Under the Cold Bright Lights

by Garry Disher

  Wondering what, if anything, he’d done wrong, he said, ‘What?’

  ‘This is weird for me.’

  Auhl pushed cereal bowl, Age and radio aside and folded his arms. ‘Okay…’

  ‘Makes sense for us to go to work together.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘But that feels weird, Alan. I kind of think we need to travel separately. You’ve let me stay a night and I appreciate it, but we need to maintain a professional distance.’

  He could see from her face that she was uncomfortable with the term, but had used it for want of another. ‘Whatever makes you feel comfortable,’ he said.

  ‘Yet it’s logical to travel together.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘But it’s not as if we’re friends or, heaven forbid, in a relationship.’

  Auhl said, ‘I’m guessing a tiny corner of you is wondering what my intentions are.’

  She blushed.

  Auhl held his arms wide. ‘You’ve seen the place, the people who live here. You’re the latest in a long line. I’ve not had a relationship with a single one of them. I don’t imagine you’ll stay long, but I’m pleased to be able to offer you a roof over your head while you decide what it is you want to do. If you want to stay on, then I’m happy to rent the room to you. Dirt cheap, by the way. Look,’ he said. ‘It’s a big house, and a real waste to leave rooms empty when they’re so scarce in the inner city.’ He paused. ‘You can always lock your door at night.’

  She shot him a hard look, then saw the glint in his eye. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Auhl returned to his breakfast and news gathering, and presently Claire said, ‘Michael’s in a mess. Keeps texting me. Calling me. It gave him a shock, me not going home last night. But I’m not ready to see him just yet. I don’t want to race back and make him feel better. I just need to think for a few days.’

  If the job allows, Auhl thought. He wondered what sort of mess the husband was in. A genuine mess, or an expedient one—a mess to tug at his wife’s heartstrings? He said, ‘Okay by me, Claire.’

  Claire glanced around the kitchen helplessly. ‘I should help with the food and cooking I suppose.’

  ‘Claire, get yourself some breakfast for God’s sake.’

  She winced. ‘Okay if I have some porridge?’

  ‘Go for your life.’

  ‘I hate muesli.’

  ‘So have some porridge.’

  ‘This is a ridiculous conversation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Claire looked away, back down the kitchen to Doss Down, then up at the ceiling, as if divining the floors, bedrooms and people above. It occurred to Auhl that she might already have formed a connection to his house. She’d had fun last night, the food and wine and odd company. He didn’t know if that would be a good or a bad thing for her.

  THEY TOOK THE TRAM TO work and as soon as they neared the main doors to the police building, she said, ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Michael.’

  The husband was a solid, athletic guy in his thirties. Narrow suit, neat hair but full of hard stares, sullenness and sour coffee jitters. ‘Who’s the boyfriend?’

  ‘Michael, please.’

  Auhl took a step back, scorched by the guy’s fury. Then stepped forward, sticking his hand out. ‘I work with Claire.’

  Michael Pascal ignored him, his face breaking in a spluttering display of grief. ‘Please, Claire, I can’t stand it. Please come back.’

  Claire’s shoulders slumped. She stepped closer to her husband, patted him reluctantly, cast Auhl a complicated look: I’ve got this and I wish you hadn’t seen him like this and Don’t worry about me.

  Auhl nodded and went upstairs to the Cold Case office.

  ‘DON’T GET COMFORTABLE,’ Helen Colfax told him, ‘you’re coming with me.’ She paused, looking around the main office. ‘Where’s Claire?’

  ‘Not in yet.’ A tense little fist clenching in his gut. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘St Andrews.’

  Auhl tried to work moisture over his tongue as he followed her to the lift. ‘Is this about the Neills?’

  Helen pushed the button for the garage. She’d had a haircut. It was softly shaped and feathery around her face but didn’t suit her. Her body seemed to thrum, ready for action, impatient with the lift. Auhl said again, ‘Boss, the Neills?’

  She gathered herself. ‘Janine is dead. Her sister found her this morning after failing to get hold of her yesterday and last night.’

  ‘Dead how?’

  Still needing a distraction, Colfax compared her sleeve lengths. One was midway along her forearm, the other to her elbow. She rolled the longer one up and said, ‘Good question. How dumb do you think the husband is?’

  ‘Not dumb. But arrogant.’

  ‘Exactly. The first indications are she’d had a seizure of some kind.’

  ‘Poisoned? Succinylcholine?’

  Colfax shook her head. ‘She’d vomited and her body was twisted from the seizure. Not like a heart attack, according to the preliminary examination.’ She looked at Auhl. ‘And not quite the symptoms of the first wife, either. But would Neill really try three different methods? Would he be that stupid?’

  ‘He’d use something very difficult to trace,’ Auhl said.

  They found the car, an unmarked white Holden, and Helen drove. Where Claire Pascal was nervous at the wheel, Colfax was brisk and fast. Auhl said, ‘Does Debenham know?’

  ‘He’s meeting us there. I want a crack at Neill before it’s taken away from us. I want to watch his face.’

  ‘Crocodile tears?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Auhl’s tension began to ebb. ‘We need to check his browsing history.’

  Colfax shook her head. ‘Alan, the guy’s a surgeon, surrounded by books and academic papers and fellow experts and access to drugs. We’re not going to find out he’s keyed in How to kill my wife with an undetectable poison.’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘How did it go in Moe yesterday?’

  ‘He confessed,’ Auhl said.

  ‘Really?’ She peered over. ‘Good on you. So you’re clear to concentrate on Slab Man now, okay? Josh thinks he’s tracked down an address for Donna Crowther.’

  ‘If she’s not involved we’ll need to release his face to the media,’ Auhl said.

  ‘Almost ready, apparently,’ Colfax said. ‘Possibly tomorrow.’

  The car rolled through the northern suburbs and eventually to an area more rural than urban. ‘Do you have a search warrant for Neill?’

  ‘Debenham does. Turning up mob-handed with a search warrant, maybe the good doctor will fold quickly.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Auhl said. ‘He’ll clam up and refuse to speak without a lawyer.’

  ‘A girl can dream.’

  THEY PASSED THE BONFIRE paddock. Nothing but an ash pile and a thread of smoke now, and Auhl felt a kind of giddy elation and terror. What if this was an elaborate trap? He’d been caught on a security camera he’d failed to spot. Or Neill was still alive. The sunlight was vivid, the spring colours burning bright as if he’d entered a parallel universe. And then they were climbing the driveway and he glanced at the grass, thinking his footprints might show in the dew, but there was no dew and the grass was vigorous, never trodden on.

  He stopped thinking about the landscape when Debenham and a second plainclothes detective stepped out of an unmarked sedan parked on the white gravel turning circle in front of the house. He was followed a moment later by three uniforms who’d been waiting in a patrol car.

  ‘Local uniforms,’ muttered Helen. About to get out, she added, ‘No one’s jumping for joy.’

  She was right. Solemn expressions all round. ‘Maybe Neill’s done a runner.’

  They got out, shook hands, then the local uniforms retreated a short deferential distance, leaving it to the detectives. Hiding a yawn indifferently, Debenham said, ‘Hate to be the bearer of bad news, esteemed colleagues, but you might have m
ade a wasted trip.’

  Auhl let Helen ask the questions. ‘Doctor Neill not home?’

  ‘He’s home, all right.’

  ‘And he’s got a lawyer with him?’

  ‘Oh, he’s way past caring about his rights.’

  ‘Jerry, cut the crap,’ Helen said. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Helen glanced at Auhl, then swung back to Debenham with the whisper of a philosophical shrug. Receiving bad news, receiving late news, false news—all part of the game. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘What can you say?’

  ‘Looks like he shot himself by accident.’

  ‘In the house?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Spit it out, Jerry.’

  A little testy now, Debenham said, ‘When no one answered at the front or the back, we had a scout around. Neill is tangled in a wire fence over there.’ He gestured lazily. ‘Still in his pyjamas.’

  ‘Weird,’ Auhl said.

  ‘Looks like he shot himself,’ Debenham said. ‘Climbing through a fence with a loaded firearm, it’s happened before.’ He paused. ‘But what do I know.’

  ‘Dead,’ Helen said.

  ‘As in very dead,’ Debenham said. ‘Small creatures with sharp teeth have already had a go at him.’

  ‘Have you asked for—’

  ‘Helen, I know my job. Crime-scene techs are on the way.’

  ‘But is it suspicious, or isn’t it?’

  Debenham was impatient, as if he wanted a cigarette, a coffee and more sleep. ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘And it’s Doctor Neill?’

  ‘In his pyjamas, large as life—so to speak.’

  He took Auhl and Colfax down along the left side of the house to the garden at the rear. Auhl shivered. So far, so good, but was this all still part of the trap? Strange, seeing the place in full sunlight. Neat beds of roses close to the veranda, looking out over a mowed slope of grass and young native trees beyond, with side and rear fences separating the property from neighbouring farmland. All of it drenched with colour: reds, yellows, pinks, greens, and the blue-sky canopy streaked with clouds.

  Staring glumly at the body, Helen said, ‘I see what you mean. Checked inside the house?’

  ‘First thing we did,’ Debenham told her. ‘Soon as we saw this’—he gestured languidly—‘we called it in and had a quick look inside. No one.’

  ‘What about the search warrant?’

  ‘All done.’

  Debenham treated her to his complacent, half-lidded smile. Fished in his pocket, brought out an evidence bag, shook it in their faces. ‘More of that drug he said his wife had stolen.’

  Helen glanced at Auhl. ‘Might as well wend our way home.’

  ‘Leave me to pick up the pieces,’ Debenham said sourly.

  ‘We deal with cold cases,’ Auhl told him. ‘This one’s still almost warm.’

  ‘Arsehole.’

  Auhl followed Helen back to the car. The garage seemed to watch him. There was the Porsche, the spartan interior, brand new paint tins, unused tools hooked in graduated sizes to a pegboard, the concrete floor looking clean, polished. But to Auhl it looked blood-spotted and he hurried past, trying not to recall Monday, the midnight darkness.

  His own retributive darkness.

  19

  THEY DROPPED OFF the car, walked to Southbank and picked up lunch for four, mesmerised by the river glittering in the mild sunlight. Back at the police complex, Helen shut herself in her office while Auhl delivered tandoori wraps to Claire Pascal and Joshua Bugg. Claire gave distracted thanks, wouldn’t meet his gaze. Bugg was suspicious.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ He stared at the meal, as if reluctant to accept it.

  ‘My shout,’ Auhl said.

  Bugg was uncomfortable. ‘Thanks.’

  Auhl returned to his desk, demolished his wrap, saw the others eventually munch away. And then Bugg was pulling up a chair in front of Auhl’s desk, straddling it. ‘Good sanger. Thanks.’

  Eyeing him warily, Auhl said, ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Two things,’ Bugg said. ‘One, Donna Crowther is known to police.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Not for dealing or anything like that. Assault in 2005.’

  A neat result, Auhl thought—the body shaping up to be the boyfriend, Crowther shaping up to be the killer. ‘Charged, jailed?’

  ‘Suspended sentence,’ Bugg said. ‘It seems she liked to belt the boyfriend when she was on the piss. One day it put him in casualty and so he took out an intervention order on her. Not renewed. Nothing after that.’

  ‘Thanks, Josh. Let the boss know.’

  ‘Will do. Meanwhile, young missing persons named Sean?’ Bugg said. ‘Quite a few more than you’d think.’

  A popular name at the time? wondered Auhl. Maybe young men named Sean had more wayward tendencies. ‘How many?’

  ‘In that time range? Seventeen aged between fifteen and twenty-five. Of the seventeen, I’ve accounted for fourteen. They’ve either come home or made contact with home recently. Of those, three later died. I’m waiting to hear about the remaining three. I’ve left messages.’

  The most animated and friendliest Bugg had ever been with Auhl. He glanced across the room to exchange a glance with Claire Pascal, but she was busy on her phone. ‘Thanks, Josh.’

  Bugg said, a twist in his face, ‘My brother pissed off for a year. No one knew where he was.’

  ‘He’s back?’

  ‘He’s back and he’s touch and go,’ Bugg said, a finger to his temple.

  Schizophrenia? wondered Auhl. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘My parents went through hell,’ Bugg said, getting to his feet, turning the chair around to return to his desk. ‘One thing: the seventeen missing Seans are all from Victoria. If our guy’s from interstate or overseas…’

  ‘That much harder to identify,’ Auhl agreed.

  After that he called the Century21 agent who’d handled the sale of the Pearcedale property to Nathan and Jaime. She confirmed that the vendor was an agricultural company, which had bought from the Sullivans. The agri-business had since folded. However, her agency had had a change of ownership and name since she’d joined as a young agent. No one on staff had knowledge of the property when it was in the Sullivans’ hands.

  MEANWHILE DONNA CROWTHER had been traced to an address in Edithvale. Claire Pascal said little to Auhl as they drove there. Her husband was a bit upset, that’s all. She would be staying in Carlton again tonight, if that was all right with Auhl.

  ‘Fine by me,’ Auhl said. The car seemed superheated in the late afternoon sun. He ran the air conditioner.

  The GPS took them to a huddled brick house with yellowing grass between the front door and the street, and the woman who answered the doorknock clocked them instantly as police. She stepped onto her porch, plump, tough, with spiky hair, piercings and tatts. Thirty years of belligerence on her face. Agreed that she was Donna Crowther. Agreed to answer some questions. But other than that, it was clear she wasn’t in a hurry to help anyone, anywhere, anytime soon.

  ‘You and a boyfriend named Sean once lived in an old fibro farmhouse near Pearcedale,’ said Auhl flatly.

  She snorted. ‘That’s what this is about? The body under the concrete?’

  She lit and drew on a cigarette, her head, hand, cocked hip and the cigarette itself posed in a ghastly facsimile of sophistication. A crusty stain on her T-shirt.

  ‘A real dump,’ she went on. ‘Good place to bury someone.’

  ‘You moved out in 2005?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Because the house was a dump?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Roof leaked, rats getting in. Not a straight wall in the whole place.’ She flicked her cigarette onto the parched front lawn. ‘Why? You talking to everyone who lived there, is that it? God knows who the old bag got in after I left. I kept on at her to fix the joint up.’

  ‘Bernadette Sullivan?’
checked Claire.

  ‘That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?’

  ‘She died. We heard about you from Angela Sullivan, her daughter.’

  Crowther’s face softened a little. A mix of regret, confusion and old memories. ‘Angela. God. How’s she doing?’

  ‘Were you two close?’ said Auhl.

  ‘I wouldn’t say close,’ Donna said slowly, looking back over the years. ‘But we got on all right. Her bitch of a mother, though…’

  ‘But you did spend some time with Angela,’ Auhl persisted.

  ‘Not a lot, no. I was closer to one or two of the neighbours, cleaning and babysitting and that.’

  ‘What did Sean do?’ Claire said.

  The abrupt shift startled Crowther. ‘What’s it to you what he did? Me and Sean were good tenants.’

  ‘Do you remember a concrete slab, Donna?’ asked Auhl, watching closely.

  ‘Nup.’ She was emphatic. ‘No slab. Not while me and Sean lived there.’

  ‘No old chook shed, garden shed, pigsty near the house?’

  ‘Told ya: no.’

  Claire said, ‘Did you have a fight with Sean? Is that why he left?’

  Auhl came in hard, too: ‘We understand things were pretty tense between the pair of you.’

  ‘Enough for Sean to take an order out on you.’

  They were mistaken if they thought she’d collapse under the blows.

  ‘You cunts,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Pardon the language.’

  Her amused sneer turned bleak as she opened wide her front door and gestured for them to step inside. ‘After you.’

  A dim hallway bisected the house. Closed doors and, at the end, a step down into a tacked-on sunroom. Hot, medicinal air heavy with urine odours, a man in a wheelchair with a rug over his legs.

  ‘This here is Sean,’ Crowther said. ‘Seanie, say hello to the nice police persons.’

  A livid, knitted scar ran from the man’s left forehead and across the temple. His left ear was a knob of flesh and gristle, his mouth in permanent rictus. His eyes, slowly registering Auhl and Pascal, were dull.

  ‘Sean came off his Harley. No helmet, no leathers, pissed out of his brain. Now he’s pretty much a vegetable. Satisfied?’ A sad hostility, her heart barely in it.