by Garry Disher
The media attention was rabid, all through the investigation, inquest, arraignment and trial. Traill was acquitted. He dropped out of sight.
Now here he was…
THE AIR WAS MIASMIC at Everard Eggs, a collection of long, gleaming sheds and delivery vehicles in a hollow behind windbreak cypress trees. The Everard family lived in a small red-brick house behind the sheds, and a gruff man there pointed out a dusty white caravan a hundred metres further back.
‘That’s where he lives.’
‘Is he at home?’
Everard nodded.
‘How did he get here?’
‘He called, I picked him up.’
‘I was told he had no phone signal.’
‘Told me he climbed a windmill. And I believe him.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘A better question,’ Everard said, a burly poultry man with a face full of feathery whiskers, ‘is are you going to hassle him? He told me about Hauser. He didn’t do it.’
‘Can you tell me anything about Mr Hauser?’
‘Keeps—kept—to himself,’ Everard said. He pointed back the way she’d come. ‘Plus he’s not exactly next door to me.’ He paused. ‘A lot of traffic, but.’
‘What kind of traffic?’
‘I’d go past on my way to Waterloo. Often saw trucks coming and going.’
He couldn’t tell her more than that. Pam nodded, returned to the car—Everard shouting, ‘Don’t hassle the guy, all right?’—and bumped across the yard to the caravan.
It was weather-beaten, tethered to the earth by dead grass and a canvas annexe, and utterly silent. Pam checked her watch: 11 a.m., meaning Traill had had very little sleep. That could be to her advantage. He’d be bleary, vulnerable…
She knocked and he was immediately there, the door swinging open and Traill at the head of the steps watching her. A moment later he was out and standing right in front of her. She took a step back, and another, keeping him at greater than arm’s length.
‘Mr Traill?’
‘You know it is.’
‘My name is Constable Murphy, Waterloo Crime Investigation Unit,’ Pam said, showing her ID. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
He looked deeply fatigued, but had showered and shaved sometime in the past three or four hours. His hair was neat. He hasn’t been to bed yet, Murphy thought. Expecting to give another statement, so he’d freshened up and sat down to wait. But he’d been working all night, he’d smashed his car, he’d walked some distance, and to top it all had discovered a murdered man in a house. He was entitled to be fatigued.
HE WAS ABOUT HER AGE, trim, sinewy, unsmiling, contained—super wary. Dressed in soft faded shorts and a vivid white T-shirt. Short dark hair, a faintly off-centre nose. Slender brown legs, strong, bony bare feet and, to Pam’s surprise, small, shapely hands. A man who’d king-hit and killed another should surely have frying pans on the ends of his arms?
‘Please come in,’ he said.
A clear voice, polite. Rising and falling melodically; not sounding particularly aggrieved.
She followed him into the cramped dining area and sat at a chrome-legged table. There was more interior space than she expected, but a caravan is still a caravan, and she could see almost all parts of his living quarters from her vinyl bench seat. No mess and few possessions. A book, a news magazine, a radio, a photograph of a middle-aged couple. His parents? Apparently they’d attended every day of the inquest, committal hearing and trial. A small TV set, a pair of moccasins in one corner.
He continued to stand. He waggled a shiny steel percolator at her. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please. White.’
She watched him tip in the water and the grounds and ignite the gas flame. He poured milk into a frother, set it over a low flame. All of his movements were adaptive—the space was too small for large gestures—but also innately economical and precise.
Did he still work out? Lift weights, punch out his frustrations?
The coffee underway, he sat opposite her. ‘Please ask your questions.’
She had a subtle sense of being managed. ‘You were coming home from work this morning…’
‘I work the night shift at the BP up on the highway. I left work soon after six and on the way here hit a big kangaroo and wrecked my car. I tried to call a tow truck, but had no reception, so I walked to the nearest house.’
A neat, pat, uninflected delivery. He’s been rehearsing, Murphy thought.
‘Did you know Mr Hauser?’
‘If the dead man was the man named on the front gate, no.’
‘He didn’t fill up with petrol at any time?’
‘He might have. All I saw was a dead man and a lot of blood. I didn’t pay attention to his face.’
‘What were you doing late last week?’
He studied her. ‘You don’t know exactly when he died. The smell was awful, so I guess he’d been dead a while.’
She repeated, ‘What were you doing late last week?’
‘I worked the night shift Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I have Sundays and Mondays off.’
‘You drove to and from work each time?’
‘And didn’t see a single kangaroo.’
‘You’ve never had business dealings with Mr Hauser?’
He didn’t blink at the change in direction. ‘No.’
‘You didn’t call on him at any time prior to this morning?’
‘This morning was the first time. I presume you checked that there is a car registered to me near the scene with its nose crumpled against a gum tree and a dead kangaroo in the ditch?’
‘Were you coming or going from Mr Hauser’s residence when you hit the roo?’
‘Oh, a trick question. I was going towards his house with the intention of passing it on my way home.’
‘Do you own a rifle, Mr Traill?’
A faint sad smile on Traill’s face, barely creeping into his eyes. ‘Is this where I ask for a lawyer?’
‘I don’t know. Do you need a lawyer, Mr Traill?’
A cheap gambit, one she’d used a hundred times before. But she couldn’t help it, he was the guy who king-hit David Booker.
And he said, sadly, ‘Please don’t. You can do better.’
Pam felt a misstep coming. She forced down whatever it was she might have said and wondered if her discomposure showed.
She was saved by a hiss from the milk frother.
‘Oh, shit,’ he said, and darted to the stove.
Just then the percolator burbled, too, and Murphy took advantage of the reprieve to regroup. She reminded herself that Traill had found the body, which made him a legitimate first line of inquiry even if he hadn’t once killed a man.
She waited for him to pour and carry the mugs to the table. The caravan interior, warm but fresh rather than stale, now smelled of coffee. Disarming, but Pam was done with being on the back foot.
‘Mr Traill,’ she said.
‘Michael.’
‘Mr Traill, you found the body.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll understand why we must eliminate you from our inquiries ahead of anyone else.’
‘Yes.’
She sipped, said, ‘Good coffee,’ before she could help herself.
‘Thank you.’
‘What time do you start work?’
‘Ten at night.’
‘Until six each morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Long hours.’
He said nothing.
‘What do you do between arriving home after six in the morning and driving to work each evening?’
‘I eat something, go to bed and sleep until about two in the afternoon.’
She said lightly, ‘And between 2 p.m. and 10 p.m.? Do you go for a drive, go shopping, visit friends?’
‘Generally not.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘In consideration for a reduced rent on this salubrious residence I do some yard work for my l
andlord.’
‘Such as?’
‘I wash his trucks, do a bit of gardening, rake manure.’
Pam had seen bags of fowl manure at the gate, two dollars a bag, a tin can nearby for the money.
‘And these duties fill every afternoon?’
‘No.’
‘So, what do you do?’
‘I don’t go around shooting the neighbours.’
‘Mr Traill, what do you do?’
‘I write.’
She blinked. ‘Write what? Poems?’
She’d disappointed him again, with her sourness and flippancy. ‘Stuff.’
Still sour, feeling defensive, she said, ‘A heartbreaking travesty-of-justice story, I suppose.’
He looked at her levelly. ‘Pretty much. And as it seems to have become an ongoing story, I’m happy to put you in it.’
THERE’D BEEN A LITTLE SNARL in his voice. Pam Murphy was thinking of it as she retraced her route along the back roads, vexed and discomfited. The feeling was slow to ebb, and only vanished when she saw a listing Corolla the colour of teabags ahead of her, slowing at Foxeys Hangout for the turn onto Balnarring Road. The driver, a woman, signalled left, but made to turn right, and at the last moment shot ahead into Tubbarubba Road. She planted her foot, the little car jerking forwards across the white line and back again, over-correcting, exhaust belching.
Pam recognised car and driver. She grabbed her radio, called it in: numberplate, make and model, description, location, direction of travel, two heads on board.
One head was Christine Penford, the other her son, Troy, his little head showing above the strapped-in car seat behind her. No sign of the daughter. No sign of Owen Valentine—unless he’d ducked and was crouching there with a stolen rifle.
As she watched, the Corolla left the road, first sidewinding as though to dodge rock slides then ramming head-on into a gate post. The little car bounced, settled, and the drivers door opened. Pam braked and pulled over just as Penford fell out, swayed a moment and limped across the road.
Pam reported the accident, unbuckled and ran to the car. The child in the car seat was screaming his head off but seemed unhurt, more outraged than in pain. At his feet, behind the front seats, were a small TV, an Xbox, pristine Converse trainers and an iPad.
Pam soothed the boy, then turned away to chase down his mother. Penford had climbed the nearest fence—fallen through it, really—and was stumbling across dead and dying grass towards a stand of trees.
Fuck it. Pam put her hands on her hips, tilted her chin and yelled across the slowly widening gap, ‘Give it up, Christine. You can get bitten by snakes if you want to, but I’ve got a life to live, thanks.’
Penford stumbled a couple more steps, froze and looked down at her feet. She began a panicky dance. ‘Where?’ she shrieked.
‘Everywhere.’
Penford streaked back to the fence line, her hair flying, eyes wild. She’s high, thought Pam. We won’t get any sense out of her for a day at least.
She arranged for a divisional van to collect Christine, then called Christine’s mother.
‘Irene, I’d rather not involve children’s services if you can look after your grandson until things are sorted.’
There was a pause. A hitch, thought Pam. I’ll have to bring in children’s services after all and that’ll take forever.
But Irene Penford said, ‘Of course I’ll take him.’ Another pause. ‘No sign of Clover?’
Now we’re getting to it, Pam thought. ‘Only Troy. You still haven’t seen your granddaughter?’
‘No one has. Not for days.’
12
ON THURSDAY MORNING Ellen Destry crept in the dim dawn light from Challis’s bed to his bathroom and showered, the water pounding her head and shoulders. Too late, she remembered the bucket.
She towelled vigorously and crept back to the bedroom to find the blind up and sunlight striping the carpet and bed, Challis propped up against his pillow, talking on her phone. ‘She’s just here,’ he said, taking the phone from his ear and proffering it with a grin.
She swarmed against him briefly, pink and damp, planting a kiss, before taking the phone. His hand went to her breasts. She slapped it away. ‘Destry.’
‘Sarge,’ Pam Murphy said, ‘you wanted to be informed about any burglaries or assaults or other types of incidents that might be related to the Tyabb assault?’
‘Go on.’
‘I found three. I’ve e-mailed the details. One’s a rape going back six months, the others fit into the might-have-been category.’ She paused. ‘Sorry to call so early.’
‘Best time to get me,’ Ellen said.
She hitched the towel around her and got comfortable, absently stroking Hal’s leg under the covers. He needed a new quilt cover, she thought idly. Christmas present. ‘Give me a brief run-down.’
‘The rape victim’s name is Jess Guthrie. Lives between Mornington and Mt Martha. The burglary seemed to be an afterthought, so it was reported as a rape.’
‘The others?’
‘A woman from Bittern came home from work and something stopped her from entering further than her hallway.’
‘Something?’
‘Two things: she had a feeling her TV had just been switched off, and there was a smell.’
‘Bad smell, human smell?’
‘Yes.’
Ellen crossed to Challis’s window and looked out at his quince tree without seeing it. ‘She called the police?’
‘Got into her car and drove somewhere first.’
‘And by the time uniforms got there he was gone?’
‘In a nutshell.’
‘Anything taken?’
‘A camera and some jewellery.’
Behind Ellen, Challis was swinging out of bed and padding in bare feet to the bathroom. ‘And the other case?’
‘A woman in Somerville. Her boyfriend had just returned after two weeks away, so she stayed the night at his place. When she got home in the morning, she discovered her house had been broken into.’
Ellen said, ‘But it wasn’t a simple burglary.’
‘No, Sarge. Some small items stolen, but she also found her kitchen knife and a pair of tights on the floor just inside her sitting-room door—which is the first room on the left as you come through her front door.’
‘He was waiting for her.’
‘Yes, Sarge. And the thing is, what if that’s part of his MO, he uses materials to hand?’
Ellen said nothing for a couple of beats; reflected that she wouldn’t mind Murphy on her team. ‘Anything else?’
‘She remembers seeing crumbs on the kitchen bench, the TV was tuned to a channel she never watches and the sitting-room cushions were untidy. ‘“I’m a neat freak,” she told me.’
BREAKFAST WAS MUESLI WITH berries and yogurt at a rickety table on Challis’s deck, the sun slanting in through the trees along the back fence. Strong coffee, the 7 a.m. ABC news. The Age and a story about yet more white-collar bastardry.
‘How come,’ Ellen said, ‘you never hear of a banker or a financial adviser going to jail?’
It was rhetorical. She got a distracted smile for her pains, Challis’s finely shaped head bent over yesterday’s cryptic crossword. His hair, mainly dark, streaked with grey, was shaggy, beginning to curl. It needed cutting. His face was thinner, with new smile and tension lines at his mouth. Sometimes she just wanted to watch him for a while.
She said, ‘I’m pregnant.’
No reaction.
‘I’m taking up a position as head of security at Crown Casino.’
Nothing.
‘I’m thinking of moving in with you permanently.’
He grinned and put the paper aside, sipped his coffee.
‘I knew you were listening.’
He set his coffee mug back on the table. He’d probably knot a tie around his collar later, but right now she could see his warm, tanned throat. She wanted him badly.
‘You don’t think it’s workin
g, separate houses, slightly separate lives?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’
‘I think I’d have to meet my other women elsewhere if we moved in together.’
‘Like Serena Coolidge?’
He threw a hunk of toast at her.
She laughed. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist.’
He’d introduced Coolidge into the conversation last night, in a roundabout way that had made her instantly suspicious. It helped that she’d been at the police academy with Coolidge, and remembered her vividly: a woman who played and studied hard. She wasn’t surprised that Coolidge had tried it on with Hal.
But, moving on…
‘Pam Murphy’s good value.’
Challis looked at her levelly. ‘Yes.’
‘Wouldn’t mind having her on my team.’
‘Forget it.’
The conversation drifted: work, her maybe-serial rapist, his new murder case and stolen farm machinery and ice crimes. Always ice crimes. Ellen watched Challis’s mouth as he talked, the tiredness and intelligence in him. Presently the conversation lapsed again and they returned to their breakfasts as the early sun warmed them and the wind picked up.
LATER THAT DAY SHE INTERVIEWED Jess Guthrie, who requested they meet in the sex-crimes building.
‘I don’t want it brought into my home again,’ she said on the phone. ‘Anyway, I work in Waterloo.’
The first thing she said was, ‘You’re new to the unit.’
‘Yes.’
‘I dealt with Detective Judd before.’
She said it with a tone, and Ellen guessed he’d got her back up in some way. ‘He’s working on another case at the moment.’
Guthrie was sleek, educated, articulate: qualities that Ian Judd would have found off-putting. Now she gave Ellen a little smile, a gleam of canny humour that said she knew all about personnel management and individual employee styles and the problem of stolid minds butting up against sharp ones. It also said: if you listen and let me speak—don’t judge—we’ll get along fine.
‘Let’s go in here,’ Ellen said.
A room designed to calm and disarm women, children and men who’d been sexually assaulted. Armchairs, flowers in vases, a coffee table piled with magazines, a TV, biscuits in a farmhouse tin, a bar fridge stacked with soft drinks. The lighting was muted, the colours pastelly, and the paintings on the walls more interesting and off beat than the usual run of still lifes and puppies.
