by Garry Disher
‘She’s not the only one,’ Challis said. ‘Her boss and workmates didn’t have a good word to say about the guy.’
‘Who’s checking his alibi?’
‘Scobie.’
‘Wishart could have hired someone.’
‘True.’
‘Did your famous antenna tell you anything about the planning department?’
Challis shrugged. ‘Nothing I could take to the bank. She might have made enemies, but we knew that. Her boss is unpopular, but so is ours.’
Ellen grinned. A little red Subaru Impreza throbbed past, wreathing them in toxins. She waved to clear the air. ‘According to Gandolfo, Mrs Wishart suspected Groot, or someone at Planning East, of leaking departmental decisions and deliberations to the wrong people.’
Challis looked past her and into the far distance, his way of thinking through the next stages and anticipating cockups. Eventually he took out his mobile phone and called CIU. ‘Pam? Doing anything?’
She sounded faintly harassed. ‘Lot of schoolie stuff, sir.’
‘Okay, tell Smith and Jones that I want them to run checks on everyone who worked with Ludmilla Wishart. Mainly financial.’
‘Sir.’
Challis and Destry wandered back to the police station, signed out the CIU Camry and headed a short distance south around the coast. Penzance Beach was a ribbon of sandy soil around a small bay, with humble holiday shacks and more modern architect-designed houses screened by ti-trees, wattles and gums. City people holidayed there, but most of the residents were retirees and people who worked locally. Challis steered slowly along the main access street, which followed the line of the beach, behind the beachfront houses. An uncomfortable feeling settled in the car: Ellen Destry had lived here until recently, before her marriage ended and her daughter went away to university and the house was sold. Challis had been a mealtime guest now and then, back when he’d been mildly attracted to her without it crossing his mind that they’d end up together.
Then the road turned inland and immediately climbed to a bluff above the town. Here all consistency had fled, as houses, egos, vantage points and monetary worth battled it out. And at the very top was a raw gap in the mix of expensive trees, gardens, fences and walls. Challis pointed. ‘An old house was demolished there yesterday morning. Our victim tried to stop it from happening.’
Challis had called ahead and Carl Vernon was waiting for them. The amateur historian took them into the cluttered sitting room of his cottage, the kind of room that in a tiny house is lived and worked in. A cracked and faded green leather sofa faced a small, dusty television set and a wall of shelves crammed with books, vinyl records, cassettes, CDs and a small sound system. Two glass cabinets contained sharks’ eggs, shells and driftwood, and a huge table with ornate legs supported a laptop computer, a printer and piles of manila folders and typed manuscript pages.
‘Excuse the mess.’
It was a mess, but comfortable and focussed. Challis looked at the man who’d made it. Carl Vernon was about sixty, with salt-and-pepper hair, sinewy legs inside loose, faded shorts, and broad tanned hands that had presumably created the typescript on the table but looked chopped about and grimy, as if he spent most of his time tackling weeds, chopping firewood or tinkering with engines. His face was lean and seamed, steered by a blade-like nose. An intelligent face.
Challis looked closer and saw grief there. No tears or histrionics, just quiet sorrow and disbelief. Of course the world was full of actors.
‘Perhaps you could tell us about your relationship with Mrs Wishart.’
‘Relationship? We all had a relationship with her.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The residents’ committee. You know about the house that was demolished?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ludmilla was helping us to gain a protection order.’
‘I understand that it failed.’
‘It didn’t fail. We were too late, that’s all. There is a distinction— moral if not legal. I’m confident that we’d have been successful, except the new owners were tipped off by someone.’
‘Strong words.’
‘It’s true. Everyone knew it.’
‘Who tipped them off?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Did Mrs Wishart know?’
‘She had her suspicions.’
‘She didn’t confide these to you?’
‘Not specifically.’
Challis said, ‘Could she have tipped off the new owners?’
‘Mill? No!’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘I’ve never seen anyone so upset as she was yesterday.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Twice. First thing in the morning, and again around four o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Why twice?’
‘As soon as the bulldozing started, I called her. Of course it was too late by the time she got here. She said she’d look into the legalities and get back to us.’
‘What did she tell you on her second visit?’
‘That she intended to hold an inquiry, and block or delay any building work on the site.’
‘That wouldn’t make the new owners happy.’
‘The Ebelings can get fucked, as far as I’m concerned—pardon my French. They’re new-money people. Vulgar. More money than sense or taste.’
Challis’s mind clicked on Pam Murphy’s unauthorised LED inquiry. The subjects had been Hugh and Mia Ebeling. ‘One of our detectives lives near here.’
‘Pam? Lovely girl. She had a word with the hard-hat guys, but it was all too little, too late.’
‘So, there were some very heated people here yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
‘Could others on your committee have suspected Mrs Wishart of being a spy for the Ebelings?’
Vernon looked doubtful. ‘She was terrific. No nonsense. Honest. Tireless. Everyone liked her.’
‘Mr Vernon,’ said Challis, ‘what if I said that she was sleeping with someone other than her husband?’
The question was one way of provoking a guilty flicker. Instead, Vernon exploded. ‘You must be joking.’
‘It’s been known to happen.’
‘Not to that poor lass. Not the way her husband followed her around everywhere.’
* * * *
29
Adrian Wishart had offered his uncle Terry as an alibi, and Scobie Sutton tracked the man down to a tiny electronics repair shop on the Nepean Highway in Cheltenham, part of the southeastern sprawl of Melbourne. The Nepean was long and depressing, stretching between the Peninsula and the city, where commerce ruled and the traffic moved in choked-off surges from one set of lights to the next. Wishart TV and VCR Repairs and Service sat opposite Cheltenham Toyota and between Blockbuster Video and a bicycle shop. Scobie parked and checked his watch. Challis had asked him to time the journey from Waterloo: fifty minutes. The air reeked of carcinogenic toxins. He entered the shop.
He found himself in a tiny reception alcove fitted with a grimy counter. Beyond an open doorway behind it were benches crammed with the guts, wiring looms and motherboards of TVs, VCRs and DVD players, together with coils of insulated wire, pliers, soldering irons and small electrical components of silvery metal or grey plastic.
A bell pinged and a man came through from the workshop, saying, ‘Sorry, pal, I’m about to close—family emergency.’
‘Are you Mr Terrence Wishart?’
‘Yeah, but whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it.’
Scobie had seen Adrian Wishart’s photograph in Ludmilla’s wallet; now he made a mental comparison between that image and the man before him. Terry, in his early sixties, was a balding knocked-about version of Adrian. Where Adrian was neat, refined, almost ascetic in appearance, Terry had the look of a man who liked a few beers after work and shopped at K-Mart. He’d probably struggled at school, was divorced and didn’t expect to marry again. In some ways, he’d given up. But not in all
ways. There were things he was proud of. Several photographs hung on the walls of the alcove: Terry in the dress uniform of an Army lieutenant, caught by a flashbulb as he shook hands with an elderly colonel; Terry with his arms around two similar men in the bar of a Returned Services League club; Terry at a wall of remembrance; Terry at the War Memorial in Canberra, patting the flank of an armoured personnel carrier.
He caught Scobie’s gaze and said, ‘Vietnam.’ He shook his head at the wonder and horror of his experiences. ‘That was a doozy.’
‘I bet it was.’
Wishart seemed to collect himself again. ‘Like I said, I need to close. Sorry.’
His face was tense, bewildered, behind whiskers, pouchy fat and broken capillaries, as though bad things were happening and he wasn’t ready for them.
‘I’m a police officer,’ Scobie said gently. ‘I take it you’ve heard about your nephew’s wife?’
The wind went out of Wishart’s sails. He placed both hands on the counter as though to brace his heavy torso and said, ‘It’s terrible. I can hardly believe it. It was her birthday yesterday.’
‘You had a present for her.’
‘That’s right. Nothing special. A DVD/VCR combo, repair job that someone failed to pick up. Good as new.’
‘Adrian drove up to collect it yesterday afternoon?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What time was that?’
Wishart froze, then straightened indignantly. ‘Hang on, what’s this in aid of? Are you checking up on him?’
‘Standard procedure, Terry.’
‘The poor guy’s all cut up about it and you’re checking on him? Jesus.’
‘If you could confirm the time, I’ll be on my way.’
Wishart, disgusted now, stared off into space. ‘Got here about one o’clock. I closed the shop and we went down the club for a counter lunch.’
‘The club?’
‘My local RSL. They do you a good meal.’
Scobie was hoping the servicemen’s club had installed bar and carpark cameras. And if necessary he’d check every speed and intersection camera on the Nepean Highway. It was what he was good at. Challis knew it and usually gave him the task of tracking the movements of suspects via surveillance cameras and credit card and mobile phone use.
‘How long did you spend there?’
‘Got back to the shop about three. I had some repairs to complete, so Ade sat with me for a couple of hours while I worked. We don’t see each other that often.’
Wishart swiped at his eyes suddenly. ‘Poor bastard. Poor Mill.’
‘You were fond of her?’
‘She was great. Lucky man, my nephew. Poor bastard.’
‘So he left here about five yesterday afternoon?’
Terry Wishart screwed up his face in thought. His expression cleared. ‘Yep.’
‘Did he tell you his plans for the evening?’
‘It was Mill’s thirtieth, they were going out to dinner.’
‘Did he say what time?’
‘Nup. But he likes to eat early.’
‘He left here at five, an hour to get home, then shower, change and drive to the restaurant...’
‘So?’
‘He expected to find Mrs Wishart waiting at home for him?’
Terry shifted about uncomfortably. ‘Ade could be a bit, you know, uptight about things like lateness. Mill wouldn’t want to piss him off
‘Except she wasn’t there, and she didn’t return.’
‘No.’
‘Did he tell you that? Call you last night and tell you?’
Wishart shook his head. ‘This morning. He was so cut up he could hardly get the words out.’
‘Can anyone verify that he was here all that time? Customers? People who work for your’
Wishart looked doubtful. ‘I work alone. A couple of customers came in, but Ade was out the back, reading the paper while I tinkered. Look, he really loved Mill, we both did. Really loved her. If I find the bastard that done this...’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Above the shop. Why?’
‘What time did you close yesterday?’
‘You prick. Five-thirty, then I was upstairs. Stayed in all night.’
‘When I arrived just now you said you’re closing for the day. Are you driving down to be with your nephew?’
Wishart shook his head. ‘He’s coming here. Says he can’t stay in his place a minute longer. Too many memories.’
Then Scobie drove to Terry Wishart’s RSL club, which didn’t have any working CCTV cameras. The young staff knew Terry, however. He ate lunch there almost every day, and often stayed on rather than return to his shop. Nice bloke. Friendly. Liked his beer. A bit sad. Yeah, there could have been another bloke with him yesterday, hard to remember, so many faces in and out. But it was pretty likely. Old Terry didn’t like to eat or drink alone. He had plenty of mates, army buddies. Full of war stories. Vietnam. He’d be much too young for World War Two.
Scobie went away thinking about lonely, isolated men. That led him to other thoughts, as he headed southeast to Waterloo. It led him to his daughter’s school concert last night, and how proud he was, how he’d had tears in his eyes to see Ros up there on the stage, singing her little heart out.
It had been the loneliest moment of his life. Beth was there, but not there. He’d tried to jolly her along. He’d kept peering at her face for a reaction to match his, but neither the music nor her daughter had moved her. He thought of the word ‘automaton’.
* * * *
30
Two of the schoolies had had their bicycles stolen, so Pam Murphy spent part of the afternoon investigating that. Then she was called to a dispute on the foreshore, a motel manager claiming that a schoolie had let all of his tyres down, the kid claiming the manager had put his grubby hands inside her singlet top. Then up High Street to investigate a shoplifting incident blamed on a gang of schoolies but probably committed by the proprietor, who had a history of suspected insurance rip-offs.
All of this wasted time and shoe leather, and so Pam didn’t reach HangTen until five o’clock, as businesses were closing for the day. ‘A word, Caz?’
‘I have to balance the registers and lock up.’
‘It’s important.’
Caz Moon had very white hair and black eyebrows today, a bruised look around her eyes, purple lips. She’d ditched her jeans and wore a torn skirt over an unravelling petticoat over holed tights. It shouldn’t have looked attractive but it did. Pam tried to figure out why. It was Caz herself, she decided, Caz’s air of containment and intelligence.
‘Sit,’ said Caz, indicating a stool behind one of the counters. ‘We’ll talk as I work.’
She was deft and focused, closing one cash register after the other, setting the lights, locking display cabinets, alarming the rear doors. Pam’s questioning was no distraction to her; she answered without missing a beat.
‘Where were you last night?’
‘Out clubbing—or what passes for clubbing in dear old Waterloo. You saw me, remember?
‘The schoolies bring you a lot of extra business?’
‘Some.’
‘But they attract toolies, right? Locals who try to take advantage of them? Mostly we think of a toolie as a guy.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘But there are female toolies. Yesterday I warned off a thirty-five-year-old woman.’
‘Huh,’ said Caz without interest.
‘You’re not a toolie, are you, Caz? You don’t fraternise with the schoolies?’
‘Unavoidable. Turn a corner, and there they are.’
‘But you don’t seek them out? Don’t try to pick up the guys, have a drink with them?’
‘Babies,’ Caz said. She was adding figures in her head.
‘Where were you last night?’
‘You already asked me that.’
‘I mean later, around midnight. The early hours.’
‘Home.’
&
nbsp; ‘Can you prove that?’
‘Do I need to?’
‘What do you know about GHB and Rohypnol?’
‘Date rape drugs,’ said Caz without hesitation.