Challis - 03 - Snapshot (12 page)
Read Challis - 03 - Snapshot Online
Authors: Garry Disher
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police, #Police Procedural, #Large Type Books, #Australia, #Melbourne Region (Vic.), #Destry; Ellen (Fictitious Character), #Challis; Hal (Fictitious Character)
Is that a question or an opinion?
If any of your section managers
raised concerns, they were threatened with the sack and their reports were
censored or conveniently lost.
Lady, Mead said, leaning towards
her menacingly, put up or shut up.
Do you care to comment on these
allegations, Mr Mead?
Call me Charlie, Mead said,
swinging around to face her again. Will that be all? Good, he said, opening a
side door. Someone will show you out.
As Tessa left the main building, a
guard, bored and scowling, ran his metal detector over a steel door idly,
listening to it squawk. He did it over and over again. No one else seemed to
notice. In fact, a vicious kind of indifference was the pervasive atmosphere of
the place, and Tessa wondered if that was all down to Charlie Mead: who he was
and who he had been.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Why
continue to look at who he was now? Hed be leaving soon, and she continued to
run into brick walls. Why not look at who he had been and where hed come from?
* * * *
Andy
Asche was driving: Natalie Cobb back from the city. He marvelled at how great
she looked, despite being stuck in court all morning holding the hand of her
fucked-up mother, followed by an afternoon ripping off gear in South Yarra. He
told her so.
Thank you, kind sir.
Straight, Andy continued, but sexy.
Eighteen years old, still at school,
but she could pass for a yuppie chick out shopping for her yuppie pad in
Southgate, where all the yuppies lived, and thats what mattered to Andy and
Natalie.
It went like this: the people they
worked for owned pawnshops in the city and a discounted homewares outlet on the
Peninsula, which made for a two-way flow of stolen gear. Andy liked the
neatness of it: goods from the city ended up on the Peninsula, goods from the Peninsula
ended up in the city. The Chasseur frying pan that he and Natalie might
shoplift in South Yarra went straight to Savoury Seconds (frying pan,
savouries, get it?) in Somerville. The cops werent likely to venture outside
of the city to look for a stolen frying pan, even if it did cost $300.
Meanwhile the pawnbroking stores in the city sold gear burgled from homes on
the Peninsula. A retiree down in Penzance Beach isnt going to stumble by
chance on her VCR in a barred shop window in Footscray. The people that Andy
and Natalie worked for werent too worried by tax audits or CIU inquiries
either. They had paperwork to prove that the new Chasseur frying pan in
Savoury Seconds had come from a bankrupted shop in Cairns, the VCR in Footscray
pawned by a waitress in Abbotsford.
Andys and Natalies first hit today
had been Perfecto Coffee, in Chapel Street, the shelves stocked with coffee
pots and machines, filters, ring seals, milk frothers, you name it; Bialetti,
Gaggia and other big names. Coffee beans, too, but the order was for espresso
machines, percolators and plungers. Natalie, in her long, loose woollen
overcoat over tailored pants, leather shoulderbag and artfully tousled hair,
browsed the shelves while Andy chatted up the shop assistant. No security
cameras that he could see. Then Nat was at his elbow, doing her sulky lookCan
we go now?as if shopping, and Andy, and this shop, made her dangerously
bored, not something you wanted to see in a beautiful woman. Andy slipped the
shop assistant a winkshe sympathisedand followed Natalie out of the shop,
Natalies overcoat barely registering the spacious hidden pockets that were now
full of top-end coffee making machines.
They hit a couple more places, had
lunch in a bistro, and now, mid afternoon, were nearly home, Waterloo free of
fog at last. Andy dropped Natalie outside the tattoo parlour next to the
railway line. She had a fistful of money in her pocket: most would go to her
mother, but she wanted a new tatt, a butterfly, high on the inside of her right
thigh. Then she was going to score some dope. Andy didnt do dope, or booze, or
anything else. Hed saved twelve grand so far, down payment on a BMW sports
car.
Tomorrow, yeah? You up for it?
Yeah, she said.
He drove to the McDonalds on the
roundabout for a Quarter Pounder, and read the local newspaper while he waited.
Turned to Police Beat on page 10. He liked the irony: here he was, a thorough
crook, reading about the work of other crooks while sitting just across the
road from the cop shop. Unimaginative crimes, too. A ride-on mower stolen in
Penzance Beach. A woman robbed at syringe point outside an ATM in Mornington. A
purse snatched here in Waterloo.
Andy Asche glanced up from his
paper. The noon-to-four shift cops coming off duty, heading across the road for
their Big Macs. And fuck me, there was John Tankard, his footy coach, getting
out of a Mazda sports car with some female cop.
* * * *
John
Tankard and Pam Murphy logged off, deeply fatigued with one another, the only
distraction during the long afternoon having been their encounter with Lottie
Mead. They separated, showered, changed, then happened to meet in the staff
carpark afterwards, Tankard noticing the gear that Pam was wearing: black lycra
shorts, sweater and trainers. Great legs, notwithstanding the goosebumps from
the cold air. Great body.
Suddenly the elements of his
personality, fractured after hed shot dead that farmer, were clashing inside
him. Hed had counselling, and told himself he was a better person for it, but
before he could stop himself he felt a carnal tug deep inside and was touching
her smooth behind and pulling her towards him, and then he was crying
wretchedly.
Im sorry, Im sorry, he gasped.
She pulled away angrily. Whats got
into you?
Im sorry. Dont report me.
You deserve to be reported.
I know, Im sorry, I feel
all...all...
She folded her arms and said, with
vicious reasonableness, Yeah, I can see how that would work. Give me a quick
grope, and if I object, you can blame it on stress. She unfolded her arms. Youre
pathetic, John.
Pam, Im sorry, I dont know what
got into me. His hands pressed against his cheeks. Ive stuffed up big time,
havent I?
The look she gave him then was weary
and disgusted, but not angry or vengeful. You came back to work too soon, she
said.
Mate, I was going stir crazy at
home.
If you touch me again, Ill flatten
you, and then Ill report you.
I know, I know. Im really sorry.
He made an effort and said, without looking at her thighs, smooth in their lycra
sheaths: Wherere you going?
Training.
For what?
Triathlon.
When?
January.
Thats six months away.
Exactly.
The new Tankard struggled, finally
remembering that shed been in a bad car smash at her last station, so maybe
she was trying to get fit again.
What about you? she said, more out
of politeness than actual interest.
Tankard said shyly, Im coaching
footy this season.
Pam went slackjawed. Youre joking.
Nope.
Good for you.
Good for me, good for the kids, Tankard
thought. He was a copper, so that gave him some clout to begin with, but he was
trying to be more than copper and footy coach. Like hed intervened in this
dispute between the club and the Fiddlers Creek pub. Some of the guys would get
legless after training or a game on a Saturday and walk across the road from
the clubrooms to the pub, where theyd get even more loaded, and brawl, swear,
trash the bar or the mens room, reverse into patrons cars on the way home. It
had got so bad, the pub withdrew sponsorship from the team and banned club
members from drinking there. John Tankard had a quiet word with the pub
management, and then with the players, and now everything was sweet again.
Well, gotta run, he said. See ya.
She shrugged and walked to her car.
He got into his old station wagonchosen because he could cart a lot of kids
and gear around in itand drove to the clubhouse, where he got kitted out
before running a few gasping laps of the oval to warm up. Soon the kids were
arriving, some straight from school, others driven by their parents, a few
dropped by their girlfriends. And Andy Asche; that was a change. Half the time
the guy failed to turn up. Tankard waited until they were all kitted out then
called them to run a few laps of the oval.
* * * *
Nathan
Gent had spent all day smoking joints and sinking cans of Melbourne Bitter, but
his anxiety wouldnt go away. Yeah, thered been a heavy fog this morning, and
no cars about, only that fucking taxi, but had the driver seen anything? Would
he come forward when the shooting hit the TV news and tomorrows newspapers?
Nathan had been paid, and he
intended to stay clear of Vyner, but hed crossed a divide this morning.
Accomplice to a murder. Plus the kid had seen him. That little face, maybe six
years old, sees her mum shot down in cold blood.
Nathan wanted to go, Whoa! Stop the
world, I want to get off. But hed crossed the divide. He was no longer his
old self, a simple sort of bloke, likes to sink a few beers at the pub, watch
the footy, see if he can use his missing finger to pull a chick at the Krypton
Klub in Frankston. Choof on a bit of weed occasionally.
Three things gnawing at him: murder,
the look on the kids face, the car. Particularly the car. No worries, hed
assured Vyner, its stolen, cant be traced to us. In fact, stealing a car
had been harder than Nathan had expected, and hed left it too late, and so hed
used his cousins Commodore. Except it wasnt really Noras; when she got the
job in New Zealand shed sold him the car for $975, leaving the paperwork up to
him, the roadworthy certificate and the registration and insurance and
stuffwhich he hadnt got around to yet.
Fine, except when hed dropped Vyner
off after the shooting this morning, Vyner had thumped the Commodore and said, Burn
the fucker.
Nathan had driven away, saying No
worries, his mind racing.
Even if he burnt the Commodore, didnt
the cops have ways of tracing ownership? Even if he removed and destroyed the
numberplates, wasnt there some number on the engine block or something? What
if someone came along while he was trying to set fire to it? Hed have to get
rid of it some other way. Besides, he was kind of sentimental about the
Commodore. Hed borrowed it off Nora stacks of times, and Nora was a good sort,
and he hated to think of her carhis caras a blackened ruin on some back road.
Obviously he couldnt keep driving around in itVyner might see him, the
vicious cuntso hed cleaned everything out of the car, wiped it down, and
driven it to a wrecking yard in Baxter, still wearing his gloves (which hadnt
raised any eyebrows because the weather was shithouse). What he did was, he
drove past the yard for a few hundred metres, removed the oil filter and tossed
it into a culvert at the side of the road, then drove back to the yard, by
which time the engine had seized. He pushed the car into the yard, removed both
plates, and walked out with $120 in his pocket, saying of the yellow door: Thats
a good door, no rust.
But the kid, her little face.
Murder.
Nathan Gent went to the pub with his
last ten dollars, downed a couple of pints, and fired up the jukebox beside the
mens toilet, trying to decide what his next move should be.
* * * *
18
The
incident room, 5 p.m.
McQuarrie was there, making it clear
that hed be running the briefing. Challis acquiesced, vowing to hold another
briefing as soon as McQuarrie left, to undo any damage or interference the man
caused, intended or otherwise. Again he pondered the supers motives. Was he
instinctively protecting his son? His daughter-in-law? His own reputation? Or
was it obstruction of a more calculated kind? Challis waited for McQuarrie to
sit at the head of the table, then stepped across to the wall and propped it up
morosely. Ellen flashed him a grin.
The setting sun angled across the
chipped table and McQuarries twitchy knuckles. Inspector? Well hear from you
first.
Challis outlined his day. Then, true
to form, McQuarrie double-checked every step of his account.
You talked to my son.
Said almost accusingly. I hadnt
expected to see him, Challis replied.
Hes got important commitments,
McQuarrie said. He made a racing visit up to the city, then came straight back
to be with Georgia.
You dont have to apologise for him,
Challis thought.
And you got nowhere, McQuarrie
said. Hes well respected, well loved. No enemies.
Sir.
And no witnesses.
No.
This Lisa Welch woman didnt hear
or see anything?
No.
But you think its possible she was
the intended target?
Challis gave his head a brief,,
impatient shake. No, sir, not really. Its just a precaution. I thought it
best to advise her of the danger, but on the face of it shes not involved.
Still, I want you to dig a little
deeper. You never know.