Tank had told her that might happen. If enough people complained about him, Ethical Standards might be obliged to take a look.
‘Perhaps you’re not aware, Constable Murphy,’ Kellock put in, ‘exactly what an Ethical Standards visit can mean. If they find against you then not only does your station undergo random behavioural management audits, but the officers under scrutiny would be forced to undergo extra behaviour and leadership courses at the Academy. Is that what you want?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Fortunately the Superintendent and I are confident that Mr Bastian’s complaint falls within the resolution process. There’s no need for further examination from outside.’
‘Complaint, sir?’
‘Harassment.’
Pam shook her head, thinking, I don’t believe this.
McQuarrie leaned forward. ‘Constable Murphy, isn’t it possible there was something unsound about the arrest? Isn’t it possible that Constable Tankard overreacted?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You were with him at all times?’
‘Sir, it’s procedure to separate witnesses and offenders during questioning. Constable Tankard took the girl aside for questioning and I questioned Mr Bastian. Standard procedure. We didn’t want to give them more of a chance to agree on the story they’d cooked up for us.’
‘Miss Price claims she was driving the car.’
‘That’s a lie, sir. We both saw the driver at the start of the pursuit. It was a man.’
‘Saw him clearly?’
‘Fairly clearly. A man’s arm.’
‘Perhaps she was wearing his jacket.’
‘It was a warm night, sir. Neither was wearing a jacket.’
‘Do you see what I’m getting at, Constable Murphy? This could mean egg on our faces-your face.’
The man was a bully. He was clean, alert, neat, and as slippery and nasty as a snake. And piss weak, a man more inclined to suck up to a wealthy family than protect the interests of his officers.
‘Doubt, Constable Murphy. Doubt is creeping in.’
‘I stand by my statement, sir.’
McQuarrie leaned his sharp head close to the file before him. ‘Miss Price also says, and I quote: “The male police officer tried to put the hard word on me. He asked for sex and for me to admit I was not the driver, or I’d go to jail.” Did you hear that conversation, Constable?’
‘No, sir.’
‘But it sounds right, wouldn’t you say? It’s the sort of thing Constable Tankard is capable of?’
‘He strikes me as a competent officer, sir. Professional.’
In reply, McQuarrie stared at her. He seemed to be making mental calculations, about her, or Tankard, or the case itself, she didn’t know.
John Tankard saw her coming out of the conference room. ‘Pam. How you doin’, mate?’
‘Not bad, Tank, considering.’
‘Holding up okay?’
‘Trying to.’
‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’
‘I won’t.’
He took her arm and pulled her into a corner, where he muttered, ‘Look, Pam, what did they say about me?’
The door to the conference room opened. Kellock poked his head out. ‘Constable Tankard, we’re ready for you now.’
Three o’clock, the station very quiet, everyone gone home or doing Christmas shopping or playing cricket or tennis, so Scobie Sutton was relieved to see John Tankard coming out of the conference room. ‘Tank, you busy?’
Tankard looked bleak and cold. ‘I’m not on duty for another hour.’
Sutton glanced at the conference room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
Sutton let it drop. ‘You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘Like what?’
‘I need to talk to some gypsies.’
Tankard broke into a grin finally. ‘Gypsies? You’re having me on. What, they crossed your palm, told you to sink all your savings on a slow horse? All right, I’ve got nothing better to do.’
Sutton explained while Tankard drove. ‘I didn’t put it together until last night, when I was reading my kid a story. She asked me what a gypsy was. A few days ago I interviewed an elderly couple who’d had a woman come to the door, offering to bless the house or any spare change they might have lying around, except when the old dears turned their backs she tossed the joint. And a few days before that a woman came into the station, reckoned she was a “Romany seer”, telling me we’d find Jane Gideon’s body near water.’
‘No shit.’
Sutton pursed his lips, staring ahead through the windscreen, remembering what this Sofia had said about his daughter. How had she known it? Next to him, Tankard said, ‘Scobe? You awake in there?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Jane Gideon.’
Sutton waved his arm. ‘Oh, the information was too vague. The point is, I checked the daily crime reports. If it’s the same woman, she’s robbed half-a-dozen people.’
Tankard slowed for a level crossing. The tyres slapped over the rails and then he accelerated again. ‘You could bring her in, put her in a line-up, see if anyone identifies her.’
‘The boss would never okay it. This is just a hunch,’ Sutton said. ‘But a photograph, now that’s a different matter.’
He reached back between the seats to a camera and dumped it in Tankard’s lap. It was a Canon fitted with a telephoto lens.
‘I hope you know how to use it,’ Sutton said.
‘No problem. Just keep her talking where I can get a clear shot at her.’
They came to the Tidal River Caravan Park, a depressing patch of stunted ti-tree, dirty sand and stagnant, mosquito-infested water that wasn’t a river and hadn’t seen a tide in a long time. The main area consisted of toilet blocks, a laundry, the main office and early summer holidaymakers in large caravans with tent annexes. The margins of the park, nearest the main road and poorly sheltered from dust, noise, wind and sun, had been set aside for longer term tenants in caravans, recreation vehicles and plywood or aluminium portable homes.
‘Gypsies?’ the park manager said.
‘A woman calling herself Sofia. Tells fortunes,’ Sutton said.
‘Oh, her. A gypsy? Didn’t know we had any. I just thought she was a wog. Goes to show.’
‘If you’d point it out on the map?’ Sutton said.
The map was rain-stained and sun-faded behind a sheet of thick, scratched perspex. The manager pointed. ‘There, in the corner. Her and her brothers and a few kids.’
Tankard drove slowly through the park. Sutton sensed his restless, swivelling eyes. To be that obsessed would be to invite an ulcer, he thought. He pointed. ‘There.’
Sofia and a small naked girl were sitting on frayed nylon folding chairs under a canvas awning at the side of a dirty white Holden Jackaroo that had been converted into a small mobile home. There was a matching Jackaroo behind it and a caravan behind that. There was no vehicle coupled to the caravan but a rugged, snouty-looking Land Cruiser was parked under a nearby tree. Sutton saw three men watching from a cement bench-seat and table in the shade of a leaning wattle. The ground was bare and hard. Sutton had an impression of untidiness, even though Sofia and the men were neatly dressed and there was no sign of litter at the site.
Perhaps it was the dog, a skinny, threadbare blue heeler. It was lying in the dirt, paws on what Sutton realised had recently been a good-quality leather backpack, the fine black leather now torn and chewed.
The three men watched him get out of the Commodore. As he closed the door, one got to his feet and sauntered away. Before Sutton had reached Sofia and the child, a second man strolled off, his hands in his pockets. Then the third. What flashed into Sutton’s mind then was the fact of the four-wheel-drive vehicles with rear compartments. Then he thought of Sofia and the reason for his visit, and realised that, with the men gone, John Tankard could aim his camera without being spotted.