by Garry Disher
So, nothing hard and fast, thought Ellen. ‘What else?’
‘She supported him emotionally. He was always going on about his breakthrough, which to my mind was never going to happen. He had fussy standards, like that little car. It had to be a Citroen, it had to be European, it couldn’t be something cheap and reliable like a Toyota. He turned the best room in their house into a studio and filled it with top of the range drafting and drawing equipment. All that took money, so she was always steering clients his way via her job, drawings, blueprints, proposals things like that. They needed the money, but he considered the work beneath him.’
Ellen saw a small man, a fearful man. ‘Beneath him?’
‘He gave that indication, but I think he was afraid he’d fail. And because he denigrated the work he did, he lacked a sense of purpose and control, it seems to me. Therefore he made sure he controlled Mill. He became really obsessed with what she was up to. Of course, she wasn’t up to anything, but he’d ring her six or seven times a day, send her texts and e-mails all day long, drop into the office on the stupidest pretext or hang around on the street outside. He needed to know where she was at all times. It was as if he thought she had a secret life.’
‘Maybe she did.’
‘No! She was so loyal it broke my heart.’
‘What did she do about the phone calls and visits?’
‘What could she do? She tried to talk to him about it but his line was, “You’re my wife, I’m allowed to call you” or “I just happened to be passing, sweetheart.”‘ Gandolfo paused. ‘Mill told me it was uncanny the way he always seemed to know if she’d been out making field visits during the day.’
‘He followed her?’
‘Probably.’
Ellen tried a different tack. ‘So they had money troubles?’
‘I didn’t say that. Adrian’s work had slackened off recently, but they didn’t have debts, I don’t think. Where are you going with this?’
Ellen was going in several directions. If the Wisharts had been struggling, was Ludmilla Wishart taking backhanders to finance her husband’s lifestyle? Had she delivered an ultimatum to him: It’s time you got regular work? Had he killed her because she’d left him everything in her will? Was he expecting a huge life insurance payout? Ellen didn’t ask any of these questions, merely stared and waited.
Carmen Gandolfo cocked her head eventually. Behind the rawness appeared a look of calculation. ‘Adrian already owned the land their house is on before he met Mill. He designed the house, but I think most of her money went into paying for it. Mill told me once that everything was in their joint names, the property, her car, their bank accounts. He made sure of that.’
They watched each other for a while. ‘Did she ever talk about leaving him?’
‘I talked about it,’ Gandolfo said. ‘She’d listen, agree with everything I said, then tell me that he’d fall apart if she left him, and she couldn’t do that to him.’
Ellen had heard that before, too. ‘She must have revealed things about her marriage if you were urging her to leave him.’
Gandolfo twisted her mouth pensively. ‘Well, to some degree. She had more spark when Adrian wasn’t around, she was prepared to have a bit of a laugh about him. She’d tell me things that appalled me, yet she took them for granted. He’d time her phone calls, for God’s sake. He’d time her on the loo, tell her she was using too much toilet paper. He was a bully, a control freak, and in my experience as a counsellor those men are dangerous.’
And in my experience as a cop, Ellen thought. ‘Did Mrs Wishart say exactly where she was going after you had lunch together?’
Gandolfo blinked at the direction change. ‘Only that she had to make some field visits.’
‘What was entailed in these field visits?’
Gandolfo spoke slowly, as though stating the obvious. ‘There are strict regulations about what you can and can’t do on your own land. You know. You can’t put up a five-star hotel or clear native vegetation or demolish an existing structure without a permit. Milla’s job was to follow up infringements and pursue action, which might be a fine and orders to repair the damage.’
‘A job that would have made some people angry.’
‘I know what you’re getting at. You think someone like that killed her.’
‘I have to look at all scenarios. Did she ever say that she was threatened or abused by anyone?’
‘Not really. There was a lot of public scrutiny, and it’s not as if anyone was ruined financially or went to jail.’
‘People have been killed for less.’
Gandolfo winced. ‘She did mutter something about planning deliberations being leaked to the wrong people.’
‘By an insider? A shire employee?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Did she give a name?’
‘No, but I got the feeling she didn’t trust her boss. She was pretty upset yesterday, something about a property developer who bulldozed an old house before a heritage protection order could be placed on it. That’s all I know.’
Ellen nodded. All of this could be verified easily. But Carmen Gandolfo wasn’t finished:
‘I think it was Adrian who killed her, I really do,’ she said fervently, her upper arms quivering.
Ellen waited.
Gandolfo deflated. ‘Did she suffer?’
‘It was a vicious blow, but very sudden and immediately fatal.’
There was a long pause. ‘Poor Mill,’ said Gandolfo miserably. ‘When things got too much for her she’d have panic attacks, cardiac arrhythmia.’
‘By too much do you mean dealing with people who blamed her because they’d been caught out and had to pay for it?’
‘No, I mean dealing with a jealous, obsessive stalker of a husband. Look, this man comes across as warm and charming. I’m sure he sounded genuinely grief-stricken when you talked to him this morning. It’s all an act.’
Wishart had seemed genuine. Perhaps it wasn’t an act, thought Ellen. Perhaps he’d killed his wife but was mentally unstable and able to rationalise it: ‘Someone else killed her’ or ‘Yes, I killed her, but she provoked me so it wasn’t my fault.’
‘He’s cunning,’ Gandolfo said.
Ellen got to her feet, nodding slowly. ‘I promise I’ll bear that in mind.’
****
28
‘That’s awful!’ Athol Groot, head of planning for the shire, put a plump hand over his chest and slumped into his chair. ‘I mean, I saw her yesterday morning, staff meeting, and she seemed fine.’
Challis didn’t state the obvious, that of course Ludmilla Wishart had been fine back then. The guy was shocked, that’s all, trying to assimilate the information. ‘What time was the meeting?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
‘She was here all morning?’
‘Yes. I think she went to lunch with a friend and had various outside appointments after that.’
Groot’s office continued the theme of the foyer: grey tufted carpeting, frosted glass, gleaming pale wood that might have been supplied by Ikea, and fluorescent lighting at saturation point. Everything was new and probably intended to be cheerful and comfortable but it irked Challis.
‘What can you tell me about her job?’
Groot was about fifty, jowly and in poor shape, with sparse hair, an unhealthy flush and too many kilos straining the fabric of his trousers, shirt and jacket. He had tried to compensate with a youthful tie and narrow black-rimmed spectacles, but only succeeded in conveying incongruity, not youthfulness. He looked desolately at the floor and murmured, ‘She was our infringements person.’
Challis nodded encouragingly.
Groot looked up, mustering himself. ‘Here in Planning East we process applications, give advice and feedback about what can and cannot be allowed, and examine projects on completion-anything from that backyard granny flat you build for your elderly mother to a huge new shopping centre. We’re bound by federal, state and local regulations, and they change over
time and from district to district.’ He paused, said challengingly, ‘Where do you live?’
Challis told him.
‘Zoned rural,’ Groot said, nodding wisely. He counted on his fingers: ‘No further subdivision permitted. If you erect a new house you’ll need permission to go higher than eight metres. The roof must be a muted colour, nothing glary. You’re not allowed to cut down any of the notable trees. I could go on.’
Please don’t, Challis thought. ‘And Mrs Wishart’s job?’
‘Naturally there are individuals who ignore the regulations.’
‘Mrs Wishart investigated these instances?’
‘Yes. I did too, when she was overloaded.’
‘We’ll need access to her files, diary and computers.’
‘Some of the information contained therein is confidential.’
Challis hoped he’d never have to read any of the man’s reports. Besides, he was pretty sure that planning applications were on the public record, so that objections could be lodged. He said nothing but presented Groot with a warrant. Groot read it, his hands trembling a little. ‘This seems to be in order.’
‘Let’s get started. Then we can be out of your hair.’
They stepped into the foyer, where the two Mornington detectives on loan to Challis were waiting. Their names were Schlunke and Johns, but everyone on the Peninsula knew them as Smith and Jones. Challis nodded, and all four men continued along a corridor to an office opposite a photocopying room, where a young woman was standing numbly, watching sheets of paper spill into the collating trays of one of the machines. Her eyes and nose were raw from weeping.
‘Mrs Wishart was popular?’
‘Very,’ Groot said, unlocking the office and stepping in quickly ahead of the detectives, the set of his body tense, as though the killer awaited them or Ludmilla Wishart had left incriminating files open on her desk.
The Mornington officers began to unplug the computer and box up the files. Challis went straight to the desk diary. He motioned to Groot. ‘Can you explain these entries?’
The chief planner stooped to peer at the page, breathing audibly. ‘Staff meeting in the morning,’ he murmured, ‘lunch with CG-her friend-then three appointments: Tyabb 3 p.m., Penzance Beach 4 p.m., Shoreham 5 p.m.’ He straightened his back with a thoughtful frown. ‘Let’s see…Tyabb was an unauthorised bed-and-breakfast. The people concerned had built a second dwelling on their property, but instead of demolishing their original dwelling they’d restored it and rented it out to holidaymakers. They said they didn’t know they needed permission and a permit, but that’s no defence.’
‘Penzance?’
‘Ludmilla had been helping a residents’ action committee,’ Groot said shortly.
‘To do what?’
‘Get a heritage protection order on an old house.’
‘Was it successful?’
Groot shook his head. ‘It was demolished.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
Challis nodded. The house that Pam Murphy had told him about. ‘Demolished before the protection order could come into effect?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Mrs Wishart upset?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Were the residents upset?’
‘I expect they were,’ Groot said.
He sounded more sullen than professionally outraged or disappointed. ‘And Shoreham?’
Groot brightened. ‘A rather arrogant young man chopped down trees he shouldn’t have. He was fined and obliged to replant.’
‘Mr Jamie Furneaux?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Was he angry with Mrs Wishart?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ Groot said, making it sound as though he had nothing to do with the grubby end of the business.
They walked back along the corridor, Groot pausing to duck into the photocopy room. Challis, waiting outside the door, saw the set of Groot’s body as he stood close to the weeping secretary and murmured in her ear. The woman went rigid, gathered her pages together and hurried out, brushing past Challis. ‘We have pressing deadlines,’ muttered Groot, rejoining him.
****
Challis questioned the department’s other planners and office staff, learning only that Ludmilla Wishart was well liked but in a stressful job, the stress coming from abusive calls, which the office staff attempted to divert, and from Adrian Wishart, her husband.
‘Did you ever see him abuse her in any way?’
None of them had.
‘Threaten her?’
No. But he was obsessive, forever keeping tabs on her.
‘This is in confidence,’ Challis said, ‘but could she have been involved with someone else, in a romantic sense?’
Not that they knew of. ‘I don’t think she’d dare,’ someone said, relating the observation to the husband’s obsessiveness.
Challis decided to be direct. ‘What about her relationship with Mr Groot?’
That earned him hunted looks, as if the walls had ears. One of them said, ‘Let’s just say he likes being the boss.’
****
Challis and Smith and Jones returned to CIU for the remainder of the morning. Ellen arrived at lunchtime, poking her head around Challis’s door and saying, ‘Grab a sandwich?’
They walked down High Street to Cafe Laconic, where they ate little goats’ cheese pizzas in the sun. Ellen filled him in on her meeting with Carmen Gandolfo. ‘She suspects the husband.’
‘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 tin
y 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.’