Signal Loss

by Garry Disher

  MEANWHILE CHALLIS STOOD ON the forecourt of Waterloo Automotive, viewing his car. Parked at the side of the building, freshly washed, all of the road dust sluiced away, the little BMW looked sleek and desirable, and he was torn.

  Bernie Joske sauntered out, as always wiping his hands on a grimy rag. ‘Good to go, mate.’

  ‘The damage?’

  ‘Parts plus labour, four twenty-five.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Joske made a gesture of appeal. ‘Mate, what can I say.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Challis said. Then he made a slight inquiring motion with his head.

  Joske read it. ‘Come inside and we’ll settle the bill.’

  Joske’s office was at the side of the building, his daughter, who handled his invoices, in a smaller adjoining office. ‘Got some car options to discuss, love,’ he said, and shut the door, sealing him in with Challis.

  Challis glanced through the half-glass wall to the service bays, the hoists, tools and mechanics busy in their overalls. ‘Someone moving farm vehicles and machinery, earthmoving equipment… Any joy?’

  Joske gave him a humourless smile. Shifting in his chair he said comfortably, ‘One of me nephews has the sheriff after him.’

  ‘Let me guess, unpaid fines.’

  ‘Four grand’s worth, the little idiot,’ said Joske. He paused. ‘My sister’s boy. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I told him, Darren, that slip of paper stuck to your windscreen means something, it’s a parking fine, not a Christmas decoration. It means you overstayed at the meter, it means you parked on a yellow line.’ Joske shook his head. ‘But everything I say goes in one ear and out the other. It’s like, if he ignores it, it’ll go away. But he’s my sister’s youngest, she’s a single mum, and I try to help out where I can, you know?’

  ‘Sounds like he needs some tough love,’ Challis said.

  Joske grimaced. ‘Well said. You’re a king among men. But he’s family, Hal.’

  ‘I can’t make the fines disappear.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘A payment plan, maybe. Say, a hundred a week. Or a reassessment of the total.’

  ‘We can live with that,’ Joske said.

  But could Challis? It would mean asking a favour of someone else, and favours tended to pile onto favours…

  ‘So, is anyone moving farm and winery and earthmoving gear?’

  Bernie Joske said, ‘I’m still sniffing around, but there’s a whisper about an operation down the coast, maybe Inverloch. But I don’t know who or exactly where. Yet.’

  A strange relationship, policeman and informant. What motivates a snitch? Bernie was on the books as a registered informant, he was always paid, but money didn’t drive him; he earned a comfortable living mending cars. Perhaps the money and the favours owed made him feel better about his treacheries. And Challis was certain Bernie was selective in the information he passed on. Avoiding potential trouble for himself, damaging competitors or avenging some slight. He’d once steered Challis to a mechanic dealing in rebirthed chassis, Challis learning later the mechanic had outbid Joske at a car auction.

  Not that Challis didn’t have other informants. Policing couldn’t occur without them. But he disliked the dependency, the reciprocity. And he knew never to sink all of his hopes in a man like Bernie J. It was impossible to know how long Bernie would go on giving useful information, or stay a step ahead of the law himself, or even stay alive. And Challis could never be sure there wasn’t a forestalling or diverting factor behind it, with Bernie pointing him in one direction and pulling something shady in the opposite direction.

  One thing was for sure, Challis would never let himself be spotted in public with the man. He’d risk being tagged as Bernie’s tame copper, a policeman on the take.

  ‘Let me know as soon as you hear anything definite.’

  ‘Will do.’

  25

  ALLIE’S VOICE ON THE PHONE was tense, trembling with excitement.

  ‘I have to see you.’

  Ellen had been passing the Dromana drive-in cinemas, heading for home, but pulled over to take the call. Traffic streamed south on the freeway overpass, the sun was low, she was tired. ‘I’ll be home in a tick.’

  ‘Are you in the car? Turn around and come to my place. Please? It’s important.’

  Ellen grumbled, said goodbye, called Challis. ‘Did you get your car back okay?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be a bit late. Allie wants to see me about something.’

  ‘She okay?’

  ‘Just another drama.’

  Ellen pulled out and took the up-ramp north, and on to the Craigie Road exit and down to the beach and from there to the Esplanade in Mornington.

  SHE STOOD AT ALLIE’S VAST UPSTAIRS window, drawn, as ever, to the view of the bay. A container ship was steaming for Port Phillip Heads. But she was thinking about the travel brochures spilled across the coffee table and guessed the nature of her sister’s news.

  Then Allie was entering behind her, carrying chunky glass tumblers of gin and tonic, ice, a slice of lemon. Condensation beaded the glass. Ellen itched to grab her drink and sink it, a balm for a difficult day, but said, ‘Light on the gin?’

  ‘I know you have to drive, Ells,’ Allie said. She was flushed, eyes sparkling, as she handed Ellen one of the glasses.

  Cool and moist and more tonic than gin. Ellen sank, relieved, into an armchair, sipped again and placed the glass on a coaster. It was right beside a brochure for Tahiti.

  ‘Going on a trip?’

  A blaze in her sister’s eyes. ‘Yes!’

  ‘With Clive?’

  ‘Yep,’ Allie said, a slight challenge in her jaw.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Ellen said, peering at the brochures. ‘Where, exactly?’

  Allie put her head on one side, the other, as if tossing up. ‘I haven’t decided yet. Clive sprung it on me.’

  Ellen wanted to tread carefully, but in the end said baldly, ‘He’s paying?’

  ‘Why does everything have to be about money with you?’

  Mainly because I don’t have much of it, thought Ellen. But at least she’d found out where the money was coming from. Sidestepping, she said, ‘Sounds like fun. When are you going?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Ellen frowned. ‘You’ll be here for Christmas though?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Christmas. They both sat and stared vacantly at the walls. A year earlier, their parents had sold up and moved to a small home unit in a retirement village.

  ‘But you’re not old,’ Ellen had protested.

  ‘Of course we’re not,’ her mother said.

  ‘It’s a retirement village,’ her father said, ‘not an aged-care place.’

  Ellen remembered that first Christmas in her parents’ new home. Everything about the day seemed wrong: the tiny rooms, nothing familiar, the spirit of family somehow diminished. Her parents’ old home—her family home—had absorbed the love and goodwill of scores of Christmases and birthdays and always seemed to give it back. Their new home, their little box, was arid.

  But the daughters were expected. The dutiful daughters.

  ‘So when is your trip?’

  ‘As soon as Clive gets back. Sometime in the new year.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  Allie’s gaze slid to a corner of the room. ‘Away on business.’

  Ellen said tightly, ‘Are you bringing him for Christmas?’

  Allie studied another corner of the room. ‘Probably not.’

  Ellen left it. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’

  Allie extended a sleek leg and waggled a shapely foot. ‘There are some strappy sandals I’ve had my eye on.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Late night shopping, I could show them to you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  ‘Could we go in separate cars? I’m a bit stuck for time.’

  Allie examined the coffee table. ‘Actually, Clive bor
rowed my car.’

  Damn, thought Ellen. She just wanted to get home and go out for a meal with Challis. ‘Oh. Okay.’

  ‘It won’t take long, honest.’

  Ellen sighed. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll get my things.’

  Allie slipped from the room, light as a fairy. There are no half measures with my sister, Ellen thought. Either she’s floating on air or she’s a stone around our necks.

  Listening out for returning footsteps, she used her car keys to slide two of the travel brochures into her bag.

  THEY CHATTED ABOUT THIS and that as Ellen headed along the Esplanade and right onto Main Street, scanning left and right for a parking spot. Late Saturday afternoon, two weeks until Christmas, she didn’t like her chances.

  ‘Will Clive be away for long?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Oh, just business.’

  ‘I haven’t told you what I want for Christmas,’ Ellen said. And you haven’t asked me. You never do—you always buy me a last-minute thing I don’t like or need.

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of those French cast-iron cooking pots. Pale blue.’

  ‘Aren’t they expensive?’

  Always aim high first, Ellen thought. ‘Or a full set of House of Cards DVDs.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘The American series. If it’s not too expensive.’

  ‘No, that’s okay.’

  Ellen swung the car left, down towards the car park beside Target. It was crammed. She drove up and down, peering. ‘Allie, if you’re short of cash, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It’s all right, I said.’

  ‘I mean, if you need money for the trip, or you’ve given Clive a loan or something, I quite understand.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, he’ll pay me back,’ Allie said, folding her arms, upright in her seat.

  Ellen slowed and steered carefully into a narrow space between a Mazda and an Audi—which was parked over the line, of course, as though it deserved two spaces. ‘How much?’ she asked, careful not to glance at her sister.

  Allie said, ‘He had some hospital bills to pay,’ and, from her voice, Ellen pictured her sister’s face, mulish, stubborn and righteous, the face she wore when accused of something, caught in a lie or burdened by some request or demand.

  Her usual face.

  ‘He’s ill?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘His niece, if you must know. His sister’s girl. They’re treating her for leukaemia.’

  ‘Poor child, that’s awful,’ Ellen said neutrally.

  ‘They’ve all had a rough trot, his family.’

  ‘What are they like?’

  ‘I’ll meet them, hopefully, after Christmas,’ Allie said.

  Ellen pulled on the handbrake, switched off. People were clumping between the parked cars, laden with groceries and Christmas shopping. No one looked happy. They didn’t look unhappy, just burdened.

  ‘Allie, be careful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For example, if Clive suggests you set up joint bank accounts. Just be careful.’

  ‘You think I’m that stupid?’ Allie demanded, but her voice gave something away, some tiny seed of doubt.

  ‘No, I don’t think you’re stupid at all.’

  ‘Well, you think I’ve been stupid in love,’ Allie said.

  Meaning her past marriages. ‘We all make mistakes,’ Ellen said.

  She opened her door, careful not to bang the Audi, then thinking to hell with the Audi. ‘Let’s go and spend my hard-earned money.’

  But then she caught the expression on her sister’s face, a look of misery glimpsed across the roof of her car. ‘Joke, Alls, sorry. I’d love to get you your sandals.’

  Allie opened her mouth, closed it again and turned away, hoisting the strap of her bag over her slender brown shoulder. About to tell me all, Ellen guessed, and had second thoughts.

  26

  SUNDAY, 7 A.M., A WEAK SURF running at Point Leo.

  Pam Murphy bobbed on her board, idly paddling, looking back over her shoulder in expectation of a good break. Nothing doing. The waves coming in this morning merely lifted and lowered her gently, or broke falsely or too late, full of fat, swelling promise but no payoff.

  Still, sitting out here on the water was a nice punctuation to her day, her week. Surfing grounded her—so to speak. The air was clear, the water clean and vivid further out, where the December sun struck it. Summer’s here, she thought, and Christmas is coming.

  Presents for her brothers and their wives and kids. A present for her mother, the inspector, a couple of friends.

  What friends? Almost no one in the police force.

  Pam bobbed on the water, lost to dreams. A shout and a curse and a guy unfamiliar to her was gliding past and she was in his way. ‘Fucking beginners,’ he shouted. But she wasn’t a beginner. She was an experienced surfer bobbing in a slow swell, that’s all. She watched the guy ride it out, barely making it to shore, and paddle back again. A couple of the other regulars, early-birders like her, bailed him up, leaning intently on their boards, muttering to him. Then they let him through and he paddled past Pam uneasily, half-sulky, half-chastised. They’d stuck up for her. Pretty tribal, she thought, out here on the water.

  SHOWERED, WEARING LIGHTWEIGHT cargo pants, a sleeveless top and sandals, she breakfasted on coffee, muesli and a croissant in Red Hill before cutting down to the freeway and onto Peninsula Link and EastLink. Suburban main roads and side streets after that, through the leafy eastern suburbs of Melbourne. Leafy, but saturated with traffic exhaust.

  Her mother lived in Capel Gardens Lodge in Hawthorn, not far from where Pam had grown up. The place was two hectares of shrubs, paths and cottages at the end of a driveway set with speed bumps. Finding a park, Pam switched off and checked her watch. Ten minutes early.

  She made her way along a now-familiar route, nodding hello to one old woman, one young staff member. She dodged a garden sprinkler, stopped to smell a rose and realised that she felt buoyant for the first time in days, her skin tight on her bones, her senses tingling. It was the mild sun, the break from work, the promise of an adventure. Normally when she visited her mother, all she did was sit and talk and drink tea and meet other old ladies.

  She found her mother waiting on a garden chair in the sun, ready to go, her cottage door locked, curtains drawn. Pam leaned in and kissed a creased, papery cheek. ‘Not late, am I?’

  ‘Early, dear,’ Harriet Murphy said, putting weight on her stick, a bony shoulder pointing skywards, then levering herself upright. She wore stockings, a blue woollen skirt, a blouse and a cardigan. There’d been a rug on her lap. It fell to the grass.

  ‘Whoops, forgot that was there.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Pam said, swooping down.

  Then a familiar claw was hooking onto her arm and they walked to the car, a slow march, only a faint hum of distant traffic in the air, the hiss of lawn sprinklers, birds rustling. Pam encountered no one this time. It was as if she were removing her mother from a deserted hamlet, the last of her kind.

  ‘This is fun.’

  Pam laughed. ‘We haven’t even reached the car yet.’

  ‘Trust me, dear, this is fun.’

  FIRST TAKING HER MOTHER past the old family home two streets away, Pam made a fast trip back to the Peninsula, exiting at Frankston, where she wound through to the coast road. Up over Oliver’s Hill, then down into Mt Eliza, directed by her mother.

  At the end of Canadian Bay Road, she said, ‘Where on earth are you taking me?’

  ‘Hold your horses, dear. You were always the impatient one.’

  Was I? thought Pam. She compared herself to her older brothers. Neither had ever struck her as fast or furious or indeed active at all, with their propensity for elliptical put-downs of their athletic police officer sister. She supposed she must have been the impatient one.

  But I am mellowing, aren’t I? I’m not feeling impatient right thi
s very moment. I just want to know where you’re taking me.

  ‘There!’ her mother exclaimed.

  It was a Mt Eliza gin palace, a massive block of pale stone set amid severely groomed lawns, a Lexus four-wheel drive and a BMW convertible glimpsed between the bars of a metal gate.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Harriet Murphy nodded. ‘When your father and I lived here it was a little run-down house in a patch of bushland, not that monstrosity.’

  ‘When you were first married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They sat for a while. The house offering nothing, the street unrecognisable, Harriet said, ‘Okay, that’s enough, take me down to the water, dear.’

  They parked at the end, got out, Pam clasping her mother’s elbow, letting the older woman feel her way down over the tricky surfaces: pavement, steps, sand.

  They stood and for five minutes sniffed the wind and watched it feather the water. Then Harriet said, ‘That’s enough,’ for a second time.

  ‘Early lunch?’

  ‘Excellent idea.’

  Lunch on the pier at Mornington, Harriet picking at a salad, sipping a glass of mineral water. She’d reapplied her lipstick in the ladies, thick, hectic stripes, and now her lips were imprinted on the rim of the glass. The room was drenched by sunlight and Pam thought: she’s getting old.

  She reached across the table to clasp a veined hand. ‘It’s a lovely idea, spending a day with you like this.’

  A rueful smile. ‘There might not be many more opportunities.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Just being realistic, dear.’

  They chatted about old friends, vague family connections and history, Pam’s brothers.

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt them to come home for Christmas.’

  ‘They have their own lives, dear.’

  And I don’t?

  No, I guess I don’t.

  The thing was, Pam’s brothers were listened to, admired, talked about. Pam didn’t doubt that she’d been loved by her parents, was still loved by her mother now, but she’d been born years after her brothers—an afterthought, someone once said. A girl; sporty, not academic. No one had ambitions for her. No one asked what drove her, or encouraged it. Generally, it was expected that Pam would marry and have children. Expected in a vague, distracted way, if at all.