Blood Moon ic-5

by Garry Disher

  ‘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.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘What do you know about GHB and Rohypnol?’

  ‘Date rape drugs,’ said Caz without hesitation.

  Pam nodded and said, ‘Dropped into the victim’s drink in a bar or club or at a party. She feels woozy, a “concerned” male friend takes her home, rapes her when she passes out, and she wakes up the next day feeling sore and confused and can’t remember anything.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘Has it ever happened to you, Caz? Or a friend of yours?’

  Caz shook her head as she briskly wiped a phone handset. ‘This is Waterloo. I don’t think GHB and roofies have reached past the suburbs yet.’

  ‘Very droll,’ Pam said. She paused. ‘If you could get your hands on that sort of gear, would you go so far as to use it on anyone?’

  ‘I’m not into girls,’ Caz said. ‘I know it’s chic in some circles, but I’m not into that. No offence.’

  Pam wasn’t a lesbian. Caz was stirring. She wasn’t doing it out of spite or bigotry, but she was being combative, and Pam had to wonder why. ‘Did I say girl? You might want to give it to a boy. A particular boy.’

  Caz stopped what she was doing and gazed into space as though she found the prospect intellectually absorbing. ‘But wouldn’t the drug cause “erectile dysfunction”?’ she asked, hooking her fingers around the term. ‘And wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of the exercise?’

  Pam grinned. ‘Depends on the purpose.’

  Caz didn’t grin but gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Like, you might want to strip off all his clothes, lipstick his genitals and leave him out in the open for all to see.’

  ‘Interesting. What would you call that-making a statement?’

  ‘I’d call it revenge,’ Pam said.

  ‘Really,’ said Caz evenly. She began to bundle the day’s takings together, according to denomination. She filled out a deposit slip and packed everything into a canvas sack with ANZ Bank logoed on it.

  ‘Night safe?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘There are thieves about, Caz. I hope you take precautions.’

  ‘Precautions? Like birth control or the morning-after pill in case I’m doped and raped?’

  It was said with the tiniest increase in heat. ‘Please tell me what happened to you,’ Pam said.

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Was it last year? Last weekend? A girl was sexually assaulted in the early hours of Sunday morning.’

  Caz sighed. ‘These things happen when people congregate and booze and drugs are involved.’

  ‘Was it Josh Brownlee?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boy you called out to last night.’

  ‘Is that his name?’

  ‘Cut the crap. I heard you. I heard you say, “Raped anyone lately, Josh?”‘

  ‘Me? You probably misheard. The music was pretty loud.’

  ‘Caz, was it Josh Brownlee who drugged and raped you?’

  ‘Me? Of course not.’

  Caz had barely faltered. Pam wondered how long the girl would be able to keep it up-wondered how long she would be able to keep it up, for that matter. ‘The more people who come forward, the better our chances of gaining a conviction.’

  ‘Has Josh been a naughty boy?’

  ‘Cut it out, Caz. Help me, please?’

  ‘What’s it like, being a copper?’

  Pam blinked. Caz seemed genuinely interested. ‘There are moments of boredom, there are disappointments, but there’s also exhilaration and satisfaction when you get it right.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Caz elliptically. She said, ‘What’s it like for women in the police?’

  ‘Getting better.’

  ‘I’ve seen you with those two uniformed guys, the fat one and the good-looking one. What’s that like?’

  ‘We’re just colleagues, pitching in together.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Caz said promptly. She paused. ‘They both like you.’

  It came out of nowhere and Pam blushed. ‘Getting back to-’

  ‘Steer clear of both of them,’ Caz said.

  Pam scowled. ‘I’m afraid I’m not here to-’

  But her mobile phone rang and Challis said, ‘Where are you?’

  Pam walked out of the shop to take the call and heard Caz lock the door behind her and knew she couldn’t do a thing about it. ‘Just down the street from the station.’

  ‘Briefing room, ten minutes.’

  ‘But sir…’

  ‘Briefing room. Murder takes priority.’

  ****

  31

  Ellen Destry should have be
en at the end-of-day briefing, but she was breaking into Adrian Wishart’s house. A familiar roaring set up in her ears. It had nothing to do with the noises she made, for she was whisper quiet, but with the heightened flow of her blood. With excitement, apprehension and a sense of entitlement, in other words.

  Now she stood perfectly still in Adrian Wishart’s sitting room until her blood eased and she could hear the external world again.

  Nothing.

  She was alone.

  No sirens, next-door voices or unexpected occupants to undo her.

  She flexed her hands in their latex gloves and began to move. This was not the first time she’d broken into someone’s house and it wouldn’t be the last. It was part of her secret life. It was also part of her detecting life. She didn’t know if other police officers did it or not. Some surely did, but did not admit it. Perhaps Challis did it, too, but if he were like her he’d never admit it.

  Ellen moved swiftly through the house, checking for unwelcome surprises or obstacles, mapping the layout of each room and locating the escape routes. Then she went through again, identifying areas of interest for a more concentrated sweep. She didn’t know what she expected to discover about Adrian Wishart, only that she’d formed a loathing for him and expected to find something that proved his role in the murder of his wife-a phone number, photographs or other evidence of a lover or a hired killer. The house had been formally searched already, but only to learn if there were hidden aspects of Ludmilla’s life. Her computer had been removed. Correspondence. Financial papers. The warrant hadn’t extended to the husband, not without hard evidence.

  She felt alive when she made these covert forays into other people’s private worlds. The sense of elation was never far away. She was powerful at these times. Victorious. She had a hold over Adrian Wishart today and he didn’t know it.

  Not that she’d be able to use anything she discovered, or not in any formal or legal sense. The search was illegal and anything she found would be ruled inadmissible by a judge. But she might find something that guided the direction of the investigation.

  As she moved from room to room, Ellen tried to see the furnishings and decorations as if she were Ludmilla Wishart making a home, a nest, and failed. It wasn’t a failure of the imagination; rather, it seemed to Ellen as if Ludmilla had played only a small role in designing and decorating the house. It was as if she’d been negated or sidelined by her husband. Ellen didn’t believe that women were necessarily fussy and decorative, and men harsh and utilitarian, but she was convinced that Adrian Wishart was responsible for the almost mathematical precision with which the rooms, furniture and paintings had been arranged, and she itched to soften the effect. If she lived here she’d be afraid to bump a chair out of alignment, smudge a glass surface, leave a crumb behind or shed a cotton thread. Order and control ruled this house. Unchallengeable principles governed it.