Kittyhawk Down

'One and the same, Hal, one and the same.'

Well, no, they weren't, and it wasn't Challis's job to soothe his superintendent. 'Sir, I don't think the murders are related.'

'Have to be. Have to be. What's forensics tell you?'

'It's difficult with shotgun shootings, sir.'

Surely McQuarrie knew that? Ordinarily, the superintendent thought that forensic evidence was everything. In Challis's experience, forensic evidence was often imprecise and forensic experts were rarely expert enough, and in some instances had little or no training, or tried to do CIB's work for them. He didn't say any of this to McQuarrie, but went on to deflect the man, saying he'd seen him on television the night before.

'I thought you handled it well, sir. Impressive. Struck the right note.'

And in his mind's eye saw the man swell and beam on the other end of the telephone.

But he felt the pressure and called a briefing. The Special Operations commander reported first, brief and clipped as if he were a busy man and wanted to get this wrapped up so he could return to Melbourne where the air didn't smell of fishermen and orchardists.

'No sightings of Munro lately, but we did find those illegals,' he said with satisfaction. 'They were camping out at the tip.'

He said it as if he'd expected nothing less, and Challis was pleased to notice distaste in the faces of Ellen, Scobie and a couple of the others.

When the man was gone, Challis asked for updates from the CIB detectives investigating the shooting. 'Scobie?'

Sutton's lean, mournful face grew longer. 'I've been concentrating on Pearce's correspondence with the Progress and the shire. Both kept a file of his letters and I've been contacting those people he'd reported for littering, etcetera, etcetera. They were all puzzled, said, "How did you learn about that?" or "I'd forgotten about that". No one seemed pissed off enough to want to kill Pearce.'

'Did any of them say that Pearce contacted them direct, before he reported them?'

'No. That doesn't seem to have been his style, Hal.'

'True, but if he was impatient with officialdom dragging its heels, maybe he did take direct action. Also, check daily in case he sent letters that have been delayed in the post.'

'Done.'

'And his phone records.'

'Done.'

'And check the wife. Maybe she was the main target.'

Sutton nodded glumly. Challis turned to Ellen Destry. She looked tired. She'd hinted in the carpark earlier that there were problems at home. The daughter, the daughter's boyfriend, her husband, Challis thought. Or all of them. 'Ellen?' he said.

'I don't want to see another lawyer's caseload,' she said. 'Seigert dealt with wills, conveyancing and small business contracts. All deadly dull, all formulaic, nothing there to give rise to murderous passions. Except in someone like Ian Munro. There's a fat folder devoted to correspondence from Munro, Munro saying in effect that Seigert had sold him out and all lawyers are bastards and Seigert was going to get it in the neck one day when he least expected it.'

'A clear threat to kill?'

'More or less,' Ellen said.

'No witnesses? No sightings of Munro or his vehicle?'

'Nothing.'

Challis looked from Ellen to Scobie. 'What about correspondence received by Pearce? Anything at the house?'

Scobie shrugged. 'His mother wrote sometimes, there were some bills, receipts, junk mail, bank statements.'

'Any unusual payments in or out?'

'No.'

'That all?'

'Apart from his scrapbook,' Ellen said, glancing at Scobie, who muttered: 'You saw it, Hal, that day we found the bodies, all those Meddler notes and clippings from the local paper.'

Was Challis imagining it, or were Sutton and Destry stepping carefully where it came to Tessa Kane? They knew of his involvement with her. They probably wondered about its nature: mainly sexual? True love? Or was Challis using her to offer, and gather, information? Then his heart began to hammer: he hadn't told Tessa that Mostyn Pearce was the Meddler. He owed her that. Wanting to get Ellen and Scobie out of his office now, he said, 'Anything else in the house to interest us?'

'Only the damn ferret,' Ellen said. 'Which has escaped, by the way.'

'And the tapes,' Scobie said.

'What tapes?'

'Videos.'

Challis remembered. TV programs, films, documentaries, football grand finals… Nothing there to stir the heart.

'Any personal stuff on tape?'

'Their wedding.'

'My weary bones,' Challis said, his way of saying that it was time to go back to work and it would be thankless.

When they were gone, he dialled Tessa's mobile number. 'It's me.'

There was a pause, then a bright, 'Hello, me.'

He didn't want to banter just then. 'I thought you should know-Mostyn Pearce was the Meddler.'

This time the pause spoke volumes and her voice when it came was strained. 'You're only just now telling me this? It's been days. Are you sure? No, forget I said that, of course you're sure-but didn't you think I was important enough, central enough, to be informed?'

The phone went dead in his ear before he could add that the escaped asylum seekers had been found; and he thought absurdly that he didn't want to lose her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

When Carl Lister had said he wanted to be kept informed, he hadn't said it would be every bloody day. Here he was, Tuesday morning, on her doorstep.

Pam yawned. 'I was on till midnight. I'm on again this evening. I'll be hopeless if I don't get my sleep.'

He pushed past her and she seemed to blink and find herself making him instant coffee in her kitchen. The autumn sun was streaming in and ordinarily she'd have loved to sit there at the table over a steaming coffee, half awake in the warm splash of sunlight.

'I haven't got anything for you,' she said.

'You must have something. Dealers, pushers, runners, importers, addicts, the local Mr Big. Who's supplying the local school kids, the clubs? Who's pushing in the mall? Who's growing it, who's manufacturing it? These are the type of people who might come to me for money. I need to know beforehand if they're known to the police.'

So she told him about Ian Munro's marijuana crop.

He dismissed Munro with a wave of his hand. 'Everyone knows that. What else have you got?'

The Waterloo police station was full of names and drug-related activities: possession, possession with intent, all small-time stuff. She gave Lister a few names. 'Dwayne Venn,' she said. 'Brad Pike.'

'Pike? Piece of shit,' Lister snarled. He looked at her closely. 'Do you think he's responsible?'

Pam looked at him in bewilderment. Surely Bradley Pike wasn't a major league player in the local drug scene?

'For killing his girlfriend's kid,' Lister explained irritably.

'Oh. Yes. Guilty as sin.'

'I agree. Any other names?'

'No.'

Lister got up to leave, his coffee untouched. 'I'll need more, girlie. Otherwise I start calling in your loan the old-fashioned way.'

What did that mean? Court action? Bailiffs? A knee-capping?

John Tankard was on duty but felt so miserable half the time that he wanted to cry. Plus he was knackered, but unable to sleep. And his judgement was shot to pieces.

So he went herbing off to Penzance Beach in the divisional van and sounded the siren outside Pam Murphy's place for a bit of a giggle. Maybe she'd ask him in or he could talk her into going to the Fiddler's Creek pub later for a glass of suds.

Fat chance. She really spewed when she saw him, said she'd been on duty and was catching up on sleep, so why didn't he just bugger off and leave her alone.

'My second visitor this morning,' she snarled. 'What the hell do you want?'

So who'd been the first visitor? 'Don't be like that,' Tankard said.

'Like what? You come here in broad daylight, siren blasting when I'm trying to sleep, and you expect me to like it? God knows what the neighbours think.' She laughed without humour. 'Probably take one look, see who's making the racket, and think to themselves: typical, it's the stormtrooper.'