‘Look, take yourself off for a walk, get out of me hair.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
He took her advice and walked along the bicycle path. The truth was, his nerves were shot to pieces. That stunt of Jolic’s yesterday, bashing those people, then following that sheila in her Mercedes just because she gave him the finger. The way he kept shouting, ‘I’ll kill the cunt, I’ll kill the cunt,’ spit flying around inside the Pajero. The way he just drove and drove after that, for hours, risking discovery but not giving a damn, he was so worked up.
Culminating in Jolic parking on a back road and using the Pajero’s car phone to call one of his heavy mates to come and fetch them.
Danny hadn’t understood. They’d waited there on that dirt road, Jolic a massive dark shape in the dim light of the moon, and he’d asked, ‘Why can’t we just dump it near home and walk the rest of the way?’
‘Because,’ Jolic had said.
Danny soon understood. When the mate, Craig Oliver, arrived in his panel van with a few tinnies from the pub, Jolic torched the Pajero. They stood there, the three of them, watching it burn.
And now that young copper, turning up like she knew something.
No wonder his nerves were shot.
McQuarrie came by at five o’clock, bidding them a happy new year and suggesting a brief brainstorming of the case. More of a brainbashing than a brainstorming, Challis thought, as the clock on the wall showed five-thirty, six, six-thirty. Sunday evening, New Year’s Eve, he could see how thoroughly demoralised everyone was. As soon as McQuarrie had left the room, he tiptoed comically to the door, stuck his head into the corridor, looked left and right, pulled back into the room and shut the door, his face a pantomime of subversive intent. Good, they were laughing, relaxing.
‘I know you’ve all got families to go to,’ he said, ‘but if anyone wants to stay on for a quick meal, pasta, a glass or two of red, it’s my shout.’
He watched them uncoil. All but a couple reached for the phones to call home, some of them arguing, others pleading and apologetic. By seven o’clock they were seated in the bistro overlooking the marina. They were noisy, their way of shaking off McQuarrie and cruel deaths and life’s mischances. Challis felt some of his tightness relax. He knew that at the end of it his detectives would be a little more united and work together a little better. There was also the reminder that they were not so very different from other wage-earners, entitled to a night out with one another and the boss.
At one point, Ellen Destry roared in his ear, ‘When are you taking me flying again?’
‘Any time you like.’
‘I was not popular at home afterwards.’
‘Why?’
‘Alan thinks he’s losing me.’
‘Losing you to me?’
‘Losing me in general,’ Ellen said.
After a silence, she said, leaning close to his ear, ‘Hal, did you ever cheat on your wife?’
Challis swung away from her, hooking one eyebrow. ‘Ellie, I seem to recall it was the other way around.’
Too late, she realised what she’d said. ‘Good one, Ellen. Hypothetically speaking, Hal-’ that rolled nicely off the tongue ‘-speaking hypothetically now, do you think in most couples there is a temptation to stray?’ She shook herself, attempting to focus on him. ‘Hypothetically speaking.’
‘You’re pissed, Ellie.’
She swayed back. ‘So what if I am? I’m entitled.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I started at lunchtime.’ She poked his chest. ‘One day we’ll see you sozzled.’
‘How about now?’ Challis said, and felt himself grin and slide down in his chair.
Pam Murphy felt herself snap awake with the answer there clearly before her. She’d not been reminded of magazine photographs when she toured the burnt house, but of actual photographs, laid out on a shop counter. She closed her eyes again, mentally putting a case together. She’d take it to Sergeant Destry; with any luck she’d be allowed in on the arrest. Sleep didn’t come again. When the dawn light began to leak into her room, she left the house and walked down through the dunes to the beach, where the water and the wide world were still, and she felt herself tingling, like a hunter.
Seventeen
Monday, 1 January. When Pam Murphy came on duty, she went straight to Sergeant Destry with the crime-scene photos and said, ‘Sarge, I think Marion Nunn was behind that aggravated burglary.’
Destry stared at her for a long, half-amused moment. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better than to put Marion Nunn away, but you’re going to have to convince me first.’
‘Well, the other day John Tankard and I were called to a photo developing shop because the manager was worried about some photos he’d just developed. They were interior and exterior shots of a house, and the customer was Marion Nunn. Later when I walked through the ag burg house, it seemed somehow familiar. Last night, I twigged.’
‘What’s Marion Nunn got to do with the house?’
‘Her firm’s selling it, Sarge. There’s an auction sign on the front fence. No-one’s going to question it if her firm’s selling their place for them and she’s there taking photos that they think will be used in advertising.’
‘If they’re not used for advertising, what are they used for?’
‘I think Marion Nunn has an accomplice. She gives him the photographs, and he uses them to plan how he’ll commit the burglary.’
‘What did the photos look like?’
‘Not the kind you’d normally take if you were trying to sell a house. There were shots of the back door, the windows, interior shots of glass cabinets with her reflection in the glass, the alarm system, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘Maybe a junior in her office took them, that’s why they looked amateurish.’
‘Marion Nunn dropped them off for developing, Sarge.’
‘But it’s not proof that she took them. And wouldn’t the owners have been suspicious of the sorts of shots she was taking?’
‘I checked the date in my notebook. When the photographs were dropped off for developing, the owners had already been in Bali for four days. If she was selling the house for them, she’d have had a key.’
‘Okay, let’s say for argument’s sake that Marion Nunn was behind it. Who does she give the photos to?’
‘Someone she’s defended in the past.’
‘Maybe. Let me do some checking, talk it over with Inspector Challis.’
‘So you think I’ve got something, Sarge?’
‘It’s as good a theory as any I’ve heard recently.’
And so the next morning Pam was called to Sergeant Destry’s office and told, ‘Since you’re so keen, I’ve arranged for you to do some legwork for CIB on this aggravated burglary. I’m told you found the remains of a car phone where the Pajero was burnt?’
‘Yes, I-’
‘Contact Ledwich, get the number of the car phone, see what calls were made on it between, say, early afternoon and midnight on Saturday.’
She was okay, Destry, but, like anyone with rank, a bit short on pleasantries. Already she was turning away to open one of the files on her desk. If Pam didn’t turn and leave now, Destry would likely look up and ask, ‘Was there anything else?’
There was something else, Marion Nunn and the photographs, but Pam stepped out into the corridor and went in search of an unoccupied desk phone.
Lance Ledwich wasn’t overjoyed to hear from her. ‘The number? Why? I’ve seen what’s left of my vehicle-sweet bugger-all. What good’s the phone number to you?’
‘Mr Ledwich, whoever stole it may have used the car phone to call someone.’
‘I don’t like this. I don’t see that it’s necessary.’
‘Mr Ledwich, who are you fooling? You used to drive the Pajero despite being banned, is that it? Right now I don’t care about that and I can’t prove it. I just want the car phone number. We’re hoping that whoever stole your car made some calls.’
Ledwich thought about it for a long time. Perhaps he doesn’t want us to find out who he had been calling, she thought. Finally he said, ‘Fair enough,’ and after a minute’s rummaging came back on line to recite the number. ‘Got that?’