‘Hello.’
‘It’s me. Can you talk?’
He felt a surge of spirits, not only from hearing Ellen’s voice but also from realising that its altered timbre-low and throaty-reflected what had happened that afternoon. ‘Not exactly.’
‘You’re with the super? Blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no.’
He grinned, despite knowing that his career was about to be sunk. It probably gave Ellen a curious thrill to rag him like this, knowing he was with McQuarrie. ‘Sergeant Destry,’ he said, ‘if you’re really sure that you want to transfer to the traffic division then I’d be happy to write a reference.’
She snorted. The super glanced up, frowned, and returned to his stack of papers. ‘Good news,’ she said, and told him something about a crashed van loaded with stolen goods, including his laptop. ‘It’s definitely yours.’
His relief was palpable. ‘You’re a wizard.’
‘Have you told the super?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Don’t, Hal. There’s no need to, not now.’
‘Okay.’
‘Catch you later.’
Challis felt buoyant, no longer afraid, no longer depressed by the atmosphere on the top floor, where policing was a rarefied thing, soundproofed and distant from the streets and the law courts. Policing here walked on carpets, wore suits and had university qualifications after its name.
He stretched his legs and gazed around him. There were leather-bound reports on the shelves, photographs of the super shaking important hands, a rubber plant as glossy and vigorous as a plastic fake, and a cluster of tiny silver picture frames in one corner of the huge desk, featuring Mrs Super, Robert and Georgia. Georgia’s image had been scissored from a larger photograph. She’d been sitting on a woman’s lap. Janine’s?
He grew aware that the super had put down his pen and was regarding him with faint irritation and disdain, the face of a busy man on important tasks. ‘You told my secretary this was urgent?’
Challis said, ‘I’m afraid there’s been a development, sir. It’s delicate.’
McQuarrie’s face shut down and he didn’t say anything, but swallowed, as if steeling himself. Thank God I don’t have to tell him about the laptop, Challis thought. I can show him the photos and retain the advantage.
‘Go on, Inspector.’
‘Sir, we found the missing mobile phone.’
‘And? Get on with it.’
‘Certain photographs were stored on it,’ Challis said, taking them from his briefcase and fanning them across McQuarrie’s desk.
For a long time, McQuarrie was motionless, inclined a little to examine the photographs but not touching them. Finally he looked up and said, his voice catching, ‘When?’
‘They were probably taken the Saturday before last. Of course, it’s possible that-’
McQuarrie gestured irritably. ‘I don’t mean that-when did you find them?’
‘Late yesterday afternoon.’
‘You didn’t think to tell me sooner?’
‘We didn’t want to cause any unnecessary distress.’
McQuarrie watched him in apparent disbelief, but then switched tack. ‘I heard all about your raids this morning.’
His spies. ‘The men in the photographs,’ Challis said.
‘You didn’t raid Robert?’
‘We interviewed him last night.’
‘And?’
‘Each man received a copy of his photograph in Monday’s mail.’
‘Janine was blackmailing them? One of them killed her? I take it she took the photos?’
‘We can’t be sure.’
‘I can,’ said McQuarrie emphatically.
‘Sir,’ said Challis, ‘did you suspect something was going on?’
McQuarrie’s faзade slipped. He looked bewildered, pushing his fingers back through his hair and looking about wildly as if for deliverance. ‘There was always something about her that wasn’t quite right. Something missing. The wife and I did our best to make her welcome, make her one of the family, but Janine seemed to resent us, despise us. She was quite critical. I don’t know what it was: jealousy, perhaps? She had quite a sharp tongue, often reducing my wife to tears. She had nothing good to say about anybody.’
His glance settled on Challis helplessly. ‘My wife’s not to hear about any of this. You can’t show these photos to anybody. How many have seen them so far?’
‘Only the members of my team.’
‘Do you vouch for each and every one of them?’
‘Yes.’
McQuarrie turned self-protectively nasty. ‘If our friends in the media learn about these photographs, I’ll know where to look.’
Challis knew how to play at this game. ‘Sir,’ he said, tapping Robert McQuarrie’s photograph, ‘apparently this has been going on for some time.’
McQuarrie flushed angrily. ‘I’m sure she drove him to it. She was a cold little bitch. I bet it was all her idea.’
‘Neither she nor your son gave you any indication that this was a part of their private lives?’
‘Of course not.’
But you had niggling doubts about Janine, thought Challis, and when she was murdered they hardened into suspicions. You feared the reasons why she was murdered would reflect badly on you and your son, and this accounts for your apparent obstructiveness and lack of sympathy.
‘We don’t know why she took the photos or who else might have been involved,’ he said.
‘Are you saying my son’s involved? He was in Sydney when she was shot. He’s in the damn photos, for God’s sake. Are you suggesting he and Janine were in this together and his photo’s a smokescreen? Are you saying he’s next?’
‘No,’ Challis said, remembering Robert’s reactions the night before.
Meanwhile McQuarrie was gaining momentum. ‘Are you saying I had prior knowledge of all this? That I killed Janine to save our reputations?’
‘Did you, sir?’ said Challis mildly.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said McQuarrie, pitching about in his chair. ‘I resent the implication. Do you honestly think I wanted to bring all this down on myself?’
Challis didn’t. In fact, if the shooting was related to the photographs, then why hadn’t the killer searched Janine’s house and office for further copies? ‘Sir, I have to ask, but did Janine ever approach you, or your wife, with overt or veiled threats or attempts to blackmail you?’
‘Absolutely not. She’d know I’d never have paid up and I’d have had her in handcuffs quick smart.’
McQuarrie had possibly never carried or used handcuffs. ‘And there’s no indication that she blackmailed these men,’ Challis said, pointing to the photographs. ‘We don’t know why she chose them, took their photos or sent copies to them.’
McQuarrie said softly, ‘But it’s a hell of a motive for murder, Hal.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘She could have been at it for months, years.’
Challis had thought of that. ‘Yes.’
‘Was she in it alone? Maybe there’s a lover we don’t know about.’
‘We’re keeping it in mind, sir.’
McQuarrie seemed to want to tear at his sparse hair again. ‘Who else knows? How are we going to keep a lid on it? I’m relying on you, Hal.’
39
Meanwhile, Andy Asche was back in Waterloo.
When the Toyota had finally stopped rolling, he’d found himself upside down and half strangled in his seatbelt. He’d released himself, remembering Natalie, but couldn’t find her anywhere. She must have climbed out and scarpered.
So he’d run like hell through grass, bracken and cow shit, dodging around old apple trees, and vaulted a fence, darting into a dense wooded area. Damp in there, leeches probably, mosquitoes in summertime, rotten logs mossy green everywhere, gaunt dead trees, thriving pittosporum. Then out the other side, coming upon a road- Penzance Beach Road, he realised-carrying a fair bit of traffic at this time of the day. He’d ducked back into the trees and considered his options.
Hitchhike?
Hell no. It could take him an hour to get a ride, and the cops would be all over him before then. He remained in the shadows, beneath dripping trees, and finally saw a kid aged about fifteen come riding down a muddy driveway opposite. Saw the kid park his bike in the hedge at the entrance to the property-a winery, according to a wooden sign-and wait at the side of the road with a gym bag. One minute later, this woman in a Mitsubishi people-mover picks him up, the kid high-fiving it with other kids in the back.