[Challis #5] Blood Moon Page 3

5

  Caz Moon was on Trevally Street. She was walking to work, HangTen, the surf shop up on High Street, where she was the manager. For now, anyway. Caz was no cute surfie chick—suntanned, blonde, mini-skirt, chewing gum snapping in her jaws. Caz couldn’t be bothered with any of that. Her jeans and T-shirt were cheap, her hair and makeup vaguely Goth. She was saving her money. She was slim, quick and clever, twenty-one years old, and very soon she would leave Waterloo far behind, leave her peers to their pregnancies and joblessness.

  Caz Moon hadn’t reached the crime scene yet, although she could see the police car, the uniforms and the tape in the distance. She was still down on the stretch of Trevally devoted to seedy boarding houses, run-down motels and faded holiday apartments, all of them facing patchy parkland between the coin barbecues and the boardwalk that ran out into the mangrove swamp. The parkland was Tent City this week, flimsy green and blue nylon structures flapping in the breeze. No one stirring, though. The little dears were still sleeping it off.

  It was in front of the Sea Breeze Holiday Apartments that Caz spotted a red Subaru Impreza with a spoiler, racks and customised mag wheels. She swayed, feeling unmoored suddenly. Unwelcome sensations flooded through her, momentarily flattening her capacity to think. A year ago, it had been. Schoolies Week last year. She remembered the sounds of his breathing and her undies ripping, his faintly rotten cocaine and amphetamine skin, the sand packed in hard ripples beneath her spine, the bile in her mouth and the knowing stars high above.

  Josh, his name was, one long, rollercoaster night, Josh sweet at first, then the flashes of paranoia, his eyes looking wildly through her, then the sweetness again. She knew more, now, about the mood swings associated with ice. And maybe he carried a whole pharmacy around in his pocket, for the next thing she remembered was feeling dazed, her limbs sluggish, Josh on top of her in the darkest hours of the night.

  And here he was, back in town again in his little red car.

  Caz Moon closed her eyes and willed it all away, willing raw anger in its place. She breathed in and out. She smiled. She set off again in her unreadable way, down along Trevally Street toward the Villanova Gardens apartments.

  A detective watched her and she watched the detective, a young woman with a clipboard, who suddenly veered away from knocking fruitlessly on nearby doors to head Caz off, her face with that cool, blank, unimpressed look they all have.

  ‘Hi,’ the cop said. ‘My name’s Detective Constable Pam Murphy.’ She paused, cocked her head. ‘I’ve seen you around town. You work in the surf shop, right?’

  ‘Manager,’ Caz said. She took the initiative and shot out her hand. ‘Karen Moon. Caz.’

  ‘Hi,’ the cop said, shaking her hand. ‘Listen, we’re investigating a serious incident in Trevally Street last night. Mind if I ask you some questions?’

  Caz glanced past the cop to a beefy uniformed guy doorknocking on the other side of the street, and beyond him to one of the apartments, where a slinky guy stood guard, looking bored. ‘Fire away.’

  The questions began: ‘Do you live nearby?’ ‘Do you regularly use Trevally Street?’ ‘Did you pass along here late yesterday evening or in the early hours of the morning?’ And so on. It didn’t take long. Caz soon established that she hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  All true. But she did lie. The lie was in not informing the young detective with the taut body and probing eyes that she’d been raped last November. At night, on one of the beaches. And that she knew where to find the guy who’d committed it.

  Caz Moon was maintaining a very specific, retributive rage about that.

  * * * *

  Ludmilla Wishart also saw the police car, the crime-scene tape and the doorknocking officers. She saw them from the side window of her Golf as she passed along Trevally Street on her way to the planning office. Normally she might have been like any other gawking citizen and stored her impressions to share with her workmates around the tearoom table, but felt too low for that. Felt too fat.

  Was she fat? Her best friend, Carmen, would say, ‘If anything, Mill, you’re too skinny.’ Sometimes, when Ludmilla was feeling strong, she believed Carmen; the rest of the time she believed Adrian. Why did it matter to him so much? She wanted to look good for him as one does with a lover or husband, but looking good for Adrian was exhausting. The effort and the anxiety wore her out. She relied on little acts of resistance to keep going. Her friendship with Carmen, for example, in which she could be herself, crack jokes, let her guard down. Adrian was wary of Carmen. He probably knew Carmen loathed him. As Ludmilla stopped at a roundabout she thought about hiding or breaking the bathroom scales. But Adrian would only go out and buy another set.

  The bad feelings rising in her, she drove on again, finally turning into a side street half a kilometre away from the crime scene and slowing for the entrance to Planning East. The hectic pace of residential and commercial development on the Peninsula had placed an enormous strain on the shire’s planners in recent years, and now-separate and independent planning departments handled applications in the western, eastern and southern zones. Several planners worked at Planning East, Ludmilla was the infringements officer, and their boss was Athol Groot. The only parking spot available was next to his Mercedes, an old white classic, and Ludmilla parked very carefully, very precisely, knowing what he was like.

  Thinking about her boss reminded her of Adrian, and she sat for a few minutes, her heart hammering. It often happened: Adrian would find fault, and her heart would get the wobbles. The only solution was to stumble into her office, Ludmilla Wishart, Planning Infringements on the door, and stretch out on the floor, one hand over her heart, monitoring its erratic progress.

  She wanted above everything else to be a cool, collected person. She thought she’d glimpsed that quality, very briefly, in the young woman detective on Trevally Street. What would it take? Leaving Adrian, according to Carmen.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  It was Mr Groot, squat and heavy in her doorway, wearing the kind of expression that said he didn’t care one way or the other if she were ill, so long as he didn’t have to do anything about it.

  * * * *

  John Tankard and Pam Murphy finished doorknocking Trevally Street and wandered back to the Villanova apartments, comparing notes. ‘I found one witness who backs up Lachlan Roe’s neighbour,’ Tank said. ‘He heard two men shouting just after midnight and saw a guy wearing a hoodie running along Trevally Street toward the library. Didn’t get a look at his face.’

  Pam snorted. ‘A guy in a hoodie.’

  ‘Bet you’d like a dollar for every time you’ve heard that,’ Tank said.

  He bumped shoulders with her. Until a few weeks ago, Murph had been his partner. Now she was in plain clothes, a CIU hotshot, and he was stuck with that prick Andrew Cree. When their shoulders touched, she moved apart from him. Just slightly, almost nothing to it, but Tank knew it was a rebuff.

  Meanwhile Cree, God’s gift to women and policing, was watching their approach.

  ‘How’s it going, Andy?’ called Murph in a voice that made Tank’s antenna go up.

  ‘Too much excitement in this job,’ Cree said.

  Pam laughed.

  Bitch, thought Tank. He knew that he was out of shape and hopeless with women. Here’s Cree, fit, assured, an Arts graduate, for fuck’s sake, and not ... direct. Saying things between the lines.

  He comforted himself with the thought that he knew something Pam didn’t—the great Andrew Cree was afraid of the dark. True. Before their daybreak callout to Trevally Street this morning, Tank and Cree had been patrolling outside the town limits, on duty since 4 a.m. The darkness had been all around them, their headlights picking out the ghostly shapes of dead gum trees and the coal eyes of foxes on the prowl. Nothing unusual but Tank had begun to wonder why Cree was all hunched over the steering wheel, his shoulders up around his ears. Then, suddenly, he got it: the guy was scared. Young Andrew had grown up in some endless tract of Melbourne, where
the night was never truly dark and no snakes or spiders lurked. Not like the back roads of the Peninsula. No streetlights out here, old buddy, old pal, old chum. Out here the darkness closes in tight around you. Ghosts and gremlins roam.

  ‘Okay, guys,’ Pam was saying now, ‘we’re finished here. Thanks for your help. Grab yourselves some morning tea and then return to what you were doing.’

  ‘Don’t know if I can stand the thrill of it,’ Cree responded, throwing her plenty of eye and mouth work as if to say he could stand the thrill of her.

  Prick.

  * * * *

  6

  After leaving the Villanova apartments, Challis drove to the hospital. A forensic science officer, carrying several brown paper sample bags, was trudging purposefully across the carpark as though holding strong emotions in check. She stopped when she saw Challis. ‘A nasty beating, sir.’

  Challis nodded. ‘More than one person involved?’

  ‘Hard to say. Nothing much under the victim’s fingernails. Lots of blood on his hands, face and clothing—probably all his, but we’ll check.’ She rattled the paper sample bags at him. ‘The good news is I found what looks like mucus on the elbow of his jacket. We’ll check the DNA against his DNA.’

  Challis thanked her, went in and tracked down the doctor who’d treated Roe. A Russian, Challis guessed. About fifty, exhausted-looking and very thin, with a bony, hooked nose. ‘He is lucky he is found before it is too late, I think,’ the doctor said, escorting Challis down a corridor, the white walls and green linoleum streaked here and there, the black spoor of rubber soles and tyres. ‘The coma continues. Impossible to say when he will regain consciousness.’

  Lachlan Roe had sustained cracked ribs, a broken nose, a broken ring finger on his right hand—possibly sustained when he tried to ward off his attacker—and severe swelling of the brain. ‘In my opinion this man was punched quite viciously and then kicked when he was on the ground. Is possible his brain has sustained some damage.’

  They entered a small ward, where the doctor pulled back a curtain, revealing the chaplain of the Landseer School lying beneath a window overlooking the rear of the Waterloo Fitness Centre. Roe breathed shallowly out of a badly bruised and swollen face. Broad white bandaging was wound tightly around his head and Challis glimpsed a bandage striped across his chest.

  Dirk Roe, plumply miserable, sat in a chair pulled close to his brother’s bed, muttering into the telephone on the bedside table. Glancing around sulkily when Challis and the doctor entered, his face immediately cleared. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said into the phone. ‘The cop in charge just walked in.. .Yes, sir.. .I’ll put him on.’ He thrust the phone at Challis, the gesture somehow dismissive and contemptuous. ‘My boss wants a word.’

  Oh, hell, thought Challis. He took the phone, said his name crisply.

  Ollie Hindmarsh’s reply filled his ear, the voice deep-chested, hectoring and familiar from numerous television and radio interviews. ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a nasty business,’ the politician said, ‘very nasty.’

  Challis said nothing.

  ‘Made an arrest?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘Too soon to say.’

  Hindmarsh grunted. After a pause he said, ‘At least you have rank. I don’t want this fobbed off onto a sergeant or a constable.’

  Challis said nothing.

  ‘Did you hear me? I want you to stay on top of this, Inspector.’

  ‘It will be treated seriously; as seriously as we treat all violent crime,’ Challis said, feeling like a public relations flak.

  ‘Hardly reassuring,’ barked Hindmarsh. ‘Mr Roe has done enormous good in the local community and I want his attacker brought to justice.’

  I’m not Channel 9, thought Challis. I’m not the Herald-Sun. He said, ‘If that will be all... ?’

  ‘Who’s your superintendent?

  Oh, Christ, Challis thought, and told him.

  ‘McQuarrie? Played golf with him once. Based in Frankston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was no good-bye, just a click in Challis’s ear. He gave the handset to Dirk Roe, who smirked. To wipe it off his face, Challis said, ‘I will need to question you later in the day.’ He gave Roe his card. ‘Meanwhile if you think of anything pertinent, or if your brother wakes up, give me a call.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Challis shook his head and left the hospital. Back in CIU he found Ellen Destry at her computer. He told her about the phone call. ‘He’s going to sic McQuarrie on to me.’

  ‘What a jerk.’

  ‘At least we’ve got nothing else on of any great seriousness, so all stops out.’

  She mock saluted him. ‘Right you are, boss.’

  ‘I’ll bust you back to uniform if you’re not careful.’

  ‘I look good in a uniform,’ she said.

  Challis walked away shaking his head. In his office he stared at his in-tray for a while, at the paperwork that swamped his days and gave him a permanent, low-level sense of anxiety and aggravation. The memos and reports induced dreaminess, and soon he was staring out of his window at the sky—blue, even and featureless. He got up and stood at the glass, staring down at the carpark beneath his office. It was nothing to look at—cramped, potholed, fringed with peeling gum trees—but more interesting than the sky, with the cops and civilian employees always clocking on and off. Among the vehicles were big four-wheel-drives, humble family sedans, a snappy little European cabriolet, and a couple of boy-racer V8s, all glossy paintwork and testosterone. Not for the first time, he reflected on the police station as a microcosm of the wider community.

  Then he saw Scobie Sutton arrive. Sutton circled the area before parking inexpertly beside a rubbish skip that had been rusting away in the far corner since renovation work two years earlier. He was followed by Pam Murphy, who parked her little Hyundai briskly and strode past Sutton in her take-no-prisoners way, Sutton trudging like a wind-whipped scarecrow across the yard.

  Challis grinned, left his office and walked down the corridor to the tearoom, where he spooned coffee grounds into the espresso machine. This was the morning ritual in CIU: he made the coffee, the others took turns to provide pastries from the bakery in High Street—unless it was Scobie’s turn, in which case he brought scones, cupcakes or muffins baked by his wife. Challis preferred the pastries.

  When the coffee was ready he loaded the coffee pot, four mugs and a jug of microwaved milk onto a tray and carried them to the briefing room, where the others were already waiting, Ellen arranging almond croissants on a plate in the centre. She knew what he liked.

  Challis always stood during briefing sessions. It allowed him to move between whiteboards with a pointer during complex cases, or otherwise simply prop up a wall while everyone tossed around ideas. This morning there was only one matter of any urgency, the attack on Lachlan Roe.

  ‘I’ve just been to the hospital,’ he said. ‘Roe is still unconscious. It was a pretty frenzied attack, we could be looking at brain damage. And it didn’t help that he was lying in the open all night.’

  Ellen licked icing sugar from her fingers. ‘Forensics?’

  ‘Plenty of blood, mostly from Roe presumably. A possible mucus smear on his elbow that might be from his attacker. We won’t know until the DNA results come in. There might also be some fibre evidence from his clothing.’

  He turned to the others. ‘Scobie? Pam? Any witnesses?’

  Sutton stirred in his seat. He looked tense. ‘No CCTV, sorry.’

  ‘Murph?’

  Pam Murphy was new to CIU, persuaded to make the switch from uniformed work by Ellen Destry, who’d noticed her aptitude for detection. She was thirty, with the taut, neatly put together look of an athlete, her hair short and layered. Like Ellen, she was dressed unremarkably. She swallowed some coffee and checked her notebook.

  ‘We managed to question most of the neighbours before t
hey left for work. The woman who found the victim said she heard shouting last night, around midnight. She didn’t do anything about it because she assumed it was the schoolies from the tents across the road. They’ve been partying hard every night since Friday. Another witness saw a young man in a hoodie running away from the area late last night. Didn’t see his face. We still need to follow up on a couple of shift workers who’d already left this morning.’

  ‘No one saw anything earlier in the evening? Someone hanging around, an unfamiliar car on the street?’

  Scobie threw his hands up. ‘It’s Schoolies Week. The joint’s full of strangers and strange cars.’

  Challis uncoiled from the wall, nodding philosophically. ‘If the attack was random,’ he said, pulling out a chair and helping himself to a croissant, ‘and there’s no DNA evidence, no witnesses, we’re stuck. But Lachlan Roe might have pissed someone off, so let’s look closer at him. Standard victimology: where he works, who his associates are, finances, hobbies, interests, last known movements, the usual drill. In particular, the brother and the school.’