Challis - 01 - Dragon Man (27 page)

Now, the dead woman. Clara Macris.
Thats about all we know about her. Her neighbours say she kept to herself. Weve
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 dont know
how long shed 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 its 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
dont know who she is, and the fire destroyed any personal papers that might
have told us.

Now, lets keep an open mind on
this. Maybe our firebug isnt responsible. Someone else, someone she knew, was
let inor broke in, its impossible to tell, given that the house was
destroyedand killed her. Why did he kill her?assuming it was a man, and I dont
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
burglaryexcept that Clara Macris clearly wasnt 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 everyones 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 didnt meet anyone else there?
She didnt 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.

Well 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, lets brainstorm a little. Lets
say the killer wasnt a family member or an intimate, and wasnt 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. Ive seen sewage carters, blackberry sprayers, water carriers, repairmen
of all kinds. Men delivering firewoodthough not in this weather. A man comes
with a portable machine to shear my neighbours half-dozen sheep. Another
slashes grass with his tractor. Young people work in the vineyards. Maybe were
looking at a contract gardener. Anything else?

Jehovahs 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,
hes got rich and powerful mates so you cant 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.

Im furious, youre furious, but
how does the
Progress
know were 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 hells
broken loose, he said. Youll be working on that fire for the time being.
Forget any minor infringements that come your way. We simply havent got the
time or the manpower.

Okay, Sarge.

Youll each be paired with an
officer in plain-clothes, door-knocking, talking to shopkeepers, talking to the
neighbours again. We need to know Clara Macriss 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 Alphens 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, thats what were
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, Ive 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 psychopathfrom 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, theres 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 shed 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?

Theyd find something to call him,
something inane, convinced that theyd pinned him down according to pattern.
And when they did, hed 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 theyd 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.

* * * *

Twenty-one

t
nine the next morning, Scobie Sutton said, Mrs Stella Riggs?

She had her back to him, checking
that shed locked her front door. Yes?

Im Detective Constable Sutton. I
need to ask you a few questions regarding the fire at your neighbours house.

He watched her turn from the door
and step on to the path as if to brush him aside. Im afraid I cant tell you
anything.

According to my notes, youve been
on holiday?

She was almost past him, following a
line of roses away from her front door. If you know that, then you know I
couldnt possibly know anything about the fire. And shes scarcely my
neighbour. There is another property separating hers from mine.

I understand that, Sutton said,
hurrying along beside her. He didnt like the woman. Clipped voice,
born-to-rule manner, an air of impatience and indifference. But I do need to
ask you how well you knew Clara Macris.