by Garry Disher
‘I grew up in Camberwell,’ Reeve announced. ‘Upper-middle-class family, private school education, good at sport, passed Year 12 with good marks. I went to university, got an economics degree, started work in a bank and before long I was middle management on a six-figure annual salary.’
She paused to meet their gaze, as if aware that she was not a sympathetic figure. ‘I started smoking ice on special occasions,’ she went on. ‘Someone’s birthday, Grand Final day, New Year’s Eve. It was a social scene. I’d go to a friend’s house and the pipe would be passed around. I’m talking lawyer friends, senior public servants, business managers, commodities traders…Some of these friends had been taking ice on weekends for two or three years without health problems or police attention. If you’ve got an addictive personality, you’re not going to be so lucky. The thing is, ice makes you feel great. Some of you here can probably attest to that.’
She stared. The room was still.
‘Ice makes you sharp, alert, able to concentrate for hours. Everything seems like fun. You don’t need sleep; sex is great, no inhibitions, you can go for hours.’
She grinned crookedly.
‘Soon I was taking ice every weekend, and I’d be a wreck at work on Monday because I’d had virtually no sleep since Thursday or Friday. I’d smoke pot to try and come down.
‘No one knew, though. Not my family, not my colleagues. I dressed well, I didn’t stuff up at work, I functioned normally in social situations. But soon I needed ice every day. I spent all my money on it, partly because I felt so crap the day after that I had to take it again to feel all right. Nothing else in my life made me feel so good. Normal things like going for a swim, out to a movie with friends, just didn’t measure up. In fact, stuff like that got in the way.
‘Soon I was smoking ten thousand dollars’ worth each week. I’d stop the car three or four times on the way to work, just to take a hit, keep the buzz.
‘You’d think it would be obvious to people, but it wasn’t. One of my mates at work said one Friday would I like to try a pipe after the pub. He didn’t know I’d been using for a year. I didn’t know he’d been using for three years.
‘I didn’t look like one of those poster children for the war on drugs, you know, rotting teeth, sunken cheeks, scabby skin. I looked fit and healthy.
‘But I wasn’t earning enough to maintain a ten-grand-a-week habit. So I started a life of crime.’
She grinned at the room challengingly. Some grinned back, most scowled.
Unfazed, Reeve said, ‘I started dealing. I had access to a great product at a keen price, and a client base willing to pay for it. Good money, and I got ambitious for more of it. I employed runners; I’d send them to these little towns all over the Western District. They’d make contact with the local dealers who were selling crap weed or heavily cut coke or heroin or dicey pills, and give them free samples. Competitive prices for a reliable supply of quality product.’
Reeve glanced out of the window, at the roof of the McDonald’s. ‘Towns like this one. Not much in the way of entertainment, but lots of young tradesmen and unemployed school leavers. Even if they don’t have much money, they’ve got enough to buy small amounts frequently, and ice is cheap.’
Murphy stared at Reeve, stared at Coolidge, who was seated to one side. Thought: Coolidge reckons there’s a similar network in place here.
Reeve was saying, ‘You’ll want to know where I got the gear. Did I go into production, pay a few science students to cook meth in a shut-up house somewhere? A place like the one you guys found here in Waterloo this weekend? No, I was buying from a syndicate operating out of Tasmania. Bikies. They used to bring the gear up on the ferry.’
She stopped, a flicker of pain crossing her face. ‘Then I was arrested with a carload of ice. A fine and a suspended sentence, but I lost my job. My family tried to help me; I turned my back on them. Got arrested again. Both times, I was held in a lockup after arrest and went through withdrawal, and it was hell. My whole body shaking, couldn’t get comfortable, everything ached. And I was tired, so tired. I smelled revolting.
‘So…another jail sentence, suspended for two years, and this time I let my family help me, God bless them. I went into rehab. I’ve been clean for over a year. But you know, maybe my neurochemistry’s fucked, and I’ll never be able to hold down a job or raise a child or maintain a relationship. I look okay. I’m not.’
MURPHY, WATCHING, THOUGHT the pain, fervour and regret were real, but a part of her was sceptical. Maybe Reeve would keep working at putting her life back together. Maybe she’d never use again, never reoffend. Murphy hoped so. She hoped Reeve would continue to educate short-sighted and lazy police officers. But a corner of her wondered about the itch inside Reeve, the longing in the dark hours.
And she wondered what Reeve hadn’t told the police. She’d run a network of runners and dealers; Murphy knew what that entailed. Presumably she’d dealt out her share of rewards, threats and punishments. Had she paid for these crimes? Would she ever?
REEVE LEFT AND COOLIDGE claimed the room again.
‘The takeaway is: open your eyes. As you go about your daily duties, think beyond what’s immediately apparent, and pass your suspicions and observations on to your superiors. Ice could be behind that road-rage incident, head-on car smash or pub brawl you attend. That house fire: maybe the place had been rewired by an electrician high on ice. That mouthy kid outside a nightclub, that punch-up in a car park, that stabbing of a shopkeeper…Was it ice?’
Coolidge’s gaze ranged around the room. ‘You’ve heard how ice makes users feel great. But with regular use—and some people are hooked very quickly—it causes aggression, anxiety, rage, paranoia, delusions and psychotic episodes. You’ve all had experience of trying to control someone like that. It can take six police officers to control one man. He’ll be unstoppable. Capsicum spray? Forget it.’
Everyone nodded. They knew. They’d seen it, experienced it.
‘Who picks up the pieces?’ said Coolidge. ‘You do.
‘In addition to seeing ice at the root of random accidents, punch-ups and unprovoked violence, I want you to be aware that it could be at the root of certain criminal acts. A guy’s car is torched. Vandals? Or did the guy owe money to the wrong people? Or had he been skimming, or had he wanted to quit working for a dealer, or did someone think he was informing? That home invasion: burglars? Or did the homeowner’s granddaughter owe money to a syndicate?
‘Think. Ask probing questions. Don’t take anything at face value.
‘I understand from Inspector Challis that you’ve had a rash of farm break-ins where rifles and shotguns have been stolen. Wouldn’t surprise me if the guns are finding their way to an ice syndicate. Think, look, listen. Let’s say you’re working the front desk and a couple of teenagers come in and say they’re worried about a friend, he’s out of control. Don’t dismiss it, don’t just write it up and ignore it. Get a name. Get an address. Go and look. What if this kid needs help? You could intervene at just the right time—before he puts his mother in hospital with a crushed skull or dies of an overdose. Warn, advise, collate the kid’s name against known dealers and users.
‘Talk to hardware stores, pharmacists and specialist stores. Ask who’s been buying large quantities of lab equipment, protective clothing and breathing apparatus, air-monitoring and decontamination equipment. As you’ve heard, some dealers, like Ms Reeve, buy their supplies from a syndicate, but there are plenty of homegrown meth labs around.
‘Speak to real estate agents and property managers. They’ll have their suspicions: houses that are always heavily curtained, or where the tenants are never seen, or there’s been suspicious comings and goings, or a certain smell hangs around all the time. The lab found here in Waterloo is a classic example.
‘Talk to power companies about properties that show a sudden or prolonged spike in electricity usage.
‘That’ll help identify local sources, but it’s probable that the ice in the
Westernport region is also coming in from outside. The suppliers may be in competition with each other, hence some of the arson attacks and shootings we’re seeing.
‘Any questions?’
She didn’t stop for questions but placed a shoebox on the table and pulled out a sealed Ziploc bag and a glass pipe.
‘This,’ she said, waving the bag, ‘is ice. Crystallised methamphetamine. It’s often smoked in a pipe like this one.’
The ice went one way around the room, the pipe the other. The bag, when it came to Murphy, revealed opaque lumps resembling dirty crushed ice. The glass pipe was small, blackened, a smeared deposit inside the bulb.
‘Some users inject,’ Coolidge said. ‘Their bodies fall apart much more quickly.’ She paused. ‘There might be in this room someone who has smoked ice and others who will be offered it. Consider this, please. With regular use your ability to produce dopamine—the pleasure chemical—is reduced. Your saliva glands will dry out, your teeth will rot. Psychoses will set in. You’ll use up your savings. You’ll cut corners at work, put your lives and the lives of your colleagues at risk. Please rethink what you’re doing. Any questions?’
Again she didn’t stop. ‘Facebook. Twitter. Monitor these sites. If you arrest someone, question someone, suspect someone, even help a messed-up user, check their social media postings. We’re not talking geniuses here. Someone will brag about using, or a crime they’ve committed while flying on ice or getting the funds to buy it. Names and photos will be posted: dealers, suppliers, fellow users. A guy shows off a couple of firearms on his Facebook page: maybe he’s your rifle thief.
‘Any questions?’
WHEN THE ROOM WAS CLEAR and Coolidge had returned to her temporary headquarters along the corridor, Pam Murphy helped Janine Quine wipe the table, clear away the plastic cups, vacuum the floor, clean the whiteboard. Quine was a wordless presence in the room, and Pam wondered what it was like for her, a civilian employee. Most people had infrequent yet uneasy contact with the police. They welcomed them during an emergency—rested easier knowing that such a concept as a police force existed—but what would it be like for a civilian working alongside the police day by day?
We all cheat and lie, Murphy thought. Mostly it’s small stuff, harmless. Mostly we don’t deserve a millisecond of police attention. She wanted to reassure Quine, tell her, ‘I’m flesh and blood just like you.’ She sensed this would make the poor woman even more tense, so she got out of there as soon as she could. Off to fight crime.
5
FIRST UP ON HER CRIME-FIGHTING agenda, ask the Moonta Moth why he no longer wanted to press charges against Owen Valentine.
Tony Slatter was a retired public servant and a genial drunk. Married, divorced—more than once—he was not exactly a sad sack but not entirely understood or appreciated by everyone in Moonta, either; like a moth, he was drawn to house lights on balmy evenings. He’d wake at lunchtime, drink all afternoon and then, after dark, wander the dim streets of the little coastal town, blearily cheerful, a sloppy smile on his face. Spotting a porch light, he’d aim straight for it. Knock on the door, say hello, maybe plant a boozy kiss or wrap someone in his arms; step inside for a chat or another drink. The Moth. He’d been at it for years, tolerated by the locals, hated by the newcomers, the Melbourne weekender people.
And a week and a half ago he’d knocked on the wrong door. Owen Valentine, paranoid, flying on ice, had kicked, punched and headbutted Slatter, putting him in hospital. Uniforms attended, statements were taken. But before CIU could follow through, Slatter had changed his mind about pressing charges.
PAM HEADED NORTH-EAST OF Waterloo to the strip of ti-tree, sand and huddled beach houses that was Moonta. Slatter lived in a timber house set in a cottage garden along a short, overhung laneway a hundred metres from the beach.
She knocked and presently he came to the door. Four o’clock and he’d been drinking, she could smell it. But he seemed clear-eyed, not addled. His arm was in a sling, fading bruises darkened eye and temple, and one ear was scabbed, the other still bandaged. He wore a white business shirt over grey board shorts, revealing knobby knees and old Nike runners.
‘Mr Slatter? Detective Constable Murphy, Waterloo CIU.’
He rocked back and blinked. ‘Something wrong?’
‘I understand you no longer wish to press charges against Owen Valentine?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘May I ask why? It was a serious assault.’
‘Look, it’s all sorted.’
Pam sharpened her voice. ‘Has he threatened you, Mr Slatter?’
‘What? No, nothing like that.’
‘If he has, we’ll come down hard on him.’
For a brief moment, Slatter was not a fool or a drunk but the canny bureaucrat he’d once been. ‘Nothing like that, and I’m sure you’re busy with other cases. Meanwhile, I have a dental appointment.’
‘Are you intending to drive, Mr Slatter?’
He smiled, a nasty little smile. ‘Taxi.’
EVEN SO, IT WAS WORTH WHISPERING a hard word in Owen Valentine’s ear.
Murphy drove two streets to his house, a small, unloved shack behind a couple of straggly ti-trees. Attached to one wall was a car shed, empty, the door up. A rusting Corolla was parked in the driveway, a little Nissan behind it. Pam called in the plates: the Nissan belonged to Irene Penford, aged fifty-nine, the Corolla to Christine Penford, aged twenty-eight.
Mother and daughter? Pam knocked on the front door, a cheap, hollow veneer panel, dog-scratched and rotting away at the bottom. Nothing. She knocked again, and a third time, and a woman answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Christine?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Penford looked closer to forty than twenty-eight. A gaunt face, bad teeth and meth twitches. She carried a little boy in the crook of one arm. He gazed solemnly at Murphy, who winked, whereupon he gave her a transforming smile, ducking his head into his mother’s scrawny neck.
‘Police, Christine.’
‘I done nothing.’
‘I’d like to speak to Owen if I could. Is he home?’
‘Nup.’
‘But he does live here?’
Tears filled the woman’s eyes. ‘He run off on me.’
‘When?’
‘Last Friday. I just got home and all his stuff was gone. Clothes, razor, Cluedo.’
‘Cluedo?’
‘Our dog. Owen’s dog.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
‘Nup.’
‘Had you been arguing?’
‘Nup.’
‘Could he be staying with a friend? Family?’
‘We’re his friends and family. What do you want him for?’
‘Did Mr Slatter visit him by any chance?’
‘Who?’
‘May I come in?’ Pam asked, stepping up, giving the action a little push, so that Penford stepped aside.
There were stale druggie smells in the house, familiar to Murphy from dozens of visits to domestic disturbances and warrant servings over the years. At first glance, the front room was tidy, albeit grubby, but an ice pipe peeped out from beneath a clutter of magazines and toys on the coffee table. As though Penford had spotted the arrival of the unmarked CIU sedan and swept away the evidence.
‘I told you, Owen’s not here. He run off on me.’
‘Let’s sit in the kitchen, Christine.’
The older woman was there, washing dishes, and Pam had a sudden and complete image of a little domestic heartache. The mother knows her daughter and her daughter’s partner are addicts, and visits often to see that they’re more or less okay and not neglecting her grandson.
Pam reached out a hand to shake but Irene Penford said apologetically, ‘I’m all sudsy. Tea?’
‘Mum, she won’t be staying.’
‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ Pam said.
When it was poured and delivered the older woman said, ‘Is it about the bike?’
‘
Mum! Please! Just drop it.’
‘Bike, Mrs Penford?’
‘I gave Clover a bike for her birthday and the next thing I know, it’s in the front window of the Barn.’
The Bargain Barn, an auction house and second-hand dealership on Frankston-Flinders Road, between Waterloo Mowers and Peninsula Pumps.
‘Clover?’
‘My granddaughter,’ Irene Penford said. She was pinch-mouthed with worry.
Pam looked around as if the child might be hiding. ‘Perhaps Clover sold it because she needed money.’
‘She’s six.’
‘Mum, please,’ Christine Penford said.
Pam Murphy said, ‘Perhaps I could speak to Clover about it.’
‘She’s not here,’ Christine said mulishly. ‘She’s at a friend’s.’
‘She’s never here,’ the grandmother told Pam. ‘Haven’t seen her for ages.’ She paused. ‘No prizes for guessing what happened.’
No. Owen, or Christine, had sold the child’s bike to buy drugs. But this was getting off topic. Pam said, ‘Christine, did Owen say anything to indicate he intended to leave you?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Good riddance,’ Irene Penford said.
‘Mum, shut it.’
Pam went on grimly, ‘Had there been anything off in his behaviour the last week or two? Or any visitors or phone calls that didn’t seem right to you?’
Christine shrugged. The boy squirmed in her arms, so she set him on the floor. He sat, patted the sticky linoleum, crawled across the room. Then he was at a dog’s food bowl, caked and crusted, and his grandmother sighed, swept the bowl out from under him and clattered it into the sink. Outraged, he bawled.
His mother screeched, ‘Shut it Troy!’
‘Christine, please.’
‘You shut it too, Mum.’
Troy pulled a sulky face and crawled for the doorway.
There were times Murphy hated her job. She glanced around the room. Neat, but with little sense of domestic or family life. One lonely drawing, an elaborate scene involving unicorns, fairies and a misty castle, caught her eye. Fastened by a fridge magnet, it was vivid and animated.
