Snapshot ic-3

by Garry Disher

  ‘We use a hypnotist,’ Challis said.

  They all gave him pie-in-the-sky looks. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For when?’

  ‘Monday morning was the earliest it could be arranged.’

  Ellen cocked her head. ‘That will blow the budget. How did you get the super to agree to it?’

  Challis gave her a wintry smile. ‘I haven’t told him yet.’

  Ellen watched him. ‘Let me guess: Tessa Kane-or rather, her newspaper-is paying.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Challis a little heatedly, ‘but before you all start scoffing, I want to point out that we’ve found a hypnotist who has worked successfully with the police before, and Ms Kane has agreed not to publish any details that might compromise the investigation. But she does get exclusive rights to a story in Tuesday’s edition about a witness coming forward and undergoing hypnosis.’

  Ellen gave him a mutinous scowl. Meanwhile Scobie Sutton was shifting in his seat, as if trying to find room for his long, restless legs, but Challis read the discomfort as psychological. He felt fed up with both of them.

  ‘Boss,’ Scobie said, ‘what if that puts the taxi driver’s life in danger?’

  ‘Ms Kane won’t name him, or what he does for a living.’

  ‘No offence, but I think we have to think twice about what we reveal to the press from now on,’ Scobie said, folding his arms with an air of finality. ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘Ellen?’ Challis said.

  Ellen had been watching them with a cold smile. ‘Is Ms Kane going to be sitting in?’

  They don’t trust her, Challis thought. They think she’ll publish everything that Joe Ovens reveals under hypnosis and the police can go jump in the lake.

  They think I’m still involved with her.

  He said tensely, ‘Ms Kane has a right to sit in. She’s paying for it, and has given me assurances.’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. See you on Monday.’

  Challis clenched, wanting to have it out with the pair of them, but told himself to count to ten, and barely acknowledged them as they made their way out of the incident room.

  ****

  The funeral was at eleven. Scobie Sutton took fifty photographs with CIU’s digital camera, then returned to the station and logged them in. Finally, tired of working on the McQuarrie murder, he went in search of Natalie Cobb.

  ‘Andrew Asche?’ he said, outside a flat in Salmon Street.

  ‘Er, yep.’ said, the kid in the doorway.

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘I’m Andy Asche,’ the kid said.

  Scobie did what he always did, tried to read the body language, tried to pick up early-warning signals that Andy Asche was lying or feeling guilty. Ellen had the gift, Challis had it, but somehow it had passed by Scobie. He got his results from doggedness and the rulebook. Still, he suspected that he could train himself if he kept trying.

  All he got was a neatly-put-together young guy who was understandably nervous about finding a policeman on his doorstep. That could be said of ninety-nine point nine per cent of the population, guilty and innocent alike. It’s when you met an individual who wasn’t that you took a step back, got out your gun, and called for backup.

  ‘Natalie Cobb,’ Scobie said.

  A flicker in the kid’s eyes. ‘What about her?’

  ‘You’re her boyfriend?’

  A non-committal shrug. ‘Not really. We used to hang out a bit. What’s she done?’

  ‘I don’t know that she’s done anything,’ Scobie said. It was chilly out here on the porch. ‘Can we go inside?’

  Asche thought about it, then gave in. ‘If you like.’

  Scobie followed him through to a sitting room in which everything was mismatched and second hand. Photographs of flash cars on the wall.

  ‘You like cars.’

  Andy shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And a computer buff, I see.’

  The kid really looked nervous now. He’s been looking at porn, Scobie decided. There were sheets of screwed up printer paper in a cane wastepaper basket under a table against one wall, an impressive-looking computer on top of the table. A different sort of copper would tighten the screws about now, just for the hell of it-search what was on the computer, go through drawers and the waste paper.

  Andy Asche said, ‘Has Nat been hurt or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. Has she?’

  ‘I’m asking you,’ Asche said, getting some of his nerve back.

  And fair enough, too, Scobie thought. I’m no good at rattling cages. ‘Her mother hasn’t see her since Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday,’ the kid said flatly.

  ‘Correct. Have you seen her since then?’

  ‘We’re not that close.’

  ‘But have you seen her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  Scobie watched Asche carefully. He was a good-looking kid; fit, neat, an earring, that’s all. Was he going to lie?

  ‘Haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.’

  Yes, he was going to lie.

  ‘So that wasn’t you who picked Natalie up outside the Frankston Magistrates’ Court on Tuesday?’

  Slowly dawning comprehension. ‘Oh, yeah, that’s right, I forgot.’

  ‘Where did you take her that day?’

  ‘Back to school.’

  ‘And have you seen her since then?’

  Andy Asche was adamant that he hadn’t seen Natalie Cobb since that day. ‘She’s been kind of moody,’ he offered. ‘All that crap about her mother getting arrested, stuff at school, you know.’

  Scobie tried again to get the measure of Asche. ‘If she contacts you, ask her to call home, and ask her to call me, can you do that, please?’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  ****

  Sunday was another still, grey day. It should have been a day of rest for Pam Murphy-’rest’, in her case, meaning an opportunity to train for the triathlon-but she’d received official notification that she was to present herself for a formal interrogation on Monday, and spent the day going over her notes and trying to contact Tank, who wasn’t at home or answering his phone.

  She couldn’t call the sarge. She couldn’t call anyone. It was a miserable Sunday.

  ****

  It turned miserable for Vyner, too.

  When the text message came, he’d been writing in his journal, Let there be one constant in all of your fine dreams-you own your own destiny. Not original-it had been spouted at an own-your-own-life seminar he’d attended when he got out of the Navy-but what you did was adapt to or move on from what has already occurred. Then the message came, Got another job 4 U, and he was suddenly well and truly obliged to own his own destiny.

  Vyner shot a message back. OK.

  And back came the details.

  30 thou, Vyner replied, upping his price, half up front.

  ****

  45

  Monday morning.

  Tessa Kane, Joe Ovens and the hypnotist had been shown to a room called the victim suite, so-called because it was recognised that rape victims, lost or recently orphaned children and distressed adults needed a non-threatening room for their waiting and grieving. Soft lighting, comfortable armchairs, a box of cuddly toys in the corner. Coke, Fanta and mineral water in the fridge, spirits in a locked wall cupboard. A table and padded chairs, TV/VCR set with tapes of ‘The Simpsons’, ‘The Wiggles’ and Notting Hill.

  Joseph Ovens was old school and promptly stood when Ellen entered the room ahead of Challis and Sutton, a smile on his broad, pleasant face. He gestured with a walking stick as Challis introduced him to the others. ‘The leg’s a bit gammy today.’

  ‘Must be the fog, or hanging around rivers with a fishing rod,’ Challis said with a grin. He knew Joe: Tessa Kane had recommended him. Joe often drove Challis to conferences, the airpo
rt and police headquarters in the city.

  Challis turned inquiringly to the hypnotist, a short, plump woman with severely permed grey hair, who cast quick, assessing looks at each of the CIU detectives and immediately took control.

  ‘My name is Fran Lynch,’ she said. ‘I’ll state from the outset that I know very little about the case, or the witness, or the results of the police investigation. I prefer not to know. I don’t want to bias my approach through foreknowledge, making assumptions, offering leading suggestions or asking leading questions, for the very good reason that I don’t want any potential evidence thrown out of court. Fair enough?’

  Challis shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I have no idea what Mr Ovens will say in response to my questions, I don’t know if what he says will help you or not, and I don’t even know if he’ll make a good subject for deep hypnosis-no offence, Mr Ovens.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Ovens exchanged a grin with Challis. He was getting a kick out of this.

  ‘As for my credentials,’ Lynch continued, ‘I trained as a psychologist and therapist, developing an interest in forensic psychology and hypnosis. I lived in New York City for many years, where I trained alongside an expert who was used regularly by the police and the district attorney’s office. Here in Australia my hypnosis has covered everything from helping kids stop chewing their nails to getting descriptions that have put rapists and murderers behind bars.’

  Challis nodded. There was a challenge in her voice, and he simply wanted to get the session over and done with.

  Then the curtains were closed, the dimmer switch set to low, and Challis, Tessa, Ellen and Scobie sat in the shadows and watched. Ovens was shown into a deep, enveloping armchair, with Fran Lynch sitting opposite in a stiff-backed chair. She began in a low, gentle voice:

  ‘Close your eyes and relax, you are letting go, feeling comfortable, no tension, no pain…

  ‘Now I’m going to count to three, and on the count of three your arms and hands will feel pleasantly loose and heavy.

  ‘You will continue to relax, drifting, drifting, deeper, deeper, all of your tensions draining away, no cares or worries, no fears or anxieties, just deeper and deeper.’

  The lead-up took twelve minutes, at the end of which Lynch counted to three again and said, ‘And now you feel totally relaxed, wonderfully peaceful in mind and body, and it’s time to go back to a particular morning, you’re heading along Lofty Ridge Road, a familiar route, and something you see lodges in your mind. There is a house that you’ve passed many times before, a steep driveway and an unfamiliar vehicle. Perhaps you could describe it to me.’

  His posture limp, his voice slurred, Ovens said:

  ‘I was driving along the road there where it runs higher than the level of the houses on either side, and there’s this house and driveway I always watch out for because the old lady who lives there hires me to drive her to the shops or her doctor once or twice a month, in fact I drove her to hospital for a hip operation, so I don’t expect to see a strange car in her driveway. Two cars.’

  ‘Could you describe these two cars?’

  ‘There was a newish silver Volvo station wagon near the house, and an older car coming up the driveway towards me.’

  ‘Describe that car for me.’

  ‘It was a Holden Commodore, mid 1980s vintage.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘My son had one, his first car.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about the Holden?’

  ‘I noticed the number plate because it was sort of partly my initials and my phone number.

  At this point, Ovens’s finger began writing, tracing numbers and letters on the soft leather arm of his chair. Lynch gently slipped a pad of notepaper under his hand and wrapped his fingers around a pen. Ovens wrote, then stopped.

  ‘What else did you see?’

  ‘The driver had to brake suddenly or he would have collected me. He was youngish, shaved head, puffy kind of face.’

  ‘Any other distinguishing features?’

  There was a long pause, and Challis wondered if Ovens had gone to sleep. Then, in a slow, even voice, ‘Not that I can recall.’

  Challis scrawled a hurried note and passed it to Lynch: Ask if he noticed the drivers right hand.

  Lynch scowled, pondered, and said, ‘Did the driver have both hands on the steering wheel?’

  Joe paused and said slowly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about them?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  Challis could see that Lynch was struggling not to lead Joe. She lost the struggle and said simply, ‘Was he wearing gloves, a watch, a ring?’

  Joe, in a fog, said slowly, ‘No.’

  Challis sighed, disappointed.

  ‘And the other man?’ Lynch went on. ‘Where was he sitting?’

  ‘The passenger seat.’

  ‘Describe him for me, please.’

  ‘His face was obscured by his arm. I think he was putting on or taking off his cap, a black beanie. But he bothered me,’ the taxi driver said. ‘They both bothered me.’

  ‘And the car, Mr Ovens. Can you be more specific about the car?’

  This was the crucial question, and Challis leaned forward intently. He hadn’t wanted to disturb the rhythm of the session, or offer Lynch leading material, but he did need to know if Ovens’s description reinforced Georgia McQuarrie’s.

  Joe Ovens grunted, as if finding himself on familiar ground, and recited, ‘Holden Commodore, early to mid 1980s, mag wheels, a dirty white colour, tinted windows-an amateurish job because you could see the bubbles under the film-and rust on the sill of the rear door but not the driver’s door. That was a kind of pale yellow, like they’d got it from a wrecker’s yard.’

  Challis exchanged a smile and nod with Ellen and Scobie, their differences temporarily forgotten.

  ‘You saw the car clearly, Mr Ovens?’

  In his dull voice, Joseph Ovens said, ‘I know all about cars. Plus I saw the driver’s side of the car, then the front number plate, as I passed it.’

  Ten minutes later, it was clear that Lynch would get nothing more out of Ovens. Challis gathered the tape, which would be transcribed immediately, and the notepaper on which Ovens had jotted those letters and numbers he could remember seeing on the Commodore: OT?, he’d written,?59.

  ****

  46

  Ellen was impressed by the session, despite herself, but Tessa Kane had been cool towards her, and afterwards, as they were all filing out of the victim suite, she’d overheard Challis ask Kane out to dinner, to say thank you. Yeah, right.

  She hadn’t heard Kane’s reply, but the image of the pair of them seated in a restaurant burned inside her. So now, back in the incident room, she was sharp with Challis. ‘Did this Joe character remember correct letters and numbers? Are they in the correct sequence? What if the O was a Q, or the T was a J or an I? What if the plates were stolen from another vehicle, or are from another state?’

  Challis was defensive. ‘What you say is true,’ he said, ‘and so we try all combinations. We also check the stolen car register and ask them to cross-reference to reports of stolen plates.’

  ‘You’d think they’d have dumped or torched the car afterwards, but there have been no reports.’

  ‘But earlier in the week we didn’t know what make and model of car we were looking for,’ said Challis impatiently, ‘and we only checked locally for abandoned or torched vehicles.’

  ‘They could still be driving around in it.’

  ‘Then issue a general be-on-the-lookout to all stations,’ he said heatedly.

  ‘Keep your shirt on. The description of the driver might get us somewhere.’

  They glanced across to the corner of the big room, where Scobie Sutton was seated with Joe Ovens before a laptop screen. Earlier in the year, Scobie had attended a training course aimed at helping the police generate computer likenesses based on witness descriptions. This was his first opp
ortunity to use it.

  ‘Georgia’s certain about the missing finger?’

  Challis nodded firmly. ‘Absolutely certain.’

  ‘She’s just a kid, Hal,’ Ellen said, still stroppy, but also aware of the irony: playing devil’s advocate was often what she did when they were working together, and working well.

  Challis eyed her warily. ‘She shows the missing finger in several of the drawings. She was adamant, and I didn’t have to prompt or lead her.’

  There was an awkward pause. ‘What are you doing now?’ she asked.

  Challis began to head towards his office, saying over his shoulder, ‘Transcribing the hypnosis tape onto my laptop. Then when Scobie and Joe have agreed on a likeness, I’ll install that, too.’

  ‘And not let the laptop out of your sight?’

  ‘And not let it out of my sight,’ he said.

  Ellen returned to her desk and began to search the databases. Plenty of crims with missing fingers but none who matched the other search parameters, none associated with the Peninsula, organised hits or getaway drivers. Even so, she thought, easing the kinks in her back, it was lucky that Joe Ovens had driven past Joy Humphreys’s house at the moment the killers were leaving. Anyone else might have driven past and even glanced down the driveway, but the old taxi driver knew the elderly woman who lived there, and that she was in hospital. We lay personal maps over standard maps, Ellen thought. A taxi driver mentally maps the terrain with details about clients and traffic hazards, a police officer with the locations of unforgettable arrests, criminals, victims and crimes, and burglars with getaway routes, sensor alarms and guard dogs.

  ****

  It took Scobie an hour to create a face that satisfied Joseph Ovens, after which he’d fed the details into the data base, and now he was scrolling through photographs of convicted crims whose features matched the computer-generated likeness, Ovens saying, ‘They all look the same after a while.’