Challis - 02 - Kittyhawk Down (17 page)

Ellen got home late, roast dinner warming on a covered plate in the oven, her husband shut away with his books and notes, her daughter and Skip Lister at opposite ends of the sofa as if they'd spun apart when they heard her car in the driveway. The TV was on. After a while Ellen realised that they were watching the 'Movie Show' on SBS, of all things. In this household, that was a first.

She stood there for a while, watching from the doorway, her meal getting cold on the kitchen table behind her. Sensing her interest, Skip said, half apologetically, 'I wanted to see what they had to say about the latest Todd Solondz.'

Never heard of him, Ellen thought. She fetched her plate of congealed roast chicken and vegetables, and a glass of white wine, and perched on the armchair next to the sofa. Skip and Larrayne, she noticed, had edged a little closer to each other. Well, good, she didn't want them to be afraid of her.

'Are you a film buff, Skip?'

'Is he ever, Mum,' Larrayne said warmly. 'Aren't you?' she said, turning her knees toward Skip and touching his wrist fleetingly.

Go on, Ellen urged, cuddle up to him, I don't mind.

Then she saw that Skip was wearing short-legged cargo pants, revealing his shins and a series of bruises. Knocking into things? Falling down? Falling down stoned, or drunk? Beaten by his father, maybe?

At least the 'Movie Show' had him absorbed, his habitual edginess at bay. He was leaning forward, lips slightly apart, and Ellen found herself thinking that Larrayne needed a boy who had a passion about something. She continued to watch him, musing: Skip, I hope you straighten out; I hope you don't let her down or lead her astray.

When the 'Movie Show' was over and Skip had flicked off the
TV
, she told them about Ian Munro and the arrival of Special Operations police from the city. 'It's in their hands now.'

Skip closed his eyes briefly. Ellen felt an absurd desire to hug him and make everything better, whatever it was, the poor, motherless kid.

Where was the mother, incidentally?

She discovered the answer sooner than she'd expected to. An innocuous question did it. She said, 'Some people at work are going to the opening of the footie season. I can get tickets, if you're interested. Skip?'

He shook his head violently. 'I hate the game.'

And that's when it came out, a much-loved older brother, running around with an undetected heart defect, dies playing football. 'Mum blamed Dad, Dad blamed Mum, they weren't getting on anyway, so she cleared out on us.'

He was nine years old. 'I see her once or twice a year.'

And clearly believed that she'd let him down. Larrayne, overcome, hearing the story for the first time, scooted across the sofa and held him tightly.

And the thought crept into Ellen's head: are Skip and Larrayne close because they feel neglected, taken for granted, loved only absent-mindedly?

To change the subject she poured them each a glass of wine and asked Skip as non-pointedly as possible what he intended to do when he graduated. Chemical engineer, he said, eyes alert suddenly, as though she'd given him a conversational opening. Soon they were talking about drugs and she had some old war stories for them, crimes she'd worked on where drugs were involved. Skip was all ears, a good audience, full of questions, and seemed not to notice the gentle warning she was trying to impart in everything she said: don't buy, don't sell, don't use.

'The better rave parties,' she found herself saying, 'have plenty of water on hand.'

'Yeah, Mum,' Larrayne said scornfully, 'at three dollars a bottle. Some kids can't afford that and when they're high on ecstasy they feel so good they forget to drink water anyway.'

Glancing out of the corner of her eye at Skip, Ellen wondered if rave parties had once been his scene, but he was putting that behind him now. It was something about the way he was nodding sagely as Larrayne talked, Larrayne well and truly worked up.

'The conversations, God, they're so banal,' she was saying. Adopting a dopehead pose and accent, she said: 'I'm so off my face… Yeah, me too, I'm so, like, wasted… '

They laughed.

Encouraged, she went on: 'This kid at school, a dealer offered her five hundred dollars to take ecstasy into a rave party for him—get this,
in her knickers
.’

They laughed again. The wine was mellow and the outside world far away. Ellen had turned off the ceiling light and in the dim glow of a floor lamp watched her daughter add: 'The security guard wouldn't let the dealer in and he was desperate, had all these clients lined up inside.'

'What did your friend do?' 'She said no.'

Ellen wondered about all the ones who'd say yes and all the security guards who'd turn a blind eye.

When Pam Murphy arrived for work at eight on Wednesday morning the air was taut with purpose. Special Operations police had reached Waterloo from Melbourne in the fading light on Tuesday, uncommunicative and faintly ludicrous in their square-jawed grimness and brisk, clattering boots— almost, she thought, as though they thought they were in a Mel Gibson film. She passed a couple of them as she walked through the station and wondered how it went. Did the officer in charge of outfitting the different sections of the police force go to see the latest Hollywood cop film and come back with ideas? 'What we need, sir, are those cool baseball-style caps and…'

She attended the morning's roll-call and learnt that she and Tank would not be required to help in the hunt for Ian Munro. They'd been questioned brusquely by the Special Operations commander last night but now it was clear to everyone that the local coppers were expected to return to their small-town, backwoods concerns. Don't call us; we'll call you.

So Sergeant van Alphen assigned her to work the phones and Tank to drive around in the patrol car.

But first she slipped into the canteen, found the guy selling the Subaru, and paid a deposit of one thousand dollars. A new battery fitted, the crack in the windshield repaired, and the car would be hers. Probably later today, all right?

Then to the phones.

The first call came at ten am.

'Waterloo Police Station, Constable Murphy speaking.'

'Is this the cop shop?'

Pam said again, 'Waterloo Police Station. How can I help you?'

'I've just shot my wife and now I'm gonna shoot myself.'

Pam reached for the switch that activated the digital recording. 'Your name and address, please, sir?'

The voice had begun feverishly; now it was manic. 'Didn't you hear what I said? I shot my wife and now I'm gonna shoot myself.'

When they played the tape back later, they heard Pam Murphy pause. You'd be weighing up your options, too. If you tell the guy to calm down, you risk inflaming him. If you go by the book, name and address before anything else, ditto. Treat it like a hoax call, ditto again.

So Pam tried all three approaches at once, saying, 'Come on, sir, take it easy, tell us who you are and we'll sort it out one way or the other.'

It worked. 'The name's Pearce, all right? I live on the estate up near Upper Penzance. Just off Five Furlong Road.'

He gave her his street and number. Pam scribbled furiously, passing it to another dispatcher, adding the words: 'suspected shooting'.

Then she said, 'Sir, Mr Pearce, the gun. Where is it now?'

'In my hand. Where do you fucking think it is?'

'Sir, why don't you put it down somewhere. Take it outside, then go back inside and wait. Someone will be with you shortly. Are there friends or family you could call?'

Later, listening to the tape, someone would note how sustained Pearce's hysteria was, when sudden mood shifts might have been expected. And the list of grievances was too pat: 'Fuck that! The wife tells me she's walking out on me, she's spent all my savings, I'm in a shit job. I've had enough.'

'Don't be hasty, Mr Pearce. Now, how badly hurt is your wife? Perhaps she needs an ambulance?'

The voice was incredulous. 'An
ambulance
? Sweetheart, I've just blown her fucking head off.'

Then the phone went dead.

After that it was out of her hands. CIB were dealing with it—Challis, Sutton and Destry. Pam handled a couple more calls—a lost wallet; kids reported on the railway line—took a tea break and generally daydreamed about her new car. She hoped she could afford the repayments.

The second call came at eleven-twenty. A frail, elderly woman's voice. 'Is that the police station?'

'It is. How can I help you?'

Pam detected embarrassment now. 'It sounds absurd, I know, but I've just had a strange conversation with a little girl.'

Thinking flasher or molester, Pam said carefully, 'I see.'

'On the telephone,' the woman said. 'About an hour and a half ago.'

'The telephone. I don't quite see—'

'I was going to let it pass,' the old woman went on, 'but the more I thought about it the more it seemed that something was wrong.'

'Start at the beginning,' Pam said, tapping the end of her pen on the desk.

'Well, as I said, just before ten this morning the phone rang. I answered and a little voice said, "Hi, Gran, it's me, Clare." And she talked and talked and talked.'

'Yes?'

'I don't have a grandchild called Clare.'

'You don't?'

'No. This little voice says thank you for the birthday present, Gran, I'm looking forward to my party on Saturday, but I've got ballet first, do you want to come and watch me? On and on she went, the dear little thing.'

Pam said, 'Sounds to me like an innocent mistake. She dialled the wrong number, that's all. Heard your voice and assumed you were her gran.'

A note of impatience entered the caller's voice. 'Let me finish. You didn't let me finish. The child went on to say that she wished her father would hurry up and get out of bed. She'd gone into his bedroom several times and given him a good shake but he wouldn't wake up. Then she said she thought he might need a doctor because there was blood on his pillow.'

That got Pam's attention. 'Why didn't you report this straightaway?'

'Because the child didn't seem alarmed and I thought there might be all kinds of reasons why her father was in bed with blood on his pillow. Maybe he's a drunk and had been in a fight and had passed out.' She paused. 'But you're right, I should have called earlier.'

'You've called now,' Pam said warmly, 'that's the main thing. Did you ask if the child's mother was there?'

'Yes. I had my marbles about me to that extent, at least. She told me her mother always left early for work and sometimes stayed away overnight. Perhaps she works up in the city. A lot of people do, you know. They commute every day.'

'Yes. What else can you tell me? Anything at all to help us locate the house or who these people are.'

'That's all, I'm afraid.'

'Perhaps if you gave me your phone number…'

Pam scrawled it on her pad as the woman recited it. 'That's Penzance Beach,' she said. 'That's where I live.'

'Do you, dear? You must be one of the few young ones. The place is full of old ducks like me.'

'The kid probably transposed a couple of digits or pressed an incorrect key,' Pam said. 'I'll try dialling a few permutations. I might get lucky.'