by Garry Disher
‘Ring finger of his right hand, to be exact,’ Freya said. ‘As I suspected yesterday, it didn’t happen recently, but some time after adolescence. And it was torn rather than cut off cleanly. Some kind of accident? Explosion? Caught in machinery? I can’t be more certain than that.’
‘It’s something to go on,’ Challis said. ‘It ties in with a witness account in another crime. And the dead girl?’
Freya shook her head sadly. ‘Drowned. She might have lived if someone had pulled her out of the water sooner.’
****
Drowned?
In far north Queensland a couple of days later, Andy Asche was reading the Age online. He concealed a sob and read the item again. Drowned. That’s what it said.
He stumbled out into what passed for a winter’s day in the tropics. Sure, Nat had probably been concealed by reeds and scummy water, but the cops couldn’t have been looking very hard. He blinked his eyes. He shouldn’t have run. He should have stayed behind and pulled her out onto the grass. But would he have been in time to save her life? He pictured it, her body cold, wet, floppy, heavy. He shouldn’t have abandoned her.
Then he tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. Anyone would have assumed she’d escaped, run off in a different direction.
Drowned.
If he hadn’t run he could have saved her.
****
Vyner had also read the papers, and seen the news on TV. ‘Shallow grave,’ they went on and on about a shallow grave. Yeah, well, he defied anyone to have dug a deep grave in that reserve. Sure, the soil had been soft, but it was also interlaced with roots.
Then came an SMS: if Vyner wanted his fifteen grand, he had to pull another job for free.
Vyner fumed. It was a no-brainer, but he fumed.
****
That same day Challis received confirmation from dental records that the buried man was Nathan Gent, and that evening he took Ellen with him to confront Robert McQuarrie. They didn’t get further than the front doorstep.
‘Did your wife ever treat a man named Nathan Gent?’
No flicker in McQuarrie’s soft, sulky face. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Young, shaved head, missing a finger on his right hand.’
A look of distaste. ‘She treated people from all walks of life, including riffraff
‘Perhaps you befriended this man.’
‘What are you implying? That I hired him to kill Janine?’
‘Did you?’
‘No, now leave. I’m not going to say it again, if you want to interrogate me, my lawyer has to be present. Can I get that through your thick skulls?’
****
Meanwhile Scobie Sutton was chatting quietly with his wife, Beth slicing onions and occasionally sniffing and blinking, her hands still then slicing rapidly again. She was often teary these days, but he didn’t know if it was the onions this time or distress over her job. ‘What did you do today?’
She had thrown herself into volunteer work for their church, and he was hoping that this would keep her from falling into depression or something.
‘I went to see Heather Cobb,’ she said, still slicing.
‘Did you? I called on her this morning.’
Beth put down her knife and turned to him with the baffled smile she’d often worn when dealing with people from the local housing estates. ‘Scobie, you wonder how their minds work sometimes. Heather knows we’re married, but she didn’t say a word about your visit. I mean, normal people in those circumstances would have mentioned it.’
This was a subject that Beth and Scobie could get passionate about. People’s bad manners, careless manners, sheer indifference and ignorance and lack of social graces.
Just then Roslyn tiptoed in and placed a sheet of paper at Scobie’s elbow. ‘Please can I watch the Simpsons yes or no? With a rush of love he kissed her and ticked the ‘yes’ box. Roslyn scurried away.
Beth turned around and saw his dopey love. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
The front door buzzer sounded. Scobie said, ‘I’ll get it,’ and found two figures standing there, hunched miserably against the cold.
‘He showed up at footy training,’ John Tankard said.
Scobie nodded. ‘Hello, Andy. How was Queensland?’
Andy Asche’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’m a detective, remember?’
‘I couldn’t stand it, Mr Sutton, I had to come back. I thought my head was going to explode.’
‘There’s no rush,’ Scobie said. ‘Come in and get warm.’
****
60
On Thursday John Tankard said, ‘This is a bullshit gig.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Pam concentrated on the road ahead, trying to ignore Tank, who was heaving about in the passenger seat, fooling with the seat adjustments, trying to find room for his heavy legs.
‘Piece of Japanese shit.’
Actually, it wasn’t. Pam had come to appreciate the virtues of the little sports car. It was riding with John Tankard that spoilt the experience. But she was feeling pretty good now, training for the triathlon again, no disciplinary action hanging over her head.
Tank should count his blessings. He was off the hook too.
Coolart Road, a 90 kmh zone, several roundabouts, deceptive undulations here and there. She was sitting on 90, the rest of the traffic on 100 or more, and that was frustrating. Still, their job was to find courteous drivers, and they weren’t armed with speed cameras.
She skirted Somerville, crossed Eramosa Road, for the T-junction at the Frankston end of Coolart Road. Beside her John Tankard sighed heavily and she said, ‘Spit it out, Tank, what’s the matter?’
‘Andy Asche turned up last night,’ he said. ‘Poor guy.’
‘Killed a woman riding her horse, killed the horse, left his girlfriend behind to die. Yeah, poor guy.’
Tank stirred and scowled. ‘He’s not a nasty piece of work, not like some we’ve dealt with over the years. Good footballer. A real waste of talent.’
‘So you’re saying he should be forgiven because he’s a good footballer,’ Pam said flatly.
Being sports mad herself, she hadn’t come quickly or easily to the realisation that the system regularly allowed young footballers and cricketers to escape rape and sexual assault charges. When policemen, lawyers, judges and millionaire club presidents went dewy-eyed over sporting heroes, what chance did complainants stand?-especially when the wider community, men and women alike, shrugged the issue away with the words ‘She was asking for it.’ And heaven help you if you caused the accidental death of a sportsman. In the great outpouring of grief and rage that followed, you’d be hounded by the police and demonised by the media.
‘Footballers can do no wrong, is that it, Tank?’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying it’s a real waste, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes his chick was there.’
‘Watching him as he trained?’
‘Yeah. Poor kid.’
The new, softer John Tankard. Pam braked gently for the car ahead, which in turn had braked for the red Mitsubishi ahead of it. All three came to a complete stop, allowing a huge semi loaded with pine vineyard posts to reverse into a narrow gateway. Clearly the driver had been waiting some time for an opportunity to complete the manoeuvre, but the traffic had been heavy, impatient, not prepared to give him a break. It was a rare good deed, and Pam followed the traffic right at the intersection and then left over the railway line. By now the Mitsubishi was directly ahead of them.
‘Where are we going?’
Pam said impatiently, ‘That car, Tank, didn’t you see?’
‘See what?’
‘Stopped to let that truck reverse just now.’
‘Oh.’
Tankard straightened, seemed to make an effort. ‘Look at that guy-’
A man tying a banner to a picket fence: ‘Devilbend Reservoir. Out’.
‘So?’
‘
Guerrilla tactics,’ Tankard said, rubbing his meaty hands together. ‘Come back after dark and rip it down.’
Pam thought he might, too. ‘So much for free speech.’
Tankard scowled and muttered, an inarticulate man full of impatience and insupportable burdens. Pam thought he was probably representative of most people and there was no point in probing into his views. ‘There,’ she said, taking her hand from the steering wheel and pointing.
The township of Baxter was behind them. They were passing through farmland again, but halfway up a long slope ahead of them was a cyclone fence and a vast yard of wrecked cars. The red Mitsubishi slowed, indicator light blinking, and pulled into the parking area outside the main gates. Peninsula Wrecking, according to a faded sign.
Pam pulled in alongside the red car and introduced herself to the startled driver, a pleasant-looking man in his sixties. He was delighted to get the bag of rewards, but protested that he didn’t deserve to.
‘My wing mirror,’ he said, pointing. ‘Swiped it off getting petrol.’
Pam appreciated the irony: it was a roadworthy item. ‘Even so, sir, you’re a courteous driver, and I just know you’re going to fit the replacement mirror before driving away from here.’
She grinned, he grinned.
She returned to the car, but Tank was standing at the fence, looking in at row after row of cars, some damaged, others mere shells. ‘We couldn’t stop for a few minutes, could we?’
‘What for?’
‘Busted window winder.’
Pam pictured the wallowing, barge-like station wagon in which he carted around young footballers and their gear on Saturday mornings. ‘Sure, why not.’
While Tank asked for directions in the office, Pam wandered. The huge lot had been sectioned according to make and type of vehicle and was a scrounger’s dream. Down one row she went, up another. She was struck by how few of the cars were damaged. Many were simply old or had no resale value except as a source of secondhand parts. The sun had taken its toll on the paintwork, the rain on exposed metal, and so at first she didn’t register the significance of the dirty-white 1983 Commodore sitting on its axles in mud and grass in a row of similar sad old wrecks.
****
Challis spent Friday morning away from the incident room. The breaks were coming quickly now, and he felt impatient. He visited the car impound and watched for a while as the forensic techs printed the Commodore found by Pam Murphy and examined it for fibres, hair and traces of blood and other fluids. Then he spent a frustrating hour speaking to Nathan Gent’s neighbours. When he returned to the Waterloo police station it was to a scene of chaos at the front desk. At least twenty people were lined up waiting for customer service.
He poked his head around Kellock’s door. ‘What’s up?’
The senior sergeant shrugged his massive shoulders tiredly. ‘Maybe this doesn’t apply to you hotshots in CIU, but the Police Association has announced a go-slow.’
It was hard to determine where Kellock stood on the matter. ‘Ah,’ Challis said.
‘The usual: better pay rates and working conditions. And so we have no unpaid overtime, no court attendances except by subpoena, bans on management duties, the assigning of custodial nurses rather than police members to medicate prisoners, and the issuing of discretionary warnings or summonses to appear in court, rather than penalty notices.’
As if Kellock were reading from a press release. Challis sympathised with the Federation, always had. He nodded briefly, then headed for the stairs, encountering Pam Murphy in the corridor. ‘Sir,’ she said, walking on.
‘Wait.’
‘Sir?’
‘That was a good job you did, spotting the Commodore. Well done.’
She blushed. ‘Thanks. Sir.’
Challis nodded and headed upstairs.
****
An hour later he called a briefing.
‘Here’s what we have: on Sunday, Ellen discovered a shallow grave in Myers Reserve. We’re fairly certain the body recovered at the scene is that of Nathan Gent. The age is right, the clothing, the missing ring finger on the right hand. We expect dental confirmation soon. We know that Gent had bought-but not registered-his cousin’s 1983 Holden Commodore. Two features of this car match the car seen leaving the scene of Janine McQuarrie s murder by the taxi driver, Joe Ovens: a mismatched driver’s door and part of the registration. As you know, Georgia McQuarrie described the driver as missing a finger on his right hand, but didn’t recognise a photo we found in Gent’s house because it showed him when he was younger, with long hair. The neighbours describe him as overweight, with a shaved head. Since then his sister has sent us a more recent photograph, and both Georgia and Joseph Ovens are certain that he’s the man driving the Commodore.’
He paused. One of the civilian clerks came in with a container of freshly brewed coffee. Challis thanked her, waited for her to leave, and went on:
‘Meanwhile, we’ve had a ballistics report. Dr Berg recovered a 9mm slug from the body.’
He showed them photographs. Scobie Sutton sat up, alert. ‘Doesn’t match the slugs recovered from Janine McQuarrie or Tessa Kane, by any chance?’
‘No.’
Scobie slumped. They all did.
‘However,’ Challis said, smiling at them, ‘there is an anomaly common to all three sets of slugs: a faint but telling scrape mark. Our shooter used a suppressor. Either he didn’t fit it properly each time, or there’s a slight flaw in its design or manufacture.’
‘He used different pistols but the same suppressor,’ Ellen said.
‘That’s the theory,’ Challis said.
‘So all three shootings are related.’
‘Yes.’
‘Our shooter tops Janine,’ a Mornington DC said, ‘and later tops the guy who drove him-cleaning up loose ends?’
Challis caught Ellen’s compassionate glance, and gave her a brief smile. If he hadn’t let the media run with the anonymous caller story, Nathan Gent might still be alive. But right now he couldn’t afford to think about that. ‘Then later he shot Tessa Kane,’ he said, ‘probably acting alone this time. The motive’s still unclear, except that the sex parties link both women and both murders.’
Challis let them brood on that, then told them more about Nathan Gent. ‘After he lost his finger he was offered a desk job, but declined, electing to leave the Navy instead. According to one of the psychologists who assessed him at the time, he was deeply depressed. Maybe that grew into disaffection. He leaves the Navy and hooks up with other disaffected ex-Navy types-or at least one other, our shooter.’
He watched them absorb that, and went on: ‘Then he’s hired to be the driver on a hit, and makes a mistake, uses his own car. Realising his mistake, he sells it to a wrecking yard near Baxter. No plates, but the owner remembers Gent and gave a good description. As yet,’ he said, glancing around the big table, ‘there’s no useful forensics. Plenty of prints-too many. That car was stripped of its seats, steering wheel, radio, seatbelts, rear view mirror, glovebox lid, virtually everything. But the lab’s running the prints as we speak, so let’s hope they find a match to someone who’s in the system.’
‘We’re sure it’s the car?’
‘Yes. The plates were removed but we matched the VIN and engine numbers to the car owned by Nora Gent.’
‘All we need is one print, boss.’
‘True, but maybe our shooter’s never been printed. Maybe he wore gloves the whole time. And we’d expect to find Nathan’s prints.’
They absorbed that. They had half an ear to the phones in the room. It was like waiting for a watched pot to boil. In fact, they were standing to file out of the room when the call came. Challis motioned for them to sit, then replaced the receiver and grinned at them. ‘We’ve got our one print,’ he said. ‘Apparently our man checked his appearance in the mirror attached to the sun visor.’ He paused. ‘Trevor Vyner, done time for assault and armed robbery. And,’ he said, ‘he’s ex-Navy.’
They
all seemed easier in their chairs now.
****
61
By late afternoon they had an address for Vyner, search warrants and an arrest warrant. Four Armed Response officers would go in first. Challis supposed they were necessary, but they made him nervous. The country had almost zero gun ownership, so what did they do from one day to the next but train and fantasise? Over-trained and under-experienced, they had nothing to model their behaviour on but American movies. He watched their swagger in the foyer of Vyner’s building, young, trigger-happy men dressed in the latest street combat gear. They knew who Challis was: the cuckold whose wife set him up to be murdered by a fellow cop. They knew who Ellen was: the cop-the female cop-who’d let herself get shot. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to them, their gum-chewing jaws seemed to be saying.
Challis was almost glad that Vyner’s flat was empty. He’d asked for a watch on the place while the warrants were being sworn, and nobody had been spotted going in or out, but that hadn’t meant Vyner wasn’t there, prepared to shoot it out to the death. He stepped through the splintered doorframe-management had made a key available, but that wasn’t the Armed Response team’s style-and quickly prowled through the four spare, unloved Ikea rooms. He guessed that Vyner carried the habits of teenage detention, Navy life and prison with him, and had little room or need for possessions.
‘You can go now,’ he said, tired of edging around big men who were armed to the teeth.
‘What if he comes back?’
‘Post two officers in the corridor and two in the foyer,’ Challis said.
They filed out, their uniforms and equipment creaking and clinking. Challis stood at the window and looked out over the acres of new apartment buildings that had reclaimed some of the old factory districts beside the river. He’d lost touch with the city. He’d walked along Southbank with Ellen just now and wondered who the people were, eating in the outdoor cafes, walking along the river path and watching the jugglers. He guessed there was a lot of disposable income around nowadays. You didn’t see it in Waterloo.