Scobie Sutton had eschewed the pastries and was fastidiously peeling and slicing an apple. ‘Will the daughter make a good witness, boss?’
Challis shrugged. ‘We won’t know until we talk to her, but she did tell the first officers at the scene that the killers came in an old car, white with a yellow door. That will be your job,’ he said to one of the Mornington DCs. ‘I’ve put in a request for lists of cars stolen, abandoned and burnt, so keep updating it and check with Traffic for cars caught speeding, the usual thing.’
‘Sir.’
‘The car could have come in from outside,’ Scobie said, ‘or they were dumb enough to use their own car.’
‘Or Georgia was quite wrong about the car. Either way, we’ll release details to the media,’ Challis said. ‘Someone might recognise the description.’
They looked doubtful. Cars with mismatched doors, boot lids, bonnets and panels were common in a country where the poor were getting poorer.
Challis glanced at the other Mornington detective. ‘Go back to Lofty Ridge Road and talk to any of the neighbours who weren’t at home this morning. Find out who delivers the mail and the newspapers, supermarket orders, the usual.’
‘Boss.’
‘Scobie, I want you to check Robert McQuarrie’s flight movements and find out what you can about Mrs Humphreys and whoever else might have lived at that address. When she’s recovered from her hip operation, interview her. We need to establish if she knows Janine McQuarrie or if she herself has any enemies.’
‘Boss.’
‘Ellen, the superintendent awaits.’
‘Whoopee-do,’ said Ellen, immediately regretting it, for surely the super was grieving.
10
They signed out an unmarked Falcon from the motor pool and drove to Mornington in intermittent sunshine that was hard and bright on the wetness all around. Above them a high, scudding wind blew scraps of cloud across the sky. Normally they chatted when they were together, settling quickly into comfortable patterns with each other, but Ellen was withdrawn, a heavy presence in the passenger seat. ‘Anything wrong?’ said Challis.
‘Nup.’
He wondered if it was her husband again, remembering the man’s brusqueness on the phone that morning. Ellen was loyal and private by nature, but had revealed enough over the years to indicate that the marriage was under strain. Challis had never liked Alan Destry. The man was chronically surly, and so tightly wound that he might one day do something violent. We’re a fine pair, he thought, me morose about my wife this morning, Ellen about her husband now.
‘Everything okay at home?’
‘Peachy,’ said Ellen, her eyes fixed on the road.
Time to change the subject. ‘So this Dominic O’Brien character is going to be obstructive?’
Ellen seemed to bristle at the wheel. ‘What happens when an immovable object meets an irresistible force?’
He grinned. He’d always liked looking at her, a woman full of coiled energy and every muscle expressive, her beautiful eyes now taking on their familiar tuck of suspicion and anticipation. She was ready for business.
‘Uh oh,’ she said presently. ‘We’ve got company.’
They’d reached a hilly street behind the Esplanade in Mornington. No fog on this side of the Peninsula, but a rainsquall had come in across Port Phillip Bay, causing movement in a huddle of reporters and camera crews camped on a nearby nature strip. ‘Be friendly,’ Challis said.
Shouted questions reached them through the windows of the car, but Ellen didn’t stop, easing the CIU Falcon off the street, onto a gravelled driveway and past dense shrubbery and slender gum trees, to park nose-up to a railway sleeper barrier. They got out, locked the car and Challis followed Ellen down the steps to the front door, careful on the slicks of moss.
McQuarrie greeted them, holding his granddaughter’s hand. She’d been crying, but glanced up at them solemnly, as if shy but also aware that she was at the centre of something momentous. She wore jeans, a pink long-sleeved top, pink socks, pink clips holding back unruly blonde hair. Her grandfather looked faintly lost, a slightly built senior policeman who’d seen the underside only from behind a desk. He didn’t make introductions but stood back, saying, ‘Come in, come in,’ before glancing at their feet. ‘Would you mind…’
There were shoes and gumboots heaped on both sides of the door. Challis and Ellen slipped off their shoes, curling their toes on the cold concrete of the verandah, waiting for McQuarrie to stop dithering on the doorstep.
Finally they were in a hallway, pale green carpet expensively thick beneath their feet, a phone off the hook on an antique hallstand. McQuarrie led them to a sitting room: a red leather sofa and armchairs, massive antique sideboards, two small Turkish rugs. A huge window looked out onto a barbecue pit, a brick courtyard, a rose arbour and shrubs in bulky terracotta pots. McQuarrie’s wife Barbara-often called Mrs Super-stood beside an open fire, as neatly put together as her husband but snootier, more readily offended. Challis tried a commiserative nod and smile and got a scowl in return. He introduced Ellen, who earned only a flickering glance.
‘Have you found out who did this?’
McQuarrie said hastily, ‘It’s too soon, dear. Hal is here for information.’
Barbara McQuarrie came forward a few centimetres, the strain apparent in her face. ‘I don’t want you upsetting Georgia.’
‘Some tea, love, we could all do with a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Ellen said, expertly shepherding McQuarrie’s wife out of the room, piling on admiring comments about the decor, the house, the landscaping. Challis and McQuarrie watched them go, Challis appreciating her tact and her instincts.
McQuarrie said, ‘Hal, this is Georgia. Georgia, this is Inspector Challis.’
Challis put out his hand and the child shook with him gravely, her palm moist, her bones like a tiny bird’s inside his grip. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Challis didn’t know what McQuarrie had said to his granddaughter. He’d hoped to be briefed before meeting and questioning her. Did Georgia know that her mother was dead? If so, what did she, a six-year-old, understand that to mean? ‘Perhaps we should all sit down,’ he said.
‘Grampa, can I have a hot chocolate?’
‘Of course you can. Run and ask Nana.’
Relieved, Challis watched her leave the room, and then turned to McQuarrie. ‘Sir, are you okay with this, my questioning her?’
‘I am. My wife’s not.’
‘Does Georgia know her mother’s dead?’
Some of McQuarrie’s brisk superintendent’s manner had come back. ‘Yes. Died and gone to heaven.’
‘She’s remarkably poised.’
‘She’s incredible. She’s finished her crying for now. Even so, we’ll see that she gets proper counselling.’ He paused. ‘If your questioning upsets her I’m putting a halt to it, Hal.’
‘Sir.’
McQuarrie was the only super in Challis’s experience who expected to be called ‘sir’ by the more senior of his officers. Most preferred ‘boss’ or even first names and affectionate nicknames. McQuarrie insisted on ‘sir’ and Challis believed that it was a measure of the man’s insecurity-compounded today by the fact that he was grieving.
There was the distant ping of a microwave oven, and moments later Georgia appeared with a mug of hot chocolate, a frothy moustache on her upper Up. Ellen Destry came in behind her with a teapot and sugar bowl on a tray, Barbara McQuarrie with plain Ikea mugs and shortbread biscuits in a bowl, her disapproval obvious. She wanted Challis and his sergeant out of her house.
When they were settled-Georgia perched on her grandfather’s knees-Challis glanced at Ellen, who leaned forward and said, ‘Georgia, we want to catch the bad men who hurt your mother.’