Snapshot ic-3

by Garry Disher

  ‘I went back through the paperwork,’ he told them. ‘Nora Gent, lives right here in Safety Beach.’

  ‘What can you tell us about her?’

  ‘Cheerful, not that old-about thirty?-and always paid her bill on time.’

  ‘You fitted a yellow door to her car?’

  ‘That’s right. Hers had rusted through, a cop magnet-no offence-so I found her another door from a wreck.’

  ‘Which door?’

  The mechanic stared at the ceiling and back through the months. ‘Driver’s door,’ he said finally.

  ‘What else can you tell us about her?’

  ‘Like what? I can’t see her shooting someone, if that’s what you mean. Lovely girl.’

  ‘Her job,’ Challis said patiently, ‘boyfriend, brother, husband.’

  ‘She worked for a travel agent, I know that much, always trying to get me to book a holiday. “I’ll get you a good deal,” she’d say.’

  ‘Family and friends?’

  ‘Don’t know, sorry.’

  ‘You say she stopped coming to you about six months ago. Do you know why?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have a clue. I have short-term customers and long-term customers. They don’t always tell me what their plans are. But if you want me to hazard a guess, she sold the car and moved away.’

  ‘Or moved away and took the car with her?’

  The mechanic shook his head emphatically. ‘The car’s still around, only she’s no longer driving it.’

  Ellen stiffened. ‘Still around?’

  ‘Yeah. I see it here and there, off and on.’

  ‘Driving by? Stopping off for fuel?’

  ‘Just here and there.’

  ‘Who’s driving it?’

  ‘Some guy.’

  ‘Name? Address?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have a clue, sorry.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Let me see now… Not that old, shaved head, a bit scruffy and overweight.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘That’s about it, sorry.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ Challis said.

  And they drove around to Nora Gent’s address, where a tall Ethiopian woman showed them a small white card on a hallstand inside the front door. On it, in a bold purple hand, was the name Nora Gent and an address in New Zealand.

  ****

  54

  Challis briefed them first thing on Thursday, wearing a dark suit and a black tie. Tessa Kane’s funeral was at ten o’clock, and he was one of the pallbearers. He stood in his customary position at the head of the long table and felt a little disassociated from the room, his detectives, and the investigations. Mugs of tea and coffee steamed around the table; a basket of croissants sat within reaching distance. No sea fret today, just a brisk wind pushing billowy cloud masses across the face of a low, weak sun.

  ‘Nora Gent,’ he began, ‘aged twenty-seven, now residing in New Zealand. She works for JetAbout Travel and they sent her to their Auckland office six months ago. She owned a 1983 Commodore, off-white with a pale yellow door, but sold it to her cousin before leaving the country. Nathan Gent, twenty-three, ex-Navy, served in the Persian Gulf in 2003, where he lost a finger in an accident. After that he became unstable, and left the Navy. Settled in Dromana, nothing further known about him. Apparently he didn’t get around to registering the car in his name, and in fact let the registration lapse.’

  ‘Like the super said,’ Scobie muttered, ‘we’re not dealing with brain surgeons. Are we pulling him in?’

  Challis nodded. ‘We have warrants for his arrest and to search his house and the car.’

  ‘Let’s hope he was dumb enough to keep the car.’

  Challis rested his hands on the back of his chair and said, ‘The thing is, he may have done a runner. The New Zealand police weren’t able to contact Nora Gent until this morning. I spoke to her by phone a couple of hours ago, got her cousin’s address, and drove past to check it out. No car, curtains drawn, plenty of junk mail crammed in the letterbox.’

  Ellen drained her coffee and reached for a croissant, but the movement strained her wound, and she winced and thought better of it. ‘The car bothers me,’ she said, easing back in her seat. ‘It’s not been spotted since the murder, not abandoned, not burnt, so has he driven off in it, made his way to far north Queensland?’

  ‘If he’s as dumb as we think he is, then yes,’ Scobie said. ‘Maybe he fled in it the same day, then dumped or torched it later on some back road the other side of Mount Isa.’

  ‘I’ve put out a nationwide alert,’ Challis said. ‘But you’re right, we may never find it.’

  ‘Or he saw the description in the paper,’ a Mornington DC said, ‘and fitted stolen plates and a door that matched the colour of the car.’

  ‘That’s possible, too,’ Challis said. ‘But first we need to get inside his house, arrest him if he’s hiding there, and search it and his life from top to bottom.’ He paused. ‘The Navy link needs further investigation.’

  They gave him inquiring looks. ‘First,’ he said, ‘both Gent and Lowry served at the Navy base, and may have known each other. Second, several handguns are missing from the Navy armoury. Lowry had motives to kill Janine McQuarrie and Tessa Kane. Did he hire Gent and the shooter? Is the shooter also ex-Navy? Did our shooter buy any of the missing guns? Did Lowry or Gent broker the deal? It’s worth tracking their movements in the Navy, cross-referencing with the dead armourer and anyone who might have left the service under a cloud.’

  ‘Robert McQuarrie also had motives to kill both women,’ Ellen pointed out, ‘but there’s no Navy link.’

  ‘He’s still in the frame,’ Challis said, ‘but until new evidence comes to light on him, we dig deeply into Nathan Gent. The shooter hooked up with him somehow.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, he’s been on a pension since leaving the Navy, meaning no workmates, and no one knows anything about his social life.’

  Ellen was tapping the end of her pen against her teeth. ‘All we seem to be doing is answering the how,’ she said, ‘when we need to answer the why. We still don’t know why Janine was targeted, or even if she was the intended target, and we don’t know if Tessa Kane was murdered by the same man or not.’

  Challis nodded. ‘Back to first principles: look long and hard at Janine. At the same time, dig around in Gent’s Navy and civilian activities, and see if we can find a link to our dead armourer.’

  ****

  55

  And there both investigations stalled. A search of Nathan Gent’s house uncovered evidence only of an arid life. No diary or personal letters, no computer, and neighbours who were indifferent and unobservant. Gent seemed to have been entirely jobless and friendless. Of the man himself there was no sign. If he had been the driver, and had gone on the run-as seemed probable, given the empty fridge and the hold on his mail-then he had a pretty unbeatable head start on the police.

  There was one recent photograph, but it showed Gent with a full head of hair, and Georgia McQuarrie couldn’t be certain that he was the man she’d seen behind the steering wheel of the Commodore. She was more confident about the likeness generated by Scobie Sutton and Joseph Ovens.

  As a second, then a third week passed since the murder of Janine McQuarrie, the investigation concentrated on Gent’s and Lowry’s Navy records.

  Nothing tied either man to the murder of Tessa Kane.

  Meanwhile, there were no further blackmail demands and gradually Superintendent McQuarrie receded as a thorn in Challis’s side. A warrant to examine Janine McQuarrie’s files was finally granted, but Janine had kept minimal records and no warning bells sounded when Challis read through them. Dominic O’Brien, only barely helpful, said, ‘Janine was a true professional. If any of her clients had failed the three-threats test-i.e., they were a threat to themselves, another person or the criminal code-she would have reported it immediately.’ Challis nodded, ignoring him, jotting down names, dates and addresses.

/>   Then came news that Blight had been knifed in the showers of Long Bay prison. Dead. But while there was still a faint chance that Blight had put out a contract on Christina Traynor, and it was still active, Challis thought it best that she remain overseas, and so he kept the news from Mrs Humphreys.

  The only relief for Challis came when he spent two days in Shepparton with the Homicide Squad, short-staffed owing to a strain of Hong Kong flu. A market gardener had been shot dead, execution style. The man sold his produce to the Victoria Market, in Melbourne, and that pointed to organised crime. Either the man had belonged to the wrong side in a dispute, or he hadn’t paid protection, or he owed money, or he’d been skimming off the top. The murder was unlikely to be solved, so Challis was released from the investigation.

  Otherwise, he spent hours trawling through the written material that had accumulated since the murder: reports of attending officers; preliminary CIU and autopsy reports; investigation and crime-scene worksheets; witness lists and statements; canvass field notes; crime-scene sketches, photographs and videos; taped interviews; the ongoing investigative narrative, consisting of terse updates provided from time to time by himself, Ellen Destry, Scobie Sutton and other officers. There was also a folder of clippings from the metropolitan newspapers, and finally Georgia’s drawings and Janine McQuarrie’s phone records.

  Nothing clarified for him, and he tried not to think of Tessa Kane or Ellen Destry. The Progress came out under a new editor and, as expected, it was utterly lacking in character. He saw his parents a couple of times. He managed to talk them out of investing, sight unseen, in a housing development on the coast of Queensland.

  One night the phone rang. It was the man from the aircraft museum in San Diego. ‘Mr Challis, sir,’ he said, gravely courteous. ‘We got your e-mail. I’m afraid we’ll have to pass on your fine airplane at this time. But keep us in mind, sir, keep us in mind.’

  Suddenly, Challis no longer wanted to sell. He felt obscurely that Tessa would have been disappointed in him if he had.

  ****

  Ellen Destry used the hiatus to leave her husband, making a clean break of it. Why postpone the inevitable with marriage guidance and endless recriminations, breast-beatings and blame-laying? She told Alan that she was leaving, and simply left.

  He was stunned. He was hurt, he was suspicious and he was nasty. ‘Is it Challis?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Believe what you like. The answer is no.’

  Sure, Hal Challis had been a catalyst, but she wasn’t leaving Alan to be with Hal, or make herself available to Hal. She was leaving to be with herself, for herself. She’d waited until she was damn sure of that.

  Her new place was a house in Mornington, sharing with another woman, a recently divorced DS from the Community Policing squad. When she gave Challis the address and phone number, he gave her a searching look but then simply nodded. It was his way of saying that he understood how things would be.

  Larrayne was furious, no sisterhood there. ‘Are you having an affair or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dad’s really upset.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re a selfish bitch sometimes, Mum.’

  Ellen’s hand went to her neck, still faintly puckered from where the bullet had grazed her.

  ****

  One day Scobie Sutton came home to find his daughter, Roslyn, mute and scared in front of ‘The Simpsons’ and his wife in the kitchen, in semi-darkness, still wearing her overcoat. She must have been sitting like that for over two hours. ‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’

  She thrust a crumpled sheet of paper at him. It was a print copy of an e-mail, addressed to her at work. He scanned it rapidly, then looked at her in dismay. ‘They sacked you?

  ‘By e-mail, Scobie,’ Beth said furiously. ‘Seven of us on the Peninsula. We’re run by managers who are too scared, contemptuous or ignorant to tell us to our faces.’

  In that moment, Scobie Sutton’s politics shifted minutely to the left. The world is getting more callous, he thought. Goodwill doesn’t work any more. The needs of business now outweigh ordinary human needs. The heroes of business are those who can cut costs rather than create jobs and add to happiness. Cutting costs means cutting staff, and it’s an abstract exercise for those faceless people and their MBA degrees. Nothing messy and human like gently taking someone aside to apologise, explain and praise. Bad enough that it should infect the business world, but to bring that same heartlessness to bear against public servants, especially those-like Beth-who helped the disadvantaged, really sucked as far as he was concerned.

  ‘One day it’s going to rebound on the bastards,’ he said.

  ‘But what am I going to do?’ wailed his wife.

  He rocked her, thinking about it and not getting very far.

  ****

  One day in late July, Senior Sergeant Kellock called Pam Murphy and John Tankard into his office and said, staring at each of them in turn, swinging his huge, bull-like head, ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the accident investigation boys have completed their inquiry and don’t intend to take further action against you.’

  Relief surged through Pam; her body felt looser suddenly, and she realised how tense she’d been for the past weeks. Even her daily jogging and training had been painful. Maybe now she’d enjoy the easy articulation of her joints and limbs again.

  Tank asked, ‘Sir, what will our records show?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Kellock assured them. ‘No black marks, no long memories.’

  ‘The civil suit, sir,’ Pam said. ‘The dead woman’s family wants to sue us.’

  ‘The Federation will support you, there’s a fighting fund to cover legal expenses.’

  That was good to know, but what Pam wanted was for the lawsuit to go away. ‘No one else’s put in a complaint about us?’ she asked, thinking of Lottie Mead.

  ‘No. Meanwhile,’ Kellock said, smiling as if doing them a huge favour, ‘there’s a forty grand sports car sitting in the yard.’

  ‘Sir, have you driven the thing?’Tankard protested. ‘It’s-’

  Kellock went still and dark. ‘Constable…’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Sir,’ they said, and took to the roads again, looking for polite drivers-a contradiction in terms, as they well knew.

  ****

  Vyner waited and waited, then sent an SMS: U O me 15 thou.

  He sent it again, and again.

  Sometime later came the reply. Even rendered in SMS symbols and abbreviations, the tone was blistering. He’d fucked up. He’d shot Tessa Kane instead of staging an accident, and he’d shot a cop in the neck. ‘You can whistle for your money.’ seemed to be the main thrust of the message.

  ****

  56

  The case began to break open on a Sunday in early August, almost four weeks after the murder of Janine McQuarrie. It started when Pam Murphy drove to Myers Reserve and parked beside the road. She was a little spooked to recognise it as the place where the Toyota van had killed the horsewoman, but it was a Bushrats working bee this morning, clearing the reserve of new pittosporum shoots. She locked her car and walked along the fenceline that divided the reserve from the remnants of orchard and untended farmland beside it. A blustery wind was blowing, cloud scraps scudding across a dismal sky, the ground spongy under her feet. Ten o’clock: the Bushrats would work until noon, and then retire to her house for a barbecue, for it was her turn to have them all for lunch.

  She found it a curious experience, involving herself in the local community-even if with a faintly obsessive minority component of it. Most police members spent their leisure time out of the public eye or with other police, for the very good reason that they tended to unnerve the innocent and arouse the hatred of the guilty. But Pam felt welcomed by the Bushrats; it made no difference to them that she was a police officer. And it was a powerful antidote to the daily misery and p
ointlessness of crime to see ordinary people placing a value on openness, collaboration and benefiting the community without expectation of personal reward.

  Last Friday she’d attended a public meeting held to discuss the fate of several stands and avenues of pine trees on the outskirts of Penzance Beach. Some of the pines were immense, casting permanent shadows over nearby houses. Others had died and looked ugly. All had inhibited the growth of grasses and native trees. Some residents had been in tears of fury and outrage that anyone should want to rid Penzance Beach of its pines, but Pam had sided with those who believed the pines should be chopped down and replaced with indigenous plants. A divided community, sure, but one in which the factions were talking and listening.

  Reaching a wooden gate, she perched on the top rail and waited for the other Bushrats to arrive. The rail was damp and mossy under her thighs but she wore old jeans and didn’t care. She sat staring out over the orchard where the stolen Toyota had come to rest, and then glanced around at the reserve. The driver of the Toyota had fled towards it, but then she’d lost sight of him and he could easily have doubled back amongst the clumps of old apple trees. Andy Asche was his name, according to Scobie Sutton. Where had he been headed with the stolen gear?

  ‘Hello, there!’

  A voice, torn into ribbons of sound by the wind. Pam turned her head. A fellow Bushrat, slogging across the paddock towards her. He must have parked further down the road; probably feared getting bogged, she thought. He was in his sixties and made heavy work of it. Partly his weight, partly the sodden terrain, for the old orchard was full of corrugations and drainage channels. He waved. She waved back.