by Garry Disher
What do you reckon? she asked Tankard. We havent been exactly overwhelmed with courteous drivers this week. Give the guy a showbag?
Tankard was rubbing his knee, releasing a powerful odour of athletes liniment. Hed injured himself coaching football, and seemed obsessed with it. What? Didnt see it.
The old Tankard, whod liked to brush against her breasts and comment on the up-lift qualities of her bras, was almost better than this defeated slug. Wake up, Tank, youve got the rest of your life ahead of you, Pam said, reaching across and gently tugging on the steering wheel.
Dont get you knickers in a knot, he said, flicking the turning indicator and steering into the carpark.
Pull up beside that van, Pam said, pointing to where the Toyota had parked outside the caravan owned by the community FM radio station. The other buildings housed a showbiz museum, craft shops, a restaurant and a cafe. The driver was opening his door when Pams passenger door slid into view beside him. A young guy, clean cut, wearing sunglasses, and barely out of school, Pam thought, quickly sizing him up, and she reflected that it was almost comical the way everyones first reaction to meeting the police was apprehension, tinged with panic and resignation, as if theyd all broken the law and the police had caught up with them at last.
Excuse me, sir, she said, winding down her window.
And the young guy slammed his door, gunned the engine and reversed with a raw squeal of tyres, shooting out of the carpark onto Eramosa Road. Jesus! Tankard said, and then as Pam glanced inquiringly at him, he looked at his hands, which were beginning to tremble. She knew it: the slightest pressure and he would crumble. She didnt trust him in a high-speed pursuit, and screamed Swap places! at him as she leapt from the car and hurried around to the drivers door and practically dragged him out from behind the wheel. She was already reversing as he hopped and skipped to get into the passenger seat.
The Toyota van had not entered the highway, where it could be tracked easily by helicopter, chased by pursuit cars or stopped by roadblocks, but had headed back towards farmland. Pam followed, now almost twenty seconds behind. A moment later, the van turned right onto a narrow sealed road that ran between flat, sodden paddocks and was lined by trees and bracken. She followed for three kilometres, the van reaching speeds of 120 kmh and snaking a little, the smaller sports car skittish and volatile on the uneven surface.
Tankard slammed his meaty hand on the dashboard. Youll never catch the prick if you drive like a girl.
What a time for the old Tankard to show himself. Pam steered grimly, telling herself to ignore him and do this by the book. She ordered him to call it in: make, colour and registration number of the van, current position, direction, road conditions and other factors.
The radio dispatchers voice was calm and unhurried. That vehicle was reported stolen yesterday. Description of the driver?
Tankard looked to Pam, who muttered, Young male, late teens or early twenties, short dark hair, sunglasses, jeans and black football jumper.
Tankard relayed the information. He glanced inquiringly at Pam again when the dispatcher asked, Passengers?
She shrugged.
Unconfirmed at this stage, Tankard said.
Im sending pursuit cars to take over the chase, the dispatcher said. Maintain visual contact of the suspect vehicle but dont spook him. You know the drill.
Easier said than done, Pam muttered. She wanted to catch the driver of the van, but didnt want to be the target of an internal witch hunt, senior police displeased by another High Speed Police Pursuit Ends in Fatality story on the six oclock news.
The Toyota shot through the intersection in the little settlement of Moorooduc, barely missing an LPG tanker, and Tankard radioed in that the van was driving riskily, at high speed. Request intercept cars from Waterloo and Mornington, he said.
Maintain position and report, the dispatcher replied, as if ignoring him. Do not chase.
The van was winding up to at least 130 kmh as it left the primary school and fire station behind. Pam followed, passing between open paddocks and a market garden. Around a bend, into a fold in the landscape, past vineyards, cattle standing in muddy grass, a conference retreat behind a stand of poplars. Kilometre after kilometre, with no sign of a helicopter, let alone other police vehicles. Were alone, Tank.
He grunted, Why dont we just head the prick off?
The Toyota seemed to be taking them in a wide skirting path, gradually heading southwest around Waterloo, which was several kilometres to their left. The grey rain was lifting; a weak, lowering sun lit the world of the empty backroads and slanted into Pams eyes.
Whats that on the road? Tankard said, pointing ahead.
She steered deftly around a deep pothole and a tangle of blackened pipes beyond it. Hes torn off his exhaust system.
Tankard shook his head. What the fucks keeping the others? They should have headed him off by now. Go on, put your foot down.
Pam bit her lip. The driver of the van had eased back on the accelerator, she was managing to keep him in sight, and that was all that was required of her officially. But she badly wanted to catch the guy. Shed driven pursuit cars at her last station; she had the training and the experience to chase the van rather than simply shadow it. But there were other police vehicles in the area: she could hear them trying to find the van from other directions. The post office says I live in Bittern, one pursuit driver was saying, the shire says I live in Balnarring, the Electoral Commission says its Merricks North, and they expect me to know where I am?
Strict radio procedure, please, the dispatcher said.
Stolen van, Tankard muttered. Thats why the guy ran.
Did you get a good look at him?
Didnt see him at all, Tankard said, and in a fit of rage thumped the back of his fist against the removable hardtop of the Mazda. Cant see a fucking thing out of this sardine can. Then: Oh, Jesus, he said, his voice choking.
Pam saw it, too. A woman on horseback, the speeding van, the narrowness of the tree-lined road. The woman pulled back on the reins, trying to coax her horse onto a grassy gap between the trees, but the horse was spooked by the eruption of speed and noisy exhaust behind it. The Toyota clipped horse and rider and fishtailed, brake lights flaring too late, and shot between trees and through a wire fence. It could not sustain the high speed, the terrain or the shift in direction, and a hundred metres in from the fence it began to roll, then flipped onto its roof. Pam stopped, but whether for the horse, the rider or to give chase to the driver, now climbing from the overturned van, she couldnt say.
* * * *
38
Still feeling a tug in the pit of her belly, Ellen watched Challis drive away. She wished she could accompany him, help him face the super, but knew that was impossible. She shook herself and went to greet the crime-scene technicians.
For the next hour she supervised their search for prints, and then directed them to the tyre marks in Challiss front lawn, watching them spray a fixing solution onto the muddy impressions first, before pouring the plaster.
I need to know if these match tracks found at other local burglaries, she said.
Were on it, Sarge.
Shed only just got back to the incident room when her mobile rang.
Sarge? Its Pam Murphy.
Hi. Whats up?
Something about a crashed Toyota van, full of expensive gear, the driver legging it into a belt of trees. I remembered that you and Scobie Sutton had been working on a series of burglaries.
Did you indeed, Ellen thought. In anyone else the explanation would have seemed fawning, but Pam Murphy had a good memory and the habit of making connections. Shed make a good detective.
Are you sure the gear is stolen?
Well, the driver did a runner, and theres too much stuff: TV, DVD, digital cameras, jewellery, laptop.
Ellen tingled. Youre searching for the driver?
Yes, Sarge.
Stay there, Im on my way.
She collected Scobie Sutton and an unmarke
d car and set out for a corner of the map shed never visited before. The Peninsula was endlessly variable, and here was the Devilbend Reservoir and remote houses set back from a winding dirt road.
Its not as if shes new, said Scobie Sutton as she drove.
Ellen guessed that he was talking about his goddamn daughter again. Shed heard about every cut, bruise, bowel movement, bad dream and spelling-test result. Roslyn Sutton was endlessly fascinating to her father. For Ellen, Challis and anyone else who worked with the man, the daughter had long become background noise. Ellen tried to pay attention. Today it was the childs dancing classes. Irish traditional? Ellen tried to remember. Riverdance stuff? Scottish jigs and reels? Something like that.
Shes as good as any of the other kids, but year after year the medals and honour certificates go to those girls whose mothers help out with the costumes and makeup. Its not fair, and she knows its not. She tries to be grown-up about it, but it hurts her, you can tell. Shed like some acknowledgment, just once.
Its important, Ellen said, thinking of her own daughter, nineteen now, sharing a house with other university students.
I mean, Beth and I are too busy to help out with costumes and stuff. Why should Ros be penalised for that?
Exactly.
A sudden roar and a helicopter flashed above them, low and straight.
Just follow the chopper, Scobie muttered.
Five minutes later they were at a scene of carnage. Ellen swallowed, feeling sick at heart. Blood, litres of it, had pooled dark as spilt oil across the road. A vet was administering a lethal injection to an injured horse, and a dead woman in full horse-riding jodhpurs, helmet and boots was being loaded into an ambulance. A wire fence had been torn open and deep tyre gouges scored the muddy surface of a paddock of grass and scattered apple trees, the remnants of an old orchard. Several police cars were parked on the verge, roof lights flashing. And there was the helicopter, hovering above an overgrown stand of trees at the far end of the paddock; closer to, one hundred metres inside the ruined fence, was an overturned van.
And there was her husband, questioning John Tankard, who was agitated and shaking his head. Pam Murphy stood watching them, biting her bottom lip.
Leaving Scobie to catch up on the details with Alan and Tankard, Ellen pulled on rubber boots and approached Pam, touching the younger womans forearm reassuringly. Dont worry about my husband. The accident squad has to get involved. But it was a clean chase, right?
Yes, Sarge.
Good, then theres nothing to worry about. Has he talked to you yet?
No.
Youll be fine. Now, show me.
They waded through wet bracken, Ellen glancing across the paddock, which sloped gently up to the stand of trees. Dead gums predominated, dry skeletal arms reaching above shorter, denser pittosporums and wattles. Whats that place? she said, pointing.
Myers Reserve, Sarge.
The air was damp, laden with the odours of nature disturbed in the process of decaying. They walked on.
Sarge, mind your feet.
They leapt over a small creek, murky water glinting beneath reeds, and came to the overturned Toyota. The rear doors had fallen open and Ellen peered inside. There, just as Pam had listed them, were several items that, on first impressions, matched items listed as stolen from Challis this morning and the Penzance Beach property yesterday. She went around to the front of the van and crouched at the broken windscreen. Laptop. She drew on latex gloves, reached in, and hooked it out.
Sarge?
Challiss Toshiba, complete with his initials scratched on the lid.
Bingo.
Sarge?
This was delicate. She needed to secure the laptop and return it to Challis; she didnt need every cop on the Peninsula to know that his laptop, containing sensitive information, had been stolen. At the same time, she didnt want to lie to Pam Murphy, or get her into trouble.
Pam, Im giving you a receipt for this, okay? If there are any questions, refer them to me.
Sarge, CIUs in charge now anyway, you can do what you like.
Ellen nodded. This laptop was stolen this morning. It contains sensitive material. She hoped Pam hadnt seen the initials, or twigged that they belonged to Challis.
Sure, Sarge, whatever you say.
Good. Meanwhile we need the crime-scene people to dust the van for prints and make casts of the tyre tracks.
Sarge.
Just then a couple of brightly festooned highway patrol cars came screaming in, one of them skidding as it braked. Only about thirty minutes behind everyone else, Pam muttered.
Ill need details, Ellen said, as they returned to the road.
Pam described the incident at the Coolstores, the chase itself- Strictly by the book, Sargeand then the Toyota clipping the horse and veering out of control through the fence.
Rolled and landed on its roof. Nothing we could do. Tank stopped to help the woman on the horse, I tried running after the driver, but he disappeared into the reserve.
How long ago?
Almost an hour. It took a while for everyone to get here.
Ellen looked up. So that chopper is probably wasting its time.
She drew away, saying, I need to make a call, be with you in a couple of minutes, okay?
Sarge.
Ellen flipped open her mobile and speed-dialled Challis.
* * * *
Challis was at regional HQ in Frankston, tight and jittery in McQuarries top floor corner office, when the call came. He fumbled for his mobile, murmuring, Sorry, sir, Id better take this.
McQuarrie didnt glance up but continued to employ an age-old bosss tactic of frowning over documents with a pen and ignoring him.
Hello.
Its me. Can you talk?
He felt a surge of spirits, not only from hearing Ellens voice but also from realising that its altered timbrelow and throatyreflected what had happened that afternoon. Not exactly.
Youre with the super? Blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no.
He grinned, despite knowing that his career was about to be sunk. It probably gave Ellen a curious thrill to rag him like this, knowing he was with McQuarrie. Sergeant Destry, he said, if youre really sure that you want to transfer to the traffic division then Id be happy to write a reference.
She snorted. The super glanced up, frowned, and returned to his stack of papers. Good news, she said, and told him something about a crashed van loaded with stolen goods, including his laptop. Its definitely yours.
His relief was palpable. Youre a wizard.
Have you told the super?
Not yet.
Dont, Hal. Theres no need to, not now.
Okay.
Catch you later.
Challis felt buoyant, no longer afraid, no longer depressed by the atmosphere on the top floor, where policing was a rarefied thing, soundproofed and distant from the streets and the law courts. Policing here walked on carpets, wore suits and had university qualifications after its name.
He stretched his legs and gazed around him. There were leather-bound reports on the shelves, photographs of the super shaking important hands, a rubber plant as glossy and vigorous as a plastic fake, and a cluster of tiny silver picture frames in one corner of the huge desk, featuring Mrs Super, Robert and Georgia. Georgias image had been scissored from a larger photograph. Shed been sitting on a womans lap. Janines?
He grew aware that the super had put down his pen and was regarding him with faint irritation and disdain, the face of a busy man on important tasks. You told my secretary this was urgent?
Challis said, Im afraid theres been a development, sir. Its delicate.
McQuarries face shut down and he didnt say anything, but swallowed, as if steeling himself. Thank God I dont have to tell him about the laptop, Challis thought. I can show him the photos and retain the advantage.
Go on, Inspector.
Sir, we found the missing mobile phone.
And? Get on with it.
Certain p
hotographs were stored on it, Challis said, taking them from his briefcase and fanning them across McQuarries desk.
For a long time, McQuarrie was motionless, inclined a little to examine the photographs but not touching them. Finally he looked up and said, his voice catching, When?