by Garry Disher
‘You didn’t try to extinguish the fire?’
‘What?’
‘Put the fire out?’
‘Didn’t have nothing to put it out with.’
‘Boyd Jolic is a volunteer with the Country Fire Authority, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Why didn’t he do something?’
‘He was pretty pissed.’
‘He liked watching it burn, didn’t he? Did it affect you the same way? Is that why you set fire to Clara Macris’s house after killing her?’
‘I never. And I wouldn’t know what Joll was thinking.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘You stole the mobile phone and called Craig Oliver at the pub to come and collect you, isn’t that right?’
‘No. He was there with us when we found it.’
‘What vehicle were you in?’
‘Er, Joll’s ute.’
‘You’re not certain?’
‘That’s right, it was definitely Joll’s ute.’
‘Was it you who threw the car phone into the flames after you called Mr Oliver to collect you?’
‘I told you, he was there all the time.’
‘Explain the cans, the bottles, the cigarette packets we found at the scene, covered in your prints.’
Danny uttered a bizarre, high-pitched laugh. ‘We had a bit of a party.’
‘It gave you a particular thrill, standing around, watching something burn?’
Danny said sourly, ‘I’m not like that.’
‘What are you like, Dan?’ Ellen said.
He twisted around to look at her. ‘It was unexpected, seeing a car burning. You know.’
‘Did you see who lit the fire?’
‘Didn’t see no-one.’
‘Did you light it, or did Boyd Jolic light it?’
‘I told you, we-’
Ellen leaned into his ear again and said, ‘What if I told you that we have a witness who saw a scrawny little man-namely you-and a larger man-namely Jolic-driving the Pajero a short time after an aggravated burglary was committed at a horse stud near the racecourse. This witness did something to piss you off and so you followed the witness to a house in Quarterhorse Lane.’
‘She’s lying.’
Challis said quietly, ‘Who said it was a woman, Danny?’
‘Er, I mean, Sergeant Destry did.’
‘No I didn’t.’
Challis took over. ‘You followed this witness to a house in Quarterhorse Lane. Later you went back to this house, broke in, killed the occupant, and set a fire to cover your tracks.’
‘Because that’s the sort of scum you are, Danny,’ Ellen said. ‘Someone accidentally causes you a minor upset in traffic, and it’s such an insult to your feeble manhood that murder is the only revenge.’
‘No. I swear.’
‘What did you hit Clara Macris with?’
‘I never hit her.’
‘Jolic did?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘You mean, he went there alone to do it?’
‘I never killed nobody.’
‘Funny, why should people say you did?’
‘Who?’
’Do you want your lawyer, Danny?’
‘That cow. She puts me down all the time.’
’So you agree to being further questioned without legal representation?’
’I’m not saying another word. I told you all I know.’
Challis pushed back in his chair. ‘All right, Danny, that will be all for now.’
‘I can go home?’
‘You must be joking.’
Craig Oliver gave them the same story.
That left Boyd Jolic, and when Ellen Destry realised that Jolic had Marion Nunn in the interview room with him, she took Challis aside. ‘Boss, I’m sorry I didn’t mention this before, the Macris business got in the way, but Nunn could be the brains behind the ag burgs we’ve been having.’ She went on to tell him about Pam Murphy and the photographs.
Challis grinned when she’d finished. ‘Even if there’s nothing to it, knowing there’s a suspicion is going to make this interview all the more interesting.’
They went in, turned on the tape, cautioned Jolic, and started the questioning. The story Jolic gave them was essentially the same as Danny Holsinger’s and Craig Oliver’s. They’d been to the pub, drinking until late. When they left, Jolic said, they’d driven along Chicory Kiln Road to avoid being breathalysed. He grinned: ‘Too late, you can’t arrest me now.’ Then they came upon the Pajero. It was already burning fiercely. Such a sight in the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere, naturally you’re going to want to stop and watch it, down a few coldies by the side of the road, smoke a few fags. That’s all, end of story.
‘You’re a CFA volunteer. Weren’t you concerned there’d be a bushfire?’
‘Nah. Wasn’t much of a blaze.’
‘Enough for a passing motorist to stop and extinguish it.’
Jolic shrugged.
‘Why didn’t you report the fire?’
‘Mate, we were pissed as farts, I got a record, who’s going to believe we didn’t do it?’
Marion Nunn stirred. ‘If you have no further questions for my client, may I-’
‘No,’ said Challis, ‘you may not. Mr Jolic, earlier in the day you were seen driving the Pajero on Coolart Road.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘As a result of an incident at an intersection, you tailgated another car, following it all the way to an address in Quarterhorse Lane.’
‘Nope.’
‘Later you went back to that same address, attacked and killed the occupant, and set fire to the house.’
‘Nope.’
‘Inspector, really, I hope you can substantiate these claims.’
‘We have a description of the vehicle, the driver and the passenger, and we have the licence plate.’
‘I’m entitled to know who your witness is.’
‘We’d like our witness to live long enough to make it to trial, Mrs Nunn, so for the moment I don’t intend to-’
‘I resent the implication of that remark. I have never-’
Ellen cut her off. ‘Get off on lighting fires, do you, Boyd?’
‘I really must protest. If you have any solid evidence, then charge my client. If not, I’m asking you to release him.’
‘We have a few more hours up our sleeves before we’re obliged to do that,’ Challis said. ‘We’re about to search Mr Jolic’s house. Would you care to be present?’
Marion Nunn looked at Jolic. Challis saw a curiously private expression pass across her face. She turned back and said, ‘That won’t be necessary. I should like to be alone with my client, and I insist on being present when and if he’s questioned again.’
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, Marion.’
When they were in the corridor, Challis said, ‘There’s something going on there. Did you see the look she gave him?’
‘She’s such a pain in the bum, I’d love to put her away.’
‘Why would she send Jolic into an occupied house?’
‘They didn’t know it was occupied. The owners came back early from holidays.’
‘And instead of turning around and driving away, Jolic went in and things snowballed from there. She must be panicking.’
‘Meanwhile,’ Ellen said, ‘if we don’t find some better evidence soon, we’ll have to let Jolic and company go.’
It came to Challis then. ‘Pam Murphy told me she met an insurance investigator poking around where the Pajero was torched. I’ll see if I can track him down. He might have some evidence that we missed.’
They returned to the Displan room. Challis called Ledwich first, Ledwich saying, ‘What have I done now?’
‘I need the name of your insurance company, Mr Ledwich.’
‘They’re not forking out, the bastards.’
‘Whose fault is that? The name, please.’
/> Ledwich gave it. Challis called the twenty-four-hour number and used his tone and rank to get an after-hours number for the investigator. ‘A detective will be around to look at the evidence later today.’
On the other side of the room, a call was being put through for Ellen Destry. There was a crackle on the line. ‘My name is Goodall. I’m calling from New Zealand, police headquarters in Christchurch. I understand that you’re investigating the murder of a woman called Clara Macris.’
‘That’s right. We-’
‘Clara Macris is her assumed name. Her real name doesn’t matter. The point is, she was in our Witness Protection program.’
Ellen slumped in her chair. ‘Witness protection.’
‘I was her case officer. I helped to relocate her.’
‘You think someone over there found out where she was?’
‘It’s possible. I don’t know how, but it’s possible.’
‘Had she been in contact with any of her friends, her family, the people she used to hang out with?’
‘I don’t know,’ the New Zealand officer said testily. ‘However, someone spotted her when she was leaving the country.’
He related the incident at the Christchurch airport.
‘And you think she was followed?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Why wait eighteen months?’
The New Zealand officer said, ‘To lull her into a false sense of security.’
Twenty-three
Pam Murphy was driving Sutton in the same white Commodore.
‘Did I see you at Myers Point the other day?’
He saw her stiffen, her knuckles whitening on the wheel. ‘Might have, sir.’
‘Scobie, call me Scobie. You had a wetsuit on, carrying a board. I couldn’t see all that clearly, so it might have been someone else.’
‘I have surfing lessons there sometimes.’
‘Yeah, you were with a group of others.’
He saw her relax. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘We took our daughter to the beach. New pink bathers to try out. Only she convinced herself there were dragons, so we never made it past the first dune.’
Murphy didn’t respond. Sutton let it go. He picked up one of the leaflets that Challis had given him, then out of nowhere he wanted to cry. He’d had a perfect image of Roslyn as she might be in fifteen years’ time, happy and uncomplicated and ripe for a killer. He coughed, blinked, composed himself.
They were entering the caravan park. Pam Murphy said, ‘Last time we were here the manager didn’t know where these gypsies had gone, so why question him again?’
‘This time we question the whole camp,’ Sutton told her, ‘and see if the backpack’s still in that rubbish bin.’
‘It won’t be. Even if it is, who’s to say it was Kymbly Abbott’s in the first place?’
‘It’s not your ordinary backpack. I’d like to know its history.’
‘Ordinary enough,’ Pam said. ‘I saw one just like it before Christmas.’
The ground had shifted. Marion Nunn looked at her lover in the interview room and said, ‘Did you kill her? Tell me you didn’t kill her. Did you have sex with her first?’
Boyd Jolic stared at the wall, his arms folded stubbornly. ‘Ah, give it a rest, fucking cow.’
‘What were you thinking of,’ she hissed, ‘lighting all those fires?’ God, she hoped there were no microphones in the interview rooms.
Jolic shrugged.
She looked around the empty walls, then touched Jolic, sliding her hand from his knee to his inner thigh. ‘Boyd? What have you got yourself into?’
‘Nothing. And your job is to see it stays that way.’
Stung, she rocked back in her chair, then narrowed her eyes and spat, ‘Just you remember who keeps you out of jail. Who feeds you sweet jobs. Who gives you witness addresses so you can send your frighteners around.’
He twisted his mouth. ‘You fell in love with my cock, admit it, you stupid cow.’
‘You’re pathetic. You’re a psychopath.’ She tapped her skull. ‘You’re not right in the head. A screw loose. I bet you used to pull the wings off flies when you were little. Now you like to light fires. What happens-you masturbate while you watch? That’s a novel way of putting the flames out. Stupid fucking brainless moron.’
‘If I go down, bitch, you go down.’
‘Then let’s make sure it doesn’t happen, shall we? After this, you and I are through.’
He pulled his features into a heavy-handed expression of anguish. ‘Oh, dear, poor little lawyer lady, in an unholy marriage with her big bad client.’
‘Shut up.’
She lit a cigarette and smoked it furiously.
Challis took Ellen with him in the Triumph.
‘Boss, we’re barking up the wrong tree.’ She couldn’t help it, she was losing heart.
He came down hard on her. ‘First things first. Always, in a case like this. If our killer’s a Kiwi hitman, he’s long gone. Meanwhile we’ve still got Jolic and co. in custody, and can’t hold them forever, so let’s see whether or not they can be tied to the Pajero before we start looking elsewhere.’
‘Sorry, Hal, you’re right.’
He steered through the roundabout. She noticed that the Pizza Hut was full. None of the cars looked familiar. The town had filled with strangers since Boxing Day, summer regulars returning to their beach shacks, families camping at the caravan parks, others renting flatr…d houses. They stood out in the shops. They were dressed better, somehow, as though the locals were five years out of date. Despite Tessa Kane’s fears, the holiday trade hadn’t really suffered as a result of the highway killings.
‘Is he expecting us?’
Challis nodded. ‘Mornington office.’
Thirty minutes later, they were examining photographs from the insurance company’s file on Lance Ledwich’s Pajero. ‘Needless to say, we rejected Mr Ledwich’s claim. Not only was the vehicle unregistered, he omitted to tell us that he’d lost his licence a few weeks ago but was still driving around in it.’
‘He’s not too happy about it,’ Challis said.
‘He’s ropeable.’
‘He’s going to be more than that,’ Ellen said. ‘Look at this, Hal.’
It was a photograph showing the rear of the burnt-out shell of the Pajero. Just beyond the border of ash was a lighter area, the dirt road itself, and, along one edge, the shallow road drain. There, caught in the fine, mud-and-sand base of the drain, was a perfect tyre track.
She tapped it with her forefinger. ‘If I’m not mistaken, a Cooper tyre left that.’
The forensic technician confirmed it, peering at the photograph, then at his chart of tyre patterns.
‘Definitely a Cooper. You should be able to match it.’
‘We can’t. All four tyres were burnt.’
‘Ah.’
‘Can’t the photo tell you anything else? The way the tread is worn, splits and gouges in the rubber, that kind of thing?’
‘I’ll scan and do an enhancement,’ the technician said, ‘and compare it with the cast found at the reservoir.’
They watched. Challis felt a curious kind of excitement. It came when the stages of the detection, the methodology, the science and the technological tools were all working together.
He saw the tread pattern enlarge on the monitor screen. The technician isolated one segment, then another, enlarging and cross-matching with the plaster cast.
Finally he said, ‘It’s a Cooper. I’m afraid I can’t say more than that.’
‘It’s enough to go on with,’ Challis said.
Back in the Displan room, Ellen said, ‘How do we play this?’
‘Very carefully. There may be an innocent explanation. It may be coincidence.’
‘I don’t trust coincidence.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Well then…,’ she said.
‘We need to break his alibis,’ Challis said. ‘Go back and question everybody he work
ed with, neighbours, the usual.’
Ellen said, ‘Groan.’
‘We also need a warrant that stipulates our right to search the house and any other building that Ledwich may own, plus his place of work and all vehicles he or any member of his family may own. And meanwhile we’ll go and pick him up for questioning.’
The phone was ringing somewhere in the incident room. It was distracting. The room itself wore an air of too many dead ends, of long airless days and nights, of cooped-up tempers and hurried meals. What a mess, Ellen thought. She tilted back her head. ‘Somebody answer that, please?’
But there were only three officers in the room, their sleeves rolled, hunched over the telephones or their computer screens, so she crossed to the offending telephone and snatched it up.
‘Destry.’
‘Ellen?’
It was her husband. ‘Alan?’
‘Is Larrayne with you?’
Long afterwards she would remember that her first response was one of irritation. Her husband had been falling apart for days, in a low-level way, often emotional, forgetful, apt to misjudge things. ‘Alan, it’s her tennis lesson.’
‘I know that. I’ve been waiting around to take her.’
‘She’s probably at Kathy’s. She’s done this sort of thing before. Just wait for her.’
Ellen’s tone was: Do I have to do everything?
Her husband said, ‘I rang Kathy. She said she hasn’t seen Larrayne at all today.’
Ellen felt a crawling chill on the surface of her arms. Her heart seemed to shut down. Then she was shouting:
‘Why the fuck didn’t you say so!’
He sounded hurt. ‘It’s school holidays, you cow. Why would I be worried she wasn’t here? I thought I’d understood it wrong and you were taking her to tennis.’
She found herself sniping, ‘Then why did you ring me?’ when she should have been slamming the phone down and taking action.
‘I just thought I’d double-check, that’s all. More than you would do, you fucking bitch.’
