by Garry Disher
A little book learning is a fine thing, Murph, van Alphen said. He paused. On the subject of psychology: you need to find out what they want.
Their dominant need, Pam said brightly. Respect, safety, flattery, sympathy. One should stimulate or exaggerate this need, then finally offer to gratify it in return for a confession or co-operation.
So why the fuck are you asking me all this? growled van Alphen, not unkindly.
Its questioning techniques, Sarge. I know the psychology: I just need to know how to frame questions.
But its all psychology, insisted van Alphen. For example, if a suspects tired, you fire hard questions at him.
The wording, Sarge.
Apart from who, what, where, when and why?
Yes.
All right, try to get at motive. Ask things like: Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him? or Did they argue over money? or Was she involved with another man? Obvious, surely.
Sarge.
Psychology, insisted van Alphen. Just when they think an interview is overyoure going out the door, in factyou turn back and hit them with whats really on your mind. Or you ask a series of absurd, grotesque or mild questions to throw them off balance, then hit them with the million-dollar question. Or you give them back their answers twisted slightly, to see what corrections they make.
Pam scribbled, her head down, commas of hair brushing her jaw.
You throw them a series of quick questions requiring short, simple answers, then suddenly lob a difficult one at them, a trick question. Or they answer, but you look at them quizzically until they qualify it to fill the silence. Its answers that matter, not questions. The absences in answers, their tone, and the specifics that can be challenged or disproved or that contradict other specifics.
Sarge, said Pam, still scribbling.
You force suspects and witnesses alike to separate what they think they know from what is actually true, you help them through uncertainties and attack their certainties.
Fair enough.
And always, always, you ask earlier questions again, worded differently.
Sarge, said Pam, wondering if she had enough for three thousand words. She thought she might look up old case notes and reproduce interview transcripts, generally pad out her essay in the time-honoured way of all students everywhere.
Always get their story first, van Alphen said. Get them to commit to it. Then you take it apart, detail-by-detail. Youll find that most people can lie convincingly some or even a lot of the time, but only the good liars remember exactly what they said.
* * * *
He doesnt work here any more, said the manager of Prestige Autos late that Friday afternoon. I sacked him.
John Tankard stood there with his mouth open, feeling powerless. He hadnt felt this bad since that time hed shot a deranged farmer. Hed gone on stress leave for it, then returned to work and thrown himself into the job, together with coaching a junior football team, and these things had been pretty successful in staving off depression, but it was his new car that hed been counting on most to make himself feel better.
The guy ripped me off, he said hotly, while employed by you.
The manager, a portly older guy with furry eyebrows, made a what-can-I-do? gesture. Plastic pennants snapped in the breeze. A salesman in a sissy-looking suit was putting the hard word to a young guy who was critically but longingly circling a Subaru WRXdrug dealers car, thought Tank sourlywhile his girlfriend looked on in boredom. A bus belched past. And so life was going on unchanged around John Tankard but he himself was breaking inside. Over a car, but still.
I was sold the car on your premises. I bought it in good faith. Youre obliged by law to provide a warranty.
The manager was unmoved. The salesman who sold you that car was doing so off the books. The car was never possessed by this business. Im a victim here, too. This is bad for my reputation.
Tank was incredulous. I have to feel sorry for you?
Look, son, I have no legal obligation to give you your money back.
Im not your son. Anyway, this does involve you because your finance company financed the deal.
Again, that was done without my authority. As I understand it, your contract is with them. I think youll find its legally binding. It has nothing to do with me.
Im out thousands and thousands of dollars, Tank said, wiping away tears.
Sell the car. Youll get most of your money back. You might even make a profit.
I cant. Its been black-flagged in all states and territories. I cant register the fucking thing anywhere.
All right, the manager said slowly, spend a few thousand to get it in compliance.
Where am I going to get that kind of money? asked Tank rhetorically.
I could structure a loan for you, said the manager smoothly
Prick.
Theres no need for that.
Thousands of dollars, John Tankard said, his mind shooting in all directions. Had anyone been cheated like hed been cheated...? Refuse payments to the finance company.. .Put a bullet through his brain...
That night Evening Update floated the idea that a person of interest to the police in the Katie Blasko case had possibly been active for years in Victoria and interstate. It was a good story, kept the level of moral panic raging in the community, and worth a thousand bucks to John Tankard.
But it was more than the money. Tank considered it important to keep people in the loop. Keep them vigilant against the creeps. Protect little kids like his sister. He kept telling himself that.
* * * *
Scobie came home feeling so hurt and aggrieved that he was curt to his wife. Is this the man? he demanded, showing her Duykers mugshots.
Yes, said Beth defensively.
They were in their sitting room, Beth putting aside one of their daughters T-shirts, in the act of cutting out the label inside the collar, which Roslyn said was itching her.
You paid him money for photographs.
Beth looked mortified. The house needed airing. She sometimes shut herself in for hours, trying to keep busy. Scobie often found her gazing into space, or in tears. I need to find a job, Scobe, shed say.
By cheque or cash? he went on furiously. He didnt like himself for it. Its the pressure, he told himself. The police shooting board inquiry. His feelings for Grace Duyker. He was confused and lonely and unhappy.
Beth was close to tears, and that made it worse. Cash, she said.
Damn.
I can show you the receipt.
She left the room and came back with a receipt torn from a receipt book that had probably been purchased in a stationery store for $2. Scrawled blue ballpoint writing. Maybe the lab could lift Duykers prints from it, but so what?
Beth, listen carefully, did you ever leave Ros alone with him?
Beth went very still and turned an appalled face to him. Is this more than fraud? Do you suspect him of, you know, youre working on the Katie Blasko abduction and you...
He touched her wrist to stop the panic. Settle down, for Gods sake.
You have to believe I would never knowingly put our daughter at risk like that. He never touched her.
Did he look at her in a certain way?
No!
Good.
He was a bit creepy. Smiled a lot, Beth said.
Scobie patted her forearm absently. He prowled around the house and garden, muttering, clenching his fist. He went to the back fence and pulled out his mobile phone. Grace? Scobie Sutton here.
She sounded pleased to hear from him, and that gave him an absurd little lift, the kind hed not felt for years and years and one of the first things to go in a marriage. I wondered if I could pop round tomorrow, he said. A few more questions.
Of course, she said.
* * * *
That same night, Kees van Alphen went on a prowl of the beaches. He knew them all, the nude beaches, small and tucked away, known only to nudists and a few pathetic peeping toms, the gay beaches, one near the Navy
base, another near the huge bayside estatenow carved into a few exclusive house blocksof an airline magnate. He knew all of the hangouts of the Peninsulas druggies, street kids, prostitutes, gays and rent boys. He knew that a place could be one thing by day and quite another by night.
He waited until almost midnight, and then he started to make contact. Matches flared in the darkness, briefly lighting hollow cheeks. The susurrations of the sea, the moon glow on it. A drift of marijuana smoke. Feet squeaking on the sand. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and far away a siren sounded down a long, empty road.
Fifty bucks for a blowjob.
Van Alphen said he could be interested.
Five hundred for the whole night. Or a threesome could be arranged.
He moved on. They were very young, some of them. Barely twelve, and looking youngerolder, if you looked at the experiences behind their eyes.
Then he found Billy DaCosta.
* * * *
38
But you had a history with him, Paddy, said Challis on Saturday morning. Gavin had it in for you.
Like I told them city coppers, I never fucking seen Hurst that day.
They were standing in Paddys dusty yard, which was a vast area of soil erosion stained here and there by motor oil, paint and animal droppings. Around it were rusting truck bodies, ploughshares, harrows and car batteries, standing in collars of tall dry grass, and several corrugated iron sheds: doorless sheds for Paddys tractor, plough, truck and hay bales, a set of low-slung pig pens, a fenced dog run and a hen house. Challis had set all of the animals into a frenzy when he drove his aged Triumph into the yard.
He was due to come here, Challis said. There was a report against you.
Paddy spat on the ground. I tell ya, Hal, the bugger was never here.
Challis had gone to high school with Paddy and other Finucanes. Paddy and his siblings and cousins liked to steal from lockers, sell exam questions, run sweeps for the Melbourne Cup horse races, and taunt the young teachers. It was mostly good-natured. They were also excellent athletes, although lazy. Their fathers and uncles all had convictions for drunkenness or receiving stolen goods and were often away for short stretches.
None of that had mattered at the time. But then Challis had gone away to the police academy, returning to the Bluff as a uniformed constable, young, pimply and barely shaving. Within days hed found himself obliged to arrest the very same Finucanes hed gone to school with. They wouldnt struggle, argue or appeal to his better naturethey knew theyd been caught fair and squarebut they would look at him in a certain way, partly mocking, partly disappointed. It was as if theythe whole district, in factthought hed let the side down. Soon Challis was turning a blind eye. His sergeant, Max Andrewartha, told him to rethink his options. Youre too soft, he said. Pretty soon, Challis had resigned and moved to Victoria, where no one knew him. He joined the Victoria Police, eventually becoming a detective, and now was an inspector, living near the sea, not right out here in the never-never. He lived in a landscape where the rain fell and all was green.
But back here in the Bluff he was still the guy whod gone to school with some of the locals and been a failed town policeman many years ago. He was called Hal. He wasnt some stranger.
Hal? Paddy said, breaking into his reverie.
Challis blinked. Paddys face was seamed from years in the sun. He was slight, wiry, canny. He was a clean-looking man in filthy work clothes. Challis had no doubt that the clothes were laundered repeatedly by Paddys poor, timid wife, but the oil, grease and paint were permanently melded to the cotton weave.
Paddy, I wont bullshit you, theyre sniffing around Meg.
Paddy nodded. The divorce thing.
Challis blinked. He shouldnt have been surprised. The Finucanes knew everything about everybody. Meg thought that Gavin had run off on her.
Again Paddy nodded. Them letters she got.
She told the police that Gavin had made plenty of enemies those last few months.
Enemies like me, you mean? Mate, he was a prick from the moment he come into the district. Paddy swept one scrawny arm over the infinite earth. No people skills, thats for fucking sure. He grinned.
Challis grinned back. Gavin had always seemed an up-tight, lay-down-the-law type to him, too, on the few occasions theyd met over the years, usually at Christmas time. No one in the family had quite known what Meg had seen in him, but shed seemed happy enough with the guy.
Tell me about some of the run-ins you had with him.
Paddy cocked his head. You sound like them Homicide blokes, you know that?
Well, Paddy, thats my job, too.
But not here it isnt.
True.
Mate, you know me; you know where I come from. We cut corners, you know that, but were not mean or vicious.
Challis said, with mock solemnity, I have it on very good authority that you rubbed sawdust in his face.
Paddy roared, then wiped his twinkling eyes, quite worn out. That I did, that I did. The cant reckoned sawdust wasnt a fit bed for dogs; it was smelly and bred fleas and disease. I picked up a handful and said, go on, smell it. Well, he didnt, of course, so I rubbed it in his face and shoved it down his neck. A mistake, yeah, I can see that, but it felt fucking good at the time.
What else?
The usual. Was I washing the shit out of the pig runs regular? Why was I keeping the sheep in an unsheltered paddock? Was I keeping water up to them? Stuff like that.
People reported you? Your neighbours?
Maybe, I dont know. All I know is, the prick liked to turn up unannounced and walk around like Lord Muck with his clipboard.
Challis pictured it and grinned at Paddy. Paddy scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot.
Whens the funeral?
Monday.
Paddy nodded, looked off into the distance. Im no killer, Hal.
Challis didnt think he was. But if Gavin hadnt been at Paddys the day he disappeared, who had taken the photographs? Who had made the anonymous report?
Sadler came to see you a few days later?
Yep. Told me your brother-in-law left him a shitload of work to follow up on. I gotta say, he was a more reasonable bloke to deal with.
He didnt find anything wrong here?
Nope.
Did he take photographs of your animals?
Nope.
Could he have, when you were out?
Paddy shrugged but could see where Challis was going with this. You think Sadler killed him? Who knows? Old Gav must have been a bastard to work with. Complaints flowing in left, right and centre.
With a half smile, Challis said nothing.
When them Adelaide blokes finished with me yesterday, I got the feeling they were going to see Sadler.
Challis said nothing.
They didnt believe me when I said Gavin Hurst wasnt here.
Didnt they?
Paddy Finucane said, Fuck off, Hal. Look, you going to help us out?
What can I do, Paddy?
Talk to the bastards.
Challis guessed that Sadler would have shown the photographs from Gavins digital camera to Nixon and Stormare, meaning the Adelaide detectives would have even less reason to believe Paddys story. With a series of minor gestures that might have meant anything at all, he left Paddys farm and drove home to see to his fathers needs, the shadows disappearing from the dusty paddocks and the sun high overhead.
* * * *
That afternoon, as his father slept, Challis sat in the backyard sun with the Saturday papers, his address book and mobile phone. Hed taken the house phone off the hook, and made it clear to the reporters who knocked on the door from time to time that he had nothing to say. But they knew he was a detective inspector from Victoria. There seemed to be a story in that.
He finished the Advertiser and the Australian and then called Max Andrewartha. I suppose youve heard?
Mate, its the story of the weekor the day, at least.
Theres nothing in that file, is there? s
aid Challis, knowing his voice carried frustration and anxiety. Nothing I missed? Nothing we missed?
Andrewartha was silent for a moment. Mate, I should tell you a guy from Homicide called me yesterday afternoon.
Nixon? Stormare?
