Garry Disher - Chain of Evidence

But Ellen had sown a seed. Before long the woman remembered that her husband had washed his own clothes on the day of the murder. He’d never done that before. He’d also washed and vacuumed his car, something he never did unless the family was going on vacation.

Men like him are dead inside, Ellen thought now, feeling spooked by a movement in the window. She’d signed for a service.38 and put her hand on the butt, ready to slip it out of the holster on her hip. But it was only a passing headlight-possibly reflected upwards from a raked windscreen-catching the corner of the whiteboard. On an impulse, she called Challis in South Australia.

Voice-mail.

She badly needed him here. She didn’t deny it. She wanted his stillness. It was a supple kind of stillness. He was respected, and respectful, but people were wary, too, for they couldn’t always read him. He was good at spotting complexities and nuances that others missed, but he also knew when to look the other way in the interests of commonsense and the best outcomes. He was a chameleon sometimes, able to connect with a homeless kid one moment and a clergyman the next. He remembered names: not only of criminals, informants and the people in the corner milk bar but also their families, friends and acquaintances.

She also liked the shadows and planes of his face. The way his backside looked in a pair of pants, too, a nice distracting thought while it lasted. But right now she needed to know what he’d do, if he were stuck in her situation. She swivelled agitatedly in her office chair.

Funny how the mind works. Stuck in her situation. There was that old Creedence song she’d played last night, ‘Stuck in Mobile again’. Why did place names in American popular songs sound mysterious, sad, romantic? She’d also played ‘Sweet home, Alabama’, singing along to the words. Yeah, she could see that working in Australia: ‘Sweet home, New South Wales’…’Stuck in Nar Nar Goon North again’… ‘Twenty-four hours from Wagga Wagga’.

‘Sarge?’

Ellen jumped.

‘I did knock, Sarge.’

‘Sorry, million miles away,’ Ellen said. ‘Close the door, pull up a chair.’

‘Sarge,’ Pam said, obliging.

‘You had a little fun tonight,’ Ellen said, when they were settled. It was now 10 pm.

Pam laughed. ‘Not the first time it’s happened to me. Back when I was fresh out of the academy they sent me to an address, said Mr Lyon was drunk and disorderly. It was the zoo.’

Ellen grinned. ‘They sent me to the arms locker to get a left-handed revolver.’

God, that had been twenty years ago. Without wasting any more time, Ellen told Pam everything, watching the younger woman shift from perky interest to distaste and finally nervy alertness as she responded with the question uppermost in Ellen’s mind: ‘If they can kill Van, what’s to stop them from killing us?’

Ellen felt a tiny surge of hope. Pam had used the word ‘us’. It said that she saw herself as part of a team.

‘We need to work fast. We need to talk to Billy DaCosta again; for a start.’

‘I saw him at Van’s,’ Pam said, explaining the circumstances.

Ellen regarded the younger woman for some time. ‘You were fond of Van, weren’t you?’

Pam nodded, her eyes damp. ‘I know he wasn’t a paragon of virtue, Sarge, but he was on the right side.’

Ellen nodded. ‘You’re going to his funeral?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’

There was a brief, fraught pause, then Ellen coughed and said, ‘Here’s my interview with Billy. See if it tells us anything.’

She aimed the remote control and pushed the play button. Pam watched. She stiffened. ‘That’s not Billy DaCosta.’

Ellen paused the tape. ‘That’s not the kid you saw at Sergeant van Alphen’s house?’

‘Positive. Completely different kid. Sure, there are vague similarities-same sort of clothing, same grubby gothic look-but that’s not the Billy I was introduced to.’

Ellen was silent. They looked at each other. ‘The real Billy’s dead,’ Pam said.

‘Yes.’

‘God,’ Pam said fervently, ‘the nerve, the ability, not only to kill Van but also substitute a witness to discredit him.’

‘The substitute could also be dead.’

‘Sarge, I’m scared.’

‘Me, too.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We try to find whoever this is,’ Ellen said, indicating the flickering screen. ‘He might not be dead. He might be a victim whom they’ve turned. He might be one of the gang now, and be willing to talk.’

Pam stared at the false Billy DaCosta. ‘It looks like you interviewed him in the Victim Suite.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s drinking Coke.’

Ellen sat very still for a moment, then went around and hugged the younger woman. ‘Brilliant.’

‘But the cleaners would have cleared the can away, I suppose.’

‘Billy handled every single can of drink in that fridge,’ Ellen said. ‘No one has used the room since. We can lift his prints for sure.’

She stood and placed her hand on Pam’s shoulder. ‘We can’t do any more tonight. Go home. We have a lot to do tomorrow.’

Meanwhile Challis had reported to Sergeant Wurfel and was waiting by the phone. The call came at 10 pm, clamorous in his father’s gloomy house. ‘Was she there?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The voice was disobliging. ‘And?’ Challis demanded.

Wurfel waited before he spoke again. Challis read hesitation, tact and a hint of impatience in it. ‘Look, I questioned her as a favour to you. You were persuasive, I’ll give you that. But it was a monumental waste of my time and I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.’

‘She and her husband are in it together,’ Challis said heatedly. ‘Gavin intended to prosecute Rex for mistreating his horse, and Rex lost his temper and killed him. They staged his disappearance, and created evidence incriminating Paddy Finucane, just in case.’

‘So you keep saying. She denies it.’

‘Of course she denies it.’

‘She says you barged in on her this evening, throwing your weight around. You scared her.’

‘Rubbish. She waved a shotgun at me.’

‘You scared her, Inspector. She looked scared to me.’

Challis shook his head in the cheerless room. ‘Check with Sadler, Gavin’s boss. He’ll tell you that Gavin was going after Rex Joyce.’

‘Look, this is not my case. Sadler’s been interviewed. A suspect is in custody. Case closed.’

‘Do you think I’m making all this up?’

‘Well, are you?’ demanded Wurfel. ‘Isn’t this personal? Mrs Joyce told me that you and she had been romantically involved in the past. She said you had trouble accepting that it was over and have hassled her from time to time ever since. I advised her to file a complaint, in fact.’

‘You bastard,’ Challis snarled. He felt close to losing it.

‘Inspector.’

Challis swallowed. ‘Was Rex there?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t you at least ask where he was?’

‘Rex Joyce is away on business,’ Wurfel said flatly. ‘He often is.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re his little mate, too,’ Challis said, before he could stop himself.

‘Let’s pretend I didn’t hear you say that, shall we?’

He’s going to inform Nixon and Stormare, thought Challis. They’ll inform McQuarrie. And I don’t care.

‘I think it’s worth getting up a search party tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘It’s possible Rex is suicidal. He could be up on the Bluff somewhere. He likes to go there, Lisa said.’

‘Rex Joyce,’ said Wurfel with false brightness, ‘is away on business. Goodbye.’

Challis slept badly and at first light on Tuesday morning drove to the Joyce homestead and mounted the steps again.