Challis - 04 - Chain of Evidence (10 page)

It was just a car.

A car? I thought you said it was a
van?

The womans face crumpled. Car,
van, I dont really know much about that kind of thing. My husbands the driver
in the family.

Lets see, said Pam, glancing up
and down the street. Was it the shape of that silver vehicle over there?

A bulky four-wheel-drive. Not
really.

Like that blue one?

An old Nissan sedan. Now that I
think about it Im sure it wasnt small like that or have a lot of windows and
big wheels like that silver one. More of a boxier shape.

A van or a panel van, thought Pam. Colour?

Oh, now, white, I think.

And what time did you see this
vehicle?

After school.

Yes, but three-fifteen,
three-thirty, quarter to four?

Before four, anyway.

And were not talking about
separate things here, youre saying the vehicle and the girl who waved at you
are part of the same incident?

I think so, said Sharon Elliott.

Pam made a note.

She might have been saying Help me,
said Sharon Elliott into the pause.

As Sergeant Destry had mentioned at
last nights briefing, witnesses often save the best till last. And not because
theyre artful or mischievous, either. Help me?

I can see her mouth saying it.

We may need to speak to you again,
Mrs Elliott.

Glad to help.

* * * *

12

At
five that afternoon, Tank and the team finished the grid search of Myers
Reserve. Tank showered and changed in the station locker room, and then slipped
away to the car park behind KFC, where the producer of Evening Update slipped
him an envelope containing $500. Tank had hoped for more than $500 but the Evening
Update producerbearded guy, lots of white teeth and a hint of makeup
reckoned there would be more dosh down the track, depending on the quality of
the information that Tank could pass on. Tank put it into perspective: $500 was
a years registration on his new car. The cash was burning a hole in his
pocket, though, Saturday night, Waterloo Show, the district humming. Too bad he
was on duty. Could have been having a glass of suds with his mates.

He went home and crashed for a
couple of hours. At eight oclock he returned to the station, yawning his head
off, and logged on for his solo patrol.

The long night unspooled. First up
was a radio call: would he respond to an agitated citizen, 245 Bream Street,
whod phoned in a complaint, not making much sense. Bream Streetplenty of marine
names in Waterloo, owing to the fishing industry in Westernport Bayhugged the
mangrove flats and was one of the main routes into the foreshore area, where
the Ferris wheel revolved prettily and overweight families gorged on popcorn
and fairy floss. John Tankard was overweight, too, but despised it in the
common herd. He pulled up outside number 245, a featureless brick veneer from
the 1950s. Just down the road from it was a police presence, plenty of lights
and traffic cones glowing in the dark: a booze bus and a roadworthy checking
station. We cops can be pricks sometimes, Tank thought, grinning. The local
citizenry out for a good time at the Show, and bang, theyre breathalysed and a
roadworthy infringement notice is stuck onto the windscreen of the family rust
bucket. He knocked on the door of245.

Who are you?

Constable Tankard, ma am. You
called the station?

I cant go out.

She was about sixty, fierce and
aggrieved on the other side of her screen door. Sorry? said Tank.

She came out and pointed. Look.

He followed her finger, which was
quivering at the booze bus and the constables flitting about in the misty
evening light. What?

Dont say what. Where are your
manners? Why do they have to set up so close?

He understood finally. Have you
been drinking, madam? he asked, trying hard to keep the grin out of his voice.

How dare you. Im teetotal.

Then you have nothing to worry
about from a breath test.

My car, the woman said.

There was a new Corolla in the
driveway. Are you sure its unroadworthy? Looks new to me.

Not fair, sulked the woman.

Tank pushed back his uniform cap. Tyres?

Thats a new car. Its not fair.

You have nothing to worry about.

But I love to drive down to the
Show. Too far for me to walk.

Then drive, said Tank irritably.

But theyll make me unroadworthy.

John Tankard made the necessary leap
and nodded slowly. Its not their job to
make
you drunk or
unroadworthy. If youre neither then theyll let you through.

She was sceptical. What if theres
a quota?

Doesnt happen, said Tank
emphatically. He cocked his head. I think thats my car radio. Sounds urgent.

He peeled out of Bream Street,
reporting to base that hed resolved the matter. On through the night he
roamed, a lone ranger and liking it, issuing warnings, taking in the occasional
abusive drunk or cokehead. He always checked them for concealed weapons or
drugs before bundling them into the divisional van, always checked the cage for
discarded drugs afterwards. At one point he answered a call to Blockbuster
Video and nabbed a guy well known to the Waterloo police for a string of
offences proven and suspected. The guy had four new-release DVDs stuck inside
his underdaks, and, enjoying himself hugely, began admitting to all kinds of
shitrape, assault, burglary before Tank could read him his rights. Tank knew
how it would go: once in the interview room and cautioned, hed clam up, not
even admit to his name or even to being in a police station.

And Joe Public thinks were corrupt
or incompetent? Fuck Joe Public.

Finally there were the pull-overs.
Typically you had kids in a lowered or hotted up Falcon or Holden, driving
erratically, going too fast, not wearing seatbelts, music too loud, tossing a
can or a butt out on the street, busted tail light, etcetera, etcetera. Some of
the Waterloo police cars were fitted with an MDT, a moving data terminal,
meaning you could get a rapid readout of a vehicle owners address, licence
status and criminal history, but Tanks divvy van was your basic model, cracked
and faded plastics, stained upholstery and an odour suggestive of takeaway
food, sweat and poor digestion, and so he was supposed to radio in the
registration details and wait for a response before approaching a driver. But radio
traffic was heavy that night, so he compromised, radioing in the registration
request and approaching the driver
before
the answer came back. He
usually had an answer in less than four minutes.

There was always plenty of movement
in a pulled-over vehicle. It was as if the occupants were in a dark street,
fucking in the back seat, but when it was a pull-over you could be sure they
were getting rid of evidence, tucking joints, speed or ecstasy under the seat
cushions. Or pulling out a weapon. John Tankard always had butterflies in his
stomach, waiting for that to happen. Thats why you approached from the rear,
your hand on the butt of your .38. You didnt want to see a back window winding
down. You didnt want a door opening. You didnt want a driver getting out.

And then, at about 1 amthe
Showgrounds, the video joint and the restaurants long since closed, little kids
and their mums and dads tucked up in their beds, High Street deserted, just an
occasional bleary car making its way homewardsJohn Tankard took a last call
from the dispatcher: unknown suspects had been seen climbing over a back fence,
not on Seaview Park estate itself but one of the leafy crescents across the
road from the estate, there where the outskirts of Waterloo faced farmland, there
where no streetlights burned. Rain clouds had built up, shredding the moon;
shards of glass glittered in the roadside grasses; the wind came in low from
the distant mudflats. A road junction, broad, dark, and empty but for a black
WRX idling on the verge, brake lights hard and red in the night. Tank could see
the little Subaru throbbing. It was a popular car with your boy racers and drug
dealers. He pulled in hard behind it, called in the plate number, and got out.
He could smell the sea, and the Subarus exhaust. Suddenly the driver cut the
engine and now Tank heard the moaning empty wind, a ticking engine block, the
faint static of the radio in the van far behind him as he approached the car,
static speaking no doubt of crimes and misery in far-off corners of the lonely
stretches of the night.

He reached the rear passenger door,
leaned forward and tapped on the drivers window, straightened again. The
window whined down a crack. Your licence and registration papers, please, sir,
said Tank.

Why?

A hoons voice, pumped up, sour and
uncooperative. Why? repeated Tank. He could think of a million reasons why.
Because youre out here in the middle of nowhere. Because youre a young
dickhead yet you can afford this car. Because Pam Murphy gets to be a detective
and Im stuck driving a stinking divvy van. Because causing people grief is
about the only thing that makes me feel better. He didnt hear the other car
until it was too late.

The tyres alerted him, gently
crunching the gravel at the side of the road. He swung around: a silver
Mercedes, not new, running only on sidelights, came purring in from the
intersecting road. Lowered, alloy wheels, smoky glass all around. It stopped
and waited, and then Tank wasnt surprised when all of the doors opened. He began
to back away from the Subaru. He backed right up to the divvy van and sped away
from there, trying to swallow. Sometimes there was weird shit going on at night
and he was better off out of it.

The dispatchers voice cut in then. The
registered owner of the Subaru is a Trent Jarrett of Seaview Park estate.

Tell me something I dont know,
muttered Tank.

And the guy driving the Merc had
been the killer, Nick Jarrett.

John Tankard went home and didnt
sleep.

* * * *

13

One
thousand kilometres northwest of Waterloo, Hal Challis had spent a long
Saturday caring for his father. He felt inadequate to the task. At the same
time, he couldnt concentrate fully. Being home again had put him into a
dreamlike state, brought on by old familiar objectslike his mothers jacket.

It was heavy cotton, faded navy,
with a cracked leather collar, still hanging on a peg by the back door, and, in
his minds eye, Challis could see his mother on one of her solitary rambles. Hed
quite forgotten that she liked to do that, yet she had always done it, right
through his childhood and adolescence. Hed taken it for granted back then. It
had simply been his mother out walking. Now he wondered if it had signified
more than that. Shed been a big-city girl. Had she been lonely out here? Had
she yearned for more? People had always said that Challis resembled herolive
colouring, dark hair, narrow facebut had they also meant character? His mother
tended to be silent, watchful and withholding. Shed tolerated Gavin for Megs
sake. Shed adored Eve. She hadnt judged or prodded Challis. Shed stood up to
the old mans nonsense. The coat brought a lump to his throat.

To throw off the dreaminess, he
began to make notes about his brother-in-law. Gavin Hurst had suffered extreme
mood swings in the months leading up to his disappearance. Hed become
paranoid, argumentative, suspicious and belligerent. RSPCA regional
headquarters had received dozens of complaints. Then his car had been found
abandoned in dry country several kilometres east of the Bluff. Suicide, that
was the general verdict, but, four months later, Meg had begun to receive
unusual mail.
National Geographic
arrived, followed by an invoice for
the subscription. She complained, and was faxed the subscription form, filled out
in her name. An Internet service provider sent her a free modem, part of the
two-year package deal shed signed for. She received catalogues, mail-order
goods, book club samples, and applications for life insurance policies naming
her husband as beneficiary. Challis had to ask himself: Was Meg capable of
setting something like this upmaybe with the old mans help? Or had Gavin
staged his disappearance, then begun to taunt her out of malice?

He was relieved when Meg arrived, as
arranged, to cook dinner. You dont have to do this, you know, he told her.

She was already clattering about in
the kitchen. I know.

Eve couldnt come?

Give the girl a break. Its
Saturday night. Shes going out with some of her friends.

Challis helped. Soon a stir-fry of
onions, garlic, ginger, soy sauce and strips of chicken was hissing and
crackling in a wok. I didnt know Mum had a wok.

There are a lot of things you didnt
know about Mum.

Ouch.

Meg looked mortified and touched his
forearm. I didnt mean to sound so harsh.

Probably deserved, Challis said.
Meg had carried the burden of the last couple of years. Shed been closer to
their parents in all respects, yet the family dynamics had always demonstrated,
very faintly, the sense that he was the favoured one, the first-born.