Challis - 03 - Snapshot

by Garry Disher

  Challis wondered how much to tell her. Not with the police. She hasnt done anything wrong.

  Mrs Humphreys glanced at him shrewdly, her veiny hands kneading her pale blue hospital blanket. That woman who was shot at my housedo you think they were after Chris instead?

  We dont know for sure. We have to look at all possibilities. Are you certain that Christina went to London?

  I got a postcard from her. I recognised the handwriting. Do you think shell be safe there?

  Yes.

  Mrs Humphreys didnt seem convinced.

  How would you describe Christinas mood?

  When she stayed with me? Ive been going over that in my head all night. At the time, I thought she was nursing a broken heartyou know, some man had dumped her and she wanted to get away for a while. She was moody and sad. Wouldnt leave the house. But now Im thinking she might have been more scared than sad.

  Did she receive any unusual phone calls? Make any? Have any visitors?

  No, nothing like that.

  And she left suddenly?

  Yes.

  How did she seem when she said goodbye?

  Elated. Like a weight was off her mind. Bought me a brand-new TV set to say thank you, silly girl.

  So she must have left the house at some stage, in order to buy you the TV set and make travel arrangements.

  Mrs Humphreys shook her head. Did it all by phone.

  You said she didnt make any calls.

  No funny calls, Mrs Humphreys said.

  They got no more from the old woman, and Challis asked for her house keys. Im afraid we need to search it for anything that Christina left behind, or anything that might involve you, he said.

  Youre mad.

  Ellen perched on the bed and reached for a veiny wrist. We wont pry unnecessarily, or disturb anything. We can get a warrant, but if you gave us your permission...

  Mrs Humphreys gestured impatiently. She seemed tired now. Suit yourselves, but you wont find anything.

  * * * *

  They were in the hospital carpark, strapping on their seatbelts, when Tessa Kane appeared, tapping on Challiss window. Hal, Ellen, she said.

  Ellen replied with a short nod, feeling a quickening of suspicion and resentment. She began to fiddle with her mobile phone, needing to occupy her hands while the other two talked.

  What brings you here? Challis asked.

  Work.

  Mrs Humphreys?

  Yes.

  Shes just had an operation.

  Ill go gently, Hal. A pause. Well, mustnt keep you. Stay in touch.

  That was Ellens cue to turn the ignition key abruptly and wheel them out of the carpark. Telling herself to grow up, she breathed in and out and said offhandedly, Hal, do you ever find it hard, knowing what cap to wear?

  What do you mean?

  You know, the cop whos a source, and the cop whos involved personally.

  She couldnt look at him but sensed that he was looking fully at her. Presently he said, I was involved with Tessa Kane. Im not any more.

  Said coolly, so she gestured with one hand, saying, Sorry, dont mean to pry.

  She thought hed leave it, but he treated her question seriously, It was complicated sometimes. There were issues of confidentiality, and I know half the station disapprovedbut thats not why we broke up.

  Broke up. Hed actually said it. Hal, its okay, I had no right...

  Forget it, Challis said, making an effort. Lets turn the old girls place over.

  They reached the house on Lofty Ridge to find crime-scene technicians still at work, widening their search of the grounds, taking new photographs, making further sketches. Oh hell, Challis said, darting out of the car and approaching one of the technicians, A moment later he was back, grinning at her ruefully. See that oil stain? Thats where I parked the Triumph last night.

  Ellen gazed at him, experiencing a sudden insight into his solitariness. She found herself squeezing his hand. He laughed, and a kind of current sprang between them, opening them to possibilities. Ellen followed him into the house giddily.

  He almost spoilt it then, saying, If theres anything here, youll find it.

  She was alarmed. What did he mean? Did he mean that he knew she had light fingers, or that he valued her ability to find hiding places? She tried to read him. After a while she told herself there were no undercurrents in his observation.

  They began the search. A preliminary run through the house yielded nothing but a postcard under a fridge magnet. Postmarked London, it depicted Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and a barge on the River Thames. It was signed Chris at the bottom of a couple of short sentences that said nothing about Christina Traynors state of mind, whereabouts or intentions.

  Ellen was thorough, but also intensely aware of Challis. They seemed to perform a kind of dance, almost touching, colliding and glancing away from each other, only to be drawn together again. They were both aware of it but said nothing. It wouldnt do. She tried to shake off the feelings even as she welcomed them. Anything? he said at one point, his voice rasping. She didnt trust her own voice. Nothing, she said.

  They parted again and she made a more thorough search, looking under framed pictures for wall safes, kicking skirting boards for tell-tale hiding places, checking cupboards, drawers, photo albums, wardrobes and the laundry basket. It was fruitless: there were no indications of where the old womans goddaughter was now, or that shed been the intended victim, or even that shed ever been in residence.

  They met in the kitchen. By now Ellen was depressed by the house with its musty air and the faint grime of an old woman whose eyesight was failing. She turned to Challis. Hal

  Oh, Christ, he muttered, glancing past her through the window.

  She followed his gaze. Superintendent McQuarries Mercedes had pulled up at the yellow tape. The super got out with Georgia McQuarrie, who held a small bouquet of flowers, and together they approached the tape, ducked under it and made for the chalked area where Janine had died. Ellen watched curiously. The officer in charge of the crime-scene technicians seemed to argue with McQuarrie, before shrugging and stepping back to allow Georgia to place the flowers on the ground. Then McQuarrie and his granddaughter ducked back under the tape again and stood watching for a while, Georgia absorbed by the technician who was sketching.

  Suddenly Challis was leaving the kitchen. Ellen watched, hearing him call, Sir, a moment?

  Not now, Inspector, McQuarrie said, bundling Georgia into the big Mercedes and driving away.

  Ellen locked the house and joined Challis at the CIU car. The mood gone, the magic irretrievable, they travelled in silence. Then Challiss mobile phone rang. He listened attentively, switched off and glanced at Ellen. That was Scobie. A woman called Connie Rinehart from Upper Penzance just called the station. She had an appointment with Janine McQuarrie yesterday morning, nine-thirty, about the time that Janine was shot.

  * * * *

  25

  On the other side of the Peninsula, John Tankard was saying, Look, about yesterday, Im really sorry I made a grab at you.

  Pam Murphy, deeply bored, said, Forget it.

  They were in the little Mazda, patrolling the area between Mount Martha and Rosebud. Week Two of the Drive Safe campaign and that was two weeks too long. Pam had long exhausted topics of conversation with Tankard, the modern sports car doesnt necessarily offer much in the way of driving thrills, and safe and courteous drivers were few and far between. Shed much rather be out catching bad guys. Meanwhile, after what happened yesterday, she had to put herself on full alert in case Tank groped her again, or, worse, wanted a cuddle and forgiveness. Was he losing it? Could she rely on him if they did meet a bad guy? She watched from the corner of her eye as he twisted his large trunk and meaty legs to get comfortable in the passenger seat. He was too big for the tiny car, exacerbated this morning by soreness and stiffness brought on by football training.

  He wouldnt let it go. It was out of line. Im really sorry.

  Tank? Can it, she snar
led.

  I was only saying...

  Well dont.

  Fortunately they passed a building site shortly after that, a new housing development that faced the sea, a handful of men outside it picketing against scab labour. Tankard seemed to shake off his moroseness, some of his old intolerance showing as he shifted in the tight passenger seat and said, Look at those wankers.

  Pam had to laugh. In occupation, status and background he was thoroughly working-class, yet he always voted for the conservative coalition, approving of their hard line on law and order, immigration, terrorism and anything else that threatened white-bread, middle-class Australia. Maybe the prime minister, attorney general and immigration minister represented the strict father hed never had.

  Her own position was more complicated. Her father and brothers were university academics, intellectuals, which meant that Christmas Day table conversations in Pam Murphys family were rapid-fire, elliptical, knowing and wide-ranging, leaving her far behind. She was the youngest child, good at sport, barely adequate in tests and exams, and had joined the police force, so...

  Do the maths, she muttered now, heading from the freeway down into Rosebud.

  Sorry?

  Nothing. She had no intention of describing, to John Tankard, the remote, condescending love that her father and brothers bestowed upon her.

  Two tedious hours passed. They decided to head across to the Waterloo side of the Peninsula, but on Dunns Creek Road they encountered a white Falcon, sitting solidly on 80 in a 100 zone. The undulating road afforded Pam few opportunities to pass, and she cursed. There should be demerit points for driving too slowly, she said.

  Tankard, apparently still smarting, said, Dont get your knickers in a knot.

  She let it pass. The word knickers had always inflamed the old John Tankard, and she wasnt taking any chances. Take down his number.

  Why? Hes not breaking any road rules.

  Forget it, Pam said, and she followed the Falcon all the way to Waterloo, by which time shed decided the driver deserved a showbag.

  Tankard, concurring, placed the portable pursuit light on the dash and sounded the siren. You moron, said Pam, scrambling to turn them off.

  * * * *

  Vyner, spotting uniformed police in the little Mazda sports car behind him, cast his mind back over the past couple of hours and wondered where and when hed gone wrong.

  He hadnt registered anything on his personal radar when hed left his flat for his appointment with Mrs Plowman. He lived in a yuppie singles pad in Southbank, and even though he was surrounded by Asian students and young women with jeans so low in front you saw the fur line, the place was anonymous and close to everything. He felt out of his element whenever he left the city. Thats why hed hired Gent yesterday. Well, he wasnt making that mistake again.

  No one had tailed him from Mrs Plowmans, or to and from the airport, or down the Peninsula to fucking Gents fucking house in Dromana. No one saw him go in through the back door and shoot the bastard, then bundle him into the boot of the Falcon. So why were the cops following him? And why the fuck were they driving a sports car? Why the fuck were they wearing uniforms if they didnt want to be noticed?

  It had been a toss-up between getting rid of the body first, or setting up a false trail. The latter, and maybe thats where hed gone wrong. Hed spent a crucial thirty minutes in Gents house, shoving the morons computer into the boot with the body, emptying the fridge and propping the door open; filling a garbage bag with perishables, which hed disposed of in a public rubbish bin; packing a suitcase as if Gent were going away for a month; closing the blinds and curtains and turning out the pilot lights for the oven and space heater; and finally leaving Gents shithole and filling out a hold-mail application at the local post office.

  Then hed got rid of the pistol. Two good Browning automatics in two days. Hed sealed the one hed used on the woman yesterday in a block of wet cement, dumping the block at the tip when it was dry, but dismantled the one hed used on Genthis Navy training coming in usefuland then hed hacksawed the parts and tossed the scraps, along with Gents computer and suitcase, into builders skips in an area stretching from Rosebud to Mount Martha.

  And now it was time to get rid of the body, and he was heading northeast across the Peninsula, towards Waterloo, observing all of the road and speed signs, and suddenly there were cops behind him. Dunns Creek Road was snaking around one side of a pretty gully before flattening out along a high ridge lined with horse studs and plant nurseries set behind massive old pine tree avenues. There was more traffic than hed expected, and on Penzance Beach Road and again on Waterloo Road hed been obliged to give way to intersecting traffic, stop for a befuddled koala and not try overtaking a community bus full of old-age pensioners.

  The little MX5 behind him all the way.

  And when he got to Myers Reserve, dense with pittosporum, bracken and dying gum trees, the Mazda was still there, so he headed on down to Waterloo. He stopped for the give-way sign on Coolart Road, slowed to 70 kmh and then 60 kmh through the next township, signalled left at the T-intersection, did all the right things, and the Mazda stuck with him, never varying speed or relative position, and that, and the peaked caps worn by the driver and the passenger, really got Vyners mind working.

  And so he pulled the stolen Falcon into the carpark of the Mitre 10 hardware on the main street of Waterloo and got out, letting his body language spell innocent do-it-yourself guy shopping for a packet of nails and a tin of paint. But then a siren whooped and the Mazda purred in beside him, the cops getting out, a guy and a woman, dressed like SWAT commandos in boots, waisted leather jackets and peaked caps.

  Excuse me, sir.

  Vyner froze, his eyes darting. Hell of a place. Tattoo parlour across the road, McDonalds on one side of the carpark, railway line on the other. And further up the road, a roundabout and the Waterloo police station. He said innocently, Was I going too fast?

  The woman shook her head. The opposite, in fact. Im Senior Constable Murphy, and this is Constable Tankard.

  Tankard, thought Vyner. The guy was built like a tankard, round and squat.

  We couldnt help noticing, sir.

  Noticing what? That Ive got a body and a shovel in the boot of a stolen car?

  Murphy flipped open her notebook. You were faced with constantly varying speed limits for the past few kilometres, and you observed all of them. You observed stop and give-way signs, you were courteous to other drivers, and you made commonsense decisions when faced by unexpected hazards, like that koala trying to cross the road.

  Vyner shook his head. He was waiting for the However

  On behalf of Victoria Police and the RTA, wed like to reward you, the woman said.

  Vyner wanted to laugh. He gave them a frank and open grin. Well, thank you.

  The female cop leaned into the Mazda, emerging with a bulky plastic bag. To show our appreciation, sir.

  Vyner peeked inside. Great. Thank you.

  For a moment, he really meant it. Hed always driven safely. Hed never been ticketed, and now it was paying off.

  Youre welcome sir. Have a good day, now, the guy, Tankard, muttered.

  Gloomy guy. Whoever said fat was cheerful?

  Vyner went into Mitre 10 and bought saw blades to replace those hed broken and blunted while cutting up the Browning.

  Out in the carpark again, he saw that the Mazda was gone. He observed all of the speed limits and road rules from Waterloo to Myers Reserve, where he committed several misdemeanours, beginning with the lock on the gate that said Parks Victoria Vehicles Only.

  * * * *

  26

  Using her office phone in the Progress building, Tessa Kane posed as an insurance agent selling life cover. Having established that Charlie Mead was at work, she drove across the Peninsula to Rosebud and knocked on the front door of his house. Mrs Mead? Lottie Mead?

  A wary Yes.

  My name is Tessa Kane, from the Progress.

  Tessa waited, wondering if shed be r
ecognised. Lottie Mead was slender and unsmiling, her gaze passing expressionlessly across Tessas face and examining the street. What do you want?

  I wont lie to you, Mrs Mead. My paper has been running a series of critical articles about asylum seekers and your husbands management of the Waterloo detention centre. I think its time for a personal perspective, and would like to interview you. Perhaps we could start with your lives together in South Africa, and move on from there. Would that be possible, do you think?

  She waited. The house was a grim grey fortress on a slope overlooking the bay. Finally Lottie Mead said, I have nothing to say to you, and began to close the door.