditions of the ruling made against him. But Mr Groot, the chief planner, arrived soon after I did. He actually followed me! I am annoyed. I am also, I must admit, a little afraid. I’ve seen Groot angry and emotional before, but not like this. He kept going on and on about how I would ruin his career, he had a wife and children to support, he could go to jail, and anyway, what did he do wrong, all he did was keep the Ebelings apprised of the progress of their applications to demolish an old house and erect a new one. I said, how much did they pay you? He got angry and said they hadn’t paid him anything, but I didn’t believe him. Then he got a bit physical with me, grabbing my arms and shoving me against the car. God, he’s repulsive. He scares me, too. He went away in tears but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to hurt me in some way. Physically? Professionally? I wish I knew what was going through his head. Anyway, this record is in case something bad happens to me.
