by Garry Disher
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘Straight,’ Andy continued, ‘but sexy.’
Eighteen years old, still at school, but she could pass for a yuppie chick out shopping for her yuppie pad in Southgate, where all the yuppies lived, and that’s what mattered to Andy and Natalie.
It went like this: the people they worked for owned pawnshops in the city and a discounted homewares outlet on the Peninsula, which made for a two-way flow of stolen gear. Andy liked the neatness of it: goods from the city ended up on the Peninsula, goods from the Peninsula ended up in the city. The Chasseur frying pan that he and Natalie might shoplift in South Yarra went straight to Savoury Seconds (frying pan, savouries, get it?) in Somerville. The cops weren’t likely to venture outside of the city to look for a stolen frying pan, even if it did cost $300. Meanwhile the pawnbroking stores in the city sold gear burgled from homes on the Peninsula. A retiree down in Penzance Beach isn’t going to stumble by chance on her VCR in a barred shop window in Footscray. The people that Andy and Natalie worked for weren’t too worried by tax audits or CIU inquiries either. They had ‘paperwork’ to prove that the new Chasseur frying pan in Savoury Seconds had come from a bankrupted shop in Cairns, the VCR in Footscray pawned by a waitress in Abbotsford.
Andy’s and Natalie’s first hit today had been Perfecto Coffee, in Chapel Street, the shelves stocked with coffee pots and machines, filters, ring seals, milk frothers, you name it; Bialetti, Gaggia and other big names. Coffee beans, too, but the order was for espresso machines, percolators and plungers. Natalie, in her long, loose woollen overcoat over tailored pants, leather shoulderbag and artfully tousled hair, browsed the shelves while Andy chatted up the shop assistant. No security cameras that he could see. Then Nat was at his elbow, doing her sulky look-’Can we go now?’-as if shopping, and Andy, and this shop, made her dangerously bored, not something you wanted to see in a beautiful woman. Andy slipped the shop assistant a wink-she sympathised-and followed Natalie out of the shop, Natalie’s overcoat barely registering the spacious hidden pockets that were now full of top-end coffee making machines.
They hit a couple more places, had lunch in a bistro, and now, mid afternoon, were nearly home, Waterloo free of fog at last. Andy dropped Natalie outside the tattoo parlour next to the railway line. She had a fistful of money in her pocket: most would go to her mother, but she wanted a new tatt, a butterfly, high on the inside of her right thigh. Then she was going to score some dope. Andy didn’t do dope, or booze, or anything else. He’d saved twelve grand so far, down payment on a BMW sports car.
‘Tomorrow, yeah? You up for it?’
‘Yeah,’ she said.
He drove to the McDonald’s on the roundabout for a Quarter Pounder, and read the local newspaper while he waited. Turned to ‘Police Beat’ on page 10. He liked the irony: here he was, a thorough crook, reading about the work of other crooks while sitting just across the road from the cop shop. Unimaginative crimes, too. A ride-on mower stolen in Penzance Beach. A woman robbed at syringe point outside an ATM in Mornington. A purse snatched here in Waterloo.
Andy Asche glanced up from his paper. The noon-to-four shift cops coming off duty, heading across the road for their Big Macs. And fuck me, there was John Tankard, his footy coach, getting out of a Mazda sports car with some female cop.
****
John Tankard and Pam Murphy logged off, deeply fatigued with one another, the only distraction during the long afternoon having been their encounter with Lottie Mead. They separated, showered, changed, then happened to meet in the staff carpark afterwards, Tankard noticing the gear that Pam was wearing: black lycra shorts, sweater and trainers. Great legs, notwithstanding the goosebumps from the cold air. Great body.
Suddenly the elements of his personality, fractured after he’d shot dead that farmer, were clashing inside him. He’d had counselling, and told himself he was a better person for it, but before he could stop himself he felt a carnal tug deep inside and was touching her smooth behind and pulling her towards him, and then he was crying wretchedly.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he gasped.
She pulled away angrily. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I’m sorry. Don’t report me.’
‘You deserve to be reported.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, I feel all…all…’
She folded her arms and said, with vicious reasonableness, ‘Yeah, I can see how that would work. Give me a quick grope, and if I object, you can blame it on stress.’ She unfolded her arms. ‘You’re pathetic, John.’
‘Pam, I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.’ His hands pressed against his cheeks. ‘I’ve stuffed up big time, haven’t I?’
The look she gave him then was weary and disgusted, but not angry or vengeful. ‘You came back to work too soon,’ she said.
‘Mate, I was going stir crazy at home.’
‘If you touch me again, I’ll flatten you, and then I’ll report you.’
‘I know, I know. I’m really sorry.’ He made an effort and said, without looking at her thighs, smooth in their lycra sheaths: ‘Where’re you going?’
‘Training.’
‘For what?’
‘Triathlon.’
‘When?’
‘January.’
‘That’s six months away.’
‘Exactly.’
The new Tankard struggled, finally remembering that she’d been in a bad car smash at her last station, so maybe she was trying to get fit again.
‘What about you?’ she said, more out of politeness than actual interest.
Tankard said shyly, ‘I’m coaching footy this season.’
Pam went slackjawed. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope.’
‘Good for you.’
Good for me, good for the kids, Tankard thought. He was a copper, so that gave him some clout to begin with, but he was trying to be more than copper and footy coach. Like he’d intervened in this dispute between the club and the Fiddlers Creek pub. Some of the guys would get legless after training or a game on a Saturday and walk across the road from the clubrooms to the pub, where they’d get even more loaded, and brawl, swear, trash the bar or the men’s room, reverse into patrons’ cars on the way home. It had got so bad, the pub withdrew sponsorship from the team and banned club members from drinking there. John Tankard had a quiet word with the pub management, and then with the players, and now everything was sweet again.
‘Well, gotta run,’ he said. ‘See ya.’
She shrugged and walked to her car. He got into his old station wagon-chosen because he could cart a lot of kids and gear around in it-and drove to the clubhouse, where he got kitted out before running a few gasping laps of the oval to warm up. Soon the kids were arriving, some straight from school, others driven by their parents, a few dropped by their girlfriends. And Andy Asche; that was a change. Half the time the guy failed to turn up. Tankard waited until they were all kitted out then called them to run a few laps of the oval.
****
Nathan Gent had spent all day smoking joints and sinking cans of Melbourne Bitter, but his anxiety wouldn’t go away. Yeah, there’d been a heavy fog this morning, and no cars about, only that fucking taxi, but had the driver seen anything? Would he come forward when the shooting hit the TV news and tomorrow’s newspapers?
Nathan had been paid, and he intended to stay clear of Vyner, but he’d crossed a divide this morning. Accomplice to a murder. Plus the kid had seen him. That little face, maybe six years old, sees her mum shot down in cold blood.
Nathan wanted to go, ‘Whoa! Stop the world, I want to get off.’ But he’d crossed the divide. He was no longer his old self, a simple sort of bloke, likes to sink a few beers at the pub, watch the footy, see if he can use his missing finger to pull a chick at the Krypton Klub in Frankston. Choof on a bit of weed occasionally.
Three things gnawing at him: murder, the look on the kid’s face, the car. Particularly the car. ‘No worries,’ he’d assur
ed Vyner, ‘it’s stolen, can’t be traced to us.’ In fact, stealing a car had been harder than Nathan had expected, and he’d left it too late, and so he’d used his cousin’s Commodore. Except it wasn’t really Nora’s; when she got the job in New Zealand she’d sold him the car for $975, leaving the paperwork up to him, the roadworthy certificate and the registration and insurance and stuff-which he hadn’t got around to yet.
Fine, except when he’d dropped Vyner off after the shooting this morning, Vyner had thumped the Commodore and said, ‘Burn the fucker.’
Nathan had driven away, saying ‘No worries,’ his mind racing.
Even if he burnt the Commodore, didn’t the cops have ways of tracing ownership? Even if he removed and destroyed the numberplates, wasn’t there some number on the engine block or something? What if someone came along while he was trying to set fire to it? He’d have to get rid of it some other way. Besides, he was kind of sentimental about the Commodore. He’d borrowed it off Nora stacks of times, and Nora was a good sort, and he hated to think of her car-his car-as a blackened ruin on some back road. Obviously he couldn’t keep driving around in it-Vyner might see him, the vicious cunt-so he’d cleaned everything out of the car, wiped it down, and driven it to a wrecking yard in Baxter, still wearing his gloves (which hadn’t raised any eyebrows because the weather was shithouse). What he did was, he drove past the yard for a few hundred metres, removed the oil filter and tossed it into a culvert at the side of the road, then drove back to the yard, by which time the engine had seized. He pushed the car into the yard, removed both plates, and walked out with $120 in his pocket, saying of the yellow door: ‘That’s a good door, no rust.’
But the kid, her little face.
Murder.
Nathan Gent went to the pub with his last ten dollars, downed a couple of pints, and fired up the jukebox beside the men’s toilet, trying to decide what his next move should be.
****
18
The incident room, 5 p.m.
McQuarrie was there, making it clear that he’d be running the briefing. Challis acquiesced, vowing to hold another briefing as soon as McQuarrie left, to undo any damage or interference the man caused, intended or otherwise. Again he pondered the super’s motives. Was he instinctively protecting his son? His daughter-in-law? His own reputation? Or was it obstruction of a more calculated kind? Challis waited for McQuarrie to sit at the head of the table, then stepped across to the wall and propped it up morosely. Ellen flashed him a grin.
The setting sun angled across the chipped table and McQuarrie’s twitchy knuckles. ‘Inspector? We’ll hear from you first.’
Challis outlined his day. Then, true to form, McQuarrie double-checked every step of his account.
‘You talked to my son.’
Said almost accusingly. ‘I hadn’t expected to see him,’ Challis replied.
‘He’s got important commitments,’ McQuarrie said. ‘He made a racing visit up to the city, then came straight back to be with Georgia.’
You don’t have to apologise for him, Challis thought.
‘And you got nowhere,’ McQuarrie said. ‘He’s well respected, well loved. No enemies.’
‘Sir.’
‘And no witnesses.’
‘No.’
‘This Lisa Welch woman didn’t hear or see anything?’
‘No.’
‘But you think it’s possible she was the intended target?’
Challis gave his head a brief,, impatient shake. ‘No, sir, not really. It’s just a precaution. I thought it best to advise her of the danger, but on the face of it she’s not involved.’
‘Still, I want you to dig a little deeper. You never know.’
‘Sir.’
‘Good,’ McQuarrie said briskly. ‘Now, my daughter-in-law. Sergeant Destry?’
Ellen flashed McQuarrie an alert, humourless smile. ‘Sir?’
‘You spoke to Janine’s work colleagues this morning, I believe?’
‘Sir.’
And?’
Challis, unseen by McQuarrie, made a fleeting axe-murderer face at Ellen, who composed herself and reported that the office staff and other therapists at Bayside Counselling Services had alibis and were clearly baffled by Janine’s murder. ‘Meanwhile, we still don’t know who she was meeting this morning or why she was on Lofty Ridge Road. A note scribbled on her desk calendar simply says “Penzance North, 9.30”.’
‘Keep looking. What about disgruntled clients? Weird clients?’
‘We’re still looking into that, sir, but client confidentiality comes into it.’
‘How closely did you look at her work colleagues? For all you know there could be simmering resentments, jealousies, that type of thing.’
‘Not that we could see on a preliminary visit.’
‘Keep looking. She was at the top of her profession, you know. Bright girl.’
‘Sir,’ Ellen said, wanting to tell the super what she’d told Challis in the car that afternoon, that husband and wife had been made for each other.
‘Constable Sutton, anything to add?’
Scobie nodded. ‘I spoke to Mrs Humphreys, and-’
‘Who?’
‘She owns the house where Janine was murdered.’
‘And?’
‘She’s elderly, currently in hospital recovering from a hip operation.’
McQuarrie semaphored with his arms. ‘What about her?’
‘She has a goddaughter, Christina Traynor, who stayed with her for three weeks in April.’
The room went very still. McQuarrie cocked his head. ‘Do we know anything about her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Get onto it.’
‘Sir.’
Challis uncoiled from the wall and sat at the table next to Ellen. He knew that McQuarrie would be leaving soon. ‘Sir, thirty minutes ago I had a call from Janine’s sister, Meg. She said something that might have a bearing on all this.’
McQuarrie looked put out. ‘Such as?’
‘Were you aware that Janine hated driving?’
McQuarrie looked puzzled. ‘I fail to see-’
‘In particular, she had a pathological fear of making right turns, of turning against oncoming traffic, and so whenever she had to drive anywhere she’d map out routes that involved mainly left turns, meaning that she often drove far out of her way to travel short distances. You weren’t aware of that? Robert didn’t tell you?’
‘I think he mentioned something about it,’ McQuarrie said evasively. Then he brightened. ‘But don’t you see? Everything points to one thing: Janine was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘But there’s no indication that Mrs Humphreys was the right person or that her house was the right house,’ Challis said.
‘And Janine might have been followed,’ Ellen said.
McQuarrie said, ‘Keep an open mind, that’s all I ask. Any joy on the weapon?’
‘No ejected shells were found,’ Challis said, ‘but ballistics confirm that the shooter used a 9mm automatic’
The report had just come in. The usual kind of detail, two 9mm slugs, the lands and degrees of twist possibly indicating a Browning. ‘If our shooter was a pro,’ he went on, ‘and it seems he was, he’d have used gloves and got rid of gun, gloves and outer clothing as soon as possible.’
‘Not necessarily,’ McQuarrie said briskly. ‘We’re probably not dealing with rocket scientists here.’
Challis gazed at his boss for a couple of beats. ‘Quite right, sir.’
‘Have you spoken to everybody yet?’
You never reach everybody, Challis thought. ‘We will eventually.’
‘No time to lose,’ McQuarrie said, getting to his feet and making for the door in a faint eddy of aftershave. ‘I want to be informed of everything of importance the moment it happens. Meanwhile I think our most promising course of action is to look closely at the woman next door and the goddaughter.’
When McQuarrie was gone, Challis s
tood by the window to watch and wait. After a couple of minutes, McQuarrie strode across the carpark to his personal car, a Mercedes, finding time to reprimand two constables on their way to a divisional van. One, Challis noted, gave McQuarrie the finger afterwards.
The world restored a little, he returned to the conference table, saying, ‘That man’s been like a father to me.’
Then he waited. Would they think his remark in bad taste? But they grinned. ‘This job’s expanding before our eyes, boss,’ Scobie said.
Challis nodded. ‘And we’re going to be stepping on sensitive and powerful toes, so we do everything by the book. The super is going to stick his oar in at all stages, he’s going to want to steer the investigation, and he’ll try to protect his family. At one level, we’re going to let him do that. We’ll listen to him, we’ll follow up the lines of inquiry he suggests, for they’ll probably be those we’ve already thought of, and generally let him think he’s the driving force. At the moment he’s not calling for a full-scale task force. If things get too unmanageable, I’ll do something about it. Just don’t let him waste your time, okay?’
Ellen gathered her notes into a folder. ‘Are we ruling out Janine McQuarrie as the intended victim?’
‘No,’ Challis said bluntly, ‘no matter what the super thinks.’
He saw Ellen sneaking a look at her watch. ‘Go home,’ he said. I’ll run Christina Traynor through the data bases; Scobie, I want you to keep checking for stolen cars, particularly older ones, pale in colour, but cast a state-wide net.’
‘Boss.’
Ellen continued to pack up her notes. ‘Did Janine’s sister say anything else?’
Challis could read Ellen by now, and shot her a look. ‘You think she’s trying to divert our attention away from Janine’s love life,’ he said.
Ellen shrugged. ‘I don’t think she gave us the full picture this afternoon.’
Challis nodded his agreement, just as one of the phones rang. It was the switchboard, looking for him. They had a man on the line who claimed to have information about the shooting of Janine McQuarrie. Challis told them to record and trace the call and put the caller through to him. He switched to speaker mode and said, ‘Inspector Challis.’
