Snapshot ic-3

by Garry Disher

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Sarge?’

  This was delicate. She needed to secure the laptop and return it to Challis; she didn’t need every cop on the Peninsula to know that his laptop, containing sensitive information, had been stolen. At the same time, she didn’t want to lie to Pam Murphy, or get her into trouble.

  ‘Pam, I’m giving you a receipt for this, okay? If there are any questions, refer them to me.’

  ‘Sarge, CIU’s in charge now anyway, you can do what you like.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘This laptop was stolen this morning. It contains sensitive material.’ She hoped Pam hadn’t seen the initials, or twigged that they belonged to Challis.

  ‘Sure, Sarge, whatever you say.’

  ‘Good. Meanwhile we need the crime-scene people to dust the van for prints and make casts of the tyre tracks.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  Just then a couple of brightly festooned highway patrol cars came screaming in, one of them skidding as it braked. ‘Only about thirty minutes behind everyone else,’ Pam muttered.

  ‘I’ll need details,’ Ellen said, as they returned to the road.

  Pam described the incident at the Coolstores, the chase itself- ‘Strictly by the book, Sarge’-and then the Toyota clipping the horse and veering out of control through the fence.

  ‘Rolled and landed on its roof. Nothing we could do. Tank stopped to help the woman on the horse, I tried running after the driver, but he disappeared into the reserve.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Almost an hour. It took a while for everyone to get here.’

  Ellen looked up. ‘So that chopper is probably wasting its time.’

  She drew away, saying, ‘I need to make a call, be with you in a couple of minutes, okay?’

  ‘Sarge.’

  Ellen flipped open her mobile and speed-dialled Challis.

  ****

  Challis was at regional HQ in Frankston, tight and jittery in McQuarrie’s top floor corner office, when the call came. He fumbled for his mobile, murmuring, ‘Sorry, sir, I’d better take this.’

  McQuarrie didn’t glance up but continued to employ an age-old boss’s tactic of frowning over documents with a pen and ignoring him.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s me. Can you talk?’

  He felt a surge of spirits, not only from hearing Ellen’s voice but also from realising that its altered timbre-low and throaty-reflected what had happened that afternoon. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You’re with the super? Blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no.’

  He grinned, despite knowing that his career was about to be sunk. It probably gave Ellen a curious thrill to rag him like this, knowing he was with McQuarrie. ‘Sergeant Destry,’ he said, ‘if you’re really sure that you want to transfer to the traffic division then I’d be happy to write a reference.’

  She snorted. The super glanced up, frowned, and returned to his stack of papers. ‘Good news,’ she said, and told him something about a crashed van loaded with stolen goods, including his laptop. ‘It’s definitely yours.’

  His relief was palpable. ‘You’re a wizard.’

  ‘Have you told the super?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Don’t, Hal. There’s no need to, not now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Catch you later.’

  Challis felt buoyant, no longer afraid, no longer depressed by the atmosphere on the top floor, where policing was a rarefied thing, soundproofed and distant from the streets and the law courts. Policing here walked on carpets, wore suits and had university qualifications after its name.

  He stretched his legs and gazed around him. There were leather-bound reports on the shelves, photographs of the super shaking important hands, a rubber plant as glossy and vigorous as a plastic fake, and a cluster of tiny silver picture frames in one corner of the huge desk, featuring Mrs Super, Robert and Georgia. Georgia’s image had been scissored from a larger photograph. She’d been sitting on a woman’s lap. Janine’s?

  He grew aware that the super had put down his pen and was regarding him with faint irritation and disdain, the face of a busy man on important tasks. ‘You told my secretary this was urgent?’

  Challis said, ‘I’m afraid there’s been a development, sir. It’s delicate.’

  McQuarrie’s face shut down and he didn’t say anything, but swallowed, as if steeling himself. Thank God I don’t have to tell him about the laptop, Challis thought. I can show him the photos and retain the advantage.

  ‘Go on, Inspector.’

  ‘Sir, we found the missing mobile phone.’

  ‘And? Get on with it.’

  ‘Certain photographs were stored on it,’ Challis said, taking them from his briefcase and fanning them across McQuarrie’s desk.

  For a long time, McQuarrie was motionless, inclined a little to examine the photographs but not touching them. Finally he looked up and said, his voice catching, ‘When?’

  ‘They were probably taken the Saturday before last. Of course, it’s possible that-’

  McQuarrie gestured irritably. ‘I don’t mean that-when did you find them?’

  ‘Late yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘You didn’t think to tell me sooner?’

  ‘We didn’t want to cause any unnecessary distress.’

  McQuarrie watched him in apparent disbelief, but then switched tack. ‘I heard all about your raids this morning.’

  His spies. ‘The men in the photographs,’ Challis said.

  ‘You didn’t raid Robert?’

  ‘We interviewed him last night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Each man received a copy of his photograph in Monday’s mail.’

  ‘Janine was blackmailing them? One of them killed her? I take it she took the photos?’

  ‘We can’t be sure.’

  ‘I can,’ said McQuarrie emphatically.

  ‘Sir,’ said Challis, ‘did you suspect something was going on?’

  McQuarrie’s faзade slipped. He looked bewildered, pushing his fingers back through his hair and looking about wildly as if for deliverance. ‘There was always something about her that wasn’t quite right. Something missing. The wife and I did our best to make her welcome, make her one of the family, but Janine seemed to resent us, despise us. She was quite critical. I don’t know what it was: jealousy, perhaps? She had quite a sharp tongue, often reducing my wife to tears. She had nothing good to say about anybody.’

  His glance settled on Challis helplessly. ‘My wife’s not to hear about any of this. You can’t show these photos to anybody. How many have seen them so far?’

  ‘Only the members of my team.’

  ‘Do you vouch for each and every one of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  McQuarrie turned self-protectively nasty. ‘If our friends in the media learn about these photographs, I’ll know where to look.’

  Challis knew how to play at this game. ‘Sir,’ he said, tapping Robert McQuarrie’s photograph, ‘apparently this has been going on for some time.’

  McQuarrie flushed angrily. ‘I’m sure she drove him to it. She was a cold little bitch. I bet it was all her idea.’

  ‘Neither she nor your son gave you any indication that this was a part of their private lives?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  But you had niggling doubts about Janine, thought Challis, and when she was murdered they hardened into suspicions. You feared the reasons why she was murdered would reflect badly on you and your son, and this accounts for your apparent obstructiveness and lack of sympathy.

  ‘We don’t know why she took the photos or who else might have been involved,’ he said.

  ‘Are you saying my son’s involved? He was in Sydney when she was shot. He’s in the damn photos, for God’s sake. Are you suggesting he and Janine were in this together and his photo’s a smokescreen? Are you saying he’s next?’

  ‘No,’ Challis said, remembering Robert’s reactions the night before.


  Meanwhile McQuarrie was gaining momentum. ‘Are you saying I had prior knowledge of all this? That I killed Janine to save our reputations?’

  ‘Did you, sir?’ said Challis mildly.

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said McQuarrie, pitching about in his chair. ‘I resent the implication. Do you honestly think I wanted to bring all this down on myself?’

  Challis didn’t. In fact, if the shooting was related to the photographs, then why hadn’t the killer searched Janine’s house and office for further copies? ‘Sir, I have to ask, but did Janine ever approach you, or your wife, with overt or veiled threats or attempts to blackmail you?’

  ‘Absolutely not. She’d know I’d never have paid up and I’d have had her in handcuffs quick smart.’

  McQuarrie had possibly never carried or used handcuffs. ‘And there’s no indication that she blackmailed these men,’ Challis said, pointing to the photographs. ‘We don’t know why she chose them, took their photos or sent copies to them.’

  McQuarrie said softly, ‘But it’s a hell of a motive for murder, Hal.’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘She could have been at it for months, years.’

  Challis had thought of that. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she in it alone? Maybe there’s a lover we don’t know about.’

  ‘We’re keeping it in mind, sir.’

  McQuarrie seemed to want to tear at his sparse hair again. ‘Who else knows? How are we going to keep a lid on it? I’m relying on you, Hal.’

  ****

  39

  Meanwhile, Andy Asche was back in Waterloo.

  When the Toyota had finally stopped rolling, he’d found himself upside down and half strangled in his seatbelt. He’d released himself, remembering Natalie, but couldn’t find her anywhere. She must have climbed out and scarpered.

  So he’d run like hell through grass, bracken and cow shit, dodging around old apple trees, and vaulted a fence, darting into a dense wooded area. Damp in there, leeches probably, mosquitoes in summertime, rotten logs mossy green everywhere, gaunt dead trees, thriving pittosporum. Then out the other side, coming upon a road- Penzance Beach Road, he realised-carrying a fair bit of traffic at this time of the day. He’d ducked back into the trees and considered his options.

  Hitchhike?

  Hell no. It could take him an hour to get a ride, and the cops would be all over him before then. He remained in the shadows, beneath dripping trees, and finally saw a kid aged about fifteen come riding down a muddy driveway opposite. Saw the kid park his bike in the hedge at the entrance to the property-a winery, according to a wooden sign-and wait at the side of the road with a gym bag. One minute later, this woman in a Mitsubishi people-mover picks him up, the kid high-fiving it with other kids in the back.

  Off to footy training. Maybe I’ll be tackling that same kid at footy next Saturday morning, Andy thought, ducking across when the road was clear, jumping onto the bike, cramming the helmet on his head and pedalling away as fast as he could.

  Cool bike, too. Lightweight, snappy gears.

  Pity about the van and contents, he thought. Maybe I should get out of housebreaking, get into nicking bikes.

  He pedalled hard for thirty minutes, down to Penzance Beach, where he met the bike path that meandered across to Waterloo. Here there were always cyclists, so he’d not attract attention. Twenty minutes later, he was home, thinking that he could give the bike to Natalie’s brothers, see the looks on their faces. As for Natalie, she must have hitched out, left him behind, the bitch. He had to admire that. It’s what he would have done.

  But none of this would have happened if she hadn’t insisted they pull another job. She was fast becoming a liability. If the pressure hadn’t been on, he might have spotted that they were robbing a cop’s house. Photos, commendations, an old uniform hanging in the wardrobe.

  Thinking he’d better delete the files he’d swiped from the guy’s laptop, Andy switched on his PC.

  ****

  Back at the accident scene, Pam Murphy was standing at the broken fence, watching the crime-scene technicians dust the van for prints and take casts of the tyre tracks. The sarge was a few metres away, pocketing her phone after talking to Challis. Alan Destry called out from the other side of the road. ‘Oi, Constable Murphy, over here, please.’

  Pam stiffened. She saw him cast a half gloating look at his wife, then jerk his head and say, ‘Straight away, Constable. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Alan,’ the sarge said warningly.

  ‘It’s okay, Sarge,’ Pam said, not wanting to get in the middle of a marital row.

  ‘Don’t let him bully you,’ Ellen murmured, ‘okay?’

  ‘Okay, Sarge.’

  Pam crossed the road to where Alan Destry stood with his rump against a police car. He opened his notebook. ‘And how’s my wife’s little pal today?’

  Pam eyed him warily, wondering about the undercurrents. And was she Ellen Destry’s pal? Hardly. The sarge was fifteen years older, senior in rank, a detective, and married with children. Mentor might be a better word.

  Did he expect a response? Did she address him as ‘sir’?-after all, he was only a senior constable.

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Do you know what my job is?’

  ‘Accident Investigation Squad.’

  ‘Correct. I was in Traffic for years, drove pursuit cars, manned booze buses, taught defensive driving techniques, and coordinated high-speed chases as a pursuit controller. There’s nothing I don’t know about driving a motorcar. Nothing you can put over on me.’

  So, a challenge. Pam frowned as if puzzled by his choice of words. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, yes you do. Do you realise there’ll be an inquest? The state coroner will be involved, possibly the Ethical Standards Department?’

  ‘The Ethicals? Why them?’

  ‘That depends on you, how you answer my questions, how your partner answers my questions, and on what I learn about your conduct during the pursuit.’

  Pam stood very still, watched, and waited. She wanted to swallow. Maybe Lottie Mead had reported the stone incident after all.

  ‘Everything suggests high speed,’ Alan Destry said.

  ‘The Toyota, not the police,’ Pam flashed back.

  Destry cocked his head disbelievingly, a solid, arrogant-looking man with cropped hair. ‘If the Toyota was driving at high speeds-up to 130 kilometres an hour, according to John Tankard-then how come you witnessed the accident?’

  ‘We were not pursuing,’ Pam said, ‘we were following.’

  ‘Following at high speeds,’ said Ellen Destry’s husband, ‘and spooking the other driver.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Write it up and submit it before the end of the day. I’ve got tomorrow off, so expect a formal debriefing next Monday.’

  ‘Formal debriefing.’

  ‘Yes. What did you expect?’

  ****

  Andy Asche was in a hurry. He had to get to the post office before five. Wearing latex gloves to screen his fingerprints, he loaded his printer with paper fresh from a new packet, clicked on the photo array that he’d transferred from the stolen laptop to his computer, clicked on the four thumbnails that clearly showed the faces of four men, and clicked ‘print’, making multiple copies.

  The photos rolled out of the printer and he collated them into five bundles, which he slipped into five express-post envelopes. Before sealing the envelopes he typed up a letter, big font, plenty of bold, and printed out a copy to add to four of the envelopes. He typed a different letter for the fifth envelope. Finally he tore up the highway to Frankston, where no one knew him, and lodged the envelopes at the main post office.

  ****

  With darkness settling over the mangrove flats beside her house, and feeling cocooned by her fleecy tracksuit and the warmth of her slow combustion fire, Tessa Kane continued to search the net, a glass of wine at hand. Last evening s Google search had been useful f
or consolidating the readily accessible information on Charlie Mead and ANZCOR-the bland public face-but now she was refining her search parameters, concentrating on the period before Mead and his wife came to Australia. She’d also made dozens of local and international phone calls since yesterday, speaking to men and women who’d once studied with, taught, worked alongside or served under either of the Meads.

  At first, the results seemed promising. The deeper she dug, the more Charlie Mead’s profile blurred at the edges. She found several Charlie Meads, or variations of the one. There had been a time in the 1970s and ‘80s-after he’d served with the security forces in Zimbabwe and later worked as a security consultant in South Africa-when Mead frequently changed addresses, but she could not discover why. To avoid creditors? There was also a question mark over his service record: certainly he’d served in the South African military, but had he ever been a highly trained commando with SAS connections, as he’d claimed? Later still he’d worked for a security company in the UK that specialised in surveillance, firearms training, bodyguards for travelling businessmen, and negotiating in hostage and kidnap situations. He was sacked in 1986 after South African authorities had interrogated him regarding an attempt to provide arms and mercenaries to insurgents in the Seychelles. In the early 1990s he’d joined ANZCOR and risen through the ranks.

  Apart from references to a position held in the South African public service, she’d found almost nothing on Lottie Mead.

  Tessa felt frustrated. The facts were sparse, and although they’d required a little digging, were on public record, and didn’t point to anything obviously criminal or corrupt. What was the point in publishing an expose if there was nothing to expose? Sure, Mead had probably cut corners all his life and his values were non-existent or deplorable, but in the current political climate, which admired cowboys, Mead was bound to have powerful supporters and be seen as a man who got things done.

  There was one last strategy she could try. Reaching for the phone, she began to hire private detectives in South Africa, England and the US.