‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, the cop who’s a source, and the cop who’s involved personally.’
She couldn’t look at him but sensed that he was looking fully at her. Presently he said, ‘I was involved with Tessa Kane. I’m not any more.’
Said coolly, so she gestured with one hand, saying, ‘Sorry, don’t mean to pry.’
She thought he’d leave it, but he treated her question seriously, ‘It was complicated sometimes. There were issues of confidentiality, and I know half the station disapproved-but that’s not why we broke up.’
Broke up. He’d actually said it. ‘Hal, it’s okay, I had no right…’
‘Forget it,’ Challis said, making an effort. ‘Let’s turn the old girl’s place over.’
They reached the house on Lofty Ridge to find crime-scene technicians still at work, widening their search of the grounds, taking new photographs, making further sketches. ‘Oh hell,’ Challis said, darting out of the car and approaching one of the technicians, A moment later he was back, grinning at her ruefully. ‘See that oil stain? That’s where I parked the Triumph last night.’
Ellen gazed at him, experiencing a sudden insight into his solitariness. She found herself squeezing his hand. He laughed, and a kind of current sprang between them, opening them to possibilities. Ellen followed him into the house giddily.
He almost spoilt it then, saying, ‘If there’s anything here, you’ll find it.’
She was alarmed. What did he mean? Did he mean that he knew she had light fingers, or that he valued her ability to find hiding places? She tried to read him. After a while she told herself there were no undercurrents in his observation.
They began the search. A preliminary run through the house yielded nothing but a postcard under a fridge magnet. Postmarked London, it depicted Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and a barge on the River Thames. It was signed ‘Chris’ at the bottom of a couple of short sentences that said nothing about Christina Traynor’s state of mind, whereabouts or intentions.
Ellen was thorough, but also intensely aware of Challis. They seemed to perform a kind of dance, almost touching, colliding and glancing away from each other, only to be drawn together again. They were both aware of it but said nothing. It wouldn’t do. She tried to shake off the feelings even as she welcomed them. ‘Anything?’ he said at one point, his voice rasping. She didn’t trust her own voice. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
They parted again and she made a more thorough search, looking under framed pictures for wall safes, kicking skirting boards for tell-tale hiding places, checking cupboards, drawers, photo albums, wardrobes and the laundry basket. It was fruitless: there were no indications of where the old woman’s goddaughter was now, or that she’d been the intended victim, or even that she’d ever been in residence.
They met in the kitchen. By now Ellen was depressed by the house with its musty air and the faint grime of an old woman whose eyesight was failing. She turned to Challis. ‘Hal-’
‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered, glancing past her through the window.
She followed his gaze. Superintendent McQuarrie’s Mercedes had pulled up at the yellow tape. The super got out with Georgia McQuarrie, who held a small bouquet of flowers, and together they approached the tape, ducked under it and made for the chalked area where Janine had died. Ellen watched curiously. The officer in charge of the crime-scene technicians seemed to argue with McQuarrie, before shrugging and stepping back to allow Georgia to place the flowers on the ground. Then McQuarrie and his granddaughter ducked back under the tape again and stood watching for a while, Georgia absorbed by the technician who was sketching.
Suddenly Challis was leaving the kitchen. Ellen watched, hearing him call, ‘Sir, a moment?’
‘Not now, Inspector,’ McQuarrie said, bundling Georgia into the big Mercedes and driving away.
Ellen locked the house and joined Challis at the CIU car. The mood gone, the magic irretrievable, they travelled in silence. Then Challis’s mobile phone rang. He listened attentively, switched off and glanced at Ellen. ‘That was Scobie. A woman called Connie Rinehart from Upper Penzance just called the station. She had an appointment with Janine McQuarrie yesterday morning, nine-thirty, about the time that Janine was shot.’
25
On the other side of the Peninsula, John Tankard was saying, ‘Look, about yesterday, I’m really sorry I made a grab at you.’
Pam Murphy, deeply bored, said, ‘Forget it.’
They were in the little Mazda, patrolling the area between Mount Martha and Rosebud. Week Two of the Drive Safe campaign and that was two weeks too long. Pam had long exhausted topics of conversation with Tankard, the modern sports car doesn’t necessarily offer much in the way of driving thrills, and safe and courteous drivers were few and far between. She’d much rather be out catching bad guys. Meanwhile, after what happened yesterday, she had to put herself on full alert in case Tank groped her again, or, worse, wanted a cuddle and forgiveness. Was he losing it? Could she rely on him if they did meet a bad guy? She watched from the corner of her eye as he twisted his large trunk and meaty legs to get comfortable in the passenger seat. He was too big for the tiny car, exacerbated this morning by soreness and stiffness brought on by football training.
He wouldn’t let it go. ‘It was out of line. I’m really sorry.’
‘Tank? Can it,’ she snarled.
‘I was only saying…’
‘Well don’t.’
Fortunately they passed a building site shortly after that, a new housing development that faced the sea, a handful of men outside it picketing against scab labour. Tankard seemed to shake off his moroseness, some of his old intolerance showing as he shifted in the tight passenger seat and said, ‘Look at those wankers.’
Pam had to laugh. In occupation, status and background he was thoroughly working-class, yet he always voted for the conservative coalition, approving of their hard line on law and order, immigration, terrorism and anything else that threatened white-bread, middle-class Australia. Maybe the prime minister, attorney general and immigration minister represented the strict father he’d never had.
Her own position was more complicated. Her father and brothers were university academics, intellectuals, which meant that Christmas Day table conversations in Pam Murphy’s family were rapid-fire, elliptical, knowing and wide-ranging, leaving her far behind. She was the youngest child, good at sport, barely adequate in tests and exams, and had joined the police force, so…
‘Do the maths,’ she muttered now, heading from the freeway down into Rosebud.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’ She had no intention of describing, to John Tankard, the remote, condescending love that her father and brothers bestowed upon her.
Two tedious hours passed. They decided to head across to the Waterloo side of the Peninsula, but on Dunn’s Creek Road they encountered a white Falcon, sitting solidly on 80 in a 100 zone. The undulating road afforded Pam few opportunities to pass, and she cursed. ‘There should be demerit points for driving too slowly,’ she said.
Tankard, apparently still smarting, said, ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’
She let it pass. The word ‘knickers’ had always inflamed the old John Tankard, and she wasn’t taking any chances. ‘Take down his number.’
‘Why? He’s not breaking any road rules.’
‘Forget it,’ Pam said, and she followed the Falcon all the way to Waterloo, by which time she’d decided the driver deserved a showbag.
Tankard, concurring, placed the portable pursuit light on the dash and sounded the siren. ‘You moron,’ said Pam, scrambling to turn them off.
Vyner, spotting uniformed police in the little Mazda sports car behind him, cast his mind back over the past couple of hours and wondered where and when he’d gone wrong.