‘How much longer do you intend to hold my client?’
Scobie Sutton said, ‘All in good time, Mrs Nunn.’
He was tired and dirty. He’d been scratched by blackberry canes at the edge of the reserve where they’d captured Hartnett. He wanted to go home. For days, it seemed, he hadn’t seen his daughter, or not awake, anyway.
Challis had briefed him. He’d listened to the taped interview with Danny Holsinger. He was ready.
‘Mr Jolic, you are still under caution.’
‘Sure.’
‘I want to inform you that one of your accomplices has given you up.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Boyd, shut up,’ Marion Nunn said.
‘No, you shut up.’
Sutton went on wearily, ‘You and Danny Holsinger-’
‘Danny Holsinger. Habitual thief and liar. My client-’
‘Mrs Nunn, please, just let me finish.’
‘Yeah, let the man finish.’
‘Don’t you care what happens to you?’
‘Shut up. You bore me.’
Sutton decided to sit back and watch. He turned to Marion Nunn, who felt his gaze and said, ‘I’d like a moment alone with my client.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t want a moment alone with her,’ Jolic said.
‘Boyd, I’m warning you, don’t let your tongue get you into trouble.’
Sutton swung his gaze on to Jolic. Jolic looked less tough and arrogant, suddenly. He seemed to struggle to ask, ‘Mr Sutton, you’d say I was pretty normal, wouldn’t you?’
‘Depends how you measure it, Boyd, but sure, I’d say so.’
‘Not sick or twisted?’
Sutton shook his head emphatically. ‘Nup.’
‘Stop this! Just stop it!’ Marion Nunn said. ‘Constable Sutton, I’m asking you now, terminate this interview.’
‘But Mr Jolic’s got things to say,’ Sutton said.
‘If I give you certain information, it’ll look good in the eyes of the DPP, right?’ Jolic asked.
‘A very good chance.’
‘Okay. Here goes. I done the ag burg. I burnt the fucking four-wheel drive. I killed the woman. Only you got to understand-I was aggravated. She shouldn’t of-’
‘Boyd, shut up.’
Boyd Jolic jerked his thumb. ‘This cow here? She gives me house plans, photos, whatever, and I pull jobs for her. We split it fifty-fifty.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Listen, goggle-eyes, don’t go taking his word against mine.’
Sutton stared at her.
‘She’s got this empty house, Mr Sutton,’ Jolic said. ‘All the stuff’s still there probably.’ He paused. ‘She shouldn’t of said I was sick.’
‘In you go.’
‘You’re not going to rough me up, Sergeant?’
‘I’m in a good mood,’ van Alphen said, gently pushing Marion Nunn into the cell.
The next morning, Challis said, ‘Scobie, you’re coming with me.’
They drove through the town, which now seemed less edgy, more benign and trusting, as though everyone had heard the news overnight and gone back to being themselves. Or is it me? Challis thought. Do I read things as they are, or as I feel? But there were more people about. More of them looked cheery in the face of the early sun.
They found Lance Ledwich in his sitting room, watching morning television, women in leotards flexing on grass, the Sydney Opera House sailing behind them. Challis could smell eucalyptus vapour and there was a hot lemon drink on the floor. He tossed the videotape that had so offended Megan Stokes on to the coffee table.
‘Know what this is, Lance?’
Some of the life seemed to go out of Ledwich. ‘Never seen it before.’
‘Funny, it was found in your four-wheel drive.’
‘Don’t know nothing about it.’
‘Scobie, search the kitchen, see if you can find the keys to Mr Ledwich’s garage.’
Ledwich sank in his chair. A minute later, Sutton returned, holding a bunch of keys.
‘Stay with him,’ Challis said. ‘I won’t be long.’
One wall of the garage was lined with metal shelves. Challis counted a dozen professional-grade video reproduction units. There was also a colour photocopier and a stack of garish sleeves ready to be slipped into empty cassette cases. On the bench nearby was a padded postbag with US postage on it, containing the master videotape. Was the brother-in-law on a buying trip in Thailand? Was the sister involved, too? Did they have many under-the-counter customers for their videos? Did they charge much? Enough for Ledwich to afford a Pajero, Challis decided-the Pajero also part of the man’s image, the cool operator.
He looked at his watch. Noon. He was giving himself the rest of the day off. Let someone else interview Rhys Hartnett. He wasn’t interested in what made Hartnett tick.
The shift in the atmosphere had been clear to Pam the moment she stepped into the station at the start of her shift. Challis had made an arrest. Destry’s daughter was safe. The whole station seemed happier.
She was paired with John Tankard for the day. She drove. Their first job was to investigate reports of theft from two panel vans belonging to surfers at Myers Point. She found that her heart and stomach were doing funny things. She wondered if she’d see Ginger. Just knowing he was nearby was setting her off.
John Tankard had the Age in his lap. ‘Charges reinstated. That’s what I like to hear. Whaddya reckon, Murph?’
‘Blood oath,’ she said, sticking her lower jaw out, deepening her voice, grabbing the wheel as if she were going into battle.
He flushed. ‘Aren’t you a sweetheart.’
On the other side of the Peninsula, Challis was shaping a new airframe strut. He lost himself in the crisp bite of the wood plane, Lucky Oceans on Radio National and a letter that had come from an old man in Darwin:
‘With reference to your request for information regarding A33-8. This was an air force serial number, applied to nonmilitary Dragons that were impressed into service with the RAAF during the war. I had the pleasure of flying A33-8 in early 1942, just before the fall of Java. I was stationed in Broome, and made a dozen trips in her, ferrying Dutch refugees to Port Hedland. I do know that your aeroplane started life working for the Vacuum Oil Company, flying geologists about the north-west, but what became of her after the war, I really couldn’t say. If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could send me a snap of her.’
On the five o’clock news there was a report of human remains found caught in bullrushes at the bend of a creek on the other side of the Peninsula. Challis swept his wood shavings into a bin, bundled his overalls into the Triumph and drove home over the bone-jarring back roads. He walked inside, his footsteps booming in the hollows of the house. The red light was flashing on his answering machine. Three calls. He pressed the play button. ID confirmed on the body in the creek; then his wife; and before the third caller spoke, he discovered, with a tiny shift in his equilibrium, that he was waiting for a low, slow-burning voice.