by Garry Disher
Scobie knew what Ovens meant. There was a certain sameness in the endless cascade of faces. Objectively speaking, these burglars, con-men, rapists, junkies, armed robbers and murderers possessed an endless variety of noses, chins, scars, eyes, lips and hairlines, but they all had something in common: a deadness, a soullessness, behind the eyes.
****
Half an hour later, Challis took Joseph Ovens’s description of the Commodore and his photofit of the driver to the media liaison officer, who would release both to all of the newspapers and TV and radio stations. Then he attended to his in-tray for a while: minutes of meetings he could barely remember; agendas for meetings he intended to avoid; amendments to standing orders; organisational flow charts-the term ‘information cascades’ catching his eye; risk assessment papers; Ministry feedback on service performance indicators-whatever that meant; strategy papers on paedophilia and cyber porn; a report into the rise of secretive right-wing organisations with names like Australia First and The Borderers…
Then his door opened and McQuarrie barked, ‘Inspector? A word.’
The man looked apoplectic. Challis followed, not hurrying, murmuring to Ellen as he passed her desk, ‘I bet his spies have told him about the hypnosis session.’
She gave him a rueful smile and whispered, ‘Good luck.’
He found McQuarrie opening the door to a conference room and barking ‘Out,’ at a clutch of probationers, who were cramming for a test.
Challis followed him in and closed the door. McQuarrie went to the window, and swung around, hands behind his erect back, lifting a little onto his toes and down again.
‘Sir?’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but Senior Sergeant Kellock informs me that you had someone hypnotised this morning? And your girlfriend attended?’
Challis counted to ten. ‘That’s correct.’
‘Why a hypnotist?’
‘To help the witness remember what he’d seen.’
‘I warned you,’ McQuarrie said tightly, ‘to keep a lid on the more delicate aspects of the investigation. I don’t want my son’s photo plastered all over the media. I don’t want his involvement in these blasted sex parties made public. And you go and hire a hypnotist with the connivance of Tessa Kane?’
It occurred to Challis that McQuarrie was blustering because he was afraid. Too much was happening, too quickly, and he couldn’t control the fallout. ‘You’re well informed, sir.’
McQuarrie stepped abruptly away from the window, knocking a plastic cup of coffee or tea to the floor. Industrial grade carpet, a tufted, nightmarish brown-grey, and unlikely to register a stain. ‘What’s the trade-off?’
‘Trade-off, sir?’
‘Your girlfriend gets to publish all the details ahead of the metropolitan press? A scoop, in other words?’
‘Ms Kane is not my girlfriend. And the witness approached her first. She has promised not to compromise the investigation in any way. She’s agreed to describe the hypnosis session as a mood piece only. Meanwhile I’ve released a photofit image of the driver, and a description of the car, to all of the media outlets.’
‘Which will drive the killers deeper underground. Look what happened after that anonymous tip-off story: a reverberating silence.’
‘This time we have more concrete information, which should stir memories.’
‘Do you trust Ms Kane? Trust the press in general? Don’t be naive, son.’
McQuarrie was suddenly Challis’s kindly uncle. Challis went very still.
‘Anyway,’ McQuarrie said, drawing out a chair and indicating for Challis to follow suit, ‘what do hypnotists, psychologists and clairvoyants have to do with proper police work?’
‘They have their place.’
There was silence. McQuarrie brushed lint from his sleeve. ‘What transpired?’
‘We have the make and model of the car, a partial numberplate, and a description of the driver.’
‘Does it tally with what my granddaughter told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose that’s something.’
Challis waited.
‘You’re treating this information seriously?’
‘I’m treating it as having potential, sir,’ said Challis carefully. ‘I’ll submit it to standard investigative procedures, as I would any information.’
That last sentence sounded clumsy in his mouth, as if he’d swallowed one of McQuarrie’s memos.
‘Good. Anything else makes us look inept, as if we’re clutching at straws.’ McQuarrie paused. ‘But getting back to this rag of yours.’
‘Rag?’
‘The Progress. There have been rumblings.’
When McQuarrie failed to elaborate, Challis said, ‘What rumblings, sir, and what do they have to do with me?’
McQuarrie sat back in his chair and touched his fingertips together. Everything about the man is staged, a clichй, Challis thought, as McQuarrie said, ‘It’s felt, in certain quarters, that Ms Kane has been overstepping the mark.’
McQuarrie paused, but this time Challis didn’t fill the silence. He gazed at the superintendent, forcing the man to elaborate.
‘The material she chooses to publish is divisive, and potentially libellous.’
McQuarrie stopped. Challis said, ‘Since when is that a police matter, sir? Has there been a formal complaint of actual wrongdoing?’
‘It’s a police matter,’ McQuarrie snarled, ‘when a senior officer has an affair with the editor and passes sensitive information to her.’
Challis felt a pulse of anger, quick and hot, and it must have shown in his eyes, for McQuarrie swallowed and braced himself in his chair.
‘Don’t do anything you’ll later regret, Hal.’
Challis’s voice, when he found it, was a low, dangerous rasp. ‘My private life is no one’s concern but my own. As for police matters, I would never jeopardise an investigation. Never.’
‘But she’s your girlfriend. You pass things on to her.’
‘No,’ said Challis. ‘Sir, what’s this about?’
‘The Progress hasn’t always been a friend of the police,’ McQuarrie said, ‘but we’ll leave that aside.’ He seemed to search for the words. ‘I was wondering if you could have a quiet word with Ms Kane.’
Something about McQuarrie’s wet mouth and eyes then said nudge nudge, wink wink, as if he were offering Challis a blokey endorsement for having sex with Tessa, for what might be said in bed before, during and after love play.
Challis stood. ‘With respect, sir, you’re not listening to me, and I have better things to do.’
His head was pounding when he reached the foyer of the police station. He felt enraged, fretful, impotent, and didn’t trust himself to remain in the building. He hadn’t eaten and his blood sugar was low. He threaded blindly through the people waiting for service at the front desk, intending to make his way to Cafй Laconic and its coffee and focaccias, when he heard footsteps and felt a tug on his sleeve.
‘Hal,’ beseeched the super, ‘I need your help.’
****
47
That same Monday afternoon, Pam Murphy sat across an interview room table from Alan Destry and an Ethical Standards sergeant, and imagined herself running a marathon, gaining on the leaders. It’s a murderous run, not for the faint-hearted. One by one the runners withdraw, exhausted. She comes upon Destry. He’s gasping, thirsty, crippled by cramp, severe asphalt scrapes on his knees and palms. ‘Help me,’ he wheezes.
She smiles without any warmth at all and runs on by.
‘Constable Murphy?’ he said. ‘You with us?’
Pam blinked. She sat erect and waited.
Suddenly he opened a folder and dealt a dozen photographs across the table.
‘The scene of the accident,’ he said. ‘The fatality.’
Twin fatalities, Pam thought, if you include the horse. She leaned forward and glanced at the photographs one by one. As well as the horse, the rider, the ruined fence and the overturned Toy
ota van, there were several shots of the road itself and the grassy verge between it and the ruined fence. Plenty of skid marks, paint scrapes and gouges in the grass.
There was a digital recorder and playback machine at Destry’s elbow. His finger hovered over a button. ‘I have here a recording from D24, the police radio control and communications centre,’ he said. ‘I have listened to it.’
He seemed to be waiting for her to panic, begin justifying the high speeds reached, or her tactics in the little Mazda sports car. She stared at him neutrally. The Ethical Standards guy, she noticed, was fidgeting, frowning.
‘Well?’
Pam shrugged. ‘I have nothing to fear. I did everything by the book.’
Don’t let him bully you, Ellen had said.
‘Why don’t you tell me in your own words what happened.’
‘I did that on Thursday.’
‘Since then,’ he snarled, ‘you and Constable Tankard have had time to get your stories straight, time to whitewash what happened.’
‘Not true,’ said Pam calmly. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs. The Ethicals guy was cocking his head at Alan Destry.
Encouraged, Pam said, ‘Play the tape. I reported speed and traffic conditions, and-’
‘Your pursuit controller ordered you to abandon the pursuit, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you were on the scene in seconds. In fact, you saw it happen. I quote from the tape: “He’s come to grief. We’re with the vehicle, near where Penzance Beach Road passes Myers Reserve.” Do you recall saying that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You went on to say: “Get an ambo…It doesn’t look good.” Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doesn’t look good,’ Alan Destry repeated, staring at her. ‘What do you mean by that? That you stuffed up?’
‘No. It means that we’d witnessed a possible fatality.’
‘You called for an ambulance and the helicopter?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not immediately.’
‘I chased the driver of the Toyota across the paddock.’
‘Answer the question put to you, not the question you’d like to be asked.’
‘I didn’t immediately call the ambulance, no.’
‘Did you examine the horse and rider before, or after, giving chase to the driver of the van?’
Pam swallowed. ‘After.’
‘How soon after? One minute? Ten?’
Pam didn’t want to shift the blame or get John Tankard into unnecessary trouble, but he had been there. ‘Constable Tankard attended to the woman riding the horse while I tried to chase the driver on foot. I gave up after one minute. The driver had a head start and had disappeared into the nature reserve.’
‘The rider died at the scene?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you trying to intercept the Toyota?’
Pam blinked at the change in direction. ‘No. We held back.’
‘Yet the Toyota struck horse and rider, suggesting the driver was speeding and panicking.’
‘We held back at all times.’
The Ethical Standards officer leaned forward, suddenly lean and hungry. ‘You know what the lawyer hired by the dead woman’s family is going to argue at the inquest, and afterwards when they sue the police, don’t you? That you and Constable Tankard were negligent, if not reckless, in continuing to follow the van.’
Pam swallowed. She didn’t have a friend in the guy after all. ‘The chase had been formally abandoned, sir. We were merely shadowing the van, monitoring its movements, as ordered.’
‘The dead woman’s family is already making noises to the effect that the Office of Public Prosecutions should consider laying charges against you and Constable Tankard-on top of their talk of suing the force.’
‘What charges, may I ask?’
‘Culpable driving or reckless conduct endangering life.’
‘The pursuit controller abandoned the chase, sir. Our presence was necessary in case the suspect vehicle doubled back.’
Alan Destry looked at her with a faint curl of his lip. ‘Was that discussed over the air with the controller?’
‘No.’
‘No. You took it upon yourselves?’
‘I thought the police service valued initiative?’
‘Don’t get smart, constable.’
‘No, sir.’
The look he gave her then was personal, and spoke volumes about his grievances and paranoia. At one level, he was doing his job, but mainly he was scoring points-against me? she wondered. Against his wife?
‘What did you know about the Toyota and its occupants?’ demanded the Ethicals guy.
‘The vehicle had been reported stolen. A young man was driving, but we don’t know who else, if anyone, was with him.’
‘A young man driving. Young men tend to take risks with their driving. Did you factor that in before giving chase?’
‘A short-duration chase, sir. After that we merely followed at a distance.’
‘Have you had training in high-speed pursuits?’ the Ethicals guy asked.
‘Yes, sir, when I was based in the city.’
‘This wasn’t your first high-speed chase?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did any of the other pursuits you’ve been involved in come to grief?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you a risk taker?’
Pam thought long and hard. ‘I do what’s necessary to catch the bad guys, sir,’ she said, and wondered if she’d lifted the line from a bad movie.
Then the unimaginable, after the atmosphere that had been cooked up in the past few minutes: the Ethicals guy nodded, gave her a brief smile, and closed his file. ‘I too have heard the D24 recording. I think we need not detain Constable-’
‘You were pursuing the Toyota,’ Alan Destry cut in, red in the face.
He was like one of her father’s old vinyl records, stuck in a groove. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘until the pursuit was formally abandoned, when I dropped speed and merely continued along in the same direction as the Toyota. The tape will show that. Blame the driver of the Toyota, not me.’
‘We would if we could find him,’ the Ethicals guy said.
‘Prints, sir?’
‘Plenty, but they’re not on file anywhere.’
Why couldn’t Alan Destry have told her that? She pondered the matter, almost forgetting that she was a witness rather than an investigator. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t see his face clearly,’ she told the man from Ethical Standards. ‘However, Sergeant Ellen Destry and DC Scobie Sutton have been working on a series of break-ins on the Peninsula, and-’
‘Fine, thank you, that will be all,’ Alan Destry said.
****
A few things were coming together in Scobie Sutton’s head: Andy Asche’s cutting edge computer gear, his job with the shire council, Natalie Cobb’s poise, and finally, her disappearance-after the accident. Telling Ellen that he was following up on the burglaries, in particular the theft of Challis’s laptop, he drove around to Andy Asche’s flat late that afternoon and pounded on the door. No answer. He went through Asche’s rubbish bin and bagged a couple of bottles and cans and a strip of cellophane wrapping.
****
Meanwhile, Vyner was writing in his notebook: I have been reborn in white light and perfect joy. I am prepared for the Great Catastrophe.
Having followed the taxi that had collected Tessa Kane from her home that morning, he was now parked where he could watch the editorial offices of the Waterloo Progress. What a one-horse town. Yeah, there were cars, buildings and streetlights, but he could feel the open paddocks at his back. Much more of this and he’d suffer a bad case of urban withdrawal.
He shifted to get comfortable. This time he was in a stolen Camry station wagon. The Camry was just right for the environs, the carpark of the Pizza Hut. No one was going to question his right to be there, no on
e was even going to notice.
He tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket, wishing the Kane woman would hurry up and finish work for the day. He’d watched her set out on foot with an older guy this morning, shadowed her to the cop shop, of all places, and then back again, alone this time. Normally he’d want to follow her for a few days, get an idea of her movements, but the order was quite clear: hit her immediately.
****
48
At 8 p.m. Ellen sat alone in CIU, unwilling to go home. She’d finished adding some recent findings to the case narrative, noting that Janine McQuarrie’s finances showed no debts or unusual amounts in or out over the past twelve months. In fact, Janine had died a relatively wealthy woman, with savings, shares and insurance bonds worth $300,000. But Robert was also wealthy, so murder for gain was out. Also, there had been nothing on her computers or in her e-mails and ordinary post to indicate a lover or anyone or anything shady or hidden-apart from the photographs she’d taken with her mobile phone, of course.
Finally, with the assistance of the murdered woman’s husband, sister and business partners, and the super’s wife, Ellen had identified everyone who’d attended the Janine’s funeral as being a work colleague, friend or relative-which meant only that no strangers had been present, not that the murderer hadn’t been. She’d also shown photographs of Raymond Lowry to Georgia McQuarrie, who’d shaken her head and said, ‘I haven’t seen him before.’
So, Ellen had put in a good day’s work, but still she didn’t want to go home yet. There were two reasons for that, one unfortunately related to the other but greatly outweighing it-at least in her mind.
First, earlier that day she’d encountered her husband on the ground floor, accompanied by a guy from Ethical Standards. They’d completed questioning Pam Murphy and John Tankard, and Alan had been looking pretty pleased with himself. She’d had to let him peck her on the cheek, and then he’d invited her for canteen coffee. By then she’d collected herself, and declined, to which Alan had said, ‘Hal baby’s got you on the run, has he?’-suspicion and frustration not far under the surface of his grin.