‘We know that,’ Pam said.
‘But listen to this. “Sources also report that the charges against Mr Bastian had been dropped after his family agreed to drop charges of wrongful arrest and harassment against police.”‘
Pam leaned forward. ‘They did a deal? The bastards.’
Tankard was still behind the paper. ‘Yep.’
‘I thought it was simply a case of, he’s got rich and powerful mates so you can’t touch him.’
‘Nup.’
They fell silent. Pam stared across the table at the newspaper. The Progress seemed to like causes of one kind or another. According to canteen gossip, the editor was having it off with Challis.
Tankard cleared his throat. ‘“Arresting police are reportedly furious.”‘
‘It says that?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m furious, you’re furious, but how does the Progress know we’re furious?’
Tankard reached around the corner of his newspaper for the half-consumed donut that sat like a fat worm on his plate. His mouth full, he said, ‘You know, sources and that.’
‘Yeah, sure, Tank,’ Pam said.
You had to laugh. Before Christmas, Tankard was no better than a Nazi stormtrooper. Now he stood for justice in a world ruled by cronyism.
Suddenly van Alphen was there, as silent as a cat, looming over them. ‘You two, come with me, please.’
They followed him to his office. It was like the man: tidy, underfurnished, an area of plain surfaces. ‘All hell’s broken loose,’ he said. ‘You’ll be working on that fire for the time being. Forget any minor infringements that come your way. We simply haven’t got the time or the manpower.’
‘Okay, Sarge.’
‘You’ll each be paired with an officer in plain-clothes, door-knocking, talking to shopkeepers, talking to the neighbours again. We need to know Clara Macris’s habits, who knew her, who was seen with her. The usual.’
He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. Pam scanned it. She was paired with Scobie Sutton.
Tankard, next to her, twisted in his chair to ease the ache in his lower back. ‘What was she like, Sarge?’
He sounded genuinely curious, but Pam saw van Alphen’s face grow closed and wary. ‘What do you mean, what was she like? How the hell should I know?’
‘No offence, Sarge. I mean, was she a bit iffy? You know, a junkie. Friends in low places.’
Pam said, ‘Tank, that’s what we’re being sent to find out.’
‘Fair enough. Just asking.’
Van Alphen gave her a curious look of gratitude. It was there and gone in an eyeblink. Then she saw him slide a manila folder shyly across the desk toward them.
‘Meanwhile, I’ve written a report for the District Commander.’
She picked it up. ‘On what, Sarge?’
‘Read it.’
Tankard pulled his chair next to hers. He gave off enormous heat; she could hear his body. Then she heard his voice, reading aloud, as she leaned away from him and read to herself:
‘The dropping of charges against Mr Julian Bastian on the day of the listed court date in the Waterloo Magistrates’ Court causes grave concern to myself and the arresting officers, Constables John Tankard and Pamela Murphy.
‘The allegation my officers lied and contrived an arrest situation is false. I have every faith in their ability and judgment. All the evidence supports their charges against Bastian.
‘The situation is potentially damaging to the Force. Already allegations of favouritism, corruption and intervention at the highest levels have been made by the local press, which could soon become state wide.’
Pam found her heart lifting. Beside her, John Tankard was saying, ‘Good one, Sarge.’
Van Alphen murmured, ‘Something had to be done.’
He looked tired, the flesh tight on his skull. Tired, and almost, Pam thought, stricken with a strong emotion, like sadness, heartache.
The briefing over, Challis made his call. He had the Progress on the desk in front of him. The first page asked Is There a Firebug at Work? and went on to outline what Tessa Kane called ‘a rash of deliberate fires in the district’. Twelve mailboxes set alight, one memorable night before Christmas (including the victim of this latest tragedy… Had she seen something? Was this a payback?). A stolen four-wheel drive torched on Chicory Kiln Road. An attempt by burglars to burn down a house near the racecourse.
She also offered a psychological profile of the typical firebug:
‘He betrays the symptoms of an anti-social personality- another name for a psychopath-from an early age, including bed-wetting, cruelty to animals, anger at the world, a tendency to get into fights, a history of lighting fires and then fighting them or standing back to watch others fight them.
‘He often uses fire to express his anger, to avenge himself on individuals and institutions that he feels have wronged him. Fear eases his anger. Its destructive capacity fascinates him. He feels powerful.
‘The association of fire and sex in pyromaniacs is well known. Fire seems to heighten the desire for sexual release.’
When she came on the line, Challis said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Lovely to hear your voice, too, Hal.’
‘There may be no connection between any of those fires.’
‘Hal, come on, there has to be a connection between some of them. Face it, there’s a firebug at work.’
‘Far from being community-minded, you keep trying to scare everyone. Flash headlines, some psychological garbage that you probably cobbled together from some cheap magazine.’
‘I resent that.’
‘Tess, it was irresponsible.’
Ellen walked down High Street to the bank and withdrew four hundred dollars to add to the one hundred that she’d tried to give Rhys Hartnett. She had to wait in a slow queue, everyone wanting to talk about the fire and where they had been in relation to the danger it posed. Everyone was excited and laying claim to lucky escapes and fear and leapfrogging statistics. When she got back to the station, she stuffed the five hundred into the poor box in the foyer. When she was growing up, her mother had always referred to the ‘mission box’, meaning unwanted clothes that she put aside for the Inland Mission. Every Christmas Day, she would put an empty envelope on the table and tell the family shyly, ‘Perhaps you would like to give to the mission.’ Ellen wondered if people still did that, and wondered how far she had changed since her childhood, and how far she had drifted from her mother.
Their easy way with labels: ‘Killer Highway.’ ‘Highway Killer.’ Did they think he could be defined by a label? What were they going to call him now that he was in amongst them, prowling where they wheeled their prams and washed their cars and chinwagged with their neighbours?
They’d find something to call him, something inane, convinced that they’d pinned him down according to pattern. And when they did, he’d alter the pattern again.
But not the killing.
Other men dreamed. He made it happen. The slavering dream, followed by the shuddering release. The snarling hunger of it, like a meal savoured and devoured.
This next one was a real slag. He was going to enjoy this one. Doing her was going to really hit home, right where they’d feel it. Snatch her tomorrow morning, in broad daylight, between the milkbar and the church, right from under their noses.
Linger over this one.
Kind of like revenge. Sweet, juicy revenge.
Twenty-one
At nine the next morning, Scobie Sutton said, ‘Mrs Stella Riggs?’
She had her back to him, checking that she’d locked her front door. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Constable Sutton. I need to ask you a few questions regarding the fire at your neighbour’s house.’
He watched her turn from the door and step on to the path as if to brush him aside. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything.’