Just then Roslyn tiptoed in and placed a sheet of paper at Scobie’s elbow. ‘Please can I watch the Simpsons yes or no? With a rush of love he kissed her and ticked the ‘yes’ box. Roslyn scurried away.
Beth turned around and saw his dopey love. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
The front door buzzer sounded. Scobie said, ‘I’ll get it,’ and found two figures standing there, hunched miserably against the cold.
‘He showed up at footy training,’ John Tankard said.
Scobie nodded. ‘Hello, Andy. How was Queensland?’
Andy Asche’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’m a detective, remember?’
‘I couldn’t stand it, Mr Sutton, I had to come back. I thought my head was going to explode.’
‘There’s no rush,’ Scobie said. ‘Come in and get warm.’
60
On Thursday John Tankard said, ‘This is a bullshit gig.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Pam concentrated on the road ahead, trying to ignore Tank, who was heaving about in the passenger seat, fooling with the seat adjustments, trying to find room for his heavy legs.
‘Piece of Japanese shit.’
Actually, it wasn’t. Pam had come to appreciate the virtues of the little sports car. It was riding with John Tankard that spoilt the experience. But she was feeling pretty good now, training for the triathlon again, no disciplinary action hanging over her head.
Tank should count his blessings. He was off the hook too.
Coolart Road, a 90 kmh zone, several roundabouts, deceptive undulations here and there. She was sitting on 90, the rest of the traffic on 100 or more, and that was frustrating. Still, their job was to find courteous drivers, and they weren’t armed with speed cameras.
She skirted Somerville, crossed Eramosa Road, for the T-junction at the Frankston end of Coolart Road. Beside her John Tankard sighed heavily and she said, ‘Spit it out, Tank, what’s the matter?’
‘Andy Asche turned up last night,’ he said. ‘Poor guy.’
‘Killed a woman riding her horse, killed the horse, left his girlfriend behind to die. Yeah, poor guy.’
Tank stirred and scowled. ‘He’s not a nasty piece of work, not like some we’ve dealt with over the years. Good footballer. A real waste of talent.’
‘So you’re saying he should be forgiven because he’s a good footballer,’ Pam said flatly.
Being sports mad herself, she hadn’t come quickly or easily to the realisation that the system regularly allowed young footballers and cricketers to escape rape and sexual assault charges. When policemen, lawyers, judges and millionaire club presidents went dewy-eyed over sporting heroes, what chance did complainants stand?-especially when the wider community, men and women alike, shrugged the issue away with the words ‘She was asking for it.’ And heaven help you if you caused the accidental death of a sportsman. In the great outpouring of grief and rage that followed, you’d be hounded by the police and demonised by the media.
‘Footballers can do no wrong, is that it, Tank?’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying it’s a real waste, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes his chick was there.’
‘Watching him as he trained?’
‘Yeah. Poor kid.’
The new, softer John Tankard. Pam braked gently for the car ahead, which in turn had braked for the red Mitsubishi ahead of it. All three came to a complete stop, allowing a huge semi loaded with pine vineyard posts to reverse into a narrow gateway. Clearly the driver had been waiting some time for an opportunity to complete the manoeuvre, but the traffic had been heavy, impatient, not prepared to give him a break. It was a rare good deed, and Pam followed the traffic right at the intersection and then left over the railway line. By now the Mitsubishi was directly ahead of them.
‘Where are we going?’
Pam said impatiently, ‘That car, Tank, didn’t you see?’
‘See what?’
‘Stopped to let that truck reverse just now.’
‘Oh.’
Tankard straightened, seemed to make an effort. ‘Look at that guy-’
A man tying a banner to a picket fence: ‘Devilbend Reservoir. Out’.
‘So?’
‘Guerrilla tactics,’ Tankard said, rubbing his meaty hands together. ‘Come back after dark and rip it down.’
Pam thought he might, too. ‘So much for free speech.’
Tankard scowled and muttered, an inarticulate man full of impatience and insupportable burdens. Pam thought he was probably representative of most people and there was no point in probing into his views. ‘There,’ she said, taking her hand from the steering wheel and pointing.
The township of Baxter was behind them. They were passing through farmland again, but halfway up a long slope ahead of them was a cyclone fence and a vast yard of wrecked cars. The red Mitsubishi slowed, indicator light blinking, and pulled into the parking area outside the main gates. Peninsula Wrecking, according to a faded sign.
Pam pulled in alongside the red car and introduced herself to the startled driver, a pleasant-looking man in his sixties. He was delighted to get the bag of rewards, but protested that he didn’t deserve to.
‘My wing mirror,’ he said, pointing. ‘Swiped it off getting petrol.’
Pam appreciated the irony: it was a roadworthy item. ‘Even so, sir, you’re a courteous driver, and I just know you’re going to fit the replacement mirror before driving away from here.’
She grinned, he grinned.
She returned to the car, but Tank was standing at the fence, looking in at row after row of cars, some damaged, others mere shells. ‘We couldn’t stop for a few minutes, could we?’
‘What for?’
‘Busted window winder.’
Pam pictured the wallowing, barge-like station wagon in which he carted around young footballers and their gear on Saturday mornings. ‘Sure, why not.’
While Tank asked for directions in the office, Pam wandered. The huge lot had been sectioned according to make and type of vehicle and was a scrounger’s dream. Down one row she went, up another. She was struck by how few of the cars were damaged. Many were simply old or had no resale value except as a source of secondhand parts. The sun had taken its toll on the paintwork, the rain on exposed metal, and so at first she didn’t register the significance of the dirty-white 1983 Commodore sitting on its axles in mud and grass in a row of similar sad old wrecks.
Challis spent Friday morning away from the incident room. The breaks were coming quickly now, and he felt impatient. He visited the car impound and watched for a while as the forensic techs printed the Commodore found by Pam Murphy and examined it for fibres, hair and traces of blood and other fluids. Then he spent a frustrating hour speaking to Nathan Gent’s neighbours. When he returned to the Waterloo police station it was to a scene of chaos at the front desk. At least twenty people were lined up waiting for customer service.
He poked his head around Kellock’s door. ‘What’s up?’
The senior sergeant shrugged his massive shoulders tiredly. ‘Maybe this doesn’t apply to you hotshots in CIU, but the Police Association has announced a go-slow.’
It was hard to determine where Kellock stood on the matter. ‘Ah,’ Challis said.
‘The usuaclass="underline" better pay rates and working conditions. And so we have no unpaid overtime, no court attendances except by subpoena, bans on management duties, the assigning of custodial nurses rather than police members to medicate prisoners, and the issuing of discretionary warnings or summonses to appear in court, rather than penalty notices.’
As if Kellock were reading from a press release. Challis sympathised with the Federation, always had. He nodded briefly, then headed for the stairs, encountering Pam Murphy in the corridor. ‘Sir,’ she said, walking on.
‘Wait.’
‘Sir?’
‘That was a good job you did, spotting the Commodore. Well done.’
She blushed. ‘Thanks. Sir.’
Challis nodded and headed upstairs.