The Dragon Man

Twenty

Ellen was late on Thursday morning. Challis’s Triumph was already in the car park, Scobie Sutton’s station wagon, cars she recognised as belonging to the seconded officers from Rosebud and Mornington.

She found Rhys slicing open the tape around a small box with a pocket knife. He smiled, then immediately sobered and touched her forearm. ‘Are you all right?’

She’d been crying for half of the night. ‘Just tired.’

‘Tell me.’

His big hands were on her shoulders. She looked away, blinking hard. ‘It’s nothing, Rhys. I’m okay.’

She felt his fingers relax and finally release her. He turned away. ‘Fair enough. None of my business.’

In a way, it was. She tugged him back and searched his face. She wanted to be able to say that she’d had the most godawful row with her husband, that her husband felt scared and threatened, and had accused her of being fast-tracked because she was a woman, of splashing her money about on air-conditioning just to show him up, and of fucking the man she’d hired to install it. But all she said to Rhys Hartnett was, ‘Things are a bit tense at home, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘Look, Rhys, I don’t know how to say this-I’m sorry, but we won’t be having aircon fitted after all. It’s… the time’s not right.’

He jerked away from her, ‘I didn’t like being the focus of your husband’s dislike anyway. Or your daughter’s.’

‘Oh, Rhys, it’s not that, it’s-’

‘I’m not stupid.’

She watched his face, then said, as firmly as she could, ‘I’m very sorry.’

He looked away and stood there, stiff and chafing. ‘It happens.’

‘You won’t be out of pocket?’

‘It’s summer. People always want aircon.’

‘That’s good.’

His shapely fingers took a small calibrated instrument from the box. ‘I’ll be finished here this morning. Just have to mount a few of these thermostats and I’m done.’

They gazed at the courthouse. ‘I’ll miss seeing you around the place,’ she said.

‘Yeah, well…,’ he said.

‘Look, I feel terrible.’ She fished in her wallet. ‘Here’s a hundred dollars. You spent hours measuring up the house, doing costings, all for nothing. Call it a kill fee.’

He stared at the money. She knew at once that she’d been graceless, and wanted the ground to swallow her up.

Challis nodded at Ellen Destry and waited for her to sit down. He’d called an emergency briefing, and the incident room was crowded with his CIB officers and all available uniformed sergeants and senior constables.

He stood. ‘We’re not downgrading the abduction inquiry, but, until further evidence or leads come in, we can’t do much more than follow through on what we already have. Meanwhile, our fire in Quarterhorse Lane. As you know, it’s now officially a murder investigation.’

He pointed to a photograph pinned to the wall; the body was revealed as a glistening smudge. ‘The victim was one Clara Macris. It appears that she was bashed to death before the fire started. As for the fire, it was intentional but constructed to appear accidental, by someone who knew what he was doing. Was he trying to conceal the fact that it was a murder? Was he getting a kick out of lighting the fire? In any event, we’ll have to follow up the suggestion in today’s Progress that we have a firebug on our hands.’

Challis saw amused and knowing grins. They know about me and Tessa Kane, he thought. He went on:

‘I want you to look again at any fire we’ve had recently. That rash of mailboxes, for example; that Pajero, the attempted torching of that house over near the racecourse. Is our firebug also a burglar? Is he escalating? Are there any nutters fighting fires in the local CFA units? Check with the Arson Squad. Have any known pyromaniacs settled in the district? Sergeant Destry will brief you further on who will do what.

‘Now, the dead woman. Clara Macris. That’s about all we know about her. Her neighbours say she kept to herself. We’ve still to talk to shopkeepers, bank tellers, anyone else who may have come into contact with her. Apparently she had a New Zealand accent, but we don’t know how long she’d been in this country. It may have been years. New Zealand police have been contacted to see whether or not she had a record. We do know she moved into the area about eighteen months ago. Was she renting, or did she buy? I want someone to check that out. Did she go to the pub regularly? Play sport? Travel? Check the local travel agents. Someone else can look at her mail as it comes in.

‘Meanwhile, her car is missing. See if it’s been reported stolen, found abandoned, impounded or taken somewhere to be repaired.

‘See if she ever took taxis anywhere.

‘All of this is necessary because we don’t know who she is, and the fire destroyed any personal papers that might have told us.

‘Now, let’s keep an open mind on this. Maybe our firebug isn’t responsible. Someone else, someone she knew, was let in-or broke in, it’s impossible to tell, given that the house was destroyed-and killed her. Why did he kill her? — assuming it was a man, and I don’t want you necessarily making that assumption. Was he a burglar, caught in the act? In which case, this incident relates closely to our latest aggravated burglary-except that Clara Macris clearly wasn’t wealthy and this one happened at night.

‘Or was it someone she knew, friend, relative or lover, and they had a disagreement over something? We badly need to know something about her personal life. Van, you were investigating officer when her mailbox was burnt. Can you tell us anything?’

The question, the way it was posed, the switch from the general to the particular, seemed to silence the room and draw everyone’s attention on to Kees van Alphen. His lean, pale face coloured. He opened and closed his mouth, then coughed, then recovered completely and said, ‘She was pretty close-lipped, Inspector.’

‘You didn’t meet anyone else there? She didn’t talk about herself?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Your officers have been questioning the neighbours. Have they turned up anything?’

‘Nothing. One neighbour, a Stella Riggs, is still away, returning tomorrow.’

‘We’ll need to speak to her. We need to cover a lot of ground very quickly, so I want you to go out in pairs, one uniform, one CIB, asking questions wherever Clara Macris might have gone.

‘Now, let’s brainstorm a little. Let’s say the killer wasn’t a family member or an intimate, and wasn’t our firebug. We have a house on a quiet back road. Who and what, in terms of people and vehicles, might we expect to see on it? Scobie, do the honours.’

Hands went up, and Scobie Sutton, his eyes wide and self-conscious, made a list on the whiteboard: neighbours, mailman, newspaper delivery, garbage truck, recycle truck, LPG gas truck, meter reader, council grader, power company linesman, taxi, courier, surveyors, council weed-control and fire-control inspectors, rates assessor, take-away food delivery.

Challis said, ‘I live on a similar road. I’ve seen sewage carters, blackberry sprayers, water carriers, repairmen of all kinds. Men delivering firewood-though not in this weather. A man comes with a portable machine to shear my neighbour’s half-dozen sheep. Another slashes grass with his tractor. Young people work in the vineyards. Maybe we’re looking at a contract gardener. Anything else?’

‘Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

Sutton wrote it down on the board. The men and women in the room sank a little deeper into their chairs.

In the canteen John Tankard said, ‘You little ripper.’

He was across the table from her, stretched back in his chair, the newspaper open and concealing his head and trunk, which suited Pam just fine. There was a headline about a firebug, which apparently was causing senior officers in CIB to get very pissed off. She sipped her tea, thought of Ginger.

But the newspaper shook. ‘Listen to this, Murph. “According to police reports, Superintendent Mark McQuarrie of Peninsula District rang the arresting officers on behalf of the Bastian family and charges against Julian Bastian and his girlfriend were withdrawn on the authority of another officer, Senior Sergeant Vincent Kellock.”‘

‘We know that,’ Pam said.

‘But listen to this. “Sources also report that the charges against Mr Bastian had been dropped after his family agreed to drop charges of wrongful arrest and harassment against police.”‘

Pam leaned forward. ‘They did a deal? The bastards.’

Tankard was still behind the paper. ‘Yep.’

‘I thought it was simply a case of, he’s got rich and powerful mates so you can’t touch him.’

‘Nup.’

They fell silent. Pam stared across the table at the newspaper. The Progress seemed to like causes of one kind or another. According to canteen gossip, the editor was having it off with Challis.

Tankard cleared his throat. ‘“Arresting police are reportedly furious.”‘

‘It says that?’

‘Yep.’

‘I’m furious, you’re furious, but how does the Progress know we’re furious?’

Tankard reached around the corner of his newspaper for the half-consumed donut that sat like a fat worm on his plate. His mouth full, he said, ‘You know, sources and that.’

‘Yeah, sure, Tank,’ Pam said.

You had to laugh. Before Christmas, Tankard was no better than a Nazi stormtrooper. Now he stood for justice in a world ruled by cronyism.

Suddenly van Alphen was there, as silent as a cat, looming over them. ‘You two, come with me, please.’

They followed him to his office. It was like the man: tidy, underfurnished, an area of plain surfaces. ‘All hell’s broken loose,’ he said. ‘You’ll be working on that fire for the time being. Forget any minor infringements that come your way. We simply haven’t got the time or the manpower.’

‘Okay, Sarge.’

‘You’ll each be paired with an officer in plain-clothes, door-knocking, talking to shopkeepers, talking to the neighbours again. We need to know Clara Macris’s habits, who knew her, who was seen with her. The usual.’

He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. Pam scanned it. She was paired with Scobie Sutton.

Tankard, next to her, twisted in his chair to ease the ache in his lower back. ‘What was she like, Sarge?’

He sounded genuinely curious, but Pam saw van Alphen’s face grow closed and wary. ‘What do you mean, what was she like? How the hell should I know?’

‘No offence, Sarge. I mean, was she a bit iffy? You know, a junkie. Friends in low places.’

Pam said, ‘Tank, that’s what we’re being sent to find out.’

‘Fair enough. Just asking.’

Van Alphen gave her a curious look of gratitude. It was there and gone in an eyeblink. Then she saw him slide a manila folder shyly across the desk toward them.

‘Meanwhile, I’ve written a report for the District Commander.’

She picked it up. ‘On what, Sarge?’

‘Read it.’

Tankard pulled his chair next to hers. He gave off enormous heat; she could hear his body. Then she heard his voice, reading aloud, as she leaned away from him and read to herself:

‘The dropping of charges against Mr Julian Bastian on the day of the listed court date in the Waterloo Magistrates’ Court causes grave concern to myself and the arresting officers, Constables John Tankard and Pamela Murphy.

‘The allegation my officers lied and contrived an arrest situation is false. I have every faith in their ability and judgment. All the evidence supports their charges against Bastian.

‘The situation is potentially damaging to the Force. Already allegations of favouritism, corruption and intervention at the highest levels have been made by the local press, which could soon become state wide.’

Pam found her heart lifting. Beside her, John Tankard was saying, ‘Good one, Sarge.’

Van Alphen murmured, ‘Something had to be done.’

He looked tired, the flesh tight on his skull. Tired, and almost, Pam thought, stricken with a strong emotion, like sadness, heartache.

The briefing over, Challis made his call. He had the Progress on the desk in front of him. The first page asked Is There a Firebug at Work? and went on to outline what Tessa Kane called ‘a rash of deliberate fires in the district’. Twelve mailboxes set alight, one memorable night before Christmas (including the victim of this latest tragedy… Had she seen something? Was this a payback?). A stolen four-wheel drive torched on Chicory Kiln Road. An attempt by burglars to burn down a house near the racecourse.

She also offered a psychological profile of the typical firebug:

‘He betrays the symptoms of an anti-social personality- another name for a psychopath-from an early age, including bed-wetting, cruelty to animals, anger at the world, a tendency to get into fights, a history of lighting fires and then fighting them or standing back to watch others fight them.

‘He often uses fire to express his anger, to avenge himself on individuals and institutions that he feels have wronged him. Fear eases his anger. Its destructive capacity fascinates him. He feels powerful.

‘The association of fire and sex in pyromaniacs is well known. Fire seems to heighten the desire for sexual release.’

When she came on the line, Challis said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Lovely to hear your voice, too, Hal.’

‘There may be no connection between any of those fires.’

‘Hal, come on, there has to be a connection between some of them. Face it, there’s a firebug at work.’

‘Far from being community-minded, you keep trying to scare everyone. Flash headlines, some psychological garbage that you probably cobbled together from some cheap magazine.’

‘I resent that.’

‘Tess, it was irresponsible.’

Ellen walked down High Street to the bank and withdrew four hundred dollars to add to the one hundred that she’d tried to give Rhys Hartnett. She had to wait in a slow queue, everyone wanting to talk about the fire and where they had been in relation to the danger it posed. Everyone was excited and laying claim to lucky escapes and fear and leapfrogging statistics. When she got back to the station, she stuffed the five hundred into the poor box in the foyer. When she was growing up, her mother had always referred to the ‘mission box’, meaning unwanted clothes that she put aside for the Inland Mission. Every Christmas Day, she would put an empty envelope on the table and tell the family shyly, ‘Perhaps you would like to give to the mission.’ Ellen wondered if people still did that, and wondered how far she had changed since her childhood, and how far she had drifted from her mother.

Their easy way with labels: ‘Killer Highway.’ ‘Highway Killer.’ Did they think he could be defined by a label? What were they going to call him now that he was in amongst them, prowling where they wheeled their prams and washed their cars and chinwagged with their neighbours?

They’d find something to call him, something inane, convinced that they’d pinned him down according to pattern. And when they did, he’d alter the pattern again.

But not the killing.

Other men dreamed. He made it happen. The slavering dream, followed by the shuddering release. The snarling hunger of it, like a meal savoured and devoured.

This next one was a real slag. He was going to enjoy this one. Doing her was going to really hit home, right where they’d feel it. Snatch her tomorrow morning, in broad daylight, between the milkbar and the church, right from under their noses.

Linger over this one.

Kind of like revenge. Sweet, juicy revenge.