Signal Loss

by Garry Disher

  Christine Penford’s gaze slid away again and altered, morphing from resistance to shame and anguish, each emotion passing quickly across her face and failing to settle. Her eyes teared up and she swiped at her face and whispered, ‘Clover.’

  Challis and Murphy seemed to deflate, tension leaking away. They had their opening. But Coolidge looked pointedly at her watch. Trying to ignore her, Challis said, ‘Christine, where is Clover?’

  Penford stared at the scarred tabletop as though every cut and scratch writhed to get at her.

  Harder now: ‘Where’s your daughter, Christine?’

  Penford tore her gaze from the table and stared at her hands.

  ‘We found an abandoned meth lab on Monday. The bushfire came right up to the back fence and presumably scared away whoever was in it at the time. Do you know anything about that lab or the people who operated it, Christine?’

  Presently Christine Penford shook her head, but minutely, little more than an ice twitch.

  ‘We found a young child’s clothing in the lab. What can you tell us about that, Christine?’

  No response.

  Coolidge was thrumming with tension, leaning forward as if to grab Penford by the throat. Challis, curling his lip at her warningly, took a photograph from a binder and slapped it down under Penford’s gaze. ‘Here’s a photo of the clothing we found. Do you recognise it, Christine?’

  ‘Bearing in mind you’re a meth head,’ Coolidge said.

  ‘Shut your mouth, bitch.’

  Challis felt his jaw tighten. He said, ‘We fear for Clover’s life, Christine. Where is she?’

  ‘Is she dead, in other words,’ Coolidge said.

  Penford lifted her wet face to them. ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘What happened, Christine?’ Murphy said gently.

  ‘Like I said, we needed money. Owen needed money.’

  ‘To pay off Mr Slatter.’

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  ‘You asked the meth cooks for money?’

  ‘Not me, Owen.’

  ‘Can we move this along?’ Coolidge demanded. ‘I want names.’

  ‘I don’t know their names. Owen used to hang with them.’

  ‘Who do they cook for?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘One of the bikie gangs?’

  ‘I said I dunno.’

  Coolidge opened her laptop, tapped keys, turned the screen to Penford. ‘Do you know these men?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever seen them before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do the names Pym and Lovelock mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To your knowledge did Owen ever meet with or talk about any person from Sydney associated with the trade in ice or other drugs?’

  Penford was astounded. ‘What? No.’

  ‘Just to be clear, Owen did not meet with or talk to these two men in relation to borrowing money to pay off the man he attacked at the front door of your house a couple of weeks ago?’

  ‘Fucking hell. I said, no.’

  Coolidge subsided. Challis said, ‘So he asked two lab cooks for money. Why them?’

  ‘Aren’t you listening? He done some stuff for them before.’

  ‘Did they give him money, to your knowledge?’

  Penford was pale and shaking. ‘Dunno. Must of. He give them Clover.’

  Challis said gently, ‘Why, Christine?’

  ‘She was, like, collateral.’

  ‘You’d get her back when he repaid the loan?’ Challis asked.

  ‘Wasn’t my idea. I never had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’

  Christine Penford’s gaze slid away. She shrugged, and Challis thought, of course not. She had drugs and stolen goods in her possession; she was probably afraid child protection would get involved.

  He said, ‘So Owen paid off Mr Slatter…’

  She muttered, ‘Yeah, must of. I thought he’d kept the money and run off, especially when that guy come around.’

  ‘Mr Slatter, wanting more money?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her face streaked with misery, Penford said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I go to work, I take care of my kids, I—’

  ‘So Owen’s gone, and the only way you could ensure Clover’s return is raise the money to buy her back, hence your little run of house-breaking?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?’

  ‘No, you’ve been lying and evading,’ Coolidge said.

  Murphy leaned over the table as if to shield Penford from the drug-squad officer. With great gentleness she said, ‘Is Owen the children’s father, Christine?’

  ‘He’s Troy’s dad, not Clover’s.’

  ‘How was he with Clover? Was he ever mean to her?’

  ‘She’d go, “You’re not my dad,” and you could tell it pissed him off.’

  Coolidge snarled, ‘Forget about that. Tell me about your boyfriend’s drug dealing.’

  ‘He never dealt,’ sniffed Penford.

  ‘So he was mates with a couple of ice cooks, nothing more, is that it?’

  With a trace of miserable pride, Penford said, ‘He used to be their best cook.’

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Coolidge. ‘Here on the Peninsula?’

  Penford shook her head. ‘Out in Gippsland somewhere.’

  ‘So have they been cooking long on the Peninsula?’

  Penford shook her head. ‘Owen only hooked up with them again a couple of weeks ago.’

  Pam Murphy cut in. ‘Christine, I need you to concentrate on what’s important here. When I look at you, I see someone who’s made some mistakes and wants to get her life back on track. It wasn’t your decision to put up your daughter as collateral on a loan from drug dealers, and you did your best to get her back.’

  Penford straightened her spine and tried to stare unflinchingly at the world. She failed. She slumped and sniffed, swiping the back of her hand across her face and eyes.

  ‘Christine, we’re very worried about Clover,’ Murphy said.

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘We need to find her before something terrible happens, do you understand? We need to know everything you know, now. Any first name you can give us, last name, nickname. Descriptions, times, dates. Any trips you went on or that Owen went on. Anything at all.’

  ‘Where’s Troy?’

  ‘Your mother’s looking after him.’

  Challis expected Penford to explode again, but all she did was struggle feebly with the revelation and slump. ‘Okay.’

  She began a confused and halting account of trying ice and ice taking over her life, but gave no hard facts, despite Coolidge firing sharp questions at her. Then Coolidge took a call on her mobile, gathered her notes and laptop, said, ‘That’s it, got to go, get what you can from her,’ and left the room.

  Challis said, ‘For the benefit of the tape, Senior Sergeant Coolidge has left the room.’

  Her priority, he thought, is unlikely to be finding Clover Penford. He leaned in. ‘Christine, when Owen’s pals don’t get their money, what do you think they’ll do?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘They’ll think of ways to use her, if they haven’t already.’

  ‘Boss,’ warned Murphy.

  Fear suffused Penford’s sallow face. ‘It’s not like that. It’s just money.’

  ‘They will share her around. They will sell her to men who will film her being raped by them. They will sell these films via the internet.’

  ‘Boss…’

  At once, Challis dropped the harshness and aridity. He clasped Penford’s forearm. ‘But we will do everything to get her back before that happens, so you need to talk to us.’

  ‘The department’ll take her off me.’

  ‘Persuade us,’ Murphy said. ‘Tell us about Owen and how you met and how things fell apart.’

  The story emerged in fits of misery, sweet memories and pathetic pride. Unhappy at school, miserable at home, Christine had
hooked up with Owen Valentine at the Westernport Festival the year she turned fifteen. He was nineteen, and unlike anyone she’d met before.

  ‘His room had all these posters everywhere, like Bob Marley and Jim Beam and a skull and crossbones. It was like a den with the windows covered over and that. We’d sit in there and watch DVDs and listen to music and do dope.’

  ‘Did your parents object to him?’

  Penford shrugged.

  ‘What did Owen do for a job? You said everything went wrong a few months ago, but it sounds like you and Owen had a settled life for several years. Were you managing the habit? Did you start injecting recently?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Did Owen have a job? Did you?’

  ‘He was a welder. He’d go off for months on pipeline jobs.’ She shrugged. ‘We lost touch for a few years.’

  ‘You had Clover with someone else?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Then Owen came back?’

  ‘Beginning of last year. We hooked up again, all right?’

  ‘He was still employed as a welder?’

  Penford shook his head. ‘He was cooking meth for these guys.’

  ‘In Gippsland.’

  ‘Shipping containers, empty houses, sometimes these sheds they’d put up and pull down again. Once even in the back of a truck.’

  Sometimes he’d cook for days at a time, producing an ounce a day, then go home and crash for a week. She shook her head in amazement. ‘He’d go four days without sleep.’

  ‘Not hard if you’re using while you’re cooking,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Shut your mouth, bitch.’

  ‘A wonder he didn’t blow himself up.’

  ‘He was good at it, all right,’ shrieked Penford.

  The loyalty, thought Challis. Amazing. He said, ‘He cooked an ounce a day—how many hits did that work out to be?’

  Penford sneered. ‘Points, not hits.’

  ‘Okay, how many points?’

  ‘Up to 280.’

  ‘Worth?’

  ‘Twenty-eight grand.’

  There was that pride again. ‘And you helped.’

  ‘No. I had the kids.’

  ‘And Owen? He was using, growing violent and unpredictable?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Why did you stay?’

  ‘I was in love,’ Penford said. ‘We had Troy together.’

  ‘Who gave Owen the precursor chemicals, the pipettes and the rest of the gear…?’

  ‘I told you, these Bandidos.’

  ‘He first hooked up with them when he was away for that extended period, welding?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘They stopped using him when he became unreliable?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Christine, is it possible these men saw Owen as a liability? Is it possible they did something to him?’

  She stared down the months and years of her life and didn’t speak. Challis thought she’d drifted away from them, from the room and her misery. He saw the memories behind her eyes.

  She shook her head. ‘He run off,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Do you know anything about the movement of ice on the Peninsula, Christine? I don’t mean bikie labs, I mean ice that’s coming into the area from outside.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s everywhere, I know that much.’

  ‘Who did you and Owen buy from?’

  ‘Wasn’t me, Owen did all that.’

  ‘You both doing break-ins to feed your habits?’

  ‘Owen did.’

  ‘Christine, your mother went to your house to collect toys and clothing for your son and found a gun hidden on top of a wardrobe.’

  ‘Nosy cow.’

  ‘Did Owen specialise in stealing firearms from farms in the area?’

  Penford shrugged. ‘Sounds like him.’ She paused and with miserable pride said, ‘I have a job. Part time.’

  Then she looked squarely at them in turn. ‘Tell me now, will I do jail time? Will I lose the kids? I told you everything I know. Wasn’t me what sold Clover.’

  ‘That’s possible. It’s up to the DPP. But if in the meantime we find Owen and he tells us a different story…’

  ‘Wasn’t me!’

  Her misery was naked, unchecked, tears splashing onto the table. ‘I done me best. I’m an addict, but I can turn around.’

  17

  NOW COOLIDGE COULD HAVE HER BRIEFING.

  As the others filed into the conference room, she muttered to Challis, ‘I don’t intend to waste any more time on Christine Penford or that ice lab. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Serena, we’ve got a kid in peril.’

  ‘Your case,’ she said, tapping him lightly on the chest.

  CHALLIS BEGAN THE BRIEFING:

  ‘Certain information has come to our attention that seems to link apparently unrelated incidents and crimes. First, when Senior Constable Tankard manned the front desk yesterday, two visitors made reports related to a man named Owen Valentine. John checked Valentine’s address and realised that he’d attended a disturbance there a week ago today. John?’

  Tankard, his large frame overheated, lumbered to his feet as though a teacher had put him on the spot. ‘Yeah, 5 Banksia Court in Moonta. Noise complaint. Bad language and shouting. An old woman over the back fence called it in.’

  Challis said, ‘Sit, John, no need to stand. Tell us what you saw when you arrived.’

  ‘Two guys were there, standing around in the car shed at the side of the house. They told me they were doing some DIY house painting and did a bit of shouting and swearing when they spilled a tin of white on the floor.’

  ‘What else did you see?’

  John Tankard struggled with that, and then his face cleared. ‘Black Mercedes, backed into the car shed.’

  Challis inclined her head to Pam Murphy, who slid a photograph across the table. ‘Was this one of the men?’

  Tankard leaned over the table and peered at it, eyes narrowing in his pouchy face. ‘Nope.’

  Murphy slid copies of the photograph to the others, tapped the face of her own. ‘This is Owen Valentine. He resides at that Banksia Court address, along with his girlfriend, Christine Penford, and Christine’s two children. I called there early this week to speak to him about an assault complaint, since withdrawn, and was told by Christine that she’d come home the previous Friday—the day John was called to the house—to find that he’d left her. She seemed genuinely bewildered and upset.’

  Murphy glanced at Challis, nodding to say she’d finished.

  He said, ‘It doesn’t end there. It’s probable that Owen did a bit of breaking and entering, targeting firearms from farmhouses which he then sold to drug dealers. Keep that in mind a few minutes from now, when you hear from our crime-scene expert. Meanwhile, Owen was facing an assault charge. Fearing it would mean jail time, he paid off his victim to the tune of five thousand dollars. To raise the money, he put up Christine’s six-year-old daughter, Clover, as collateral.’

  A soft, anguished moan from Scobie Sutton. Casting him a sympathetic smile, Challis went on: ‘We believe the clothing found at the ice lab on the outskirts of Waterloo early this week belongs to Clover Penford. We have yet to find her or the men who’d been cooking ice there. Needless to say, it doesn’t look good.’

  He glanced at Sutton. ‘That’s one avenue of inquiry stemming from Owen Valentine. Now let’s hear about another. Scobie?’

  Scobie Sutton had set out his reports in neat piles. ‘Preliminary findings,’ he said, his cadaverous face troubled, as though he hated to disappoint.

  ‘That’s fine, Scobie.’

  ‘Last Friday’s bushfire, two men burnt to death in a car,’ he said, and stopped.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We also found a high-powered rifle and animal remains—a small dog.’

  Pam angled the photo of Owen Valentine, holding Cluedo the dog. ‘Could this be the dog?’

  ‘Impossible to say, but the size is rig
ht.’

  Challis said, ‘Can you match DNA from the dog, if there is any, with DNA from the house—from a toy or food bowl or rubber bone, for example?’

  ‘A long shot.’

  ‘Have you been able to work up DNA profiles for the two men?’

  ‘Still working on it,’ Sutton said. He looked at everyone in turn. ‘If we can retrieve viable DNA, and if one of the men is Owen Valentine, then we can compare with DNA from his little boy or from a comb or toothbrush from the Banksia Courthouse.’

  Pam Murphy said, ‘He took all that with him, but how about an ice pipe?’

  ‘That would work.’

  Sutton lapsed into silence.

  Challis said, ‘Scobie, the rifle and the car.’

  Sutton coughed. ‘Yes, of course. Along with the remains of two men and a dog, we found some interesting items in the boot of the car: a set of molten but readable New South Wales numberplates, a shovel head, and what’s left of an aluminium gun case containing a rifle. The case protected the rifle from more extreme damage, enabling me to test-fire it.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want to go out on a limb, but I think it’s the Hauser murder weapon. I can’t match the bullet fired through his head to rifling on the test-fire bullet because it was badly deformed when it hit the concrete slab under the carpet, but the metallurgical analysis shows a match, and the firing-pin marks on the test cartridges are a match to those on the two cartridge cases left at the scene. Incidentally, we found prints on the cases but they’re not in the system. Now for the car itself: it was carrying plates stolen from a station wagon in Bega late last week, but the VIN number, and the plates in the boot, belong to an S-Class Mercedes owned by a car hire firm in Sydney.’

  This was all carefully orchestrated by Challis. Now he turned to Coolidge. ‘The drug squad has more on this angle.’

  Coolidge had been attending to the briefing with a faint smile, not yet bored or impatient, but getting there. Folders, files, notebooks and an iPad were heaped untidily before her and she was tapping at the keyboard, apparently ignoring him.

  She waited a beat before aiming her gaze at Sutton. ‘Good work, Senior Constable Sutton,’ she said, barely meaning it. Glancing around at the others, she continued: ‘According to my New South Wales contacts, the car was hired by a couple of syndicate enforcers working for a man named Kaye, who’s very big-time, sources his crystal meth from China at seven thousand dollars a kilo and sells it on at a huge mark-up. Why he sent his boys down here, I don’t know. We know he supplies dealers here, but not exactly who. I mean, Owen Valentine’s a loser, not a drug kingpin. Maybe the answer lies with Colin Hauser, or the people behind him.’