Challis - 03 - Snapshot (38 page)

* * * *

59

On
Monday Challis drove to the city, reaching the Institute by one oclock. A
chilly wind was blowing in off the bay, and he felt it accompany him into the
Institute s viewing room, a small, glassed-in space that overlooked a huge
laboratory. It was an eight-bay lab, and handled all types of reportable
deaths: suicides, accidents, drug overdoses, and murders. Natural light flooded
down from windows high above the dissecting tables, giving a false impression
of warmth.

Freya and the Institute technicians
worked in blue hospital pyjamas, green surgical gowns, and white rubber boots
and disposable aprons. They worked cheerfully and efficiently. They were
jokers, like cops and ambulance officers, but the humour was less black and
self-protectiveprobably because theyre around bodies every day, Challis
thought, bodies in all kinds of extremes. Not even homicide cops were faced
with that. He watched as the clothing was removed from the Myers Reserve
corpse, vegetable matter sponged away from the body, the scalp peeled back to
admit access to the bone saw, and the chest cavity cut open in a Y incision.
Organs were removed and weighed; the clothing was searched; a molecular
biologist took DNA samples; a toxicologist endeavoured to find useable liver
tissue, eye fluid, and bile, blood and urine samples. Finally a dental record
was made as a potential aid to identifying the dead man, before the body cavity
was packed and the various incisions deftly sealed with sturdy thread and a
curved needle.

There were still forms to fill in,
and Freya took Challis into her office, where she spoke as she ticked,
scribbled and signed. Hed sat with her like this many times before. Its not
that he thought her job macabre, her pleasant, cool professionalism jarring,
but he was nevertheless always pleased to note the little vanities in her life,
such as her dangly earrings and beautiful Mont Blanc fountain pen.

You can still get ink for that?

Oh yes.

Finally she capped the pen and sat
back in her chair. So, there you have it. Until the tests come in I cant be
positive about time of death. Our man had all of his teethapart from one that
was probably knocked out, for theres some damage to the gumindicating that he
was young rather than middle aged. A cross-sectional analysis of his teeth
should give us his age, plus or minus one year. Furthermore, his skull hadnt
quite knitted fully, another indication that hes youngbut not a teenager,
more probably early twenties. I cant be accurate about his height, owing to
cartilage contraction and some decay of the soles of his feet, but he was
medium height, a little under six feet in the old imperial measurement. The
absence of maggot cocoons indicates that he was buried soon after death. Finally,
hed been shot in the heart.

Leaving the best bit till last,
Challis said.

Make em laugh, make em cry, make em
wait, Freya Berg said, and Challis watched her appreciatively. In the centre
of the chest, here, she went on, placing her hand between her breasts. I
found the bullet and its been sent to ballistics for analysis. At first glance
they said it was a 9mm.

Challis nodded. An intact bullet,
with distinctive markings, could always be matched to the pistol that fired it.
Nothing else?

No other cause of death that I can
see. Toxicology might reveal hed also been poisoned, but Im pretty certain it
was the shot that killed him.

Personal possessions?

This cash register receipt.

Challis examined it. Nothing to indicate
the shop or service; only the datetwo days before Janine McQuarrie was
murderedand the amount, $2.95. A ham sandwich from a milk bar? A blank video
from a bargain shop? It was a fruitless lead.

That leaves us with his missing
finger, Challis said.

Ring finger of his right hand, to
be exact, Freya said. As I suspected yesterday, it didnt happen recently,
but some time after adolescence. And it was torn rather than cut off cleanly.
Some kind of accident? Explosion? Caught in machinery? I cant be more certain
than that.

Its something to go on, Challis
said. It ties in with a witness account in another crime. And the dead girl?

Freya shook her head sadly. Drowned.
She might have lived if someone had pulled her out of the water sooner.

* * * *

Drowned?

In far north Queensland a couple of
days later, Andy Asche was reading the
Age
online. He concealed a sob
and read the item again. Drowned. Thats what it said.

He stumbled out into what passed for
a winters day in the tropics. Sure, Nat had probably been concealed by reeds
and scummy water, but the cops couldnt have been looking very hard. He blinked
his eyes. He shouldnt have run. He should have stayed behind and pulled her
out onto the grass. But would he have been in time to save her life? He
pictured it, her body cold, wet, floppy, heavy. He shouldnt have abandoned
her.

Then he tried to tell himself that
it wasnt his fault. Anyone would have assumed shed escaped, run off in a
different direction.

Drowned.

If he hadnt run he could have saved her.

* * * *

Vyner
had also read the papers, and seen the news on TV. Shallow grave, they went
on and on about a shallow grave. Yeah, well, he defied anyone to have dug a
deep
grave in that reserve. Sure, the soil had been soft, but it was also interlaced
with roots.

Then came an SMS: if Vyner wanted
his fifteen grand, he had to pull another job for free.

Vyner fumed. It was a no-brainer,
but he fumed.

* * * *

That
same day Challis received confirmation from dental records that the buried man
was Nathan Gent, and that evening he took Ellen with him to confront Robert
McQuarrie. They didnt get further than the front doorstep.

Did your wife ever treat a man
named Nathan Gent?

No flicker in McQuarries soft,
sulky face. I have no idea.

Young, shaved head, missing a
finger on his right hand.

A look of distaste. She treated
people from all walks of life, including riffraff

Perhaps you befriended this man.

What are you implying? That I hired
him to kill Janine?

Did you?

No, now leave. Im not going to say
it again, if you want to interrogate me, my lawyer has to be present. Can I get
that through your thick skulls?

* * * *

Meanwhile
Scobie Sutton was chatting quietly with his wife, Beth slicing onions and
occasionally sniffing and blinking, her hands still then slicing rapidly again.
She was often teary these days, but he didnt know if it was the onions this
time or distress over her job. What did you do today?

She had thrown herself into
volunteer work for their church, and he was hoping that this would keep her
from falling into depression or something.

I went to see Heather Cobb, she
said, still slicing.

Did you? I called on her this
morning.

Beth put down her knife and turned
to him with the baffled smile shed often worn when dealing with people from
the local housing estates. Scobie, you wonder how their minds work sometimes.
Heather knows were married, but she didnt say a word about your visit. I
mean, normal people in those circumstances would have mentioned it.

This was a subject that Beth and
Scobie could get passionate about. Peoples bad manners, careless manners,
sheer indifference and ignorance and lack of social graces.

Just then Roslyn tiptoed in and
placed a sheet of paper at Scobies elbow.
Please can I watch the Simpsons
yes or no?
With a rush of love he kissed her and ticked the yes
box. Roslyn scurried away.

Beth turned around and saw his dopey
love. What?

Nothing.

The front door buzzer sounded.
Scobie said, Ill get it, and found two figures standing there, hunched
miserably against the cold.

He showed up at footy training, John
Tankard said.

Scobie nodded. Hello, Andy. How was
Queensland?

Andy Asches jaw dropped. How did
you know?

Im a detective, remember?

I couldnt stand it, Mr Sutton, I
had to come back. I thought my head was going to explode.

Theres no rush, Scobie said. Come
in and get warm.

* * * *

60

On
Thursday John Tankard said, This is a bullshit gig.

So you keep saying.

Pam concentrated on the road ahead,
trying to ignore Tank, who was heaving about in the passenger seat, fooling
with the seat adjustments, trying to find room for his heavy legs.

Piece of Japanese shit.

Actually, it wasnt. Pam had come to
appreciate the virtues of the little sports car. It was riding with John
Tankard that spoilt the experience. But she was feeling pretty good now,
training for the triathlon again, no disciplinary action hanging over her head.

Tank should count his blessings. He
was off the hook too.

Coolart Road, a 90 kmh zone, several
roundabouts, deceptive undulations here and there. She was sitting on 90, the
rest of the traffic on 100 or more, and that was frustrating. Still, their job
was to find courteous drivers, and they werent armed with speed cameras.

She skirted Somerville, crossed
Eramosa Road, for the T-junction at the Frankston end of Coolart Road. Beside
her John Tankard sighed heavily and she said, Spit it out, Tank, whats the
matter?

Andy Asche turned up last night,
he said. Poor guy.

Killed a woman riding her horse,
killed the horse, left his girlfriend behind to die. Yeah, poor guy.

Tank stirred and scowled. Hes not
a nasty piece of work, not like some weve dealt with over the years. Good
footballer. A real waste of talent.

So youre saying he should be
forgiven because hes a good footballer, Pam said flatly.

Being sports mad herself, she hadnt
come quickly or easily to the realisation that the system regularly allowed
young footballers and cricketers to escape rape and sexual assault charges.
When policemen, lawyers, judges and millionaire club presidents went dewy-eyed
over sporting heroes, what chance did complainants stand?especially when the
wider community, men and women alike, shrugged the issue away with the words She
was asking for it. And heaven help you if you caused the accidental death of a
sportsman. In the great outpouring of grief and rage that followed, youd be
hounded by the police and demonised by the media.

Footballers can do no wrong, is
that it, Tank?

Im not saying that. Im saying its
a real waste, thats all. He paused. Sometimes his chick was there.

Watching him as he trained?

Yeah. Poor kid.

The new, softer John Tankard. Pam
braked gently for the car ahead, which in turn had braked for the red
Mitsubishi ahead of it. All three came to a complete stop, allowing a huge semi
loaded with pine vineyard posts to reverse into a narrow gateway. Clearly the
driver had been waiting some time for an opportunity to complete the manoeuvre,
but the traffic had been heavy, impatient, not prepared to give him a break. It
was a rare good deed, and Pam followed the traffic right at the intersection
and then left over the railway line. By now the Mitsubishi was directly ahead
of them.