Challis - 03 - Snapshot (22 page)

Challis, he said in his strangled
voice.

She gave him a reprieve. Hes got a
loan car.

Unfortunately,
she wanted to add.

The microwave beeped and she fetched
her plate, which hissed and steamed. Alan watched her eat. She wished he wouldnt.

Like it?

Not bad.

I waited, but got hungry, he said
innocently, and she reckoned that she was supposed to see him, in her minds
eye, as boyish, vulnerable and uncomplicated again, the lad she married. She
ate. She was ravenous.

Saw the news. Still working the
McQuarrie murder?

Yes.

Any contenders?

A few.

So no time off in the near future?

No.

I thought, he said, that we could
go up to town, spend a night in the Windsor, catch up with Larrayne.

In and of itself, this sounded like
a pretty nice idea to Ellen, but her instincts told her that Alan was proposing
it because he wanted to keep her away from Challis and remind her that she had
family responsibilities.
Wifely
responsibilities. And because he didnt
know her, or know her any more, he thought a romantic gesture would deflect
her.

Impossible at the moment, she
said, draining her wine.

Youre owed time off for yesterday.
Ive got Friday off.

Alan, were in the middle of a
major inquiry.

You and Challis.

And the others, several others.

He held up his hands placatingly. I
just want you to look after yourself, thats allnot run yourself ragged.

Yeah, right, Ellen thought.

I mean, did you really have to rush
off early this morning to pick up his highness? Why didnt he call for a taxi?
Instead, you have to detour all that way and pick him up. Where does he live
again?

Ellen told him without thinking,
then checked herself and eyed him closely. But her husband was a plausible man,
a good actor, and was absentmindedly flicking through the cane basket of
household accounts. God knew what fresh hell hed find there. She poured
herself wine that she didnt really want but which would occupy her hands and
mouth for a while.

* * * *

32

They
formed three teams and early on Thursday morning hit the surgeon, the
accountant and the funds manager. Six oclock, no dawn light leaking into the
sky yet, houses slumbering or only just stirring; an hour when heads are
unclear and lips loose.

Challis and Ellen heard later from
Scobie Sutton and the Mornington detectives that the surgeon and the funds
manager had displayed plenty of genuine shock, dismay and outrage, so it was
clear they hadnt been tipped off by Robert McQuarrie. After the outrage had
come shame and fear. They asked to be understood; they asked that their wives
be spared the truth. The surgeon had attended the sex parties with his sister-in-law,
the funds manager with his secretary. Their alibis were solid, and they
confirmed that yes, theyd received photos of themselves in the post on Monday:
no accompanying note, but, like Robert McQuarrie, theyd assumed someone at the
Progress
had sent the photographs and were fearful of blackmail and
media exposure.

The accountant was a different
kettle of fish, nothing like Robert McQuarrie, the surgeon or the funds
manager. His name was Hayden Coulter and he lived alone in a rammed-earth loft
house on a slope above Penzance Beach. The driveway was narrow and the turning
circle awkward, so Challis did what he always did in unfamiliar places and
unknown circumstancesparked the car so that it faced the road and allowed him
and Ellen an unimpeded escape route.

Coulter greeted them at the door
wearing a shirt and tie, trousers and carpet slippers. His face was clean and
tight from the razor and there were comb tracks in his shower-wet hair. About
forty, Challis guessed, and used to playing his cards close to his chest. He
regarded them expressionlessly, invited them in out of the cold.

They followed him through to the
kitchen, into the odours of fresh coffee and toast.

Can I get you something?

Ellen glanced at Challis and
answered for both of them. Coffee, please.

Pull up a pew.

Coulter poured the coffee and sat
across the table from them, precise, contained, watchful, his grey eyes clear
and untroubled. He said nothing and betrayed no curiosity or apprehension. Hell
wait us out, Challis thought, sliding a photograph across the table.

Is this you, Mr Coulter?

Yes.

What can you tell us about it?

Im having sex with a woman, on a
bed, being watched by other men and women.

Did you receive a copy of this
photograph in the mail on Monday?

Yes.

What did you make of that?

I made nothing of it. I have
nothing to hide. I cannot and will not be blackmailed.

You received a blackmail demand?

No.

Then how do you know its
blackmail?

I assume that Im being softened up
for blackmail, Coulter said, blowing across the steaming surface of his
coffee.

You say you cant and wont be
blackmailed, Ellen said. Is that bravado?

I cant and wont be blackmailed
because I simply dont care enough, Coulter said. So what that I go to sex
parties? I have no family who would be shamed if word got out, and my clients
certainly wouldnt care. I represent interests in the horse-racing industry and
my reputation with them rests solely on my ability to make and save them
moneywhich I do very successfully.

Challis disliked the mans coldness
and vanity. Did you build this house yourself? he asked, noting Coulters
work-hardened hands, incongruous against the soft, costly fabric of his shirt.

I did.

Impressive.

Coulter said nothing, aiming for a
prohibitive silence.

Ellen drained her coffee. Have you
any idea who sent you the photographs?

Janine McQuarrie. Thats why youre
here, isnt it? You think I killed her?

Did you?

Coulter looked bored. Why? What
would be the point?

She threatened your reputation.

Perhaps you werent listening: I
dont care about my reputation.

The photosor Janine herselfwere a
threat in other ways.

Ive never met the woman.

She was murdered not far from here,
Challis said. Was she coming to see you?

No. I wasnt here anyway, but in my
office in Mornington and needless to say I can prove it. But perhaps she was on
her way here with more photographs.

It occurred to Challis then that if
Janine was murdered because shed attempted to blackmail someone, wouldnt that
someone want to search her home and office for all copies of the photographs?
Yet neither place had been broken into. On the other hand, Robert presumably
had access to the keys.

As if reading his thoughts, Coulter
said, Did she have copies with her when she was shot?

Never let them ask the questions. How
did you know that Janine McQuarrie took your photograph?

I saw her do it.

With what?

Her mobile phone. Look, I go to
these sex parties to look at faces and responses. Everyone else watches the
sex. I saw her, I saw what she was doing. It amused methough I was surprised
to get photos in the mail. I assumed she was taking photos to meet some kind of
basic and boring erotic need.

Did anyone else see her? Ellen
asked. Challis could see tension in her jaw, meaning that she loathed Coulter.

Possibly, but thats your job, isnt
it? I can just see it: the police going in heavy-handed, knocking on forty or
fifty doors, throwing a scare into people who until then thought their grubby
secret lives were safe from scrutiny, and theyre all going to deny knowing
anything about Janine McQuarrie and her pathetic photographs.

Youre the one whos pathetic,
Ellen said.

Coulter grinned to know that hed
goaded her and Challis saw at last, behind the cool faade, an empty man.

Mr Coulter, you say your clients
are in the horse-racing industry.

Yes, and I daresay some of them are
dishonest, and a handful know the type of men who will shoot someone dead for a
few thousand bucks.

Do you know such men?

If I do, they havent announced
themselves to me.

Do you hear whispers?

Ive heard whispers all my life. Am
I going to inform? No?

But you might know who to go to if
you wanted someone shot dead? .

I might, but I dont. I dont care
enough about anything to want anyone dead. I cant raise the emotional heat.
Theres nothing I want to preserve, no gain I want to make. The woman could
have published my photo on the net, for all I care. Now if thats all, I have
an appointment at a stable in Mornington in thirty minutes.

Early, Challis observed.

Horse-racing people are early
people, Coulter said.

Thats how its going to be between
us, Challis thought. No confession or clear signs of guilt. Just a hard slog
through Coulters past and present.

* * * *

33

Robert
McQuarrie and the other men had identified the settings of Janine McQuarries
photographs as two bedrooms in a house in the old part of Mornington, where
solid dwellings sat on leafy streets a short walk away from the park, the
beaches and Main Street. Ellen drove, slowing at one point to indicate a
low-slung modern building that had gone to seed: drifts of paper and cellophane
caught in the fence, untended grass, peeling paint, playground equipment
growing a patina of rust and mould. That was a heartbreaker, she said.

She didnt need to explain. A
childcare centre; allegations of sexual abuse against the husband and wife who
ran the place; no charges laid after a fruitless investigation. But the case
remained open.

And a hundred metres further on we
have the Wavells and their wholesome sex parties, she continued.

Anton and Laura Wavell, aged in
their early forties, and both at home at 8.45 on a Thursday morning. We work
from home, Anton explained, showing them into the sitting room. He was a thin,
gingery, nondescript man with long pale fingers that fluttered from his belt to
his mouth to his neck.

We offer IT support, Laura
explained. System upgrades, data recovery, website design, virus eradication.
So, if you ever have any problems...

Shes drumming up business, Challis
thought, even as she suspects why were here. He eyed the Wavells. Hed stopped
being surprised by the resemblances that husbands and wives developed to each
other: like her husband, Laura Wavell was gingery. She sported rampant freckles
on a broad face, and coarse red hair tamed by large clips.

Would you like to see? she asked,
indicating a closed door at the end of the room.

There was something desperate about
the question, as though Challis and Ellen might think better of the Wavells if
shown a room devoted to cutting-edge technology and evidence of plain, everyday
hard work. In Challiss experience, guilt was never very far from the surface
when it came to the sexual proclivities of ordinary people. Only hardened
paedophiles never showed a conscience or remorse. The Wavells were probably
close to protesting sulkily and fearfully that they were only helping others
have a bit of fun. Challis had no moral opinion one way or the other about the
sex parties: he didnt care what the participants did; he only cared when
someone stopped playing the game.

Another time, he said, and sat in
a pillowy sofa, obliging the others to sit. There was a plasma widescreen TV in
one corner of the room, a small bar, a scatter of Ikea easychairs, bright rugs
and cushions, track lighting on the walls and ceiling. With the wintry sun
picking up dust motes and finger smears, the room held a less than tepid erotic
charge. He distributed Janine McQuarries photographs over the surface of a
coffee table that had been constructed from recycled floorboards in the form of
a low, wide box with a pair of shallow push-pull drawers. These were taken in
two of your bedrooms last Saturday night.

For some time there was silence.
Antons hands were busy and he swallowed; Laura straightened her back, slanted
her knees to one side, and folded her hands in her narrow lap.

We did nothing wrong, she said.

We certainly didnt take these photos,
Anton said. Search the place if you like. No hidden cameras.

Cameras are strictly forbidden.

Against etiquette.

Oh, etiquette, Ellen said, and
Challis saw something dangerous in her face and voice. Ellen in full flight
could be something to see. It even produced results from time to time.

We have standards, Anton said.

Standards, said Ellen flatly.