Whispering Death

12

In the Chicory Kiln that evening, seated at a window overlooking vineyards on Myers Road, Pam Murphy read from the boxed paragraph on the front of the menu:

‘“The Chicory Kiln-so called because there was once a chicory kiln where the bistro now stands-offers the ultimate in relaxed dining on the Peninsula, and…”’

She glanced at Challis. ‘Boss? Know what a chicory kiln is? Or chicory, for that matter?’

‘Edible plant,’ said Challis, his face dark and hawkish in the candlelight.

‘And?’

‘Rarely grown anymore.’

She cocked her head.

‘Edible in what way?’

‘Salad leaves and coffee.’

‘Aha. Coffee. Hence your interest.’

The only coffee that Challis trusted was the coffee that he made. Wouldn’t touch the canteen coffee. Always asked for tea if a doorknock witness offered coffee.

He smiled at her blithely. ‘They used to roast and grind the roots. During the Second World War, it was added to coffee or used as a substitute.’

‘Fascinating.’

Challis was unmoved. ‘Early in my career I was posted to Phillip Island. Chicory kilns everywhere.’

Then she saw his face shut down, as if a shadow from his past had crept in. She’d heard the whispers over the years. He’d met his wife on the island and she’d gone with him from one rural posting to another as he rose in the ranks. Then, somewhere in central Victoria, she’d started sleeping with one of his colleagues and she’d conspired with her lover to kill Challis. Something about an anonymous call and a lonely bush track. The wife was dead now. Suicide in jail. The lover was due for parole in a year or so.

Pam thought about these things as she tore off a hunk of coarse bread and dunked it in a small bowl of olive oil. Local olive oil, according to the menu. She chewed the pungent bread, wiped her mouth and fingers.

‘Have you ever drunk chicory coffee?’

Challis shuddered. ‘God, no.’

Pam grinned, then glanced around the Chicory Kiln’s interior, which evoked Tuscan villa, New England barn and Bedouin fort in roughly equal parts: gnarled posts and beams, terracotta floor tiles, vaulted ceiling, whitewashed earthen walls. The diners sat at heavy wooden tables, cooled by ceiling fans in summer and warmed by an enormous stone fireplace in winter.

The diners, this Friday evening, were a mix of locals and weekender tourists. Young, middle-aged, old. Kids on a first date, a hen’s party of shire office workers, the Waterloo postmaster and his wife, a family singing Happy Birthday to an ancient crone.

And Murphy and Challis, who’d come to question the staff and stayed for dinner.

Eva-German backpacker, twenty-six years old, charged with washing the Chicory Kiln’s dishes, making the salads, sometimes clearing the tables-had talked to them during a cigarette break in the stinking air beside the bins in the rear courtyard, smoke dribbling from her mouth. ‘I am not knowing this girl Chloe so much. I am here three weeks only. I make the oranges from the trees on the river, I serve the food in Sydney, I cleaning houses in Byron Bay. That is all who I am. I know nothing. I hope you catches this man. You see my visa if you want.’

That was at 5.30. Over the next hour, as other staff arrived for work, Murphy and Challis had taken them aside and asked them the same questions. How well do you know Chloe Holst? Did anyone ever visit her at the restaurant, take her home, meet her in the car park after work or during a work break? Are you aware of any confrontations between Chloe and a stranger, a customer or another member of staff? When did you last see her? Where? What was she doing at that time?

The other waitresses, Kelly and Gabi, grew frightened and tearful. Kelly was in Year 12 at Westernport Secondary College, Gabi was on a gap year between school and university. Neither knew much about the world beyond home, school, the Peninsula and the Chicory Kiln. They’d been vaguely aware that something had happened to Chloe, but snatched ? Raped? She was just so nice, always friendly and cheerful. They looked out over the car park with dark eyes and wrapped themselves inside their arms. Pam asked how they were getting home.

‘Dad,’ said Kelly.

‘My boyfriend,’ said Gabi.

‘Did anyone ever pick Chloe up after work?’

‘She’s got a car,’ they said, forgetting Chloe briefly, thinking about what a car would mean for them.

The boys who flicked around the kitchen, darting from cutting board to frying pan, freshly washed plate and pinned-up dinner orders, said they barely knew Chloe. ‘Take a look around. We’re flat out. We’d divvy up the tips at the end of the night, say goodbye and that was that.’

Poor Chloe.

We barely knew her.

She hadn’t been working here that long.

She was nice. A fun person.

She kept to herself a bit but she wasn’t, you know, a snob or anything.

It’s so dark out there at night. The car park and that.

Myers Road is always a bit creepy at night.

Yeah, you get your perverts. They, like, put their hand on your hip while you’re telling them the specials, even when their wife is sitting right there.

Look down your top and that.

Ask what time you get off work.

Complaints? Sure. Sometimes. You know, this fork’s dirty, my meal’s cold, this hasn’t been cooked properly, if you think I’m giving you a tip you’ve got another think coming-that kind of thing. No big deal.

Not enough to stalk and abduct and rape a girl over.

The owner-manager lived on the premises. She and her husbandretired accountant, liked to grow the Chicory Kiln’s herbs and vegetables and manage the wine cellar-would clean up when everyone had gone, then unwind in front of the television, and last night had been no different. Skype conversation with their daughter in Salzburg. Studying violin.

‘Any police officers ever come to the Chicory Kiln?’ Challis asked.

‘Police? Like, on a raid?’

‘As customers.’

‘Sure, I guess so, but how would we know? It’s not as if this is a McDonald’s, we’re not handing out free hamburgers and chips to the boys in blue. No offence.’

And so Challis and Murphy stayed on for two more hours, eating dinner, talking, watching, making everyone nervous.

Challis had ordered lasagne, Pan gnocchi. ‘How come you get yours straight away and I have to wait?’

‘They make each gnocchi ball lovingly by hand,’ said Challis.

‘Ha, ha. How come you always order lasagne?’

‘I’m trying to replicate a formative experience, when I ate the perfect lasagne.’

‘Okay, I’ll bite-where and when?’

‘Johnny’s Green Room, Carlton. Late 1980s.’

‘Was I even born then? And are you eating the perfect lasagne this evening?’

‘Not even close.’

‘What you might call a lost cause.’

It occurred to Pam Murphy that she was happy. She hadn’t been happy. Last year she’d gone to bed with a fellow cop who’d posted naked images of her on the Internet. She’d destroyed him, the revenge sweet. Then some kind of reaction had set in, panic attacks, anxiety, jitteriness. And Pam Murphy-athlete, expert pursuit driver, competent detective-was not at ease with the fact that she hadn’t been able to pull herself together.

She’d gone to her GP, who’d ascertained that she wasn’t suicidal and prescribed citalopram. The anxiety went away, sure enough, but so did a lot of things. Pam Murphy considered her few months on the citalopram as lost months. A low-level dullness had ruled her. She lost her spark. She didn’t even give a stuff about whether or not she had sex. And because she still had bad days sometimes, the anxiety returning, the GP had increased her dose from 20 mg to 40 mg per day. If that doesn’t work, the GP said, we’ll go to 60, or try a new generation SSRI.

Not try to find out what was wrong, just up the dose.

So Pam had stopped, cold turkey, and right now she was feeling happy. Yeah, she was kind of attracted to Challis, but she didn’t want to sleep with him. Besides, he was in love with Ellen Destry. It was the fact of sitting in candlelight with a nice man, a man she knew, a man who wouldn’t hurt her or play games with her.

Challis glanced at his watch. ‘I’m calling it a night.’

She wanted to say, ‘Don’t leave.’ But it was eleven o’clock and the dining room was empty. They paid, walked out into the moonlit car park, Challis standing very close to her and she very aware of him as they watched the last cars leave one by one. No CCTV. She thought it likely the abduction had nothing to do with the Chicory Kiln, and found herself saying, ‘It was opportunistic.’

Challis said, ‘Opportunistic choice of victim, but he stalked her first.’

‘Yes.’

A tired-looking man arrived in a station wagon. Kelly hopped in, full of talk. A short time later, Gabi was picked up by a boy in a little Subaru, the car doof-doofing, the speakers almost shaking the car on its springs. When Gabi whispered in his ear, he turned the volume down, shot the detectives a scared look and drove sedately out onto Myers Road.