Kittyhawk Down

'This way,' Tankard said, walking toward a door in the screened-in back porch.

'Please,' a voice said suddenly, 'leave us alone.'

A woman was standing in the doorway. Pam had encountered Scobie Sutton in the carpark earlier and told him about Munro, and he'd described Munro's wife as looking 'worn out'. More than worn out, Pam thought, peering at Munro's wife through the grimy screen door. Defeated. Waiting for the inevitable, whatever that might be.

'Mrs Munro?' Tankard said. 'We need to speak to your husband.'

Her voice was flat. 'Can't you leave us alone?'

'Just a quick word.'

'He's got a lot on his plate at the moment.'

'This won't take long.'

The woman's voice changed in tone, becoming shrill and accusatory. 'You people just can't let up, can you? You just push and deny and quote regulations this and regulations that until the ordinary person has lost everything, including their dignity.'

Pam wondered if these were Aileen Munro's words or her husband's. 'We won't take up much of Mr Munro's time,' she said. 'Just a couple of quick questions.'

'If it's about the RSPCA inspector-'

'An allegation has been made,' Tankard said. 'You know the drilclass="underline" save yourself some grief and just tell us where he is.'

Pam placed her hand warningly on his arm. Short sleeves. The flesh was moist. She jerked her hand away again and said, 'Perhaps you could ask him to come to the police station in Waterloo?'

'It's okay, love, I'll talk to them.'

Ian Munro had been standing in the gloom behind his wife all along. His face, hands and shirt front were damp, as though he'd come in for morning tea and thrown handfuls of water over himself to sluice away farmyard grime. At first glance he didn't necessarily look like the kind of man you couldn't turn your back on. He had a pleasant, forty-year-old weatherbeaten farmer's face and looked a lot healthier and better adjusted than his wife. His body was a neat package of muscles and tendons, contained and fit and graceful, like a large, sleek dog. Pam was attracted and repelled.

He'd shaved scrupulously, leaving neat sideburns that ended level with the bottoms of his ears. He wore half-moon specs, the frames thick and chewed-looking, the lenses a little scratched or scorched, as though he wore them for close work, like wielding a grease gun under a farm implement, or welding a metal gate.

But he was staring at Pam over the lenses and there was definitely something unhinged in the gaze-strong feelings of antagonism barely held in check, a quickness to take offence, a contempt for officialdom. It was there briefly, and gone again, as though she'd imagined it.

'May we come in, sir?'

'No.'

'Perhaps we could talk out here then,' Pam suggested.

'All right.'

He came out, passing close to Pam so that she could smell him, a not-unpleasant mix of the morning's shampoo and shaving cream, perspiration, diesel fuel and something familiar yet harder to place. Some kind of oil?

She froze. Gun oil.

'What's this about?' he said mildly.

'An RSPCA inspector by the name of Clive Fenwick alleges that you assaulted him,' Tankard said.

'No he doesn't. And I didn't,' Munro said. Then he smiled, a dismissive half-smile, showing more gums than teeth, waiting as if he had all the time in the world.

'But you did threaten him?' Pam said.

'His word against mine. Little jumped-up office clerk.'

'You kicked him,' Tankard said.

'Look,' Munro said, glancing at his watch. 'I'm busy. If there's nothing more…'

'Booted him in the arse.'

'Did he own up to that? A grown man?'

They were getting nowhere. 'Sir,' Pam said, 'a kick is a kick. It can be construed as assault. Did you or didn't you-'

'Is the prick pressing charges?'

'Well, no, but that's not the point. Did-'

'Goodbye,' Munro said, and he walked calmly, economically, back through his screen door and into the inner darkness.

They returned to Waterloo, passing the snake in the grass again. This time he seemed to be pissing against a tree. Then the radio was squawking. Something about the library and pornography, and would they deal with it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Scobie drove them from the aerodrome back to Waterloo. 'So what next?'

'We search Munro's farm,' Ellen said. 'The whole kit and caboodle-paddocks, sheds, house, motor vehicles, the works.'

Scobie nodded. 'With armed backup.'

From his seat in the rear of the car, Challis leaned into the gap between the front seats. 'Why? Do we know him?'

Scobie nodded. 'Threatening behaviour, a couple of minor assaults, brandishing a weapon, mostly against bank officials and shire inspectors.'

'What kind of weapon?'

'Shotgun.'

They fell silent.

Then Ellen took out her mobile phone and called ahead to get the paperwork started on a search warrant. She finished with a call to Kellock. It was a long conversation and Challis tuned out until she angrily shut and pocketed the phone, saying, 'Pompous prick.'

'What did he say?'

'He can probably let us have Tankard and Murphy. He asked how long before we called on Munro. I said as long as it took to get a warrant and work out a plan of action. He said how long would that be. I said as soon as possible-an hour, two hours. He said Tankard and Murphy are working on a job at the moment and get off at four today. I said have you got anyone working later than four today? He said no. I said we'll try to finish before four. He said, and I quote: "It would be only fair on my officers if you did." His officers. They can't stand the man.' She paused. 'Actually, he said that Tankard and Murphy were at Munro's a short time ago. Something about an assault on an RSPCA inspector.' She glanced at Scobie. 'So that fits in with what you told us.'

'Let's hope they didn't get Munro's back up,' Challis said. 'Do we know where they are now?'

'Gone to the library.'

'Library?'

'Someone's been logging on to porn sites.'

Challis saw Scobie Sutton shake his head. He guessed what the detective was thinking: there are traps for children around every corner and how can you possibly anticipate them?

He yawned. With the warmth and motion of the CIB car, he gazed sleepily through the window and began to wool-gather. He could see the BHP smokestacks in the distance, furniture barns and muffler shops closer to. But Waterloo always threw up incongruities. There was an inner-city style delicatessen in the main street and just now they were passing a showroom full of beautifully crafted blackwood, teak, jarrah and Huon pine tables, chairs and sideboards. And just last week he'd met an installer of solar-heated swimming pools who was in demand all over Australia.

So who had tried to kill Kitty, and why? Assuming it was attempted murder and not a drunken or doped-up or deranged stranger acting on impulse.

There had been a time early in his career when Challis found it uncanny the way two or three CIB detectives will find themselves thinking unconsciously along the same lines or about the same thing. But now he took it for granted, and was not surprised to hear Scobie Sutton say: 'If Munro wanted to kill the Casement woman, why wait all this time?'

And not surprised to hear Ellen reply, as though she'd been waiting for the question: 'He bought a photo from her, so maybe he thought he had the only copy. Then he learnt that she had an extra one or started asking himself what if she did have an extra one.'

'How would he know she had an extra copy unless he saw it on her pinboard? And if he did, why not take it and burn it? Unless he feared that would draw attention to it.'

'I don't know,' Ellen said. 'Is he someone likely to visit the airfield?'

Scobie shook his head. 'Not the Munro I know of.'

Ellen turned, leaning to peer at Challis between the seats. 'Hal? Any thoughts?'