by Garry Disher
She drifted in finally, looking stiff and tight to Challis’s eyes, as if holding powerful emotions in check. He raised his eyebrows at her. She shook her head and took her seat.
He started the briefing. ‘As you know, we’ve arrested the head planner, Groot. The thing is, both he and the husband had motive, both were in the vicinity, both acted strangely. So let’s compare them. Ellen?’
She stirred. ‘The husband had a history of following his wife around. On Wednesday afternoon he was acting true to form-mad and obsessive though it might seem to us. And he knew how weird it would seem to an outsider, so he covered it up. It was a “normal” day, so to speak. When we pinpoint what wasn’t normal about that day, we find Groot.’
Challis nodded. He turned to Pam Murphy, who was chewing the inside of her cheek, staring fixedly at the surface of the table, barely in the room. Was she thinking he’d made a terrible mistake in arresting Groot? ‘Pam? You don’t think Groot did it?’
She blinked. ‘What? I mean, sorry, I was trying to see it from his point of view.’
It was a quick recovery-and a lie. Her mind had been miles away. He couldn’t waste time on her. Crossing to the whiteboard, he scrawled Groot’s name at the top. ‘What do we know about this guy?’
‘He was at the scene,’ Ellen said. ‘He lied about it, but later admitted it.’
‘There’s also physical evidence showing he was there,’ Sutton said. ‘CCTV footage of him following her the day she was murdered.’
‘I’m thinking what he might argue in court,’ Challis said, grabbing the back of a chair in his habitual way. ‘He was railroaded by us. He was confused. He got his times and dates wrong. Yes, he was at the site of the murder-but at another time and for work-related reasons. He didn’t confront Ludmilla Wishart about anything. The police bullied him and he was confused.’
‘He was taking bribes,’ Sutton said. ‘Ludmilla Wishart found out and was going to expose him. He had motive.’
‘Do we have proof that he was taking bribes? The Ebelings will deny paying him. He can claim it was a beat-up, that Ludmilla was mistaken, or acting maliciously. As for the money, he won it on the horses.’
‘So we make sure he can’t argue these things in court,’ Ellen said. ‘We dig deeper into his past: financial records, friends, family and acquaintances, his work history, phone records, witnesses who can place him with the Ebelings or with other people who might have benefited from council tip-offs over the past few years.’
‘A huge job,’ muttered Sutton.
They sat in thoughtful gloom for a while. ‘Is this guy clever?’ Challis asked. ‘He makes a partial admission, a plausible admission, one that reflects badly on him, thinking we’ll see it as the truth, that he couldn’t be guilty of the greater crime?’
‘Much like the husband,’ Ellen pointed out.
‘Or they’re both telling the truth,’ Sutton said.
‘But what do we think?’
‘Groot did it,’ Ellen said. ‘We know he’s a bit of a bully, and finally he went that one step further.’
‘I agree,’ Sutton said.
Pam Murphy was miles away again.
Then there was a snap like a muted pistol shot and Murphy was looking in dismay at the two halves of her pencil. She swallowed, went red, said ‘Sorry,’ and slammed out of the room. Challis cocked an eyebrow at Ellen, who shrugged.
‘We need hard evidence that Groot was taking bribes and that Ludmilla knew about it,’ Challis continued. ‘Otherwise Groot’s barrister will attack the victim in court: Ludmilla Wishart was given to making crazy claims about her workmates, she was the one taking bribes to finance her lazy husband’s lifestyle, she had a secret lover, and so on. Or he’ll claim she was mugged-and how do we know that didn’t happen?’
He walked around the long table to peer down at the murdered woman’s MP3 player and woven bag. ‘But would a mugger toss this away?’
‘Unlikely,’ Sutton said, unfolding his long legs in a rearrangement of bony angles.
‘I’m trying to see it through Groot’s eyes,’ Challis said. ‘He kills her, then, to make it look like a mugging gone wrong, he pockets her cash and her phone and dumps the rest of her stuff down on the beach. But why not take her MP3 player as well? Wouldn’t that reinforce the notion that she was mugged?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘He was in a hurry. He took the obvious things. He didn’t bother to open that little bag, probably thought it had her sunglasses in it.’
‘Feasible,’ said Challis doubtfully.
He pulled latex gloves from his pocket, said ‘Glove up, Ells,’ and held the MP3 player before his nose. ‘How do you work one of these?’
‘You obviously don’t have a teenage daughter,’ Ellen said, with a snap of her glove.
They sat side by side; Challis felt a jolt of desire when their shoulders touched. She was subtly scented: not only her shampoo and soap but also an underlay of skin and hair. But she was all business, murmuring, ‘Let’s see,’ headphones plugged into her ears. He felt a twinge of disappointment; then, marvellously, she leaned against him, and he thought: To hell with what Sutton thinks.
They watched the glow of the little screen, the menus flickering from category to sub-category, category to sub-category, as Ellen worked her way through the contents. Suddenly she froze and removed the headphones: ‘She used it to record notes to herself.’
‘What kind of notes?’
‘Listen,’ she said, plugging him in.
****
53
Testing, testing, one two three, the quick brown fox did a pee by the apple tree, etcetera, etcetera…
Then a faint click, Ellen guessing that Ludmilla Wishart had replayed the test run. The MP3 player was new, a birthday gift, so she’d have been playing with it, trying out the various functions.
The time is now…2.45 and I’m at lot number five, Harcourt Drive, in Tyabb, where the owners have laid the foundations for an unauthorised bed-and-breakfast establishment.
That had been listed on her desk diary. They heard Wishart announce her intentions and then there was a faint, atmospheric hiss, an interruption, before the voice returned, announcing the results of the meeting. Amicable results, apparently.
A pleasant voice, Ellen thought. Calm, unhurried, educated and a little self-conscious but pleased with her new toy.
The time is now 3.20 and my next destination is Bluff Road in Penzance Beach. I will need to buy petrol along the way.
Pause, and then her voice came back wryly: Not that this little gizmo needs to know that.
Ellen pictured Ludmilla Wishart’s journey from the Tyabb address to the site of the demolished house in Penzance Beach, with a stop for petrol along the way, Groot tailing her in his old Mercedes, Adrian tailing her in his uncle’s station wagon. Why hadn’t the two men spotted each other? And it all would have consumed forty minutes in real time, if Ludmilla had wanted to leave her gizmo recording while she narrated the conditions and events of her journey:
Taking this bend at eighty kilometres an hour…passing a school bus… just hit a bump… have finished putting 47 litres of unleaded petrol into the tank of my car…
But of course Ludmilla Wishart said none of these things but quickly stopped mucking around with her new toy and recorded only those observations that she would need later when writing up her notes.
There was a pause, a soft electronic interruption, and she returned:
Bluff Road, Penzance Beach. It is now 4.25 in the afternoon. Met with Carl Vernon as arranged. Discussed the demolition of the house known as Somerland. Local residents very upset, as noted this morning. I advised that I’d applied to the planning minister for an interim heritage amendment that would protect Somerland, but, unfortunately, Hugh and Mia Ebeling had exercised their right to demolish before it could be considered or granted. What I didn’t tell Mr Vernon was that my boss had almost certainly tipped off the Ebelings, and that I shall report him to the authorities.
An
d Groot had known that, Ellen thought. He followed her, intending to talk her out of it, and killed her when that failed.
In the meantime I advised Mr Vernon that the residents’ association should take steps to block the Ebelings’ intended development of the site or at least press for a drastic modification of the excesses of the planned building, which at present is a structure on three levels. My advice was that the association should attend any and all Development Assessments Committee meetings and present transparencies that show what impact the proposed structure would have on their views not only across the water but also in other directions. Pause. Leaving Penzance at 4.35 to drive to Shoreham.
Another pause, and when Wishart’s voice started again it was electric with suppressed emotions:
I need to get this down immediately, in case anything happens. I’m outside the property known as Westering, at 450 Frankston-Flinders Road, which is accessed from Frankston-Flinders Road via a very long driveway down to a headland overlooking the beach. The owner, Jamie Furneaux, who is presently overseas, was charged and fined for removing 52 pine and other trees, and ordered to plant indigenous trees to compensate. I can confirm that Mr Furneaux has abided by the conditions of the ruling made against him. But Mr Groot, the chief planner, arrived soon after I did. He actually followed me! I am annoyed. I am also, I must admit, a little afraid. I’ve seen Groot angry and emotional before, but not like this. He kept going on and on about how I would ruin his career, he had a wife and children to support, he could go to jail, and anyway, what did he do wrong, all he did was keep the Ebelings apprised of the progress of their applications to demolish an old house and erect a new one. I said, how much did they pay you? He got angry and said they hadn’t paid him anything, but I didn’t believe him. Then he got a bit physical with me, grabbing my arms and shoving me against the car. God, he’s repulsive. He scares me, too. He went away in tears but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to hurt me in some way. Physically? Professionally? I wish I knew what was going through his head. Anyway, this record is in case something bad happens to me.
There was a sense of time passing, even though only a second had elapsed on the recording, and Ludmilla’s voice returned, sounding altered in unnameable ways but suggesting puzzlement and faint annoyance:
Ade? What are you doing here?
Ellen heard a man’s voice, a low undertone, none of the words distinguishable, and Ludmilla Wishart’s response:
You were parked behind that shed the whole time? Whose car is that?
More deep growling, then Ludmilla again, admonition and tension in her voice:
Ade, you mustn’t follow me like this-I was so embarrassed when you showed up yesterday, I don’t know what Mr Vernon thought… Of course he’s not…I’m not seeing anyone on the sly… Who? That was my boss, Mr Groot…No, Ade, I’m telling you…He didn’t hug me, he was a bit cross about a work matter and grabbed my arms for emphasis, that’s all…No, Ade…I do not…I do love you… There’s no one else…No… Of course I don’t want to leave you…But she’s my friend, I can’t stop seeing her…I’ve never slept with anyone but you…I think he’s disgusting…
Adrian Wishart’s voice came clearly now, asking her about the MP3 player. Ludmilla made no mention that she was taping:
Just listening to music… Carmen gave it to me at lunchtime…No, she loaded some songs on it for me… Honest, I didn’t spend any of our money on this, it was a gift…
Ellen Destry and Hal Challis hunched over the little device, frozen, listening to the fear, the pleading and the barely controlled hysteria in Ludmilla Wishart’s voice. Adrian Wishart sounded angry, almost shrieking at his wife as he first accused her and then dragged her out of the car and beat her with the meaty sounds of death blows, all the time talking and shouting. There were other sounds then, muffled ones as he cleaned up, and finally his voice, sobbing the words:
See what you made me do? Don’t you know I love you?
****
54
Pam Murphy tried to keep a cool head. First she made a mental list of the options open to her. She could report Andrew Cree to the new senior sergeant in charge of the station’s uniformed officers. Or to Ellen Destry. Or to Ethical Standards, at Force Command headquarters. Cree would be formally investigated, possibly charged with several offences and probably kicked off the force.
But his nastiness would emerge again, wherever he was, whatever he did for a living, and other women-maybe women with fewer resources than she had-would suffer.
Also, Cree had been a very busy networker since arriving at Waterloo. If he didn’t exactly have close friends among the uniforms, the probationers and the clerical staff, he did have cronies. He had influence. In a culture that valued the simple bonds between men-beer, football, hatred of women-he had influence. This was Australia, after all. These things mattered and always had.
So if she took formal action against him she’d be the one to suffer most. Bullets delivered to her mailbox, dog shit in her locker, car tyres slashed open. A whispering campaign: she was a lesbian, or frigid, or sleeping her way to the top.
And she couldn’t count on the young female cops to help her, either. Some of them were blokier than the blokes. Better, more vicious haters.
Should she tackle Cree head on? That was her instinctive inclination. He was not such a big guy, or particularly fit or brave. She could beat the shit out of him so that he and his mates got the message loud and clear.
But would he? Would they?
And what if she lost, or won but they all scoffed at her anyway, called her a sore loser, couldn’t take a joke? And what if he lodged an official complaint that saw her charged with assault? She could be busted back to uniform or even drummed out of the force.
What could a female member of Victoria Police do? Not much. To Pam Murphy’s knowledge, women who complained were ostracised and bullied until they quit the job they loved and had been expensively trained to do. Or they quit meekly and carried their stress-related illnesses for years.
Even though she was supposed to be on duty, and tonight was the last night of Schoolies Week, Pam Murphy drove home to Penzance Beach, thinking, thinking, and seeing Cree’s declarations of love for what they really were. At home she walked from room to room, still thinking, renewing contact with the gritty core of selfhood that had always been there, deep inside her. She stared at the crumpled bedclothes. Her little shack was blighted now. She could almost smell Cree in the air. She bundled together the bedding and the towel he’d used-it was lying on the bathroom floor-into the washing machine and turned it on, extra detergent. She took up the Police Academy graduation photograph and wiped away his greasy paws.
Then she called him, as light and innocent as a girl in love.
Then she called Caz Moon.
****
There was nothing for Scobie Sutton to do now. Challis told him to go home, the paperwork could wait, Adrian Wishart wasn’t going anywhere. ‘See you Monday, Scobie. Spend some time with your wife and daughter.’
So Scobie went home and there was Ros, giddy after her party, dancing around the house, an antidote right then to all of his gloomy thoughts. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Lying down.’
Scobie thought about the long walk down the hallway to the bedroom, but there was a knock on the door. The crackpot pastor stood there, proffering his hand, which Scobie shook, even though he knew it was a mistake. ‘I’m afraid Beth’s indisposed,’ he said, to gain control and shut the visitor down. To reinforce it he backed up a step and made to shut the door.
The guy actually shoved his foot in it.
Scobie looked past Jeffreys to a station wagon parked at the kerb, two kids inside. To show he’s a family man, Scobie thought. The sour feelings, the sharpened perceptions, the ability to see how things truly are, were new to Scobie, and coming in fast. ‘No,’ he said.
But suddenly Jeffreys was looking past Scobie’s shoulder, his damp face wreathed in smiles. ‘Beth, how lovely.�
�
Scobie did a little dance of frustration, one hand blocking ineffectually as Beth ducked around him and stood before the pastor. He tried to jostle her aside, saying, ‘She doesn’t want to see you. Tell him you don’t want to see him, love, please. She’s finished with you crackpots.’
‘I think we should let her decide that, don’t you?’ Jeffreys said, reverting to his hard-nosed mercantile voice.
Before any of them could move, Ros was inserting herself in the doorway, her little body toned by netball and the recently acquired knowledge that her mother needed more help than her father could provide. ‘Go away,’ she said sternly. ‘Mum, come inside this instant.’
Jeffreys stepped back, astonished, then revealed a flash of something nasty before he put his hands up placatingly. Scobie beamed at him, feeling small and huge at once.
****
Meanwhile John Tankard’s shift had finished at 4 p.m. but he’d stayed behind for a quick aerobics workout in the station’s little gym which left him fatly hot, pink and sweating even after a shower. Then he prowled the corridors, canteen, carpark and storerooms, looking for Cree. He’d seen those pictures of Pam; he intended to make the prick remove every image he’d ever posted on the Web.
Pam’s shining admiration, not disregard, would be his reward.
She wasn’t inside the station. Nor was Cree.
He looked out into the yard, finding one of the probationers who’d been watching porn in the basement on Wednesday.
‘Seen Andy Cree?’
The probationer, washing and waxing one of the patrol cars, straightened his back and looked blank, mouth open. Finally he woke up, wrung soapy water out of his chamois and said with a frown, ‘Andy Cree?’
