Signal Loss

by Garry Disher

  ‘I know that,’ Sutton said testily. ‘I’m also running the DNA I found inside the bedroom.’

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, FREYA Berg climbed to where they waited.

  ‘It’s all yours, Mr Sutton.’

  He thanked her, called to the stretcher bearers and returned to the grave.

  Challis, watching the men manoeuvre the body, asked the pathologist for her preliminary conclusions.

  ‘White male,’ Berg said, ‘undernourished, possibly an addict, aged in his late twenties.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘I won’t know cause of death for sure until I perform the autopsy, but he wasn’t shot or stabbed. Took a severe beating, though, and there are shallow cuts all over his face.’

  ‘Knife?’

  ‘Or a razor.’

  ‘No big sign around his neck saying, “My name is Owen Valentine”?’

  ‘Something just as good,’ Berg said. She took out her iPhone, swiped her finger across the screen, showed them a photograph.

  A muddy blue amateurish tattoo, saying ‘Owen and Chrissie 4 ever’.

  Challis sighed, fished out his phone, walked in circles until he got a signal, and called Serena Coolidge.

  34

  WEDNESDAY’S SEX-CRIMES BRIEFING began with the strangest and most uncomfortable few minutes of Ellen Destry’s working life. She’d set a plate of pastries on the table, brewed the coffee and greeted her officers, when Serena Coolidge entered the room as if she’d conquered a nation and intended to address its citizens. Ellen remembered the body language from the police academy and from the more recent encounter in the main police station car park, when Coolidge had shot her a look that suggested she was trying to remember what it was about Ellen that irritated her so much.

  And here it was again.

  ‘Sergeant Destry.’

  ‘Serena,’ Ellen said, earning herself another look.

  ‘I need,’ said Coolidge, ‘a brief word with everyone.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  An intense figure at the head of the room, Coolidge announced her name, her squad, and said: ‘Yesterday’s stakeout. Which one of you found the girl?’

  Katsoulas, bristling a little, raised her hand and said, ‘To be strictly accurate, a parent took her to the police station just as I was bringing in a prisoner.’

  This time the body language said whatever: Coolidge gestured indifference with the long, predatory fingers of her right hand. Perfect polished nails, Ellen noticed.

  ‘The point is, there’s a drugs connection,’ Coolidge said.

  Ellen stirred. ‘We’re aware of that, but there’s also a sex-crimes connection. The girl, whose name is Clover Penford, was made to pose naked for photographs and videos.’

  Coolidge stared at the room, then turned her head slowly to Ellen. Nothing was said but all noise was stilled, the hush premonitory, and Coolidge’s face tightened.

  ‘Sergeant Destry, I’m afraid my investigation trumps yours. The kid—’

  ‘Her name is Clover,’ Katsoulas said.

  ‘—is tied up in an ongoing case with far-reaching ramifications and involving a range of very dangerous people. You will have access to her in due course, and press sex-crimes charges as warranted, after we’ve made arrests on manufacturing and trafficking charges.’

  Ian Judd was disgusted. He’d been chewing the end of a ballpoint pen. He threw it down in front of him.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Coolidge said acidly.

  Judd shrugged.

  Coolidge tried for appeasement. ‘Look, I’m happy for you to throw the book at these pricks for whatever sex crime you can hang around their necks, but not until we have them on drug offences. We think the little girl’s stepfather was murdered by syndicate members from New South Wales, so we need to look hard at anyone and everyone involved with him.’

  Ellen wondered if something had shifted. In Hal’s pithy view, expressed last night, ‘diminished resolve’ pretty much summed up Coolidge’s approach to investigating Clover Penford and the ice-lab cooks, and Ellen knew all about diminished resolve, senior officers backing down or failing to pursue investigations and prosecutions.

  But now Coolidge was muscling in. Scouting around for another coup?

  Before Ellen could say anything, Coolidge left the room.

  Rubbing her chin, Ellen said, ‘That was…’

  ‘Enlightening.’

  ‘Fulfilling.’

  ‘Inspirational.’

  ‘Help yourselves to coffee and pastries,’ Ellen said.

  Stepping back from the scramble, she texted Challis: You found Valentine’s body?

  And back came the text: Yes.

  So that explained Coolidge.

  WHEN JUDD, KATSOULAS AND Rykert were settled she briefed them on the Robards attack.

  ‘Assuming he’s a taxi driver, how does that fit our rough profile?’

  Rykert: ‘He’s familiar with the streets and towns of the Peninsula.’

  Katsoulas: ‘He’s probably an owner-driver’s night driver, meaning he’s free during the day. What time did Ms Robards say he received the phone call?’

  ‘About five-thirty.’

  ‘The call could have come from the day driver. Five-thirty in the afternoon would be getting close to his or her knock-off time, so a three-hour round trip to the airport would not be welcome. They’d give it to the night driver.’

  Judd: ‘We’re assuming he started with burglary and graduated to rape? In any event, he spotted target buildings while driving at night and returned to them in daylight.’

  Katsoulas: ‘It’s also possible one or more of his victims had been passengers.’

  Rykert: ‘But for all we know he lives up near Melbourne and just has the occasional fare down here. In which case we’ll never find him. The city’s crawling with taxi drivers.’

  Judd: ‘I think there’s a better than fifty per cent chance he’s local. The city firms are allowed to drop passengers here, but not tout for fares. They’d not hang around, they’d head straight back to the city, where the work is.’

  ‘But a Peninsula cab is allowed to drop off and pick up at the airport?’

  ‘Any taxi’s permitted to take passengers to the airport, but only taxis from the metropolitan region are allowed to stay there and join the rank. If you’re a Peninsula resident and want a Peninsula cab to collect you at the airport, you have to book in advance.’

  Katsoulas: ‘So we don’t know if our guy was being asked to take someone there or drive there to collect someone?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Ellen: ‘The taxi companies are pretty obliging. They’re very sensitive to issues involving drivers.’

  Judd: ‘So long as we don’t alert our guy.’

  Rykert: ‘What if the phone call referred not to a Monday night airport run but some other night?’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘We have to start somewhere. And it’s not as if the Peninsula cabs are making an airport run every ten minutes. It’s an expensive trip from here, and most people drive themselves or take the airport bus. Some cabbies can go days without an airport run.’ She paused. ‘And even if we end up with a couple of dozen drivers, we’re looking at a male, tall, fit and youngish, and he cut himself on Monday afternoon, so look for someone wearing a bandage or at least a deep scratch on his left forearm.’

  Katsoulas quivered. ‘DNA, boss.’

  Ellen shook her head. ‘He didn’t leave any at the scene, unfortunately. And even if we find him and can legally test him, we can only compare his DNA to that one early rape.’

  BY EARLY AFTERNOON E-MAILS from the local cab companies revealed that four taxis had made an airport run on Monday evening. All four were made by owner-drivers, two middle-aged men, two women, and all four trips were regular Monday bookings: three drop-offs and one pick-up.

  Ellen was about to ask for details of the Tuesday evening runs when a notation from Coolart Cabs caught her eye: the pick-up passenger, a Sydney woman who flew down for a thr
ee-day period each week, consulting on a Peninsula golf course development, had called to say her usual 3 p.m. Qantas flight had been cancelled and she’d be getting the 6 p.m. flight, getting in at 7:30 p.m. Her regular cabbie was an owner-driver named Posie Laing.

  So would Laing have made the evening run?

  LAING WAS SIXTY, A SHORT, BARRELLY woman with cropped grey hair and a face full of scowling eyebrows, and Destry and Judd found her in the lead cab at a rank beside the ANZ bank in Waterloo. She got out of her taxi, propped her rump against the passenger door and folded her ample arms. ‘Will this take long?’

  ‘Mrs Laing, you regularly collect a Ms Weatherby from the three o’clock flight from Sydney every Monday afternoon?’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘Did you collect her this Monday?’

  The cabbie seemed to test the question for tricks and hidden meanings. Time passed, and she said, ‘No. Her flight was cancelled.’

  Before they knew it an elderly woman laden with shopping bags had slipped into the back of the cab. Laing beamed, hurried around to the drivers door and yanked it open.

  Judd slammed it before she could get in. She lost the smile. ‘Hey! My passenger!’

  ‘In a moment,’ he said. ‘Just a couple more questions.’

  Doors opened on two of the waiting cabs, the drivers calling, ‘Posie, you okay?’

  Ellen showed her ID. They retreated, muttering, and Laing parked her rump against the taxi again. ‘I need to get Mrs Richards home with her shopping,’ she grumbled, and started to cough, a wet smoker’s cough that Ellen thought might lead to palliative care at any moment.

  They waited. Laing recovered. ‘So what’s this about?’

  ‘You didn’t collect Ms Weatherby from the airport on Monday.’

  ‘I told ya, her flight was cancelled.’

  ‘She came in on a later flight.’

  Laing’s eyes slid sideways, hunting for a way out. ‘Yeah, I remember now.’

  ‘She told us a man collected her.’

  ‘Me other driver. I usually knock off around six.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Look, did she make a complaint? I explained I couldn’t make the trip and me other driver would pick her up and she seemed okay with that. I mean, I’ve used Mitch for years.’

  ‘Mitch who?’

  ‘Pyne. Did he do something wrong?’

  She’s going to contact him, Ellen thought. A part of her will want to warn him, and another part will want reassurance, so she’ll contact him and she’ll try to read his tone.

  So Ellen ran with her imagination. ‘There was an incident in the taxi waiting area at the airport. A Silver Cabs driver said he was assaulted by a driver he thought worked for one of the Peninsula firms. Is Mr Pyne of Sri Lankan appearance, Mrs Laing?’

  Laing chortled, which set off another coughing fit. Recovering, she spat into a handkerchief and said, ‘Well, there you go, Mitch is as white as my backside.’

  Ellen tried and failed to quash the image. ‘Thank you, Mrs Laing; you’ve cleared that up for us. We’ll let our city colleagues know it’s a dead end.’

  ‘You do that,’ Laing said, getting behind the wheel of her cab.

  ‘HOPE SHE BUYS IT,’ Destry said.

  They were in the car, heading for Crib Point, where Pyne lived. According to records, he was twenty-nine years old, no convictions, but at the age of eighteen he’d been suspected of handling stolen goods. No charge, no conviction, no DNA sample.

  ‘That Sri Lankan reference was a nice touch,’ Judd said. ‘Distracted her and probably appealed to the racist in her too.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘With any luck it’s enough to keep her off the phone to him.’

  ‘Now I guess we eyeball him for a while,’ Judd said.

  PYNE LIVED IN A rundown weatherboard house on a side street behind the Crib Point swimming pool. His car, a listing white Falcon with one grey primer-painted door, sat in the driveway, weeds brushing the underside of the chassis. Ellen checked the time: 2 p.m. Maybe Pyne felt spooked by Monday’s failure, and would stay at home until it was time for his night-driving shift. Or maybe they’d get lucky and he’d go out to rape someone so they could catch him at it.

  They got lucky in an unexpected way.

  ‘TOWEL, BAG, HE’S GOING to the swimming pool,’ Judd said.

  Pyne was tall, solid, with thick pelts of black hair on his arms and legs—as described by two of his victims. He looked faintly out-of-date to Ellen, in brief tight shorts, tight T-shirt and black hair styled in something like a mullet.

  ‘Ugly bugger,’ Judd said.

  They watched him to the end of the street, then started the car and followed, passing Pyne but eyeing his progress in the rear-view mirror as he turned into the sports complex and headed across the dust and dead grass to the pool entrance. Reaching the corner, Ellen turned left and immediately parked. She’d been to the gym that morning; she reached around for her Adidas bag. ‘Go in after him, Ian. Pretend you’ve come for a swim or to join, something like that.’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘He might be a regular, or he might be meeting someone, like his fence.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Ellen watched him head for the swimming pool. A few minutes later, she did a U-turn and drove past the football ground to the pool, parking in the shade of a large gum tree. The air was sharp with summery eucalyptus smells and a fainter chlorine tang. She could see mothers and small children through the cyclone fence, hear the children cry out. She checked her watch: 2:20 p.m. Schools would be getting out soon. She got out of the super-heated car and at that moment was struck with a powerful image of bringing her daughter to this pool for an interschool swimming carnival. The mosquitoes had been hell.

  Then Judd was back. He waggled his handkerchief at her. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

  He unwrapped the handkerchief, revealing a bloodied bandage.

  ‘I sat in the change room pretending to unlace my shoes while he got into his togs, and saw him toss this into the bin.’

  35

  CHALLIS DIDN’T WANT TO spook Quine. Keeping it low-key, the harried boss with lots on his plate, he poked his head into the general office, waved hello, encompassing everyone, and said, ‘Janine, sorry to interrupt, but could you bring me anything you’ve found on Owen Valentine?’

  She wore her habitual face, a woman used to disappointment, and the expression deepened. ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  Challis didn’t wait but bounded up to the first floor and into CIU. He jerked his head at Murphy. ‘She’s on her way.’

  THREE MINUTES LATER, A timid knock, and Challis called, ‘Come in, Janine.’

  He was leaning back in his swivel chair, clutter spread over his desk. Quine eyed it disapprovingly, then sat on a visitor’s chair next to Pam Murphy. Her gaze swivelled between Challis and Murphy; reading their smiles with suspicion, she tossed a manila folder across Challis’s desk.

  ‘I did some digging—he has a half-brother, Carl Bowie, but apparently they’re estranged. The brother owns a few bakeries.’

  She was talking too fast.

  ‘That’s not why we’re here, Janine,’ Challis said, his voice low and almost unmodulated.

  He opened a drawer, pulled out a digital recorder and touched a finger to the play button. ‘Yesterday afternoon you were observed going into Annette Tranh’s office and using her desk phone. You were observed hanging up shortly afterwards and returning to your desk. Five minutes later, Annette’s phone rang and you left your desk to answer it. Here is your side of the conversation.’

  ‘Annette’s phone…Ray, I hoped it was you…Look, they say they’re about to make a series of arrests…No, not the murder, the stolen vehicles and equipment…That wasn’t you, was it, the murder? I told you I wouldn’t help you cover something like that up…Well, they said by calibrating GPS coordinates with aerial photographs from police drones they can track where…Ray, I don’t know what it means, either. I’m no expert…It could be stor
ed somewhere here, I suppose…I can’t just destroy it, Ray…Look, I’ll have a look and let you know, all right? And I think that clears Jeff ’s debt with you. It’s getting too dangerous.’

  Challis pressed the stop button. ‘That was your voice, wasn’t it, Janine?’

  She stared at the desk, haggard and vacant.

  ‘Raymond Loeb. Were he and Mr Hauser partners?’

  Nothing.

  ‘What’s your involvement in this?’

  Nothing but a stirring of sulky anger as Quine shifted in her chair. She kept looking down. Darted a glance at Pam Murphy, who saw sadness, regret and guilt under the truculence.

  ‘Raymond Loeb Property Services,’ Challis continued. ‘Valuations, property management, auctions and clearing sales, stock agent, specialising in farms and wineries.’

  Janine shrugged.

  ‘He gets about, old Ray,’ Challis said. ‘Perfectly placed to spot a truck or a trailer or a weed sprayer or a ride-on mower that’s not well secured.’

  Another shrug.

  ‘What happens then? He sends in a team? One guy, like Colin Hauser? How does it work, Janine?’

  He watched her for a moment, then went on. ‘I think he uses a team of people. I think Hauser’s farm was a kind of way station while Mr Loeb found a buyer. Or does he steal to order?’

  Janine Quine looked thoroughly hunted now.

  Pam Murphy said, ‘We’ve also had a run of house burglaries, Janine. Houses on the register administered by you. People on holiday or away on business, trusting the police to keep an eye on their properties, and what happens? You happen.’

  After a long pause, Quine lifted her face. She was depleted of hope. ‘Will I go to jail?’

  ‘That’s up to the Department of Public Prosecutions, but if there are mitigating circumstances, and you agree to help us, we are prepared to make recommendations for leniency,’ Challis said.

  ‘If deserved,’ Murphy snapped. ‘A man was murdered, after all.’

  Janine Quine seemed to have only two expressions, defeated and sulky, but now her face flashed spiritedly. ‘I had nothing to do with that. Ray Loeb had nothing to do with that.’