Snapshot

33

Robert McQuarrie and the other men had identified the settings of Janine McQuarrie’s photographs as two bedrooms in a house in the old part of Mornington, where solid dwellings sat on leafy streets a short walk away from the park, the beaches and Main Street. Ellen drove, slowing at one point to indicate a low-slung modern building that had gone to seed: drifts of paper and cellophane caught in the fence, untended grass, peeling paint, playground equipment growing a patina of rust and mould. ‘That was a heartbreaker,’ she said.

She didn’t need to explain. A childcare centre; allegations of sexual abuse against the husband and wife who ran the place; no charges laid after a fruitless investigation. But the case remained open.

‘And a hundred metres further on we have the Wavells and their wholesome sex parties,’ she continued.

Anton and Laura Wavell, aged in their early forties, and both at home at 8.45 on a Thursday morning. ‘We work from home,’ Anton explained, showing them into the sitting room. He was a thin, gingery, nondescript man with long pale fingers that fluttered from his belt to his mouth to his neck.

‘We offer IT support,’ Laura explained. ‘System upgrades, data recovery, website design, virus eradication. So, if you ever have any problems…’

She’s drumming up business, Challis thought, even as she suspects why we’re here. He eyed the Wavells. He’d stopped being surprised by the resemblances that husbands and wives developed to each other: like her husband, Laura Wavell was gingery. She sported rampant freckles on a broad face, and coarse red hair tamed by large clips.

‘Would you like to see?’ she asked, indicating a closed door at the end of the room.

There was something desperate about the question, as though Challis and Ellen might think better of the Wavells if shown a room devoted to cutting-edge technology and evidence of plain, everyday hard work. In Challis’s experience, guilt was never very far from the surface when it came to the sexual proclivities of ordinary people. Only hardened paedophiles never showed a conscience or remorse. The Wavells were probably close to protesting sulkily and fearfully that they were only helping others have a bit of fun. Challis had no moral opinion one way or the other about the sex parties: he didn’t care what the participants did; he only cared when someone stopped playing the game.

‘Another time,’ he said, and sat in a pillowy sofa, obliging the others to sit. There was a plasma widescreen TV in one corner of the room, a small bar, a scatter of Ikea easychairs, bright rugs and cushions, track lighting on the walls and ceiling. With the wintry sun picking up dust motes and finger smears, the room held a less than tepid erotic charge. He distributed Janine McQuarrie’s photographs over the surface of a coffee table that had been constructed from recycled floorboards in the form of a low, wide box with a pair of shallow push-pull drawers. ‘These were taken in two of your bedrooms last Saturday night.’

For some time there was silence. Anton’s hands were busy and he swallowed; Laura straightened her back, slanted her knees to one side, and folded her hands in her narrow lap.

‘We did nothing wrong,’ she said.

‘We certainly didn’t take these photos,’ Anton said. ‘Search the place if you like. No hidden cameras.’

‘Cameras are strictly forbidden.’

‘Against etiquette.’

‘Oh, etiquette,’ Ellen said, and Challis saw something dangerous in her face and voice. Ellen in full flight could be something to see. It even produced results from time to time.

‘We have standards,’ Anton said.

‘Standards,’ said Ellen flatly.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know these men?’

‘They come to our occasions.’

‘Occasions. That’s a good one,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ll see if I can occasion my husband tonight, if he’s not too tired.’

Anton flushed. ‘I can read you like a book. You think there’s something smutty about our parties because you yourself think sex is a smutty thing. It’s not.’

‘I love a bit of smut,’ Ellen said. ‘Hal?’

‘Me too,’ Challis said carefully, wondering if her fury came from disappointment with him. He’d wanted her yesterday, and the day before that, and she’d picked up on it. He hadn’t acted: had she wanted him to?

He placed a photograph of Janine McQuarrie on the coffee table, the studio portrait taken for Bayside Counselling Services. ‘Do you know this woman?’

They peered with dutiful frowns. ‘She’s been here.’

‘Been to the sex parties?’

‘Yes,’ Anton said stiffly.

‘One of the wives,’ Laura said, as if to stress legitimacy.

Ellen leaned forward and with great sharpness and concentration said, ‘She was murdered two days ago, almost to the hour.’

They knew. Janine’s likeness had been plastered all over the TV news and daily press. ‘I fail to see what that has to do with us,’ Anton said.

‘Don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘She took these photos at one of your parties and now she’s dead.’

A pause. ‘She took them? How?’

‘Mobile phone.’

The Wavells shifted about as if kicking themselves for not anticipating that, for not policing it.

‘But why?’ Laura asked.

Ellen ignored her. ‘Tell me more about these orgies of yours,’ she said in her dangerous, reckless way.

‘They’re not orgies! Tell her, Anton.’

‘They’re not orgies.’

‘Okay, group-sex gangbangs. Tell me more about them.’

‘You’re deliberately goading us, deliberately cheapening everything,’ said Laura.

‘We’re not doing anything wrong, anything illegal,’ said Anton. ‘No drugs, no coercion, no underage girls, no sexually transmitted diseases, just healthy safe sex for consenting adults.’

‘Multiple sex acts between desperate adults,’ Ellen snarled.

‘They’re hot desperate. Tell her, Anton.’

‘Couples,’ Anton said, ‘who already have sexual partners and want to explore and extend the possibilities.’

‘Sounds like desperation and fear to me,’ Ellen said. ‘You knew Janine McQuarrie was taking these photographs, didn’t you?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘You encouraged it.’

‘No way.’

‘You commissioned it,’ Challis cut in. ‘You’re running a nice little blackmail racket and Janine was your partner. You sent these photographs to four of your potential victims to soften them up before making demands for money.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Why would we do that? Our parties, as you like to call them, would soon grind to a halt.’

‘Power. Money. Revenge.’

‘Not interested. We’re decent people, not criminals.’

Into the silence that followed, Anton said meekly, ‘Do we need a lawyer?’

Ellen pointed to a pale, grainy, globular backside. ‘Here’s one.’

He flushed angrily. ‘Are you going to shut us down?’

‘Shut you down?’ said Ellen in amazement. ‘Who do you think we are?’