Garry Disher - Snapshot

‘Uh oh,’ she said presently. ‘We’ve got company.’

They’d reached a hilly street behind the Esplanade in Mornington. No fog on this side of the Peninsula, but a rainsquall had come in across Port Phillip Bay, causing movement in a huddle of reporters and camera crews camped on a nearby nature strip. ‘Be friendly,’ Challis said.

Shouted questions reached them through the windows of the car, but Ellen didn’t stop, easing the CIU Falcon off the street, onto a gravelled driveway and past dense shrubbery and slender gum trees, to park nose-up to a railway sleeper barrier. They got out, locked the car and Challis followed Ellen down the steps to the front door, careful on the slicks of moss.

McQuarrie greeted them, holding his granddaughter’s hand. She’d been crying, but glanced up at them solemnly, as if shy but also aware that she was at the centre of something momentous. She wore jeans, a pink long-sleeved top, pink socks, pink clips holding back unruly blonde hair. Her grandfather looked faintly lost, a slightly built senior policeman who’d seen the underside only from behind a desk. He didn’t make introductions but stood back, saying, ‘Come in, come in,’ before glancing at their feet. ‘Would you mind…’

There were shoes and gumboots heaped on both sides of the door. Challis and Ellen slipped off their shoes, curling their toes on the cold concrete of the verandah, waiting for McQuarrie to stop dithering on the doorstep.

Finally they were in a hallway, pale green carpet expensively thick beneath their feet, a phone off the hook on an antique hallstand. McQuarrie led them to a sitting room: a red leather sofa and armchairs, massive antique sideboards, two small Turkish rugs. A huge window looked out onto a barbecue pit, a brick courtyard, a rose arbour and shrubs in bulky terracotta pots. McQuarrie’s wife Barbara-often called Mrs Super-stood beside an open fire, as neatly put together as her husband but snootier, more readily offended. Challis tried a commiserative nod and smile and got a scowl in return. He introduced Ellen, who earned only a flickering glance.

‘Have you found out who did this?’

McQuarrie said hastily, ‘It’s too soon, dear. Hal is here for information.’

Barbara McQuarrie came forward a few centimetres, the strain apparent in her face. ‘I don’t want you upsetting Georgia.’

‘Some tea, love, we could all do with a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll help you,’ Ellen said, expertly shepherding McQuarrie’s wife out of the room, piling on admiring comments about the decor, the house, the landscaping. Challis and McQuarrie watched them go, Challis appreciating her tact and her instincts.

McQuarrie said, ‘Hal, this is Georgia. Georgia, this is Inspector Challis.’

Challis put out his hand and the child shook with him gravely, her palm moist, her bones like a tiny bird’s inside his grip. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

Challis didn’t know what McQuarrie had said to his granddaughter. He’d hoped to be briefed before meeting and questioning her. Did Georgia know that her mother was dead? If so, what did she, a six-year-old, understand that to mean? ‘Perhaps we should all sit down,’ he said.

‘Grampa, can I have a hot chocolate?’

‘Of course you can. Run and ask Nana.’

Relieved, Challis watched her leave the room, and then turned to McQuarrie. ‘Sir, are you okay with this, my questioning her?’

‘I am. My wife’s not.’

‘Does Georgia know her mother’s dead?’

Some of McQuarrie’s brisk superintendent’s manner had come back. ‘Yes. Died and gone to heaven.’

‘She’s remarkably poised.’

‘She’s incredible. She’s finished her crying for now. Even so, we’ll see that she gets proper counselling.’ He paused. ‘If your questioning upsets her I’m putting a halt to it, Hal.’

‘Sir.’

McQuarrie was the only super in Challis’s experience who expected to be called ‘sir’ by the more senior of his officers. Most preferred ‘boss’ or even first names and affectionate nicknames. McQuarrie insisted on ‘sir’ and Challis believed that it was a measure of the man’s insecurity-compounded today by the fact that he was grieving.

There was the distant ping of a microwave oven, and moments later Georgia appeared with a mug of hot chocolate, a frothy moustache on her upper Up. Ellen Destry came in behind her with a teapot and sugar bowl on a tray, Barbara McQuarrie with plain Ikea mugs and shortbread biscuits in a bowl, her disapproval obvious. She wanted Challis and his sergeant out of her house.

When they were settled-Georgia perched on her grandfather’s knees-Challis glanced at Ellen, who leaned forward and said, ‘Georgia, we want to catch the bad men who hurt your mother.’

Georgia, small and tawny, shrank into McQuarrie’s lap, hot chocolate splashing on his tie. ‘I want my dad. Where’s Daddy?’

‘He’s on his way, sweetheart,’ McQuarrie said, rocking her. ‘His plane’s already landed.’

‘What if they shoot him, too?’

‘Hush, hush,’ McQuarrie said, out of his depth.

‘We’re stopping this right now,’ his wife said.

Challis signalled to Ellen and they got to their feet, but Georgia seemed panicked by this. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To catch the bad men,’ Ellen said.

‘Where?’

‘We’ll look for them everywhere.’

Challis was wondering if Ellen’s answer would add to Georgia’s fears, make her housebound, when Georgia said, ‘But you don’t know what they look like.’

Barbara McQuarrie said, ‘It’s all right, Georgia. Let the man and the lady go off and do their job.’

‘I know what they look like,’ Georgia insisted, recovered now. She climbed out of her grandfather’s lap and left the room, returning moments later with several drawings. She aligned the edges awkwardly, shoving them at Challis. ‘Here.’

Challis glanced inquiringly at McQuarrie, who said, ‘The crime-scene people arrived before I did, and Georgia watched them sketching the scene. She came home and wanted to do her own sketches.’

Challis swallowed. ‘Thank you, Georgia. These will be very helpful’

He examined the top drawing: a bird’s eye view of the area, showing both cars and her mother’s body. There was a border of trees and a curious smudge amongst them. ‘Is this…?’ he asked, indicating it to her.

‘That’s me hiding from the man who wanted to shoot me.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Ellen came to stand beside him. There were three other drawings, and Georgia identified them one by one. ‘That’s the man who shot Mummy, that’s the other man in the car, that’s Mummy.’

Mummy from before the murder, a woman with long hair and a big smile.

‘These are terrific,’ Ellen said. ‘Have you remembered anything else about the car? Maybe you remember some of the letters and numbers on the numberplate.’

‘It was just an old car.’

‘Well, that’s helpful. Now, shall we sit and talk some more about what happened this morning?’

‘Okay.’

Ellen guided Georgia to the sofa and sat with her. Challis sat in a nearby armchair and watched and listened.

‘You didn’t have to go to school today,’ Ellen said, ‘is that right? No lessons?’

‘Mummy had to take me to work with her.’

‘Was she meeting someone before going to the clinic?’

‘I think so.’

‘Do you know who?’

Georgia shrugged, a child’s quick, jerking shrug.

‘Did your mum notice a car behind you at any stage?’

Shrug.

‘Did she say anything to you about being lost?’

Head shake.

‘You came to a house and your mum stopped the car,’ Ellen said, briefly stroking Georgia’s forearm. ‘Then what happened?’