Ellen got in late after a fruitless morning interviewing other names on the sex offenders list. She was surprised to see Rhys Hartnett’s Jeep at the courthouse, and after locking her car, crossed the driveway to find him. He was unloading wall vents. ‘Hi,’ she said, startling him.
‘Hi.’
‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this.’
He frowned and rolled his shoulders, as though she’d come too close and should back off.
‘You should give yourself some time off, Rhys,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘If I don’t get this job done I’ll miss out on other contracts.’
Ellen realised that she hadn’t accounted for his finishing at the courthouse and going elsewhere. It would leave a hole in her life. She hadn’t discussed the matter further with Alan and Larrayne, but she found herself saying, ‘Speaking of which, I’ve decided to accept your quote.’
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her carefully. ‘That’s okay with your husband?’
‘It’s my money.’
‘Just out of interest, what did the other companies quote?’
She looked down briefly and toed the gravel with her shoe. ‘I didn’t actually approach anyone else.’
‘To set your mind at rest,’ he said, ‘the reason why I’ve always got work is because I quote low.’
‘I can give you a cash deposit,’ she said. ‘Would that help?’
‘Help me with the tax man.’ He held up both hands. ‘Whoops, forget I said that.’
‘We all have hassles with the tax man, Rhys.’
‘Yep. Look, a deposit won’t be necessary. Pay me at the end.’
Ellen thought: What a stupid conversation. He must think I’m stupid. It’s because we don’t know each other. We stand here out in the open when we should be in a quiet corner somewhere.
‘What do you say to lunch in the pub?’ she said, careful to keep it light.
He looked at her for a long moment, then glanced at the ground. ‘Now?’
‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘See you then,’ he said.
Pam Murphy came back with Scobie Sutton to find John Tankard waiting for her in the passenger seat of the divisional van.
‘Sucking up to CIB, Pammy?’
She ignored him and drove the van to the Sunday market in the car park opposite the Waterloo tennis courts. There had never been reports of stolen goods on sale, but still the police were obliged to make a walk-through of the market. Pam parked the van under a gum tree and got out, leaving Tankard sprawled in the passenger seat. In the old days, before the leaflet campaign, he would have been in the car park measuring tyre-tread thicknesses, slapping roadworthy infringement notices on windscreens, generally hassling the natives. Not now. Too much palpable hatred in the air whenever he showed his face in public.
She saw Danny Holsinger and edged toward him. Danny and his mother operated a stall every Sunday, selling crocheted shawls and doilies, woven string holders for hanging plants, slip-on covers for hot-water bottles, teapot cosies and other fussy pink things that no-one had much use for, certainly not on a hot Sunday morning.
When the mother was out of earshot, Pam said, ‘Happy new year for tomorrow, Danny.’
Surprised, he said, ‘Yeah.’
‘There was an ag burg near the racecourse yesterday. Rather a nasty one. What’s the word?’
Danny looked edgy. Then again, he’d always looked edgy around teachers, policemen, priests, anyone with any authority over him. ‘I’m not into that.’
‘I didn’t say you were. You’re a loner, Danny. But have you heard any whispers around the place? We’re looking for two men, one big, the other about your size. They stole a Pajero. Torched it some time last night, over by the highway.’
‘Wasn’t me.’
‘Danny, relax. Just keep your ear to the ground, okay?’
Then the mother returned with an armful of fussy cot blankets from the boot of her car, so Pam wandered through to the organic produce stall, thinking she might buy some tomatoes. Next to it was a donut van. She stopped, bought a couple for John Tankard.
She returned to the divisional van, winding her way among the remaining stalls. Where did they get their stuff, all that junk, half of it old, half of it brand new and made of cheap metal and plastic in China somewhere? Toys. Tools. Household gadgets. She couldn’t see anyone in Waterloo arranging a buying trip to China. So it had to be bankrupt stock, sold at auction, except the handmade stuff, the jams and doilies and coloured bead jewellery.
Tankard hadn’t moved. ‘Hungry?’
He opened his eyes. ‘Murph. You’re a doll.’
Pam belted herself in, started the engine, eyeing him sadly. ‘That is not a pleasant sight.’
His mouth full, sugar on his chin, he asked, ‘Where to now?’
‘That Pajero,’ Pam said.
‘What the fuck for? Leave it to CIB.’
‘CIB think something smells wrong.’
‘Big-deal detective, on the case.’
Pam ignored him. Ginger had been so sweet this morning. He’d taken her back to his house and gently massaged a strange, foul-smelling cream into her jaw. Said it was pawpaw extract and would work wonders. She was still waiting.
They rode in silence, until Tankard stiffened like a hunting dog. ‘Check that. Broken tail light.’
That was pretty typical, Pam thought. Lonely road, solitary, vulnerable motorist. ‘Leave it, Tank.’
‘Yeah, well, we all know about you, soft on the locals.’
Pam ignored him. Tankard went on: ‘You know what your problem is? You’re a snob.’
‘First I’m soft on the locals, now I’m a snob. Which is it?’
‘Never see you down the pub. You don’t mix. What are ya?’
‘I’m not you, Tank, that’s all that matters. You want the world to be like you, and frankly that is a terrible thought.’
The Pajero site was easy to find, a smallish patch of blackened grass and scorched trees and fence posts. A farmer coming home from the pub after a cricket match late the previous night had seen the blaze and put it out with the fire extinguisher he kept in his car.
There was a white sedan parked nearby. A man in a short-sleeved shirt was taking photographs. Pam approached him, saying, ‘May I ask what you’re doing, sir?’
The man straightened. He was about forty, calm and unhurried-looking. ‘Insurance,’ he said.
Pam nodded, then looked at the burnt grass. ‘Where’s the vehicle?’
‘Carted off to the police garage about-’ the man looked at his watch ‘-half an hour ago. I’d given it the once-over. Now I’m checking the scene.’
They stood together musingly. Bracken, blackberry thickets, rye grass and gum trees hugged both sides of the road, but here there was only an area of ash the size of a room, dotted with lumps of molten glass and plastic, some remnants of the electrical circuitry and four fine wire sculptures that were all that remained of the tyres. Scattered around the perimeter were bottles, drink cans and cigarette packets, as though whoever had torched the Pajero had stood there gloating.
‘We get a couple of these a month,’ the insurance investigator said. ‘It’s become a copycat thing.’
‘And a summer thing,’ Pam said.
‘Yeah, the general madness.’
On an impulse, Pam collected the newer-looking cans, bottles and cigarette packets, picking them up with the end of her pen and stuffing them into a large plastic evidence sack. She paused. Was that the guts of a car phone?
‘You’re fucking mad,’ John Tankard said when Pam was behind the wheel again. ‘You want to give yourself a rest or you’ll get a promotion.’
Danny discovered, as the day progressed, that his fingers were all thumbs. He dropped coins, couldn’t open paper bags, spilt the thermos coffee over one of his mother’s tea cosies, there on the trestle table, just as someone was about to buy it.
‘What the hell’s got into you?’
‘Sorry, Mum.’