‘Was it the same team, Robert?’
‘What same team?’
‘As shot your wife.’
McQuarrie folded his arms. He wore suit trousers, a white business shirt, a waistcoat and an overcoat. He looked crisp enough to begin a full day’s work, unlike Challis and Sutton, who were ending one, and showed it in their stubbled chins, bleary eyes and rumpled clothing.
‘My lawyer, Inspector. You know the drill.’
And so Challis didn’t get to see Ellen Destry until mid-morning on Tuesday, by which time he felt ragged from grief and lack of sleep. Reporters had laid siege to the entrance to the little hospital in Waterloo, baying because one of their own had been shot dead in a mangrove swamp just one week after the shooting death of another prominent local identity. Challis elbowed through the pack, ignoring their shouted questions and speculations, growling ‘No comment.’
He encountered Mrs Humphreys in the hot air of the corridor. She’d come in for physiotherapy, she told him. ‘If you like, I’ll boot that rabble out of the way when it’s time for you to leave.’
‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ Challis said, trying to return her grin. ‘Any news from your god-daughter?’
‘Not a word.’
Challis went on. He found Ellen in bed, her back against heaped pillows, entertaining her husband and daughter. Or not entertaining, it seemed to Challis, for they seemed to have run out of things to say to each other. He shook Alan Destry’s hand after an awkward moment, then nodded hello to Larrayne, whom he hadn’t seen for eighteen months. She’d outgrown her adolescent surliness and plumpness, and although she’d never be a beauty like Ellen-she had her father’s bulky jaw and solid upper body-was nevertheless pretty and poised, and right now watchful and protective. She held a plastic water bottle in one hand and had a memory stick hanging from a strap around her neck, as though she’d come straight from her computer desk. She wore jeans and a heavy jacket over a brief top, her belly button winking at him as she uncoiled warily from the chair beside her mother’s bed, so that Challis was obliged to go around the bed to peck Ellen on the cheek, the husband and the daughter watching him closely.
‘Ow,’ Ellen said, wincing, yet also smiling up at him, one hand going to her neck, which wore a heavy plaster. She looked haggard, embarrassed about looking haggard, and concerned for him.
‘I don’t want to tire you, Ells,’ he said. ‘Just seeing how you are.’
‘I’m fine. Have you caught him yet?’
‘ ’Fraid not.’
He saw in her face then that she was struggling to convey many difficult messages. ‘Hal, I’m so sorry.’
Alan Destry intervened. ‘Come on, pal, give her a break. She’s not up to being interrogated.’
Challis nodded slowly, knowing when he was beaten. ‘Take care, Ellen. Take a few days off…’
Ellen stirred, fury animating her weakly. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, looking from her husband to her daughter and back again. ‘I need a couple of minutes with Hal, CIU business, okay? Go and get yourselves a cup of tea or something.’
‘Mu-um,’ said Larrayne.
‘No way,’ said Alan.
Challis waited, guessing that Ellen would win. When they were alone, he said gently, ‘Can you tell me why you were there last night?’
She glanced away and said, ‘I was following up on a recent burglary in the next street, looking for links to your burglary, and happened to be passing.’
Challis knew that she was lying. He let it pass, for he wasn’t innocent either. They were drawn to each other and it was illicit and still playing itself out, even if it led nowhere. ‘Lucky thing that you were,’ he said.
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Why? I didn’t save her. All I did was get myself shot as well.’
‘It could have been worse.’
She touched the graze on her neck as if to say that it was nothing. ‘I couldn’t see a thing. I had to feel my way in the dark. I shot at him, but presumably I missed.’
‘We didn’t find anything.’
‘Apart from Tessa.’
‘Apart from Tessa,’ Challis repeated.
There was a pause. Ellen said gently, ‘Hal, don’t blame yourself’
‘Who says I am?’ he demanded, more forcefully than he’d intended.
Ellen looked away, then back at him. ‘What about Lowry and McQuarrie?’
‘Lawyered up. Alibis.’
She sank back. ‘I couldn’t see anything, but I don’t think it was one of them.’
‘Get some rest.’
‘Alan brought me today’s Progress,’ Ellen said. ‘Tessa’s take on Janine was pretty accurate.’
Challis nodded. He’d read it over breakfast, and heard Tessa’s voice in his head, her special qualities of fierceness and irony coming through clearly. He blinked his eyes.
Ellen affected not to notice. ‘Is there a link between the two murders?’
‘Get some rest.’
‘I’m coming in tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m coming in,’ Ellen said, ‘and stop pitying yourself
Challis almost snapped at her, but went out to the carpark, avoiding the cameras and microphones. Behind the wheel of his car, he told himself to breathe deeply, evenly. There was no avoiding it: he was self-pitying. Then he remembered something that Tessa had once said about him, that he tended to feel guilt where it wasn’t warranted or necessary, that guilt in many circumstances was a wasted, a crippling, emotion. That was the truth. She’d given him gifts of wisdom and he’d been too self-involved to see it.
52
At four o’clock that Tuesday afternoon, Vyner wrote, Men are continents, men are islands, but I am a rocky shoal beneath the surface.
He’d just collected $500 from a woman in Glen Iris, the mother of an Army signaller who’d stepped on a mine on the Iraqi side of the border with Kuwait. Yep, a hero, great guy, single-handedly saved Vyner’s life on one occasion, but too modest to claim the credit. The mother’s eyes glistened, Vyner’s glistened. It was very moving, and while it lasted, Vyner believed every word of it.
It was getting hard to remember who he was, though. The personal, private, real Vyner was the Navy guy who’d refused the anthrax injection and been discharged for that and a few other minor matters, and later spent a couple of years in prison here and there. The pretend Vyner was the Army mate of some poor prick who’d died on foreign soil. The emerging Vyner was a hitman for hire-and a part-time conman.
That’s when another text message came in on his mobile phone. No congratulations for a job well done in wasting Tessa Kane last night, only an angry query, wanting to know why descriptions of Nathan Gent and the car had been released to the media. Xplain or no fee, the SMS concluded.
Christ. Vyner hadn’t read the paper closely this morning, but now he did. The front page was full of last night’s shooting, so he flicked through, and there it was on page 5, an accurate description of the car and a pretty accurate photofit image of Nathan Gent. His mouth dry, he sent back an SMS: Gent ded car torchd.
Who saw us? he wondered. There’s no description of me, so does that mean I wasn’t seen clearly, or do the cops have a description and this is some kind of trick?
He did a line of coke to chill out. He’d have to get himself another gun. He was fresh out of Browning pistols after last night.
That same afternoon, Scobie Sutton received a call from the lab. There were several usable prints on the bottles, cans and cellophane he’d collected from Andy Asche’s rubbish bin, and they matched one print not on the Toyota van itself but on the stolen goods recovered from it. That was good enough for Scobie.
‘You ever have a kid called Andy Asche in your home?’ he asked Challis.
‘No,’ said Challis, looking sad and distracted.
‘Then he’s definitely one of our burglars. He also owns cutting edge computer gear.’
Challis rubbed his face. ‘You think he copied my files and printed out the photos? Get a warrant for his computer and bring him in for questioning.’
Scobie shifted uncomfortably. ‘I think he’s done a runner.’