The Dragon Man

by Garry Disher

The Pajero site was easy to find, a smallish patch of blackened grass and scorched trees and fence posts. A farmer coming home from the pub after a cricket match late the previous night had seen the blaze and put it out with the fire extinguisher he kept in his car.

  There was a white sedan parked nearby. A man in a short-sleeved shirt was taking photographs. Pam approached him, saying, 'May I ask what you're doing, sir?'

  The man straightened. He was about forty, calm and unhurried-looking. 'Insurance,' he said.

  Pam nodded, then looked at the burnt grass. 'Where's the vehicle?'

  'Carted off to the police garage about—' the man looked at his watch '—half an hour ago. I'd given it the once-over. Now I'm checking the scene.'

  They stood together musingly. Bracken, blackberry thickets, rye grass and gum trees hugged both sides of the road, but here there was only an area of ash the size of a room, dotted with lumps of molten glass and plastic, some remnants of the electrical circuitry and four fine wire sculptures that were all that remained of the tyres. Scattered around the perimeter were bottles, drink cans and cigarette packets, as though whoever had torched the Pajero had stood there gloating.

  'We get a couple of these a month,' the insurance investigator said. 'It's become a copycat thing.'

  'And a summer thing,' Pam said.

  'Yeah, the general madness.'

  On an impulse, Pam collected the newer-looking cans, bottles and cigarette packets, picking them up with the end of her pen and stuffing them into a large plastic evidence sack. She paused. Was that the guts of a car phone?

  'You're fucking mad,' John Tankard said when Pam was behind the wheel again. 'You want to give yourself a rest or you'll get a promotion.'

  Danny discovered, as the day progressed, that his fingers were all thumbs. He dropped coins, couldn't open paper bags, spilt the thermos coffee over one of his mother's tea cosies, there on the trestle table, just as someone was about to buy it.

  'What the hell's got into you?'

  'Sorry, Mum.'

  'Look, take yourself off for a walk, get out of me hair.'

  'Sorry, Mum.'

  He took her advice and walked along the bicycle path. The truth was, his nerves were shot to pieces. That stunt of Jolic's yesterday, bashing those people, then following that sheila in her Mercedes just because she gave him the finger. The way he kept shouting, 'I'll kill the cunt, I'll kill the cunt,' spit flying around inside the Pajero. The way he just drove and drove after that, for hours, risking discovery but not giving a damn, he was so worked up.

  Culminating in Jolic parking on a back road and using the Pajero's car phone to call one of his heavy mates to come and fetch them.

  Danny hadn't understood. They'd waited there on that dirt road, Jolic a massive dark shape in the dim light of the moon, and he'd asked, 'Why can't we just dump it near home and walk the rest of the way?'

  'Because,' Jolic had said.

  Danny soon understood. When the mate, Craig Oliver, arrived in his panel van with a few tinnies from the pub, Jolic torched the Pajero. They stood there, the three of them, watching it burn.

  And now that young copper, turning up like she knew something.

  No wonder his nerves were shot.

  McQuarrie came by at five o'clock, bidding them a happy new year and suggesting a brief brainstorming of the case. More of a brainbashing than a brainstorming, Challis thought, as the clock on the wall showed five-thirty, six, six-thirty. Sunday evening, New Year's Eve, he could see how thoroughly demoralised everyone was. As soon as McQuarrie had left the room, he tiptoed comically to the door, stuck his head into the corridor, looked left and right, pulled back into the room and shut the door, his face a pantomime of subversive intent. Good, they were laughing, relaxing.

  'I know you've all got families to go to,' he said, 'but if anyone wants to stay on for a quick meal, pasta, a glass or two of red, it's my shout.'

  He watched them uncoil. All but a couple reached for the phones to call home, some of them arguing, others pleading and apologetic. By seven o'clock they were seated in the bistro overlooking the marina. They were noisy, their way of shaking off McQuarrie and cruel deaths and life's mischances. Challis felt some of his tightness relax. He knew that at the end of it his detectives would be a little more united and work together a little better. There was also the reminder that they were not so very different from other wage-earners, entitled to a night out with one another and the boss.

  At one point, Ellen Destry roared in his ear, 'When are you taking me flying again?'

  'Any time you like.'

  I was not popular at home afterwards.'

  'Why?'

  'Alan thinks he's losing me.'

  'Losing you to me?'

  'Losing me in general,' Ellen said.

  After a silence, she said, leaning close to his ear, 'Hal, did you ever cheat on your wife?'

  Challis swung away from her, hooking one eyebrow. 'Ellie, I seem to recall it was the other way around.'

  Too late, she realised what she'd said. 'Good one, Ellen. Hypothetically speaking, Hal—' that rolled nicely off the tongue '—speaking hypothetically now, do you think in most couples there is a temptation to stray?' She shook herself, attempting to focus on him. 'Hypothetically speaking.'

  'You're pissed, Ellie.'

  She swayed back. 'So what if I am? I'm entitled.'

  'Of course you are.'

  'I started at lunchtime.' She poked his chest. 'One day we'll see you sozzled.'

  'How about now?' Challis said, and felt himself grin and slide down in his chair.

  Pam Murphy felt herself snap awake with the answer there clearly before her. She'd not been reminded of magazine photographs when she toured the burnt house, but of actual photographs, laid out on a shop counter. She closed her eyes again, mentally putting a case together. She'd take it to Sergeant Destry; with any luck she'd be allowed in on the arrest. Sleep didn't come again. When the dawn light began to leak into her room, she left the house and walked down through the dunes to the beach, where the water and the wide world were still, and she felt herself tingling, like a hunter.

  SEVENTEEN

  Monday, 1 January. When Pam Murphy came on duty, she went straight to Sergeant Destry with the crime-scene photos and said, 'Sarge, I think Marion Nunn was behind that aggravated burglary.'

  Destry stared at her for a long, half-amused moment. 'There's nothing I'd like better than to put Marion Nunn away, but you're going to have to convince me first.'

  'Well, the other day John Tankard and I were called to a photo developing shop because the manager was worried about some photos he'd just developed. They were interior and exterior shots of a house, and the customer was Marion Nunn. Later when I walked through the ag burg house, it seemed somehow familiar. Last night, I twigged.'

  'What's Marion Nunn got to do with the house?'

  'Her firm's selling it, Sarge. There's an auction sign on the front fence. No-one's going to question it if her firm's selling their place for them and she's there taking photos that they think will be used in advertising.'

  'If they're not used for advertising, what are they used for?'

  'I think Marion Nunn has an accomplice. She gives him the photographs, and he uses them to plan how he'll commit the burglary.'

  'What did the photos look like?'

  'Not the kind you'd normally take if you were trying to sell a house. There were shots of the back door, the windows, interior shots of glass cabinets with her reflection in the glass, the alarm system, etcetera, etcetera.'

  'Maybe a junior in her office took them, that's why they looked amateurish.'

  'Marion Nunn dropped them off for developing, Sarge.'

  'But it's not proof that she took them. And wouldn't the owners have been suspicious of the sorts of shots she was taking?'

  'I checked the date in my notebook. When the photographs were dropped off for developing, the owners had already been in Bali for four days. If she was selling the house fo
r them, she'd have had a key.'

  'Okay, let's say for argument's sake that Marion Nunn was behind it. Who does she give the photos to?'

  'Someone she's defended in the past.'

  'Maybe. Let me do some checking, talk it over with Inspector Challis.'

  'So you think I've got something, Sarge?'

  'It's as good a theory as any I've heard recently.'

  And so the next morning Pam was called to Sergeant Destry's office and told, 'Since you're so keen, I've arranged for you to do some legwork for CIB on this aggravated burglary. I'm told you found the remains of a car phone where the Pajero was burnt?'

  'Yes, I—'

  'Contact Ledwich, get the number of the car phone, see what calls were made on it between, say, early afternoon and midnight on Saturday.'

  She was okay, Destry, but, like anyone with rank, a bit short on pleasantries. Already she was turning away to open one of the files on her desk. If Pam didn't turn and leave now, Destry would likely look up and ask, 'Was there anything else?'

  There was something else, Marion Nunn and the photographs, but Pam stepped out into the corridor and went in search of an unoccupied desk phone.

  Lance Ledwich wasn't overjoyed to hear from her. 'The number? Why? I've seen what's left of my vehicle—sweet bugger-all. What good's the phone number to you?'

  'Mr Ledwich, whoever stole it may have used the car-phone to call someone.'

  'I don't like this. I don't see that it's necessary.'

  'Mr Ledwich, who are you fooling? You used to drive the Pajero despite being banned, is that it? Right now I don't care about that and I can't prove it. I just want the earphone number. We're hoping that whoever stole your car made some calls.'

  Ledwich thought about it for a long time. Perhaps he doesn't want us to find out who be had been calling, she thought. Finally he said, 'Fair enough,' and after a minute's rummaging came back on line to recite the number. 'Got that?'

  'Got it.'

  'It'll all be straightforward, won't it?'

  'How do you mean, sir?'

  'The insurance and that. The vehicle was stolen from me fair dinkum. I mean, I don't know who, or why.'

  'We're looking into it, sir,' was all the satisfaction that Pam felt inclined to give him. If the job developed instincts, then hers were setting off bells.

  But she put that aside and called the phone company. By lunchtime she'd ascertained that three calls had been made on Ledwich's car phone before midnight on Saturday. The first two, made between 9 a.m. and midday, were to small video libraries. Pam dialled the third number. It rang for some time. The voice that answered was surly, hurried, bitten off, and Pam asked it to repeat itself.

  'Refinery Hotel, I said. Look, you called me, remember?'

  Pam explained who she was and said, I wonder if you can help me with a call that was made to this number late Saturday evening.'

  The man laughed. 'You must be joking. This is the main bar. You know how many calls we get here?'

  'Were you working the bar on Saturday, sir?'

  'Me? No way. Right now it's morning, right? Well, I work mornings.'

  'Could you tell me who was working the bar that night?'

  'Hang on, hang on,' and Pam flinched as the handset at the other end clattered on to a hard surface, probably the bar.

  She waited for several minutes. The man came back with the names of two women and one man.

  'Do you have home phone numbers for them, sir?'

  'Can't help you, sorry. Try the book, but bear in mind they were working last night, so they'll be asleep now.'

  Pam matched names and phone numbers with the phone book listings and found addresses for all three. She waited until early afternoon before knocking on doors.

  At the first address, a ground-floor flat in a small block behind the shopping centre in Waterloo, a cheerful-looking woman told her, 'Love, we're generally too busy to pay attention. Sure, sometimes someone wants to speak to one of the regulars.'

  'Do you recall if any of your regulars took a call that night?'

  'No.'

  At the next address, a weatherboard house set in weeds behind the Waterloo aerodrome, she learned even less. 'Wouldn't know, sorry,' the barman said.

  'This would be late evening, around eleven.'

  The barman yawned and scratched his belly. I always let someone else answer it.'

  'A man—probably a man—wanting to talk to one of your regulars.'

  'Look, try the girls working with me. Maybe one of them took it, Liz or Rina.'

  'I've talked to Rina. No go.'

  The door began to shut. 'Try Liz.'

  Pam put her foot in the gap. 'Did you receive a personal call, sir?'

  'Me? Nobody'd call me.'

  And the door shut and Pam looked at the weeds and thought that the barman was probably right.

  Liz, at the front door of her house in the Seaview Estate, said, 'Late evening?'

  'Four past eleven.'

  'We don't get that many calls. Let's see . . .'

  'A call either to hotel staff or to one of your patrons,' Pam said. 'More than likely a man.'

  'There were two or three like that.'

  'To your patrons?'

  'Yes.'

  'Can you remember who?'

  Liz laughed. 'On a Saturday night we get the hard-core regulars, holiday people, locals out for a meal and a drink, plus visiting tennis and cricket teams. Give me a day or two. It'll come to me.'

  As Pam turned away, Liz said, 'Those other two have quietened down a lot.'

  Confused, Pam stopped and said, 'The people you work with?'

  'No, no, those two coppers, Tankard and that other one. They've been keeping their heads down.'

  Pam didn't want her offside, but a cosy chat about van Alphen and Tankard would amount to a betrayal of the line she'd drawn when she was posted to Waterloo, so she said nothing, just nodded and smiled non-committally, and walked to the van.

  'It's good knowing you're around, Pam,' the woman shouted after her.

  Pam didn't remember ever seeing her before.

  The telephone rarely rang at the Holsingers', and so when it rang on Tuesday morning, Danny told his mother: 'If that's Joll, tell him I'm not here. Tell him I've gone off for a few days.'

  'That moron,' his mother said.

  She picked up the phone. Danny waited, stepping from foot to foot in the kitchen. The way his mother glanced at him then, he knew that it was Jolic on the line. 'Not here,' his mother said. 'Don't know when he'll be back. The foreman gave him the rest of the week off, so he's gone to stay with his auntie up in Sydney. Tell him yourself,' she said finally, and put down the receiver.

  'You want your head read, hanging around with that moron.'

  'Mum, I'm going around to Megan's.'

  'Another moron.'

  Megan was alone. Danny said, 'Why don't we go off together, somewhere new.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Up Cairns way,' Danny said. 'Surfers Paradise. One of them.'

  'Just like that. Dump my job, my mum, my friends, and just take off.'

  'Not forever, just, you know, for a while.'

  Megan stared at him suspiciously. 'You in trouble or something?'

  'Me? Nah.'

  'You could have fooled me. Something's going on and I want to know what.'

  'Nothing, I tell ya.'

  'Is it Boyd Jolic? I bet it is. What's he got you into?'

  Danny chewed his bottom lip. 'I tell ya, Meeg, he's mad.'

  'Tell me something I don't know. What's he made you do now?'

  'Nothing. But he's a mad bugger. He's fire mad for a start.'

  Megan's fingers went to the thin strand of gold at her throat. Danny had given it to her last Sunday. Plain, elegant, classy, except now it felt heavy and grubby, like she had a dog chain around her neck. She took it off. 'Where did you get this?'

  'Bought it in Myers,' Danny said, quick as a flash. 'Look, if he comes looking for me, tell him you h
aven't seen me. Tell him I've gone off somewhere.'

  She stared at him. 'Like where?'

  'Give us a break, Meeg. I'm scared of the bastard. I want to stay clear of him for a while.'

  'I don't like this.'

  'So, what do you reckon? Cairns? Noosa? Surfers?'

  'Danny, I'm not leaving. You go, if you want.'

  Danny chewed on his lip again. When he put his arm around her, she pushed it away.

  'Come on, Meeg, just a quick one, before your Mum comes home.'

  'That's all I'm good for, right?'

  'I tell you what, I got this video we can watch, get us in the mood.'

  She frowned. 'What kind of video?'

  'You'll see.'

  After a few minutes, she pulled away from him and scrabbled for the remote control. 'That's disgusting. It's sick. How could you? How could you think I'd be turned on by stuff like that? God, Danny.'

  Even Danny seemed stunned by what he'd seen.

  That afternoon, van Alphen told Clara, 'That's it, finished. Santa isn't coming any more.'

  The look she gave him told him that he'd just shown his true colours, and as she twisted out of his arms he found himself in a foolish tussle with her, made up of an attempt to embrace and console her on his part, and fury on hers. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her. He wanted her to listen to stern reason, give up the cocaine, and find her lifeline in him.

  But she shook him off finally and yelled at him, bent forward at the waist, thrusting her hate-filled face at him. 'You think you're here to save me, right? Think I'll melt in your arms. I'd have to be fucking hard up, mate, I can tell you. As a root you're less than average. So if you can't get me any more blow, I'm going elsewhere.'

  She walked to the curtains and jerked them open. Then she extinguished the incense stick in the dregs of her gin and tonic. The light through the window was harsh on her face, the room; a harsh judgment on what van Alphen had got himself into with her.

  He could see the irony. He'd just spent a few days of his spare time in shadowing a local dealer, finally getting lucky when he searched an empty flat the guy had visited twice in a row. He'd found a stash of cocaine and amphetamines hidden above a ceiling batten in the bathroom. He'd flushed away most of it, bagging just enough to replace what he'd removed from the evidence safe. He'd nearly been caught, but the point was he hadn't been caught, and he'd walked coolly back into that old feeling of being able to take on the world and win.