Challis - 01 - Dragon Man (11 page)

Shes a bit on the tired side,
Sutton said, meaning the farm and whoever farmed it.

The Saltmarshs are old Peninsula,
Challis explained. Been here for generations, scratching a living out of a few
acres of old apple trees. Two brothers and their families, on adjoining farms.
Both brothers have other jobs to get by. Ken here works part time for the steel
fabricator in Waterloo. Mike next door drives a school bus.

Poor white trash.

Challis thought of the two teenage
boys, Saltmarsh cousins, whom hed seen walking along with their fishing rods
the previous morning. How far was that image from the poor South of American
film and literature? He finally said, No, not poor white trash. Poor, but
steady, and decent.

Maureen Saltmarsh came to the door.
She was large, sun-dried and floury, smelling of the kitchen and the mornings
early heat. She wasnt inclined to suspect them of anything, but smiled and
said immediately, Me husbands not home. Did in the big end on his truck. The
smile disappeared. Youre that inspector.

Hal Challis, Mrs Saltmarsh. And
this is Detective Constable Sutton. We want to talk to your oldest boy, and his
cousin.

Brett and Luke? Why, what they
done?

I just need to talk to them. Im
more than happy for you to be present.

She was losing a little of her
control. Her hand went to her throat. Theyre in watching TV. You know, school
holidays.

Bring them into the kitchen, would
you, please? Theres nothing to worry about. Theyre not suspects in anything.
Were not going to arrest them, only question them about something.

She ushered Challis and Sutton into
the kitchen, cleaned breakfast dishes from the table and asked them to sit.
While she was out of the room, Challis took stock: 1970s burnt-orange wall
tiles above the benches, a clashing brown and green vinyl linoleum floor,
chrome and vinyl chairs, a laminex and chrome table, a small television set,
tuned to a chat show, the sound turned down, dishes in the sink, a vast bowl of
dough next to a floury rolling pin and greased scone tray.

The Saltmarsh cousins could have
been brothers. They were about sixteen, large and awkward, both mouth-breathers
with slack, slow-to-comprehend faces. Challis had an impression of softness,
and clumsy angles, of pimples and sparse whiskers, of ordinary teenage
stubbornness and stupidity, but not meanness or calculation. They seemed to
fill the little kitchen. When they spoke, it was in gobbled snatches, as if
they didnt trust speech and hadnt much use for it.

You boys were at Devil Bend
Reservoir yesterday, correct?

Us? No way.

Challis gazed at them for a moment. But
you both like to fish?

Fish?

Scobie Sutton was impatient. With
fishing lines and rods and hooks and bait. You like to go fishing.

Havent got a boat.

It was Brett, Maureen Saltmarshs
son. Challis leaned over the table toward him. I recently saw you and your
cousin, on foot, all geared up to go fishing. You were climbing a fence and
crossing a paddock. Not two kilometres from here.

So what?

Well, you werent out
blackberrying. Now why dont you tell us about Devil Bend Reservoir.

Brett stared at the table. His
mother said, Brett? What have you boys been up to?

Nothing, Mum.

Challis said, Weve had reports of
poachers in the district, dams and lakes fished for trout.

Not us.

Im sorry, but I have no
alternative but to charge you with

You said they hadnt done anything!

Mrs Saltmarsh, please . . .

You cant charge them if they havent
done anything.

Challis hated what he was doing. He
said, Brett, look at me. I dont care about the illegal fishing, the
trespassing. I dont even intend to report your names to the local station. But
unless you tell me what you saw at the reservoir yesterday, I will have you
arrested and charged, believe me I will.

Brett shot a look at his cousin. The
cousin said, We never done nothing. We just found her, thats all.

Challis sighed and sat back. You
went there to fish?

Might have.

Okay, okay, forget the fishing. You
were out for a stroll. You were skirting the reservoir and came upon a body.

They looked doubtful about the word
skirting. Did it mean he suspected them of doing something unspeakable at the
reservoir? But Brett muttered, Yeah, we found her.

What did you do?

Nothing! We didnt kill her! She
was already like that!

Did you touch her?

No way.

Did you take anything?

Rob a dead body? No way.

Did you remove anything from the
vicinity of the body?

What?

Ill rephrase the question: Was
there anything on the ground near the body? If so, did you take it away with
you?

Nothing.

We wouldnt charge you with theft,
Scobie Sutton said. We just need to know.

There was nothing there.

Challis said, Did you see anyone?

No. Only her.

Luke said, She the one what was
grabbed when her car broke down?

Challis thought about it. He wanted
to give something back to the boys. Yes.

Cool.

What time did you find her?

Dunno. Pretty early.

Mrs Saltmarsh said, A school
morning, you cant get the buggers out of bed. School holidays and theyre up
at the crack of dawn.

Scobie Sutton asked, Why did you
wait before phoning the police?

The boys looked at each other. Mrs
Saltmarsh eyed them suspiciously. They was waiting for me to go out shopping.

Is that right?

Brett scratched at a burn mark in
the laminex with a grimy fingernail. Suppose so.

Your mother left the house when?

About two, Mrs Saltmarsh said.

Challis had logged the call at 2.45.

Youd have saved us a lot of
trouble if youd given us your names, and rung earlier, Sutton said.

Didnt take you long to find us
anyway, Luke muttered grudgingly.

Well need your gumboots, Challis
said.

Mrs Saltmarsh narrowed her eyes. What
for, if theyve done nothing?

To check their footprints against
those found at the scene.

To eliminate them, Sutton
explained.

Both boys looked alarmed, as though
elimination meant something damaging and final.

Ill get them, Mrs Saltmarsh said.

Pop them in a supermarket bag,
Sutton called, to her departing back.

The boys looked frightened now.
Challis got to his feet. No more sneaking around fishing from the neighbours,
okay? Someone could take a shotgun to you, then Id have another murder inquiry
on my hands.

They went white. Joke, fellas,
Sutton said.

Their grins were shaky.

On the way out, Challis said
suddenly, Were forgetting something.

Maureen, Mrs Saltmarsh, he said,
when she opened the door to him again, a quick question. What vehicles do you
have on the place?

She understood, and flushed
sullenly. Tractor, Land Cruiser, truck, Holden.

The Holdena sedan or a station
wagon?

Sedan.

The truck. Is

I told you, he done the big end in
a few days ago.

Maureen, if you dont mind, Ive
got a camera in the car. Couple of quick shots of the Land Cruisers tyres and
well be on our way.

It hasnt been out for days.

He smiled, ignoring her. Do the
boys know how to drive?

Theyre too young to have their
licences.

But they know how to drive?

Suppose so.

Just a quick snap of the tyres and
well be gone, Challis said again.

In the bloody shed, Maureen
Saltmarsh said, closing the door on them.

* * * *

Really
laid one on last night, Murph.

Wacky doo, Pam said, stopping at
the roundabout for a station wagon that had begun to nose uncertainly around
it, as though lost. A rack of suitcases on the roof, a hint of bedding,
buckets, spades and foam surfboards in the rear, children staring through the
side windows, a woman driving, a man next to her, cocking his head at a map and
waving one arm at her. Maybe, Pam thought, theyll be next door to me in
Penzance Beach when I knock off work tonight, ensconced like kings until school
goes back in late January.

How come we never see
you
down
the pub? Tankard demanded.

Got better things to do.

Like what? Dont tell me youve got
a love life.

That hurt. She took her attention
from the road to flash him a look. Why wouldnt I have a love life?

Dont get me wrong, Ive got
nothing against it.

Against what?

If you prefer women to blokes thats
no skin off my nose.

Pam rubbed her cheek wearily. Give
it a rest, Tank. You wouldnt know the first thing about me. She braked for
the pedestrian lights outside the post office.

Like hell. He yawned. Whered you
say we were going?

The photo shop. The manager wants
us to check out a roll of film he developed this morning.

Tankard looked disgusted. Who
cares? You get all kinds of stuff now, no-one turns a hair. Holiday snaps in
the nuddy, pregnancies, sheilas giving birth. No-ones stupid enough to drop
hard-core stuff off for developing.

Pam wished that Tankard would shut
up. All I know is, the manager called the station, asked for Scobie Sutton, hes
busy, so he gave it to us.

Pam turned left into the shopping
centre, looking for Kwiksnap. Tankard glanced at her keenly, with a touch of
not-unkind humour. Youd rather be plain-clothes than driving around in the divvie
van, wouldnt you?

She shrugged. I dont want to be in
uniform all my life.

Tankard barked a laugh. Youll see
a shitty side of human nature whatever you wear in this job. If the uniform
work makes you suspicious of your fellow man, plain-clothes work only confirms
it.

Pam remembered: hed been a
detective for a while, at his last station.

He pointed. Parking spot.

I see it. She braked and parked.

There were bridal photos in one
window of Kwiksnap, an automatic developing machine in the other, a young woman
seated next to it, pushing buttons. Inside the shop were racks of film
canisters, display cases of cameras and picture frames, and a booth set aside
for passport photographs. The manager twitched aside a curtain and said, I
asked for Scobie.

Constable Suttons tied up at the
moment, Pam said. She introduced herself, then Tankard, and said, Youre Mr
Jackson?

Yes. The manager glanced at
Tankard. And I know who he is.

Tankard bristled. Pam said
hurriedly, You called about some suspicious photographs.

The manager looked agitatedly at the
door. Yes. Look, shes picking them up any time soon.

Who is?

The customer. She dropped the roll
in for developing at five yesterday, pick up at ten this morning. Thats he
looked at his watch ten minutes ago.

Lets see these snaps, shall we?

The manager hunted around in a
shoebox for a Kodak envelope, then took out the photographs and laid them out
on the counter top as though dealing cards in a game of patience. Pam peered at
them. Exterior and interior shots of a huge house set in a vast lawn. White
fence railings, a suggestion of outbuildings. The interior shots, she noticed,
seemed to move from the general to the particular: a room, then what was in
that room. Paintings in one photograph, a display case of silver snuffboxes in
another. A vase. An antique mantel clock. She began to make scratch notes in
her notebook.

But John Tankard was unimpressed. He
pushed the photographs aside. So what?

The manager swallowed. Well, see
for yourself.

I see sentimental snapshots,
Tankard said. Or maybe snaps taken for insurance purposes. Maybe the owners
are scared a bushfire will destroy everything, so theyre keeping a record.

Look at these two, John, Pam said.
The alarm system.

See? the manager said.

If an alarm system set me back a
few thousand bucks, Tankard said, Id want photos of it, in case the place
burned down.

Pam stared at him. Everything about
him was contestable: his attitudes, his approach to the job, his day to day
relations with people. She turned to the manager. Lets see who left these to
be developed, shall we, sir?