Garry Disher - Chain of Evidence

Kellock put his huge head on one side. ‘Incredible.’

Tank said nothing.

‘How did Sergeant van Alphen get involved?’

‘Sir, he went with me to the finance company. You should have seen him, sir. He told them they had no legal standing, they loaned me money on an illegal car. Failed to do due diligence. Left themselves open to investigation for their part in a car re-birthing racket. It was bloody magnificent, sir. He told them if they wanted their money to go after the caryard proprietor. Unreal.’

Kellock was spoiling his grim exterior with a small smile. ‘We lost a good man.’

‘We did, sir,’ said Tank, welling up, his throat thick with sudden grief.

‘But that’s where it ends, as far as the police are concerned, understood?’

‘Sir.’ Tank also took that as an obscure warning not to contact ‘Evening Update’ ever again. ‘Cross my heart, sir.’

‘You have dragged us into what is essentially a personal matter. Use a lawyer next time.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Back to work, John. Bike patrol, okay?’

‘Aww, sir,’ Tank protested.

‘John.’

‘Sir.’

Tank went back to work. Bike patrol. Another of Kellock’s bullshit innovations, like that road safety campaign a few months back, when he and Pam Murphy had driven around in a little sports car, rewarding courteous drivers. Bike patrol entailed zipping around Waterloo on a bicycle, an exercise aimed at keeping down bag snatching, car theft and theft from parked cars-crimes that had escalated in recent years, what with Waterloo’s paradoxical growth in social distress and commercial activity. People were getting poorer but Waterloo also had a new K-Mart now, plus a Coles, a Ritchies and a Safeway, all with vast, choked car parks, a boon to thieving kids from the Seaview estate.

He’d barely completed a circuit of the foreshore reserve parking area when his mobile phone jangled. He dismounted, answered the call. ‘The well drying up?’ growled the producer of ‘Evening Update’.

Tank said, the words simply popping into his head and feeling right, ‘I can’t do this any more.’

‘Oh, I see. A crisis of conscience.’

Tank hated the guy’s tone and fluency. ‘It’s…I…just…’

But the line had gone dead. Feeling good, and bad, Tank pedalled across town to the Safeway supermarket, and five minutes later he nicked fifteen-year-old Luke Jarrett. Luke’s car of choice was a 2004 Hyundai Accent, which was parked in a shadowy region between the side doors of the supermarket and a couple of huge metal dump bins.

‘Is this your car?’

‘Ow! You’re hurting me. Pig.’

Luke Jarrett was dark, lithe, darting. A kid who’d seen everything in his short life. Tank didn’t waste any time. He took the kid deeper into the shadows, to where the garbage stank, fluids stained the ground and papers blew about. He began systematically to punch the boy: testicles, stomach and face. He knew how not to leave bruises.

‘You want to wake up to yourself, mate. Had enough?’

The kid didn’t answer but was crying softly, snot and saliva smearing his face.

‘Where were you intending to take the car?’

No reply. Tank beat him again. Eventually the boy said, ‘Korean Salvage.’

Tank was astonished. The guy who ran Korean Salvage was the father of one of Waterloo’s ace under-18 footballers. ‘Get your sorry arse off home, Luke,’ he said. ‘Keep your trap shut and I won’t arrest you. That means you do not warn Korean Salvage.’

He watched the kid run, doubled over, in the general direction of High Street, then snapped on his bicycle clips again and pedalled around to the industrial estate. He found Korean Salvage, and there he talked long and hard to the proprietor, pointing out various pros and cons, eventually coming to a mutually beneficial arrangement with the guy. In return for rebirthing Tank’s hitherto doomed Mazda, the proprietor of Korean Salvage would not be reported to CIU for car theft and related offences.

Tank finished patrolling at five that afternoon, his bum sore from the saddle of the bike, his meaty legs aching, and saw Pam Murphy return one of the unmarked CIU Falcons. ‘Knocking off work for the day?’

She shook her head cheerfully. ‘I’ll be on for hours, yet. A detective’s work is never done.’

She said it jokingly. At once Tank thought of a way to wipe the joke off her face.

Challis was at RSPCA regional headquarters. He’d buried his father on Saturday; now it was time to finish this last thing. Sadler was in his office and not pleased to see him.

‘I hear they arrested Paddy Finucane,’ he said bluntly.

‘Yes.’

‘So why do you want to see me?’

Challis checked the outer office. It was almost 5 pm and they were alone.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Sadler. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

Challis closed the office door soundlessly and crossed the room, leaning both hands on Sadler’s desk, towering over the man. ‘Where were you?’ he murmured.

‘What?’

‘Gavin Hurst was a liability. Mood swings. Antagonising people, including his work colleagues.’

‘You can’t…I wasn’t…Paddy Finucane…’

‘Paddy Finucane didn’t kill him, no matter what those hotshots from Adelaide think. I know it and you know it.’

‘If the police think he did it, that’s good enough for me.’

‘That anonymous call: you invented it. There was no call.’

‘No! Check with the receptionist. She logged it. The police took a copy with them.’

‘You got someone outside this office to make the call.’

‘I wasn’t even here that day!’

‘Exactly. You were in the Bluff, shooting Gavin in the head.’

‘No!’

Sadler was looking wildly past Challis, hoping for deliverance. The world outside was ticking over benignly, slowed by the springtime sun. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘I’ll ask it again, where were you?’

‘Down in Adelaide.’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘Yes! Dozens of witnesses. My daughter’s nursing graduation.’

‘You got someone to do your dirty work for you, then.’

‘No!’

Challis was going through the motions. He’d fantasised that Sadler was the killer, over the past few days, but now, facing the man, no longer believed it. ‘Gavin’s camera?’

‘What about it?’

‘When did you take those photos of Paddy’s place?’

‘The only time I was at his place was days later, and I had my own camera.’

Challis pulled a chair up to the desk. He sat, and was less intimidating. ‘When was Gavin’s camera passed back to you?’

Sadler, relieved but still jumpy and indignant, said, ‘Weeks later. They were going to give it to Meg, but all the photos on it were work related, so it came to me.’

‘Who else did Gavin have a history with?’

The question was unwelcome. ‘He did his job. He prosecuted several people over the years. Fair and square.’

‘But was he fair and square in the last few weeks and months?’

Sadler looked away. ‘Not always.’

‘Spit it out. I’m tired of this.’

Sadler shrugged. ‘He might have had a couple of arguments with Rex Joyce.’

‘Joyce? About what?’

‘Mistreating a horse.’

‘What action was taken?’

‘None.’

‘Why not?’

‘Can you see Rex Joyce mistreating a horse? I don’t think so.’

‘I can, actually,’ Challis said. ‘He has a bad temper.’

Sadler looked hurt and astounded, as though Challis had insulted the Queen.

‘Who reported him?’

‘No one.’

‘So how did Gavin know to investigate?’

‘For your information,’ Sadler said, ‘Gavin Hurst liked to sneak around. He claimed he just happened to be driving past Mr Joyce’s property and saw him whipping one of his horses with a length of barbed wire.’