by Garry Disher
There was a sense of time passing, even though only a second had elapsed on the recording, and Ludmilla’s voice returned, sounding altered in unnameable ways but suggesting puzzlement and faint annoyance:
Ade? What are you doing here?
Ellen heard a man’s voice, a low undertone, none of the words distinguishable, and Ludmilla Wishart’s response:
You were parked behind that shed the whole time? Whose car is that?
More deep growling, then Ludmilla again, admonition and tension in her voice:
Ade, you mustn’t follow me like this—I was so embarrassed when you showed up yesterday, I don’t know what Mr Vernon thought... Of course he’s not. ..I’m not seeing anyone on the sly... Who? That was my boss, Mr Groot.. .No, Ade, I’m telling you.. .He didn’t hug me, he was a bit cross about a work matter and grabbed my arms for emphasis, that’s all.. .No, Ade. ..I do not. ..I do love you... There’s no one else.. .No... Of course I don’t want to leave you.. .But she’s my friend, I can’t stop seeing her...I’ve never slept with anyone but you. ..I think he’s disgusting...
Adrian Wishart’s voice came clearly now, asking her about the MP3 player. Ludmilla made no mention that she was taping:
Just listening to music... Carmen gave it to me at lunchtime.. .No, she loaded some songs on it for me... Honest, I didn’t spend any of our money on this, it was a gift...
Ellen Destry and Hal Challis hunched over the little device, frozen, listening to the fear, the pleading and the barely controlled hysteria in Ludmilla Wishart’s voice. Adrian Wishart sounded angry, almost shrieking at his wife as he first accused her and then dragged her out of the car and beat her with the meaty sounds of death blows, all the time talking and shouting. There were other sounds then, muffled ones as he cleaned up, and finally his voice, sobbing the words:
See what you made me do? Don’t you know I love you?
* * * *
54
Pam Murphy tried to keep a cool head. First she made a mental list of the options open to her. She could report Andrew Cree to the new senior sergeant in charge of the station’s uniformed officers. Or to Ellen Destry. Or to Ethical Standards, at Force Command headquarters. Cree would be formally investigated, possibly charged with several offences and probably kicked off the force.
But his nastiness would emerge again, wherever he was, whatever he did for a living, and other women—maybe women with fewer resources than she had—would suffer.
Also, Cree had been a very busy networker since arriving at Waterloo. If he didn’t exactly have close friends among the uniforms, the probationers and the clerical staff, he did have cronies. He had influence. In a culture that valued the simple bonds between men—beer, football, hatred of women—he had influence. This was Australia, after all. These things mattered and always had.
So if she took formal action against him she’d be the one to suffer most. Bullets delivered to her mailbox, dog shit in her locker, car tyres slashed open. A whispering campaign: she was a lesbian, or frigid, or sleeping her way to the top.
And she couldn’t count on the young female cops to help her, either. Some of them were blokier than the blokes. Better, more vicious haters.
Should she tackle Cree head on? That was her instinctive inclination. He was not such a big guy, or particularly fit or brave. She could beat the shit out of him so that he and his mates got the message loud and clear.
But would he? Would they?
And what if she lost, or won but they all scoffed at her anyway, called her a sore loser, couldn’t take a joke? And what if he lodged an official complaint that saw her charged with assault? She could be busted back to uniform or even drummed out of the force.
What could a female member of Victoria Police do? Not much. To Pam Murphy’s knowledge, women who complained were ostracised and bullied until they quit the job they loved and had been expensively trained to do. Or they quit meekly and carried their stress-related illnesses for years.
Even though she was supposed to be on duty, and tonight was the last night of Schoolies Week, Pam Murphy drove home to Penzance Beach, thinking, thinking, and seeing Cree’s declarations of love for what they really were. At home she walked from room to room, still thinking, renewing contact with the gritty core of selfhood that had always been there, deep inside her. She stared at the crumpled bedclothes. Her little shack was blighted now. She could almost smell Cree in the air. She bundled together the bedding and the towel he’d used—it was lying on the bathroom floor—into the washing machine and turned it on, extra detergent. She took up the Police Academy graduation photograph and wiped away his greasy paws.
Then she called him, as light and innocent as a girl in love.
Then she called Caz Moon.
* * * *
There was nothing for Scobie Sutton to do now. Challis told him to go home, the paperwork could wait, Adrian Wishart wasn’t going anywhere. ‘See you Monday, Scobie. Spend some time with your wife and daughter.’
So Scobie went home and there was Ros, giddy after her party, dancing around the house, an antidote right then to all of his gloomy thoughts. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Lying down.’
Scobie thought about the long walk down the hallway to the bedroom, but there was a knock on the door. The crackpot pastor stood there, proffering his hand, which Scobie shook, even though he knew it was a mistake. ‘I’m afraid Beth’s indisposed,’ he said, to gain control and shut the visitor down. To reinforce it he backed up a step and made to shut the door.
The guy actually shoved his foot in it.
Scobie looked past Jeffreys to a station wagon parked at the kerb, two kids inside. To show he’s a family man, Scobie thought. The sour feelings, the sharpened perceptions, the ability to see how things truly are, were new to Scobie, and coming in fast. ‘No,’ he said.
But suddenly Jeffreys was looking past Scobie’s shoulder, his damp face wreathed in smiles. ‘Beth, how lovely.’
Scobie did a little dance of frustration, one hand blocking ineffectually as Beth ducked around him and stood before the pastor. He tried to jostle her aside, saying, ‘She doesn’t want to see you. Tell him you don’t want to see him, love, please. She’s finished with you crackpots.’
‘I think we should let her decide that, don’t you?’ Jeffreys said, reverting to his hard-nosed mercantile voice.
Before any of them could move, Ros was inserting herself in the doorway, her little body toned by netball and the recently acquired knowledge that her mother needed more help than her father could provide. ‘Go away,’ she said sternly. ‘Mum, come inside this instant.’
Jeffreys stepped back, astonished, then revealed a flash of something nasty before he put his hands up placatingly. Scobie beamed at him, feeling small and huge at once.
* * * *
Meanwhile John Tankard’s shift had finished at 4 p.m. but he’d stayed behind for a quick aerobics workout in the station’s little gym which left him fatly hot, pink and sweating even after a shower. Then he prowled the corridors, canteen, carpark and storerooms, looking for Cree. He’d seen those pictures of Pam; he intended to make the prick remove every image he’d ever posted on the Web.
Pam’s shining admiration, not disregard, would be his reward.
She wasn’t inside the station. Nor was Cree.
He looked out into the yard, finding one of the probationers who’d been watching porn in the basement on Wednesday.
‘Seen Andy Cree?’
The probationer, washing and waxing one of the patrol cars, straightened his back and looked blank, mouth open. Finally he woke up, wrung soapy water out of his chamois and said with a frown, ‘Andy Cree?’
Christ Almighty, thought Tank. ‘No, Aloysius Cree. Yes, Andy Cree. Have you seen him? Did he leave the station? If so, did he say where he was going?’
‘Where he was going?’
Tank closed and opened his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t say.’
With barely controlle
d fury, Tank turned to go.
‘But he reckoned he was on to a good thing,’ the probationer said.
Tank turned back. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Said he was going to dip his wick.’
‘But he’s on duty,’ said Tank foolishly.
‘You know Andy,’ laughed the probationer.
‘Yeah, I know him,’ said Tank. Then he had a thought: ‘That DVD you were watching the other day.’
The guy blushed. ‘What about it?’
‘Cree set that up?’
The probationer looked hunted. Finally he nodded.
Tank pointed at the driver’s door. ‘Missed a spot.’
His own car was baking in the sun. He cranked up the air-con and drove out of the carpark, flipping open his mobile phone. ‘Murph?’
‘What?’
‘Look, I need to talk to you. It’s a bit delicate.’
‘If it’s Cree’s Internet bullshit, I already know about it.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anything else?’
Tank shook himself into good order. ‘Let me deal with it. I’ll get the bastard to take the site down.’
She said in a hands-off voice, ‘Butt out, Tank.’
Tank couldn’t believe it. ‘A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go astray.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ she said and hung up.
* * * *
55
At the close of that long day, Challis said, ‘Uh oh, a flaw.’
‘Not funny.’
‘I don’t mean the kleptomania, I mean I’ve found another split end.’
Too late, he saw that Ellen didn’t appreciate the joke. She punched him, hard, saying ‘Not funny,’ and sat upright, everything about her fierce and clenched, the post-coital flush across her breasts now signifying fury, not release or languor.
He pulled her down. ‘Sorry. I’m truly sorry.’
‘Not funny,’ she mumbled.
Evening light was closing in around the house, the air from the open window carrying dwindling hints of the day’s heat, roadside dust and freshly mown hay. Adrian Wishart was in the lockup and all was right in the world.
Or not. Ellen propped herself on one elbow and said, ‘We have to talk.’
‘Uh oh.’
Her voice low and dangerous, she said, ‘I want you to be serious.’
In fact, he was deadly serious, but he was also afraid. Suddenly big, hot tears started in Ellen’s eyes. They splashed down her cheeks and neck to spot her breasts and the sheet. She made a fist, bumped it against his upper arm and said, ‘It’s not working.’
He waited. At one level, her words failed to land and register. He was also thinking that this had been the shortest relationship in his patchy history.
‘I don’t mean the sex—’ she ran her hand over his chest ‘—the lovemaking. I don’t mean that.’
He found his voice. ‘What, then?’
She swung upright again and sat with her legs crossed, looking down at him. ‘Living together.’
He didn’t trust himself to speak. She tilted back her head and gazed seriously into the distance in a mannerism he knew well. She was looking for the key, and it needed to be concise and accurate. He’d seen her do it in briefings and interrogations.
‘The thing is, I didn’t choose to live with you. I was looking after your house while you were away, you came back, we fell into bed together immediately. Fell in love, too, I guess. Finally, after years of unresolved whatever.’
She glanced at him to see that she was on track. Reassured, she went on: ‘It seemed like an easy solution for me to go on living here. But this isn’t my house. I didn’t create it with you. Even with some of my things here, it’s not my place. It’s a storage unit. I feel that I’m storing myself here as much as my fridge. Which is a better fridge than that piece of crap you have, incidentally.’
She grinned, if a little sadly. He returned it. ‘Little things bother both of us,’ she continued. ‘Like my rearranging the pantry. My way makes more sense, but I know it annoyed you. And it still isn’t my pantry, despite the makeover. Do you know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes.’
She glanced at him swiftly, sharply. ‘Yes,’ he repeated.
‘These may seem like small matters, but in some ways they’re huge.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I need to find my own place. I’m not ready to live with you and I don’t need to live with you. Everything’s been too soon after my divorce. I need to spend time...running my life without struggling with anyone. Or having to take them into account.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t say “oh”. Haven’t you been listening? What I’m saying is, I love you but I don’t need to live with you to prove it.’
Challis was very still. There seemed to be a roaring in his ears. He adored watching her breasts in their various configurations. Right now, with Ellen cross-legged, shoulders bowed, hands clasped in her lap, they were tucked pertly between her upper arms.
‘So a makeover on two levels: I find somewhere else to live, and I set up a new unit based in Mornington. The only thing that doesn’t change is that I keep on loving you. And quit staring at my boobs.’
‘Gorgeous nipples,’ he said.
He stroked her thigh absently, the skin tight over the long bone, dimpled with tiny fair hairs, a couple of moles, a faint crease from the sheets. He heard a duck call softly outside. There were up to twenty of them sometimes, the young ones fully grown now, and as the light failed each day they would forage quickly, almost desperately, over a wide area of the surrounding grass.
Ellen arrested his hand with hers fiercely and said, ‘Talk to me. What do you want? What do you think about what I’ve been saying?’
He said carefully, ‘I don’t want us to stop seeing each other.’
‘I don’t either!’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Haven’t you been listening?’
‘We have a modern arrangement, separate houses, and see what happens?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him and the tears threatened to spill again. ‘It could be good, Hal.’
‘You’d make a terrific head of any new unit,’ he said.
‘Tell McQuarrie I want sex crimes.’
‘Okay.’
They stared at each other and he reached up and pulled her down to him. She struggled away and said, ‘I’m not finished.’
He knew she wasn’t. He searched for the words: ‘Your.. .problem.’
She flushed. Outside the ducks and the lone ibis honked a warning and flapped crazily into the air. This was the time when the foxes began to prowl.
‘I promise I’ll get help.’
‘Ells, it’s no big deal. It’s not the end of the world. I’m not judging you. It’s just a darkish little current running through you. It doesn’t stop you being a good cop.’
‘Yeah? How can you understand about living together and everything else and not understand how affected I am about this? I’m going to get counselling’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Until I do,’ Ellen said, ‘I won’t feel right about anything, about having my own place and heading a new unit.’
Challis saw her inward look, her fierce concentration, as she seemed to run through her mental checklist. Then, apparently satisfied, she slid down. Slithered beside him, long, warm, elastic, everything humming with potential.
Then she propped herself on one elbow and reached across to the bedside radio, accidentally biffing him on the jaw. ‘Sorry.’
They both wanted to hear the 7 p.m. news. According to an earlier bulletin, a Waterloo police constable had been found passed out at the base of a flagpole in the grounds of a primary school, naked. Ellen had called the duty sergeant, who gave her the name of the constable and a couple of details that hadn’t made it over the airwaves. Apparently Andy Cree’s dick had been glued to the mouth of a blow-up doll. The doll was faintly suggestive of a schoolgirl; put that together with the location, and you had a whiff of paedophilia.
