Snapshot

25

On the other side of the Peninsula, John Tankard was saying, ‘Look, about yesterday, I’m really sorry I made a grab at you.’

Pam Murphy, deeply bored, said, ‘Forget it.’

They were in the little Mazda, patrolling the area between Mount Martha and Rosebud. Week Two of the Drive Safe campaign and that was two weeks too long. Pam had long exhausted topics of conversation with Tankard, the modern sports car doesn’t necessarily offer much in the way of driving thrills, and safe and courteous drivers were few and far between. She’d much rather be out catching bad guys. Meanwhile, after what happened yesterday, she had to put herself on full alert in case Tank groped her again, or, worse, wanted a cuddle and forgiveness. Was he losing it? Could she rely on him if they did meet a bad guy? She watched from the corner of her eye as he twisted his large trunk and meaty legs to get comfortable in the passenger seat. He was too big for the tiny car, exacerbated this morning by soreness and stiffness brought on by football training.

He wouldn’t let it go. ‘It was out of line. I’m really sorry.’

‘Tank? Can it,’ she snarled.

‘I was only saying…’

‘Well don’t.’

Fortunately they passed a building site shortly after that, a new housing development that faced the sea, a handful of men outside it picketing against scab labour. Tankard seemed to shake off his moroseness, some of his old intolerance showing as he shifted in the tight passenger seat and said, ‘Look at those wankers.’

Pam had to laugh. In occupation, status and background he was thoroughly working-class, yet he always voted for the conservative coalition, approving of their hard line on law and order, immigration, terrorism and anything else that threatened white-bread, middle-class Australia. Maybe the prime minister, attorney general and immigration minister represented the strict father he’d never had.

Her own position was more complicated. Her father and brothers were university academics, intellectuals, which meant that Christmas Day table conversations in Pam Murphy’s family were rapid-fire, elliptical, knowing and wide-ranging, leaving her far behind. She was the youngest child, good at sport, barely adequate in tests and exams, and had joined the police force, so…

‘Do the maths,’ she muttered now, heading from the freeway down into Rosebud.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’ She had no intention of describing, to John Tankard, the remote, condescending love that her father and brothers bestowed upon her.

Two tedious hours passed. They decided to head across to the Waterloo side of the Peninsula, but on Dunn’s Creek Road they encountered a white Falcon, sitting solidly on 80 in a 100 zone. The undulating road afforded Pam few opportunities to pass, and she cursed. ‘There should be demerit points for driving too slowly,’ she said.

Tankard, apparently still smarting, said, ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’

She let it pass. The word ‘knickers’ had always inflamed the old John Tankard, and she wasn’t taking any chances. ‘Take down his number.’

‘Why? He’s not breaking any road rules.’

‘Forget it,’ Pam said, and she followed the Falcon all the way to Waterloo, by which time she’d decided the driver deserved a showbag.

Tankard, concurring, placed the portable pursuit light on the dash and sounded the siren. ‘You moron,’ said Pam, scrambling to turn them off.

Vyner, spotting uniformed police in the little Mazda sports car behind him, cast his mind back over the past couple of hours and wondered where and when he’d gone wrong.

He hadn’t registered anything on his personal radar when he’d left his flat for his appointment with Mrs Plowman. He lived in a yuppie singles pad in Southbank, and even though he was surrounded by Asian students and young women with jeans so low in front you saw the fur line, the place was anonymous and close to everything. He felt out of his element whenever he left the city. That’s why he’d hired Gent yesterday. Well, he wasn’t making that mistake again.

No one had tailed him from Mrs Plowman’s, or to and from the airport, or down the Peninsula to fucking Gent’s fucking house in Dromana. No one saw him go in through the back door and shoot the bastard, then bundle him into the boot of the Falcon. So why were the cops following him? And why the fuck were they driving a sports car? Why the fuck were they wearing uniforms if they didn’t want to be noticed?

It had been a toss-up between getting rid of the body first, or setting up a false trail. The latter, and maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong. He’d spent a crucial thirty minutes in Gent’s house, shoving the moron’s computer into the boot with the body, emptying the fridge and propping the door open; filling a garbage bag with perishables, which he’d disposed of in a public rubbish bin; packing a suitcase as if Gent were going away for a month; closing the blinds and curtains and turning out the pilot lights for the oven and space heater; and finally leaving Gent’s shithole and filling out a hold-mail application at the local post office.

Then he’d got rid of the pistol. Two good Browning automatics in two days. He’d sealed the one he’d used on the woman yesterday in a block of wet cement, dumping the block at the tip when it was dry, but dismantled the one he’d used on Gent-his Navy training coming in useful-and then he’d hacksawed the parts and tossed the scraps, along with Gent’s computer and suitcase, into builders’ skips in an area stretching from Rosebud to Mount Martha.

And now it was time to get rid of the body, and he was heading northeast across the Peninsula, towards Waterloo, observing all of the road and speed signs, and suddenly there were cops behind him. Dunn’s Creek Road was snaking around one side of a pretty gully before flattening out along a high ridge lined with horse studs and plant nurseries set behind massive old pine tree avenues. There was more traffic than he’d expected, and on Penzance Beach Road and again on Waterloo Road he’d been obliged to give way to intersecting traffic, stop for a befuddled koala and not try overtaking a community bus full of old-age pensioners.

The little MX5 behind him all the way.

And when he got to Myers Reserve, dense with pittosporum, bracken and dying gum trees, the Mazda was still there, so he headed on down to Waterloo. He stopped for the give-way sign on Coolart Road, slowed to 70 kmh and then 60 kmh through the next township, signalled left at the T-intersection, did all the right things, and the Mazda stuck with him, never varying speed or relative position, and that, and the peaked caps worn by the driver and the passenger, really got Vyner’s mind working.

And so he pulled the stolen Falcon into the carpark of the Mitre 10 hardware on the main street of Waterloo and got out, letting his body language spell innocent do-it-yourself guy shopping for a packet of nails and a tin of paint. But then a siren whooped and the Mazda purred in beside him, the cops getting out, a guy and a woman, dressed like SWAT commandos in boots, waisted leather jackets and peaked caps.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

Vyner froze, his eyes darting. Hell of a place. Tattoo parlour across the road, McDonald’s on one side of the carpark, railway line on the other. And further up the road, a roundabout and the Waterloo police station. He said innocently, ‘Was I going too fast?’

The woman shook her head. ‘The opposite, in fact. I’m Senior Constable Murphy, and this is Constable Tankard.’

Tankard, thought Vyner. The guy was built like a tankard, round and squat.

‘We couldn’t help noticing, sir.’

Noticing what? That I’ve got a body and a shovel in the boot of a stolen car?

Murphy flipped open her notebook. ‘You were faced with constantly varying speed limits for the past few kilometres, and you observed all of them. You observed stop and give-way signs, you were courteous to other drivers, and you made commonsense decisions when faced by unexpected hazards, like that koala trying to cross the road.’

Vyner shook his head. He was waiting for the ‘However…’

‘On behalf of Victoria Police and the RTA, we’d like to reward you,’ the woman said.

Vyner wanted to laugh. He gave them a frank and open grin. ‘Well, thank you.’

The female cop leaned into the Mazda, emerging with a bulky plastic bag. ‘To show our appreciation, sir.’

Vyner peeked inside. ‘Great. Thank you.’

For a moment, he really meant it. He’d always driven safely. He’d never been ticketed, and now it was paying off.

‘You’re welcome sir. Have a good day, now,’ the guy, Tankard, muttered.

Gloomy guy. Whoever said fat was cheerful?

Vyner went into Mitre 10 and bought saw blades to replace those he’d broken and blunted while cutting up the Browning.

Out in the carpark again, he saw that the Mazda was gone. He observed all of the speed limits and road rules from Waterloo to Myers Reserve, where he committed several misdemeanours, beginning with the lock on the gate that said Parks Victoria Vehicles Only.