Chain of Evidence

7

Sitting in the patrol car outside the Jarrett house, John Tankard was thinking about life after Pam Murphy.

He felt betrayed. Sure, he knew that he’d often rubbed her up the wrong way, and she hadn’t appreciated his clumsy attempts to get her to sleep with him over the years, but he’d always counted her as an ally, one of the gang, us against them-them being ordinary citizens, crooks and senior police officers.

Now she was leaving him behind, stepping over a line that would take her into the ranks of the enemy. He didn’t know if he could work with anyone else. Would a new partner put up with his bullshit, or report him? Would a new partner watch his back? Console him when things got a bit rough, personally speaking?

He shifted in his seat, half closed his eyes and gazed at the Jarretts’ wreck of a house. Three cars crowded the front yard: a rusting Toyota twin-cab, a little black Subaru and a lowered silver Mercedes with smoky windows. Just then, four Jarrett kids came out, boys, one of them sauntering over to the front gate, where he turned and swiftly dropped his jeans. Pale, skinny shanks. Tank was furious. ‘We can arrest him for that.’

Murphy said wearily, ‘Leave it, Tank.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Tank uselessly.

Who at Waterloo did he like and trust apart from Pam? Some of the other constables were okay, guys you could have a beer with, but they came and they went. The plain-clothed crew, like Challis, Destry and Sutton, were a bit up themselves. Kellock and van Alphen were okay, old-school coppers crippled by the kinds of procedures and regulations that made it hard to do your job properly. Yeah, John Tankard had plenty of time for Kellock and van Alphen.

Pity they were a lot older than him. Pity they were senior in rank. He couldn’t see either of them becoming his best pal when Murph left. He respected them, that’s all. Looked up to them. Thank Christ he had that in his life.

Two girls aged about ten walked past, beating their knees with tennis racquets. Sweet kids, friends, not a care in the world. Then they saw the Jarretts and veered away, suddenly afraid, and John Tankard acknowledged what was at the back of his mind: an image of Natalie, his kid sister, and how awful it would be if anything ever happened to her.

The radio crackled. Sergeant van Alphen was replacing them. Apparently Sergeant Destry had called an urgent briefing.

Pam was glad of the reprieve. It was close in the patrol car; even closer, with big, sweaty John Tankard behind the wheel, overheated from watching the Jarretts and from learning that she might be leaving the uniform behind. Even so, she couldn’t see any harm in raising the temperature a little. ‘Are you going to miss me, John?’

She usually called him Tank. He scowled and muttered, reading ‘John’ as an insult, and pressed hard on the accelerator pedal.

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that?’

‘Think your shit doesn’t stink.’

‘Charming as ever.’

She looked away at the run of tyre outlets and engineering firms that lay between the estate and the Waterloo police station. He is going to miss me, she thought. He’s always been half in love or lust with me, I don’t let his bullshit get to me, and he’s afraid of being left behind. ‘It’s no big deal, Tank. It’s just a training course. Doesn’t mean there are any detective positions open once I’ve completed it.’

‘A training course for a select few,’ he said. ‘Who did you suck up to? Challis? Destry?’

‘I’m not going to honour that with an answer, John.’

They rode in silence. The shadows were lengthening, pines and gums striping a roadside field that would soon be crammed with new housing. Plenty of traffic, people returning home from work, heading for the pub, the Waterloo Show-or just cruising, Pam thought, as a lowered Falcon utility roared up behind them, two kids on board, nervous about passing a police vehicle but itching to all the same. Pam, her window down, could hear the hotted-up motor.

‘Tank,’ she said, ‘is everything okay?’

After a pause he said, ‘I’m working a “one-up” tomorrow night.’

A ‘one-up’ was a lone patrol, just you in the vehicle, owing to a shortage of police on the Peninsula. Pam herself had made several lone patrols in the past few weeks. Nothing bad had happened to her, but you heard stories. ‘Take it easy, okay?’ she said, meaning it.

His voice lightened, welcoming the concern in hers. ‘No worries.’

Pam daydreamed. Then she heard him say, ‘Katie Blasko. I’ve got a bad feeling.’

‘Me, too.’

‘It’s no bullshit, there really is a paedo ring on the Peninsula?’

‘I’ve heard rumours, that’s all.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve got a sister her age. I was at her birthday last weekend. It makes you think. Makes you…’ He rolled his hand, searching for the word. ‘Makes you feel how vulnerable they are.’

He’d never mentioned a kid sister before. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Natalie. Nat. My parents had her late in life.’

‘Pretty name.’

He shrugged. He’d revealed too much, and gave a blokey squaring of his shoulders. ‘I’m picking up a new set of wheels tomorrow.’

Until recently he’d driven a real shitheap, a barge-like Falcon station wagon, in which he’d hauled the local kids to and from football matches, but the motor had seized on it and he’d given up coaching the Waterloo Wallabies at the end of the season. ‘What kind?’ said Pam.

‘Mazda RX, one of the scarce series.’

She had no idea what that was. ‘Where from?’

‘Caryard up in Frankston. I saw it in the Trading Post. Thirty grand,’ he said proudly.

‘Thirty grand? Jesus, Tank.’

He said defensively. ‘Low kilometres, one owner. I beat him down from thirty-five.’

Pam gazed out of her side window, not wanting to talk about cars or let him see that she thought he’d done a stupid thing. They reached the station, parked at the rear and got out, but instead of heading inside, Tank walked off into the shadows with his mobile phone. ‘Oi, we’re supposed to be at the briefing,’ Pam said.

‘I’ll be there in a sec. Gotta make a phone call.’

Shrugging, Pam entered the station and climbed the stairs to CIU.