‘No, Steven, everything is not okay.’
Mara was wearing dark glasses. Finch wished she’d take them off. Something was wrong but without seeing her eyes he couldn’t gauge how wrong. ‘Sorry to hear it,’ he said inadequately.
Mara slapped a photograph onto the counter. A4 size, a little grainy, but clearly Suze, face on, all in black, doing what she did best, he was guessing.
He glanced expressionlessly at the photo, tilted his head this way and that, looked up with a questioning look. ‘Who is it? Is it your place?’ he asked. Thinking, Suze, what the fuck have you done?
‘It is indeed our place, and we thought you might know who this person is,’ Mara said, tapping with a hooked fingernail.
The goods for sale on Finch’s shop floor seemed closer suddenly, darker. ‘Sorry, never seen her before.’
Mara stood back from the counter and regarded him with a scary smile. ‘We have done business in the past, Steven. Correct?’
His mouth was dry. ‘Correct.’
‘Paintings, drawings?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve never asked you where these items come from, and you have never asked us what we’ve done with them, correct?’
‘That’s how it works,’ Finch agreed.
‘So you probably think our walls are dripping with art works.’
Finch didn’t like where this was going. ‘Never thought about it.’
And that was no lie, but tell her that.
‘Really, Steve? Never wondered idly what treasures we might have at home? Thought to yourself, I hope their security is adequate for all those valuable paintings they have hanging on their walls.’
Deciding not to be bullied, Finch said, ‘Mara, spit it out.’
‘This… person,’ said Mara Niekirk, ‘broke into my home on Wednesday night and stole two items from me. Both had sentimental value, but one also had a very high dollar value.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘You don’t know her?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘But you do know people like her? They bring you things: TV sets, iPods, cameras, the odd Albert Tucker painting?’
‘Yes, but-’
Warren Niekirk, looking left out, spoke up. ‘Look Steve old son, all we’re asking is, if this chick comes into the shop wanting to sell you a Russian icon or a little Klee painting, let us know, all right? We’ll take it from there.’
His wife’s dark glasses flashed but he forged on. ‘We want both items back, no questions asked, okay, Steve?’
‘Sure,’ said Finch, thinking that Mara had something other than no-questions-asked in mind. ‘But I can’t think why she’d come to me.’
I can’t think why she robbed a house in her own back yard, he thought. He also thought he’d better act quickly if he was going to make any money out of the situation. Get to Suze before anyone else did.
‘Can I keep this?’ he asked, lifting the photograph from the counter top.
It was the kind of thing an innocent man might say.
41
The bullet, when it came, was disguised as an e-mail from Human Resources.
It has come to our attention, etcetera. Three months’ long-service leave, to be taken forthwith, etcetera.
Late Friday afternoon, and Challis checked the calendar. The bastards were giving him less than a fortnight to clear his desk.
He propped his feet on the open bottom drawer and swivelled in his chair. The chair screeched for want of lubrication but he didn’t hear it. The view from his window, the books on his shelves, the photographs on his desk.
The photographs. His sister and niece in outback South Australiait was time he saw them again. And there was Ellen Destry with a wide grin that tugged at his heart and made him feel shy. More photos on a pinboard beside the window, a record of his history with his old aeroplane: the Dragon in bits, and on the back of a truck for the journey down from Queensland, and being offloaded in Tyabb, and having a new tailplane fitted, a hole repaired. Finally, sitting on the tarmac, a strangely beautiful insect.
He’d put out feelers to museums and collectors. Now it was a waiting game.
There was another photograph in the room: his dead wife, face down on the top shelf, gathering dust. Guilt was a strange thing, he’d never been quite ready to throw her out.
Meanwhile, he had work to do. Calling an impromptu briefing a short time later, he leaned against the whiteboard while Murphy and Sutton took their positions at the long table and said, ‘I don’t like coincidences.’
He was in shirtsleeves, the long room holding the day’s accumulated heat. As he peeled his shoulder from the whiteboard, it came away imprinted with blue marker, a reversal of a question mark scrawled there. Craning his head to examine it, plucking at the cotton, he said, ‘I guess that will teach me.’
‘New police insignia, boss,’ Scobie Sutton suggested.
Challis blinked. It was rare for Sutton to make a quip about anything.
‘Our new slogan,’ Pam Murphy said. ‘“CIU: we get things the wrong way around”.’
It was the time of the day for weary humour and, grinning tiredly, Challis slumped at the head of the table. ‘Coincidences,’ he repeated, and explained, for Scobie Sutton’s benefit, about his two encounters with the Niekirks.
‘You think they’re bent?’
‘I honestly don’t know. On the surface, they seem to be the victims of two quite different crimes: cheated by a man who sold them an iffy aeroplane, and broken into by a burglar who didn’t steal anything.’
‘But?’
In answer, Challis dialled a number on his mobile phone. ‘John? Come on up.’
They waited. John Tankard edged into the room, gazing about. ‘Wow, is this where the action is?’
Challis sighed. ‘Cut it out Tank.’
‘Sorry sir.’
‘The Niekirks’ intruder.’
‘What about him? Her?’
Challis paused. ‘Her?’
Tankard screwed up his pouchy face in concentration. ‘It’s just, you know, a feeling I had. Could’ve been a bloke, could’ve been a woman. Something about the what do you call it, body language.’
‘You didn’t mention this in your report.’
‘Wasn’t sure, to be honest.’
Challis didn’t pursue it. ‘But this person was holding something?’
‘Kind of a gym bag.’
‘Full? Empty?’
‘I had the feeling it was full.’
‘How long between the call to triple zero and your arrival at the scene?’
‘Dunno. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? We were busy.’
‘Thanks, John.’
Tankard went out, looking short-changed, trying to catch Pam Murphy’s eye.
‘So,’ said Challis, ‘we have an intruder on the premises for up to thirty minutes, seen leaving with a bag that appeared to have certain items in it. Tools? Stolen goods? We don’t know. The Niekirks claim nothing was stolen, but something about all this bothers me. Don’t be proactive, just continue working your usual cases, but keep your eyes and ears open, maybe you’ll hear something about other break-ins or about the Niekirks.’
‘Boss.’
Scobie Sutton got to his feet first, then hesitated. ‘Something on your mind?’ said Challis.
In a rush, Sutton said, ‘Are either of you doing anything on Sunday afternoon?’
Challis and Murphy went very still and their minds raced. ‘I have a buyer lined up for my car,’ Challis said. ‘Why?’
‘Roslyn’s school concert, if you’re interested. The tickets are cheap.’
‘Sorry, Scobe.’
‘I’m having lunch with my parents,’ Pam said.
‘Oh well, next time,’ Sutton said, and he left the room.
Watching him leave, they exchanged small, guilty smiles. Sutton had talked about every stage of his daughter’s progress over the years, inviting everyone to share in it.
‘Are you really selling your car on Sunday?’
‘I am, in fact. Are you really going to see your parents?’
‘I am now.’
Challis grinned, gathering his papers together, and saw a sudden alteration in Pam Murphy. Her eyes lost focus, she gave a tiny, involuntary body spasm. Realising he’d seen her do it before, he said, ‘Are you okay?’