Under the Cold Bright Lights

by Garry Disher

  ‘Pia called me. She wants to come home.’

  That sharpened Auhl. ‘Did Lloyd do something?’

  Neve’s turn to be confused. ‘What? No. She said the house is full of drunk people and loud music and she’s scared and can’t sleep and please can she come home.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Auhl said.

  They dressed and piled into Auhl’s old Saab. He reversed crookedly at speed, skittling a rubbish bin, then straightened the car, and they shot across the city to the West Gate Bridge. Friday night, a steady stream of homeward-bound traffic leading to and over the bridge, and eventually they were on the awful endless snarling highway in the buffeting slipstream of heavy trucks. The moon and stars blotted out from the sky but brake lights and neon flaring greasily as they headed south from the city.

  Neve agitated beside him, almost levitating in raw need.

  Finally Geelong and the sedate streets of Manifold Heights, Neve directing Auhl to a sprawling house set back from the road. He parked between streetlights and they walked up the driveway.

  Heard the music now, the heavy bass beat enough to shake windows and buckle the ground. But mostly what drew Auhl’s cop-gaze were the vehicles: two black Range Rovers with tinted windows, a sports Mercedes, an Audi TT.

  He knocked, no answer. ‘Key?’

  Neve shook her head. ‘He changed the locks.’

  They went around to the back. In through a sliding glass patio door. Bottles, dirty plates and glasses in the kitchen, porn flickering on a massive TV in the sitting room. An assortment of shapes asleep on sofas, beds and floors. Bottles, a couple of ashen joints, discarded clothing.

  ‘Lloyd does drugs?’ Auhl said.

  Neve shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  But a bit? More often than he used to? wondered Auhl.

  A quick run-through of the house; no sign of Pia. Then Neve clenched her fists, cross with herself. ‘I know where she’ll be—where she used to hide when Lloyd went mental.’

  A built-in wardrobe of an upstairs junk room, Pia asleep but stirring when Neve reached for, lifted and carried her. When she was secured in the car, Auhl said, ‘I’ll be right back.’ He returned to the driveway, aimed his phone, photographed numberplates. Re-entered the house and photographed faces and bodies and the party dregs.

  22

  EVEN AFTER HIS interrupted night, Auhl woke at six and walked. Bought a bag of croissants for the household on his way back, as he did every Sunday morning, then showered, dressed and yawned over the Age. Listened to the house stir around him, Cynthia winding about his ankles.

  Neve appeared first, her hair damp, cheeks hollow. With coffee and a croissant before her on the old kitchen table, she kept picking up and putting down her phone. ‘I don’t know what to do. When Lloyd wakes up and realises Pia’s not there, what’s going to happen?’

  Auhl, rinsing his cup and plates at the sink, suddenly froze. If he hadn’t been dazed with tiredness he might have seen the legal ramifications of the night’s events. Seated again he said, ‘You need to text him right away. The last thing you want is his lawyer accusing you of abduction, or denying him contact with Pia. Keep it mild, don’t make him feel you’re accusing him, just tell him that Pia felt ill and didn’t want to be a nuisance so she asked if you’d come and fetch her.’

  ‘I hate this,’ she spat, surprising him. ‘I hate bending over backwards for his precious ego. What about me, me and Pia? When do we come first?’

  Auhl clasped her forearm briefly. ‘Tomorrow afternoon, with any luck. In court. Meanwhile let’s put everything about last night in writing, together with photos, for your lawyer to look at.’

  Neve clasped herself tightly, with the effect that she seemed even smaller and easier to defeat. She stared at the dead screen of her phone as if finding the words. She’d had a lifetime of finding the right words with her shit of a husband, Auhl thought.

  Then his own phone pinged. OK if I stay tonite and Mon, dept. meetings? Liz x. A feeling crept through him. She would brighten his existence briefly, and he would let her—even though she was a lost cause and he knew it.

  Something to be said for habit, though. For the familiar.

  IT WAS A HOUSE OF stunned souls and Liz didn’t arrive and didn’t arrive and didn’t arrive. Then, early afternoon, his phone pinged again. John Elphick’s daughter, Erica: Apologies for the late notice: Brunettis in five?

  He texted back: I’m on a diet.

  Ha ha.

  Five minutes later he told the sisters, ‘You’ve already thanked me.’

  An effusive phone call, a bottle of Bollinger couriered to the office, an elaborate card.

  ‘But not yet in person,’ Rosie said.

  The sisters hadn’t been to town for weeks, months, they told him. ‘We thought,’ said Erica, waving a cream-smeared fork at him, ‘why not deal with the cake withdrawal and thank you at the same time.’ She’d ordered cannoli, Rosie an almond croissant, and both were nursing large lattes. As Auhl watched, each woman gave a little exploratory tongue-flick, seeking traces of powdered sugar. To be sociable, he ordered green tea.

  ‘You must have something to eat.’

  He patted his stomach. ‘I’m stuffed with croissants.’

  ‘Alan,’ Erica said, her expression saying he could do better than that.

  He sighed and admitted that the cannoli looked good; both women beamed at him. Confident women who’d grown up with horses and were faintly anachronistic here, among the smart, inner-urban crowd. Well, so was Auhl, tired and greying.

  He gave the sisters a troubled look. ‘There’s still the trial. You might have to appear.’

  Rosie said, ‘Oh, we can handle that, don’t you worry.’

  Erica, wily but half-serious, said, ‘Will you miss our annual phone call?’

  The annual conference call, the pair of them ganging up on him. ‘I probably will,’ he said.

  ‘Liar.’

  He stayed awhile, then, amid enormous goodwill and vague promises to keep in touch, he pecked their cheeks and left them to finish their pastries.

  STILL NO LIZ. Early evening, Claire Pascal returned bearing Chinese takeaway. Telling Auhl, ‘Don’t ask,’ she called his ragged household to the table. They ate, the others drifted away, then it was time to wait for Slab Man’s face on the evening news.

  He appeared at the ten-minute mark, the clay version, then the digital. In the latter he wore short hair, then a shaved head, long hair, a beard. A minute later he was dropped for another drive-by shooting in Lalor.

  ‘Short but sweet,’ Claire said.

  ‘There’s always tomorrow’s papers.’

  Claire took their empty bowls to the kitchen and returned with her iPad, settling beside Auhl on the sofa. Her fingers tapped and swiped. ‘It’s getting more play on social media.’

  Auhl peered at the Slab Man images. ‘Good.’

  ‘I suppose you want to know how it went with Michael.’

  ‘None of my business. Except I think he’d like to flatten me.’

  ‘He’s a bit upset, that’s all. I told him you were just a colleague. But what I want to ask is can I stay here a few more days? I need more time.’

  ‘Sure,’ Auhl said.

  That was his life, stretched by competing demands, pissing off some people, helping others. Then the front door banged and footsteps sounded and Liz appeared with her suitcases, saying a brisk hello, she’d already eaten, she had a ton of work to do for tomorrow’s meetings. Then like a whirlwind she clattered upstairs and Claire was murmuring, ‘That was the famous, mysterious wife?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Kind of gorgeous.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Yes you would,’ Claire said, with a touch of sympathy Auhl purely hated. Upstairs there were shouts as Liz and Bec said hello.

  23

  BEFORE TAKING THE lift to the Cold Case office on Monday morning, Auhl and Pascal poked their heads into the media room. The half-dozen night-shift cons
tables assigned to field the Slab Man hotline were half-asleep, feet up, talking football and sex and waiting for the 8.00 a.m. shift change.

  ‘Much action?’

  They looked at one another and shrugged. ‘Usual ratbags and psychos. Sorry.’

  ‘You’ve noted the likely ones?’

  Yawns, back stretches, bleary red eyes. ‘As per instructions.’

  They said their thanks and went upstairs. Conscious that in four hours he’d be catching the Geelong train, Auhl quickly read emails, drew up action lists, made online searches and fielded Slab Man calls forwarded from the media room. These proved to be useless or mischievous.

  ‘Yes, about the reward?’ someone might ask.

  Auhl would close his eyes, open them again. ‘Reward?’

  ‘The man found buried under the concrete.’

  Usually a male voice, drunk at nine-thirty in the morning.

  ‘Do you know the name of the victim?’

  ‘Depends on the age, right? A lot of Serb war criminals came to Australia. Some of them carried on what they were doing when they got here.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ Auhl would say.

  Or sad, haunted people would hope a male friend or relative had been found, and Auhl would tease out the story and learn the father, brother, uncle, son or family friend had been forty when he vanished, or decades had passed.

  Or they’d confess. ‘That guy you found. The one under the slab.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I done it.’

  ‘What gauge shotgun did you use?’

  A silence. ‘You’re not getting me that way. I’m onto you. You tell me what kind.’

  Then, mid-morning, her hand masking her landline phone, Claire called out: ‘Alan, Josh, you need to hear this.’ She spoke into the phone. ‘Bear with me, madam, I’m just going to put you on speaker, okay? Now, two of my colleagues are here in the room with me and I need you to repeat what you just told me.’

  They listened. A woman, her voice young, hollow. ‘The dead man is Robert Shirlow.’

  ‘Spell that for me, please,’ Claire said. That done, she asked, ‘And how do you know this person?’

  ‘I can send you pictures. I’m his sister. Carmen.’ There was a pause, and she said, in a rush, ‘It’s definitely Robert, and I always knew something bad happened to him. I knew he didn’t murder anyone.’

  BEFORE AUHL COULD run a search on the name, Jerry Debenham walked in, trailed by a younger Homicide Squad detective.

  Debenham jerked his head. ‘Quick word.’

  Neill, thought Auhl. He coughed to give himself a moment, then shrugged on his jacket, wondering if they’d keep him long. Claire was watching curiously. He said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in his ears, ‘Can you see if we have anything on Shirlow?’

  She looked worried. ‘Will do.’

  Debenham took Auhl through to his sergeant’s cubicle in the Homicide Squad office. ‘Pull up a pew.’

  And so Auhl sat against one wall, the other two facing him. The younger detective was named Vicks and she said nothing. Just watched, her face mask-like.

  ‘We’re doing the paperwork on the Neills,’ Debenham said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Dotting i’s, crossing t’s.’

  ‘Okay,’ Auhl said, his mouth dry.

  ‘Ironing out anomalies, things like that.’

  Auhl didn’t know how to answer, but knew he had to, and heard himself say with forced innocence, ‘All I can say is it seemed to me Neill was trying to set up his wife.’

  ‘But why not leave it at that? Why kill her?’

  ‘Is that what the pathologist thinks?’

  Debenham shrugged. ‘Still waiting on the toxicology.’

  Hearing the contrivance in his own voice, Auhl said, ‘I understand there was vomit and diarrhoea? His first wife died of what was thought to be some kind of stomach bug, so what if he used the same method again, knowing we’d be on the lookout for that other drug, the whatchamacallit…’

  ‘Succinylcholine,’ Vicks said.

  Auhl nodded, conscious that he’d been babbling and determined to shut up now.

  ‘It’s possible someone was there when she died,’ Debenham said.

  My footprint in the vomit…

  ‘Well, Neill, I suppose,’ Auhl said—too promptly.

  Debenham cocked his head and waited a beat before saying: ‘I checked with Senior Sergeant Colfax. Like me, she recalls Mrs Neill showing signs of illness the other day. Remember?’

  Auhl nodded. ‘Yeah, she did look a bit pale. Like I said, maybe Neill used the poison he used on his first wife. Slow-acting.’

  ‘Except the first wife wasn’t ruled a poisoning,’ Debenham said.

  He was looking at Auhl, as if to trip him up. Auhl said nothing.

  ‘Did you ever go to the St Andrews property, Alan?’

  They have me on camera, Auhl thought. But I wore a hat and glasses. I was in Janine’s car. He didn’t know how to answer, but knew he should and heard himself say, ‘Before we met you there last week? No.’

  ‘Not when wives number one and two died?’

  Now Auhl felt on firmer ground. ‘The first death wasn’t seen as suspicious. The second was ruled cause undetermined, from memory. But Neill didn’t have a place in St Andrews in those days. He lived in South Yarra.’

  Debenham clapped his hands. ‘Well, thanks for your time, Alan.’

  Was that it? Was that going to be the end of it? Auhl stood to leave. Knowing he sounded faintly desperate, he said, ‘A long shot, but I’ve asked for CCTV footage of the drug storage in the hospitals where Neill was on staff.’

  But he was mistaken if he thought they’d be grateful. ‘Doing our job for us, Alan?’

  ‘Didn’t mean to double-up,’ Auhl said, and got out of there.

  24

  ONE-FORTY-FIVE NOW, the steps of the Family Court in Geelong, Jeff Fleet addressing Auhl and Neve with a severe expression on his young face. ‘Mrs Fanning, it’s come to my attention that you collected your daughter from your husband’s house halfway through her weekend visit?’ Waiting a brief, cool moment, he added, ‘I received a phone call this morning. From Mr Fanning’s lawyer.’

  Auhl was still jittery from the session with Debenham, the strain of reading between the lines, sensing traps, so his voice was not quite under control: ‘They’re going to play dirty?’

  Fleet nodded, his glasses slipping. He thumbed them back. ‘It was made clear to me that they’ll raise the issue of abduction if they have to.’ He turned to Neve. ‘That means no outbursts, Neve, all right?’

  ‘But it was a rescue mission. She wanted to come home. Lloyd was having a party and the house was full of people who were passed out on the floor and watching filthy DVDs and taking drugs. I was protecting her.’

  ‘I’ve got photos,’ Auhl said.

  ‘I don’t care. At this stage, I don’t care. Even if you swear blind you had good reason and can present a stock of photos to prove it, what if Mr Fanning or his lawyer complain to the police? My advice is simply let events take their course this morning. Justice Messer will rule, a mere formality, over and done with quite quickly. Then we can all go our merry ways.’

  Auhl was frustrated. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Can’t rock the boat, Mr Auhl. We’ve already run the risk of Neve appearing to be a no-contact mum, i.e., hostile and vindictive. Last week was the hearing, today’s the ruling, so it’s not the place for raising fresh allegations. We need to be realistic, or we risk Mr Fanning getting substantially more time with the daughter and Neve substantially less.’

  ‘I’m wondering why you didn’t go in harder last week.’

  ‘Mr Auhl, let me do my job. I’m run ragged enough as it is.’

  Neve was touching Auhl’s sleeve warningly. He took a deep breath, told himself to calm down. ‘What are Neve’s chances?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will all be fine. Neve just needs to be aware that she made a bit of
a poor impression the other day. Softly, softly, Neve, okay? Worst case scenario, your parenting time is reduced.’

  ‘The mind boggles,’ Auhl said.

  ‘Not permanently,’ Fleet went on, rolling his shoulders in his tatty gown. ‘Just for a while, after which the situation would be reviewed.’

  THE SAME COURTROOM, bland pale wood, grey industrial carpet and off-white walls. Neve seated behind her lawyer, Lloyd Fanning behind his. Fanning looked competent, patient, successful. With Neve were her parents. No sign of Kelso.

  Then Justice Messer swept in, and after the rising, the sitting, the formal announcements, he said: ‘The purpose of these proceedings was to decide upon the matter of Mrs Neve Fanning’s application to formalise and limit her husband’s time with their daughter, Miss Pia Fanning. To assist the court, and in the best interests of the child, Doctor Thomas Kelso, an experienced psychiatrist and single expert whose specialty is difficult Family Court situations, conducted interviews with the three parties, and I have given his testimony close consideration. Doctor Kelso found Mrs Fanning to be anxious and over-protective and possibly to have suffered a temporary psychosis. In his assessment, she placed demands, planted ideas and fostered hate, fear and anxiety in her daughter. Indeed, he saw no indication in the child that she’d been mistreated by her father or was at risk of mistreatment, going forward. Although the child presented as guarded in her father’s presence and unresponsive with Doctor Kelso, these behaviours should be seen in the context of the mother fostering a toxic attitude towards the father. The mother had presented in a self-absorbed manner to Doctor Kelso and overvalued the notion of risk to the daughter.’

  Never respect a man who says, ‘going forward’, thought Auhl sourly.

  Messer looked around the room, down at his report again. ‘Furthermore, Doctor Kelso went on to say that Mrs Fanning’s accusations of domestic violence may be seen in the context of a convoluted and strained marital relationship.’

  Auhl felt himself shrink and, watching Neve, saw her helplessness, her chin against her chest. Lloyd Fanning sat calmly, head high, as though saying that at last someone was speaking sense.

  Everyone else in the room looked bored. Courtroom hangers-on, staff, young lawyers and legal clerks, they’d heard it all before. Auhl wished Fleet could object.