by Garry Disher
I didnt know you were the police.
Well, now you do.
She recovered some of her composure, a woman in her forties with dark hair and a narrow face. I would like to get out of the car, she said.
No.
Do you know who I am?
Dont know and dont care, said Tankard.
Youll need to know my name if you intend to warn or fine me, the woman pointed out.
That wasnt what her question had meant and they both knew it. Tankard decided to call her bluff and got out his citation book. Fire away, he said.
My name is Lottie Mead.
So?
My husband is director of the detention centre, she said.
Tankard was filled with emotions: a natural obedience towards authority figures, fear and resentment of stroppy women, and respect for those, like Charlie Mead, who did their bit in the war against terror. He wanted to charge Lottie Mead with something, but feared a whole heap of trouble if he did.
To make it worse, Pam Murphy joined them. Is there a problem, madam?
Lottie Mead took that as permission to get out of her Passat and cross to the front of the car. She was a lean, springy figure in tailored pants and a black woollen jacket. There, she said, pointing.
A cracked headlight. Your car did that, she said. I saw and heard it.
How? demanded Tank, wishing Murph would get back in the Mazda and leave him to deal with it. To make it worse, she seemed to know what the Mead woman was on about. A stone, she said apologetically.
Exactly.
You cant prove it was us, Tank said, trying to wrestle something back. That could have happened yesterday, last year.
He felt Murphs hand on his arm. Leave it, Tank, all right? Madam, if youd care to make a formal report Im sure we can
The woman back-pedalled and Tank was glad to see it. That wont be necessary, she said. Its my husbands car, and his company will take care of costs.
Then why, sneered Tank, did you cause such a fuss?
I couldnt allow you to just drive off without acknowledging that something had happened, Lottie Mead said, as though there were lots of things she didnt allow.
Duly acknowledged, said John Tankard through gritted teeth.
Tank, warned Murph, and he got back in the Mazda feeling that he wanted to sort her out as well.
* * * *
15
Challis and Ellen stopped for petrol and lunch in Frankston, Challis glancing at his watch as they left. It would take them an hour to get to the city, then fifteen minutes for parking, and later theyd have the longer trip back to the other side of the Peninsula: almost two and a half hours of the afternoon would be spent in travelling. He turned on the radio. Someone had tuned to a station that broadcast music of the 1980s. He hurriedly found Radio National.
Hal, come on, eighties music
He snorted. There was no music in the eighties.
She thought. Duran Duran.
I rest my case.
She grinned, amusement transforming her, and he felt a sudden urge to touch her cheek. Why? Because her bullying husband was making her miserable? Because he was her friend, and he wanted to show simple comfort and affection? And how simple was the affection? Challis believed that an element of physical attraction existed in most friendships. If he wasnt drawn to her, could he have been her friend? He was relieved when she said, Tell me more about the supers son.
He quickly paraphrased the results of his Google search. Robert McQuarrie ran an investment and brokerage firm, but also belonged to the Australian Enterprise Institute, a neo-conservative think tank that advised the federal government on policy matters and carried out smear campaigns against charities and welfare and aid agencies, which it accused of taking a public advocacy stance on issues of human rights, corporate social responsibility and environmental protection. In fact, Robert McQuarrie had headed an inquiry into the role of nongovernment organisations, and had been quoted in the press as saying that NGOs were shifting away from direct work in the community to political lobbying and activism. He recommended that certain NGOs earn lower grants, lose their tax-exempt status and meet strict compliance conditions. The tone of his speeches was mean and self satisfied, the voice of a humourless bully.
Ellen sighed. So plenty of potential enemies.
You think someone killed Janine to get back at her husband?
Ellen shrugged. Its as good an answer as any at the moment.
* * * *
By 2.30 p.m. they were fronting up to McQuarrie Financial Services coldly gleaming marble reception desk, thick carpet under their feet, hemmed in by walls hung with posters discreetly designed and framed. The receptionist, a young woman with a pert nose, poised in a business suit, said, May I help you?
Challis explained the circumstances of their visit, and saw her swallow and go white. Mrs McQuarrie? she whispered.
Challis asked for a room gently. Well need to interview everyone, Im afraid.
Ill need Mr McQuarries permission for that, the receptionist said, recovering her colour.
Lets not bother him now, Challis replied. Hes comforting his daughter. In any case, this is a murder inquiry and I dont really need his permission.
But hes just come in to work. Just one moment.
Stunned, Challis and Ellen watched her make the call. Then Robert McQuarrie was striding towards them, looking more spruce than grieving. This really isnt a good time.
Various thoughts raced through Challiss mind. Robert McQuarrie had spent scant time with his daughter. He apparently valued his work over her, or the memory of his dead wife. And he hadnt yet informed his staff or colleagues. The murder had been reported on the midday news, but Janine hadnt been named. Challis felt a twist of acute displeasure, but concealed it, saying softly, This wont take long. Perhaps we could go to your office?
McQuarrie seemed to come to his senses. If you insist.
Challis gave a mental shake of his head. The super and his wife hadnt seemed particularly grief-stricken about their daughter-in-law, and now the womans husband rushes into the office rather than stay with his daughter. Challis knew something about griefhed felt it, hed observed it, and knew it took many formsbut hed never seen grief expressed as an inconvenience before. Who are these people? he wondered.
Ellen was clearly thinking the same thing. When they were settled in a huge corner office with views across the city to the bay, she said, I must say I didnt expect to see you here, Robert.
The use of the mans first name was a deliberate slight, an indication that she was in a dangerous mood. But it failed to chasten the superintendents son. What are you implying? That Im not observing a decent period of grieving? That I should be at home with my daughter?
Challis stepped in. Some people might think that, Mr McQuarrie.
Listen, Robert McQuarrie was saying, I have responsibilities. Two hours here, then Im driving straight back to be with her. How dare you presume to question how I feel or deal with things? Georgias in the loving care of my parents today, and tomorrow will go to stay with my wifes sister. I dont want to take her home yet. His eyes filled with tears. Wed only rattle around there and be surrounded by memories. Georgia needs mothering and plenty of distractions, okay? Meanwhile I am the chief executive officer of a company that employs a hundred people Australia-wide.
With a warning glance at Ellen, Challis said, Then well be as efficient as possible, but we do need to question everyone.
Very well then, Robert McQuarrie said.
And so Challis and Ellen asked their questions. McQuarrie answered with barely restrained fierceness. No, he could not think of anyone who hated him sufficiently to kill his wife. He vouched for everyone employed by his firm, and as for the Australian Enterprise Institute, it was comprised of men handpicked from law, business, politics, sport, agriculture and the universities, men who were above reproach and met irregularly in various locations, hosted by sympathetic companies around the country. Nothing sinister, nothing underhand
. The Institute did not rent premises anywhere or employ staff. It was not that kind of organisation.
Do you receive hate mail?
Something, a flicker, in the mans face. Naturally, he replied, reverting to his old manner. We at the Institute make the kinds of hard observations that offend sad and mad individuals from the loony left.
Loony left, muttered Ellen.
Have you kept any of these letters? said Challis hastily.
Generic hate, Robert McQuarrie said. Not worth preserving. Will that be all?
We need to speak to your staff and colleagues.
A weary sigh. If you must.
They were given a small conference room. A dozen men and women came to them one by one, and it was soon apparent that none could think of a reason why anyone would want to harm Mr McQuarrieMack, Robert, old Robby killing his wife. He was an exacting boss and partner, but fair. He wasnt sleeping around. As for his wife, she seemed nice enough. Sad about Georgia, a sweet kid.
They were so crisp and clean, those employees and fellow executives. Buffed and shined and expensively dressed. Yet Challis sensed an awful fear gnawing at them, and could almost hear their thoughts: Am I a winner? Am I being noticed? Is this suit the right cut, this tie the right colour? Will I get a bonus this year? Will I be promoted? Will my ideas be adopted?
Is anyone listening to me?
* * * *
On the way back they called at a house in Sandringham, which had views over the choppy waters of the bay. Janines sister, Meg, answered their knock on the door and her resemblance to Janine McQuarrie was startling. Shed been weeping; her face was raw with grief. Youre lucky to catch me: Im just on my way to Robert and Janines houseGeorgia needs me.
Challis exchanged a glance with Ellen. Was Georgia needs me code for Robert needs me? Had he murdered his wife to have the sister?
She showed them through to a cloyingly warm sitting room. Ellen took over, encouraging Meg to talk about herself. Married, but childless; Janines youngest sister (There are three of us); a high-school teacher currently on stress leave.
Challis studied her as she talked. A kindly woman, he decided. Motherly. Unsophisticated. Perhaps a woman whod wanted to have children but couldnt. Hardly someone to murder or inspire murder. She wore all of her emotions on her face: pity for Georgia and Robert; dismay and apprehension that her sister could be murdered. Im glad our parents arent aliveit would have killed them.
Did Janine have any enemies? Any altercations with anyone recently? Anything like that?
No. Nothing. I have no idea who would have wanted to kill her. Im sure it was a mistake.
Challis gazed at her for a couple of beats, then decided to bypass those polite conversational gambits that are intended to comfort the bereaved but waste police time. Your sister was a forceful woman, he said.
Meg blinked. Janine had a demanding job, she said stoutly, full of responsibilities.
Ellen saw where Challis was going, and also pushed. Would you say she was happily married?
Meg smoothed her thighs as though to dry her palms. Of course!
We heard that she was seeing someone, Challis lied.
A barely concealed flicker, the eyes shifting sideways. She wouldnt do that.
Perhaps Meg meant that she wouldnt do that, but couldnt vouch for her sister, thought Challis. Meg clammed up then, visibly distressed, and they left, feeling small.
* * * *
16
Scobie Sutton had received word that Mrs Humphreys was ready to see him, but when he reached the hospital, the first thing he saw was his wifes car parked in one of the reserved slots. He went inside, showed his ID at the reception desk and explained the purpose of his visit. But first, he said, blushing a little, could you page my wife? Beth Sutton?
A call went out on the public address system, and then Beth was there, beaming, and they gave each other a chaste kiss. I wanted to warn you, Scobie said, leading her to a vinyl bench seat beside a rubber plant in a huge brass pot.
His wife was round, pink, and easily flustered. Her hand went to her throat. What about?
He told her what had happened in court that morning. Now that Natalie knows youre married to a policeman shell be suspicious.
Beth blinked away sudden tears, shook her head, and clenched her fists in frustration and pain. Im fighting a losing battle, Scobe, she said, and it was an old story between them, the social problems on the blighted estates of Waterloo, Rosebud and Mornington. She knew the Cobb family, and dozens more like them, and sometimes it was all too much, there was too much misery, ignorance and indifference for her to bear.
There, there, said Scobie, rocking her gently, listening as she told him about Seaview Estate, where the Cobbs lived, which offered views of the refinery stacks and wore an air of defeat.
Theres this little community hall, she said, but no one on the estate ever uses it. Dont get me wrong, its booked solid every day, but by outsiders, like the Gilbert and Sullivan players, the Penzance Beach Cubs and Scouts, the Yoga Club. Im trying to get the local kids to make it their clubhouse, but we need funds to employ a youth worker, and whenever I approach the Shire for money, the manager of finance and the manager of marketing say no. Their bottom line is always cost. I try to get them to feel something, but they have no feelings. Oh, it makes me so cross.
That was as close to an oath as his wife could get.
The only ray of hope among the kids on that estate is Natalie Cobb, she said.
Sorry if Ive stuffed it up for you.
Oh Scobe, you havent. She brightened. What brings you here?
He told her about Janine McQuarrie and the connection with Mrs Humphreys. She was appalled. Janine McQuarrie?
Do you know her?
All the welfare agencies know her, Beth said. She paused. I dont want to speak ill of the dead.
Thats all right, he said resolutely. We need to know everything we can, the good and the bad. Then we can sort the relevant from the irrelevant.
Beths hands were washing against each other dryly, restlessly. This could be relevant, she said.
Youd better tell me, he said.
He watched her stare into the distance, gathering her thoughts. It was as if she deliberately set out to antagonise people, turn them against each other, she said slowly. She was autocratic, had to get her own way all the time.
To encourage his wife, Scobie said, We heard much the same thing this morning, from the people she worked with.
Beth nodded. In one case I know of, a fifteen-year-old girl from one of the estates was referred to her because of problems at home. She told the girl to leave home immediately, but failed to do a follow-up, and the girl joined a shoplifting gang so she could buy drugs. It turned out there werent problems at home, not really: the girl didnt like being thwarted by her mother, thats all. If shed carried out a proper mediation involving the girl and her family, she would have saved everyone a lot of heartache.
Scobie nodded encouragingly.
Her job was to listen and advise, and if necessary refer people on to other specialists, or place them in shelters or whatever, but often shed be openly antagonistic, act like judge and jury.
Such as?
Well, lets say a wife came to her for counselling because her marriage was unhappy or acrimonious: Janine would go after the husband, challenge him directly.
Ah, said Scobie musingly.
In another case I heard about, a man came to her because his wife was beating him. Janine thought he was lying in order to cover up his own acts of violence, and reported him to the police. She doesnt double check, Scobie. She doesnt follow up.
He sighed. Well, someone sure followed up on her.
Who would do such a thing?
Its what good people, innocent people, said at such times. Scobie himself still said it, even after years on the job. He suspected that Challis and Ellen didnt say it: they knew, or were past being baffled.
But Scobie was patient. He waited, and his wife went on: No
one deserves to die like that, but she was awful sometimes, just awful. She was a relief psychologist for the prison service, but rarely got invited back. Childrens Services stopped referring kids to her. Shed insult themyou know, blame the victimand us.
Can you give me any names? Social workers? Kids?
Oh, Scobie, I dont think any of the social workers would shoot her. And where would a kid get a gun?