Chain of Evidence

by Garry Disher

  But the cleaners would have cleared the can away, I suppose.

  Billy handled every single can of drink in that fridge, Ellen said. No one has used the room since. We can lift his prints for sure.

  She stood and placed her hand on Pams shoulder. We cant do any more tonight. Go home. We have a lot to do tomorrow.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile Challis had reported to Sergeant Wurfel and was waiting by the phone. The call came at 10 pm, clamorous in his fathers gloomy house. Was she there? he asked.

  Yes.

  The voice was disobliging. And? Challis demanded.

  Wurfel waited before he spoke again. Challis read hesitation, tact and a hint of impatience in it. Look, I questioned her as a favour to you. You were persuasive, Ill give you that. But it was a monumental waste of my time and I dont appreciate having my time wasted.

  She and her husband are in it together, Challis said heatedly. Gavin intended to prosecute Rex for mistreating his horse, and Rex lost his temper and killed him. They staged his disappearance, and created evidence incriminating Paddy Finucane, just in case.

  So you keep saying. She denies it.

  Of course she denies it.

  She says you barged in on her this evening, throwing your weight around. You scared her.

  Rubbish. She waved a shotgun at me.

  You scared her, Inspector. She looked scared to me.

  Challis shook his head in the cheerless room. Check with Sadler, Gavins boss. Hell tell you that Gavin was going after Rex Joyce.

  Look, this is not my case. Sadlers been interviewed. A suspect is in custody. Case closed.

  Do you think Im making all this up?

  Well, are you? demanded Wurfel. Isnt this personal? Mrs Joyce told me that you and she had been romantically involved in the past. She said you had trouble accepting that it was over and have hassled her from time to time ever since. I advised her to file a complaint, in fact.

  You bastard, Challis snarled. He felt close to losing it.

  Inspector.

  Challis swallowed. Was Rex there?

  No.

  Didnt you at least ask where he was?

  Rex Joyce is away on business, Wurfel said flatly. He often is.

  Dont tell me youre his little mate, too, Challis said, before he could stop himself.

  Lets pretend I didnt hear you say that, shall we?

  Hes going to inform Nixon and Stormare, thought Challis. Theyll inform McQuarrie. And I dont care.

  I think its worth getting up a search party tomorrow morning, he said. Its possible Rex is suicidal. He could be up on the Bluff somewhere. He likes to go there, Lisa said.

  Rex Joyce, said Wurfel with false brightness, is away on business. Goodbye.

  * * * *

  55

  Challis slept badly and at first light on Tuesday morning drove to the Joyce homestead and mounted the steps again.

  It was a replay of yesterday evening, except that this time Lisa waited behind the screen door with the shotgun. She looked perky and rested, and said, Hal, I swear Ill shoot you if you try to touch me.

  He said gently, Has Rex come back? Let me talk to him.

  Hes still away. Look, you scared me last night.

  Lisa, does Rex have a mobile phone with him?

  She frowned. Yes.

  He took out his own phone. Whats the number?

  She shrugged, told him, and he called. Reaching Rexs voice-mail, he pocketed the phone again. Hes not answering.

  So? Please go.

  He could be hurt, Lisa. Please stop the charade.

  She looked discomposed for the first time. Stared past him at the gentle dawn light on her spreading lawns and shady trees. Sparrows and starlings were busy, calling out, squabbling, nest building.

  Lisa? said Challis gently. Lets go and look for him.

  She snapped into focus again and said briskly, He did receive a call yesterday. He left the house soon afterwards in the Range Rover.

  Challis nodded. What mood was he in?

  She searched for the word. Upset. Rambling.

  Lets try the shepherds hut.

  She seemed embarrassed. Because it has significance to him?

  Something like that.

  She opened the screen door and stepped out, still holding the shotgun. She smelt of perfumed soap and shampoo, a clean, healthy woman who wore jeans and a sleeveless, crisply ironed cotton shirt that revealed toned, faintly tanned, delectable skin. Challis was repelled. He took the shotgun from her hands and rested it against the verandah. Lets leave this here, okay?

  Whatever. She pointed past him. That wont make it up the Bluff

  Challis eyed the Triumph, which sat dented, sun-faded and low-slung on the gravelled driveway. Oh.

  He felt uncertain. Lisa took charge. Theres an old Jeep in one of the sheds.

  She fetched the keys. She drove.

  * * * *

  Fifteen minutes later they were deep into the foothills and following sheep pads, the dusty erosions that scribble all over the outback, meandering along slopes, through long grass and around stony reefs. Lisa set the Jeep to four-wheel-drive, the old vehicle wallowing and pitching, climbing steadily toward high ground. Below them lay the town, several kilometres away. The sun flashed on distant windscreens, and crows and hawks wheeled above, sideslipping in the air currents.

  Suddenly the Jeep powered over a hump in the ground and they were on a little plateau, startling half-a-dozen sheep. On the far side was the shepherds hut, in the foreground the glossy Range Rover, facing away from them. Lisa braked, peered over the steering wheel. Hes sitting in the back seat. Suddenly she thumped the heel of her hand against the horn. Rex! she shouted futilely.

  To Challis there was something unnatural about the shape in the rear of the Range Rover, something wrong about the relationship of the head with the shoulders, the back of the seat and the window glass.

  Is he asleep? asked Lisa.

  Stay here, okay?

  Im coming with you.

  Lisa, he said.

  Im coming with you.

  They approached, drawing adjacent to the rear of the Range Rover. Rex Joyces head lolled back; there was blood spatter on the glass beside his left ear but more on the ceiling lining above his head. Challis assessed the signs rapidly. Joyce had shot himself. The rifle was between his knees, the muzzle under his jaw. It made a certain kind of sense.

  Meanwhile Lisa had gasped and moaned and doubled over, dry-retching. Challis reached out to touch her shoulder. Dont touch me!

  He snatched his hand back.

  She straightened. Sorry. Sorry, Hal. Ill be all right in a minute. Phew. She swallowed, grimaced at the taste. Theres water in the Jeep.

  Challis let her go. He finished making his visual inspection, then followed her. He could see her shape behind the open door of the Jeep, head tilted back as she drank from a plastic bottle.

  Halfway there, he stopped. He spun around and strode back to the Range Rover. First he checked the drivers seat. It sat well forward, as though the last person to drive the vehicle had been short. Rex Joyce was tall. Then he peered through the gap in the seats, noting the rifle between the victims legs: it was long-barrelled, a hunting rifle. Too long for Joyces arms? He couldnt be sure about that, but he was sure there should be more blood on the seat back and ceiling.

  He closed the drivers door and opened the door beside the body.

  He was sorely tempted to lean in and check for signs of lividity. If Rex had died sitting upright, his blood would have pooled and settled in his buttocks, the underside of his thighs and in his feet and the bottoms of his legs. Challis was betting hed find lividity all along the body, indicating that Lisas husband had died somewhere else, then been laid flat and transported here.

  Police work had made Hal Challis an infinitely sympathetic man. That didnt mean he condoned, necessarily, just that he understood, and now he turned his patient, sorrowing gaze toward the Jeep and Lisa Joyce, even as a hole appeared in t
he window beside him, glass chips sprayed over his face and chest, and a slipstream plucked at the hairs on his head.

  * * * *

  56

  While Challis was being shot at, Ellen Destry and Pam Murphy were attending Kees van Alphens funeral. They were surprised by the turnout: his wife, daughter and extended family, friends from Waterloo and other Peninsula police stations, McQuarrie and other top brass, and even a handful of snitches and hard men whod remade their lives.

  Back in the CIU incident room they worked the abduction of Katie Blasko and a backlog of minor crimes, using them as cover for more specific actions. Pam searched, without luck, for the missing files mentioned in Kees van Alphens notes, and checked, and confirmed, some of his other statements. Ellen drove to the forensic science lab with all of the soft drink cans from the Victim Suite refrigerator, stopping along the way to show photographs of Duyker, Clode and Kellock to Andrew Retallick. He neither confirmed nor denied that theyd abused him, but he did flinch and look distressed.

  At lunchtime they met in the lounge of the Fiddlers Creek pub, taking a corner table where they could not be heard. They ordered mealsfish and chips for Pam, chicken salad for Ellenand compared notes. Mostly the two women were ignored, but drinkers from the Seaview Park estate were in the main bar, those with criminal records casting occasional glances at them through the archway, curling their lips to keep in training. There was a background cover of shouted conversations, jukebox music and punters at the slot machines.

  We cant go after Kellock yet, Ellen said.

  Why not?

  Ellen drained her glass, mineral water with chunks of ice floating in it. Theres no hard evidence. Lets look at his lack of action back when Alysha Jarrett lodged her complaint: he comes across as insensitive, thats all, not a paedo protecting other paedos. And is he the only one in the police? I dont think so, do you? Is he the only one at the Waterloo station? Thats a harder question to answer. What if Sutton or McQuarrie are in on it?

  Scobie? God no.

  I agree, it doesnt seem likely, but Scobies easily intimidated. Hes very trustinghe probably shouldnt even be a copper. If we bring him in on this, he might inadvertently reveal the details to the wrong person.

  Their meals were delivered. When the waiter was gone, Pam said flatly, I can believe it of McQuarrie.

  It doesnt matter who, at this stage. The thing is, Kellock is untouchable for the moment. We cant arrest him, cant get a warrant for his house or car. We cant seize his clothing. We cant trust anyone else. Its us, Pam.

  Pam brooded. She toyed with her food, popped a chip into her mouth and chewed it. Then she said determinedly, We go after Clode and Duyker, and hope one of them turns on Kellock, and we try to find Billy DaCosta.

  The real and the fake.

  Yes.

  Ellen looked at the younger woman as if for the first time. Pam Murphy was no longer the uniformed constable who showed initiative but a fellow detective. For a while Ellen had been her mentor, coaxing her into plain-clothed work, letting her find her potential, but now they were colleagues. Not equalsif you counted age and rankbut a kind of friendship linked them. And Ellen badly needed friends now.

  Everything all right, Sarge?

  Just thinking. I wish Hal was here.

  Pam said, a little sternly, Well, Sarge, hes not.

  * * * *

  57

  Challis risked a peek. Lisa was shooting at him from behind the drivers door of the Jeep. A semi-automatic rifle with a small clip. He guessed that it had been stowed behind or under the seats. There was a crack and a bullet punctured the tyre beside his foot. She fired again, the bullet punching through the open door. He ran around to the front of the big four-wheel-drive, glad of its bulk. His relief was short-lived: a bullet pinged off a nearby stone. He felt terribly exposed. Lisa Joyce would cripple him and then shoot him where he lay.

  Then he heard her call his name.

  What? he shouted.

  I phoned Wurfel when I saw you arrive.

  Shell present Wurfel with a self-defence story, he thought. He couldnt see any point in negotiating, or waiting, and slithered on his belly and elbows toward the shepherds hut, using the Range Rover for cover. Lisa fired again, the bullet whining away and dust and stone chips flying.

  Just then the sheep, made skittish by the cracks and echoes in the still air, broke away and charged toward the hut, passing close to Challis. He rolled to his feet and ran with them in all of their fear and exultation. Dust rose and pebbles flew and the sheep kicked and bucked. Lisa fired, a desultory shot that went nowhere.

  Challis huddled behind a ruined wall. Lisa had the advantage in this engagement, while he had nothing but the hut and small deceptions in the sparsely grassed soil of the plateau. He glanced hurriedly about: only heaped stones and a length of wood, possibly a lintel or part of a window frame. He grabbed it like a club, alerting Lisa, who got off a shot that sent a stone chip into his face. Blood coursed down his forehead, blurring his right eye. He swiped at it with his forearm and another shot smacked numbingly through the wooden club. He lay afraid and very still, and then began to retreat again. If he could reach the far rim of the plateau, he might be able to try an outflanking manoeuvre.

  The next shot creased his ear and he pissed his pants. None of his nerve endings would let him alone. He trembled, tics developing in his face, and the blood dripped onto the dust, balling there. He supposed he was sobbing aloud, he didnt know, but retreated in a mad scramble from the hut until he found a stone refuge, where the rocks were grey and licheny, weathered and streaked with bird shit. It was a good place. He huddled there and, in his visions, Lisa Joyce appeared above him and shot him like a fish in a barrel.

  Dimly then he heard a starter motor grinding. He risked a look: Lisa was in the Jeep. That galvanised Challis. He charged forward, making for the Range Rover and Rex Joyces hunting rifle.

  Instantly Lisa stepped out of the Jeep. Challis was barely halfway to the Range Rover. He ducked and swerved, but she merely stood with her arms wide to the world. I havent got any bullets left.

  Challis halted tensely. Then drop the rifle.

  I havent got any bullets left.

  So put the rifle down.

  It was all Rexs fault.

  Lisa, drop the rifle.

  Challis advanced, and Lisa stood there with the rifle outstretched.

  Drop it, okay?

  None of it was my idea.

  Still Challis advanced. He reached the Range Rover, leaned in and retrieved the hunting rifle from between Rex Joyces legs. He jacked a round into the breech, then emerged from the shelter of the vehicle, blinking furiously to clear his bloodied eye, the rifle to his shoulder. Lisa, Im warning you.

  I suddenly said to myself, what am I doing, shooting at Hal?

  Challis stopped, the rifle aimed squarely at her, and said quietly, Lisa, are you listening to me? Do you understand what Im saying? Please put the rifle down.

  Lisa grinned and deftly slapped the rifle from one hand to the other and up to her shoulder. Challis shot her legs out from under her.

  She screamed and rolled in the dirt. Ow! You shot me!

  Yes.

  She tossed in agony, raging at him. Challis retrieved her rifle, ejected the magazine and checked the breech. Shed had one bullet left.

  I didnt think youd shoot me!

  In a heartbeat, Challis said.

  She began to cry and swear and deride him. He found a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his eye, then crouched beside her. Shut up, he said, tearing off one of his sleeves.

  It hurts!

  Youll live.

  He bound her leg and then sat, depleted, not thinking about anything at all but feeling the weariest hed ever felt. And then a surprising contentment settled in him. He tilted his face to the sun and adjusted his body to the pebbly dust as if he were part of the landscape. Finally Sergeant Wurfels Land Cruiser appeared over the rim of the plateau like a breaching whale.

  * *
* *

  58

  Ellen pushed her food away, barely touched. Lets go back and see if we have a result on Billys prints.

  They returned to the station, taking the back stairs to CIU, checking the incident room first. Only John Tankard was there, pecking at a computer keyboard. He didnt see them.