by Garry Disher
Oh yes.
Finally she capped the pen and sat back in her chair. So, there you have it. Until the tests come in I cant be positive about time of death. Our man had all of his teethapart from one that was probably knocked out, for theres some damage to the gumindicating that he was young rather than middle aged. A cross-sectional analysis of his teeth should give us his age, plus or minus one year. Furthermore, his skull hadnt quite knitted fully, another indication that hes youngbut not a teenager, more probably early twenties. I cant be accurate about his height, owing to cartilage contraction and some decay of the soles of his feet, but he was medium height, a little under six feet in the old imperial measurement. The absence of maggot cocoons indicates that he was buried soon after death. Finally, hed been shot in the heart.
Leaving the best bit till last, Challis said.
Make em laugh, make em cry, make em wait, Freya Berg said, and Challis watched her appreciatively. In the centre of the chest, here, she went on, placing her hand between her breasts. I found the bullet and its been sent to ballistics for analysis. At first glance they said it was a 9mm.
Challis nodded. An intact bullet, with distinctive markings, could always be matched to the pistol that fired it. Nothing else?
No other cause of death that I can see. Toxicology might reveal hed also been poisoned, but Im pretty certain it was the shot that killed him.
Personal possessions?
This cash register receipt.
Challis examined it. Nothing to indicate the shop or service; only the datetwo days before Janine McQuarrie was murderedand the amount, $2.95. A ham sandwich from a milk bar? A blank video from a bargain shop? It was a fruitless lead.
That leaves us with his missing finger, Challis said.
Ring finger of his right hand, to be exact, Freya said. As I suspected yesterday, it didnt happen recently, but some time after adolescence. And it was torn rather than cut off cleanly. Some kind of accident? Explosion? Caught in machinery? I cant be more certain than that.
Its something to go on, Challis said. It ties in with a witness account in another crime. And the dead girl?
Freya shook her head sadly. Drowned. She might have lived if someone had pulled her out of the water sooner.
* * * *
Drowned?
In far north Queensland a couple of days later, Andy Asche was reading the Age online. He concealed a sob and read the item again. Drowned. Thats what it said.
He stumbled out into what passed for a winters day in the tropics. Sure, Nat had probably been concealed by reeds and scummy water, but the cops couldnt have been looking very hard. He blinked his eyes. He shouldnt have run. He should have stayed behind and pulled her out onto the grass. But would he have been in time to save her life? He pictured it, her body cold, wet, floppy, heavy. He shouldnt have abandoned her.
Then he tried to tell himself that it wasnt his fault. Anyone would have assumed shed escaped, run off in a different direction.
Drowned.
If he hadnt run he could have saved her.
* * * *
Vyner had also read the papers, and seen the news on TV. Shallow grave, they went on and on about a shallow grave. Yeah, well, he defied anyone to have dug a deep grave in that reserve. Sure, the soil had been soft, but it was also interlaced with roots.
Then came an SMS: if Vyner wanted his fifteen grand, he had to pull another job for free.
Vyner fumed. It was a no-brainer, but he fumed.
* * * *
That same day Challis received confirmation from dental records that the buried man was Nathan Gent, and that evening he took Ellen with him to confront Robert McQuarrie. They didnt get further than the front doorstep.
Did your wife ever treat a man named Nathan Gent?
No flicker in McQuarries soft, sulky face. I have no idea.
Young, shaved head, missing a finger on his right hand.
A look of distaste. She treated people from all walks of life, including riffraff
Perhaps you befriended this man.
What are you implying? That I hired him to kill Janine?
Did you?
No, now leave. Im not going to say it again, if you want to interrogate me, my lawyer has to be present. Can I get that through your thick skulls?
* * * *
Meanwhile Scobie Sutton was chatting quietly with his wife, Beth slicing onions and occasionally sniffing and blinking, her hands still then slicing rapidly again. She was often teary these days, but he didnt know if it was the onions this time or distress over her job. What did you do today?
She had thrown herself into volunteer work for their church, and he was hoping that this would keep her from falling into depression or something.
I went to see Heather Cobb, she said, still slicing.
Did you? I called on her this morning.
Beth put down her knife and turned to him with the baffled smile shed often worn when dealing with people from the local housing estates. Scobie, you wonder how their minds work sometimes. Heather knows were married, but she didnt say a word about your visit. I mean, normal people in those circumstances would have mentioned it.
This was a subject that Beth and Scobie could get passionate about. Peoples bad manners, careless manners, sheer indifference and ignorance and lack of social graces.
Just then Roslyn tiptoed in and placed a sheet of paper at Scobies elbow. Please can I watch the Simpsons yes or no? With a rush of love he kissed her and ticked the yes box. Roslyn scurried away.
Beth turned around and saw his dopey love. What?
Nothing.
The front door buzzer sounded. Scobie said, Ill get it, and found two figures standing there, hunched miserably against the cold.
He showed up at footy training, John Tankard said.
Scobie nodded. Hello, Andy. How was Queensland?
Andy Asches jaw dropped. How did you know?
Im a detective, remember?
I couldnt stand it, Mr Sutton, I had to come back. I thought my head was going to explode.
Theres no rush, Scobie said. Come in and get warm.
* * * *
60
On Thursday John Tankard said, This is a bullshit gig.
So you keep saying.
Pam concentrated on the road ahead, trying to ignore Tank, who was heaving about in the passenger seat, fooling with the seat adjustments, trying to find room for his heavy legs.
Piece of Japanese shit.
Actually, it wasnt. Pam had come to appreciate the virtues of the little sports car. It was riding with John Tankard that spoilt the experience. But she was feeling pretty good now, training for the triathlon again, no disciplinary action hanging over her head.
Tank should count his blessings. He was off the hook too.
Coolart Road, a 90 kmh zone, several roundabouts, deceptive undulations here and there. She was sitting on 90, the rest of the traffic on 100 or more, and that was frustrating. Still, their job was to find courteous drivers, and they werent armed with speed cameras.
She skirted Somerville, crossed Eramosa Road, for the T-junction at the Frankston end of Coolart Road. Beside her John Tankard sighed heavily and she said, Spit it out, Tank, whats the matter?
Andy Asche turned up last night, he said. Poor guy.
Killed a woman riding her horse, killed the horse, left his girlfriend behind to die. Yeah, poor guy.
Tank stirred and scowled. Hes not a nasty piece of work, not like some weve dealt with over the years. Good footballer. A real waste of talent.
So youre saying he should be forgiven because hes a good footballer, Pam said flatly.
Being sports mad herself, she hadnt come quickly or easily to the realisation that the system regularly allowed young footballers and cricketers to escape rape and sexual assault charges. When policemen, lawyers, judges and millionaire club presidents went dewy-eyed over sporting heroes, what chance did complainants stand?especially when the wider community, men and women alike, shrug
ged the issue away with the words She was asking for it. And heaven help you if you caused the accidental death of a sportsman. In the great outpouring of grief and rage that followed, youd be hounded by the police and demonised by the media.
Footballers can do no wrong, is that it, Tank?
Im not saying that. Im saying its a real waste, thats all. He paused. Sometimes his chick was there.
Watching him as he trained?
Yeah. Poor kid.
The new, softer John Tankard. Pam braked gently for the car ahead, which in turn had braked for the red Mitsubishi ahead of it. All three came to a complete stop, allowing a huge semi loaded with pine vineyard posts to reverse into a narrow gateway. Clearly the driver had been waiting some time for an opportunity to complete the manoeuvre, but the traffic had been heavy, impatient, not prepared to give him a break. It was a rare good deed, and Pam followed the traffic right at the intersection and then left over the railway line. By now the Mitsubishi was directly ahead of them.
Where are we going?
Pam said impatiently, That car, Tank, didnt you see?
See what?
Stopped to let that truck reverse just now.
Oh.
Tankard straightened, seemed to make an effort. Look at that guy-
A man tying a banner to a picket fence: Devilbend Reservoir. Out.
So?
Guerrilla tactics, Tankard said, rubbing his meaty hands together. Come back after dark and rip it down.
Pam thought he might, too. So much for free speech.
Tankard scowled and muttered, an inarticulate man full of impatience and insupportable burdens. Pam thought he was probably representative of most people and there was no point in probing into his views. There, she said, taking her hand from the steering wheel and pointing.
The township of Baxter was behind them. They were passing through farmland again, but halfway up a long slope ahead of them was a cyclone fence and a vast yard of wrecked cars. The red Mitsubishi slowed, indicator light blinking, and pulled into the parking area outside the main gates. Peninsula Wrecking, according to a faded sign.
Pam pulled in alongside the red car and introduced herself to the startled driver, a pleasant-looking man in his sixties. He was delighted to get the bag of rewards, but protested that he didnt deserve to.
My wing mirror, he said, pointing. Swiped it off getting petrol.
Pam appreciated the irony: it was a roadworthy item. Even so, sir, youre a courteous driver, and I just know youre going to fit the replacement mirror before driving away from here.
She grinned, he grinned.
She returned to the car, but Tank was standing at the fence, looking in at row after row of cars, some damaged, others mere shells. We couldnt stop for a few minutes, could we?
What for?
Busted window winder.
Pam pictured the wallowing, barge-like station wagon in which he carted around young footballers and their gear on Saturday mornings. Sure, why not.
While Tank asked for directions in the office, Pam wandered. The huge lot had been sectioned according to make and type of vehicle and was a scroungers dream. Down one row she went, up another. She was struck by how few of the cars were damaged. Many were simply old or had no resale value except as a source of secondhand parts. The sun had taken its toll on the paintwork, the rain on exposed metal, and so at first she didnt register the significance of the dirty-white 1983 Commodore sitting on its axles in mud and grass in a row of similar sad old wrecks.
* * * *
Challis spent Friday morning away from the incident room. The breaks were coming quickly now, and he felt impatient. He visited the car impound and watched for a while as the forensic techs printed the Commodore found by Pam Murphy and examined it for fibres, hair and traces of blood and other fluids. Then he spent a frustrating hour speaking to Nathan Gents neighbours. When he returned to the Waterloo police station it was to a scene of chaos at the front desk. At least twenty people were lined up waiting for customer service.
He poked his head around Kellocks door. Whats up?
The senior sergeant shrugged his massive shoulders tiredly. Maybe this doesnt apply to you hotshots in CIU, but the Police Association has announced a go-slow.
It was hard to determine where Kellock stood on the matter. Ah, Challis said.
The usual: better pay rates and working conditions. And so we have no unpaid overtime, no court attendances except by subpoena, bans on management duties, the assigning of custodial nurses rather than police members to medicate prisoners, and the issuing of discretionary warnings or summonses to appear in court, rather than penalty notices.
As if Kellock were reading from a press release. Challis sympathised with the Federation, always had. He nodded briefly, then headed for the stairs, encountering Pam Murphy in the corridor. Sir, she said, walking on.
Wait.
Sir?
That was a good job you did, spotting the Commodore. Well done.
She blushed. Thanks. Sir.
Challis nodded and headed upstairs.
* * * *
An hour later he called a briefing.
Heres what we have: on Sunday, Ellen discovered a shallow grave in Myers Reserve. Were fairly certain the body recovered at the scene is that of Nathan Gent. The age is right, the clothing, the missing ring finger on the right hand. We expect dental confirmation soon. We know that Gent had boughtbut not registeredhis cousins 1983 Holden Commodore. Two features of this car match the car seen leaving the scene of Janine McQuarrie s murder by the taxi driver, Joe Ovens: a mismatched drivers door and part of the registration. As you know, Georgia McQuarrie described the driver as missing a finger on his right hand, but didnt recognise a photo we found in Gents house because it showed him when he was younger, with long hair. The neighbours describe him as overweight, with a shaved head. Since then his sister has sent us a more recent photograph, and both Georgia and Joseph Ovens are certain that hes the man driving the Commodore.
He paused. One of the civilian clerks came in with a container of freshly brewed coffee. Challis thanked her, waited for her to leave, and went on:
Meanwhile, weve had a ballistics report. Dr Berg recovered a 9mm slug from the body.
He showed them photographs. Scobie Sutton sat up, alert. Doesnt match the slugs recovered from Janine McQuarrie or Tessa Kane, by any chance?
No.
Scobie slumped. They all did.
However, Challis said, smiling at them, there is an anomaly common to all three sets of slugs: a faint but telling scrape mark. Our shooter used a suppressor. Either he didnt fit it properly each time, or theres a slight flaw in its design or manufacture.
He used different pistols but the same suppressor, Ellen said.
Thats the theory, Challis said.
So all three shootings are related.
Yes.
Our shooter tops Janine, a Mornington DC said, and later tops the guy who drove himcleaning up loose ends?
Challis caught Ellens compassionate glance, and gave her a brief smile. If he hadnt let the media run with the anonymous caller story, Nathan Gent might still be alive. But right now he couldnt afford to think about that. Then later he shot Tessa Kane, he said, probably acting alone this time. The motives still unclear, except that the sex parties link both women and both murders.
Challis let them brood on that, then told them more about Nathan Gent. After he lost his finger he was offered a desk job, but declined, electing to leave the Navy instead. According to one of the psychologists who assessed him at the time, he was deeply depressed. Maybe that grew into disaffection. He leaves the Navy and hooks up with other disaffected ex-Navy typesor at least one other, our shooter.
He watched them absorb that, and went on: Then hes hired to be the driver on a hit, and makes a mistake, uses his own car. Realising his mistake, he sells it to a wrecking yard near Baxter. No plates, but the owner remembers Gent and gave a good description. As yet, he said, glancing around the
big table, theres no useful forensics. Plenty of printstoo many. That car was stripped of its seats, steering wheel, radio, seatbelts, rear view mirror, glovebox lid, virtually everything. But the labs running the prints as we speak, so lets hope they find a match to someone whos in the system.
Were sure its the car?
Yes. The plates were removed but we matched the VIN and engine numbers to the car owned by Nora Gent.
All we need is one print, boss.