Out of the Blue

by JR Carroll

  ‘I dunno. It came in with everything else.’

  ‘From the accident scene?’

  ‘That’s right. All that stuff’s from the Mazda.’

  ‘This isn’t. How could it be? The Mazda’s still got its fuckin’ wing mirrors.’

  Phil saw that indeed it had. ‘Well, well,’ he said.

  Dennis gave him the snapped-off mirror and said, ‘Anyhow, that’s too big for a Mazda 323. Any dickhead can see that.’

  Phil looked at the mirror, then at Dennis. ‘Someone must’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Are you sure all this stuff came from the scene of the accident?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Phil said. ‘But buggered if I know how this got here.’

  Dennis grabbed it off him. ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with that white paint, Phil. What do you reckon?’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ Phil said. ‘But I gotta get back to work, mate. Will that do?’

  ‘Yeah, that’ll do. Thanks a bunch. Mind if I keep this?’

  ‘Go for your life,’ Phil said, and went back into the workshop.

  Dennis stayed a while, sifting through smashed parts. When he’d finished the mirror was all he’d come up with. It was enough to get him hurrying back to his Magna and Frank Stannard.

  Frank was on the phone, but saw Dennis through the window of his office and beckoned him in. Dennis sat on the other side of Frank’s desk with the wing mirror in his hand, seeing Frank notice what he had. Frank’s end of the conversation was mostly made up of ‘yeah’ and ‘okay, mate’, and he kept rolling his eyes at Dennis. Then he said ‘okay, mate’ for the last time and put the phone down with an expression of relief. ‘Your friend and mine, the licensing inspector. He’s obviously got nothing to do except ring people up and give them some GBH of the earhole. What can I do for you, mate?’ Looking at that wing mirror again, wondering about it.

  ‘I’ve just come back from the smash repair place in Ballarat, Frank,’ Dennis said in his most subdued manner. ‘Magnolia.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Spoke to a guy called Bartels. Phil Bartels. I think he’s the boss.’

  Frank nodded once.

  ‘Bartels ran a check and says there was nothing mechanically wrong with the car. No fault in the steering or brakes.’

  Frank sat back in his chair with his hands clasped under his chin. ‘Right,’ he said cautiously, figuring that this was leading to something he wasn’t going to like much. Dennis seemed agitated and had a funny look in his eye.

  ‘What I did see, however, were scrape marks on the driver’s side of the car, front and back. It was white paint, Frank. As you know, Karen’s car is yellow. So I ask myself, how did this white paint find its way there?’

  Frank sat up a bit. So this was how it was going to be. ‘It might have been there already, Dennis.’

  ‘That’s what Bartels said. But it wasn’t. It was fresh. It came off in my fingers.’

  ‘Maybe it’s an undercoat.’

  ‘No, Frank. It’s a fucking overcoat.’

  ‘All right. So there’s white paint on the car.’

  ‘Not just that, but the back’s been rammed. You can see indentations from a bull-bar, something like that. These are vertical indentations, Frank. How does that happen in a head-on smash? Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t tell you, mate. I haven’t seen the car.’

  ‘We’ll get to that. Now this—’ he held up the mirror—‘was amongst all the loose bits and pieces belonging to the Mazda. Except it’s not from the Mazda. It still has both its mirrors, and in any case this is way too big. It has an extension arm. Vehicles that pull caravans or boats have them.’

  ‘I know,’ Frank said. ‘But it might have got there some other way, Dennis. A place like that has all sorts of stuff lying around. Someone could’ve just tossed it there.’

  ‘No. Bartels insisted that it came from the scene of the accident. All the Mazda stuff was quite separate from any other wrecks. It is clearly part of the deal. So how did it get there?’

  ‘All right, Dennis. Tell me. How did it?’

  ‘I think this mirror came from the same place as the white paint and those indentations, Frank. I add them all up and reach the conclusion that someone terrorised Karen, banged into her, and then ran her off the road.’

  Frank shifted again in his seat. ‘I think that’s a bit fanciful, mate. Who would want to harm Karen? Why?’

  ‘Wrong way round, Frank. Find why, that gets you who. Fanciful? I don’t think so. If there were just one factor, all right. I’d give it the benefit of the doubt. But two, three? I don’t believe in coincidence, Frank. Never have.’

  Frank made a face indicating that he didn’t really care what Dennis chose to believe in. ‘You’re overlooking the fact that she had alcohol in her blood, Dennis. That might have contributed.’

  ‘She was .03, Frank. That’s two or three drinks. She’d been to a wine and cheese, so would’ve had food too. Don’t try that line.’

  ‘I’m not. Even so …’ There was something else he wanted to say, but decided not to. He’d heard reports that Karen smoked, that both of them did. But there was no dope found in the wreck, so instead he said, ‘What actually is it you want me to do, Dennis?’

  ‘Well, what I’d like, I’d like you to conduct an investigation. Find out whether or not a crime has been committed. And if so—’

  Frank put his hands up. ‘Wait on, wait on. Dennis, mate. Believe me, I’m as upset as anyone about Karen’s death. I really am. And I understand what you must be going through right now. You’re angry, and justifiably so. But mate, I can’t just go running around the countryside on the strength of what you’ve told me. I can’t —’

  ‘But I don’t want you to go running around the countryside. Don’t patronise me, Frank. Shit. I simply ask you to investigate the matter. Just go to Ballarat and have a look at the thing for yourself. At least do that.’

  Frank sighed. His sympathies with Dennis had worn thin. He saw himself driving the sixty-odd k to Ballarat, back again, round trip hundred and thirty k, half a day down the tubes, and for what?

  ‘I’ll think about it, Dennis. Leave it with me. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Is it?’ Dennis trembled inside, felt it coming. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to control himself in a minute. The big vein pumped in his neck. ‘Well, your best is shit, Frank.’

  He was starting to sweat, Frank saw, and the wing mirror looked more and more like a weapon in his hands. But this was Frank’s cop shop, Frank’s town.

  ‘Dennis, you handed in your badge, right? No one made you. It was your decision. Don’t carry on now as if you’ve still got it. You’re no longer a homicide detective in the big city, you’re a publican in a little town where nothing much happens except that we grow the best wool in Australia and some nice wine, too. There are no killers roaming around the highways here. What do you think this is, Mad Max? It’s all in your mind, mate. Take a break. Go home and get some sleep. Go and see a doctor. You look rotten.’

  ‘I feel rotten, too. Listening to your bullshit makes me feel worse. You’re a bludger, Frank. I always reckoned you were. You’ve fucked too many sheep. You’ve got wool growing out of your ears. Chook raffles and pleasant Sundays are your speed.’

  ‘Piss off, Dennis. I’ve got some paperwork to do.’

  ‘Paperwork?’ Dennis grabbed a bunch of papers from under Frank’s astonished face and flung them away. ‘There, it’s done. Now you better go and have a lie down. Must be fuckin’ near exhausted.’

  Frank stood up. He was taller than Dennis, six-three to six-one on the old scale, and in uniform he could look even bigger when he wanted to. ‘Dennis,’ he said coolly, ‘if you don’t vacate these premises immediately I’m going to throw you in the fuckin’ cells for causing an affray. I’ll go through you.’

  Dennis grinned. ‘Causing an affray? Is that what you call this? You’re too used to the quiet life, Frank. There’s a real
fuckin’ world out there past all the sheep and grapevines, all kinds of mongrels running loose that don’t need much of a reason to ruin your day. You want to wake up to yourself, Frank. You’re practically in a coma. And if I still carry on, as you put it, as if I’ve got my badge, it’s because no other cunt around here seems to. This Bartels a mate of yours, is he? Bet you both belong to Apex or the fucking Masons.’

  Frank grabbed Dennis by the shirt and Dennis broke his grip with the wing mirror. ‘What’s wrong, Frank, can’t take it? We used to do this for fun in the big city.’

  Frank nursed his wrist. It had not been hit hard. ‘You’re the one that quit. Seems to me you couldn’t take it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know the first thing about it, Frank. You wouldn’t know shit from jam. You’re a hick. You’re paralysed from the waist up. Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I’ll go it alone. And when I come up with something you’ll be the first to know. I’ll put it right in your face so you can’t miss it, okay?’

  He strode to the door.

  Frank called out, ‘Should be in fuckin’ Aradale. I heard all about you, Dennis. Go and get yourself a head doctor. Go back to the big city where all the other lunatics are. You don’t belong here.’

  Dennis slammed the door shut behind him and went out onto the street. He thought he heard glass crack, but didn’t look back to confirm it. He got in the Magna and did a fast U-turn that threw out a shower of stones. He felt slightly better.

  FOUR

  First thing he did was ring a mate and former colleague from City West, Bill Crosswaite. Bill had recently made Inspector and carried some clout.

  When he came on the line Dennis went through the necessary courtesies and convivialities, then asked if Bill knew anyone or knew anyone who knew anyone with a bit of rank in Ballarat, someone who would help Dennis with a little problem he was having. Just a personal matter, no drama. Bill said that he found that difficult to believe, knowing Dennis, then thought about it and came up with a name, two names, on reflection, suggesting the second, a CIB sergeant. Apparently he owed Bill. Dennis then asked if Bill would mind phoning the guy and wording him up to the effect that Dennis would be in next morning and wouldn’t mind a few minutes of his time. Bill said that would be no problem, and in closing asked Dennis where he was calling from. When Dennis answered that he was now a hotelier in Avoca, Bill said ‘Where?’ and Dennis explained where it was. ‘Come up one weekend, Bill. Accommodation’s on the house.’

  Bill said, ‘You’re on’, and wrote down the details. They rang off then. Dennis hadn’t mentioned anything about Karen because Bill didn’t even know that she existed.

  The CIB sergeant’s name was Tony Gilhooley. He was young, thirty if he was lucky, with a Ricky Nelson hairstyle and a well-cut summerweight suit to go with it. He was also a straight arrow, as Dennis could instantly tell—and not just from his firm handshake and his unwavering grey-eyed gaze. As a detective, he had always found that honesty, if it is there, will always impart itself from a person at close quarters, in the same way that fear or dislike are unconcealable.

  Dennis introduced himself, explained his connection with the accident everyone had heard about, received the detective’s sympathy, then said that he had what he called a ‘problem’ with the accident. This was in Tony’s little office, one in a row with glass partitions.

  Dennis went into detail and Tony listened. Dennis could tell that he was actually paying attention, not just waiting for this to finish so he could get on with his life. He was interested.

  When he’d come to the end of the story so far, Dennis said, ‘Of course I could be entirely wrong, Tony. But I need to know.’

  Tony said, ‘Sure. Who wouldn’t.’

  ‘As you know, people who commit crimes in vehicles normally steal those vehicles, then abandon them. So if I’m right and Karen was run off the road, perhaps that vehicle was stolen too. I’m assuming, of course, that this was a premeditated act, which it may not have been. However, what I would like is a list of all vehicles reported as stolen in the Ballarat area on the day of the accident, perhaps the day before as well. Also those since recovered.’

  ‘See if you can match up the paint and the wing mirror.’

  ‘Right.’

  Tony nodded. ‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I can get you that now. Give me a few minutes.’ He left the room. Dennis got his smokes out, lit up, then saw the No Smoking sign. He had three deep drags, then put it out in the bin. He had a feeling he was on the right team now. This Tony Gilhooley might be a name to remember.

  ‘Here we go,’ Tony said. He had in his hand a computer print-out showing a list of offences committed in the Ballarat-Maryborough area on the two days Dennis had nominated. It was not long—about a dozen items. Four stolen cars. Tony marked them with his felt pen, checking against the right-hand column to see if the vehicles in question had been found.

  ‘This ’71 Mustang’s the only one still missing,’ he said. ‘It would have gone to a chop shop or been sold interstate by now. That was a professional job. The others were all joy riders.’

  He gave Dennis the print-out. Dennis said, ‘Could I have the names and addresses of the owners, do you think?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Bear with me.’

  In a few minutes he came back with that, too, and Dennis put both pieces of paper in his pocket. They went out to the foyer together, shook hands, and Dennis said, ‘It’s close enough to lunchtime, Tony. Why don’t I shout you a feed?’ He had nothing to hurry back for—Brett was on deck.

  Tony cursorily checked his watch. Ten past twelve. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said. ‘Best offer I’ve had today. Lead on.’

  The three vehicles were a ’79 Commodore, an ’82 Ford F350 ute and an ’84 Fairlane. All big enough to tow a caravan or boat, all possibilities. He liked the F350, though. Checking with his directory he found that the Fairlane’s owner lived closest, just off Cobden Street, near the road to Skipton, so he decided to go there first. Of course the guy would probably be at work, but as long as someone was home it might not be a wasted journey.

  The Fairlane was not in the driveway. Dennis parked in the street and surveyed the house for signs of occupation. All spartan and silent. He got out, feeling much more like a cop than he had an hour ago, stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. A dog, two dogs, barked inside.

  A woman opened the door. Dennis could not tell at first, because of the screen door, but then she said, ‘Yes?’ in an urgent way, as if he had just interrupted something—a TV program, perhaps.

  ‘Hello,’ Dennis said amiably. ‘I’m looking for Clive Kettering. Have I got the right address?’

  ‘You have,’ the disembodied voice said, ‘but he’s not home.’

  ‘It’s about his car. The Fairlane. It was stolen last week, right?’

  ‘Right. What about it?’

  ‘Well, I might have something that belongs to him. From the car.’

  ‘Oh, I see. He didn’t say there was anything missing from it.’

  ‘Didn’t he? Well, perhaps there wasn’t. I just wanted to make sure.’

  The woman said nothing. Although he could not see her, Dennis just knew she wanted him gone from the place.

  ‘Do you know if there was any damage to the car?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think there was,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t know, to be honest. You’d have to speak to Clive.’

  ‘Where does he work? I could call in on him.’

  ‘Work? That’s a good one. How many pubs are there in Ballarat?’

  Dennis grinned. ‘Fifty or sixty.’

  ‘You’d need to try every one of them,’ she said. ‘And if you find him, tell him not to hurry back, will you? Tell him the next time he lays a hand on me I’ll have the police onto him. And I won’t change my mind.’ She shut the door.

  Dennis returned to his car. It was all coming back now. Knock on any door and there’s a story. Neat little home like this and you automatically think citizens, but beh
ind that screen door there’s a battleground. Maybe she kept it shut because she didn’t want anyone to see what her old man had done to her face.

  The Fairlane could stay on hold. Dennis had formed a picture of Clive Kettering: a big, brawling sort of bastard, black moustache, pig-eyes and a tiny brain. He’d screw his face up listening to what Dennis had to say, trying to decide if and when he was going to have to throw this character off the lot. On the other hand he could be a chartered accountant, a midget with a complex. The golden rule was never assume anything. His one-time boss Clarrie Vernon had always said, ‘Don’t tell me. Show me.’ Clarrie had a lot of sayings like that: ‘Never take a short cut except to get home’; ‘When approaching a suspect in a car, always get him out of the car first thing. If he refuses to show his hands, that means he has a .45 in each of them’; ‘Always anticipate when a man is going to use a firearm, and use yours first.’ Dennis’s favourite, one he had lived by: ‘You’ve got the gun, you’re in charge.’

  Second on the list was the F350, owned by one Goran Pipic, who lived near Buninyong, southwest of town along the Midland Highway. All Dennis had to go on with was the Roadside Mailbox Number, 229. That meant the guy was probably a farmer, but not necessarily. A lot of properties in the area had been sold off piecemeal over the years, and people now lived in farmhouses without the acreage. They were a bargain if you didn’t mind living a long way from anywhere.

  Although his car had air conditioning he drove with the window down, preferring a breeze. Dry yellow pastures and dead gum trees with a few sheep beneath them flashed by. He found 229 and went along a dirt driveway, over a hill towards a clump of pines surrounding a house. A Ford F350 was parked in front of it. At close range it didn’t look much of a place, though it had been at one time. A return verandah seemed to have mostly disintegrated. A few geese got out of his way, and he pulled in next to the Ford. He glanced at it and his heart jumped. Then a man came out of the house with jeans on and no shirt.

  Dennis got out of his Magna with the wing mirror in his hand and approached the man. It was warm in the sun and he felt perspiration run down his back. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Mr Pipic?’ He made a point of pronouncing it correctly, saying Pipich.