Finch slumped. ‘Her name’s Susan. Don’t know her last name.’
‘How do I find her?’
‘She always contacts me.’
‘She contacts you out of the blue and says I’ve got this genuine Brett Whiteley I stole yesterday.’
‘Look, she doesn’t usually flog art. It’s mostly cameras, coin collections, jewellery, watches…Nothing large or bulky. It has to be stuff she can hide.’
‘You don’t have a phone number.’
‘No.’
‘Address?’
Finch shook his head, desperately aware that he had little information to offer the trigger-happy cop. ‘Like I said, she comes in and shows me her stuff.’
‘I thought you said she contacts you.’
‘Not always. Not in advance. She turns up with some gear and I give her some cash and if it’s a rare item and I need to do a bit of homework, find a buyer, set a fair price, that kind of thing, then she’ll contact me again a couple of days later and…’
‘You’re babbling,’ Towne said.
Finch shut his mouth with a click.
‘I need to find her, Steven.’ An air of finality, brooking no argument.
Finch was frustrated. ‘Look, she never works locally. In this state, I mean. Always interstate.’
‘Anything at all? How she made contact with you in the first place, what car she drives, who her friends are…’
‘I don’t know anything. For a junkie, she’s super cautious.’
Towne frowned. ‘She’s a junkie?’
‘Yeah. Got an expensive habit to feed.’
‘Who’s her dealer?’
‘How would I know?’
Towne wasn’t satisfied. ‘A super thief, super cautious. And she’s a junkie?’
‘Well, I mean, I think she’s one,’ Finch said. His eyes lit up. ‘She’s got a kid, little girl. I’ve seen photos.’
Towne seemed rocked by the news. He recovered and said, ‘See, you do know things about her.’
‘It’s all coming back to me. She’s worried the heroin’s making her a bad parent so her sister’s raising the daughter.’
‘Sister? Where does this sister live?’
Finch muttered, as if talking to himself, ‘Maybe if I blew up a still from the security video…’ ‘Hello? Steven? Pay attention.’
Finch gestured hastily at the cluttered shelf above and behind him. ‘Hidden camera.’
‘Video or digital?’ demanded Towne, rapping out the words.
‘I’m fully digitised, permanent storage on hard drive.’
‘So?’
‘The other day she showed me some photos of her daughter and her parents.’
‘Parents,’ said Towne flatly, as if hearing more fresh information.
‘They’re old,’ Finch said.
‘Maybe she lives with them.’
Finch shook his head, keen to keep the air full of helpful information. ‘Old folks’ home somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘With a bit of tweaking I should be able to get good close-ups, you know, background detail. That help you?’
‘Do it.’
‘What, now?’
‘You’ve just shut up shop for the day,’ Towne said.
Finch complied, thinking: Good luck Suze. You won’t last long, with this guy after you.
33
Day passed into night.
In Waterloo, Tina Knorr worked the four to midnight shift, coming off duty as the clocks edged into Tuesday. She didn’t change out of her uniform, just grabbed her bag from her locker, said hi to the nurses coming on duty and walked out to her car, keys swinging from her forefinger. The staff car park was a broad lake of moonlit asphalt, shadowy at the far end, where she’d been obliged to slot her Barina, every other spot taken when she’d come on duty.
But now there were scarcely any cars left there, and none near the Barina, apart from a big white car. Cop car, must be, because a uniformed policeman got out of it as she approached. She saw him edge across to the Barina’s driver’s door, his back to her, and her mind raced. Roadworthy check? Damage? Someone hiding in the back seat?
‘Anything wrong?’
He was an odd shape, or the uniform a bad fit, the shirt curiously tight in places, the pants too short, too wide in the hips, the cap too small. Without turning he said, ‘We’ve had reports of a prowler, miss.’
Welcome to the world of public hospitals in Victoria, Tina thought: bad lighting, no security cameras, doctors who think they’re God, a better than fifty per cent chance of dying from a staph infection. And now prowlers. ‘Near my car?’
‘Just checking. But I can’t see nothin’ so you can get in your car now, no worries.’
A rough, uneducated voice. It didn’t seem quite right to Tina somehow, but by now she was almost beside him. And then a few things clicked into place, not that she was able to make sense of them: some kind of black knitted cloth in his left hand, flesh-coloured latex gloves, face averted…
And she knew him. ‘Darren?’
He jerked and swore, and she took a step back from him, drawing her thin, grey, ward-rounds cardigan around herself, seeking security in the stillness and emptiness of the night. Another step, and then it was too late, he’d grabbed her, a knife blade to her stomach.
‘Please, Darren.’
His eyes were jumping out of their sockets and the smell of him: a kind of chemical rottenness. Terrific. He was probably ripped on something that made him violent and unpredictable, and she’d just let him know he’d been recognised. She could almost tick off the emotions about to rollercoaster inside his head: vulnerability, invincibility, bewilderment, rage, paranoia. Why had she said his name? He’d be totally panicked now.
Maybe she could humanise the situation. ‘Darren?’
‘Shut up. Let me think.’ He thought for about a second. Then, ‘Get in the fucking car.’
She never locked it. Who’d steal a Barina, especially one with 298,000 km on the clock, sun faded and streaked with birdshit? She made to go around to the passenger side but he shrieked at her, ‘Did I tell you to do that? Did I?’
‘Sorry, Darren.’
She got behind the wheel and he came in right on her tail, crowding her. Oh, so she was supposed to get into the passenger seat after all, but by sliding across from the driver’s side of the car. Except in a Barina you don’t exactly slide. She bumped her head on the rear-view mirror, scraped a shin on the gearstick, tore her tights, put her back out.
‘Keys.’
They were still swinging from her ring finger and he tore them from her. In an instant of blinding pain, her finger went out of joint. She moaned, head sinking to her knees, the world swimming around her.
‘Good, you got the right idea, keep your fucking head down.’
He ground the starter motor and found reverse. Then he searched for first gear and the gearbox made its wretched grind and howl. ‘You have to start in second,’ Tina said. And, apologetically, ‘Needs a new gearbox.’
‘Did I tell you to fucking speak? Keep your head down.’
The car protested and then they were bumping out onto the street. She made a mental map of the turns and stops in the minutes that followed. He was heading north, and eventually would come to a roundabout and need to choose Dandenong or Somerville. Unless he took the road out to the wasteland of unloved paddocks leading to the shire rubbish tip.
Out to where he’d dumped Chloe Holst.
She said, ‘Darren, that first girl, her name was Chloe, I bet you didn’t know that I helped nurse her?’
She said it with her head to the side, neck craning to look up at him, hoping the words might strike home somehow.
Reality check. Did she really think she could get through to a guy like Darren Muschamp? He was more likely to stick her with the knife than show remorse. He didn’t look like he’d even heard her. His mouth was open-concentration? Stupidity? Blocked sinuses? His eyes were jumpy.
She tried again. ‘I mean, what a coincidence, eh? Or was it deliberate, snatching me from the place that treated her?’
She was genuinely curious. Her answer was a punch to the head with his knife hand, pebbly knuckles scraping painfully across her ear.