An hour later he called a briefing.
‘Here’s what we have: on Sunday, Ellen discovered a shallow grave in Myers Reserve. We’re fairly certain the body recovered at the scene is that of Nathan Gent. The age is right, the clothing, the missing ring finger on the right hand. We expect dental confirmation soon. We know that Gent had bought-but not registered-his cousin’s 1983 Holden Commodore. Two features of this car match the car seen leaving the scene of Janine McQuarrie s murder by the taxi driver, Joe Ovens: a mismatched driver’s door and part of the registration. As you know, Georgia McQuarrie described the driver as missing a finger on his right hand, but didn’t recognise a photo we found in Gent’s house because it showed him when he was younger, with long hair. The neighbours describe him as overweight, with a shaved head. Since then his sister has sent us a more recent photograph, and both Georgia and Joseph Ovens are certain that he’s the man driving the Commodore.’
He paused. One of the civilian clerks came in with a container of freshly brewed coffee. Challis thanked her, waited for her to leave, and went on:
‘Meanwhile, we’ve had a ballistics report. Dr Berg recovered a 9mm slug from the body.’
He showed them photographs. Scobie Sutton sat up, alert. ‘Doesn’t match the slugs recovered from Janine McQuarrie or Tessa Kane, by any chance?’
‘No.’
Scobie slumped. They all did.
‘However,’ Challis said, smiling at them, ‘there is an anomaly common to all three sets of slugs: a faint but telling scrape mark. Our shooter used a suppressor. Either he didn’t fit it properly each time, or there’s a slight flaw in its design or manufacture.’
‘He used different pistols but the same suppressor,’ Ellen said.
‘That’s the theory,’ Challis said.
‘So all three shootings are related.’
‘Yes.’
‘Our shooter tops Janine,’ a Mornington DC said, ‘and later tops the guy who drove him-cleaning up loose ends?’
Challis caught Ellen’s compassionate glance, and gave her a brief smile. If he hadn’t let the media run with the anonymous caller story, Nathan Gent might still be alive. But right now he couldn’t afford to think about that. ‘Then later he shot Tessa Kane,’ he said, ‘probably acting alone this time. The motive’s still unclear, except that the sex parties link both women and both murders.’
Challis let them brood on that, then told them more about Nathan Gent. ‘After he lost his finger he was offered a desk job, but declined, electing to leave the Navy instead. According to one of the psychologists who assessed him at the time, he was deeply depressed. Maybe that grew into disaffection. He leaves the Navy and hooks up with other disaffected ex-Navy types-or at least one other, our shooter.’
He watched them absorb that, and went on: ‘Then he’s hired to be the driver on a hit, and makes a mistake, uses his own car. Realising his mistake, he sells it to a wrecking yard near Baxter. No plates, but the owner remembers Gent and gave a good description. As yet,’ he said, glancing around the big table, ‘there’s no useful forensics. Plenty of prints-too many. That car was stripped of its seats, steering wheel, radio, seatbelts, rear view mirror, glovebox lid, virtually everything. But the lab’s running the prints as we speak, so let’s hope they find a match to someone who’s in the system.’
‘We’re sure it’s the car?’
‘Yes. The plates were removed but we matched the VIN and engine numbers to the car owned by Nora Gent.’
‘All we need is one print, boss.’
‘True, but maybe our shooter’s never been printed. Maybe he wore gloves the whole time. And we’d expect to find Nathan’s prints.’
They absorbed that. They had half an ear to the phones in the room. It was like waiting for a watched pot to boil. In fact, they were standing to file out of the room when the call came. Challis motioned for them to sit, then replaced the receiver and grinned at them. ‘We’ve got our one print,’ he said. ‘Apparently our man checked his appearance in the mirror attached to the sun visor.’ He paused. ‘Trevor Vyner, done time for assault and armed robbery. And,’ he said, ‘he’s ex-Navy.’
They all seemed easier in their chairs now.
61
By late afternoon they had an address for Vyner, search warrants and an arrest warrant. Four Armed Response officers would go in first. Challis supposed they were necessary, but they made him nervous. The country had almost zero gun ownership, so what did they do from one day to the next but train and fantasise? Over-trained and under-experienced, they had nothing to model their behaviour on but American movies. He watched their swagger in the foyer of Vyner’s building, young, trigger-happy men dressed in the latest street combat gear. They knew who Challis was: the cuckold whose wife set him up to be murdered by a fellow cop. They knew who Ellen was: the cop-the female cop-who’d let herself get shot. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to them, their gum-chewing jaws seemed to be saying.
Challis was almost glad that Vyner’s flat was empty. He’d asked for a watch on the place while the warrants were being sworn, and nobody had been spotted going in or out, but that hadn’t meant Vyner wasn’t there, prepared to shoot it out to the death. He stepped through the splintered doorframe-management had made a key available, but that wasn’t the Armed Response team’s style-and quickly prowled through the four spare, unloved Ikea rooms. He guessed that Vyner carried the habits of teenage detention, Navy life and prison with him, and had little room or need for possessions.
‘You can go now,’ he said, tired of edging around big men who were armed to the teeth.
‘What if he comes back?’
‘Post two officers in the corridor and two in the foyer,’ Challis said.
They filed out, their uniforms and equipment creaking and clinking. Challis stood at the window and looked out over the acres of new apartment buildings that had reclaimed some of the old factory districts beside the river. He’d lost touch with the city. He’d walked along Southbank with Ellen just now and wondered who the people were, eating in the outdoor cafes, walking along the river path and watching the jugglers. He guessed there was a lot of disposable income around nowadays. You didn’t see it in Waterloo.
‘Hal,’ said Ellen, coming up beside him. The setting sun was warm through the glass, bringing on a drowsy kind of desire in him, and he almost put his arm around her.
‘Find something?’
‘These,’ Ellen said.
She showed him a couple of notebooks. Challis flipped through them, stopping at key phrases here and there. ‘Some kind of anti-government, fundamentalist, Aryan survivalist nutcase?’ he surmised.
Ellen grinned. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Doesn’t make him any less dangerous.’
‘No.’
‘Here you are,’ said a voice.
They turned. McQuarrie stood there, brisk, overcoated, slapping fine leather gloves against one palm. Off to a Rotary dinner, guessed Challis sourly.
‘Sir.’
‘I understand you’ve identified the man who shot Janine?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ellen, stepping forward as if to forestall criticisms the man might want to make. She began to lay it out for him, Vyner’s past and the possible importance of the Navy connection, but he was soon nodding impatiently and finally cut her off. ‘I expect this means my son is now in the clear.’
It was issued as a challenge, not a question. Ellen looked to Challis for guidance, but Challis felt a surge of anger, which went unrecognised by McQuarrie, who went on, ‘You were way off beam there, Hal, admit it. Wasted man-hours, unnecessary-’
The anger built in Challis, the product of weeks of frustration and grief. It was hot and blinding. He had to blink. He said tightly, ‘No one’s in the clear, least of all your son. He was, and is, a logical suspect.’
‘Logical? You dislike my son. There’s no logic involved.’
Ellen coughed. ‘I’ll continue searching,’ she said, and slipped out of the room. The men ignored her. They were facing off rigidly.