Whispering Death

41

The bullet, when it came, was disguised as an e-mail from Human Resources.

It has come to our attention, etcetera. Three months’ long-service leave, to be taken forthwith, etcetera.

Late Friday afternoon, and Challis checked the calendar. The bastards were giving him less than a fortnight to clear his desk.

He propped his feet on the open bottom drawer and swivelled in his chair. The chair screeched for want of lubrication but he didn’t hear it. The view from his window, the books on his shelves, the photographs on his desk.

The photographs. His sister and niece in outback South Australiait was time he saw them again. And there was Ellen Destry with a wide grin that tugged at his heart and made him feel shy. More photos on a pinboard beside the window, a record of his history with his old aeroplane: the Dragon in bits, and on the back of a truck for the journey down from Queensland, and being offloaded in Tyabb, and having a new tailplane fitted, a hole repaired. Finally, sitting on the tarmac, a strangely beautiful insect.

He’d put out feelers to museums and collectors. Now it was a waiting game.

There was another photograph in the room: his dead wife, face down on the top shelf, gathering dust. Guilt was a strange thing, he’d never been quite ready to throw her out.

Meanwhile, he had work to do. Calling an impromptu briefing a short time later, he leaned against the whiteboard while Murphy and Sutton took their positions at the long table and said, ‘I don’t like coincidences.’

He was in shirtsleeves, the long room holding the day’s accumulated heat. As he peeled his shoulder from the whiteboard, it came away imprinted with blue marker, a reversal of a question mark scrawled there. Craning his head to examine it, plucking at the cotton, he said, ‘I guess that will teach me.’

‘New police insignia, boss,’ Scobie Sutton suggested.

Challis blinked. It was rare for Sutton to make a quip about anything.

‘Our new slogan,’ Pam Murphy said. ‘“CIU: we get things the wrong way around”.’

It was the time of the day for weary humour and, grinning tiredly, Challis slumped at the head of the table. ‘Coincidences,’ he repeated, and explained, for Scobie Sutton’s benefit, about his two encounters with the Niekirks.

‘You think they’re bent?’

‘I honestly don’t know. On the surface, they seem to be the victims of two quite different crimes: cheated by a man who sold them an iffy aeroplane, and broken into by a burglar who didn’t steal anything.’

‘But?’

In answer, Challis dialled a number on his mobile phone. ‘John? Come on up.’

They waited. John Tankard edged into the room, gazing about. ‘Wow, is this where the action is?’

Challis sighed. ‘Cut it out Tank.’

‘Sorry sir.’

‘The Niekirks’ intruder.’

‘What about him? Her?’

Challis paused. ‘Her?’

Tankard screwed up his pouchy face in concentration. ‘It’s just, you know, a feeling I had. Could’ve been a bloke, could’ve been a woman. Something about the what do you call it, body language.’

‘You didn’t mention this in your report.’

‘Wasn’t sure, to be honest.’

Challis didn’t pursue it. ‘But this person was holding something?’

‘Kind of a gym bag.’

‘Full? Empty?’

‘I had the feeling it was full.’

‘How long between the call to triple zero and your arrival at the scene?’

‘Dunno. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? We were busy.’

‘Thanks, John.’

Tankard went out, looking short-changed, trying to catch Pam Murphy’s eye.

‘So,’ said Challis, ‘we have an intruder on the premises for up to thirty minutes, seen leaving with a bag that appeared to have certain items in it. Tools? Stolen goods? We don’t know. The Niekirks claim nothing was stolen, but something about all this bothers me. Don’t be proactive, just continue working your usual cases, but keep your eyes and ears open, maybe you’ll hear something about other break-ins or about the Niekirks.’

‘Boss.’

Scobie Sutton got to his feet first, then hesitated. ‘Something on your mind?’ said Challis.

In a rush, Sutton said, ‘Are either of you doing anything on Sunday afternoon?’

Challis and Murphy went very still and their minds raced. ‘I have a buyer lined up for my car,’ Challis said. ‘Why?’

‘Roslyn’s school concert, if you’re interested. The tickets are cheap.’

‘Sorry, Scobe.’

‘I’m having lunch with my parents,’ Pam said.

‘Oh well, next time,’ Sutton said, and he left the room.

Watching him leave, they exchanged small, guilty smiles. Sutton had talked about every stage of his daughter’s progress over the years, inviting everyone to share in it.

‘Are you really selling your car on Sunday?’

‘I am, in fact. Are you really going to see your parents?’

‘I am now.’

Challis grinned, gathering his papers together, and saw a sudden alteration in Pam Murphy. Her eyes lost focus, she gave a tiny, involuntary body spasm. Realising he’d seen her do it before, he said, ‘Are you okay?’

Her eyes spilled a couple of tears.

‘Hey, hey,’ he said, moving towards her but stopping short.

‘I did something stupid.’

‘We all do that.’

She blinked at him, a look of fury on her face, but directed inwards, and he remembered the love bite and guessed that she’d entangled herself with the wrong person. Who, though? He was only human; he’d like to know.

‘Want to talk about it?’

She didn’t hesitate or prevaricate. ‘Nope.’

So they went their separate ways and Challis thought Lost opportunity, and so did Murphy.

‘I’d rather discuss your breasts,’ Challis informed the webcam.

‘Not going to happen,’ Ellen Destry said in her no-nonsense way. ‘McQuarrie’s forcing you to take long-service leave?’

‘Yes.’

A pause and she said, ‘Starting when?’

‘End of next week.’

‘The alternatives?’

‘They sack me, demote me, send me to a station way out in the Mallee somewhere.’

‘Put your thinking cap on,’ Ellen said.