Signal Loss

by Garry Disher

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  An elderly woman stood waiting and Tank managed a huge smile. ‘Yes, madam, what can I do for you?’

  She was tall, thin, stooped and grey, wearing cotton pants with an elastic waistband, a shirt and cardigan. Her fingers were veiny and twisted, holding tight to a handbag.

  ‘You lot arrested my daughter yesterday. Christine Penford?’

  Tank remembered. He’d watched her brought to the station. High as a kite. Then Pam had come steaming in to arrange a statewide lookout for Penford’s daughter.

  He said, ‘Ma’am, I’m afraid she hasn’t been interviewed yet.’

  The woman waved that aside. ‘Just now I was around her house to fetch clothes and toys and I found a gun.’

  15

  LATE AFTERNOON NOW.

  After discussing the Guthrie interview with Judd in the light of his original investigation, Ellen Destry briefed the others, and finished her work day with a tricky phone call to a specialist officer at Force Command in Melbourne. It concerned a paedophile, in jail for the sexual abuse of young boys, who’d been selling copies of his trial transcript to other paedophiles—in prison and out. She suspected the involvement of his lawyer and/or prison officers, but hadn’t the means or experience to take it any further.

  That done, she locked up and walked to her car. Unable to find a park outside the sex-crimes house that morning, she’d left the car behind the police station, and was pressing the unlock button on her keys when Sergeant Cleavage, sorry, Coolidge emerged from the building.

  ‘Ellen.’

  ‘Serena.’

  They looked at each other, faintly challenging, bringing back old academy memories to Ellen but probably nothing at all to Coolidge.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. You’re sex crimes now,’ Coolidge said, as if that were a side path to nowhere in policing terms.

  ‘And you’re drugs,’ Ellen said.

  Coolidge gave her a slow-burning smile and Ellen wondered at the intent: to tease me, unsettle me. She returned the smile, a quick hard nastiness in it, and opened the door of the car. ‘Good luck,’ she said, and got in and drove out of there. Not much of a victory—not much of anything—but why get bogged down fighting the woman?

  ON HER WAY HOME SHE CALLED at a house in Merricks Beach. A big house, raised to the glory of its architect, it sat with other palaces on a headland above the sea, and was home to a husband and wife, both doctors, their seventeen-year-old son and a fifteen-year-old daughter. During the year they’d hosted a Spanish exchange student named Francesca Arena, who, two weeks into her stay, had flown back to Spain. A hint rather than a direct allegation of sexual molestation had come from the Spanish headquarters of the exchange program. The host father? Someone at the school? Family friend or gardener or male visitor?

  Within five minutes of her arrival, Ellen knew it was the son, a huge but soft-looking boy, shifty, sullen, frightened, spoilt. The mother was dismayed, the father confused, and Ellen went away feeling that blame would be flying around the family kitchen and no one would look at the boy in quite the same way again.

  AT HOME ON HER DECK, the late sun angling in from across Port Phillip Bay, she sipped a glass of wine, demolished half-a-dozen crackers loaded with small slabs of mousetrap cheese and called Hal Challis.

  ‘Had my first delicate staffing issue today.’ Her iPhone to her ear, feet propped on the deck table, she told him about the Guthrie interview, and comparing notes with Judd afterwards. ‘I had to tread carefully, so he wouldn’t think I was double-checking his work.’

  ‘Which you weren’t.’

  ‘I know. I was reinterviewing her in the light of new information.’

  ‘Did he accept that?’

  ‘I think so. It’s not easy being a boss.’

  ‘Now you know what I went through when you were on my team.’

  ‘I wasn’t a handful, was I?’

  ‘You were a bolshie nightmare,’ Challis said.

  ‘Somehow I wish Judd was a bolshie nightmare,’ Ellen said. ‘Someone with imagination. Instead, he’s a stubborn, by-the-book, old-style kind of copper.’

  They chatted. The light softened to an evening dimness. Challis said, ‘How’s your sister?’

  Ellen glanced at her phone—6:48. ‘I’ll soon know,’ she said. Pausing, she added, ‘You don’t mind that I didn’t invite you around tonight?’

  Challis laughed. ‘I’d be in the way.’

  ‘Normally you wouldn’t be, but we have things to discuss.’

  Ellen thought of Allie’s bright, easily hurt—or hostile or offended—dark eyes. Feeling tentative and disadvantaged, she said, ‘Do you ever think about your wife?’

  A pause. ‘Sometimes. What brought that on?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s history,’ Challis said in her ear. ‘But it’s my history, so inevitably I think about it sometimes.’

  He said it firmly, almost sharply, an air of finality, and Ellen said, ‘I’m just being silly.’

  Not that silly. Her own marriage had ended in divorce, her ex-husband remarrying. And Allie had a very patchy love history. In the old days, husbands and wives stayed together. Then again, many of them probably shouldn’t have. These days, with a third of all marriages ending in divorce, why bother?

  Her thoughts were all over the place and then there was a horn tooting down on her driveway and Allie was parking on the lawn. ‘They’re here, I’d better go.’

  ‘Take care. Love you,’ Challis said, and it occurred to her that he didn’t often say it. He displayed love, she felt loved, but he didn’t often voice it.

  ‘ELLS,’ SAID ALLIE, ‘I’D LIKE you to meet Clive. Clive Mieckle.’

  The photographs hadn’t lied, Mieckle was a burly, compact man with cropped hair and a face full of experiences. But what experiences? wondered Ellen, as he stepped forward, his hand extended, his expression guarded. The handshake was firm, dry, a brief tough squeeze.

  And the first words out of his mouth: ‘Allie told me on the way over here you’re in the police force.’

  Ellen glanced questioningly at her sister, then gave Mieckle an off-hand smile. ‘For my sins.’

  ‘I have a great deal of respect for the police,’ Mieckle said, washing his hands together, as if to reassure her. ‘I’m ex-army myself—SAS—so I know something about matters of law and order. Hot spots overseas, that kind of thing.’

  Then Allie was hooking his arm in hers, melding her flank with his. ‘Clive’s very tight-lipped about his experiences.’

  He shot her a look. ‘Well, I have to be, love. Secret work, a lot of it.’

  A fond tone, but a hint of steel, too. Bad memories? A warning not to pry?

  They couldn’t just stand about on the deck in the dwindling light, so Ellen said, ‘Come in. Would you like a pre-dinner drink, Clive? Beer? Wine? Something stronger?’

  He shook his head, about to answer, when Allie pulled him tight against her again. ‘Clive’s not a drinker,’ she said, as if the virtue were somehow hers.

  Ellen showed them to the sitting room, poured wine for Allie, water for Mieckle, and perched on the edge of her armchair. ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘Something smells good,’ Mieckle said.

  Allie rode over him. ‘Frankston Art and Craft Expo,’ she gushed. ‘We bonded over a shared interest in photography.’

  To Ellen’s knowledge, Allie didn’t own a camera. ‘Photography?’

  ‘Especially cats.’

  ‘Cats.’

  ‘I’m more into black-and-white photography than Allie,’ Mieckle said.

  ‘You should see his work, Ells, it’s truly beautiful. Not cutesy. Kind of moody. Expressive.’

  Mieckle shrugged. ‘Black and white allows for a degree of mystery.’

  Ellen found her mind drifting. She brought herself back to the room and her sister and the boyfriend. Especially the boyfriend. ‘Quite a change from army life. Are you a full
-time photographer?’

  ‘One day I hope to be. License my work for greeting cards and calendars, that kind of thing. Right now I’m trying to centre myself.’

  Jesus Christ, thought Ellen, who was trying to get an answer to the question, Do you earn a living or are you a grafter?

  Allie, no fool sometimes, narrowed her eyes. ‘Clive received compensation from the Army.’

  For what? Ellen didn’t find out, for Clive bumped shoulders with Allie fondly and dug her with his elbow. A startled flicker crossed Allie’s face.

  A warning not to shoot her mouth off? And then the timer sounded in the kitchen and Ellen got to her feet, saying, ‘Timing is crucial, especially when I’m the cook.’

  Mieckle laughed. Allie laughed, a little shrill.

  ‘I hope you like spicy food, Clive. We’re having a curry.’

  ‘Oh, Clive’s well travelled, don’t you worry about that, Ells,’ Allie said, as if she didn’t know when to shut up.

  AN HOUR LATER THEY WERE slouched around the dining table. Ellen and Allie, mildly sloshed, were swapping stories of childhood while Clive Mieckle sat listening, wearing a smile. A fond smile, or was he concentrating?

  ‘Remember that holiday house we’d spend summers at on Phillip Island?’ Allie said. ‘Clive spent his summers on the island, too! Talk about ships passing in the night, if only, et cetera, et cetera.’

  Mieckle gave a pained smile.

  ‘We’ve discovered heaps of parallels,’ Allie continued. ‘Holidays on Phillip Island. Walks on the beach. Photography. Cats…’

  Mieckle did not look relaxed.

  ‘Clive thinks we should buy an investment property on Phillip Island,’ Allie burbled on. ‘He says prices are favourable and in a few weeks from now places will start to come onto the market. People finishing their holidays and going back to work.’

  An off-handed gesture from Mieckle. ‘Oh, it was just a thought. Daydreaming aloud.’

  His voice was tinged with tension, but Allie didn’t hear it. ‘No, like you said, darling, we should act rather than feel sorry later, when it’s too late.’

  Ellen laughed immoderately, as if she were a carefree, slightly drunken and envious older sister. ‘Lucky things, I wish I could afford to buy a holiday house somewhere.’

  Allie said with kind concern, ‘One day you will, Ells. Anyway, I can always help out.’

  Somehow not the kind of information Ellen wanted her sister to be broadcasting this soon in a relationship.

  16

  ONE YEAR ON, CHALLIS’S ten-year-old second-hand BMW had become a headache. It was less gutsy than he’d thought a European sporting saloon should be, but mainly it was full of touchy and expensive mechanical and electrical parts. Sensors, for example, that stopped sensing and forced the car into limp-home mode.

  Challis might have quipped that he knew all about limp-home mode; he’d been in it for much of his working life, at the tail end of twelve-hour days viewing murder scenes, attending autopsies, briefing the troops, grilling suspects and witnesses. But fucked if he felt like laughing this morning, Friday, the car losing power halfway to Waterloo and creeping onto the forecourt of Waterloo Automotive.

  Bernie Joske sauntered out. The head mechanic, he was also one of Challis’s informants.

  ‘Not this shit-heap again. What’s the problem?’

  Challis told him, and Joske plugged a laptop into the electrics, ran a diagnostic check and said, ‘It’s your mass air flow sensor.’

  ‘Whatever that is,’ Challis said.

  ‘Mate, what can I tell you?’ the mechanic said sadly. ‘European, over-engineered to buggery. Plus, you live on a dirt road, right? Dust? Corrugated to hell? Plus the car’s ten years old.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Thing’ll just keep going wrong. Buy Japanese, mate.’

  Challis glanced at his watch: Friday, 7:35 and he was late for the briefing. ‘Can you get me going again?’

  ‘I’ll get the part overnighted from Sydney and have you on the road sometime tomorrow.’

  ‘And keep your eyes open for a decent car for me?’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  Challis thanked him and turned to go. Turned back and said, ‘Let me know if you hear of anyone unloading farm vehicles and machinery.’

  Joske saluted. ‘Count on it.’

  Challis gave him a nod, headed back onto the main road and walked to work.

  TWO DEVELOPMENTS: Scobie Sutton’s investigation into the burnt-out Mercedes had raised a red flag with the New South Wales drug squad, and John Tankard claimed to have seen that car, and its occupants, at the house of Owen Valentine and Christine Penford. Serena Coolidge demanded an immediate sit-down involving her squad, CIU, Sutton and Tankard, but Challis overrode her, insisting they interview Christine Penford first. ‘We need to know what she can tell us about Valentine’s activities and likely location.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  THE DOCTOR HAD PASSED Penford as fit to be questioned, but Challis was doubtful. She entered the interview room doubled over as if in pain, and sat cradling her head in her hands as though afraid it would drop from her shoulders to the pitted surface of the rickety plastic table. Or perhaps it was the air. The room was a hot, stale cave deep inside the police station and had never witnessed anything but lies and hopelessness.

  He began, saying, ‘My name is Challis, the Crime Investigation Unit inspector for the Westernport region, and also present in the room are…’

  ‘Sergeant Coolidge, drug squad.’

  ‘Constable Murphy, CIU.’

  Penford raised her head and looked blankly at the three officers. Gaunt, her hair hanging in limp strings to her shoulders, wearing loose-fitting pants and a T-shirt, she twitched and picked at her forearms. Challis could see sores near her nose and mouth, but her teeth looked okay.

  ‘Before we begin, is there anything we can get you? Tea, coffee, water, something to eat?’

  Penford shook her head violently. ‘You’ll put a truth drug in it.’

  ‘Would you like a lawyer? We did advise you that you’re entitled to free legal representation, Christine.’

  Pam Murphy leaned forward to add, ‘And your mother said she’d pay for a lawyer of your choosing.’

  ‘Her!’ Penford said.

  Challis leaned back, folded his arms. ‘To be clear, you are refusing legal representation at this time?’

  An abbreviated nod.

  Challis said, ‘Let it be noted that Ms Penford has indicated she is not seeking legal representation. All right, Christine, let’s begin. First, I advise you that this interview is being recorded for your protection as much as ours, okay?’

  No response, so Challis went on: ‘On Wednesday you were arrested and charged on suspicion of burglary and possession of stolen goods. Is there anything you wish to say in regard to these matters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I should advise you that we also intend to question you on other perhaps more serious matters, do you understand?’

  Penford folded and unfolded her arms, as if to stop her hands from their tormenting ways. ‘Don’t sweat it.’

  Challis nodded to Murphy, who said, ‘Christine, on Monday afternoon I visited you at your house to ask the whereabouts of your partner, Owen Valentine, is that correct? Do you remember?’

  ‘I can’t remember shit,’ Penford said.

  ‘You told me he’d packed up and left you, taking his dog and some of his things with him, do you remember?’

  ‘He run off on me,’ Penford muttered.

  ‘Has he tried to contact you since then?’

  ‘Why? He run off.’

  ‘Do you know why he did? Had you two been fighting, arguing? Had he been hassled by other people about anything? Was he frightened or in trouble?’

  Too many questions in one go, thought Challis, and heard Penford alight on the last question. Staring as if astonished at Pam’s naivety, Penford said, ‘You lot were going to arrest him.’

/>   ‘Do you happen to know the reason for that, Christine?’

  ‘He bashed this guy up.’

  Then she seemed to sober suddenly. Stabbed herself in the chest with a gnawed forefinger. ‘You think I got rid of him or something? You mad?’

  ‘So you didn’t harm Owen or ask others to harm him in any way?’

  ‘We were in love.’

  ‘Yet he left.’

  ‘He was scared of going to prison.’

  ‘That wouldn’t necessarily have happened, first offence.’

  Penford hung her head and for a long moment was still and silent. ‘We were doing okay till a few months ago. Clean and that.’

  Challis saw Coolidge glance impatiently at her watch. She wanted information from Penford and wanted it now. Her tone barbed, she said, ‘Cut the crap. You both got hooked on ice.’

  Penford bristled. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘Tell us who your dealer is.’

  ‘What?’

  Murphy cut in. ‘So Owen was scared he’d go to jail for hitting Mr Slatter.’

  Penford spread her palms, pleading. ‘But he’d paid him off. Talk about greedy.’

  Pam murmured to Challis, ‘I spoke to Slatter on Monday. He told me he didn’t want to go ahead with police or court action.’ To Penford she said, ‘Owen paid Tony Slatter not to press charges?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t know, a few days ago.’

  ‘Where did he get the money?’

  Penford’s gaze slid to the corners of the room. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘He sold Clover’s bike to a second-hand shop.’

  Penford shrugged. ‘It was too big for her.’

  ‘What did he get for the bike? Fifty dollars? Not enough to pay someone off.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. All I know is, he paid the guy and the guy comes back wanting more.’

  ‘Mr Slatter came to your house demanding more money?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘And you attacked him.’

  ‘I never.’

  Challis said, ‘Don’t worry about anything Mr Slatter says. We’ve had a firm word with him, and he won’t be pressing charges. But he confirmed that Owen gave him five thousand dollars in return for his silence. Now, how did Owen obtain that money? Did he borrow it? If so, who from?’