‘What a charming fellow,’ said Schiff, speeding through Waterloo. ‘Who else?’
Pam leafed through the files, rattling off a series of outlines. Most of the local sex offenders were small fry, their crimes considered minor by the courts-lewd conduct, carnal knowledge of a minor, fondling and groping-and she’d had to decide which of them were capable of graduating to abduction and rape. She’d been able to rule some out-three were aged in their late seventies, a couple were borderline retarded and couldn’t drive-but there were still quite a few. In the end, she’d used her instincts. If a man looked like a brute in his mug shot, she prioritised him. She also paid close attention to those who lived near the reserve, owned a car and might have access to police equipment and forensic knowhow. A Somerville ambulance driver, for example. It wasn’t very scientific, but she didn’t tell Schiff that.
Soon they were passing through open farmland, some of the paddocks cropped for hay, the unmown grass flexing in long, rolling waves as the wind passed over it. Schiff was silent, unreadable, and Pam found herself saying, ‘Sarge, do you think it will turn out to be a cop?’
‘Entirely possible.’
Pam subsided. The police were often maligned, with or without good reason, and this would make it worse. COP RAPIST? That had been the headline in Saturday’s Herald Sun. If the rapist was a cop, he deserved to be found, tried and punished, but Pam would hate to be in the middle of all that. The police boys’ club would chew her up and spit her out if she crossed it in any way; yet she could feel as protective of her colleague as the next officer. Us against them, the police against the rabble.
Meanwhile she had to spend the day with a woman who gave every appearance of impatience and boredom, as if a rural investigation were beneath her. They rode in silence until Pam stirred and said, ‘Next left.’
Penzance Beach was at the end of a side road that ran off Frankston-Flinders Road, and as they drew near, she wondered whether to tell Schiff that she lived there, in a little house opposite a chicken farm, at the poorer edge of the town.
‘This is where I live, coincidentally.’
‘Yeah? Not friends with Laurence Matchan, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing to worry about, then,’ Schiff said, looking about as they entered the little settlement. ‘Pretty place.’
This was the heart of the town: fibro shacks on stilts, log cabins, weatherboard cottages-humble holiday and permanent homes on small blocks, all of it squeezed into a small space between the bay waters and a long ridge. Schiff followed the road as it curved around parallel to the beach, slowing for speed bumps, until Pam said, ‘Turn right.’
Now the road climbed up on to the ridge, where the big money lived, in huge houses that clawed for air space giving uninterrupted views of the sea. Behind them were dwellings smaller than the cliff-top mansions but larger than the sea-level cottages, the homes of prosperous family doctors, accountants, teachers, electricians. And that’s where Murphy and Schiff found Laurence Matchan, in a plain old farmhouse that faced the grasslands behind the town, set in a weedy garden shaded by a giant palm tree.
Matchan answered the door. He was middle-aged, comfortable rather than fat, thick hair threaded with silver, some acne scarring. A crumpled tan suit over a light blue shirt; dark blue tie knot an enormous wedge under his chins. A grey, fatigued cast to his face, as if life had let him down.
‘Going somewhere, Mr Matchan?’
‘Reporting to police, if you must know.’
Schiff looked at Murphy, who asked, ‘Parole condition?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which station?’
‘Rosebud.’
‘Where were you last Thursday night?’
‘Here.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘No.’
‘So we have a problem.’
‘My wife left me while I was in jail. She took the car, the house… This is my sister’s house. She’s overseas for a year.’
Pam glanced at the empty carport, at the empty street that ran past the house. ‘Do you have access to a car, Mr Matchan?’
‘No.’
A horn tooted. A taxi pulled up.
‘My ride,’ Matchan said, and he almost smiled.
*
Scobie Sutton was often late-his wife; getting his kid to school-and Challis made allowances. As he waited, he fiddled idly with his mobile and heard the beep of an incoming text message. Superintendent McQuarrie, and clearly the super had read, or been told about, the News-Pictorial story: My office, 1 pm Fri, consider PA rep .
Bring the Police Association in?
He’s going to sack me? wondered Challis. On his golf day?
Then Sutton was parking his Volvo and hurrying across to the CIU car, agitated, his upper lip beaded with perspiration. Nerves or health, thought Challis, getting behind the wheel, waiting for Sutton to buckle himself into the passenger seat. ‘You okay?’
‘Sorry I’m late, sir. Roslyn tells me at the last minute she was supposed to be at school at seven-forty-five because all the Year 7s are taking a chartered bus to the Olympic pool in Frankston and of course we missed it and I had to chase it down the road.’
Sutton was a shocking driver. Challis pictured the knuckles clenched on the wheel, the pointless surges and braking, the overtaking on hills and blind corners. ‘You’re here now,’ he said, starting the car and heading north through the town.
Cranbourne was outside their district but less than thirty minutes from the Chicory Kiln. After fixing it with the officer in charge, they were given a room and access to a trainee constable named Rick Dixon, who had reported his uniform stolen from a laundromat dryer a few days earlier. Soft, perspiring, very young, Dixon had gelled hair and a sulky, plump lower lip. ‘I swear I was only gone five minutes. Slipped out to pay some bills.’
He might not be lying, Challis thought, eyeing him closely, but he is skating a little. ‘Where was this?’
‘Near where I live.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Berwick.’
‘Name?’
‘Er, Richard Dixon, sir.’
‘Not you, the laundromat.’
‘Not sure, sir.’
Sutton said, ‘Can you give us a location?’
Dixon described a strip of shops, a Mobil service station on one corner, a VideoEzy opposite, enough for Challis to locate it using a telephone directory.
With Dixon out of the interview room, he dialled the number.
‘Yeah,’ scratched a voice in his ear. ‘I remember. Officious little prick-no offence.’
‘Do you have security cameras?’
‘Mate, this isn’t exactly the Bank of England.’
‘Was any other clothing stolen that day?’
‘That’s the whole point: none was stolen, then or any other day. The moron used hot water and a hot dryer setting and his lovely new uniform shrank. Tried to blame it on me.’
Challis called Dixon back and said, before the trainee had time to sit, ‘You made a false theft report.’
Dixon’s colour drained away; perspiration beaded and ran. ‘No way.’
There were times, like now, when Challis questioned the training academy’s selection procedures. He’d discerned a kind of cravenness in Dixon at the start of the interview; now the trainee contrived to look wounded, distantly accusing and aggrieved, working innocence onto his soft face and puzzlement into his tangled eyebrows.
This enraged Challis. ‘You fucked up. You ruined your uniform because you’re ignorant, and rather than fork out for a new one you tried blaming another person and made a false report. Were you hoping you’d be issued another uniform, free of charge?’
‘You’re so wrong about this.’
‘You’re so wrong about this, sir,’ barked Challis.
Dixon’s eyes scouted for a way out. ‘Will this go on my record?’