by Garry Disher
After a while he said, 'Anything?'
'No, boss.'
Then Challis heard it, the thud and chop of rotor blades. A voice crackled on his radio. 'Inspector Challis?'
'In the reserve. Can you see it?'
Silence, then, 'Approaching you now.'
'There are four of us,' Challis said. 'Two uniforms, two plainclothes. We're wearing white shirts.'
'How's our target dressed?'
'I don't know.'
'Roger. We'll flush him out, sweeping now.'
Suddenly light was probing the trees near Challis. It flicked like an angry finger, then began to make steady sweeps across the reserve as the helicopter moved slowly down its length.
In the mind-numbing din, Challis felt ill. He realised that he hadn't eaten for many hours. He thought about following the light, then decided to head in the opposite direction. There were men enough to grab Hartnett if the spotlight flushed him out, but what if it had passed right over him and he was behind the sweep now, safe in the darkness, waiting until he could slip away.
Hartnett shouldn't have moved, Challis told himself later. Hartnett should simply have waited. But he didn't wait. He burst from a thicket, screaming unnervingly, swinging a knife. Challis felt the blade slice above his nipple. There was warm wetness at first, then the pain.
He feinted, dropping to one knee with a groan. Hartnett swung around. He was still screaming, fighting the air with the knife. The danger to Challis lay not in Hartnett's skill and calculation but in that windmilling wild arm. Challis rolled on to his back, jackknifing his knees to his chest. To Hartnett, it must have signalled submission, for he ran forward, bending low, coming around on Challis's left side, still screaming.
Challis waited. He waited for the upstroke, the moonglint on the knife that told him it was about to swing down and cut him open. Propping on his forearms, he swivelled his trunk around and shot out both feet.
He caught Hartnett's knees. One smacked against the other and Challis heard the moist, muffled crack of a bone breaking. Hartnett screamed. His arms swung up and his back arched. He flopped to the ground and began to flounder. Challis felt terrible. He'd never seen so much agony in anyone and had never caused so much.
TWENTY-EIGHT
'He kept saying, "Your mother's a bitch. Stupid copper bitch. Stupid copper bitch who goes back on her word."'
'Hush, love, it's all right.'
'It was like it was personal.'
'I think it was, this time.'
'He told me I was always rude to him. Well, I was. I always thought he was a sleazebag. I told you I thought that. I couldn't believe you brought him into the house.'
'It's all right, sweetie. It's all right. You're safe now.'
They were in the car. Sutton was driving, with Challis next to him. The ambulance crew had cleared and dressed Challis's cut before taking Hartnett away. Larrayne Destry was in the back of the car, with her mother. She'd refused to be taken to hospital.
'You don't have to talk about it now.'
'I want to.'
'Okay, sweetie.'
'You think he raped me, don't you? Well he was going to, he said. Kept telling me all the things he was going to do to me. Told me this time was going to be different from the other times. This time he was going to draw it out for a few days.'
Challis heard the soft scrape of fabric against fabric. He didn't turn around. They were not wearing their seatbelts but were huddled together, sniffing, sometimes crying, Ellen ceaselessly touching her daughter's face.
'He showed me all this stuff.'
'What stuff?'
'There was a watch, a ring, a hair clip. Little things.'
'Souvenirs.'
'Oh.'
A cloud passed across the moon. They seemed to be alone on the black road. Challis coughed, and said, over his shoulder, 'Where did you see these things, Larrayne?'
He sensed that Larrayne was leaning toward him. 'Where Mum found me, inside that cabinet thingy in his van.'
Challis nodded. 'And he talked about the other women he'd abducted?'
'Over and over. Boasting.'
Ellen said, 'I can't believe I let him see those tyre casts. He must have enjoyed himself, working next door to the police, watching them flounder. Probably couldn't believe his luck.'
Challis nodded. It would have taken a certain kind of nerve and arrogance for Hartnett to stay on at the courthouse, working, watching.
As if reading his thoughts, Ellen said, 'He was under our noses the whole time. I trusted him.'
It occurred to Challis then that his sergeant had something to hide. She was fighting unwelcome emotions and realisations. Her talkativeness—she was feeling relief, but did she also feel betrayed and embarrassed? It was as if something had happened to challenge her good judgment of herself. He remembered seeing her with Hartnett several times. How far had it gone?
'How much longer do you intend to hold my client?'
Scobie Sutton said, 'All in good time, Mrs Nunn.'
He was tired and dirty. He'd been scratched by blackberry canes at the edge of the reserve where they'd captured Hartnett. He wanted to go home. For days, it seemed, he hadn't seen his daughter, or not awake, anyway.
Challis had briefed him. He'd listened to the taped interview with Danny Holsinger. He was ready.
'Mr Jolic, you are still under caution.'
'Sure.'
'I want to inform you that one of your accomplices has given you up.'
'Doesn't surprise me.'
'Boyd, shut up,' Marion Nunn said.
'No, you shut up.'
Sutton went on wearily, 'You and Danny Holsinger—'
'Danny Holsinger. Habitual thief and liar. My client—'
'Mrs Nunn, please, just let me finish.'
'Yeah, let the man finish.'
'Don't you care what happens to you?'
'Shut up. You bore me.'
Sutton decided to sit back and watch. He turned to Marion Nunn, who felt his gaze and said, 'I'd like a moment alone with my client.'
'Certainly.'
'Yeah, well, I don't want a moment alone with her,'' Jolic said.
'Boyd, I'm warning you, don't let your tongue get you into trouble.'
Sutton swung his gaze on to Jolic. Jolic looked less tough and arrogant, suddenly. He seemed to struggle to ask, 'Mr Sutton, you'd say I was pretty normal, wouldn't you?'
'Depends how you measure it, Boyd, but sure, I'd say so.'
'Not sick or twisted?'
Sutton shook his head emphatically. 'Nup.'
'Stop this! Just stop it!' Marion Nunn said. 'Constable Sutton, I'm asking you now, terminate this interview.'
'But Mr Jolic's got things to say,' Sutton said.
'If I give you certain information, it'll look good in the eyes of the DPP, right?' Jolic asked.
'A very good chance.'
'Okay. Here goes. I done the ag burg. I burnt the fucking four-wheel drive. I killed the woman. Only you got to understand— I was aggravated. She shouldn't of—'
'Boyd, shut up.'
Boyd Jolic jerked his thumb. 'This cow here? She gives me house plans, photos, whatever, and I pull jobs for her. We split it fifty-fifty.'
'Interesting.'
'Listen, goggle-eyes, don't go taking his word against mine.'
Sutton stared at her.
'She's got this empty house, Mr Sutton,' Jolic said. 'All the stuff's still there probably.' He paused. 'She shouldn't of said I was sick.'
'In you go.'
'You're not going to rough me up, Sergeant?'
'I'm in a good mood,' van Alphen said, gently pushing Marion Nunn into the cell.
The next morning, Challis said, 'Scobie, you're coming with me.'
They drove through the town, which now seemed less edgy, more benign and trusting, as though everyone had heard the news overnight and gone back to being themselves. Or is it me? Challis thought. Do I read things as they are, or as I feel? But there were more peopl
e about. More of them looked cheery in the face of the early sun.
They found Lance Ledwich in his sitting room, watching morning television, women in leotards flexing on grass, the Sydney Opera House sailing behind them. Challis could smell eucalyptus vapour and there was a hot lemon drink on the floor. He tossed the videotape that had so offended Megan Stokes on to the coffee table.
'Know what this is, Lance?'
Some of the life seemed to go out of Ledwich. 'Never seen it before.'
'Funny, it was found in your four-wheel drive.'
'Don't know nothing about it.'
'Scobie, search the kitchen, see if you can find the keys to Mr Ledwich's garage.'
Ledwich sank in his chair. A minute later, Sutton returned, holding a bunch of keys.
'Stay with him,' Challis said. 'I won't be long.'
One wall of the garage was lined with metal shelves. Challis counted a dozen professional-grade video reproduction units. There was also a colour photocopier and a stack of garish sleeves ready to be slipped into empty cassette cases. On the bench nearby was a padded postbag with US postage on it, containing the master videotape. Was the brother-in-law on a buying trip in Thailand? Was the sister involved, too? Did they have many under-the-counter customers for their videos? Did they charge much? Enough for Ledwich to afford a Pajero, Challis decided—the Pajero also part of the man's image, the cool operator.
He looked at his watch. Noon. He was giving himself the rest of the day off. Let someone else interview Rhys Hartnett. He wasn't interested in what made Hartnett tick.
The shift in the atmosphere had been clear to Pam the moment she stepped into the station at the start of her shift. Challis had made an arrest. Destry's daughter was safe. The whole station seemed happier.
She was paired with John Tankard for the day. She drove. Their first job was to investigate reports of theft from two panel vans belonging to surfers at Myers Point. She found that her heart and stomach were doing funny things. She wondered if she'd see Ginger. Just knowing he was nearby was setting her off.
John Tankard had the Age in his lap. 'Charges reinstated. That's what I like to hear. Whaddya reckon, Murph?'
'Blood oath,' she said, sticking her lower jaw out, deepening her voice, grabbing the wheel as if she were going into battle.
He flushed. 'Aren't you a sweetheart.'
On the other side of the Peninsula, Challis was shaping a new airframe strut. He lost himself in the crisp bite of the wood plane, Lucky Oceans on Radio National and a letter that had come from an old man in Darwin:
'With reference to your request for information regarding A33-8. This was an air force serial number, applied to nonmilitary Dragons that were impressed into service with the RAAF during the war. I had the pleasure of flying A33-8 in early 1942, just before the fall of Java. I was stationed in Broome, and made a dozen trips in her, ferrying Dutch refugees to Port Hedland. I do know that your aeroplane started life working for the Vacuum Oil Company, flying geologists about the north-west, but what became of her after the war, I really couldn't say. If it's not too much trouble, perhaps you could send me a snap of her.'
On the five o'clock news there was a report of human remains found caught in bullrushes at the bend of a creek on the other side of the Peninsula. Challis swept his wood shav- ings into a bin, bundled his overalls into the Triumph and drove home over the bone-jarring back roads. He walked inside, his footsteps booming in the hollows of the house. The red light was flashing on his answering machine. Three calls. He pressed the play button. ID confirmed on the body in the creek; then his wife; and before the third caller spoke, he discovered, with a tiny shift in his equilibrium, that he was waiting for a low, slow-burning voice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Garry Disher grew up in rural South Australia and now lives near the Victorian coast. In 1978 he was awarded a creative writing fellowship to Stanford University, California, where he wrote his first short-story collection. A full-time writer for many years, he is the author of novels, short story collections, writers' handbooks, the Personal Best anthologies, the Wyatt crime thrillers, and books for children. His novel, The Sunken Road (Allen & Unwin, 1996), was shortlisted for several major awards and nominated for the Booker Prize by his English publisher.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE
Two
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
Six
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
