by Garry Disher
Well fuck you, he thought. It might interest you to know that I'm in law enforcement myself and always have been. Kind of.
Pearce had been a physical education teacher for years, a strict disciplinarian until that business where they said he'd been too rough. Now he was a corrections officer for Ameri-Pen, the private company that had won the contract for the Westernport Detention Centre. Designed to hold five hundred detainees, there were almost eight hundred and the numbers were growing. You had four to six men in two-man cells. That was a problem, the overcrowding. You immediately thought of unnatural practices of a kind your Arab type condoned. Plus they were would-be terrorists, half of them. You saw them huddled, their dark liquid eyes watching you, their hawk noses sniffing you out. The other half were just depressed. You saw them beating their heads against brick walls, rocking and wailing on their haunches, crying inconsolably.
Well, what did they expect? They should have thought of that before they tried to enter the country illegally. Send them back to Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, wherever. It was not your Middle Eastern kind of climate in this part of Australia anyway. Pearce doubted that the escapees would last long on the outside. Damp, coolish-they were used to dry heat and sandy wastes.
What Ameri-Pen did to keep them in line was remove all of the cell doors and hang dense black plastic sheeting over the windows. Everyone in bed by ten pm, and you left the cell and corridor lights on all night. You'd never want to leave them in darkness. God knows what they'd get up to. Partly because of that, partly suicide watch and partly to keep them rattled, you went around every thirty minutes during the night to pull the sheets and blankets back and shine a torch in their faces. There was a kind of satisfaction in doing that. Kind of akin to putting fear of the ferret into the kids at Jessie's school.
The ferret. Mostyn Pearce burned with shame.
So his mind returned to the matter that had had him staring thoughtfully at the bedroom ceiling last night while his wife snored softly beside him. Before going to bed he'd watched his videotape of last weekend's 'International Most Wanted' again, congratulating himself for having subscribed to pay TV, and confirmed that, yes, he did recognise that face. A grainy black-and-white shot, taken some time ago, the hair longer and thicker back then, but still recognisably the face of a man who now lived not a million miles away from here.
There was a driveway ahead of him. It wound up through a wooded slope to a fussy weatherboard house, all gables, turrets and fancy timber pointings on the dormers, the work of a Mornington architect. You saw his places all over the Peninsula, anything from gingerbread cottages to Tyrolean Cape Cods. Pearce hated them and was looking for a way to channel that into his Meddler column for the Progress.
Everything reminded him of his shame this morning, so when the elderly couple emerged from the driveway in their Audi-typical, a classy, imported kind of car, but not too over the top-and gave him a look of wonderment and consternation as they accelerated toward Waterloo, his bitterness increased tenfold. He thought he recognised that look on their stupid old faces. It was a look that said, oh dear, who is that man and why is he walking along the road by himself and what if he robs our house while we're at the shops?
So Pearce watched the Audi disappear over the first rise- the stupid old fool driving painfully slowly as he craned his neck at the rear-view mirror-and concealed himself behind a big roadside pine.
Twenty to one the old couple would fall into a heap and turn around and drive back to their house as though they'd forgotten something. They'd come back over the rise and not see him anywhere and fall further into a heap.
Sure enough, half a minute later the Audi reappeared. Pearce crouched behind the trunk of the tree, feeling bitter satisfaction deep inside himself. They'd be wondering where he'd disappeared to. They'd be clutching each other, going, oh dear, he must have gone onto our property, what shall we do?
While this was going on he heard a car behind him, coming down from Upper Penzance. That cop car again. He didn't know or care whether or not he'd been spotted. He was having fun watching the Audi-everything about its movements spelling fear and trepidation-turn in to its driveway.
And the lift to his spirits helped him to work out exactly what he was going to do about the wanted man on his videotape. It was time he profited from his vigilance. Direct action this time, no more letters to the shire. He would confront the guy, take the shotgun with him for a bit of extra leverage.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'Your hair's still fairly blonde from summer,' John Tankard said.
They were climbing the winding road out of Penzance Beach and through farmland to Ian Munro's farm, Tankard driving this time. Pam ignored him, just looked out at the dusty blackberry canes and bracken that choked the ground between the roadside gums and pines. Not a good walking road, she thought, glancing at the man who'd stepped off the gravel onto the grassy verge to let the divvie van pass. But then she supposed that there wasn't a lot of traffic, so you could safely stroll along the centre of the road and enjoy the view across Ian Munro's paddocks to the sea and Phillip Island.
But what about snakes? Snakes in the grass, she thought, and wondered why. Maybe the man standing in the grass made her think of 'snake'. Something quick and flickering about him. A hint of snake in the way his tongue-tip rested on his upper lip and his neat shaved head had watched her. Where was his dog? Somehow you expected a dog when you saw a solitary figure walking along an unsealed road.
'I notice the way your hair goes lighter in the sun,' Tankard said.
Pam wanted to call him a try-hard, but thought that any response at all would encourage another clumsy overture.
It was hot in the van. The sleety winds of Easter had given way to an Indian summer. A top of twenty-eight degrees expected today. She wound down her window. A turbulence composed of grassy odours, dust and heat swirled past her face. A tendril of hair escaped from her clip and pasted itself to her damp neck. The way Tankard had been talking about her hair lately, he probably imagined it spread like a fan over his meaty thighs and stomach. Vomit.
Too bad he'd had to see her in her black bra at the stakeout on Saturday night. He'd been generally inflamed ever since.
'Must've spent a lot of time at the beach this summer,' he went on.
She could turn this to her advantage. 'Surfing,' she said, and added: 'With my boyfriend.'
He seemed to rock back in the driver's seat and went mercifully quiet. Her boyfriend. In fact, the kid who taught her surfing at Point Leo. Eighteen years old. Seventeen to her twenty-seven when they first had sex. Young enough to bring a frown to certain faces. Maybe a disciplinary charge. So she'd kept quiet about it, knowing it wouldn't last-and it hadn't. She pointed suddenly. 'There. Hang a left.'
The name Munro was carved out in big rounded letters on a stained pinewood signpost. A driveway entrance marked by white-painted wagon wheels, three on either side of a stock ramp.
Tankard steered onto a narrow, blue-gravelled track that wound between fences, past a dam and an ancient apple orchard, down to a clearing and a weatherboard farmhouse, silent and dark beneath huge pine trees. Someone had painted the house white a long time ago, but pollen, salty sea winds and the prevailing damp and lack of direct sunlight had turned the boards greenish-black. The gutters hadn't been cleaned in a while and grew rust and tufts of grass. Pine needles carpeted the ground. Pam got out and felt how closed-in the place was. The light was dim and the pine needles deadened her footsteps. Even the pink Barbie bike propped against a verandah post looked cheerless.
'This way,' Tankard said, walking toward a door in the screened-in back porch.
'Please,' a voice said suddenly, 'leave us alone.'
A woman was standing in the doorway. Pam had encountered Scobie Sutton in the carpark earlier and told him about Munro, and he'd described Munro's wife as looking 'worn out'. More than worn out, Pam thought, peering at Munro's wife through the grimy screen door. Defeated. Waiting for the inevitable, what
ever that might be.
'Mrs Munro?' Tankard said. 'We need to speak to your husband.'
Her voice was flat. 'Can't you leave us alone?'
'Just a quick word.'
'He's got a lot on his plate at the moment.'
'This won't take long.'
The woman's voice changed in tone, becoming shrill and accusatory. 'You people just can't let up, can you? You just push and deny and quote regulations this and regulations that until the ordinary person has lost everything, including their dignity.'
Pam wondered if these were Aileen Munro's words or her husband's. 'We won't take up much of Mr Munro's time,' she said. 'Just a couple of quick questions.'
'If it's about the RSPCA inspector-'
'An allegation has been made,' Tankard said. 'You know the drill: save yourself some grief and just tell us where he is.'
Pam placed her hand warningly on his arm. Short sleeves. The flesh was moist. She jerked her hand away again and said, 'Perhaps you could ask him to come to the police station in Waterloo?'
'It's okay, love, I'll talk to them.'
Ian Munro had been standing in the gloom behind his wife all along. His face, hands and shirt front were damp, as though he'd come in for morning tea and thrown handfuls of water over himself to sluice away farmyard grime. At first glance he didn't necessarily look like the kind of man you couldn't turn your back on. He had a pleasant, forty-year-old weatherbeaten farmer's face and looked a lot healthier and better adjusted than his wife. His body was a neat package of muscles and tendons, contained and fit and graceful, like a large, sleek dog. Pam was attracted and repelled.
He'd shaved scrupulously, leaving neat sideburns that ended level with the bottoms of his ears. He wore half-moon specs, the frames thick and chewed-looking, the lenses a little scratched or scorched, as though he wore them for close work, like wielding a grease gun under a farm implement, or welding a metal gate.
But he was staring at Pam over the lenses and there was definitely something unhinged in the gaze-strong feelings of antagonism barely held in check, a quickness to take offence, a contempt for officialdom. It was there briefly, and gone again, as though she'd imagined it.
'May we come in, sir?'
'No.'
'Perhaps we could talk out here then,' Pam suggested.
'All right.'
He came out, passing close to Pam so that she could smell him, a not-unpleasant mix of the morning's shampoo and shaving cream, perspiration, diesel fuel and something familiar yet harder to place. Some kind of oil?
She froze. Gun oil.
'What's this about?' he said mildly.
'An RSPCA inspector by the name of Clive Fenwick alleges that you assaulted him,' Tankard said.
'No he doesn't. And I didn't,' Munro said. Then he smiled, a dismissive half-smile, showing more gums than teeth, waiting as if he had all the time in the world.
'But you did threaten him?' Pam said.
'His word against mine. Little jumped-up office clerk.'
'You kicked him,' Tankard said.
'Look,' Munro said, glancing at his watch. 'I'm busy. If there's nothing more…'
'Booted him in the arse.'
'Did he own up to that? A grown man?'
They were getting nowhere. 'Sir,' Pam said, 'a kick is a kick. It can be construed as assault. Did you or didn't you-'
'Is the prick pressing charges?'
'Well, no, but that's not the point. Did-'
'Goodbye,' Munro said, and he walked calmly, economically, back through his screen door and into the inner darkness.
They returned to Waterloo, passing the snake in the grass again. This time he seemed to be pissing against a tree. Then the radio was squawking. Something about the library and pornography, and would they deal with it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Scobie drove them from the aerodrome back to Waterloo. 'So what next?'
'We search Munro's farm,' Ellen said. 'The whole kit and caboodle-paddocks, sheds, house, motor vehicles, the works.'
Scobie nodded. 'With armed backup.'
From his seat in the rear of the car, Challis leaned into the gap between the front seats. 'Why? Do we know him?'
Scobie nodded. 'Threatening behaviour, a couple of minor assaults, brandishing a weapon, mostly against bank officials and shire inspectors.'
'What kind of weapon?'
'Shotgun.'
They fell silent.
Then Ellen took out her mobile phone and called ahead to get the paperwork started on a search warrant. She finished with a call to Kellock. It was a long conversation and Challis tuned out until she angrily shut and pocketed the phone, saying, 'Pompous prick.'
'What did he say?'
'He can probably let us have Tankard and Murphy. He asked how long before we called on Munro. I said as long as it took to get a warrant and work out a plan of action. He said how long would that be. I said as soon as possible-an hour, two hours. He said Tankard and Murphy are working on a job at the moment and get off at four today. I said have you got anyone working later than four today? He said no. I said we'll try to finish before four. He said, and I quote: "It would be only fair on my officers if you did." His officers. They can't stand the man.' She paused. 'Actually, he said that Tankard and Murphy were at Munro's a short time ago. Something about an assault on an RSPCA inspector.' She glanced at Scobie. 'So that fits in with what you told us.'
'Let's hope they didn't get Munro's back up,' Challis said. 'Do we know where they are now?'
'Gone to the library.'
'Library?'
'Someone's been logging on to porn sites.'
Challis saw Scobie Sutton shake his head. He guessed what the detective was thinking: there are traps for children around every corner and how can you possibly anticipate them?
He yawned. With the warmth and motion of the CIB car, he gazed sleepily through the window and began to wool-gather. He could see the BHP smokestacks in the distance, furniture barns and muffler shops closer to. But Waterloo always threw up incongruities. There was an inner-city style delicatessen in the main street and just now they were passing a showroom full of beautifully crafted blackwood, teak, jarrah and Huon pine tables, chairs and sideboards. And just last week he'd met an installer of solar-heated swimming pools who was in demand all over Australia.
So who had tried to kill Kitty, and why? Assuming it was attempted murder and not a drunken or doped-up or deranged stranger acting on impulse.
There had been a time early in his career when Challis found it uncanny the way two or three CIB detectives will find themselves thinking unconsciously along the same lines or about the same thing. But now he took it for granted, and was not surprised to hear Scobie Sutton say: 'If Munro wanted to kill the Casement woman, why wait all this time?'
And not surprised to hear Ellen reply, as though she'd been waiting for the question: 'He bought a photo from her, so maybe he thought he had the only copy. Then he learnt that she had an extra one or started asking himself what if she did have an extra one.'
'How would he know she had an extra copy unless he saw it on her pinboard? And if he did, why not take it and burn it? Unless he feared that would draw attention to it.'
'I don't know,' Ellen said. 'Is he someone likely to visit the airfield?'
Scobie shook his head. 'Not the Munro I know of.'
Ellen turned, leaning to peer at Challis between the seats. 'Hal? Any thoughts?'
'Perhaps when he bought the photo from her last year he did so because it showed the cannabis crop and he didn't want anyone else to see it. Kitty presumably seemed to be unaware of what it showed and so he thought he was safe. But then he started having second thoughts. Asked himself what if she kept the negatives for clients who wanted further copies, for example.'
'Intending to kill her is a bit drastic, though, unless he really had something to fear from her.'
Challis nodded. 'I know. We can't discount the possibility that she recently recognised what was i
n the photo and made contact with him, or that she's known all along and has held it over him all this time.'
'Blackmail?'
Challis shrugged. 'Or she wanted a share of the action.'
'She's your friend, Hal.'
'So?'
'Do you want to be involved?'
'It's your case at present, Ells.'
'Or,' she said, 'someone else tried to kill her, if that's what it was.'
They were silent for a time and then Challis said carefully, 'Scobe, would an ordinary farmer like Munro have the means to grow, harvest, dry, package, transport and distribute marijuana?'
Sutton shook his head. 'Not the Munro I know. But he's struggling financially and could have been receptive to the idea of growing marijuana. There's big money to be made. One hydroponic plant can produce five hundred grams of cannabis worth four thousand dollars or more. Ten plants producing three or four times a year would bring in up to a hundred and sixty thousand.'
Challis nodded. He knew the profiles: there were the 'ferals', who grew a few plants on crown land for their own use; the more organised who grew up to one hundred plants per season to supplement their incomes; big-time growers who used the income to finance legitimate businesses; and struggling, erstwhile property owners who harvested larger plots to supplement struggling farm incomes.
He said, 'Surely Munro would be too well known to sell it locally, so who's helping him? And is he distributing further afield, like the city? Does he have contacts there? And what does he do if a crop gets diseased? It wouldn't be the first time that a grower has used an ex-CSIRO botanist to doctor a struggling crop. These are some of the questions we have to answer.'
'True.'
Challis glanced at Ellen. 'Sorry if I seem to be telling you your job.'
Ellen shrugged offhandedly. 'Doesn't bother me. The more heads working on this the better I like it. There's plenty of anecdotal evidence of increased drug activity, not necessarily marijuana. I blame South Australia.'
