Snapshot ic-3

by Garry Disher

  He gave them his arid smile.

  ‘Maybe you got very calm and hired those killers, Mr Lowry.’

  ‘How would I go about doing that?’

  ‘You own a mobile phone shop,’ Challis said. ‘Is that how you kept in contact? You used cloned, throwaway phones to cover your tracks?’

  ‘You thought you’d got away with it, too,’ Ellen said, ‘but we received an anonymous call from someone who knew quite a bit about the murder.’

  Challis watched Lowry with interest. Lowry merely shrugged.

  ‘Was that anonymous caller you, Mr Lowry?’

  Lowry glanced at his watch indifferently. ‘If I’d shot her, why would I call you?’

  ‘Perhaps you only wanted to scare her, and things got out of hand.’

  ‘I wasn’t bothered by her, okay?’

  ‘Are you protecting someone?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘You hired a mate. He let you down, but you’re unwilling or afraid to tell the police about it.’

  ‘Will that be all?’ Lowry was saying. ‘Or should I ask for one of the duty solicitors? Perhaps he will make you see sense.’

  ‘He?’ Ellen asked, amused. ‘What if it’s a woman? Oh, I forgot, you have trouble relating to women, don’t you, chuckles?’

  ‘Believe that, if it makes you happy.’

  ‘Especially clever, articulate, fearless women like Janine McQuarrie.’

  ‘Why waste a good bullet?’ Lowry asked.

  ****

  42

  Challis had no choice but to release Lowry without charge. Later that Friday afternoon, the car repairer called to say that his Triumph was ready, so he swapped the loan car for it and returned to the station, where he called the last briefing before the weekend.

  Outlining the results of the Lowry interview, he said, ‘We need more: warrants for his home and office phones-including any second-hand phones he may have in stock, and phones brought in for repair-and warrants to search his house, shop and car. We need a weapon, ammunition, or anything that will tie him to the murder. Meanwhile, the funeral’s on Saturday. Scobie, I want you to attend, photograph the mourners.’

  ‘Boss.’

  Challis rubbed his palms together. ‘Getting back to Lowry. Ellen? Is he our man?’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘Janine McQuarrie liked to confront people- mainly men-who she thought were abusive in some way. She liked to rub their faces in it. She went too far, confronted the wrong man. But was it Lowry? She pissed him off, but as he said, Hal, he was being interviewed by you on Tuesday morning, just before Janine was shot.’

  Challis nodded. ‘But that doesn’t let him off the hook. He could have hired someone to do the job.’

  They brooded. Scobie Sutton said, ‘Ellen’s right about the pattern to Janine’s behaviour. We know she confronted Lowry, and my wife has told me about similar incidents. By sending those photos to her husband and the others, Janine was being true to form.’

  ‘So who else did she confront,’ said one of the Mornington DCs, ‘and why, and in what way?’

  Challis cleared his throat. ‘And were the photographs the first step, or was she following up an earlier, face-to-face confrontation?’

  ‘All four men seemed shocked and puzzled though, Hal,’ said Ellen.

  ‘True,’ said Challis, glancing at the uncurtained window. The day was closing in. They’d all be driving home in darkness. He said slowly, ‘Did she confront the super? Maybe Robert refused to be cowed by her, so she went to his father.’ They shifted uncomfortably at the thought of interviewing the super.

  Later Challis was to refer to it as speak-of-the-devil. At that moment, McQuarrie appeared in the doorway of the incident room. Nostrils flared, he directed a hard bright smile at them one by one and said, ‘Inspector, sit down.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I said sit,’ McQuarrie snarled.

  Challis shrugged and complied. McQuarrie stood at the head of the long table and said, ‘Now, which one of you devious shits sent this to my son?’

  He tossed an envelope onto the table. After a moment, Challis picked it up gingerly by the bottom corner and shook out the contents. McQuarrie said irritably, ‘You may put your dirty mitts on them, Inspector. They’re copies-or copies of copies. The lab has the material sent to my son.’

  Even so, Challis sorted the contents with a pen: the familiar photograph of Robert McQuarrie, naked, his face in a rictus of pain or ecstasy, and a sheet of A4 paper with a ransom demand printed on it. He went cold; his mind raced.

  ‘My son stayed home today,’ McQuarrie said, ‘to be with his daughter, like any decent father, and found this, this garbage in the mail this afternoon. He came to me in tears-in tears-and showed it to me.’

  The super glared and waited. No one spoke. ‘It might interest you to know,’ he went on, ‘that Robert and I have already talked through the admittedly unfortunate matter of his participation in the sex party scene, and the fact that Janine had been taking candid photographs and sending them anonymously to him and to other men. Talked it through yesterday. But now another photograph has been sent to my son, with a ransom demand, after Janine’s murder, so I can only conclude that someone in this room thought he-or she-could make a few dollars out of my son’s misery.’

  He paused. ‘No one cares to comment? Your little ruse has backfired, backfired badly. Robert has admitted everything. He’s hidden nothing. Yes, he’s ashamed; yes, he knows his conduct was tawdry; but these so-called swinger parties were for consenting adults. We all make mistakes, and my son is man enough to face up to his. He swears that’s the end of it, and I believe him. Meanwhile he’s just lost his wife in the most appalling way-he loved her, despite the fact that she was taking these photographs-and he has a daughter who loves and depends on him. For Christ’s sake, the funeral’s tomorrow.’

  McQuarrie had worked himself into a fine, livid rage. His spittle flecked the table. ‘We were given assurances that nothing would be leaked to the media or to other police, so someone in this room, or a friend of someone in this room, must have sent the latest letter. But if you or your friends think you’re going to get a cent out of us, you’re sadly mistaken.’

  They were silent.

  ‘Well?’

  Eventually Ellen stirred. ‘Sir, perhaps it was sent by Janine and got delayed in the post.’

  ‘Good try, Sergeant. It was sent by express post, guaranteeing next-day delivery, and lodged in Frankston yesterday afternoon.’

  Challis read the blackmail demand again. Fourteen point bold: $10,000 or I place this on the Net. Expect a call.

  ‘Sir, I can vouch for everyone in this room.’

  ‘Bullshit, mister. The force is riddled with corrupt officers; don’t you read the papers? I intend to make a formal complaint to Ethical Standards against each and every one of you unless I get a confession right this minute.’

  Challis looked around at them all, their affronted faces. He couldn’t see any of them being responsible for this. So it had to have stemmed from the theft of his laptop. He had to do the right thing by them.

  And they would hate his guts as a result.

  ‘Sir, I think I know what happened.’

  McQuarrie curled his lip. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘My house was burgled.’

  McQuarrie pounced. ‘You took sensitive material home with you? From an active investigation?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ Challis said, and he laid it out for them, glancing at them one by one, apologising but not asking to be absolved.

  ‘Your laptop?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You should have reported it immediately.’

  Ellen cut in. ‘He did report it, sir. To me. Constable Sutton and I have been investigating a series of burglaries, and this seemed to fit the pattern.’

  ‘But neither you nor Inspector Challis saw fit to report the theft to me.’

  ‘Sir, with respect, we recovered the stolen goods a couple of hours
later. That incident yesterday, the stolen Toyota van that struck the woman on her horse…’

  ‘I’m aware of it.’ Some of McQuarrie s fire abated. ‘Presumably the burglars copied the files from your laptop, Inspector.’

  ‘Sir.’

  McQuarrie stared at him for a long time. ‘I’d replace you in an eyeblink if you weren’t so far advanced on the murder. I don’t want a massive task force digging around, but I’ll form one if you’re not up to the job.’

  Taken off the case, Challis thought. Another clichй. ‘We’re making good progress, sir,’ he said, his face and voice unreadable.

  ‘But afterwards, Inspector, afterwards…’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Find these burglars,’ McQuarrie said, and left.

  Challis, heartsick, tried to apologise. They waved it off:

  ‘Forget it, boss.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone took stuff home with them.’

  Relieved, Challis said, ‘It’s late. Go on home.’

  ****

  43

  Scobie Sutton was getting ready to drive home when his phone chirped. ‘Front desk, Scobe. A woman to see you.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Heather Cobb.’

  ‘Okay, tell her I’ll be right down.’

  When he got there, Heather was wringing her hands. She wore a bulky stained parka over a windcheater and stiff new jeans. ‘It’s Natalie, Mr Sutton. I haven’t seen her since she left for school yesterday morning.’

  He took her to an interview room, gave her a cup of tea, and got the details. No, she hadn’t fought or argued with Natalie. She assumed that Nat had gone to school: she was supposed to, she’d put on her uniform, but who knew with kids these days? Had she rung the school? No-would you do that, please, Mr Sutton? They don’t like me down there. Friends? Well, Nat didn’t really have many. In fact, the kids at her school were a bit jealous of her. Had she ever run away before, stayed overnight with a relative or friend? Well, sometimes, but she didn’t make a habit of it. Boyfriend? You mean Andy? Heather hadn’t thought to call him. It’s not as if Nat had ever stayed over at his house.

  ‘I’ll ask around,’ Scobie said. ‘Don’t worry, she won’t be far away. Ring me if and when she shows up at home, okay?’

  When Heather was gone, he rang his wife. ‘Sweetheart, can you ask around about Natalie Cobb? She’s gone missing. The kids at the youth centre or on the estate might know where she is.’

  Next he contacted the collators. Andy Asche? They knew the name; he did odd jobs for the shire, but no record and no known criminal associates.

  Scobie sighed and glanced at the clock. It was almost 6 p.m. and he was dying to go home, but Natalie Cobb had been missing for almost thirty-six hours now. He picked up the phone again, and dialled the missing persons unit.

  ****

  Ellen gave Pam Murphy a lift to Penzance Beach, trying to get her to open up about Alan’s attitude yesterday, but the younger woman was very circumspect, so she didn’t push it.

  She arrived home to find bales of insulation batts on the front verandah, glowing pink in the evening gloom, and a ladder in the hallway, the manhole open. Alan’s day off, and clearly he’d been busy. His muffled voice reached her from inside the ceiling: ‘That you, El?’

  She shouted, ‘Yes,’ and walked through to the kitchen. There was paperwork on the table: three quotes to install ducted heating. She felt herself grow very still, very wary. Not triumphant, not grateful, not elated-not until she understood his motives. And where would the money come from?

  It was 6.15 and she didn’t say anything. She showered, changed into the tracksuit she liked to unwind in, and poured herself a glass of wine. Meanwhile her husband bustled between the crawl space in the ceiling and the insulation batts heaped on the verandah. She tracked his movements overhead, beams creaking, faint dust and plaster sprinkles marking his progress.

  At 7 p.m. she put the dinner on and retired to the sitting room while it cooked. She watched the ABC news, idly aware of Alan taking the ladder back to the shed, sweeping the hallway, dumping his dusty clothes in the laundry, and having a shower.

  She’d said nothing beyond their initial greeting, and he’d said nothing.

  Alan joined her halfway through ‘The 7.30 Report’. He sat beside her on the sofa and took her unresponsive hand. ‘Dinner ready soon? I’m starving.’

  At once she felt hostile and tried to remove her hand. Hurt, he shifted away from her. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘What’s got into you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought about what you said, that’s all.’

  ‘You said we couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘We’ll do it in stages. Plus I’ve saved an incredible amount of money by insulating the ceiling myself.’

  Fishing for compliments. Ellen said nothing. She shrugged in a way that was almost a thank you.

  He said casually, ‘How’s young Murphy?’

  There it was: according to canteen gossip, he’d been unnecessarily harsh on Pam Murphy at the accident site yesterday, and now felt bad about it. Ellen wanted to tell him to atone to Pam, not her. And an insulated ceiling didn’t begin to heal a rift that was growing and probably permanent.

  ‘First rate,’ Ellen said.

  ****

  In the Progress office in Waterloo, Tessa Kane was glancing at her watch. Rattled by the incident with Charlie Mead, and finding smashed lights on her car yesterday, she’d been taking a taxi to and from work. Tonight’s cab was five minutes late. Well, it was Friday.

  She looked again at the photographs that had arrived in the post that morning. The anonymous sender wanted $5000 in exchange for names, addresses and other key information. He-or she-was confident that Tessa would be interested, given her recent article on sex parties.

  She recognised the setting from the photos that Ellen Destry had shown her. Was someone on Challis’s team bent? Should she alert him? No-not before she got a good story out of it. Not before she got a statement from Robert McQuarrie.

  Meanwhile, she could also smell a story in Raymond Lowry. According to one of her contacts, he’d been brought in for questioning, and later released. When she’d gone to his house and asked for an interview this afternoon, he’d slammed the door in her face.

  Just when she was about to call the taxi firm again, Joseph Ovens stepped into the foyer, wearing neat dark trousers and a jacket. Aged in his sixties, he’d been retrenched by a bank and used his termination payout to purchase a taxi licence. She liked Joe, and generally asked for him. If work took her interstate, she’d always see if Joe was available to drive her to the airport. She’d give him the details of her return flight, and he’d always be there to collect her. She wasn’t stupid enough to take a cab from the airport rank, not after her first couple of experiences, the drivers nervous about leaving the city limits for open countryside, having never driven without traffic lights before, or on dirt roads, or on unlit roads at night, or experienced so many trees or so many absences of familiar things. Their speed would drop, and drop, and drop, they’d drive with white knuckles, hunched low in their seats, they’d sweat, look hunted and afraid. She’d even had to draw maps so they could get back to the city.

  So Joe was her regular driver whenever she needed a cab. But he’d been away fishing since Tuesday, so she’d had other drivers yesterday and this morning. She watched him for a moment, unobserved: a good-looking older guy, grey, a bit of a paunch, always genial, and knowledgeable and interested in the world around him. He began to wander idly around the foyer, examining the clippings from past editions that she’d had framed and fastened to the walls out there, between the rubber plants and the visitors’ chairs. ‘Come on through,’ she called. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He strolled in, glancing at the layout tables as she gathered her bag and coat and switched off her computer. Suddenly he went into a kind of shock, stepping back, his hand over his heart, his jaw dropping, white as a sheet. ‘Joe,’ she sa
id, rushing to him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He pointed: the mock-up of next Tuesday’s front page. Eventually he managed to say, ‘I was there.’

  ****

  44

  The weekend arrived, and winter seemed to deepen suddenly, promising short, still, silent grey days, with little wind or rain, but dank and cold.

  Challis held an informal briefing with Ellen and Scobie first thing on Saturday morning, mainly to tell them about the taxi driver. Scobie Sutton responded first, his expression mournful, a skinny man slumped in his chair like an arrangement of twigs. He was dressed for Janine McQuarrie’s funeral in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie. ‘How come we didn’t find this guy earlier?’

  A fair question. After all, they’d found everyone else who’d had cause to drive past Mrs Humphreys’s house on the morning of the murder: neighbours, the guy who delivered the Age and the Herald Sun, a woman distributing leaflets for her yoga and massage clinic, a farrier, United Energy and Telstra linesmen, various tradesmen, delivery drivers, a vanload of Cambodian people-wearing conical straw hats-who’d been hired to prune the vines at a nearby winery. Even other taxi drivers.

  But not Joseph Ovens.

  ‘He took someone to the airport last Tuesday,’ Challis said, ‘and just kept heading north, fishing gear in the boot of his car. Didn’t listen to the news all week, didn’t read the papers. Came back yesterday, learnt about the murder, and realised what he’d seen.’

  He explained about Joe Ovens’s visit to the Progress. ‘And the editor contacted me,’ he added.

  The editor, he said, to emphasise that his relationship with Tessa Kane was formal now, and had been for some time. Nevertheless, Ellen was gazing at him with an unreadable but complicated expression, and he felt himself colour a little. She looked tired, edgy, faintly crumpled in her slim-line jacket and trousers, her hair a little untamed. He searched for another reassurance, but she cut in, some of her old sharpness returning. ‘How does this help us if his memories are hazy?’