Challis - 05 - Blood Moon (10 page)

Challis had thought of all these
things and more, but said nothing. There was something in McQuarries manner,
if not his words, to indicate that the man wasnt being his usual autocratic,
blowhard self. He was beginning to sense that McQuarrie wanted to find a
palatable solution rather than punish or reprimand. It cant be that hes a
romantic,
Challis thought. No. Maybe hes developed a streak of humanity thoughor
vulnerability.

The super had a lot to thank Ellen
Destry for, at any rate. When Challis had been away last month, she had
uncovered a paedophile ring with links to the senior sergeant at this very
police station, a man whom McQuarrie had entrusted to be his eyes and ears.
That man was dead now, but only after murdering another policeman at Waterloo.
It was evident at the time that McQuarrie hadnt believed Ellen was up to the
job.

And he owes
me
a debt,
thought Challis. I tracked down his daughter-in-laws killer.

He wants to do the right thing by
us.

For Gods sake, Hal, is it serious?
I mean, do you intend to marry?

Challis wanted to laugh. Too soon
to say, sir.

McQuarrie shook his head and the
late afternoon sunlight angled in, picking out dust motes in the air and
streaks on the window glass. Ive been giving it some thought, Hal.

Sir, I have, too, but its all so
recent and

In the old days, one of you would
have been posted to Outer Woop-Woop. It would have been nipped in the bud.

Challis waited.

Suddenly the superintendent sprang
to his feet. Leave it with me, he said, and left the building.

* * * *

13

It
had been a long, dull Tuesday for Ellen Destry. By 4 p.m. shed finished
questioning staff and students at Landseer and was driving to the Mount Eliza
home of Zara Selkirk, the Year 11 girl whod been Lachlan Roes only
appointment the previous day. Winding roads took her to a couple of acres at
the highest point of the town, to a house and terraced grounds on a slope that
faced south along a curve of Port Phillip Bay. Here the hills folded in and
out, giving an impression of privacy to the people who could afford the land
and the views.

Ellen parked and pressed the
doorbell of a vast loft house, the roof pitched at sixty degrees, two huge
dormers above her head.

Yeah?

A girl, no more than fourteen years
old; wearing the Toorak uniform, not Landseer. Ellen introduced herself and
said, Are you Zara?

No.

But Zara lives here? Zara Selkirk?

The girl shrugged.

May I speak to her?

After a second, or a year, the girl
replied, Shes not here.

The little interrogation continued
like that. Eventually Ellen understood that the girl was Chelsea Hooper, Zaras
stepsister. Chelsea hated Zara, hated her stepmother. There were at least three
reasons for that: one, the stepmother was an evil witch; two, the stepmother
liked to fly to the snowfields of Europe and the States with Chelseas father
and leave the kids to flounder; three, the stepmother had taken Zara, but not
Chelsea, to see Delta Goodrem perform in the city last night.

We have an apartment in Southbank,
Chelsea explained.

Hating the rich, Ellen said, So
Zara and her mother stayed in your city apartment last night rather than drive
back here to Mount Eliza?

Chelsea gave the question a great
deal of thought. Yep.

When will they be back?

Chelsea shrugged.

Ellen turned to go. Behind her the
girl said, Is this about the chaplain?

Ellen faced her again, tingling. You
knew that Zara had an appointment to see him yesterday?

Yep.

Ellen tried to tread delicately
around this. Did Zara confide in you about why she wanted to see him?

Wanted?
Thats a laugh. She
had
to
see him. It was part of her punishment.

Punishment.

Like that was going to work, said
Chelsea scornfully.

* * * *

On
the other side of the Peninsula, Josh Brownlee was drunk. Hed started drinking
after that encounter in the surf shop, and hadnt stopped, except to do some
ice. That little slag, shouting about rape so everyone could hear.

Who the fuck was she? Bitch.

As soon as hed left the shop hed
ditched the chick he was with, dumped her back at her motel. A whiner. Too
clingy. The type you screw once and then cant get rid of. Fuck that. Josh
drove straight around to the beer garden of the Fiddlers Creek pub and got
steadily wasted.

The afternoon had passed hazily by
and now it was almost five oclock. Why the fuck had he come back to Waterloo,
this shit hole? Last year was different, a lot of shit happening, the Year 12
exams plus family shit, a lot to forget. Getting wasted with his mates had made
sense. They couldnt afford the Gold Coast, but Lukes dad had a holiday house
near Waterloo, which was better than nothing. Now it was like a year later, his
mates had moved on and he was no longer a schoolie. In fact, he kept getting
sideways glances from this years schoolies. What are you doing here, loser?
Did you have to repeat Year 12 at another school?

And this morning he gets called a
rapist in public.

Josh thought back to last year,
pissed the whole time, dope, ice and GHB. The sex. Thered been chicks from
Grover Hall, St Helens, Mount Eliza Girls Grammar...that skank Virginia, any
excuse to show her tits, the Virgin part of her name long redundant. Who else?
That chick. Tori Walker. Walker the Stalker, from Banbury College, fuck her and
shed fall in love with you.

It hadnt taken Josh and the guys
long to realise that it was better to hook up with the local slags, state
school desperadoes from Waterloo and Two Bays secondary, hoping to snare
themselves a rich private-school guy. Josh and his mates would do those dogs
behind some secluded sand dune, bury their knickers in the sand, piss off out
of there while they were too drunk or high to notice. Who were they going to
complain to? Theyd never seen you before, didnt know who you were or what
school you went to.

It wasnt like that this year.

Josh kept drinking, becoming
steadily blacker inside.

* * * *

John
Tankard, off duty now, was also sitting in the Fiddlers Creek beer garden. He
gazed around at the patrons, wondering if hed spot anyone hed put away, and
saw Josh Brownlee getting drunker and drunker. Schoolie prat, he thought idly.
He turned to scowl at Andy Cree. It was Crees turn to walk across to the
veranda bar and bring back a round, but the guy was still glued to his mobile
phone, checking messages, sending messages, his bony thumbs flying over the
keypad. Furthermore, he was drinking chardonnay.

Wanker.

Just then Crees senses registered
the full malign force of John Tankards scrutiny. He crooked an eyebrow. Got a
problem?

Got a thirst, Tank said.

Cree gave him the once-over and the
message was plain:
You drink too much and its made you fat.
But then he
said, Check this out, and passed Tank his mobile phone.

Still got a thirst, Tank said.

Keep your panties on, Cree said,
getting to his feet and weaving away between the metal tables.

Tank turned his attention to the guys
phone, peering at the little screen: Christ, a digital image of a schoolie
passed out on the lawn in front of the shire offices. Tank poked inexpertly at
the keys, wondering what other photos Cree had taken, and came to a Holden hed
last seen wrapped around a tree two weeks ago. Then Cree was back with their drinks,
saying in a mock, true-Aussie voice, Here you go, buddy, wrap your tonsils
around this.

Fuck you.

Not on a first date, John.

Tank knew it would be a mistake to
respond. If it came to a battle of words, Cree would win.

* * * *

Scobie
Sutton went home knowing that hed better talk to his wife about the wickedness
of Dirk and Lachlan Roe. Beth was his special love, and she was his heartache.
He knew the pain, bewilderment and sense of injustice that drove her, but didnt
know how to make her feel better.

Beth felt things too keenly, that
was the problem. Shed worked with the shires disadvantaged families and kids
for many years, and when she came home in the evenings would relate some of the
awful things shed seen or heard about, her voice low, tragic, desolate,
insinuating itself into Scobies head. Poor Ros: Mum! shed say, talk about
something happy!

And then a budget-conscious finance
manager had sacked Beth, which really pulled the rug out from under her feet.
Scobie suspected that she was deeply depressedtinged with mania. Since last
Friday shed been fired up about saving the schoolies from sex and drugs, and
had been seen at the Chillout Zone, distributing leaflets. Not from the Uniting
Churchthe Suttons churchbut the damn First Ascensionists.

Scobie was losing her, and he couldnt
bear it.

Tossing his keys into a bowl on the
little hallway table, he walked through to the kitchen and knew at once that
the house was empty, the air was so stale and unlived in. He swallowed and
searched the place anyway, sitting room, dining room, three bedrooms, carport
and weedy front and back gardens, seeing, with new eyes, the neglect, the dust,
the unwashed dishes, the unmade beds. He wanted his wife back.

Her desk was a card table in the
spare bedroom. It was a loveless room, with a single bed, bare walls and a
cheap white wardrobe. Beths crackpot leaflets were stacked neatly with other
literature on the coverlet of the bed and on the floor. The familys computer
took up most of the desk. Beside it was a manila folder containing a stack of
e-mails that Beth had printed out, and there at the very top Scobie saw the one
that Challis had practically shaken in his face that morning. There were
annotations in the margins, green ink, in Beths big, childlike hand:
My
darling husband, some important information for you to think about.

Feeling an overflowing pool of
sadness, Scobie knuckled his eyes. But crying didnt solve anything. He washed
the dishes, made the beds, compiled a shopping list. Soon it was 5.30 p.m.
Normally Roslyn was home from school by four, but shed joined the choir and
they were rehearsing for tomorrow nights school concert. She wouldnt be home
before six. That gave him time to shop and have it out with his wife.

But would Beth even listen? That was
the question.

Scobie drove to the supermarket,
quietly fracturing inside. Last night when hed kissed his daughter goodnight
shed clung to him, hadnt wanted to let go.

I have bad dreams, she said.

Hed nuzzled the crown of her head. What
about?

Someones going to let a bomb off
on my bus.

Oh, sweetheart.

He rocked her for a while, her
flannel pyjamas faintly stale, reminding him that if he didnt do the laundry
these days, it didnt get done.

Dad?

Yes?

What if you get shot?

I wont get shot, he said firmly. This
isnt America. Hardly anyone owns a gun here.

But what if you do?

He guessed what was going through
her head. She was afraid of being alone if he died. Scobie felt a little
resentful then. Hated his wife a little despite her pain and helplessness.

Dad?

Yes, sweetheart?

Youll come to the concert?

Wouldnt miss it, he said, knowing
that if this years concert was anything like last years, some eleven-year-old
guitarist was bound to play Smoke on the Water, a great song ruined forever.

Will Mum?

She wont want to miss it either,
Scobie had told his daughter, wondering if that were a lie.

He relived this and other
conversations as he wheeled a shopping trolley up and down the aisles of the
supermarket. In particular, he relived the special hell of shopping for Roslyns
concert dress last Saturday, a task that should have fallen to Beth. What did
he know about shopping for girls clothes? He was none the wiser now, knowing
only that his daughter belonged to a class of female for whom there were no
suitable clothes. At twelve years old, with tiny, tiny breasts, she was too old
for the kids section of every store they entered. Too young surely for the
truly appalling teen wear: micro skirts and tops that were mere scraps, the
flimsy fabric barely extending from bellybutton to nipple. Eventually they
bought a plain but pretty skirt and top in Myer and went home.

And another headache to look forward
to: How was he supposed to help Roslyn with her first period?

He wheeled his shopping to the car,
raised the tailgate, stowed it away. Then a kid was there, about Roslyns age
but years older in all other respects. A nuggetty kid from one of the estates.
Full of nerve. Finished, mister?

You want to return my trolley and
claim my hard-earned money from the coin slot, said Scobie evenly.