Challis - 03 - Snapshot (10 page)

Her briefcase was scanned electronically,
then searched manually, and her mobile phone and microcassette recorder
confiscated. Youll get these back when you leave, said the man whod
searched her. She was obliged to step through a metal detector and even then
her coat was removed and the seams, cuffs and collar searched minutely by hand.
Tessa stared at the walls, which were bare and painted a comfortless white.

Finally she was shown to a
straightbacked chair in a corridor and told to wait. White walls, photographs
of the US president and the Australian prime minister. After fifteen minutes a
young woman stuck her head out of a nearby doorway and beckoned to Tessa. Mr
Mead will see you now. Her look of appalled fascination was a sure sign that
shed read last weeks
Progress
and half expected Tessa to take her
clothes off and have group sex with the guards.

Tessa entered an office dominated by
a desk and the man behind it. As expected, the room was furnished with filing
cabinets, shelves of books and spiral-bound reports, and a barred window that
looked out onto an exercise yard, but the desk was set up as a security and
communications centre, with several telephones, an intercom system, security
monitors, two computers, a laptop and a fax machine. The walls were bare but
for a couple of framed certificates and a photograph taken during the centres
opening ceremony, the mayor and councillors grinning as they clapped Charlie
Mead and other ANZCOR dignitaries on the back. Pricks. If you looked closely
enough, you could even see the $100 bills changing hands. Even more would
change hands once approval was given to refit the detention centre as some
other kind of facility.

Camp for disadvantaged children?
thought Tessa sourly. Community centre for the people of the housing estates?

She caught Mead looking at her. He
was a rangy man, all bone and sinew, with a knobbly hard skull and quick,
sharp, coldly humorous eyes. He rosehe was very tallfrom behind his desk,
reached across it and squashed her hand in his. He pointed to the chair opposite.
Sit.

A growling voice. He watched while
she took out her notebook and tested the ink flow of her pen. Then she gave him
a brief, automatic smile, and was halfway through thanking him for his time
when he said, Kane: is that a Jewish name?

Well, hello, she thought. Was she
going to get the full treatment? Ironical amusement, raised eyebrow, frank
appraisal of her legs, overt anti-feminism, overt anti-Semitism, and a whole
arsenal of other shock tactics, gestures and attitudes intended to rattle her?

So she said at once, It could be
argued that your guards have been dehumanised by their work here, an attitude
encouraged by management. Would you care to comment?

It was as if hed become bored. He
swung back in his chair, crossed his long legs and stared up at the ceiling. He
splayed the fingers of his left hand, examined his nails. Dehumanised?
Another meaningless word among many.

According to an ex-employee of

Who? he demanded.

I cant divulge that. According to
an ex-employee, your guards wake detention centre detainees at random times
throughout the night, demanding they quote their detention numbers. Is that
meaningless?

Mead shrugged. Security, he said.

She stared at him, and went on. Inmates
have attested that the Refugee Review Tribunal is often only one individual
rather than a panel, and some of these individuals make it a point to refuse
all applications.

Take it up with the RRT, Mead
said, jerking forward, his fingers flying over a keyboard. Then, with a soft,
impatient grunt, he leaned back again. Next question.

Mead was tapping his pen against his
teeth now, staring out of his window. She could see the back of his neck, his
tough, tanned skin. There was a photograph on the windowsill and Mead picked it
up, put it down again. A watchful, dark-haired woman offering a reluctant smile
to the camera. Lottie Mead, presumablyand, Tessa realised, the driver of the
Passat.

Care for a tour of the place? said
Mead.

* * * *

14

Let
me
drive, said John Tankard after the near miss with the Subaru.

He didnt expect Murph to accede,
and she didnt. The incident hadnt rattled her, and hadnt been her fault in
the first place, but he felt in a take-charge mood suddenly, in reaction to her
superior attitude, the particularly girlie quality of the wave shed exchanged
with the Kane woman, his cramped seat and the job itself. He felt rage
building, fine and liberating. Sometimes he worried that his six months of
stress counselling hadnt worked; sometimes he was glad that it hadnt.

And now some prick was tailgating
them, flashing and tooting. He turned around in his seat and saw the Passat
that had been waiting to merge with the traffic passing the detention centre. A
woman was driving, and he felt obscurely satisfied by that. Whats
her
problem?
he snarled.

Keep your shirt on, Tank, said
Murph, pulling over to the side of the road.

Stay here, he said, getting out.

He adjusted his gun belt, jacket and
cap, and advanced grimly on the Passat. The driver, spotting his uniform,
blanched, then looked sulky, and began to open her door.

Lady, get back in the car, he
said.

She complied. He stood beside her
door, gestured for her to wind down her window, then stood there, crowding her
space. It felt great. They were near the Fiddlers Creek pub and patrons were
streaming in for the all-you-can-gorge buffet lunch, which finished at two. Got
a problem? he said.

I didnt know you were the police.

Well, now you do.

She recovered some of her composure,
a woman in her forties with dark hair and a narrow face. I would like to get
out of the car, she said.

No.

Do you know who I am?

Dont know and dont care, said
Tankard.

Youll need to know my name if you
intend to warn or fine me, the woman pointed out.

That wasnt what her question had
meant and they both knew it. Tankard decided to call her bluff and got out his
citation book. Fire away, he said.

My name is Lottie Mead.

So?

My husband is director of the
detention centre, she said.

Tankard was filled with emotions: a
natural obedience towards authority figures, fear and resentment of stroppy
women, and respect for those, like Charlie Mead, who did their bit in the war
against terror. He wanted to charge Lottie Mead with something, but feared a whole
heap of trouble if he did.

To make it worse, Pam Murphy joined
them. Is there a problem, madam?

Lottie Mead took that as permission
to get out of her Passat and cross to the front of the car. She was a lean,
springy figure in tailored pants and a black woollen jacket. There, she said,
pointing.

A cracked headlight. Your car did
that, she said. I saw and heard it.

How? demanded Tank, wishing Murph
would get back in the Mazda and leave him to deal with it. To make it worse,
she seemed to know what the Mead woman was on about. A stone, she said
apologetically.

Exactly.

You cant prove it was us, Tank
said, trying to wrestle something back. That could have happened yesterday,
last year.

He felt Murphs hand on his arm. Leave
it, Tank, all right? Madam, if youd care to make a formal report Im sure we
can

The woman back-pedalled and Tank was
glad to see it. That wont be necessary, she said. Its my husbands car,
and his company will take care of costs.

Then why, sneered Tank, did you
cause such a fuss?

I couldnt allow you to just drive
off without acknowledging that something had happened, Lottie Mead said, as
though there were lots of things she didnt allow.

Duly acknowledged, said John
Tankard through gritted teeth.

Tank, warned Murph, and he got
back in the Mazda feeling that he wanted to sort her out as well.

* * * *

15

Challis
and Ellen stopped for petrol and lunch in Frankston, Challis glancing at his
watch as they left. It would take them an hour to get to the city, then fifteen
minutes for parking, and later theyd have the longer trip back to the other
side of the Peninsula: almost two and a half hours of the afternoon would be
spent in travelling. He turned on the radio. Someone had tuned to a station
that broadcast music of the 1980s. He hurriedly found Radio National.

Hal, come on, eighties music

He snorted. There was no music in
the eighties.

She thought. Duran Duran.

I rest my case.

She grinned, amusement transforming
her, and he felt a sudden urge to touch her cheek. Why? Because her bullying
husband was making her miserable? Because he was her friend, and he wanted to
show simple comfort and affection? And how simple was the affection? Challis
believed that an element of physical attraction existed in most friendships. If
he wasnt drawn to her, could he have been her friend? He was relieved when she
said, Tell me more about the supers son.

He quickly paraphrased the results
of his Google search. Robert McQuarrie ran an investment and brokerage firm,
but also belonged to the Australian Enterprise Institute, a neo-conservative
think tank that advised the federal government on policy matters and carried
out smear campaigns against charities and welfare and aid agencies, which it accused
of taking a public advocacy stance on issues of human rights, corporate social
responsibility and environmental protection. In fact, Robert McQuarrie had
headed an inquiry into the role of nongovernment organisations, and had been
quoted in the press as saying that NGOs were shifting away from direct work in
the community to political lobbying and activism. He recommended that certain
NGOs earn lower grants, lose their tax-exempt status and meet strict compliance
conditions. The tone of his speeches was mean and self satisfied, the voice of
a humourless bully.

Ellen sighed. So plenty of
potential enemies.

You think someone killed Janine to
get back at her husband?

Ellen shrugged. Its as good an
answer as any at the moment.

* * * *

By
2.30 p.m. they were fronting up to McQuarrie Financial Services coldly
gleaming marble reception desk, thick carpet under their feet, hemmed in by
walls hung with posters discreetly designed and framed. The receptionist, a
young woman with a pert nose, poised in a business suit, said, May I help you?

Challis explained the circumstances
of their visit, and saw her swallow and go white. Mrs McQuarrie? she
whispered.

Challis asked for a room gently. Well
need to interview everyone, Im afraid.

Ill need Mr McQuarries permission
for that, the receptionist said, recovering her colour.

Lets not bother him now, Challis
replied. Hes comforting his daughter. In any case, this is a murder inquiry
and I dont really need his permission.

But hes just come in to work. Just
one moment.

Stunned, Challis and Ellen watched
her make the call. Then Robert McQuarrie was striding towards them, looking
more spruce than grieving. This really isnt a good time.

Various thoughts raced through
Challiss mind. Robert McQuarrie had spent scant time with his daughter. He
apparently valued his work over her, or the memory of his dead wife. And he
hadnt yet informed his staff or colleagues. The murder had been reported on
the midday news, but Janine hadnt been named. Challis felt a twist of acute
displeasure, but concealed it, saying softly, This wont take long. Perhaps we
could go to your office?

McQuarrie seemed to come to his
senses. If you insist.

Challis gave a mental shake of his
head. The super and his wife hadnt seemed particularly grief-stricken about
their daughter-in-law, and now the womans husband rushes into the office
rather than stay with his daughter. Challis knew something about griefhed
felt it, hed observed it, and knew it took many formsbut hed never seen
grief expressed as an inconvenience before. Who are these people? he wondered.

Ellen was clearly thinking the same
thing. When they were settled in a huge corner office with views across the
city to the bay, she said, I must say I didnt expect to see you here, Robert.

The use of the mans first name was
a deliberate slight, an indication that she was in a dangerous mood. But it
failed to chasten the superintendents son. What are you implying? That Im
not observing a decent period of grieving? That I should be at home with my
daughter?

Challis stepped in. Some people
might think that, Mr McQuarrie.

Listen, Robert McQuarrie was
saying, I have responsibilities. Two hours here, then Im driving straight
back to be with her. How dare you presume to question how I feel or deal with
things? Georgias in the loving care of my parents today, and tomorrow will go
to stay with my wifes sister. I dont want to take her home yet. His eyes
filled with tears. Wed only rattle around there and be surrounded by
memories. Georgia needs mothering and plenty of distractions, okay? Meanwhile I
am the chief executive officer of a company that employs a hundred people
Australia-wide.