by Garry Disher
She began to manipulate the body, first the feet, then each leg, lifting and bending, watching the knees. She proceeded to the abdomen, pressing down, and finally grasped and rotated the head a few centimetres left and right.
‘Rigor has come and gone. I have no reason to reconsider my opinion yesterday, that the victim had been dead for six to eight hours when found.’
Challis sipped his coffee. He hadn’t asked for it but it had been delivered, white, watery and tepid. His knees were squashed between the sofa and a coffee table as solid as a brick wall.
‘How did she intend to get to the station from the dentist? Taxi?’
‘She walked. It’s not far: five minutes?’
‘She had a specific train in mind? She had a timetable?’
Rice blinked. ‘Don’t know. She doesn’t usually take a local train.’
‘What would Delia do,’ said Challis carefully, ‘if she were faced with a long wait?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a limited service on that line, only a few trains each day.’
Erin Rice removed her husband’s hand, placed it on his bulky knee, and they all eyed it briefly, a disembodied hand. ‘Delia was always impatient,’ she murmured. ‘Impatient to marry that man, impatient to get to the city.’
Impatient.
Challis put his cup down and started the motions that would get himself and Sutton out of the house with the least disruption, pain and haste. ‘Thank you both for helping us clear that up. It will help us pinpoint Delia’s movements.’
He didn’t say final movements. He couldn’t say it would bring her back. He couldn’t promise it would identify her killer. Bill and Erin Rice were crying again anyway. They weren’t thinking about blame or justice just yet.
The pathologist lifted her head and called, ‘Lights.’
The room darkened. She ran a UV light over the body slowly, quartering the pale, slack flesh. ‘Lights,’ she called again.
The room brightened. ‘No semen present on the surface of the body.’
‘Get on with it,’ Schiff muttered. ‘Vagina, mouth, anus.’
‘No fibres,’ Berg said presently, ‘nothing under the nails, nothing caught in the hair—apart from trace elements from the car itself.’
Schiff muttered, shook her glossy head and restlessly checked her phone for messages.
More time passed. ‘No semen present in the mouth, vagina or anus,’ Berg said.
And later: ‘It is entirely possible that we’ll find trace elements of a different order in the victim’s eyes, nasal passages and ear canals, telling us where she’d been before being forced into the car. Needless to say, analysis will take time.’
‘Needless to say,’ said Schiff.
She was standing very close to Pam. Pam moved away.
Before starting the car, Challis made a phone call. He asked a question, said thanks, pocketed the phone.
‘There was a train through Somerville at eleven past three,’ he said, ‘but Delia Rice was still in her father’s car then, on the way to the dentist. The next was at ten to five.’
Sutton said nothing. It was as if he hadn’t listened or didn’t know what to do with the information, so Challis started the car and pulled away from the kerb. There was silence as they passed a stretch of sodden grassland, a Christmas tree farm and one of the Coolart Road roundabouts. Injecting some sharpness into his voice, Challis said, ‘You heard the mother: Delia was impatient by nature.’
Scobie Sutton came out of his fog. ‘Right…’
‘Think about it. When she realised she’d have to wait for an hour and a half, she decided to hitchhike. Got herself rescued by a nice policeman.’
‘And her father so close,’ said Sutton tragically.
Challis tuned him out, checked his watch. Too soon to call Murph at the morgue.
Quietness settled as Berg began to cut into the body. Pam watched with a clammy dread. The only sounds were the faint hum of the ceiling lights, murmured voices in distant corridors, fabric scraping against fabric as Jeannie Schiff grew increasingly restless. Finally the pathologist said, ‘Major petechial haemorrhaging…Bloody froth caked around the mouth…Damage to the hyoid…’
She looked up at the detectives. ‘Death was due to manual asphyxia.’
‘Well, we all knew that,’ Schiff said, striding for the door.
32
At two o’clock that Monday afternoon, Steve Finch was absorbed in slotting more RAM into an old desktop PC when the air cooled and shifted. Or he’d imagined it. What he wasn’t imagining was the man standing on the other side of the workbench that doubled as his counter and desk. He jumped, trying to hide the response. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’
The man said nothing and Finch thought cop. He read him quickly: slight build, well dressed, aquiline nose, eyes twinkling with cold intelligence. The kind of cop, Finch thought, who catches criminals because he thinks like one.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘The name is Towne,’ the man said, flashing ID.
Finch glimpsed the name, a logo and some of the words before it was folded into a pocket again. ‘Federal? What would the federal police want with me?’
‘I’m told you’re the go-to guy if someone wants to fence a stolen painting,’ the man said.
Finch screwed his face into a scoffing dismissal. ‘I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, pal, but—’
Towne dug into another pocket and now held a small pistol. He wasn’t listening to Finch but gazing as if amused up and down the nearby shelves. With a grunt of satisfaction, he shoved the barrel into a rack of army greatcoats and fired. The coats were excellent sound suppressors. Finch gaped and bent to protect his groin. Then he straightened, trying to present a smaller target to the mad policeman.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I just did.’
‘I’ll never sell them now.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, genuine army wear, complete with bullet hole,’ said Towne.
Finch’s commercial instincts clicked into gear. ‘But still…’
Towne pocketed the pistol and leaned over the counter in a matey fashion. ‘Let’s start again: I have it on good authority, namely the art and antiques squad, that you are the only show in town when it comes to fencing high-end paintings and other collectibles, like coins and stamps.’
Obscurely flattered, Finch said, ‘I’m not confirming or denying.’
The pistol came out again and Finch backed away. ‘No. Jesus. Put the gun away.’
Towne didn’t.
‘All right, okay, what do you want?’
‘You can start by telling me if you deal with this woman.’
A photograph of Suze, looking younger and a bit feral but still heart stopping. Finch cast glances around his shop as if searching the dim recesses of his memory. He took in the front door, the ‘closed’ sign turned out to the world. ‘Er, might do.’
Towne fired through the greatcoats again and said, ‘Think what you can charge for a coat with two bullet holes in it. I don’t want “might” or “maybe” answers, Steve.’
Finch slumped. ‘Her name’s Susan. Don’t know her last name.’
‘How do I find her?’
‘She always contacts me.’
‘She contacts you out of the blue and says I’ve got this genuine Brett Whiteley I stole yesterday.’
‘Look, she doesn’t usually flog art. It’s mostly cameras, coin collections, jewellery, watches…Nothing large or bulky. It has to be stuff she can hide.’
‘You don’t have a phone number.’
‘No.’
‘Address?’
Finch shook his head, desperately aware that he had little information to offer the trigger-happy cop. ‘Like I said, she comes in and shows me her stuff.’
‘I thought you said she contacts you.’
‘Not always. Not in advance. She turns up with some gear and I give her some cash and if it’s a rare item and I nee
d to do a bit of homework, find a buyer, set a fair price, that kind of thing, then she’ll contact me again a couple of days later and…’
‘You’re babbling,’ Towne said.
Finch shut his mouth with a click.
‘I need to find her, Steven.’ An air of finality, brooking no argument.
Finch was frustrated. ‘Look, she never works locally. In this state, I mean. Always interstate.’
‘Anything at all? How she made contact with you in the first place, what car she drives, who her friends are…’
‘I don’t know anything. For a junkie, she’s super cautious.’
Towne frowned. ‘She’s a junkie?’
‘Yeah. Got an expensive habit to feed.’
‘Who’s her dealer?’
‘How would I know?’
Towne wasn’t satisfied. ‘A super thief, super cautious. And she’s a junkie?’
‘Well, I mean, I think she’s one,’ Finch said. His eyes lit up. ‘She’s got a kid, little girl. I’ve seen photos.’
Towne seemed rocked by the news. He recovered and said, ‘See, you do know things about her.’
‘It’s all coming back to me. She’s worried the heroin’s making her a bad parent so her sister’s raising the daughter.’
‘Sister? Where does this sister live?’
Finch muttered, as if talking to himself, ‘Maybe if I blew up a still from the security video…’ ‘Hello? Steven? Pay attention.’
Finch gestured hastily at the cluttered shelf above and behind him. ‘Hidden camera.’
‘Video or digital?’ demanded Towne, rapping out the words.
‘I’m fully digitised, permanent storage on hard drive.’
‘So?’
‘The other day she showed me some photos of her daughter and her parents.’
‘Parents,’ said Towne flatly, as if hearing more fresh information.
‘They’re old,’ Finch said.
‘Maybe she lives with them.’
Finch shook his head, keen to keep the air full of helpful information. ‘Old folks’ home somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘With a bit of tweaking I should be able to get good close-ups, you know, background detail. That help you?’
‘Do it.’
‘What, now?’
‘You’ve just shut up shop for the day,’ Towne said.
Finch complied, thinking: Good luck Suze. You won’t last long, with this guy after you.
33
Day passed into night.
In Waterloo, Tina Knorr worked the four to midnight shift, coming off duty as the clocks edged into Tuesday. She didn’t change out of her uniform, just grabbed her bag from her locker, said hi to the nurses coming on duty and walked out to her car, keys swinging from her forefinger. The staff car park was a broad lake of moonlit asphalt, shadowy at the far end, where she’d been obliged to slot her Barina, every other spot taken when she’d come on duty.
But now there were scarcely any cars left there, and none near the Barina, apart from a big white car. Cop car, must be, because a uniformed policeman got out of it as she approached. She saw him edge across to the Barina’s driver’s door, his back to her, and her mind raced. Roadworthy check? Damage? Someone hiding in the back seat?
‘Anything wrong?’
He was an odd shape, or the uniform a bad fit, the shirt curiously tight in places, the pants too short, too wide in the hips, the cap too small. Without turning he said, ‘We’ve had reports of a prowler, miss.’
Welcome to the world of public hospitals in Victoria, Tina thought: bad lighting, no security cameras, doctors who think they’re God, a better than fifty per cent chance of dying from a staph infection. And now prowlers. ‘Near my car?’
‘Just checking. But I can’t see nothin’ so you can get in your car now, no worries.’
A rough, uneducated voice. It didn’t seem quite right to Tina somehow, but by now she was almost beside him. And then a few things clicked into place, not that she was able to make sense of them: some kind of black knitted cloth in his left hand, flesh-coloured latex gloves, face averted…
And she knew him. ‘Darren?’
He jerked and swore, and she took a step back from him, drawing her thin, grey, ward-rounds cardigan around herself, seeking security in the stillness and emptiness of the night. Another step, and then it was too late, he’d grabbed her, a knife blade to her stomach.
‘Please, Darren.’
His eyes were jumping out of their sockets and the smell of him: a kind of chemical rottenness. Terrific. He was probably ripped on something that made him violent and unpredictable, and she’d just let him know he’d been recognised. She could almost tick off the emotions about to rollercoaster inside his head: vulnerability, invincibility, bewilderment, rage, paranoia. Why had she said his name? He’d be totally panicked now.
Maybe she could humanise the situation. ‘Darren?’
‘Shut up. Let me think.’ He thought for about a second. Then, ‘Get in the fucking car.’
She never locked it. Who’d steal a Barina, especially one with 298,000 km on the clock, sun faded and streaked with birdshit? She made to go around to the passenger side but he shrieked at her, ‘Did I tell you to do that? Did I?’
‘Sorry, Darren.’
She got behind the wheel and he came in right on her tail, crowding her. Oh, so she was supposed to get into the passenger seat after all, but by sliding across from the driver’s side of the car. Except in a Barina you don’t exactly slide. She bumped her head on the rear-view mirror, scraped a shin on the gearstick, tore her tights, put her back out.
‘Keys.’
They were still swinging from her ring finger and he tore them from her. In an instant of blinding pain, her finger went out of joint. She moaned, head sinking to her knees, the world swimming around her.
‘Good, you got the right idea, keep your fucking head down.’
He ground the starter motor and found reverse. Then he searched for first gear and the gearbox made its wretched grind and howl. ‘You have to start in second,’ Tina said. And, apologetically, ‘Needs a new gearbox.’
‘Did I tell you to fucking speak? Keep your head down.’
The car protested and then they were bumping out onto the street. She made a mental map of the turns and stops in the minutes that followed. He was heading north, and eventually would come to a roundabout and need to choose Dandenong or Somerville. Unless he took the road out to the wasteland of unloved paddocks leading to the shire rubbish tip.
Out to where he’d dumped Chloe Holst.
She said, ‘Darren, that first girl, her name was Chloe, I bet you didn’t know that I helped nurse her?’
She said it with her head to the side, neck craning to look up at him, hoping the words might strike home somehow.
Reality check. Did she really think she could get through to a guy like Darren Muschamp? He was more likely to stick her with the knife than show remorse. He didn’t look like he’d even heard her. His mouth was open—concentration? Stupidity? Blocked sinuses? His eyes were jumpy.
She tried again. ‘I mean, what a coincidence, eh? Or was it deliberate, snatching me from the place that treated her?’
She was genuinely curious. Her answer was a punch to the head with his knife hand, pebbly knuckles scraping painfully across her ear.
‘Darren, please, I feel carsick.’
His knees jiggled, as if he didn’t know what to do with the information.
‘Can I sit up?’
She sat up. He didn’t stop her. Without meaning to, she began to cry, and soon couldn’t stop the tears.
‘Shut up,’ he screamed.
‘I can’t.’
‘I can’t stand it! Shut the fuck up!’
She wept and he punched her ineffectually, his attention veering from her to the road and back again. By now they were heading north towards Dandenong. Or the ranges or even as far as New South Wales or Queensland…
‘Darren, please, you might accidentally stab me.’
He turned his rage on her. ‘How the fuck do you know my name? I don’t know you.’
‘You’re Mandy’s cousin, right?’
He didn’t reply.
Tina said, ‘Mandy and me went to Cranbourne High together. You remember. We met at her twenty-first.’ She sighed, sat back, her head resting on the padded support, said softly, ‘That was a great party.’
It had the effect of mollifying him. ‘You were the chick did the pole dance routine with a broomstick.’
Another chick, actually, and as twenty-first birthday parties go, it had been fairly dull. ‘You’ve got a good memory,’ she said warmly.
Get him talking. Take his mind off the knife and her vulnerable stomach. He took his knife hand off the wheel, stuck the blade tip between his teeth and made a flicking motion. She closed her eyes.
He made an unaccountable stop soon after that, pulling into a recessed farm gateway, darkness all around them, a wispy moon above. Took out a mobile phone and pressed speed dial.
‘Hi, it’s me, you got any gear?’
Oh, great, he was chasing. Tina edged her hand towards the door handle—and the knife tip was at her throat a millisecond later.
He was able to do that and simultaneously explode into the mouthpiece of his phone: ‘I fucking do not…I fucking paid you…I did so…mate, you can’t do this to me.’
Then silence as he jerked the phone away from his ear and stared at it in astonishment. ‘The prick hung up on me.’
‘Please, Darren, let me go home.’
He turned to her, still astonished, as if wondering who she was and what he was doing with her in the middle of nowhere. Then his face cleared and the animal cunning was there again. ‘You got any gear on you?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Gis your fucken bag.’
He grabbed it, rested it between the seats and started rummaging. Her tampons flew into the footwell, a packet of tissues, electricity bill—please, God, don’t let him check the address—and her hairbrush. Now the wallet, which he hunted through, pocketing the $45 that had to last her until payday on Friday, tipping the coins from the little zippered compartment into his palm, shoving them into the pocket along with the paper money.
