Garry Disher - Kittyhawk Down

At the top they broke out into a blackberry thicket and there was the house, of grey, weathered, mouldy fibro and rusted corrugated iron, choked by ferns and bracken. Torn flyscreens on the windows, a torn flyscreen door, bricks missing from the chimney. Tankard glanced again at the chimney. Munro wouldn't be stupid enough to light a fire. The smoke would be a dead giveaway that someone was staying in the house.

But Munro was there. Tankard could feel it in his bones and whispered, 'You stay here, I'll circle around the back.'

'And?'

He hadn't thought that far ahead. He was prepared for events to find their own course, but glanced at his watch and said, 'Allow two minutes, then we both knock and shout, "Police, open up".'

She shrugged. 'It's a plan. But we were told not to approach but to call it in.'

'No time,' Tankard said. He held up his finger, whispered, 'Two minutes,' and began to circle to his right, where the undergrowth was less dense.

And came upon Ian Munro outside the back door of the house, standing waiting for him on a patch of hard-packed, grassless dirt, apparently amused as Tankard blundered around the corner. 'Blundered' was how Tankard replayed the scene in his head later, but right now Munro had a shotgun pointed fair and square at his chest and was full of lean, muscular contempt.

'Hello, copper.'

Tankard froze.

'Don't learn real quick, do you, sunshine?'

Tankard found that his hands were in the air.

'How many of you?'

Tankard swallowed and managed to say, 'A whole heap.'

Munro considered this. 'I don't think so. One other, maybe. Take your gun out-I see they gave you another one.'

That was when Pam rapped her fist on the door at the other end of the house and called, 'Police,' but it all sounded impossibly far away to John Tankard. Had it really been two minutes? He seemed to inhabit a dream. He saw Munro, momentarily startled, swing the shotgun toward the house, and he seemed to watch his own hands stop clawing at the sky and drop to his holster to unstrap his service revolver. It was smooth, by-the-book, but impossibly slow, and the shotgun swung round on him again to fix on his defenceless chest.

Tankard got his gun out and fired, then dropped it because it kicked so much and numbed his fingers. The shotgun roared, the shot spraying with a whump above his head, and then Munro was collapsing.

When Pam Murphy found him, Tankard was standing over Munro, streaked with tears, asking her over and over again: 'What have I done?'

Pam Murphy called it in and detectives and senior uniformed police took control of the scene-and thank God for that, because John Tankard had fallen in a heap. She gave a brief verbal report, then asked if she could take him back to the station.

'You'd be better off taking him to see a doctor,' Sergeant van Alphen said, glancing critically at Tank, who sat weeping on the back porch of the shack. 'Get him tranquillised. Later on he'll have to see a psychologist.'

He looked at Pam then, kindness there somewhere under his wintry features. Not for the first time, Pam was struck by his external resemblance to Inspector Challis: the same stillness and sense of economy, the same dark, intense, considering scrutiny. Except Challis seemed stable where van Alphen had shown last year that he could go off the rails a little. So he should know it when he saw it. Pam watched him look again at Tank and shake his head minutely.

'Sarge?' she said. 'He'll be okay, won't he? I mean, there'll be an inquiry, but there was nothing dirty about the shooting.'

Van Alphen grinned like a shark at her. 'Hell, this is Munro here, dead. They'll give John a medal.'

'Thanks, Sarge.'

'Take him home. No, take him to the station first, familiar surroundings, maybe he'll be up to giving a statement. When the investigators turn up tomorrow, I'll keep them sidetracked for a day or so, give him time to recover.'

'Thanks, Sarge.'

Pam very briefly and discreetly hugged van Alphen, who after a moment's hesitation squeezed her shoulders awkwardly and stared at the ground.

Then she got John Tankard to his feet and begged a lift back to their car from Scobie Sutton, who said, 'Good result, guys.'

He prattled on, praising, talking about the importance of counselling now. Pam knew there was another side to Scobie Sutton, but right now he was a long streak of sweetness and light, as if he should have been a clergyman. 'Thanks,' she said, glad to get herself and Tank out of the CIB car and into their divisional van.

Then back at the station there was more backslapping. She took Tank through to the lockers, telling him to get changed. He was looking stunned, watery eyed, practically had to be led by the hand. Forget giving a statement: she was taking him home.

Except Senior Sergeant Kellock came in then, said, 'Good result, you two,' and took Tank away to make a statement.

So Pam sat there for a while, and thought about Lister, and realised how she could make the loan go away: simply sell the car.

But back out in the corridor she ran into Sergeant Destry, who gave her a cracking smile full of warmth and said, 'Good result today,' and Pam, badly in need of a confessor, found herself saying, 'Sarge, could I have a quick word?'

Ellen Destry was always reminded of her younger self whenever she saw Pam Murphy. Murphy was keen, sharp, ambitious, obliged to put up with lechers and Neanderthals, apt to be secretive and not above stuffing things up.

What she didn't expect to hear was this thing about money: the constant anxiety about it, the lack of it, the hopelessness with managing it. Ellen shook her head, thinking unaccountably of her daughter at that moment, thinking: we keep failing to teach our kids how to live their lives.

Then bad memories came flooding in. Money's going to get me into trouble one day too, she thought, and flushed to think of that time last year when she'd pocketed five hundred dollars that she'd found at an arson scene. It was something she did every once in a long while, usually small amounts belonging to crims and never missed. But it was wrong and she liked to think she'd got on top of her problem. Last year she'd given the five hundred dollars to charity: it had been too hard to take it back to the arson scene. It was a kind of light-fingeredness that lingered from childhood, when she'd lifted lollies and comics from the corner shop after school.

She shook off the memories. 'But I thought Lister was an accountant,' she said now, looking intently at Pam Murphy in the hard chair on the other side of her desk.

'He is,' Pam said, apparently surprised not to get bawled out, her head bitten off. 'But he loans money too.'

'And he loaned you thirty thousand.'

'Yes, Sarge.'

'A lot of money.'

'Yes, Sarge.'

'If you'd borrowed something more manageable, like ten thousand-you can get a decent car for under ten thousand- you wouldn't be in this bind.'

Ellen saw Pam bow her head. 'Yes, Sarge.'

'But you don't want a lecture from me. How are you going to repay the loan?'

Pam looked up and with a crooked grin said, 'I'm going to sell the car.'

'You'll lose money on the deal.'

Pam shook her head. 'Not necessarily. It was newish second-hand, so it had already depreciated in value when I bought it. There's a big demand for Subarus, and with any luck I'll get my money back or make a small profit. If there's any shortfall, I'll borrow it from my mother. Once the debt is cleared, Lister can't touch me.'

You're naive, Ellen thought, giving the younger woman a pitying look. She turned harsh. 'As soon as we arrest him or even question him about anything he'll say he's had his hooks into you. He'll say you gave him sensitive information in exchange for money and you'll face disciplinary action and possibly lose your job.'