Wurfel remained in the office, ignoring Challis. He raced through his in-tray in a kind of habitual fury and made several abrupt phone calls while Challis tried to concentrate. The file was brief and told him nothing he didn’t already know. There was no mention of the letters that Meg had received, only a brief, handwritten update made several months after Gavin’s car had been found abandoned at the side of the road: ‘Suicide scenario not favoured by Mrs Hurst. Says her husband ran away.’ But there were two unrelated reports in the file. One a domestic disturbance callout to the residence of Gavin and Meg Hurst, another an interview with Meg following a report that she’d been assaulted by Gavin: ‘Mrs Hurst declines to press charges.’
Challis pushed the file across the desk to Wurfel. ‘Thanks, sergeant. I appreciate it.’
Wurfel grunted. ‘We gave the kid a verbal warning.’
Challis blinked, then understood. ‘Mark Finucane?’
‘He’s not a bad kid, considering the family he belongs to.’
‘I know all about the Finucanes,’ Challis said.
He returned to the main street and wandered, his mind drifting, but after a while the town began to impinge on him. People kept stopping to say hello, ask after his father and reminisce about the old days, when he’d been just another town kid and later, for a short time, one of the town’s three policemen. They didn’t dwell on this latter aspect of his past, and Challis was thankful for that, but, as he walked, he wondered what he’d gained and lost by moving away. Professional advancement, sure, broader horizons, but at a cost. Did he have a family now, or a community? He was remote from the former, and despite his years on the Peninsula, and in the police force, he inhabited the margins, not the centre. How much that owed to his not fitting in, and how much to not wanting to, he really couldn’t say.
He walked on. Small things-a voice, a gait, the hot-wood smell of a verandah post in the bright springtime sun-aroused in him powerful memories of his school days and weekends in Mawson’s Bluff, a time of idle, harmless vandalism, boredom and longing. He even found himself feeling the same hostility or indifference toward some people, the same affection for others.
And the same desire. He’d slipped into the Copper Kettle for coffee, and was standing at the cash register, when a lithe shape pressed against his back, arms encircled him from behind, and a voice breathed, ‘Guess who, handsome?’
He knew at once. He felt his body yielding, arching, his head tipping back and inclining toward her mouth, which reached up and pecked him on the hinge of his jaw. He turned around then. ‘Lisa.’
She grinned and released him.
‘Lovely to see you,’ he said.
She continued to grin. He was a little discomposed. A part of him meant what he’d said, for she was as lovely as he’d remembered, still slight, nimble, direct, her dark hair cropped short, her dark eyes bright with affection. Another part of him remembered her directness and how uncomplicated and selfish her ambitions had been.
‘Join me?’ he said.
‘What are you having?’
‘Coffee and a muffin.’
Another customer was already waiting, but Lisa, smiling apologetically, called to the counter hand, ‘I’ll have the same. Strong coffee.’
‘Yes, Mrs Joyce.’
‘You have to tell them to make it strong, Hal.’
Challis forked out more money and they found a table beside a window. There had been nothing like the Copper Kettle when they were growing up. The decor suggested sidewalk cafй bohemia, and you could consume anything from a soy latte to a smoked salmon baguette. It was evident that the locals patronised it, too: he saw shopkeepers, farmers, housewives, visiting salesmen, kids on their way home from school.
‘Sorry to hear about your dad,’ Lisa said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Is he, you know…’
‘Meg thinks he’ll go soon, but he’s so pigheaded he could rally for a few weeks or months, or even go on like this forever.’
Lisa nodded. ‘My parents are still going strong. Rex’s are barely hanging on.’
Her wealthy husband’s parents had retired to the town, signing everything over to their son. Challis wondered if Lisa had been behind that. Rex Joyce’s parents had seemed old and frail twenty years ago. As Lisa said, they must barely be hanging on now.
‘How is Rex?’
Lisa told him. He scarcely took it in, finding attractive-all over again-her fine, animated features and gestures. She was very alive there, on the other side of the little table. Their knees touched, and their shoes, once or twice. But he did take in the fact that Lisa was disgruntled. Rex Joyce was a drinker. He remembered that Meg had told him that.
‘And you?’ she asked. She gave him a lopsided look. ‘Are you over all that…business?’
She meant the fact that Angela, his late wife, had tried to have him killed. Lisa’s voice and manner suggested that despite everything else she had or might have done to him, she would never have wanted to kill him. He nodded, feeling tired suddenly. It was as if he was being confronted by past mistakes-mistakes in matters of the heart, first with Lisa and then with Angela. He said bluntly, ‘It would never have worked, you and me.’
She wasn’t disconcerted. She patted his wrist. ‘In fact, it didn’t work. But it was fun.’
He grinned. She returned it, and said lightly, ‘Involved with anyone at the moment?’
Her gaze was direct, amused but merciless. He met it, thinking rapidly. Lisa was acting on him; the old chemistry was still there. But old instincts were kicking in, too. He remembered that Lisa Acres was not someone you confided in. If she listened it was to store information that she might use one day-against you, or to her advantage, or both.
‘Cat got your tongue, Hal?’
That tugged at his memory, too. He’d often been mute with her, back when he was eighteen, mainly out of simple astonishment: he’d never met anyone so vain, unreliable, bored and easily distracted. All those careless, shrugging explanations for missed appointments and unreturned phone calls. Reproaches never worked because she was unaccommodating, unconcerned about hurting him and unable to make concessions. But her sauntering walk, sleepy smile and softly rounded, flawless brown skin had made up for all of that, over and over again.
She saw all of this passing across his face and a brief, peevish expression flickered on hers, as if she was like everyone else and wanted to be loved. Her gaze slipped to the table.
He sipped his coffee and said inanely, ‘How’s the drought affecting you and Rex?’
‘The drought? For God’s sake.’
The tightness persisted between them. Presently Lisa said, ‘I see Eve in here sometimes. A whole gang of them. Nice kids.’
‘Yes,’ said Challis, relieved.
‘I feel sorry for her.’
‘Eve’s okay.’
Lisa reached across and placed her hand over his and it felt hot and alive there. ‘On the surface, maybe.’
He withdrew his hand. ‘Did you know Gavin?’
Lisa sipped her coffee. ‘This is all froth. Gavin? Not really. He was not someone you got close to.’
Challis had to acknowledge the truth of that.
‘Well, I’d better go,’ Lisa said, getting to her feet and bending over to kiss him. She swept out of the place as though she owned it, as she’d always done.
He sat for a while, reluctant to return to his father, and checked his phone, which had been turned off. One message. He dialled, mood lightening, and said, ‘Only me, returning your call.’
Last night Ellen had been elated: Katie Blasko had been found alive. Today the elation was still apparent in her voice, but Challis also heard resolve. She now knew what sort of crime and criminals she was investigating. ‘Hang on,’ he told her, ‘I’m in the local cafй, and I don’t want to upset the natives.’
Smiling thanks as he passed the front counter, he stepped outside. ‘I’m back,’ he said.
They talked for a while about the possibility that a paedophile ring operated on the Peninsula. Like her, he’d heard the rumours. ‘Or it was an isolated incident,’ he said.