by Garry Disher
She rolled away from him. 'Fine. I'll see you around.'
'Tess—'
She turned back to him. 'Hal, it's okay. I'm not angry. You feel strange, I understand, so you should go.'
'I'll see you again.'
She kissed him and collapsed onto her pillow. 'No talking. I'm tired. See you around.'
Ginger taught two classes on Saturday mornings. He was able to fit Para into his ten o'clock. She almost didn't pack the Bolle sunglasses she'd bought him, thinking not to make a fool of herself, but he seemed to pay special attention to her, so she presented them with a shy flourish at the end of the lesson, when the others were getting changed and driving off.
'Christmas present for you.'
He blushed. 'I didn't get you anything.'
'I wouldn't have expected you to.'
'I wanted to,' he said.
'Did you?'
'I thought you'd take it the wrong way.'
'No,' she said.
The colours of the sky and the water were pink and grey, a typical soft Peninsula beach day. Pam went home in a pleasant muddle, a tingle on the surface of her skin, but that soon evaporated. The button was flashing on her answering machine. Sergeant Kellock wanted her at the station at two o'clock and she'd better not be late, if she knew what was good for her.
Rhys Hartnett arrived ten minutes early, just as Ellen was getting back from the shops with lunch things and the Saturday papers. She dumped everything in the kitchen and began to show him around the house, apologising for its faults. Alan trailed suspiciously behind them, asking what was the best way of cooling it without air-conditioning. Ellen knew what that was about: he wanted to see if Rhys was prepared to give them neutral advice.
'Insulation, for a start.'
'It's already insulated,' Alan said.
'Have you thought of ceiling fans?'
'They're no good if the air's already hot.'
'Blinds? Shutters? Grapevine on a trellis?'
Ellen said, 'We're clutching at straws, Rhys, that's obvious. So why don't you finish looking around and give us a quote.'
'We can't afford it,' Alan said.
Rhys looked inquiringly at Ellen, who said, 'It can't hurt to get a quote.'
'Noisy bloody things.'
'It's possible to station the main unit some distance away from your living areas,' Rhys said. 'You won't really hear anything.'
They came to Larrayne's bedroom. She was on her bed, reading, dressed in skimpy shorts and a singlet top. A small desk fan ruffled her lank hair. Rhys Hartnett flashed her a grin and said, 'Hi there. Hot enough for you?'
Ellen felt a twinge of pure jealousy. It surprised her. She watched for her daughter's reaction to Hartnett and was pleased to see a customary scowl. Larrayne flounced out, saying, 'So much for privacy in this house.'
Ellen rolled her eyes. 'Sorry, Rhys. She can be very rude sometimes.'
'Rude? That? Nah. I've done quotes on tax-dodge farms for Brighton society cows who could show your daughter a thing or two about rude.'
Challis had rung the state distributor of Cooper tyres, who'd said: 'I used to be the only distributor, but these days there's a rip-off merchant selling them in your neck of the woods,' and now he was driving along a side street in Rosebud. Tyre City covered half a block, an eyesore of stacked tyres, grimy sheds, oily dirt and dead grass caught in the cyclone perimeter fence, CHEAP TYRES in letters taller than a man covered the front wall of the main building. When Challis drove in, and parked to one side, and showed himself, half of the workforce seemed to melt away into the shadows while the other half stared hostilely at him. Challis knew that he smelt like a cop. All cops do—to those who have reason to be sniffing for one. Meanwhile the din—rock music, pressurised air escaping, the hammering of hand tools—was stupefying.
He showed his ID to the man who emerged from a small, glassed-off office. 'Are you the boss?'
The man nodded. 'You're talking to him.'
'You sell a brand of tyre called Cooper?'
A cigarette bobbed in the man's mouth. 'Might do.'
'Either you do or you don't.'
'All right, I do. So what?'
'Not a common tyre,'
'Not real common, no.'
'Not many sales?'
The man shrugged. 'People buy 'em.'
'You'd remember it if someone wanted to fit a set of Coopers?'
The man seemed to have oil and grease deposits on his face, hands and clothing. He was small, shaped like a barrel, and wore a permanent scowl. 'Probably not.'
'Come on. A deal like that would stand out in a business like this.'
The man squared his jaw. 'Meaning what, exactly?'
'Meaning most of your business consists of selling barely roadworthy tyres to people who drive rustbuckets,' said Challis harshly. I want your undivided attention for a minute.'
'Mate, I sell all kinds of tyres and buy all kinds. Blokes in Jags come here, blokes in VWs. I sell truck tyres. I got tractor tyres out the back. I buy job lots at auction and I buy single tyres. I buy from other dealers. I buy bankrupt stock. I'm an acknowledged dealer for most of the main brands.'
'Point taken, point taken,' Challis said. 'So the only way we can investigate your sales of Cooper tyres is if we look at your books, is that it? You'd have them recorded, wouldn't you? I'm sure you're the type of bloke who does the right thing by the tax man.'
The man shifted uneasily. 'Bit behind in me paperwork this month. Take a bit of finding, the office is in a bit of a mess. Plus, I wouldn't necessarily have the customers' names written on the invoices.'
'What about car registration numbers? Surely you'd record them on the invoices?'
The man scratched his head. 'Not always.'
An hour later, defeated by the man's office chaos, Challis returned to Waterloo. As he drove into the car park at the police station he recognised McQuarrie's car in the visitor's slot and was tempted to turn around and go out again. He needed a haircut, he hadn't walked on the beach for weeks, he had Christmas shopping to do.
The phone was ringing when he got upstairs. There was no-one else to answer it.
He recognised the caller's voice. 'It's Hal Challis, Mrs Gideon.'
Her voice was low and tired. 'Have your men found anything, Mr Challis?'
He said carefully, 'We're running down several leads. We have a clear idea what sort of vehicle your daughter was taken away in.'
'And what sort would that be?'
'A four-wheel drive of some kind.'
She was silent.
'Mrs Gideon?'
'Thank you.'
And the line went dead.
Pam Murphy reported to the conference room, a room chosen to intimidate her, she thought, with its huge table and flattening ceiling and all but two of the chairs empty and accusatory. She sat in a third chair and watched Superintendent McQuarrie steeple his fingers beneath his chin and gaze at her. She felt sick. Why was he sticking his oar in? She glanced across at Senior Sergeant Kellock, who wouldn't look at her.
'Sir, we did everything by the book.'
'Lady Bastian says otherwise,' McQuarrie said.
'Sir, with respect, she wasn't there.'
'A young man from a good family, never been in trouble before.'
'That's not true, sir. Two traffic offences and—'
'Small potatoes,' the superintendent said. 'We have a young man from a good family, and two police officers at the end of a long shift at one of the busiest periods of the year, namely Christmas. It's late, very dark out. No independent witnesses. One constable is well known for his aggressive policing. In fact, he's the focus of community concern, and I've had to talk long and hard to persuade Ethical Standards that they need not send a team in to investigate.'
Tank had told her that might happen. If enough people complained about him, Ethical Standards might be obliged to take a look.
'Perhaps you're not aware, Constable Murphy,' Kellock put in, 'exactly what an Ethical Standards
visit can mean. If they find against you then not only does your station undergo random behavioural management audits, but the officers under scrutiny would be forced to undergo extra behaviour and leadership courses at the Academy. Is that what you want?'
'No, sir.'
'Fortunately the Superintendent and I are confident that Mr Bastian's complaint falls within the resolution process. There's no need for further examination from outside.'
'Complaint, sir?'
'Harassment.'
Pam shook her head, thinking, I don't believe this.
McQuarrie leaned forward. 'Constable Murphy, isn't it possible there was something unsound about the arrest? Isn't it possible that Constable Tankard overreacted?'
'No, sir.'
'You were with him at all times?'
'Sir, it's procedure to separate witnesses and offenders during questioning. Constable Tankard took the girl aside for questioning and I questioned Mr Bastian. Standard procedure. We didn't want to give them more of a chance to agree on the story they'd cooked up for us.'
'Miss Price claims she was driving the car.'
'That's a lie, sir. We both saw the driver at the start of the pursuit. It was a man.'
'Saw him clearly?'
'Fairly clearly. A man's arm.'
'Perhaps she was wearing his jacket.'
'It was a warm night, sir. Neither was wearing a jacket.'
'Do you see what I'm getting at, Constable Murphy? This could mean egg on our faces—your face.'
The man was a bully. He was clean, alert, neat, and as slippery and nasty as a snake. And piss weak, a man more inclined to suck up to a wealthy family than protect the interests of his officers.
'Doubt, Constable Murphy. Doubt is creeping in.'
I stand by my statement, sir.'
McQuarrie leaned his sharp head close to the file before him. 'Miss Price also says, and I quote: "The male police officer tried to put the hard word on me. He asked for sex and for me to admit I was not the driver, or I'd go to jail." Did you hear that conversation, Constable?'
'No, sir.'
'But it sounds right, wouldn't you say? It's the sort of thing Constable Tankard is capable of?'
'He strikes me as a competent officer, sir. Professional.'
In reply, McQuarrie stared at her. He seemed to be making mental calculations, about her, or Tankard, or the case itself, she didn't know.
John Tankard saw her coming out of the conference room. 'Pam. How you doin', mate?'
'Not bad, Tank, considering.'
'Holding up okay?'
'Trying to.'
'Don't let the bastards grind you down.'
'I won't.'
He took her arm and pulled her into a corner, where he muttered, 'Look, Pam, what did they say about me?'
The door to the conference room opened. Kellock poked his head out. 'Constable Tankard, we're ready for you now.'
Three o'clock, the station very quiet, everyone gone home or doing Christmas shopping or playing cricket or tennis, so Scobie Sutton was relieved to see John Tankard coming out of the conference room. 'Tank, you busy?'
Tankard looked bleak and cold. 'I'm not on duty for another hour.'
Sutton glanced at the conference room. 'What's going on?'
'Nothing.'
Sutton let it drop. 'You'd be doing me a favour.'
'Like what?'
I need to talk to some gypsies.'
Tankard broke into a grin finally. 'Gypsies? You're having me on. What, they crossed your palm, told you to sink all your savings on a slow horse? All right, I've got nothing better to do.'
Sutton explained while Tankard drove. 'I didn't put it together until last night, when I was reading my kid a story. She asked me what a gypsy was. A few days ago I interviewed an elderly couple who'd had a woman come to the door, offering to bless the house or any spare change they might have lying around, except when the old dears turned their backs she tossed the joint. And a few days before that a woman came into the station, reckoned she was a "Romany seer", telling me we'd find Jane Gideon's body near water.'
'No shit.'
Sutton pursed his lips, staring ahead through the wind- screen, remembering what this Sofia had said about his daughter. How had she known it? Next to him, Tankard said, 'Scobe? You awake in there?'
'Pardon?'
'Jane Gideon.'
Sutton waved his arm. 'Oh, the information was too vague. The point is, I checked the daily crime reports. If it's the same woman, she's robbed half-a-dozen people.'
Tankard slowed for a level crossing. The tyres slapped over the rails and then he accelerated again. 'You could bring her in, put her in a line-up, see if anyone identifies her.'
The boss would never okay it. This is just a hunch,' Sutton said. 'But a photograph, now that's a different matter.'
He reached back between the seats to a camera and dumped it in Tankard's lap. It was a Canon fitted with a telephoto lens.
'I hope you know how to use it,' Sutton said.
'No problem. Just keep her talking where I can get a clear shot at her.'
They came to the Tidal River Caravan Park, a depressing patch of stunted ti-tree, dirty sand and stagnant, mosquito-infested water that wasn't a river and hadn't seen a tide in a long time. The main area consisted of toilet blocks, a laundry, the main office and early summer holidaymakers in large caravans with tent annexes. The margins of the park, nearest the main road and poorly sheltered from dust, noise, wind and sun, had been set aside for longer term tenants in caravans, recreation vehicles and plywood or aluminium portable homes.
'Gypsies?' the park manager said.
'A woman calling herself Sofia. Tells fortunes,' Sutton said.
'Oh, her. A gypsy? Didn't know we had any. I just thought she was a wog. Goes to show.'
'If you'd point it out on the map?' Sutton said.
The map was rain-stained and sun-faded behind a sheet of thick, scratched perspex. The manager pointed. 'There, in the corner. Her and her brothers and a few kids.'
Tankard drove slowly through the park. Sutton sensed his restless, swivelling eyes. To be that obsessed would be to invite an ulcer, he thought. He pointed. 'There.'
Sofia and a small naked girl were sitting on frayed nylon folding chairs under a canvas awning at the side of a dirty white Holden Jackaroo that had been converted into a small mobile home. There was a matching Jackaroo behind it and a caravan behind that. There was no vehicle coupled to the caravan but a rugged, snouty-looking Land Cruiser was parked under a nearby tree. Sutton saw three men watching from a cement bench-seat and table in the shade of a leaning wattle. The ground was bare and hard. Sutton had an impression of untidiness, even though Sofia and the men were neatly dressed and there was no sign of litter at the site.
Perhaps it was the dog, a skinny, threadbare blue heeler. It was lying in the dirt, paws on what Sutton realised had recently been a good-quality leather backpack, the fine black leather now torn and chewed.
The three men watched him get out of the Commodore. As he closed the door, one got to his feet and sauntered away. Before Sutton had reached Sofia and the child, a second man strolled off, his hands in his pockets. Then the third. What flashed into Sutton's mind then was the fact of the four-wheel-drive vehicles with rear compartments. Then he thought of Sofia and the reason for his visit, and realised that, with the men gone, John Tankard could aim his camera without being spotted.
'Remember me, Sofia?'
She watched him. There was no humour or animation in her face. 'Your little girl is happier.'
'That's because the creche is closed from now until the end of January. My wife—'
'She needs time to adjust.'
Sutton supposed that Sofia meant his daughter, not his wife, and wondered if she were being clairvoyant now or simply expressing an obvious truth.
'Two things, Sofia. Number one. You came to us saying you knew where Jane Gideon was. Have you thought any more about that? Was this a feeling yo
u had, did someone tell you where she was, did you actually see her? I might have been a bit offhand the other day,' he concluded hastily.
'Not offhand. Disbelieving. You disbelieved me.'
'Well, it's not every day—'
'You found her near water, didn't you, just as I said you would.'
'Perhaps your brothers—'
'They don't know anything.'
'Fine. So you felt that Jane Gideon was dead, is that what you're saying? You had no direct knowledge?'
'If you want to put it that way. What's the second matter you want to talk about?'
Sutton looked at the dog. It had fallen asleep with its jaw on the backpack. 'Sofia, in your role as clairvoyant—'
'Seer.'
'—seer, do you sometimes bless people? Their homes or their possessions, I mean. Tell them their worldly goods will multiply, that kind of thing?'
Sofia seemed to draw upon her reserves of dignity. 'I'm not a magician. I don't conjure up things that aren't there to begin with.'
'Fine, fine.'
'There are charlatans who say they can do these things.'
'You wouldn't know of any of them? Where I can find them?'
At that point, a small brown snake began to cross the space between the rotting nylon chairs and the caravan. Neither Sutton nor Sofia said anything, but Sofia gently stepped over to the child in the second chair and lifted her free of it. The snake glided, unconcerned, beneath the caravan.
'You learn to live with them,' Sofia said.
There was a special article about him in the main Saturday paper. It said he'd 'snatched' both women. What a laugh; they both got willingly into the passenger seat. Number three, now, she was snatched, good and proper.
He hadn't been prowling when he saw her the first time. It had been dawn, first light, and he'd been on his way to work.He saw her jogging, slim legs pounding, elbows pumping, shoulder blades flexing beneath the narrow straps of a singlet top. Sweatband to hold her hair back. His headlights in the uncertain dawn picking up the reflective strips on the heels of her running shoes. The air was cool. It would be hot later, and she probably had a job to go to, so that's why she was running at dawn. He veered wide around her, went on down the Old Peninsula Highway, thinking it through.
