by Garry Disher
'You do want your vehicle back again, I take it?' Pam said.
Vicki Mudge shot a look past her ear. 'Yeah, sure, it's insured.'
There's something there, Pam thought. A suggestion that she'd be uncomfortable if the Pajero turned up.
When van Alphen found Clara she was trembling, sitting in curtained gloom, a kitchen knife in her hands. No incense this time.
'Clara?'
'I've been trying to reach you all day!'
'We had a suspicious fire.'
'They were here!'
'Who were?'
'The people who want me dead.'
He crossed to her, thinking that he couldn't keep up with her and she was bad news, but he was in too deep to let her go. She bewildered him. She'd be lucid, calm and funny, her head firmly on her shoulders, then a little sultry and uninhibited when it was time for sex, then strangely hyper and funny but also easy in her head whenever she'd done a line of coke—and then she could be like this, freaked out and making no sense. He couldn't avoid thinking that she'd never been a casual user in the past, but an addict, and it had fried her brain, only she was good at hiding the fact. And now she was on the stuff again, courtesy of him, and the madness was showing.
He thought all of these things even as he hugged her tight and stroked her temples and wanted her so badly that he slipped his hands under her T-shirt, to where her flesh was hot and pliant.
She erupted, shoving, screaming at him. 'Didn't you hear what I said? They were here!'
'Clara, who were?'
'I told you, the people who want me dead.'
'Who wants you dead?'
'People from my past. It doesn't matter. The thing is, I need protection.'
'What did they look like?'
I didn't see them.'
'Then how—'
'I saw their car.'
'Where?'
'It came right into my driveway, sat there, then went away again.'
'Ah,' van Alphen said. Maybe she wasn't losing her marbles. 'Can you describe it?'
'It was a white Mercedes.'
'You're sure?'
I had one like it once, in the good old, bad old days.'
See? Sharp and self-mocking again.
'Okay, white Mercedes. Did you—'
I had the impression,' Clara said, concentrating, 'that there was another car out on the road, a big dark one. It slowed as it went past the gate, but by then I was paying more attention to the white one in the driveway.'
'Did you get the registration?'
'Forgot. I was too scared.'
'That's okay, most people forget.'
'What will you do?'
'Stay the night, for a start.'
She hugged her upper arms, sat rocking, her knees together. 'I'm really strung out, Van.'
'I'll give you a massage.'
She rounded on him, shouting, I don't want a fucking massage. I need you to get me some more blow.'
'Clara, lay off that stuff. You've had a shitload since I met you.'
She was scornful, looking him up and down. 'You want me, right? My cunt?'
'Clara, I—'
'If you want me you're going to have to pay for it, like any punter. Do I owe you special privileges? I don't think so.'
He was dismayed to find himself so hurt and so floundering. 'I thought—'
'You thought this was special? Uh, uh. I'm special. You want me, lover boy, you pay for me. What's wrong? Shocked, are we? Thought I was a little angel, did you?'
'I looked after you.'
'Then fucking continue looking after me. Get me some more stuff, or fork out a hundred bucks a time to see me naked.'
She lifted her T-shirt, waggled her torso briefly, covered herself again. Something fractured a little further in van Alphen then. That life boiled down to supply and demand, rather than values, was the position he'd reached after a working life doing this shitty job.
Saturday night, about eleven o'clock, and Challis was alone in the incident room, logging on to the database to see what the analysts had found. He was looking for a similar pattern of abductions and rape-murders in other parts of the country, with cross-references to mini-vans, four-wheel drives and other rear-compartment vehicles.
When the call came, a Mitsubishi Pajero found abandoned and torched at the side of a dirt road near the Old Peninsula Highway, his first thought was: Maybe our man's panicking, getting rid of evidence.
But within an hour he'd established that the Pajero had been stolen earlier in the day, probably by two men fleeing from an aggravated burglary, and, disappointed, he logged off and left the building.
He got home just as one day drifted into the next and it was New Year's Eve.
SIXTEEN
Sutton was in the Displan room telephoning Vicki Mudge with the news that her Pajero had been found. 'Unfortunately it's been destroyed. Abandoned and then burnt.'
A strange gasp in the woman's voice—almost of relief, Sutton thought—covered immediately by a cough: 'Burnt? Oh dear.'
'You might like to inform your insurance company. Meanwhile we'll be investigating this pretty thoroughly. We think the men who stole your Pajero yesterday were responsible for a pretty vicious aggravated burglary earlier.'
And that's how he learned that Vicki Mudge was not the owner of the Pajero but the sister of the owner. The owner's name was Lance Ledwich and he lived on the other side of the Seaview Estate. Cosy, Sutton thought.
When Challis came in, he said, 'Boss, we need to take another look at Ledwich.'
'Convince me.'
'He lied to us. He owns a Mitsubishi Pajero, only he kept it at his sister's house, not all that far from where he lives.'
'Why didn't your DMV check turn it up?'
'Registration had lapsed, boss.'
'Go on.'
'It's the Pajero stolen after that ag burg yesterday. The one that was torched last night.'
'You think he arranged to have it destroyed?'
'It's possible, but I think it was just bad luck.'
'Good luck for us, perhaps, except that as evidence it's worthless now that it's been destroyed. What about the sister?'
'Name's Vicki Mudge.'
'She known to us?'
'Her husband is, Paddy, sexual assault.'
Challis went very still and alert suddenly. 'They're working together.'
Sutton shook his head. 'Paddy's been in Thailand since late November.'
'Check it out.'
'I will,' Sutton said. 'The thing is, boss, yesterday when I questioned Vicki Mudge she seemed pretty edgy, and just now, when I said the Pajero had been burnt, she sounded relieved, then edgy again when I said there'd be a thorough investigation. That's when she came clean about who owned the Pajero.'
'She knows something's up, and she's protecting her own skin.'
'Could be.'
'All right, talk to Ledwich again.'
'I'd like to take that new female constable with me.'
'Why?'
'She's cluey.'
'Fine,' Challis said.
Pam Murphy's shift didn't start until midday, but Detective Constable Sutton came looking for her in the canteen and said, 'You're coming with me. I've talked to your boss.'
She drove, Sutton talked.
'Everything's dragons and monsters at the moment. Maybe she's picking up vibes. When the wife heard about Trina Unger, she said, "The man's a monster," and Ros said, "Where's the monster? Is there a dragon, too?"'
'Really?'
'Plus it's become a battle of wills. She plays the wife and I off against each other, refuses to go to bed, kicks up a stink when it's bathtime, won't eat what's put in front of her.'
'Sounds typical,' Pam said.
'Typical, sure,' Scobie Sutton said, 'but until you've encountered it yourself you don't realise what strong wills they've got. I mean, my daughter, three years old, could teach a tribe of Hell's Angels how not to back down in the face of authority.'
Pam fing
ered her jaw. It hurt. She'd been struck by her board in the surf during the morning's lesson with Ginger and ever since then she'd been exploring the bruise with her fingers, aggravating it, but unable to leave it alone. 'Sir, where are we going?'
'No need to call me "sir". "Scobie" will do. Inspector Chalhs wants us to have a word with a man called Lance Ledwich.'
'Why me, sir?'
'I watched you yesterday. Your instincts told you there was something off about Vicki Mudge. Well, she's Ledwich's sister, and had been looking after the Pajero for him.'
Pam mused on that. 'Is Ledwich a suspect in the highway killings?'
'He was, then he wasn't, and now he is again.'
'How come?'
'One, he's on the sex offenders list. Two, his alibis are weak. Three, thanks to our burglars we now know that he owns a four-wheel drive—or did, until they torched it for him.'
'Pity about that. Now you can't check it for forensic evidence.'
I told Challis you were on the ball.'
Pam rolled her jaw a little. 'Thank you, sir.'
'Something wrong with your mouth? Toothache? Take it from me, don't leave it and hope it'll go away. See a dentist straight away. I had a bad toothache once, I was in court all week, couldn't do a thing about it except stuff myself with painkillers. When I was finally called to give evidence, the defence walked all over me. Couldn't think straight.'
I got clipped by a surfboard, sir.'
He stared at her. 'You're kidding me. You surf?'
'Learning to.'
'Huh.'
They found Ledwich on a stepladder, erecting a sensor light on the corner of his lockup garage. He climbed down, wiping his hands on an oily rag. 'You can't be too careful.'
'Can't you?' Pam said.
If she disliked the look of a man, she'd stare disbelievingly, to rattle him. She saw it work on Ledwich. There was something oily about him.
'We were wondering, Lance,' Sutton said, taking out his notebook, 'whether you wouldn't mind reconsidering one of the answers you gave me the other day.'
'Which one?'
'The one that went: No, I don't own another motor vehicle.'
Ledwich flushed sullenly. 'My sister. Stupid bitch.'
'Why should she get into trouble over you, Lance?'
'Look, it was unregistered, I'm not allowed to drive for another twelve months, she's got a good garage, so I thought, why not store it at her place.'
'Your heart must really be broken.'
'Why?'
'Your pride and joy, stolen and trashed like that.'
'Oh, yeah,' Ledwich said, as though he'd just remembered to grieve for it.
'You don't seem too upset, sir,' Pam said.
'Well, you know, insurance'll cover it.'
'Are you sure about that?'
Ledwich faltered. 'Won't they?'
Sutton said, 'Did you pay someone to do it for you, Lance?'
'Do what?'
'Steal and burn your Pajero.'
'Christ no.'
'It's a fair assumption.'
I don't follow.'
'Fibres from the dead girls inside the Pajero, the police checking tyres, only a matter of time before you got caught out. You must've been panicking, needed to get rid of the evidence in a hurry.'
'You're clutching at straws, mate.'
He was too cocky, as though some of his cares had been laid to rest recently. Pam found the nerve to say, 'Let's assume you're the victim here, Mr Ledwich. Was there anything in particular about your Pajero that might explain why it was stolen, or anything that might help us identify who took it? Accessories, CD player, items left inside it, that kind of thing?'
Ledwich wiped his palms again. 'No. I got nothing to hide.'
Now, that was an odd response. Pam pushed it: 'No-one suggested you had, Mr Ledwich.'
'You lot are acting like you're more interested in my car than who took it. I mean, Jesus.'
'He's wound up,' Pam said later.
'Definitely hiding something.'
They questioned the neighbours, then drove to the scene of the aggravated burglary. The Fairmont—traced to an elderly widower in Waterloo—had been towed away. Fire and insurance investigators were there, but not the owners, who were still resting in hospital. Pam walked through the house while Sutton talked to one of the stable hands. The damage was minimal, she realised, some scorching and a patina of soot and smoke, so that, with imagination, she was able to picture the rooms as they'd been before the fire. A vulgar hand had decorated the place. It was as if she were looking at an interior design magazine in a doctor's waiting room, one fussy room blending into another, so that they seemed oddly familiar to her.
Ellen got in late after a fruitless morning interviewing other names on the sex offenders list. She was surprised to see Rhys Hartnett's Jeep at the courthouse, and after locking her car, crossed the driveway to find him. He was unloading wall vents. 'Hi,' she said, startling him.
'Hi.'
'We'll have to stop meeting like this.'
He frowned and rolled his shoulders, as though she'd come too close and should back off.
'You should give yourself some time off, Rhys,' she said.
He shrugged. 'If I don't get this job done I'll miss out on other contracts.'
Ellen realised that she hadn't accounted for his finishing at the courthouse and going elsewhere. It would leave a hole in her life. She hadn't discussed the matter further with Alan and Larrayne, but she found herself saying, 'Speaking of which, I've decided to accept your quote.'
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her carefully. 'That's okay with your husband?'
'It's my money.'
'Just out of interest, what did the other companies quote?'
She looked down briefly and toed the gravel with her shoe. 'I didn't actually approach anyone else.'
'To set your mind at rest,' he said, 'the reason why I've always got work is because I quote low.'
'I can give you a cash deposit,' she said. 'Would that help?'
'Help me with the tax man.' He held up both hands. 'Whoops, forget I said that.'
'We all have hassles with the tax man, Rhys.'
'Yep. Look, a deposit won't be necessary. Pay me at the end.'
Ellen thought: What a stupid conversation. He must think I'm stupid. It's because we don't know each other. We stand here out in the open when we should be in a quiet corner somewhere.
'What do you say to lunch in the pub?' she said, careful to keep it light.
He looked at her for a long moment, then glanced at the ground. 'Now?'
'Give me ten minutes.'
'See you then,' he said.
Pam Murphy came back with Scobie Sutton to find John Tankard waiting for her in the passenger seat of the divisional van.
'Sucking up to CIB, Pammy?'
She ignored him and drove the van to the Sunday market in the car park opposite the Waterloo tennis courts. There had never been reports of stolen goods on sale, but still the police were obliged to make a walk-through of the market. Pam parked the van under a gum tree and got out, leaving Tankard sprawled in the passenger seat. In the old days, before the leaflet campaign, he would have been in the car park measuring tyre-tread thicknesses, slapping roadworthy infringement notices on windscreens, generally hassling the natives. Not now. Too much palpable hatred in the air whenever he showed his face in public.
She saw Danny Holsinger and edged toward him. Danny and his mother operated a stall every Sunday, selling crocheted shawls and doilies, woven string holders for hanging plants, slip-on covers for hot-water bottles, teapot cosies and other fussy pink things that no-one had much use for, certainly not on a hot Sunday morning.
When the mother was out of earshot, Pam said, 'Happy new year for tomorrow, Danny.'
Surprised, he said, 'Yeah.'
'There was an ag burg near the racecourse yesterday. Rather a nasty one. What's the word?'
Danny looked edgy. Then again, he'
d always looked edgy around teachers, policemen, priests, anyone with any authority over him. T'm not into that.'
'I didn't say you were. You're a loner, Danny. But have you heard any whispers around the place? We're looking for two men, one big, the other about your size. They stole a Pajero. Torched it some time last night, over by the highway.'
'Wasn't me.'
'Danny, relax. Just keep your ear to the ground, okay?'
Then the mother returned with an armful of fussy cot blankets from the boot of her car, so Pam wandered through to the organic produce stall, thinking she might buy some tomatoes. Next to it was a donut van. She stopped, bought a couple for John Tankard.
She returned to the divisional van, winding her way among the remaining stalls. Where did they get their stuff, all that junk, half of it old, half of it brand new and made of cheap metal and plastic in China somewhere? Toys. Tools. Household gadgets. She couldn't see anyone in Waterloo arranging a buying trip to China. So it had to be bankrupt stock, sold at auction, except the handmade stuff, the jams and doilies and coloured bead jewellery.
Tankard hadn't moved. 'Hungry?'
He opened his eyes. 'Murph. You're a doll.'
Pam belted herself in, started the engine, eyeing him sadly. 'That is not a pleasant sight.'
His mouth full, sugar on his chin, he asked, 'Where to now?'
'That Pajero,' Pam said.
'What the fuck for? Leave it to CIB.'
'CIB think something smells wrong.'
'Big-deal detective, on the case.'
Pam ignored him. Ginger had been so sweet this morning. He'd taken her back to his house and gently massaged a strange, foul-smelling cream into her jaw. Said it was pawpaw extract and would work wonders. She was still waiting.
They rode in silence, until Tankard stiffened like a hunting dog. 'Check that. Broken tail light.'
That was pretty typical, Pam thought. Lonely road, solitary, vulnerable motorist. 'Leave it, Tank.'
'Yeah, well, we all know about you, soft on the locals.'
Pam ignored him. Tankard went on: 'You know what your problem is? You're a snob.'
'First I'm soft on the locals, now I'm a snob. Which is it?'
'Never see you down the pub. You don't mix. What are ya?'
'I'm not you, Tank, that's all that matters. You want the world to be like you, and frankly that is a terrible thought.'
