Challis - 03 - Snapshot (18 page)

And now it was time to get rid of
the body, and he was heading northeast across the Peninsula, towards Waterloo,
observing all of the road and speed signs, and suddenly there were cops behind
him. Dunns Creek Road was snaking around one side of a pretty gully before
flattening out along a high ridge lined with horse studs and plant nurseries
set behind massive old pine tree avenues. There was more traffic than hed
expected, and on Penzance Beach Road and again on Waterloo Road hed been
obliged to give way to intersecting traffic, stop for a befuddled koala and not
try overtaking a community bus full of old-age pensioners.

The little MX5 behind him all the
way.

And when he got to Myers Reserve,
dense with pittosporum, bracken and dying gum trees, the Mazda was still there,
so he headed on down to Waterloo. He stopped for the give-way sign on Coolart
Road, slowed to 70 kmh and then 60 kmh through the next township, signalled
left at the T-intersection, did all the right things, and the Mazda stuck with
him, never varying speed or relative position, and that, and the peaked caps
worn by the driver and the passenger, really got Vyners mind working.

And so he pulled the stolen Falcon
into the carpark of the Mitre 10 hardware on the main street of Waterloo and
got out, letting his body language spell
innocent do-it-yourself guy
shopping for a packet of nails and a tin of paint.
But then a siren whooped
and the Mazda purred in beside him, the cops getting out, a guy and a woman,
dressed like SWAT commandos in boots, waisted leather jackets and peaked caps.

Excuse me, sir.

Vyner froze, his eyes darting. Hell
of a place. Tattoo parlour across the road, McDonalds on one side of the
carpark, railway line on the other. And further up the road, a roundabout and
the Waterloo police station. He said innocently, Was I going too fast?

The woman shook her head. The
opposite, in fact. Im Senior Constable Murphy, and this is Constable Tankard.

Tankard, thought Vyner. The guy was
built like a tankard, round and squat.

We couldnt help noticing, sir.

Noticing what? That Ive got a body
and a shovel in the boot of a stolen car?

Murphy flipped open her notebook. You
were faced with constantly varying speed limits for the past few kilometres,
and you observed all of them. You observed stop and give-way signs, you were
courteous to other drivers, and you made commonsense decisions when faced by
unexpected hazards, like that koala trying to cross the road.

Vyner shook his head. He was waiting
for the However

On behalf of Victoria Police and
the RTA, wed like to reward you, the woman said.

Vyner wanted to laugh. He gave them
a frank and open grin. Well, thank you.

The female cop leaned into the
Mazda, emerging with a bulky plastic bag. To show our appreciation, sir.

Vyner peeked inside. Great. Thank
you.

For a moment, he really meant it. Hed
always driven safely. Hed never been ticketed, and now it was paying off.

Youre welcome sir. Have a good
day, now, the guy, Tankard, muttered.

Gloomy guy. Whoever said fat was
cheerful?

Vyner went into Mitre 10 and bought
saw blades to replace those hed broken and blunted while cutting up the
Browning.

Out in the carpark again, he saw
that the Mazda was gone. He observed all of the speed limits and road rules
from Waterloo to Myers Reserve, where he committed several misdemeanours,
beginning with the lock on the gate that said Parks Victoria Vehicles Only.

* * * *

26

Using
her office phone in the
Progress
building, Tessa Kane posed as an
insurance agent selling life cover. Having established that Charlie Mead was at
work, she drove across the Peninsula to Rosebud and knocked on the front door
of his house. Mrs Mead? Lottie Mead?

A wary Yes.

My name is Tessa Kane, from the
Progress.

Tessa waited, wondering if shed be
recognised. Lottie Mead was slender and unsmiling, her gaze passing
expressionlessly across Tessas face and examining the street. What do you
want?

I wont lie to you, Mrs Mead. My
paper has been running a series of critical articles about asylum seekers and
your husbands management of the Waterloo detention centre. I think its time
for a personal perspective, and would like to interview you. Perhaps we could
start with your lives together in South Africa, and move on from there. Would
that be possible, do you think?

She waited. The house was a grim
grey fortress on a slope overlooking the bay. Finally Lottie Mead said, I have
nothing to say to you, and began to close the door.

Wait! Did your husband tell you not
to speak to reporters? Does he have something to hide, do you think?

Perhaps you didnt hear me, said
the woman distinctly, shutting the door with a brisk click.

* * * *

Ellen
was in Upper Penzance, half relieved and half chagrined to be working with
Scobie Sutton instead of Challis. Their interview with Connie Rinehart
completed, she got behind the wheel of the CIU Falcon, flipped open her mobile
phone and reported in. Hal? Rinehart never met Janineit was all arranged by
her doctor.

What can you tell me about her?

Thirty-four, suffers from
agoraphobia, has scarcely left her house for the past five years. When Janine
didnt arrive, she supposed shed made a mistake with the date or the time, but
hadnt got around to checking with the clinic or her doctor. Shes very timid
and withdrawn.

Does she live anywhere near Mrs
Humphreys?

Several kilometres away.

Does she know her?

No.

Does she know Christina Traynor?

No.

There was a pause, and Challis said,
That leaves us with Janines phobia about making right-hand turns. Yesterday
she was obliged to visit Rinehart at home, so she mapped out a route that would
avoid turning right, and found herself in an unfamiliar area and stopped to
check her street directory. Ive been looking at the map: someone driving from
Mount Eliza to Upper Penzance without making right turns would probably pass
through Penzance North. She was the wrong person in the wrong place at the
wrong time, and got herself shot.

Its a theory, Ellen said. See
you back at the ranch.

She started the car. Scobie promptly
settled into yarning mode. Remember I was talking about Natalie Cobb
yesterday?

Ellen had been cooped up with him
for hours, and forced herself to mutter, Yes.

Well, Beth went to see the Cobbs
after work yesterday. She told me something interesting. She arrived just as
Natalie was slipping her mother some money. She said it was clear Natalie hadnt
been to school all day. I myself saw her being picked up outside the courthouse
by her boyfriend, and I guess she spent the day with him.

Uh-huh, Ellen said, and then
thought she should make an effort. Doing what with the boyfriend?

Well, thats the question.

Is the boyfriend known to us?

Dont know. Dont know who he is.

Be worth finding out.

True.

There was a blessed silence and then
he said, Today was mad hair day.

Ellens mind raced, but not for
long. Hes talking about his bloody daughter again.

If its mad hair day, or
wear-what-you-like day, we have to get Ros up at least half an hour earlier
than usual. She gets in a real knot about it, poor little thing. Do I look
stupid in this? Are you sure its mad hair day? Youre doing it all wrong.
And so on and so forth.

The Suttons only child was a pale,
wispy eight-year-old. Uh-huh, said Ellen.

Maths, thats another thing that
makes her anxious.

I should be so lucky, Ellen thought.
To break up the litany, she said, You spoke to the supers wife?

Scobie groaned. Oh god.

Bad, huh?

She had plenty to say, but nothing
to say, if you know what I mean.

Ellen nodded. Janine was married to
her son, and was therefore a paragon of virtue.

That about covers it, Scobie said.

* * * *

Meanwhile
Andy Asche was driving past the secondary college in Waterloo. Lunchtime, and
Natalie, hanging around the front gate, gave him a nod, their signal that she
was still intending to slip away from school during an afternoon lesson break
and meet him around the corner.

This afternoon they were hitting a
house in Penzance Beach. Andy had a head full of potential targets. He worked
part-time for the shire, in a job that took him all over the Peninsula. Last
month, for example, hed spent two days delivering the new-style recycling bins
to every house in Penzance Beach. At other times he might accompany the
property valuation surveyor, going around to every property noting improvements
and taking measurements for the next hike in shire rates. Or he drove around
back roads, marking for attention ditches and culverts that were clogged with
sand, twigs and pine needles.

Whatever, he had a lot of facts at
his fingertips. Such and such a house is always empty during the day. Another
is only occupied on weekends, a third only in summer. This streets no good:
theres always some busybody in her garden or staring out of her window. That
street is full of barking dogs. Theres a top-of-the-range security system in
this house; theres no security system in that house, despite the sticker in
the window.

Penzance Beach was always a good
earner. A few locals lived there permanently, but mostly it consisted of beach
shacks, which looked humble but were owned by wealthy city people who liked to
come down on weekends or school holidays and maintain the level of comfort theyd
grown accustomed to in the city: top quality TVs, VCRs, DVDs, microwaves,
sports equipment, clothes, even mobile phones, cash and Walkmans left lying
around in kids bedrooms. Wealth made teenagers indifferent to wealth. Andy
Asches mother would have tanned his hide if hed been as careless with his
possessions.

* * * *

27

Challis
had put in requests for assistance from the police and prison services in New
South Wales after the mornings briefing, but when nothing had transpired by
lunch time, he grabbed a sandwich from the canteen and checked his pigeonhole.
The top circular read,
Where circumstances and protocol allow, Victoria
Police and civilian staff members will use both sides of a sheet of paper
rather than two sheets.
He almost crumpled it up and tossed it into the
bin, but the circulars reverse side was blank, so he did the right thing and
took it upstairs with him, to be used for making rough notes.

Then Waterloo Motors called to say
that his loan car was ready. He shrugged on his coat and left the station
through the rear door to avoid the reporters camped outside the front door.
Waterloo Motors was choked with cars awaiting service or repairs or to be
collected by their owners. He picked out his loan car quickly, a rusted-out
Toyota, with mag wheels, a fluffy steering wheel and the words Waterloo Motors
pasted all over it. He collected the keys and drove it back to the station,
enduring the blokey jibes of a few car-mad constables.

By mid afternoon some preliminary
information had come in from New South Wales. Blights prison visitors
consisted of his parents, wife, brothers and two men whod once driven cabs for
him. Hed shared a cell only once, with a man who was still incarcerated. Since
then hed been in a single cell in a segregated block.

What next? Fly to Sydney and
interview every one of Blights visitors, every inmate in the prison? A sheer
waste of time, and Challis couldnt see McQuarrie giving budget approval.

Meanwhile he wasnt ruling out
Janine McQuarrie as the intended victimor not entirelybut was prompted to
close certain avenues related to her case by a bleating phone call from Robert
McQuarrie: When are the police going to release my wifes body?

Should be in the next day or two,
Challis said, making a note to check with the pathologist.

Theres also the car and her mobile
phones. Surely youve finished checking them for evidence?

A little chill crept over Challiss
skin. Why the hurry? What was so important about these possessions ahead of the
welfare of his daughter? These things take time in a murder investigation,
sir, he said.

McQuarrie said nothing but Challis
could feel the mans irritation and impatience. You said phones? I
understood that there was only one phone, he said, searching through the files
on his desk for the crime-scene inventory.

Two
phones: one that she usesusedhands
free in the car, and another that she carried around with her.

Challis found the inventory. There
was only one mobile phone listed, clip-mounted to the dash of the car. Hed
assumed that was the phone Georgia had used to call 000. Had she used the
second one instead? If so, where was it?