Peace

by Garry Disher

  ‘I’m afraid there’s only one of me,’ Hirsch said. ‘In a perfect world I’d station someone here overnight for a few weeks, or drive past every hour, but that’s out of the question. Have you thought of installing CCTV?’

  Dunner jerked his head, inviting Hirsch to walk with him to the office. ‘What good would that do? A ghostly image of some idiot with a spray can? It would only illustrate what I already know.’

  ‘We might get an ID.’

  Dunner shook his head. ‘Costing me a fortune in cleaning.’

  Everything would boil down to cost with this man. Installing cameras, for example. They reached the door to the office. ‘It seems significant that the attacks have been recent.’

  Dunner paused in the act of turning the doorhandle. ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s not tourist season, is it? Too hot. Were there any guests staying the nights the place was graffitied?’

  ‘Well…’ Dunner gave a slow nod. ‘Now that you mention it, no.’

  Was it that helpful, knowing the place had been empty? Any fuckwit could drive past, see there was no activity and think: hey, let’s spoil some rich bastard’s day.

  Someone local, thought Hirsch. He followed Dunner indoors. The reception area comprised a desk, armchairs and a drinks machine, with a spacious office behind it. Eleanor Dunner was in there, listening on a landline phone. Dressed similarly to her husband, and just as skinny and vigorous. She twinkled her fingers at Hirsch.

  Rex Dunner crossed to the drinks machine, yanked on the door. ‘Coke? Lemonade?’

  ‘I’m fine. Who belongs to the Audi?’

  ‘Film producer. Scouting locations,’ said Dunner, with a little inflation of his chest, as if touched by Hollywood glamour.

  ‘One big location.’ Hirsch gestured towards the endless landscape beyond the thick, cool walls. ‘Is he travelling alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hirsch cocked his head. ‘You heard what happened at Mischance Creek?’

  Dunner turned his face north-east unconsciously, as if the creek ran just outside the building. ‘Nasty business.’ He paused. ‘Hang on, are you saying he’s involved?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ said Hirsch easily. ‘But I do need to ask if you’ve seen any odd activity in the past few days. People, vehicles, anything at all.’

  ‘Mate, any passing car is strange. People drive past just to see the woolshed, they don’t necessarily call in. Quick selfie at the side of the road and off they go to the next tree or hill or ruin. I’ve stopped noticing.’

  ‘Any other guests?’

  ‘A nature photographer in four,’ Eleanor Dunner said, emerging from the office, her hand out.

  Hirsch shook. Her fingers were strong, her palm dry. ‘Man? Woman?’

  ‘Man.’

  ‘What’s he drive?’

  She shared an amused glance with her husband. ‘His car’s there now, Paul, if you’d like a look.’

  ‘Bear with me, Mrs Dunner. What’s he drive?’

  ‘A car’s a car to me,’ she said. ‘A silver car, will that do?’

  Just happy to look down on other motorists from the cockpit of her Range Rover, thought Hirsch. ‘Would you mind showing me the reservation book? It’s important.’

  She was amused. ‘We are computerised, Constable Hirschhausen.’

  She stepped behind the counter, tapped on a keyboard, swivelled a monitor so that Hirsch could read the screen. Philip Whiteman, an address in Ultimo, Sydney, a New South Wales registration number. Hirsch was uneasy. Parked where it was, his police Toyota was not presently in view of the shearers’ quarters, but had he been seen driving in? Making a note of the Whiteman number plate, he asked for the film producer’s reservation details.

  ‘Paul, what’s going on? I don’t feel comfortable about any of this.’

  ‘I’ll be out of your hair in just a moment. I just need to run both plate numbers and if there’s no cause for alarm, I’ll leave you and your guests in peace.’

  ‘Now there’s a statement to put our minds at rest,’ Eleanor Dunner said. She tapped the keys. The film producer was named David McAuliffe; an address in Crows Nest, Sydney; South Australian car registration. The Audi was probably a rental.

  Hirsch didn’t have the capacity to check interstate plates using the Toyota’s onboard computer, so he called to ask Sergeant Brandl to run both sets.

  ‘I’m with Inspector Kellaher and the others in the incident room,’ she replied. ‘Soon as I can commandeer a computer I’ll call you back.’

  Marooned with the Dunners, Hirsch made awkward conversation for five minutes, and then his phone buzzed.

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘I’m putting you on speaker phone. The New South Wales plates belong to a silver Camry owned by Whiteman Photography, an address in Ultimo.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The other plates belong to a blue 2007 Holden with lapsed registration, last owner a used-car dealership in Hahndorf, since closed down.’

  The Adelaide Hills, thought Hirsch. One of the main routes into the city from the eastern states.

  He wandered over to the door for privacy, murmuring, ‘Those plates are currently fitted to a white Audi SUV, Sarge.’

  Another voice cut in: Inspector Kellaher. ‘What name did the driver book under?’

  ‘David McAuliffe, said he’s here to scout locations for a film company.’

  ‘Is he alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sit tight. He could be the Passat driver our New South Wales colleagues were tracking. We’ll run a check for stolen Audis and abandoned Passats.’

  ‘I could have a word with him in the meantime, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be a hero, Sonny Jim. You could get yourself shot. Wait until I can get you some backup.’

  ‘That could take a while, sir.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I still have people finalising things at the Rennie house. I’ll call you in five.’

  Hirsch wandered back to the desk, where the Dunners were vibrating.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Is it to do with the shootings?’

  Hirsch made a noncommittal noise. ‘Could you google “Whiteman Photography” or “Philip Whiteman”?’

  Disappointed, Eleanor Dunner complied. Hirsch peered at the screen with her: a logo, a selection of birds, kangaroos, skyscapes and wildflowers, a beaming, bearded man festooned with cameras in one corner. ‘Is that the man staying in number four?’

  ‘That’s him. Should we be worried?’

  ‘No. He’s not involved in anything.’

  Rex Dunner said, ‘But the film fellow is?’

  Hirsch was thinking of a reply when his phone buzzed. He said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ and wandered back to the door. ‘Sir?’

  ‘A white Audi SUV was stolen in Balhannah a few days ago.’

  Another Adelaide Hills town. Hirsch chewed on the information. ‘He’s in his cabin. I’ve got enough to—’

  ‘No, Constable Hirschhausen, sit tight, and that’s an order. Senior Constable Hansen is running a check on McAuliffe as we speak; I’ll contact the Hamel Road team as soon as I get off the phone. They should be with you in less than half an hour.’

  ‘And if McAuliffe makes a run for it in the meantime?’

  ‘Follow discreetly, if you can. Just don’t get shot.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Hirsch rejoined the Dunners. ‘I don’t mean to alarm you, but I’d like you both to drive home now. Go inside, lock the doors, don’t open to anyone. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.’

  They exchanged numbers. Eleanor, jittery, said, ‘Hadn’t you better tell us what’s going on?’

  ‘There are stolen numberplates on the film producer’s car. It might mean nothing, but with the shooting at Mischance Creek, we’re not taking any chances.’

  ‘What about Mr Whiteman?’ Rex said.

  ‘Good thinking. Can you call his room for me, please?’

  When Whiteman answered, Hirsc
h said, ‘This is Constable Hirschhausen, South Australia police, Mr Whiteman.’

  A shocked pause. ‘My wife? My—’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ soothed Hirsch, ‘but I do need you to pack a bag quickly and get in your car and drive somewhere safe. Turn right at the gate and follow the signs to Mount Bryan.’

  The photographer, alert to the tension in Hirsch’s voice, simply said, ‘Will do,’ and they exchanged phone numbers. ‘Now your turn,’ Hirsch said, turning to the Dunners.

  They shook his hand. Eleanor gave him a brisk hug and said, ‘Take care.’

  He watched from the office door. Doors slammed, and the Range Rover crunched away on a bed of expensive white gravel. A short time later he glimpsed Whiteman’s silver Camry head slowly out along the driveway.

  Time passed. He wandered outside, retreated to the office again, beaten back by the heat. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. He idled by the door, looking down the driveway to the road. Four cars passed the property, slowing, one stopping for a stickybeak, perhaps curious to see a police vehicle parked at the rear of the woolshed. Thirty minutes.

  He left his station at the door, fetched a can of lemonade, returned. Thirty-five minutes.

  Then, as he stood looking out, waiting for his backup to arrive, Hirsch saw movement. A shape flicking away from the rear of his police Toyota.

  25

  HE RACED OUT, cut between the woolshed and the Toyota, stopped short. Hissing air. Slashed tyre. A precious moment lost, he ran to the corner of the woolshed and pounded upslope to the accommodation block. Too late: the Audi was fishtailing down the slip road, onto the driveway, and speeding towards the entry pillars. Hirsch saw brake lights flare, a wing mirror spin away in a sideswipe, and then the Audi swung right and powered out along the Razorback road.

  Hirsch ran back to his Toyota and reached for the radio: the handset cord dangled, cut cleanly. He ran in circles for a mobile signal, called Sergeant Brandl, then hauled out the jack and spare tyre. The jack slipped; the nuts felt glued on; situating the spare was like wrestling a fridge onto a trailer. Knuckles barked, blood and grease on his hands, he lost thirty minutes. Then he was opening the driver’s door again, heat pouring out, the seat burning hot. He fumbled the key into the ignition, cranked the aircon to high and planted his foot. Everything about his take-off seemed clumsy: weak aircon, sluggish acceleration.

  Then he was out on the road, trying to coax speed out of a vehicle designed for endurance. He called Redruth again: two cars had been dispatched to his location; a roadblock had been set up in the town.

  ‘But he could be headed for Broken Hill, sarge.’

  ‘I’ll notify Peterborough.’

  A few minutes later he topped a rise overlooking a broad, shallow basin, like a giant claypan. Was it his imagination or was there a lingering dust haze from the long-departed Audi? He’ll be on the Barrier Highway by now, Hirsch thought. Not mad enough to head south, surely. He steered along the road’s slow curve through the depression and out the other side.

  The minutes passed. The sun, dropping behind the Razorback, cast him in shadow for a couple of minutes. And then he was on the final stretch to the Barrier Highway with no sign of the Audi.

  He turned north, figuring if the man calling himself McAuliffe had turned south, he’d run into the Redruth cars or the roadblock. Two kilometres, three, four, the highway empty, nothing along the farm tracks or minor roads. And then, as he passed the Booborowie turnoff, he saw the Audi a hundred metres in, parked at an odd angle. He braked, reversed, sped down to it.

  McAuliffe had overshot a slight bend. The car was nose-down, cocked over, in a culvert. The trouble with you city boys, Hirsch thought—don’t know how to drive on dirt. Never throw a vehicle into a corner, you’ll lost traction. He pulled over, switched off, reported to Redruth and stepped onto the road. About to unholster his pistol, he thought, petrol, and ran for the SUV.

  He could see that the driver’s side window was down, but the vehicle was tipped too far onto the passenger side for a clear view of the interior. He slid to the bottom of the culvert and peered through the windscreen. The driver had toppled sideways over the console and head-first onto the dash, his lower limbs partly secured behind the wheel by his seatbelt. Blood: on the dash, the passenger-side window. Why? Nothing about the Audi’s front-end damage indicated a high-speed collision or major road trauma. He half-expected to see the man lift his head and reach for a gun, but he didn’t move. Gave, in fact, every appearance of being dead.

  Even so, Hirsch thumped on the bonnet. ‘You need to get out,’ he shouted. ‘I can smell petrol.’

  It was a lie: there were only the usual odours of hot metal, oil and grease. No reaction from the driver.

  The Audi was tipped at such an angle that Hirsch couldn’t open the driver’s door. He scrambled out of the culvert and around to the other side. The front passenger-side door was jammed against the culvert, so he pulled out his service pistol and tugged open the rear passenger-side door. Still no movement from inside.

  Hirsch climbed in and edged along the tilted rear seat until the gap between the two front seats gave him a clearer view of the driver. About forty, dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, a tanned, thin-faced man with dark hair, recently cut. You’d think: surgeon on his day off; film producer scouting locations.

  You’d also think he’d been shot. A large exit wound behind his left ear was seeping blood.

  26

  HIRSCH CALLED REDRUTH again. Having been ordered to keep car and driver intact, he took a series of photographs in case the Audi caught fire, then settled in to wait.

  Time passed. He was restless, itching to search the SUV. Eventually he got out a pair of crime-scene gloves, returned to the precariously tilted car and began to rummage awkwardly beneath the seats. Searched the glove box, under the mats, tyre-changing kit and spare tyre. No rifle. No mobile phone. No personal possessions apart from a wallet.

  Stepping clear of the car, he flipped through the wallet. Credit cards, $560 in cash and three driver’s licences—same face—in the names David McAuliffe, Shayne Elliott and Christopher Baldwin. He took close-up photos of each licence and returned the wallet to the car.

  Still waiting, he ran through some possible narratives. Why had McAuliffe run? Had he seen the police Toyota arrive; suspected something was wrong when first the photographer then the Dunners drove away? A cool character, since he’d had the forethought to walk downhill with a knife and slash the tyre and the radio handset cord before he bolted…

  But none of that explained what he was doing on this side road, shot in the head. Puncturing Hirsch’s tyre had bought him time to run—but it had also bought time for someone to set up an ambush. A partner, thought Hirsch. He thought about the vehicles that had slowed or stopped to look at the woolshed. A partner who’d spotted the police car and told McAuliffe to run. A partner who’d decided he was a liability and eliminated him on an obscure back road. His side window was down, Hirsch recalled—as if he’d opened it to talk to someone, maybe an oncoming driver. He’s shot in the head, his foot slips off the brake, the Audi rolls into the ditch. The killer lingers long enough to grab his phone—presumably the call log would have been incriminating—then clears out.

  Detectives and crime-scene officers arrived, Comyn among them, and Hirsch was told to get his arse down to Redruth and report to Kellaher.

  ‘In a moment,’ Hirsch said, heading for his Toyota. The killer had taken a great risk, knowing Hirsch would call for back up, change his tyre and come looking. Would he be stupid enough to hang onto the murder weapon and risk a search?

  ‘Now, constable,’ Comyn said.

  ‘In a moment,’ Hirsch said.

  He climbed behind the wheel and drove at a walking pace further along the Booborowie road, eyes sweeping left and right, taking in stones, dirt and stunted bushes. The sun at a shallow angle across the land. May it flash on metal…

  A kilometre later, a dull glint.


  He stopped, got out, stepped through the grass, crouched. A 9mm automatic pistol.

  He photographed it in situ. Debated fishing it off the ground with a twig through the trigger guard but marked the spot with his cap and drove back and reported his find.

  Comyn grunted, the most thanks Hirsch might expect, and followed him in a police car to the marker. Hirsch watched him retrieve the pistol with a gloved hand and slip it into a paper bag.

  ‘You still here?’

  ‘On my way,’ Hirsch said, gathering his cap. Then he was bouncing and jarring his way back to the Barrier Highway as the day dimmed all around him.

  The Redruth town hall sat like an ocean liner on a dark sea, lights blazing where the rest of the town had retreated for the evening.

  Now that extensive searches had failed to find the Rennie girls, the main police presence was winding down, but figures still flickered past windows, gathered on the front steps or huddled, smoking, in the shadows at the side of the building.

  Hirsch rolled by and turned into the alley leading to a carpark at the rear of the hall. Switched off, got out and found his way through to the incident room. Little of the original fit-out remained: a scatter of computer stations, phones, chairs, desks and wall partitions, like islands on a vast sea of hardwood floorboards.

  Kellaher and Dock were conferring at a whiteboard beside the stage. They broke off when Hirsch appeared.

  ‘Start at the beginning, keep it brief,’ Kellaher said. ‘I need to start bringing police members back in again.’

  Hirsch laid it out for them: stolen plates on a stolen car; the proximity to Mischance Creek; McAuliffe making a run for it; dead behind the wheel; the tossed pistol.

  ‘A pistol, not a rifle?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Is he the Passat driver?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Do you have anything tying him to the shootings?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So for all we know, he could’ve been planning to hold up the Tiverton bank.’

  There hadn’t been a bank in Tiverton for twenty years, but Hirsch saw the inspector’s point. ‘The fact remains, sir, it’s possible he was warned, and it’s possible he was shot by whoever warned him.’ He took out his phone, isolated the McAuliffe licence photograph. ‘This is him.’