Kittyhawk Down

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

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.'

Her mind drifted as she spoke, so that she was unmoved by Pam's crestfallen face and hot spurt of tears. She was thinking that Ian Munro borrowed money from Lister because no one else would lend to him, got behind in his repayments, and found himself agreeing to grow marijuana for the man.

But was Skip involved? Had Skip been a spy for his father, urged to visit the Destry household and learn all he could of local police intelligence? The thought was too terrible to contemplate. It would absolutely devastate Larrayne.

'Oh, Christ,' she muttered, and came back to reality only when Pam Murphy said, 'Sarge?'

'So, what are we going to do with you?'

'Don't know, Sarge.'

'How much information did you give to Lister?'

'Nothing that wasn't already public knowledge,' Pam said, clearly trying to make light of it.

'The thing is, Constable, you gave him information for gain. That's how it's going to be seen. Doesn't matter how sensitive or worthless that information was.'

Pam Murphy hung her head. 'Sarge.'

'Did Lister say why he wanted that information?'

'He said he didn't want to lend money to people the police were interested in. He was afraid they'd get arrested and he'd never get his money back.'

'Convenient story.'

'Yes, Sarge. The thing is, he only wanted to know about who was involved with drugs, who the police had their eye on locally, the dealers and pushers.'

Ellen nodded. If Lister was setting up or moving in or manufacturing and selling, or even fighting a turf war, he'd want the kind of information that only the police had.

She didn't say any of this to Pam Murphy. Instead: 'The thing is, Lister's name has cropped up in relation to another matter. Your experience with him helps round out the picture for us. Let's keep this under wraps for now. If asked, I will say that you came to me immediately Lister tried to recruit you, and that we decided to go with it and feed him innocuous information until we could see what he intended to do with it.'

This was a reprieve, and the cares dropped away from Pam Murphy's bowed shoulders and drawn face. 'Thanks heaps, Sarge.'

But Ellen held up a warning hand. 'That doesn't mean that at a later date the truth won't come out if the whole thing goes pear-shaped. You did do the wrong thing.'

'Yes, Sarge.'

'Still, better late than never.'

'Thanks, Sarge.'

As Pam went out the door, Ellen said, 'Did you hear about Brad Pike?'

'Sarge?'

'Dead as a dodo.'

Meanwhile, that Thursday afternoon Scobie Sutton was questioning Dwayne Venn. When the tape was rolling and Venn had been cautioned and had again waived his right to have a lawyer present, Scobie began, Challis to one side, distracted, looking deeply, darkly fatigued, the way he leaned one shoulder against the grimy wall. If there was a tide mark on the wall at floor-mop height, there was also another at shoulder height, where weary or frankly disbelieving detectives liked to rest their head and shoulders.

'Dwayne, take us through it again.'

'I already told you what happened.'

'This time for the tape.'

Venn looked sleepy yet wired, as if he'd been taking a drug cocktail for the past few days. He needed a shave and smelt badly unwashed under the white paper suit he'd been obliged to wear after his jeans, T-shirt and trainers had been taken away for testing.

'Well, Brad come round last night and-'

'He came to the house? Lisa Tully's house?'

'Actually the lease is in Donna's name.'

'Who lives there?

'Lisa and Donna.'

'Anyone else?'

'No, mate.'

'You were there too?'

'Just visiting.'

'Do you live there, Mr Venn?' Challis said suddenly.

'It's not, like, my place, but I like to pop in now and then, yeah.'

'Are you sleeping with Lisa? Donna? Both of them?' Challis demanded.

'Buggered if I'm telling you about my sex life. Look, me and Lisa and Donna come here in good faith, told you we solved the case you fuckers couldn't solve, and what happens? You want to know about my fucking sex life. No wonder you couldn't find Lisa's kid. She-'

'It's only background we're after, Dwayne.' Bloody Challis, Sutton thought. He put his hands up placatingly. 'So, tell us what happened next. You were at the Tully sisters' house when Brad Pike showed up, correct?'

'Yeah.'

'Then what happened?'

'We got talking and-'

'Were you drinking?' Challis said harshly.

'So what if we were?'

'Drugs? Dope, speed?'

'No way.'

'Dwayne,' Sutton said gently, 'the house was reeking with it.'

Venn folded his arms stubbornly. 'Brad brung some stuff with him. We didn't want any. It was him stunk the place up.'

'We're only trying to get the truth of what happened, Dwayne. If your judgement was impaired because of drugs, that could be seen as mitigating circumstances in court.'

A light seemed to come on in Venn's eyes and he narrowed them. 'Hang on, Pike come at me, tried to kill me. I had to defend myself.'

Challis snapped forward across the rocky table, hard and implacable. 'The evidence suggests otherwise. He was beaten about the head with a cricket bat or something similar and-'

'Cricket bat?'

Scobie, watching Venn at that moment, thought, this is a man who surrounds himself with Jim Beam whisky, a Harley Davidson motorbike, posters and artifacts of the American Indians-what does he know about cricket, a game for Englishmen? 'Or baseball bat,' he said. 'We found a broken one in the alley behind the house.'

'Never underestimate the stupidity of your local crim,' Challis snarled.

What's got into Challis? Sutton thought. Like a bear with a sore tooth. 'Okay, Dwayne, Pike attacked you. Then what?'

'I defended myself.'

'How?'

'Me fists. I got in a lucky one and he went down and hit his head on something. Maybe a bottle, that would explain the type of mark on his head.'

'Very full of himself. A man with all the answers,' Challis said.

'Fuck you. I come here in good faith and-'

'The pathologist said that Pike was asphyxiated,' Sutton said. 'From the way the blood is smeared against Pike's face she thinks a plastic bag was used. We haven't found the bag yet, but we will, just as we'll find traces of the bag on Pike.' Giving Challis a sharp, sidelong glance as he said it, as if to say, I can come on strong too, just back off for a while, okay?

Venn said stubbornly, 'I'm not saying no more.'

At least he hasn't asked for a lawyer yet, Scobie thought. 'Then what happened?'

Venn looked at him sulkily. After a few seconds of that, he deigned to answer. 'Before Brad passed out he told us what he done with Lisa's kid.'

'You believed him?'

'Well, yeah. It was a deathbed confession,' Venn said, enunciating 'deathbed confession' carefully, apparently pleased with the expression.

What a dickhead, Scobie thought, and he began the recitation: 'Dwayne Venn, I'm arresting you on suspicion in the murder of Bradley Pike on the fifteenth of-'

Venn's jaw dropped. 'You can't do that. We come here in good faith and-'

John Tankard said, 'I can't get it out of my head.'

'I know,' Pam said.

She was driving, taking him home, a comforting presence beside him. Every now and then she said, 'I know,' smiling kindly. How could he resist the power of her kindness, her weary compassion? She wasn't judging him, coming on hard and sharp like Kellock back at the station a few minutes ago, Kellock half pleased that Munro was dead but mostly worried about what the press would say, police involved in another fatal shooting.

'I just shot. It was instinct. Pure instinct, Pam. Pow, just like that.'

Funny how his feelings seesawed. One minute he wanted to hide or die or cry all day, then a surge of elation.

'I mean, God…'

'You probably saved both our lives,' Pam said.

Now his feelings were going the other way again. Everyone patting him on the back like he was this quick-shooting, quick-thinking hero, when really he'd more or less panicked again, got in a lucky shot. The gun hadn't felt good in his hand. It was a lucky, panicky shot.

And he'd killed a man.

'Oh God,' he said, and put his hands over his face.

Thank Christ they'd been obliged to take his gun into evidence. He didn't want to see another gun as long as he lived.

They reached his flat and as she parked against the kerb he said, 'Look, I need to be alone, no offence, I just-'

'If you're sure, Tank,' Pam said, giving him a brief hug and thanking him again for saving their lives.

So his feelings soared again.

Then she was driving away quickly, too quickly, and he wondered how genuine she really was. Bitch.