Challis - 05 - Blood Moon (22 page)

29

Adrian
Wishart had offered his uncle Terry as an alibi, and Scobie Sutton tracked the
man down to a tiny electronics repair shop on the Nepean Highway in Cheltenham,
part of the southeastern sprawl of Melbourne. The Nepean was long and
depressing, stretching between the Peninsula and the city, where commerce ruled
and the traffic moved in choked-off surges from one set of lights to the next.
Wishart TV and VCR Repairs and Service sat opposite Cheltenham Toyota and
between Blockbuster Video and a bicycle shop. Scobie parked and checked his
watch. Challis had asked him to time the journey from Waterloo: fifty minutes.
The air reeked of carcinogenic toxins. He entered the shop.

He found himself in a tiny reception
alcove fitted with a grimy counter. Beyond an open doorway behind it were
benches crammed with the guts, wiring looms and motherboards of TVs, VCRs and
DVD players, together with coils of insulated wire, pliers, soldering irons and
small electrical components of silvery metal or grey plastic.

A bell pinged and a man came through
from the workshop, saying, Sorry, pal, Im about to closefamily emergency.

Are you Mr Terrence Wishart?

Yeah, but whatever it is youre
selling, I dont want it.

Scobie had seen Adrian Wisharts
photograph in Ludmillas wallet; now he made a mental comparison between that
image and the man before him. Terry, in his early sixties, was a balding knocked-about
version of Adrian. Where Adrian was neat, refined, almost ascetic in
appearance, Terry had the look of a man who liked a few beers after work and
shopped at K-Mart. Hed probably struggled at school, was divorced and didnt
expect to marry again. In some ways, hed given up. But not in all ways. There
were things he was proud of. Several photographs hung on the walls of the
alcove: Terry in the dress uniform of an Army lieutenant, caught by a flashbulb
as he shook hands with an elderly colonel; Terry with his arms around two
similar men in the bar of a Returned Services League club; Terry at a wall of
remembrance; Terry at the War Memorial in Canberra, patting the flank of an
armoured personnel carrier.

He caught Scobies gaze and said, Vietnam.
He shook his head at the wonder and horror of his experiences. That was a doozy.

I bet it was.

Wishart seemed to collect himself
again. Like I said, I need to close. Sorry.

His face was tense, bewildered,
behind whiskers, pouchy fat and broken capillaries, as though bad things were
happening and he wasnt ready for them.

Im a police officer, Scobie said
gently. I take it youve heard about your nephews wife?

The wind went out of Wisharts
sails. He placed both hands on the counter as though to brace his heavy torso
and said, Its terrible. I can hardly believe it. It was her birthday yesterday.

You had a present for her.

Thats right. Nothing special. A
DVD/VCR combo, repair job that someone failed to pick up. Good as new.

Adrian drove up to collect it
yesterday afternoon?

Thats right.

What time was that?

Wishart froze, then straightened
indignantly. Hang on, whats this in aid of? Are you checking up on him?

Standard procedure, Terry.

The poor guys all cut up about it
and youre checking on him? Jesus.

If you could confirm the time, Ill
be on my way.

Wishart, disgusted now, stared off
into space. Got here about one oclock. I closed the shop and we went down the
club for a counter lunch.

The club?

My local RSL. They do you a good
meal.

Scobie was hoping the servicemens
club had installed bar and carpark cameras. And if necessary hed check every
speed and intersection camera on the Nepean Highway. It was what he was good
at. Challis knew it and usually gave him the task of tracking the movements of
suspects via surveillance cameras and credit card and mobile phone use.

How long did you spend there?

Got back to the shop about three. I
had some repairs to complete, so Ade sat with me for a couple of hours while I
worked. We dont see each other that often.

Wishart swiped at his eyes suddenly.
Poor bastard. Poor Mill.

You were fond of her?

She was great. Lucky man, my
nephew. Poor bastard.

So he left here about five
yesterday afternoon?

Terry Wishart screwed up his face in
thought. His expression cleared. Yep.

Did he tell you his plans for the
evening?

It was Mills thirtieth, they were
going out to dinner.

Did he say what time?

Nup. But he likes to eat early.

He left here at five, an hour to
get home, then shower, change and drive to the restaurant...

So?

He expected to find Mrs Wishart
waiting at home for him?

Terry shifted about uncomfortably. Ade
could be a bit, you know, uptight about things like lateness. Mill wouldnt
want to piss him off

Except she wasnt there, and she
didnt return.

No.

Did he tell you that? Call you last
night and tell you?

Wishart shook his head. This
morning. He was so cut up he could hardly get the words out.

Can anyone verify that he was here
all that time? Customers? People who work for your

Wishart looked doubtful. I work
alone. A couple of customers came in, but Ade was out the back, reading the
paper while I tinkered. Look, he really loved Mill, we both did. Really loved
her. If I find the bastard that done this...

Where do you live?

Above the shop. Why?

What time did you close yesterday?

You prick. Five-thirty, then I was
upstairs. Stayed in all night.

When I arrived just now you said
youre closing for the day. Are you driving down to be with your nephew?

Wishart shook his head. Hes coming
here. Says he cant stay in his place a minute longer. Too many memories.

Then Scobie drove to Terry Wisharts
RSL club, which didnt have any working CCTV cameras. The young staff knew
Terry, however. He ate lunch there almost every day, and often stayed on rather
than return to his shop. Nice bloke. Friendly. Liked his beer. A bit sad. Yeah,
there could have been another bloke with him yesterday, hard to remember, so
many faces in and out. But it was pretty likely. Old Terry didnt like to eat
or drink alone. He had plenty of mates, army buddies. Full of war stories.
Vietnam. Hed be much too young for World War Two.

Scobie went away thinking about
lonely, isolated men. That led him to other thoughts, as he headed southeast to
Waterloo. It led him to his daughters school concert last night, and how proud
he was, how hed had tears in his eyes to see Ros up there on the stage,
singing her little heart out.

It had been the loneliest moment of
his life. Beth was there, but not there. Hed tried to jolly her along. Hed
kept peering at her face for a reaction to match his, but neither the music nor
her daughter had moved her. He thought of the word automaton.

* * * *

30

Two
of the schoolies had had their bicycles stolen, so Pam Murphy spent part of the
afternoon investigating that. Then she was called to a dispute on the
foreshore, a motel manager claiming that a schoolie had let all of his tyres
down, the kid claiming the manager had put his grubby hands inside her singlet
top. Then up High Street to investigate a shoplifting incident blamed on a gang
of schoolies but probably committed by the proprietor, who had a history of
suspected insurance rip-offs.

All of this wasted time and shoe
leather, and so Pam didnt reach HangTen until five oclock, as businesses were
closing for the day. A word, Caz?

I have to balance the registers and
lock up.

Its important.

Caz Moon had very white hair and black
eyebrows today, a bruised look around her eyes, purple lips. Shed ditched her
jeans and wore a torn skirt over an unravelling petticoat over holed tights. It
shouldnt have looked attractive but it did. Pam tried to figure out why. It
was Caz herself, she decided, Cazs air of containment and intelligence.

Sit, said Caz, indicating a stool
behind one of the counters. Well talk as I work.

She was deft and focused, closing
one cash register after the other, setting the lights, locking display cabinets,
alarming the rear doors. Pams questioning was no distraction to her; she
answered without missing a beat.

Where were you last night?

Out clubbingor what passes for
clubbing in dear old Waterloo. You saw me, remember?

The schoolies bring you a lot of
extra business?

Some.

But they attract toolies, right?
Locals who try to take advantage of them? Mostly we think of a toolie as a guy.

Is that a question?

But there are female toolies.
Yesterday I warned off a thirty-five-year-old woman.

Huh, said Caz without interest.

Youre not a toolie, are you, Caz?
You dont fraternise with the schoolies?

Unavoidable. Turn a corner, and
there they are.

But you dont seek them out? Dont
try to pick up the guys, have a drink with them?

Babies, Caz said. She was adding
figures in her head.

Where were you last night?

You already asked me that.

I mean later, around midnight. The
early hours.

Home.

Can you prove that?

Do I need to?

What do you know about GHB and
Rohypnol?

Date rape drugs, said Caz without
hesitation.

Pam nodded and said, Dropped into
the victims drink in a bar or club or at a party. She feels woozy, a concerned
male friend takes her home, rapes her when she passes out, and she wakes up the
next day feeling sore and confused and cant remember anything.

Your point?

Has it ever happened to
you,
Caz?
Or a friend of yours?

Caz shook her head as she briskly
wiped a phone handset. This is Waterloo. I dont think GHB and roofies have
reached past the suburbs yet.

Very droll, Pam said. She paused. If
you could get your hands on that sort of gear, would you go so far as to use it
on anyone?

Im not into girls, Caz said. I
know its chic in some circles, but Im not into that. No offence.

Pam wasnt a lesbian. Caz was
stirring. She wasnt doing it out of spite or bigotry, but she was being
combative, and Pam had to wonder why. Did I say girl? You might want to give
it to a boy. A particular boy.

Caz stopped what she was doing and
gazed into space as though she found the prospect intellectually absorbing. But
wouldnt the drug cause erectile dysfunction? she asked, hooking her fingers
around the term. And wouldnt that defeat the purpose of the exercise?

Pam grinned. Depends on the
purpose.

Caz didnt grin but gave the ghost
of a smile. I guess so.

Like, you might want to strip off
all his clothes, lipstick his genitals and leave him out in the open for all to
see.

Interesting. What would you call
thatmaking a statement?

Id call it revenge, Pam said.

Really, said Caz evenly. She began
to bundle the days takings together, according to denomination. She filled out
a deposit slip and packed everything into a canvas sack with ANZ Bank logoed on
it.

Night safe?

Uh huh.

There are thieves about, Caz. I
hope you take precautions.

Precautions? Like birth control or
the morning-after pill in case Im doped and raped?

It was said with the tiniest
increase in heat. Please tell me what happened to you, Pam said.

Nothing happened.

Was it last year? Last weekend? A
girl was sexually assaulted in the early hours of Sunday morning.

Caz sighed. These things happen
when people congregate and booze and drugs are involved.

Was it Josh Brownlee?

Who?

The boy you called out to last
night.

Is that his name?

Cut the crap. I heard you. I heard
you say, Raped anyone lately, Josh?

Me? You probably misheard. The
music was pretty loud.

Caz, was it Josh Brownlee who
drugged and raped you?

Me? Of course not.

Caz had barely faltered. Pam
wondered how long the girl would be able to keep it upwondered how long
she
would be able to keep it up, for that matter. The more people who come
forward, the better our chances of gaining a conviction.

Has Josh been a naughty boy?

Cut it out, Caz. Help me, please?

Whats it like, being a copper?