Challis - 05 - Blood Moon (6 page)

But if Lachlan Roes assailant was
somehow linked to the White Pride e-mail, or Dirk Roes blog, the list of
people to be investigated was huge. And what approach would work? A knock on
the door, an invitation to come into the station for a chat? Or quiet
infiltration, to tease out the embittered, the jaded, the jealous, the crazy, the
wronged and the aggrieved?

Challis marked Scobie Suttons
e-mail address with a green highlighter, then picked up the phone. Scobie? I
need to see you. Now, please.

* * * *

8

Ellen
Destry drove to the Landseer School in the car pools new Camry, not wanting to
spend another minute in one of its tired, uncomfortable, plasticky, poorly
engineered and odiferous Falcons. She glided across the Peninsula, passing
boutique vineyards, shrinking orchards, riding stables and paddocks that had
been pegged out for new housing or landscaped to death with stone walls, ponds,
terraced gardens and the vast mansions of local plumbers and Melbourne
embezzlers.

All that money, she thought angrily,
and no taste at all. As a copper, of course, you had to approach things with an
open mind. But that didnt alter the fact that some people were bad and evil,
others ugly, stupid and tasteless, full stop.

Finally the road went up and over a
line of hills, offering a sweeping view of Port Phillip Bay before delivering
her to the Nepean Highway and then to a stretch of vines between the highway
and the bay. Two stone pillars announced The Landseer School, and inside the
fenced vines was a further sign, Landseer School Viticulture Program. Ellen
followed a well-kept dirt road between arching pines, coming to a mock castle
and a scattering of other school buildings in a setting of manicured lawns and
garden beds.

She glanced at her watch: 10.30 a.m.
A couple of gardeners were about, but no kids, not even on the playing fields, which
were vividly green, contrasting with the brilliant white of the goalposts,
hurdles, line markers and fence rails. There was money here, too. And maybe
even some intellect.

Ellen parked between a black BMW and
a white Land Rover and climbed the worn stone steps of the main building, where
she crossed a tiled verandah and pushed through heavy wooden doors to the
reception desk. At one time the area would have been open and cavernous, but
was now divided and subdivided into corridors and offices with low ceilings.
There was still plenty of old wood panelling about, however, and the air smelt
pleasantly of furniture polish. One wall was dense with photographs: the school
in 1913, the first Landseer Pinot Noir bottling in 1985, the Year 12 Debating
Championship team in 1962. A couple of past headmasters.

Then a woman with a professional
smile spoke from behind a waist-high counter. May I help you?

Two minutes later, Ellen had signed
the visitors book, clipped a name tag to her lapel, and was being escorted
through a wing of the building to a massive oak door, a discreet sign on it
reading Headmaster. Not Principal. What happens if they employ a woman?
Ellen wondered. Perhaps the Landseer School wouldnt dream of employing a woman
to head it. Her suspicions were oddly confirmed when the headmaster greeted her
in an English accent slightly plummier than Prince Charless. And here shed
been thinking that the cultural cringe was dead.

A terrible business, Thomas Ashby
said. Unconscionable. Were deeply shocked.

Ellen regarded him carefully. It was
possible that he meant it. Ashby was lanky, dark-haired, expensively suited,
faintly indifferent and impatient but too well-mannered to display it. It was
possible that he didnt welcome the publicity, hated women or found police
attention grubbyor tick all of the above.

Ill need to examine Mr Roes
office, she said.

He inclined his head gravely. And
so you shall.

I bet hes had someone go through it
with a nit comb, thought Ellen. But first some background on his job here.

His
job
? His job was school
chaplain.

Im aware of that, but

This involved mentoring, crisis
counselling and guidance in values and spiritual matters. And some religious
instruction, but only in the context of, say, an English or History lesson. We
are non-denominational here at Landseer.

I see.

Do you?

Did he have any enemies in the
school community? Staff or students?

Of course not.

Didnt rub anyone up the wrong way
with the values he imparted?

Ashby glanced at his watch. I have
another appointment. My deputy will show you around. He lifted the phone on
his desk and pressed a button. Kindly ask Mrs Moorhouse to come to my office.
He replaced the phone, got to his feet, buttoned his suit coat and came around
the side of his desk, one hand out in the unmistakeable intention of guiding
Ellen out by the elbow or the small of her back. She dodged him neatly, entered
the corridor and heard the costly click of his door sealing him in with the
leather, the book spines, the gleaming walnut and the glorious sea views.

Ellen hovered: was she to wait for
the deputy principal, or return to the reception desk? There was the snap of
shoe leather and a small, round, short-haired woman appeared. Another irritated
person of importance, thought Ellen, taking one look at the deputy heads grim
mouth and air of purpose. She decided to take charge.

Mrs Moorhouse? Sergeant Destry from
the Crime Investigation Unit. Im here investigating a serious assault. The
victim is your chaplain. I need full access to his office and files, and I may
wish to interview staff and students who had anything to do with him in the
past few days.

The woman came to a halt, heaved a
sigh, gestured loosely with one hand. Yes, I am aware this is serious
business. Weve already had Ollie Hindmarsh on the line this morning.

Ellen went very still. This smacked
of interference. Of information being controlled, delayed or withheld. What
did he say?

Moorhouse regarded Ellen for a
moment. Then, as if satisfied, she said, What he said was doublespeak. Hes a
politician, after all. What he
meant
was he didnt want any shit to
stick to him or to the school.

Ellen grinned. It was possible that
Moorhouse was the real driving force behind Landseer but destined to remain
unacknowledged and never promoted to the top job. Its not my intention to
ride roughshod over anyone.

The deputy head said elliptically, Riding
roughshod might be the best thing. Follow me.

They passed through endless dim corridors,
Moorhouse asking, What happened, can you tell me?

Ellen outlined the circumstances,
concluding, But Mr Roes still in a coma. It was a pretty vicious assault.

Oh dear, Moorhouse said without
feeling. Any brain damage? Not that you could tell, necessarily.

Ellen snorted. I take it you didnt
like the man.

Moorhouse powered on through the
corridors, leading Ellen past anonymous offices and up and down bewildering
short hallways and staircases. Oh, put it down to sour grapes. I have a
psychology degree and specialist training as a counsellor, in addition to my
teaching credentials. Ive counselled kids for years. Why do we need a
chaplain?

Ellen said lightly, So you bashed
Mr Roe over the head out of professional jealousy.

Moorhouse snorted, I wish.

She stopped at a flimsy door, a sign
on the wall reading:
School Chaplain.
Mind you, she said, I did shove
him away in a forgotten corner.

She unlocked the door and stood
aside. Take your time. Ill be in my office next to the reception desk.

Wait. Ellen touched the womans
upper arm fleetingly. Can you give me a few more minutes?

Of course.

There were two chairs in the dismal
office. Moorhouse took the straight-back chair, Ellen the squeaky swivel chair
behind the desk. Opening her notebook, Ellen said, Tell me about Mr Roe.

The deputy head stared at the wall,
appearing to weigh up her words, so that Ellen was afraid the earlier frankness
would be replaced by spin, but then Moorhouse said, First, I dont hold with
the government supporting a chaplaincy scheme, not when there are experienced
counsellors available. I believe in the strict separation of church and state.

This is a
private
school,
Ellen pointed out.

No matter. I believe in a secular
education. It protects kids from dogma and superstition. It prioritises
rational inquiry, which usually flies out the window when the God-botherers get
involved.

Mmm, said Ellen, but what does
this have to do with Lachlan Roe?

Oh look, Moorhouse grimaced
apologetically, holding up a finger, its possible that many chaplains are
able to forget their religious ties and training and give helpful, neutral
advice. But not Roe.

He preached? Gave bad advice?

Both.

How on earth would a man like that
be appointed school chaplain?

Its hardly a system where quality
control matters, said Moorhouse sourly. Lachlans brother works for Ollie
Hindmarsh, and Ollie Hindmarshs children went to Landseer, and Ollie Hindmarsh
championed the chaplaincy scheme, and Ollie Hindmarsh is on the school council.

Ah.

No talent required.

What do the kids think of Mr Roe?

Theyre not stupid: they think hes
a joke.

Ellen had been searching the
chaplains desk as they talked, finding stationery items, a lump of chewing gum
and an empty bottle of vodka. And a diary.

But some of them do make
appointments to see him, she said, spinning the diary around, her forefinger
stabbing the name Zara Selkirk. This kid. Yesterday afternoon.

Moorhouse peered at the entry.
Something in her face shut down. Oh.

Ill need to speak to her, Ellen
said.

I dont believe shes in today,
Moorhouse said.

* * * *

9

Ludmilla
Wishart finished a mornings work in her office at Planning East, then drove to
Penzance Beach, a secluded holiday town several kilometres around the coast
from Waterloo. She was relieved to be out and about, away from both the
hovering of her boss and her husbands suspicions. Adrian had phoned her
several times, saying, Just checking in, darling and What shall we have for
dinner? and Keep your receipts if you use the Golf today. He needed to know
where she was and what she was doing. Hell phone again, she thought, and
someone in the office will tell him Im out, and hell stew on it. Her heart
fluttered. She didnt know how much longer she could go on like this. But you
dont just walk out on a marriage, do you?

Ludmilla parked her Golf outside a
beach shack on Bluff Road and knocked on the screen door. A hazy shape appeared.
Mill! Good or bad news?

Good news, Carl.

She stepped back to let him out.
Carl Vernon was in his sixties, whiskery, gnarled and appealingly untidy in
shorts, sandals and black-rimmed glasses. The Trust came through for us?

Ludmilla showed him a fax. It said
that the property known as Somerland, on Bluff Road in Penzance Beach, had
been classified by the National Trust as a building of historical importance.
He gave her

an exuberant hug. Mill, thats
fantastic

The grey-haired man and the young
woman stood side-by-side and gazed across to the exclusive seaward side of
Bluff Road, which ran along the top of a cliff overlooking the township and the
sea. Somerland was a small fishermans cottage dating from the early years of
the twentieth century. In profile it had a nineteenth-century style sawtooth
roofline, with a verandah, a crooked chimney and a paling fence. Nestled amid
ti-trees and pines, it was the best-situated house in Penzance Beach, with
glorious views of the curving sand, the breakwaters fingering the little bay,
the yachts puddling about in the stretch of water between the town and Phillip
Island.

Carl himself enjoyed only a small
slice of that view, over Somerlands low roof and between one wall and a clump
of ti-trees, for he lived on the wrong side of Bluff Road, the humble fibro
shack side. But that didnt matter. What mattered was that he and his
neighbours lived increasingly in the shadows of the vast, prideful glass and
concrete structures to the left and right of Somerland, places that were
written up in
Architectural Digest
but didnt pretend to be homes. Carl
and his neighbours didnt want another monstrosity to go up, and they
especially didnt want the old fishermans cottage to be pulled down.

And Somerland had certainly been
under threat. There were two plastic-sleeved notices tacked to stakes at the
driveway entrance: a demolition permit dating from May, and a more recent
application to build a mansion that would out-monster all of the others. All
moot now: using her influence and knowledge, together with the help and drive
of Penzance Beach locals like Carl Vernon, Ludmilla had succeeded in convincing
the National Trust to classify the old house.

The next step is an emergency
application for heritage protection from the planning minister, she told
Vernon. Ive already set that in motion.