He hadn’t registered anything on his personal radar when he’d left his flat for his appointment with Mrs Plowman. He lived in a yuppie singles pad in Southbank, and even though he was surrounded by Asian students and young women with jeans so low in front you saw the fur line, the place was anonymous and close to everything. He felt out of his element whenever he left the city. That’s why he’d hired Gent yesterday. Well, he wasn’t making that mistake again.
No one had tailed him from Mrs Plowman’s, or to and from the airport, or down the Peninsula to fucking Gent’s fucking house in Dromana. No one saw him go in through the back door and shoot the bastard, then bundle him into the boot of the Falcon. So why were the cops following him? And why the fuck were they driving a sports car? Why the fuck were they wearing uniforms if they didn’t want to be noticed?
It had been a toss-up between getting rid of the body first, or setting up a false trail. The latter, and maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong. He’d spent a crucial thirty minutes in Gent’s house, shoving the moron’s computer into the boot with the body, emptying the fridge and propping the door open; filling a garbage bag with perishables, which he’d disposed of in a public rubbish bin; packing a suitcase as if Gent were going away for a month; closing the blinds and curtains and turning out the pilot lights for the oven and space heater; and finally leaving Gent’s shithole and filling out a hold-mail application at the local post office.
Then he’d got rid of the pistol. Two good Browning automatics in two days. He’d sealed the one he’d used on the woman yesterday in a block of wet cement, dumping the block at the tip when it was dry, but dismantled the one he’d used on Gent-his Navy training coming in useful-and then he’d hacksawed the parts and tossed the scraps, along with Gent’s computer and suitcase, into builders’ skips in an area stretching from Rosebud to Mount Martha.
And now it was time to get rid of the body, and he was heading northeast across the Peninsula, towards Waterloo, observing all of the road and speed signs, and suddenly there were cops behind him. Dunn’s Creek Road was snaking around one side of a pretty gully before flattening out along a high ridge lined with horse studs and plant nurseries set behind massive old pine tree avenues. There was more traffic than he’d expected, and on Penzance Beach Road and again on Waterloo Road he’d been obliged to give way to intersecting traffic, stop for a befuddled koala and not try overtaking a community bus full of old-age pensioners.
The little MX5 behind him all the way.
And when he got to Myers Reserve, dense with pittosporum, bracken and dying gum trees, the Mazda was still there, so he headed on down to Waterloo. He stopped for the give-way sign on Coolart Road, slowed to 70 kmh and then 60 kmh through the next township, signalled left at the T-intersection, did all the right things, and the Mazda stuck with him, never varying speed or relative position, and that, and the peaked caps worn by the driver and the passenger, really got Vyner’s mind working.
And so he pulled the stolen Falcon into the carpark of the Mitre 10 hardware on the main street of Waterloo and got out, letting his body language spell innocent do-it-yourself guy shopping for a packet of nails and a tin of paint. But then a siren whooped and the Mazda purred in beside him, the cops getting out, a guy and a woman, dressed like SWAT commandos in boots, waisted leather jackets and peaked caps.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Vyner froze, his eyes darting. Hell of a place. Tattoo parlour across the road, McDonald’s on one side of the carpark, railway line on the other. And further up the road, a roundabout and the Waterloo police station. He said innocently, ‘Was I going too fast?’
The woman shook her head. ‘The opposite, in fact. I’m Senior Constable Murphy, and this is Constable Tankard.’
Tankard, thought Vyner. The guy was built like a tankard, round and squat.
‘We couldn’t help noticing, sir.’
Noticing what? That I’ve got a body and a shovel in the boot of a stolen car?
Murphy flipped open her notebook. ‘You were faced with constantly varying speed limits for the past few kilometres, and you observed all of them. You observed stop and give-way signs, you were courteous to other drivers, and you made commonsense decisions when faced by unexpected hazards, like that koala trying to cross the road.’
Vyner shook his head. He was waiting for the ‘However…’
‘On behalf of Victoria Police and the RTA, we’d like to reward you,’ the woman said.
Vyner wanted to laugh. He gave them a frank and open grin. ‘Well, thank you.’
The female cop leaned into the Mazda, emerging with a bulky plastic bag. ‘To show our appreciation, sir.’
Vyner peeked inside. ‘Great. Thank you.’
For a moment, he really meant it. He’d always driven safely. He’d never been ticketed, and now it was paying off.
‘You’re welcome sir. Have a good day, now,’ the guy, Tankard, muttered.
Gloomy guy. Whoever said fat was cheerful?
Vyner went into Mitre 10 and bought saw blades to replace those he’d broken and blunted while cutting up the Browning.
Out in the carpark again, he saw that the Mazda was gone. He observed all of the speed limits and road rules from Waterloo to Myers Reserve, where he committed several misdemeanours, beginning with the lock on the gate that said Parks Victoria Vehicles Only.
26
Using her office phone in the Progress building, Tessa Kane posed as an insurance agent selling life cover. Having established that Charlie Mead was at work, she drove across the Peninsula to Rosebud and knocked on the front door of his house. ‘Mrs Mead? Lottie Mead?’
A wary ‘Yes.’
‘My name is Tessa Kane, from the Progress.’
Tessa waited, wondering if she’d be recognised. Lottie Mead was slender and unsmiling, her gaze passing expressionlessly across Tessa’s face and examining the street. ‘What do you want?’
‘I won’t lie to you, Mrs Mead. My paper has been running a series of critical articles about asylum seekers and your husband’s management of the Waterloo detention centre. I think it’s time for a personal perspective, and would like to interview you. Perhaps we could start with your lives together in South Africa, and move on from there. Would that be possible, do you think?’
She waited. The house was a grim grey fortress on a slope overlooking the bay. Finally Lottie Mead said, ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ and began to close the door.
‘Wait! Did your husband tell you not to speak to reporters? Does he have something to hide, do you think?’
‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me,’ said the woman distinctly, shutting the door with a brisk click.
Ellen was in Upper Penzance, half relieved and half chagrined to be working with Scobie Sutton instead of Challis. Their interview with Connie Rinehart completed, she got behind the wheel of the CIU Falcon, flipped open her mobile phone and reported in. ‘Hal? Rinehart never met Janine-it was all arranged by her doctor.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘Thirty-four, suffers from agoraphobia, has scarcely left her house for the past five years. When Janine didn’t arrive, she supposed she’d made a mistake with the date or the time, but hadn’t got around to checking with the clinic or her doctor. She’s very timid and withdrawn.’
‘Does she live anywhere near Mrs Humphreys?’
‘Several kilometres away.’
‘Does she know her?’
‘No.’
‘Does she know Christina Traynor?’
‘No.’
There was a pause, and Challis said, ‘That leaves us with Janine’s phobia about making right-hand turns. Yesterday she was obliged to visit Rinehart at home, so she mapped out a route that would avoid turning right, and found herself in an unfamiliar area and stopped to check her street directory. I’ve been looking at the map: someone driving from Mount Eliza to Upper Penzance without making right turns would probably pass through Penzance North. She was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time, and got herself shot.’