by Garry Disher
‘Managed to speak to AR. He’s unwilling to make further statements to police. Had been shown porn videos and magazines depicting him having sex with his abusers, feels deeply ashamed etc.
Asked AR’s parents if they wish to swear out a complaint against Snr Sgt Kellock. Declined. Asked AR to identify abusers from a photo array. Declined, but gave me the name of another abused youth, Billy DaCosta. Talked to a snitch who told me where to find DaC
Ellen felt cold all over and the dark night pressed darker around the house on its quiet back road. If only van Alphen had come to her instead of finding Billy DaCosta himself. But he’d always been a loner, despite his apparent matiness with Kellock and men like Kellock. And if he’d always considered Kellock a friend, he’d want to make pretty sure of his facts before accusing him. Perhaps he feared that Kellock would withdraw his support over the Nick Jarrett shooting, even change his story.
The fear corroded her. She called Challis, and he answered immediately, sounding alert. ‘Sorry to call you so late.’
‘Something’s wrong.’
‘We’ve got a rotten apple,’ she said.
She told him all about it. ‘What do I do?’
‘Make absolutely certain of everything. Cover your back. Watch your back. Make multiple copies of every report, file and conversation, and secure them in separate locations. Trust no one. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
51
At lunchtime on Monday, John Tankard stood in the canteen serving line, watching but not registering the wisps of steam escaping from the stainless-steel trays of Bolognese sauce, lasagne and Irish stew. He felt wretched: another weekend, nightmares and depression, so bad that he’d barely made it through. He’d thought he’d beaten the nightmares and depression. Clearly not. He could put it down to the stress of the job, but knew better: he was bitter and sad because he’d lost his dream car.
Not lost, exactly. It was in a mate’s lock-up garage, where it would never be found by the finance company.
He took his bowl of lasagne to a corner table and picked at it. Someone cast a shadow over the table. ‘Hello, Tank.’
Pam Murphy sat, beaming at him across the greasy Formica. ‘I’m back,’ she said.
He noted sourly that she wasn’t in uniform. That made him feel worse. ‘Detective duties,’ he said flatly.
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s the Iron Lady got in store for you?’
That’s what he called Sergeant Destry, who’d always made him feel small, and more than once bawled him out over trifling incidents.
‘Cut it out, Tank,’ Pam said, in a tone that said ‘grow up’.
She looked good: leaner, more assured, and ready for business. Somehow he knew she’d blossom in CIU and he hated her for it. He also wanted her more. He couldn’t fight his body language: his eyes flicked over her with pathetic desire and longing, as of a lover left far behind, and she registered it, too, the bitch, unconsciously turning her trunk away from him, crossing her legs and shielding her breasts. One body reacting to another. He wished he wasn’t so overweight.
He changed the subject. ‘Shitty thing, what happened to Van.’
He saw her eyes fill with tears. ‘Yes.’
‘You going to the funeral tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Aren’t you?’
He shifted in his seat, then said, his voice imploring: ‘Have you, like, heard any whispers?’
‘What about?’
‘You know, that he was, you know…’
He saw a flicker in her eyes. She had heard things, or had suspicions. ‘I don’t fucking believe it, myself,’ he snarled.
She struggled to give him a bright, releasing smile. ‘Same here. Good to see you again, Tank. Must go.’
Tank watched her leave the canteen, watched Senior Sergeant Kellock hold the door for her, big grin and a welcome back. Then Kellock was crossing the room toward him like a purposeful bear. ‘Constable Tankard.’
Tank stood awkwardly. ‘Sir.’
‘Sit down, son, sit down.’
Tank complied, Kellock sitting where Murphy had sat. He wondered what Kellock wanted, and felt his legs turn to jelly. They know I’ve been selling information to the media, he thought. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times gaspingly.
‘John,’ said Kellock in a kind uncle voice, ‘you did the right thing last week, telling me that Sergeant van Alphen had found a witness.’
‘Sir, it just slipped out. I assumed you knew, actually. I would never have-’
‘Of course I knew, son. Don’t fret it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s important at the senior level to keep abreast. That’s an important part of my job, John, making sure I keep in the loop.’
‘Sir.’
‘So if you ever hear anything you think I should know about-like Sergeant van Alphen’s secret witness-even though I already knew- then you must tell me. Because sometimes the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing.’
‘Sir.’
‘You did the right thing. It’s not your fault he was shot, remember that. The fucking Jarretts shot him.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Tank. ‘Sir.’
There was a pause. Kellock said, ‘Another thing, John-I’ve been looking through Sergeant van Alphen’s paperwork.’
At once Tank knew what this was about, but he said innocently, ‘Sir?’
‘Trouble over a certain car?’
Tank blurted it out, the car, the finance company coming after him for the money and wanting to repossess.
‘I mean, my car’s on a black list, sir. It can’t be registered anywhere in Australia, so what good is it to the finance company? I don’t know why they want to repossess.’
‘But you are refusing to give it to them? They do have a legal right to it.’
Tank swallowed, barely concealing the shiftiness and desperation he was feeling. ‘Actually, sir,’ he said, his voice not quite making the grade, ‘some bastard stole it.’
Kellock put his huge head on one side. ‘Incredible.’
Tank said nothing.
‘How did Sergeant van Alphen get involved?’
‘Sir, he went with me to the finance company. You should have seen him, sir. He told them they had no legal standing, they loaned me money on an illegal car. Failed to do due diligence. Left themselves open to investigation for their part in a car re-birthing racket. It was bloody magnificent, sir. He told them if they wanted their money to go after the caryard proprietor. Unreal.’
Kellock was spoiling his grim exterior with a small smile. ‘We lost a good man.’
‘We did, sir,’ said Tank, welling up, his throat thick with sudden grief.
‘But that’s where it ends, as far as the police are concerned, understood?’
‘Sir.’ Tank also took that as an obscure warning not to contact ‘Evening Update’ ever again. ‘Cross my heart, sir.’
‘You have dragged us into what is essentially a personal matter. Use a lawyer next time.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Back to work, John. Bike patrol, okay?’
‘Aww, sir,’ Tank protested.
‘John.’
‘Sir.’
Tank went back to work. Bike patrol. Another of Kellock’s bullshit innovations, like that road safety campaign a few months back, when he and Pam Murphy had driven around in a little sports car, rewarding courteous drivers. Bike patrol entailed zipping around Waterloo on a bicycle, an exercise aimed at keeping down bag snatching, car theft and theft from parked cars-crimes that had escalated in recent years, what with Waterloo’s paradoxical growth in social distress and commercial activity. People were getting poorer but Waterloo also had a new K-Mart now, plus a Coles, a Ritchies and a Safeway, all with vast, choked car parks, a boon to thieving kids from the Seaview estate.
He’d barely completed a circuit of the foreshore reserve parking area when his mobile phone jangled. He dismounted, answered the call. �
�The well drying up?’ growled the producer of ‘Evening Update’.
Tank said, the words simply popping into his head and feeling right, ‘I can’t do this any more.’
‘Oh, I see. A crisis of conscience.’
Tank hated the guy’s tone and fluency. ‘It’s…I…just…’
But the line had gone dead. Feeling good, and bad, Tank pedalled across town to the Safeway supermarket, and five minutes later he nicked fifteen-year-old Luke Jarrett. Luke’s car of choice was a 2004 Hyundai Accent, which was parked in a shadowy region between the side doors of the supermarket and a couple of huge metal dump bins.
‘Is this your car?’
‘Ow! You’re hurting me. Pig.’
Luke Jarrett was dark, lithe, darting. A kid who’d seen everything in his short life. Tank didn’t waste any time. He took the kid deeper into the shadows, to where the garbage stank, fluids stained the ground and papers blew about. He began systematically to punch the boy: testicles, stomach and face. He knew how not to leave bruises.
‘You want to wake up to yourself, mate. Had enough?’
The kid didn’t answer but was crying softly, snot and saliva smearing his face.
‘Where were you intending to take the car?’
No reply. Tank beat him again. Eventually the boy said, ‘Korean Salvage.’
Tank was astonished. The guy who ran Korean Salvage was the father of one of Waterloo’s ace under-18 footballers. ‘Get your sorry arse off home, Luke,’ he said. ‘Keep your trap shut and I won’t arrest you. That means you do not warn Korean Salvage.’
He watched the kid run, doubled over, in the general direction of High Street, then snapped on his bicycle clips again and pedalled around to the industrial estate. He found Korean Salvage, and there he talked long and hard to the proprietor, pointing out various pros and cons, eventually coming to a mutually beneficial arrangement with the guy. In return for rebirthing Tank’s hitherto doomed Mazda, the proprietor of Korean Salvage would not be reported to CIU for car theft and related offences.
Tank finished patrolling at five that afternoon, his bum sore from the saddle of the bike, his meaty legs aching, and saw Pam Murphy return one of the unmarked CIU Falcons. ‘Knocking off work for the day?’
She shook her head cheerfully. ‘I’ll be on for hours, yet. A detective’s work is never done.’
She said it jokingly. At once Tank thought of a way to wipe the joke off her face.
52
Challis was at RSPCA regional headquarters. He’d buried his father on Saturday; now it was time to finish this last thing. Sadler was in his office and not pleased to see him.
‘I hear they arrested Paddy Finucane,’ he said bluntly.
‘Yes.’
‘So why do you want to see me?’
Challis checked the outer office. It was almost 5 pm and they were alone.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Sadler. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
Challis closed the office door soundlessly and crossed the room, leaning both hands on Sadler’s desk, towering over the man. ‘Where were you?’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Gavin Hurst was a liability. Mood swings. Antagonising people, including his work colleagues.’
‘You can’t…I wasn’t…Paddy Finucane…’
‘Paddy Finucane didn’t kill him, no matter what those hotshots from Adelaide think. I know it and you know it.’
‘If the police think he did it, that’s good enough for me.’
‘That anonymous call: you invented it. There was no call.’
‘No! Check with the receptionist. She logged it. The police took a copy with them.’
‘You got someone outside this office to make the call.’
‘I wasn’t even here that day!’
‘Exactly. You were in the Bluff, shooting Gavin in the head.’
‘No!’
Sadler was looking wildly past Challis, hoping for deliverance. The world outside was ticking over benignly, slowed by the springtime sun. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘I’ll ask it again, where were you?’
‘Down in Adelaide.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Yes! Dozens of witnesses. My daughter’s nursing graduation.’
‘You got someone to do your dirty work for you, then.’
‘No!’
Challis was going through the motions. He’d fantasised that Sadler was the killer, over the past few days, but now, facing the man, no longer believed it. ‘Gavin’s camera?’
‘What about it?’
‘When did you take those photos of Paddy’s place?’
‘The only time I was at his place was days later, and I had my own camera.’
Challis pulled a chair up to the desk. He sat, and was less intimidating. ‘When was Gavin’s camera passed back to you?’
Sadler, relieved but still jumpy and indignant, said, ‘Weeks later. They were going to give it to Meg, but all the photos on it were work related, so it came to me.’
‘Who else did Gavin have a history with?’
The question was unwelcome. ‘He did his job. He prosecuted several people over the years. Fair and square.’
‘But was he fair and square in the last few weeks and months?’
Sadler looked away. ‘Not always.’
‘Spit it out. I’m tired of this.’
Sadler shrugged. ‘He might have had a couple of arguments with Rex Joyce.’
‘Joyce? About what?’
‘Mistreating a horse.’
‘What action was taken?’
‘None.’
‘Why not?’
‘Can you see Rex Joyce mistreating a horse? I don’t think so.’
‘I can, actually,’ Challis said. ‘He has a bad temper.’
Sadler looked hurt and astounded, as though Challis had insulted the Queen.
‘Who reported him?’
‘No one.’
‘So how did Gavin know to investigate?’
‘For your information,’ Sadler said, ‘Gavin Hurst liked to sneak around. He claimed he just happened to be driving past Mr Joyce’s property and saw him whipping one of his horses with a length of barbed wire.’
‘Can I see his report?’
‘You may not. I destroyed it, as it happens.’
‘Why the hell would you do that?’
‘No merit.’
‘Did Gavin tell you he was going to prosecute?’
‘Like I said, the case had no merit.’
‘Are you friends with Joyce?’
Sadler blinked at the shift, and stumbled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You were at boarding school with him, perhaps? Belong to the same Liberal Party branch? Play golf with him?’
‘Now you’re being offensive.’
‘He’s rich, right? Local gentry? Long pedigree? Therefore he can do no wrong?’
‘Get out.’
‘What did your pal Joyce say when Gavin charged him?’
Sadler looked hunted.
‘Come on, Sadler,’ snarled Challis, ‘you’ll be asked this in court by Paddy’s barrister, so it’s in your interests to tell me now, and tell me the truth.’
Sadler rubbed at a mark on his spotless desk. ‘He might have said that Gavin would get his one day.’
‘His just deserts, do you mean? Is that how you understood his remark?’
‘How would I know? It was just talk. Rex can sound off sometimes.’
‘So you do know him.’
‘A bit.’
‘He has a temper. He drinks.’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that.’
‘Wouldn’t you? Did you tell Nixon and Stormare any of this?’
‘No need.’
‘Why not?’
Sadler looked for ways out and found only a couple of mealy-mouthed replies. ‘I’ve already said too much. Nothing to do with me. Plus it seems clear this Finucane character did it. Rex Joyce does not st
rike me as the kind of person to…’
Do anything quite so grubby as murder another person. Challis left and buckled himself into his car, thinking that Sadler pretty well summed up the Australian national character, which was not fine and egalitarian but grovelled at the feet of men who’d gone to a private school or could kick a football or had become billionaires by being allowed to evade tax.
On his way back over Isolation Pass, Challis scraped the guardrail. He was speeding a little, distracted by tense speculations about how he should approach Lisa and Rex Joyce, eyes screwed up against the setting sun, and failed to slow for a bend called the Devil’s Elbow. The car rocked and screeched in protest and he fought to get it back under control. His heart racing, he pulled into the next lookout and surveyed the damage. The chrome bumper had been torn off, one headlight mangled, the quarter panel dented and gouged. He crouched to view the passenger side front wheel. It was scraping against metal and the wire spokes and spinner were chopped about. He searched around for a fallen branch and levered the damaged panel away from the tyre. The rubber itself looked sound. He got back into his seat and drove sedately down the mountain, aware of his mortality but ready for anything.
Lisa and Rex lived in a huge stone house that dated from the 1890s. It, and the huge woolshed and stables on the grounds of the property, were on the National Trust register. There were railing yards behind the stables, the rails vivid white in the last of the sun’s rays. Lawns surrounded the house itself, which looked cool and composed on a slight rise, with tall gum trees, cypress hedges and fruit trees casting long shadows and completing the general air of a long, stately history. Challis had been on the place only once before, when he was ten years old and all fifty-seven kids at the local primary school had been carted here in two old yellow buses for a tour and a talk about pioneering endeavour in the district. He could remember the occasion, not the talk. No doubt the Joyces were the heroes in the story. But there had been one enduring benefit: there was an airstrip on the property, with a Tiger Moth stored in an adjacent barn. Challis had slipped away from the group and was found two hours later, sitting in the cockpit. That had been the start of his love affair with old aeroplanes.