Challis - 03 - Snapshot (25 page)

What do you reckon? she asked
Tankard. We havent been exactly overwhelmed with courteous drivers this week.
Give the guy a showbag?

Tankard was rubbing his knee,
releasing a powerful odour of athletes liniment. Hed injured himself coaching
football, and seemed obsessed with it. What? Didnt see it.

The old Tankard, whod liked to
brush against her breasts and comment on the up-lift qualities of her bras, was
almost better than this defeated slug. Wake up, Tank, youve got the rest of
your life ahead of you, Pam said, reaching across and gently tugging on the
steering wheel.

Dont get you knickers in a knot,
he said, flicking the turning indicator and steering into the carpark.

Pull up beside that van, Pam said,
pointing to where the Toyota had parked outside the caravan owned by the
community FM radio station. The other buildings housed a showbiz museum, craft
shops, a restaurant and a cafe. The driver was opening his door when Pams
passenger door slid into view beside him. A young guy, clean cut, wearing
sunglasses, and barely out of school, Pam thought, quickly sizing him up, and
she reflected that it was almost comical the way everyones first reaction to
meeting the police was apprehension, tinged with panic and resignation, as if
theyd all broken the law and the police had caught up with them at last.

Excuse me, sir, she said, winding
down her window.

And the young guy slammed his door,
gunned the engine and reversed with a raw squeal of tyres, shooting out of the
carpark onto Eramosa Road. Jesus! Tankard said, and then as Pam glanced
inquiringly at him, he looked at his hands, which were beginning to tremble.
She knew it: the slightest pressure and he would crumble. She didnt trust him
in a high-speed pursuit, and screamed Swap places! at him as she leapt from
the car and hurried around to the drivers door and practically dragged him out
from behind the wheel. She was already reversing as he hopped and skipped to
get into the passenger seat.

The Toyota van had not entered the
highway, where it could be tracked easily by helicopter, chased by pursuit cars
or stopped by roadblocks, but had headed back towards farmland. Pam followed,
now almost twenty seconds behind. A moment later, the van turned right onto a
narrow sealed road that ran between flat, sodden paddocks and was lined by
trees and bracken. She followed for three kilometres, the van reaching speeds
of 120 kmh and snaking a little, the smaller sports car skittish and volatile
on the uneven surface.

Tankard slammed his meaty hand on
the dashboard. Youll never catch the prick if you drive like a girl.

What a time for the old Tankard to
show himself. Pam steered grimly, telling herself to ignore him and do this by
the book. She ordered him to call it in: make, colour and registration number
of the van, current position, direction, road conditions and other factors.

The radio dispatchers voice was
calm and unhurried. That vehicle was reported stolen yesterday. Description of
the driver?

Tankard looked to Pam, who muttered,
Young male, late teens or early twenties, short dark hair, sunglasses, jeans
and black football jumper.

Tankard relayed the information. He
glanced inquiringly at Pam again when the dispatcher asked, Passengers?

She shrugged.

Unconfirmed at this stage, Tankard
said.

Im sending pursuit cars to take
over the chase, the dispatcher said. Maintain visual contact of the suspect
vehicle but dont spook him. You know the drill.

Easier said than done, Pam
muttered. She wanted to catch the driver of the van, but didnt want to be the
target of an internal witch hunt, senior police displeased by another
High
Speed Police Pursuit Ends in Fatality
story on the six oclock news.

The Toyota shot through the
intersection in the little settlement of Moorooduc, barely missing an LPG
tanker, and Tankard radioed in that the van was driving riskily, at high speed.
Request intercept cars from Waterloo and Mornington, he said.

Maintain position and report, the
dispatcher replied, as if ignoring him. Do not chase.

The van was winding up to at least
130 kmh as it left the primary school and fire station behind. Pam followed,
passing between open paddocks and a market garden. Around a bend, into a fold
in the landscape, past vineyards, cattle standing in muddy grass, a conference
retreat behind a stand of poplars. Kilometre after kilometre, with no sign of a
helicopter, let alone other police vehicles. Were alone, Tank.

He grunted, Why dont we just head
the prick off?

The Toyota seemed to be taking them
in a wide skirting path, gradually heading southwest around Waterloo, which was
several kilometres to their left. The grey rain was lifting; a weak, lowering
sun lit the world of the empty backroads and slanted into Pams eyes.

Whats that on the road? Tankard
said, pointing ahead.

She steered deftly around a deep
pothole and a tangle of blackened pipes beyond it. Hes torn off his exhaust
system.

Tankard shook his head. What the
fucks keeping the others? They should have headed him off by now. Go on, put
your foot down.

Pam bit her lip. The driver of the
van had eased back on the accelerator, she was managing to keep him in sight,
and that was all that was required of her officially. But she badly wanted to
catch the guy. Shed driven pursuit cars at her last station; she had the
training and the experience to chase the van rather than simply shadow it. But
there were other police vehicles in the area: she could hear them trying to
find the van from other directions. The post office says I live in Bittern,
one pursuit driver was saying, the shire says I live in Balnarring, the
Electoral Commission says its Merricks North, and they expect me to know where
I am?

Strict radio procedure, please,
the dispatcher said.

Stolen van, Tankard muttered. Thats
why the guy ran.

Did you get a good look at him?

Didnt see him at all, Tankard
said, and in a fit of rage thumped the back of his fist against the removable
hardtop of the Mazda. Cant see a fucking thing out of this sardine can. Then:
Oh, Jesus, he said, his voice choking.

Pam saw it, too. A woman on
horseback, the speeding van, the narrowness of the tree-lined road. The woman
pulled back on the reins, trying to coax her horse onto a grassy gap between
the trees, but the horse was spooked by the eruption of speed and noisy exhaust
behind it. The Toyota clipped horse and rider and fishtailed, brake lights
flaring too late, and shot between trees and through a wire fence. It could not
sustain the high speed, the terrain or the shift in direction, and a hundred
metres in from the fence it began to roll, then flipped onto its roof. Pam
stopped, but whether for the horse, the rider or to give chase to the driver,
now climbing from the overturned van, she couldnt say.

* * * *

38

Still
feeling a tug in the pit of her belly, Ellen watched Challis drive away. She
wished she could accompany him, help him face the super, but knew that was
impossible. She shook herself and went to greet the crime-scene technicians.

For the next hour she supervised
their search for prints, and then directed them to the tyre marks in Challiss
front lawn, watching them spray a fixing solution onto the muddy impressions
first, before pouring the plaster.

I need to know if these match
tracks found at other local burglaries, she said.

Were on it, Sarge.

Shed only just got back to the
incident room when her mobile rang.

Sarge? Its Pam Murphy.

Hi. Whats up?

Something about a crashed Toyota
van, full of expensive gear, the driver legging it into a belt of trees. I
remembered that you and Scobie Sutton had been working on a series of
burglaries.

Did you indeed, Ellen thought. In
anyone else the explanation would have seemed fawning, but Pam Murphy had a
good memory and the habit of making connections. Shed make a good detective.

Are you sure the gear is stolen?

Well, the driver did a runner, and
theres too much stuff: TV, DVD, digital cameras, jewellery, laptop.

Ellen tingled. Youre searching for
the driver?

Yes, Sarge.

Stay there, Im on my way.

She collected Scobie Sutton and an
unmarked car and set out for a corner of the map shed never visited before.
The Peninsula was endlessly variable, and here was the Devilbend Reservoir and
remote houses set back from a winding dirt road.

Its not as if shes new, said
Scobie Sutton as she drove.

Ellen guessed that he was talking
about his goddamn daughter again. Shed heard about every cut, bruise, bowel
movement, bad dream and spelling-test result. Roslyn Sutton was endlessly
fascinating to her father. For Ellen, Challis and anyone else who worked with
the man, the daughter had long become background noise. Ellen tried to pay
attention. Today it was the childs dancing classes. Irish traditional? Ellen
tried to remember. Riverdance stuff? Scottish jigs and reels? Something like
that.

Shes as good as any of the other
kids, but year after year the medals and honour certificates go to those girls
whose mothers help out with the costumes and makeup. Its not fair, and she
knows its not. She tries to be grown-up about it, but it hurts her, you can
tell. Shed like some acknowledgment, just once.

Its important, Ellen said,
thinking of her own daughter, nineteen now, sharing a house with other university
students.

I mean, Beth and I are too busy to
help out with costumes and stuff. Why should Ros be penalised for that?

Exactly.

A sudden roar and a helicopter
flashed above them, low and straight.

Just follow the chopper, Scobie
muttered.

Five minutes later they were at a
scene of carnage. Ellen swallowed, feeling sick at heart. Blood, litres of it,
had pooled dark as spilt oil across the road. A vet was administering a lethal
injection to an injured horse, and a dead woman in full horse-riding jodhpurs,
helmet and boots was being loaded into an ambulance. A wire fence had been torn
open and deep tyre gouges scored the muddy surface of a paddock of grass and
scattered apple trees, the remnants of an old orchard. Several police cars were
parked on the verge, roof lights flashing. And there was the helicopter,
hovering above an overgrown stand of trees at the far end of the paddock;
closer to, one hundred metres inside the ruined fence, was an overturned van.

And there was her husband,
questioning John Tankard, who was agitated and shaking his head. Pam Murphy
stood watching them, biting her bottom lip.

Leaving Scobie to catch up on the
details with Alan and Tankard, Ellen pulled on rubber boots and approached Pam,
touching the younger womans forearm reassuringly. Dont worry about my
husband. The accident squad has to get involved. But it was a clean chase,
right?

Yes, Sarge.

Good, then theres nothing to worry
about. Has he talked to you yet?

No.

Youll be fine. Now, show me.

They waded through wet bracken,
Ellen glancing across the paddock, which sloped gently up to the stand of
trees. Dead gums predominated, dry skeletal arms reaching above shorter, denser
pittosporums and wattles. Whats that place? she said, pointing.

Myers Reserve, Sarge.

The air was damp, laden with the
odours of nature disturbed in the process of decaying. They walked on.

Sarge, mind your feet.

They leapt over a small creek, murky
water glinting beneath reeds, and came to the overturned Toyota. The rear doors
had fallen open and Ellen peered inside. There, just as Pam had listed them,
were several items that, on first impressions, matched items listed as stolen
from Challis this morning and the Penzance Beach property yesterday. She went
around to the front of the van and crouched at the broken windscreen. Laptop.
She drew on latex gloves, reached in, and hooked it out.

Sarge?

Challiss Toshiba, complete with his
initials scratched on the lid.

Bingo.

Sarge?

This was delicate. She needed to
secure the laptop and return it to Challis; she didnt need every cop on the
Peninsula to know that his laptop, containing sensitive information, had been
stolen. At the same time, she didnt want to lie to Pam Murphy, or get her into
trouble.

Pam, Im giving you a receipt for
this, okay? If there are any questions, refer them to me.

Sarge, CIUs in charge now anyway,
you can do what you like.

Ellen nodded. This laptop was
stolen this morning. It contains sensitive material. She hoped Pam hadnt seen
the initials, or twigged that they belonged to Challis.

Sure, Sarge, whatever you say.

Good. Meanwhile we need the
crime-scene people to dust the van for prints and make casts of the tyre
tracks.

Sarge.