by Garry Disher
51
They raced back to Waterloo, Challis sprawled across the rear seats again, working his phone this time, first arranging a warrant to open the safe-deposit box, and then calling the bank and asking to speak to Ely.
Joy answered. ‘He’s with a federal policeman, Mr Challis.’
Federal? Given that the shotgun bandit had been operating in two states, and possibly three, perhaps the AFP was involved, but no one had informed Challis. And did he want to work with one of the more inept and morally bankrupt of Australia’s police forces? He didn’t have time to think more about it and said, ‘Shouldn’t you be at home watching daytime TV or selling your story to Channel 9?’
She laughed. ‘Roadworks outside my house; and I only watch the ABC. I’m better off at work.’
‘Fair enough. Look can you do me a favour?’
‘Personal loan? Second mortgage?’
‘Being held hostage clearly agrees with you,’ Challis said. ‘Could you look up Mrs Grace’s records, please?’
Joy said automatically, ‘I’m not sure that I have the authority—’
Challis was no longer inclined to be breezy. ‘Joy, the woman’s still missing. Many questions still need answers. I fear for her life. If she’s dead, we’ll need to inform her family. She might be lying injured somewhere. She might even be at home, recovering. We need to send someone to her house immediately.’
‘Just a moment.’
Challis heard fingers fly over a keyboard, then a more regular click click click.
‘Susan Grace, Peninsula Fine Arts, 35 Rigby Cutting Road, Red Hill. That’s her home and her work address.’
Challis knew the area. Ellen had bought him a book of day and half-day walks in Victoria, and together they’d tried some of the Peninsula walks. He knew Rigby Cutting Road as an access track from Arthurs Seat Road to a small segment of the state park. There were no galleries along it, no buildings at all.
She’d named an area that was local but unlikely to be known to many of the locals, such as bank tellers. ‘Did your statements ever come back marked “Return to Sender”?’
‘There were no statements. She rented a box from us, that’s all. Paid for five years in advance, and asked that all correspondence be e-mailed because she often travelled overseas.’
‘What ID did she show you?’
More keyboard tapping. ‘Driver’s licence, passport, credit card, voter registration.’
None of that meant anything. Challis said, ‘Please advise Mr Ely that I’ll be there late morning with a warrant to search her safe-deposit box,’ Challis said, and closed the connection.
He leaned into the gap between the front seats. ‘Murph, tell me again about the encounter you had with the Grace woman.’
Pam turned her head to him slightly but held her gaze to the road. ‘High Street, not far from the bank, a man raising his voice to a woman who had her back to him. I saw him grab her by the arm and spin her around, but she gave every appearance of not knowing him. That seemed to piss him off. He called her “Anita”. Her accent was vaguely foreign but a bit all over the place.’ She paused. ‘She looked different that day. Different hair, different clothing, but the same woman.’
‘And the man?’
Pam snaked a hand into the inside pocket of her jacket and fished around for her notebook. ‘It’s all in there.’
Challis found her notes, a Friday in early September, the name ‘Corso’ and New South Wales number plates. He took out his phone again and called the station with the details. ‘Contact police and motor vehicles in New South Wales for anything you can get on him: addresses, phone numbers, criminal record. If he has a record, a list of known associates.’
Pam Murphy’s phone was in the dashboard cradle. It rang and she removed it, held it to her ear without looking away from the unwinding road. Challis watched and listened as she said, ‘Okay’, ‘Yeah’ and ‘Thanks. E-mail the results, I’m coming back to the station now.’
She rehoused the phone. ‘That was the lab. They’ve found something that ties Darren Muschamp to the Rice murder.’
‘You want to re-interview him?’
‘Yes.’
‘This morning?’
‘Boss, I’d love to be there when you open the box, but I need to see this through.’
Challis could see the tension in her.
A short time later, he was standing inside the VineTrust Bank, saying, ‘Christ almighty, Rowan, please tell me you didn’t leave him alone with the box.’
Ely shifted about awkwardly. ‘It was federal police business, Hal. I had no choice.’
‘Did he take anything away with him?’
‘He asked to use the photocopier.’
‘I hope he was wearing gloves.’
‘He was.’
‘And he didn’t show you a warrant?’
Rowan Ely said, ‘He was a very forceful individual, Hal, and I’m still a bit, you know, dazed.’
‘What name did he give?’
‘Towne. Inspector Towne. I don’t know his first name.’
Challis rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. ‘He showed ID?’
Ely drew himself up. ‘Give me credit. Naturally I asked him to show me ID. It looked real to me. He had the manner, the language, if you know what I mean.’
‘I hope to Christ he didn’t remove anything that might lead us to your client.’
Ely said, ‘He told me he was going to see you. I thought you knew all about it.’
You’ve only just thought it, Challis said to himself. ‘I assume you have him on camera.’
Ely swallowed. ‘He took the tapes, said he needed to watch the robbery and siege unfold.’
52
When she arrived at the Frankston remand centre, Pam Murphy was obliged to cool her heels for a while, before Jeannie Schiff arrived late morning in a blaze of demands: ‘What’s this about pollen? An exact science is it, pollen? I hope you—’
They were interrupted by the arrival of two guards and Darren Muschamp and his lawyer, a short, soft-looking man. One of the guards unlocked the interview room door. The air inside was faintly layered in dust and forlornness, but that was all Pam noticed before Jeannie Schiff turned on both recorders and said: ‘Present are Sergeant Jeannie Schiff, Sex Crimes Unit, Detective Constable Pam Murphy, Waterloo Crimes Investigation Unit, and…?’
Muschamp’s lawyer leaned towards the tape machine and said, ‘Jason Ikin.’
Pam zoned out briefly. She wondered how many Jasons she’d met over the years. Hundreds. Thousands. They were all in their thirties and forties now, most of them balding, unheroic and soft around the middle. Encounter a homophobe or a racist footballer and more often than not he was a Jason. Jasons were still wearing their hair in mullets or ponytails long after those fashions had died. They were vacantly cheerful, narrow and viciously dumb. In fact—
The others were staring at her oddly. Had she uttered something aloud? Meanwhile, a cross little frown was twisting Jeannie Schiff’s fine eyebrows. ‘Constable? I understand you have further questions for Mr Muschamp?’
The timing was bad. Pam suffered a brain zap just then, just for a millisecond.
‘Constable!’
Pam said quickly, ‘Darren, in those forensic science textbooks we found at your house, did you happen to read the sections on insect activity, airborne contaminants and so forth?’
He gave her a look that said: What are you on about?
‘If you had read those sections you might have considered burning the uniform after what you did to Ms Holst. But of course you couldn’t do that, you needed the uniform, you couldn’t just go to the supermarket and buy another one.’
‘Oh, good,’ Ikin said, settling back in his chair. ‘A meandering mystery story. Take your time.’
‘Pollen,’ Pam said.
Schiff glanced at her irritably. Ikin said, ‘What about it? Are you saying my client left pollen on someone?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue
. Did you, Darren?’
‘Pollen?’ said Muschamp.
‘Microscopic pores released by certain plants at certain times of the year.’
Muschamp was warier today. Either he’d got his hands on some pharmaceuticals over in the lockup or his body responded well when his system was clean. But he stank. Pam began to breathe shallowly. ‘I assume you have shower privileges in the lockup, Mr Muschamp?’
Ikin said, ‘I fail to see—’
‘You’re provided with soap, shampoo, toothbrush and paste?’
The flush and the eye glint were danger signs. Muschamp half rose in his chair. ‘I have a condition, okay?’
Pam said, ‘One of your victims described her attacker as having the most god-awful odour.’
Ikin said, ‘And that’s proof my client attacked her? I hope the police can do better at trial—if matters get that far.’
Pam glanced at the clock: almost noon. Would Challis have opened the box yet? She wanted to be there. She also wanted to be here. She said, ‘Getting back to the pollen.’
The lawyer was watching her carefully, his mind hunting. ‘As I understand it, pollen is carried on the wind. Spring on the Peninsula is always windy. Multi-directional winds, too.’
Pam knew that. Back tracking, she said, ‘Now, you washed your cousin’s police uniform to rid it of DNA evidence each time you abducted and raped someone. You were very careful, but I should inform you that we found microscopic spores caught in the weave of the fabric, tying you to the nature reserve.’
‘So? My cousin’s a cop, she would of worn that uniform all over the joint. All kinds of stuff would of got on it.’
‘But did her duties ever take her to the nature reserve where you dumped Chloe Holst? No. We checked.’
Ikin said, ‘Are you saying the vegetation there is unique? I hardly think so. I bet I can find any number of university botanists prepared to say, under oath, that the reserve’s trees, grasses, weeds, fungi, you name it, can be found in any uncleared land on the Peninsula that you care to nominate.’
The Jason-ness had disappeared. Inside the pudgy boy was a steelier man. Pam tried to formulate a comeback as Jeannie Schiff shot her a look that said: I hope you know where you’re going with this.
Pam said, ‘DNA can be extracted from plants. We can match spore DNA on your client’s clothing with the DNA of an individual plant, a plant at the roadside clearing where Ms Holst was pulled out of the car by her hair and kicked in the ribs by your client and told to keep her mouth shut.’ She ignored Jeannie Schiff’s appraising look and concentrated on Muschamp. He was agitated, looking to Ikin for salvation.
Ikin complied. ‘My client drives all over the Peninsula in his day job. He stopped at the reserve to relieve himself one day.’
‘Good try. Wearing his stolen police uniform?’
‘Yeah,’ Muschamp said. ‘Sometimes I wore the pants when my jeans were in the wash.’
Pam sensed Ikin smiling at her from the other side of the chipped plastic table, and knew the direction his courtroom cross-examination would take. At that moment, she suffered a tiny zoning out that she found almost comforting, and found herself gazing at the ceiling.
‘Constable!’
Jeannie Schiff’s face was forbidding, the beautiful features concentrated in a scowl.
Pam blinked and said, ‘Tell me, Darren, have you ever visited 2012 Coolart Road?’
‘Me? Dunno. I been all over the place.’
‘Have you ever made a delivery to 2012 Coolart Road?’
‘Pardon me, Constable Murphy, but what or where is 2012 Coolart Road?’
‘It’s a big house with a stone gateway, situated near Hunts Road.’
‘And?’
‘It’s where we found the body of Delia Rice concealed in the boot of a car driven by your client.’
‘Do you have evidence that my client was driving the car?’
‘No.’
‘Was it his car?’
‘No.’
‘Then I fail to see—’
‘He was seen running from the scene.’
‘A foolproof identification was made by an eyewitness, I take it? She or he will pick my client out from a line-up or photo array?’
Ikin was enjoying himself.
‘Your client was wearing a distinctive T-shirt that day.’
‘Distinctive in what way?’
‘On the back were the immortal words, “If you can read this, the bitch has fallen off”.’
She was lying and Schiff knew it, giving her impatient sidelong glances. The search team had found such a T-shirt in Muschamp’s bedroom, but it had nothing to do with the case. He would have burnt every scrap of clothing he wore that day. She wanted to see him relax, that’s all, before she slipped the knife in.
‘You found pollen on this T-shirt, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Still to be tested.’
Muschamp was grinning at her, Schiff frowning.
Ikin said, ‘As we have established, my client’s job takes him all over the Peninsula. He might well have made a delivery to that house or one nearby, a delivery on a windy day.’
‘Yeah. I remember now, I stopped for a leak near there about two months ago.’
‘Urinate in public a lot, do you, Darren? For the record, the only time you were in the vicinity of that house was two months ago?’
‘Yeah.’
Pam referred to her notes. ‘There is an unusual combination of pollen producing plants at that address.’
Ikin said nothing. Muschamp remained cocky.
‘Echium plantagineum, commonly known as Paterson’s Curse. Sumex acetosella, or sorrel, and Golden Cypress and Silver Birch. All growing close to each other and all releasing pollen at this time of the year— precisely at this time of the year,’ Pam said, ‘not two months ago.’
Ikin looked worried but Muschamp grinned. ‘So, I got the date wrong.’
Pam said, ‘Unfortunately we didn’t find that combination of pollen on any of your clothing, Darren.’
‘In other words, you got nothing.’
‘But we did find it on other items, and each one links uniquely to you.’
He paled. ‘Like what?’
‘You like to clean the wax out of your ears with a cotton bud, right, Darren?’
He knew. He looked sick. Ikin glanced at the ceiling. Schiff was shooting her looks that said, Did you search his place again without telling me?
‘The lab tested cotton buds and tissues found at your flat, Darren, and found not only traces of pollen from the four plants I just mentioned—pollen spores in a unique combination, and linked by DNA to trees growing at 2012 Coolart Road—but also your DNA, and yours alone. Not some friend who dropped by to visit you, in other words. How do you account for that?’
Pam wasn’t expecting a confession, but got one. It came suddenly, Muschamp’s eyes filling with tears, his mouth releasing a howl of frustration: ‘All the stupid bitch had to do was shut up.’ He looked at the women opposite him and the lawyer beside him. ‘She just went on and on…’
53
Denise Rodda was tired.
The crime-scene officer had dusted the whole bank for prints, and now the local CIU inspector wanted her to dust the contents of a safe-deposit box.
She’d already dusted the exterior, e-mailed the prints to the Fingerprint Branch in Seaford to be compared to those of the bank’s staff, wasn’t that enough? ‘Sir,’ she pointed out, ‘I’ve been here half the night already.’
‘Won’t take long,’ he said.
And then the man smiled, a transformative smile, the air of fatigue and prohibition vanishing from his face. A thin face, she noticed, a little too sharp-edged for her taste, but warm and quite attractive when he smiled. Overworked and underpaid, she thought. Like the rest of us.
Except the rest of us don’t have the guts to complain to the media about being overworked and underpaid.
So she returned his smile, said, ‘Just as well I
adore my job,’ and watched as the manager opened the box.
Challis watched, too. It was a sizeable box, deep, broad, long. ‘Heavy,’ Rowan Ely had said, as he’d slid it out of the wall. Utilitarian grey metal. Challis glanced at the battery of similar boxes and wondered what secrets and wealth they contained.
‘Voilà!’ Ely said.
Challis stepped forward and peered in. Immediately under the lid was a flat object wrapped in white tissue paper. With one gloved hand, he folded back the paper to reveal a small painting. Splashes of vivid colour, random shapes. On closer examination the shapes resolved into rocks and he recognised the signature.
‘Paul Klee.’
Ely said dubiously, ‘Who?’
‘European artist of the first half of last century. If this is an original it’s very valuable.’
Challis lifted out the painting and turned to Rodda. ‘I need you to dust this, please.’
He returned to the box. The next item was a small aquatint signed ‘Sydney Long’ with a Hobart gallery label on the back. He made a mental note to contact the gallery and see who had bought it.
Under the Long were many smaller items: gold coins, individually wrapped in a small drawstring chamois bag; a matchbox containing a 1930 penny wrapped in tissue paper, another an old gold coin dated 1620; a small gold ingot; rare stamps and banknotes in individual plastic sleeves; a paperback history of the Kelly gang; and three sets of ID: passports, licences, credit cards, Medicare cards. Lying on the bottom were an old photograph, a tiny digital camera and a memory card encased in clear plastic.
Challis placed each item on the table for Rodda to test, and examined the sets of ID. The same face appeared in each, the woman known to Rowan Ely and his staff as Mrs Grace. Are you still alive? he wondered. Her face was young but her gaze old, as if she’d seen and felt a lot in her short life.
‘Quite a collection of keepsakes,’ Ely said.
Challis nodded absently. He didn’t think he was looking at keepsakes but at stolen goods. He peered at the photograph. It was small, washed out, reminding him of the family snaps he’d seen as a child, long-dead aunts and grandparents caught awkwardly by Kodak box cameras. A room in a cottage, a white-washed wall, a man and a woman in the bulky, stiffly formal clothing of an earlier era. Stolid-looking people, barely smiling. A respectable peasant couple, maybe. Slavic appearance. He was pretty sure the setting wasn’t Australia.