by Garry Disher
He wouldn’t let it go. ‘It was out of line. I’m really sorry.’
‘Tank? Can it,’ she snarled.
‘I was only saying…’
‘Well don’t.’
Fortunately they passed a building site shortly after that, a new housing development that faced the sea, a handful of men outside it picketing against scab labour. Tankard seemed to shake off his moroseness, some of his old intolerance showing as he shifted in the tight passenger seat and said, ‘Look at those wankers.’
Pam had to laugh. In occupation, status and background he was thoroughly working-class, yet he always voted for the conservative coalition, approving of their hard line on law and order, immigration, terrorism and anything else that threatened white-bread, middle-class Australia. Maybe the prime minister, attorney general and immigration minister represented the strict father he’d never had.
Her own position was more complicated. Her father and brothers were university academics, intellectuals, which meant that Christmas Day table conversations in Pam Murphy’s family were rapid-fire, elliptical, knowing and wide-ranging, leaving her far behind. She was the youngest child, good at sport, barely adequate in tests and exams, and had joined the police force, so…
‘Do the maths,’ she muttered now, heading from the freeway down into Rosebud.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’ She had no intention of describing, to John Tankard, the remote, condescending love that her father and brothers bestowed upon her.
Two tedious hours passed. They decided to head across to the Waterloo side of the Peninsula, but on Dunn’s Creek Road they encountered a white Falcon, sitting solidly on 80 in a 100 zone. The undulating road afforded Pam few opportunities to pass, and she cursed. ‘There should be demerit points for driving too slowly,’ she said.
Tankard, apparently still smarting, said, ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’
She let it pass. The word ‘knickers’ had always inflamed the old John Tankard, and she wasn’t taking any chances. ‘Take down his number.’
‘Why? He’s not breaking any road rules.’
‘Forget it,’ Pam said, and she followed the Falcon all the way to Waterloo, by which time she’d decided the driver deserved a showbag.
Tankard, concurring, placed the portable pursuit light on the dash and sounded the siren. ‘You moron,’ said Pam, scrambling to turn them off.
****
Vyner, spotting uniformed police in the little Mazda sports car behind him, cast his mind back over the past couple of hours and wondered where and when he’d gone wrong.
He hadn’t registered anything on his personal radar when he’d left his flat for his appointment with Mrs Plowman. He lived in a yuppie singles pad in Southbank, and even though he was surrounded by Asian students and young women with jeans so low in front you saw the fur line, the place was anonymous and close to everything. He felt out of his element whenever he left the city. That’s why he’d hired Gent yesterday. Well, he wasn’t making that mistake again.
No one had tailed him from Mrs Plowman’s, or to and from the airport, or down the Peninsula to fucking Gent’s fucking house in Dromana. No one saw him go in through the back door and shoot the bastard, then bundle him into the boot of the Falcon. So why were the cops following him? And why the fuck were they driving a sports car? Why the fuck were they wearing uniforms if they didn’t want to be noticed?
It had been a toss-up between getting rid of the body first, or setting up a false trail. The latter, and maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong. He’d spent a crucial thirty minutes in Gent’s house, shoving the moron’s computer into the boot with the body, emptying the fridge and propping the door open; filling a garbage bag with perishables, which he’d disposed of in a public rubbish bin; packing a suitcase as if Gent were going away for a month; closing the blinds and curtains and turning out the pilot lights for the oven and space heater; and finally leaving Gent’s shithole and filling out a hold-mail application at the local post office.
Then he’d got rid of the pistol. Two good Browning automatics in two days. He’d sealed the one he’d used on the woman yesterday in a block of wet cement, dumping the block at the tip when it was dry, but dismantled the one he’d used on Gent-his Navy training coming in useful-and then he’d hacksawed the parts and tossed the scraps, along with Gent’s computer and suitcase, into builders’ skips in an area stretching from Rosebud to Mount Martha.
And now it was time to get rid of the body, and he was heading northeast across the Peninsula, towards Waterloo, observing all of the road and speed signs, and suddenly there were cops behind him. Dunn’s Creek Road was snaking around one side of a pretty gully before flattening out along a high ridge lined with horse studs and plant nurseries set behind massive old pine tree avenues. There was more traffic than he’d expected, and on Penzance Beach Road and again on Waterloo Road he’d been obliged to give way to intersecting traffic, stop for a befuddled koala and not try overtaking a community bus full of old-age pensioners.
The little MX5 behind him all the way.
And when he got to Myers Reserve, dense with pittosporum, bracken and dying gum trees, the Mazda was still there, so he headed on down to Waterloo. He stopped for the give-way sign on Coolart Road, slowed to 70 kmh and then 60 kmh through the next township, signalled left at the T-intersection, did all the right things, and the Mazda stuck with him, never varying speed or relative position, and that, and the peaked caps worn by the driver and the passenger, really got Vyner’s mind working.
And so he pulled the stolen Falcon into the carpark of the Mitre 10 hardware on the main street of Waterloo and got out, letting his body language spell innocent do-it-yourself guy shopping for a packet of nails and a tin of paint. But then a siren whooped and the Mazda purred in beside him, the cops getting out, a guy and a woman, dressed like SWAT commandos in boots, waisted leather jackets and peaked caps.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Vyner froze, his eyes darting. Hell of a place. Tattoo parlour across the road, McDonald’s on one side of the carpark, railway line on the other. And further up the road, a roundabout and the Waterloo police station. He said innocently, ‘Was I going too fast?’
The woman shook her head. ‘The opposite, in fact. I’m Senior Constable Murphy, and this is Constable Tankard.’
Tankard, thought Vyner. The guy was built like a tankard, round and squat.
‘We couldn’t help noticing, sir.’
Noticing what? That I’ve got a body and a shovel in the boot of a stolen car?
Murphy flipped open her notebook. ‘You were faced with constantly varying speed limits for the past few kilometres, and you observed all of them. You observed stop and give-way signs, you were courteous to other drivers, and you made commonsense decisions when faced by unexpected hazards, like that koala trying to cross the road.’
Vyner shook his head. He was waiting for the ‘However…’
‘On behalf of Victoria Police and the RTA, we’d like to reward you,’ the woman said.
Vyner wanted to laugh. He gave them a frank and open grin. ‘Well, thank you.’
The female cop leaned into the Mazda, emerging with a bulky plastic bag. ‘To show our appreciation, sir.’
Vyner peeked inside. ‘Great. Thank you.’
For a moment, he really meant it. He’d always driven safely. He’d never been ticketed, and now it was paying off.
‘You’re welcome sir. Have a good day, now,’ the guy, Tankard, muttered.
Gloomy guy. Whoever said fat was cheerful?
Vyner went into Mitre 10 and bought saw blades to replace those he’d broken and blunted while cutting up the Browning.
Out in the carpark again, he saw that the Mazda was gone. He observed all of the speed limits and road rules from Waterloo to Myers Reserve, where he committed several misdemeanours, beginning with the lock on the gate that said Parks Victoria Vehicles Only.
****
26
U
sing her office phone in the Progress building, Tessa Kane posed as an insurance agent selling life cover. Having established that Charlie Mead was at work, she drove across the Peninsula to Rosebud and knocked on the front door of his house. ‘Mrs Mead? Lottie Mead?’
A wary ‘Yes.’
‘My name is Tessa Kane, from the Progress.’
Tessa waited, wondering if she’d be recognised. Lottie Mead was slender and unsmiling, her gaze passing expressionlessly across Tessa’s face and examining the street. ‘What do you want?’
‘I won’t lie to you, Mrs Mead. My paper has been running a series of critical articles about asylum seekers and your husband’s management of the Waterloo detention centre. I think it’s time for a personal perspective, and would like to interview you. Perhaps we could start with your lives together in South Africa, and move on from there. Would that be possible, do you think?’
She waited. The house was a grim grey fortress on a slope overlooking the bay. Finally Lottie Mead said, ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ and began to close the door.
‘Wait! Did your husband tell you not to speak to reporters? Does he have something to hide, do you think?’
‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me,’ said the woman distinctly, shutting the door with a brisk click.
****
Ellen was in Upper Penzance, half relieved and half chagrined to be working with Scobie Sutton instead of Challis. Their interview with Connie Rinehart completed, she got behind the wheel of the CIU Falcon, flipped open her mobile phone and reported in. ‘Hal? Rinehart never met Janine-it was all arranged by her doctor.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘Thirty-four, suffers from agoraphobia, has scarcely left her house for the past five years. When Janine didn’t arrive, she supposed she’d made a mistake with the date or the time, but hadn’t got around to checking with the clinic or her doctor. She’s very timid and withdrawn.’
‘Does she live anywhere near Mrs Humphreys?’
‘Several kilometres away.’
‘Does she know her?’
‘No.’
‘Does she know Christina Traynor?’
‘No.’
There was a pause, and Challis said, ‘That leaves us with Janine’s phobia about making right-hand turns. Yesterday she was obliged to visit Rinehart at home, so she mapped out a route that would avoid turning right, and found herself in an unfamiliar area and stopped to check her street directory. I’ve been looking at the map: someone driving from Mount Eliza to Upper Penzance without making right turns would probably pass through Penzance North. She was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time, and got herself shot.’
‘It’s a theory,’ Ellen said. ‘See you back at the ranch.’
She started the car. Scobie promptly settled into yarning mode. ‘Remember I was talking about Natalie Cobb yesterday?’
Ellen had been cooped up with him for hours, and forced herself to mutter, ‘Yes.’
‘Well, Beth went to see the Cobbs after work yesterday. She told me something interesting. She arrived just as Natalie was slipping her mother some money. She said it was clear Natalie hadn’t been to school all day. I myself saw her being picked up outside the courthouse by her boyfriend, and I guess she spent the day with him.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Ellen said, and then thought she should make an effort. ‘Doing what with the boyfriend?’
‘Well, that’s the question.’
‘Is the boyfriend known to us?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t know who he is.’
‘Be worth finding out.’
‘True.’
There was a blessed silence and then he said, ‘Today was mad hair day.’
Ellen’s mind raced, but not for long. He’s talking about his bloody daughter again.
‘If it’s mad hair day, or wear-what-you-like day, we have to get Ros up at least half an hour earlier than usual. She gets in a real knot about it, poor little thing. “Do I look stupid in this?” “Are you sure it’s mad hair day?” “You’re doing it all wrong.” And so on and so forth.’
The Suttons’ only child was a pale, wispy eight-year-old. ‘Uh-huh,’ said Ellen.
‘Maths, that’s another thing that makes her anxious.’
I should be so lucky, Ellen thought. To break up the litany, she said, ‘You spoke to the super’s wife?’
Scobie groaned. ‘Oh god.’
‘Bad, huh?’
‘She had plenty to say, but nothing to say, if you know what I mean.’
Ellen nodded. ‘Janine was married to her son, and was therefore a paragon of virtue.’
‘That about covers it,’ Scobie said.
****
Meanwhile Andy Asche was driving past the secondary college in Waterloo. Lunchtime, and Natalie, hanging around the front gate, gave him a nod, their signal that she was still intending to slip away from school during an afternoon lesson break and meet him around the corner.
This afternoon they were hitting a house in Penzance Beach. Andy had a head full of potential targets. He worked part-time for the shire, in a job that took him all over the Peninsula. Last month, for example, he’d spent two days delivering the new-style recycling bins to every house in Penzance Beach. At other times he might accompany the property valuation surveyor, going around to every property noting improvements and taking measurements for the next hike in shire rates. Or he drove around back roads, marking for attention ditches and culverts that were clogged with sand, twigs and pine needles.
Whatever, he had a lot of facts at his fingertips. Such and such a house is always empty during the day. Another is only occupied on weekends, a third only in summer. This street’s no good: there’s always some busybody in her garden or staring out of her window. That street is full of barking dogs. There’s a top-of-the-range security system in this house; there’s no security system in that house, despite the sticker in the window.
Penzance Beach was always a good earner. A few locals lived there permanently, but mostly it consisted of beach shacks, which looked humble but were owned by wealthy city people who liked to come down on weekends or school holidays and maintain the level of comfort they’d grown accustomed to in the city: top quality TVs, VCRs, DVDs, microwaves, sports equipment, clothes, even mobile phones, cash and Walkmans left lying around in kids’ bedrooms. Wealth made teenagers indifferent to wealth. Andy Asche’s mother would have tanned his hide if he’d been as careless with his possessions.
****
27
Challis had put in requests for assistance from the police and prison services in New South Wales after the morning’s briefing, but when nothing had transpired by lunch time, he grabbed a sandwich from the canteen and checked his pigeonhole. The top circular read, Where circumstances and protocol allow, Victoria Police and civilian staff members will use both sides of a sheet of paper rather than two sheets. He almost crumpled it up and tossed it into the bin, but the circular’s reverse side was blank, so he did the right thing and took it upstairs with him, to be used for making rough notes.
Then Waterloo Motors called to say that his loan car was ready. He shrugged on his coat and left the station through the rear door to avoid the reporters camped outside the front door. Waterloo Motors was choked with cars awaiting service or repairs or to be collected by their owners. He picked out his loan car quickly, a rusted-out Toyota, with mag wheels, a fluffy steering wheel and the words ‘Waterloo Motors’ pasted all over it. He collected the keys and drove it back to the station, enduring the blokey jibes of a few car-mad constables.
By mid afternoon some preliminary information had come in from New South Wales. Blight’s prison visitors consisted of his parents, wife, brothers and two men who’d once driven cabs for him. He’d shared a cell only once, with a man who was still incarcerated. Since then he’d been in a single cell in a segregated block.
What next? Fly to Sydney and interview every one of Blight’s visitors, every inmate in the prison? A sh
eer waste of time, and Challis couldn’t see McQuarrie giving budget approval.
Meanwhile he wasn’t ruling out Janine McQuarrie as the intended victim-or not entirely-but was prompted to close certain avenues related to her case by a bleating phone call from Robert McQuarrie: ‘When are the police going to release my wife’s body?’
‘Should be in the next day or two,’ Challis said, making a note to check with the pathologist.
‘There’s also the car and her mobile phones. Surely you’ve finished checking them for evidence?’
A little chill crept over Challis’s skin. Why the hurry? What was so important about these possessions ahead of the welfare of his daughter? ‘These things take time in a murder investigation, sir,’ he said.
McQuarrie said nothing but Challis could feel the man’s irritation and impatience. ‘You said “phones”? I understood that there was only one phone,’ he said, searching through the files on his desk for the crime-scene inventory.
‘Two phones: one that she uses-used-hands free in the car, and another that she carried around with her.’
Challis found the inventory. There was only one mobile phone listed, clip-mounted to the dash of the car. He’d assumed that was the phone Georgia had used to call 000. Had she used the second one instead? If so, where was it?
