‘Inspector?’ said McQuarrie. ‘A team player?’
Feeling that he’d wandered onto the set of a bad film, Challis tried to read the mood of his fastidious, slightly built boss. McQuarrie had reason both to thank and to resent him. Challis’s clear-up rate was high, and he’d investigated the murder of the super’s daughter-in-law with tact. But he knows I don’t respect him, thought Challis, and hates to be reminded that I know his son was active in a sleazy sex-party scene; or that it was Ellen who broke a paedophile ring involving police under his indirect command.
‘I’m waiting,’ McQuarrie said.
Challis didn’t answer but spent a moment watching the man in the suit. The Ethical Standards officer, yet to speak, looked resentful and ill at ease, and Challis relaxed minutely. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d been selling drugs from the station safe or drinking with gangsters.
Unless the man was there as back-up, for when they needed to press trumped-up charges against him.
He turned to McQuarrie again. ‘Depends, sir. Do you mean am I a team player no matter what? Or only when the team’s worth playing for?’
The superintendent blinked. He’d expected an automatic ‘yes’.
Laughlin could see this going nowhere. Casting McQuarrie a fed-up look, barely disguised, the assistant commissioner leaned solid forearms on the table and said, ‘What the superintendent means is, what the hell are you playing at, Inspector? Hmm?’
Laughlin reminded Challis of his first high-school headmaster, a man similarly tall, bespectacled, scowling, similarly prim and outraged, similarly vain about his cap of thick, tightly combed hair. The headmaster had been an unimaginative desk thumper, loathed and feared; an unimpeachable man of authority who dragged his wife and children from one rural posting to another, leaving behind stressed staff, depleted church congregations and demoralised football and cricket teams.
‘Sir?’
Irritable now, Laughlin said, ‘Do we need to give you the benefit of the doubt?’
Challis waited, wondering why the big guns? Why an assistant commissioner? Did anyone really care that he’d complained about shortages and budgetary matters? Everyone did that, in all professions. But government employees are expected to keep their mouths shut, and he’d gone a step further and taken a swipe at the State Government for propping up the Grand Prix every year. The Premier and his ministers were sensitive about it, probably knew the race was wasteful, unpopular and environmentally unsound, yet were obliged to appease powerful people, and so they played up the tourist dollars that flowed to a handful of cafes and hotels and dismissed the critics as disgruntled residents and greenies. Less easy to dismiss the views of a detective inspector, he supposed.
Christ, thought Challis, maybe I’ll become a folk hero.
He gazed evenly at Laughlin, wondering who had put the hard word on him, and how. ‘Sir?’
‘Don’t “sir” me. Are you aware that crime data is only one factor when apportioning resources across a Division?’
This is coming down to statistics? thought Challis incredulously. He said nothing.
‘Statistically,’ Laughlin said, ‘there has been no change in crime rates, no matter what you say. Some minor crimes are up, but that is attributable to the current economic climate; namely, the rising price of petrol. Motorists are driving off without paying, and stealing number plates to fool the CCTV cameras at service stations.’
‘Sir, with respect, we won’t get far quoting statistics at each other. My argument is that we are seriously under resourced, and if the government were able to prioritise-’
‘You were quoted as saying crime figures are up, as though we are losing the fight.’
‘I was saying that we can’t win the fight if we don’t have sufficient manpower or resource funding. Waterloo is fourteen officers fewer than it should be. If you look at last month’s roster, we fell well below the recommended guidelines of one sergeant and four junior officers per shift.’
Challis’s mouth was dry, the topic was dry. He didn’t feel angry or intimidated or anxious or defensive, just a little bored. He wasn’t going to win anything here, not more money or trained officers or even respect. He wanted to go out and do his job, not sit here.
‘Hal,’ said Superintendent McQuarrie chummily, trying to reassert himself and put Challis on side, ‘arguments about resourcing across a Division are irrelevant, given the changing nature of police work and the influence of the new technologies, some of which we are yet to discover.’
Challis tried to see the substance of the man’s argument and failed. Given that a question hadn’t been posed, he remained silent. It was a tactic he used in interrogations: hold back, use silence.
‘Can we trust you, Inspector Challis?’ said Laughlin.
Well, that was a clear enough question, but not one that Challis intended to answer.
‘After all, you have seriously compromised the Force,’ Laughlin said, arms folded, staring like a fierce prophet. ‘What is essentially an internal matter was made political when you brought the State Government into it.’
Challis said innocently, ‘Sir?’
‘That nonsense about the Grand Prix race costing fifty million a year, money that could be spent on supplying police stations with torch batteries, for God’s sake.’
‘And vehicles, radios, extra staff,’ Challis said.
‘It must be very stressful, your job,’ said Laughlin, trying for an understanding smile and transforming himself into an awful parody of a counsellor or doctor, a man with Challis’s best interests at heart. Challis said nothing.
‘Many officers of your rank burn out. Nothing to be ashamed of.’
It was clear that Laughlin thought it was shameful. Challis continued to stare.
‘Many officers find it beneficial to take stress leave-supported by Work Cover, so they’re not out of pocket. They come back refreshedeven find new careers.’
Laughlin waited for a response. When it didn’t come he dropped the smarm and leafed through a file. ‘I see that three months’ long service leave is owed to you.’
And McQuarrie butted in, saying, ‘Your girlfriend is on an overseas junket at the moment, I believe? By herself?’
You bastards, leave Ellen out of it, Challis thought, as his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.
‘I need to take this,’ he said.
As they gaped, he left the room, flipping open his phone. The screen revealed no name, only a number he didn’t recognise. And he could scarcely hear the voice, it was so soft and distraught.
23
‘Larrayne?’
That terrible sobbing whisper again. ‘Please, you’ve got to come.’
‘I can barely hear you. Use the landline.’
‘I can’t, they’re in the sitting room.’
‘Who is? Where are you?’
If a whisper could be a shriek, that’s what Challis heard. ‘ Mum’s . These awful men came barging in. Please, you’ve got to help me.’
‘Are you hiding?’
‘They let me go to the loo.’
‘They didn’t take your phone away?’
‘I’m in Mum’s dressing gown. I had the phone in the pocket.’
‘Switch to vibrate and I’ll call you back.’
‘ No. Please.’
It was as if she feared losing contact. Challis ducked into the canteen. Spotting Jeff Greener there he beckoned, miming urgency, and led the way down the corridor at a run, the phone pressed to his ear. ‘Did you call triple zero?’
She said, in a wobbly, frustrated voice, ‘I don’t know where I am. I mean, I can find my way here in the car, but I sort of don’t know the name of the street or the house number.’
Well, Ellen’s move to Dromana was recent. And Larrayne had never struck him as being very organised. ‘I’ll do that.’