Challis - 01 - Dragon Man (6 page)

Come on, Jolic said. Better take
you home to your mum.

Home was a new estate on the
outskirts of Waterloo, houses crammed together but facing in all directions
because they sat on madly looping courts and avenues, not a straight road in
the whole place. Danny watched Jolic leave, the ute booming to wake the dead,
the brake lights flaring at the turn-off. He lit a cigarette. He didnt want to
go inside yet, hear his mother yell at him.

Danny gnawed his lower lip. The last
thing Jolic had said was he needed help on another break-and-enter sometime
after Christmas. Im waiting for word on when the ownersll be away, hed
said. Danny laughed now, without humour. Why should Jolic care if the owners
were away or not? His idea of a break-and-enter was to smash the door down and
bash the occupants before tying them up and rampaging through the house.
Aggravated burglary, no fun at all if the law caught up with you. Danny had
been with him on two such jobs. No fun at all, but he couldnt wriggle out, not
without copping a lot of aggro.

He tossed his cigarette into the
darkness. His own style was more scientific. Hed stake out a street for a
couple of afternoons after knocking off work, getting a feel for the
surroundings. Any dogs? Any neighbours about? Any lawns in need of mowing, mail
mounting up in the box, newspapers not collected? Then, having targeted a
house, hed go around it, examining the windows for alarms. That was what he
was good at. Using his head. Hed steal nothing big, no bigger than a camera,
say. Rings, cash, watches, brooches, credit cards, CDs. Anything that would fit
in his backpack, a fancy soft leather thing with some foreign name stamped into
the black leather. Hed lifted it from a house on the outskirts of Frankston a
few days ago. Almost new, lovely smell to it. Hed give it to Megan next time
he saw her, tell her he was sorry hed forgotten her birthday.

* * * *

One
oclock in the morning. The bar was closing, and John Tankard had dipped out
badly with that nurse, so he thought he might as well drive home.

Hed been chatting her upnot a bad
sort, about a seven on the scaleand started by buying her a glass of riesling
and telling her his name, John, John Tankard, except my mates call me Tank.
Shed looked him up and down and said, Built like one, too, then her hand
went to her mouth and her face went red. Sorry, I didnt mean youre fat or
anything, I meant youre strong, you know, like you keep in shape and that.
She came out of the other side of the apology a little breathless and smiling
and relieved to have turned a possible insult into a compliment, and hed
grinned at her kindly and theyd settled elbow to elbow on the bar and begun to
talk.

But then came the moment. It was
always there, hovering over everything he did when he was off duty:

What do you do?

He said flatly, Im a policeman, a
copper.

Wariness and retreat were there in
her eyes in an instant. An opportunity lost or failed, like hundreds over the
years. Just once would he like to see approval or interest or curiosity on
someones face when he told them that he was a copper.

There was a time when he believed
all of the bullshit, that he was there to protect and serve. Now he saw it as
us against them, the police against the public. The public were all guilty of
something, anyway, if you dug deep enough. And did they deserve his protection?
They shouted police brutality whenever he made a legitimate arrest. At
parties they cringed comically and said, Dont shoot me, dont shoot me. Hed
had four malicious civil writs from people hed arrested, just trying it on,
giving him a hard time.

Over the years the hardness had
grown. He was more suspicious than he used to be. The job was more violent now.
You saw some ugly things, like dead people, like syringes or speed or dope on
kitchen tables in full view of little kids. Tankard was full of frustration.
Repeat offenders were forever getting off on a bond. Sergeant van Alphen tried
to drill it into him,
Dont take the job personally. Your responsibility is
simply to present the case. Its not your fault if some dropkick gets off
because hes got a good lawyer or a piss-weak judge or a good sob story
but
it wasnt as easy as that.

He was no longer sure what was right
and what was wrong, and nor did he care. Hed seen some pretty bent coppers in
his time and some halfway decent murderers, rapists and thieves. Most people
were on the take in some form or another. A nod and a favour here, a wink and a
slab of cold beer or half a grand in an envelope there. Fuck em all.

And he felt tired all the time now,
and ragged from sleeplessness. He ate and drank too much. His back ached to the
extent that he could never get comfortable in any chair, and sitting for long
in the divisional van or a car was sheer hell. The insides of his cheeks were
raw from where hed chewed them. Tension. Youd think, after all this time,
that hed never let the job get to him. But it did. He was surprised at the
hurt he still felt, after his name had appeared in the local paper. Police
harassment. What bullshit. And now someone was flooding the town with
leaflets, calling him a Nazi stormtrooper. Too gutless to say it to his face.

He had a scanner in the car. He
switched it on. Someone was setting fire to mailboxes. That just about summed
up life, for him.

* * * *

Sergeant
Kees van Alphen, ashily damp from helping the Waterloo CFA unit put out the
fire in the womans pine tree, was shocked. Hed never seen anyone so
distressed. First it was a job getting her to step outside and talk to him, and
now she still couldnt get the words out. She was gulping, clearly terrified.
He stood with her on the verandah, wanting to say, Its only vandals, only
your mailbox, but her fear was so acute that he put an arm around her, patted
her on the back and said, Hush, hush, something his mother used to say.

He felt awkward. He was no good at
this sort of thing.

Then she twisted as if to get closer
to him and grabbed his free hand. He screamed. Hed burnt himself somehow. The
back of his wrist.

The woman sobered. Are you all
right?

Got burnt.

She looked distractedly at the open
door behind her. I could dress it for you.

Ill be fine.

Behind him the CFA truck was turning
around in her drive. With a brap of the siren it was gone. The air smelt damp
and smoky. The roof of his police car gleamed wetly, and there was enough
moonlight for him to see steamy smoke rising from the charred mailbox.

He sighed, fished out his notebook. Did
you see anything? Hear anything?

No.

Name?

Clara will do.

He shrugged, noted the name and put
the book away. New Zealand accent. He turned to go. Ill make a report and see
that one of our patrol cars comes by here every night for the next week or two.

She had another attack of hysterics.
Youre not going? Youre not leaving me?

Miss, the fires out, it was
probably kids, they wont be coming back. Theres nothing more I can do here.
Would you like me to contact someone for you? A neighbour? Family? Friends?

He saw her close down, as if she
were suspicious of him. Who was she? What was eating at her?

Why would you want to contact
someone? Who?

Bewildered by her mood shift, he
replied, Well, someone who could stay with you, look after you. Family,
perhaps.

She looked away from him. Theyre
all in Darwin.

Darwin? From your accent Id have
said New Zealand.

She shot him a look. A long time
ago.

He didnt believe her, but didnt
push it. A neighbour?

Dont know them. Besides, its
late. Cant you stay for a bit? I could put a dressing on your burnt hand.

Im on duty, miss.

Clara.

Clara. Im on duty. Ill call in
tomorrow, around lunchtime.

He could smell wet ash and smoke,
and see, in the moonlight, the pine-tree skeleton at the end of her driveway.
He opened the door of the police car and at once she wailed, Theyre out to
get me.

Who are? Why?

I dont know why. They are, thats
all. Its a signal.

A signal.

Theyre saying: Were coming back,
and next time well get you.

He shut the door and walked back to
her. Clara, it was kids.

I dont think so.

Its been on my radio. At least a
dozen mailboxes torched between here and Mornington. No pattern to it, just any
old mailbox on a back road somewhere. Youre one of many.

She wrapped her arms around herself.
Youre sure? Youre not trying to make me feel better?

I swear it.

She laughed, unclasped herself and
stared at the dim form of her hands in the half-dark. Look at me. Cant
control myself, shaking like a leaf.

You need a stiff drink.

Ill say. Scotch, vodka. You want
one?

Im on duty, Clara.

She stepped closer. Whats your
name?

He said awkwardly, Kees. Kees van
Alphen. Its Dutch, originally. Theres a few of us on the force.

Kees. I like it. She grinned. Justice
never rests with Kees on your case.

Im generally called Van.

Which do you prefer?

In the force, a name sticks. Im
used to Van. The wife called me Alf or Alfie, a kind of a put-down.

Clara touched his chest briefly. Not
very nice of her.

Not real nice, no. Still, old
history now.

Just one drink. Or at least sit
with me till I stop shaking.

He found himself warming to her, to
the notion that someone wanted to touch him, that someone needed him. Ill
have to call in and tell them Im still here.

Tell them youre following up
clues, Clara said, with shaky humour.

* * * *

Four

even
a.m. and already some heat in the sun. Showers with a weak change forecast for
later in the week. Ellen Destry poked her head around the door of her daughters
room. Larrayne lay on her back asleep, apparently peaceful, but as usual the
top sheet was tangled about her slim legs and her hair was fanned over the
pillow and across one cheek. Shed been a restless sleeper ever since she was
little. Then Ellen returned to the kitchen and kissed her husband, putting her
arms around his neck briefly as he read the paper at the kitchen table. She
paused on the way out, standing at the door that opened on to the carport. No,
Alan didnt look up, nothing to bid her a good day ahead.

She wound the car past holiday homes
and shacks, slowing for the speed bumps. She lived in Penzance Beach, some
distance south around the coast from Waterloo (for you didnt live where you
worked, not if you were a copper). On an impulse, she began a sweep of some of
the townships side streets on her way to the intersection with the main road.
There had been an 18 per cent increase in burglaries in Penzance Beach over the
past year.

Penzance. What did the pen prefix
mean? Penzance, Penrose, Penhaligon, Penrith, Penleigh, Penbank, Penfold,
Pengilly. Town of . . . maybe?

Then she saw the new uniformed
constable, what was her name, Pam Murphy, waiting at the bus stop with a
surfboard.

Ellen stopped the car, wound down
her window. Morning.

The younger woman stiffened, eyes
darting warily left and right before fixing on the car itself. Cops instincts,
Ellen thought.

Sergeant Destry. Didnt recognise
you.

Day off?

Morning off. Im on again this
afternoon.

Surfing. Lucky you, Ellen said. Where?

Pam Murphy pointed farther south. Myers
Point.

They stared at each other for a
moment. Ellen said, How are you finding things? Settling in okay?

Yes, thanks.

Ellen took a chance. What about
John Tankard? Or Sergeant van Alphen?

She saw the wariness in Murphys
eyes. Who could you trust in this job? I wouldnt know, Sarge.

Wouldnt you? Ellen leaned her
head out a little more. This is off the record.

Off the record?

Yes.

The younger woman looked away. They
do things differently.

Like how?

She swung back. They get peoples
backs up. Shouting. The odd swift clip over the ear. Pulling old people over
and breathalysing them, people whove never had a drink in their lives. Always
lurking to catch people speeding. Just to increase their arrest rates. They say
Im too soft. Not performing.

Ellen mused on that, and sighed. Im
CIB, not uniform. Theres not much I can do.

Will that be all, Sarge?

Youll have to get yourself a car,
Ellen said. That bus? God.

She saw the younger woman close up
and look away. What nerve had she touched? Well, I wont keep you.