Challis - 03 - Snapshot (6 page)

Shed known that he was struggling.
Back when theyd slept together Challis had too often scurried off home
afterwards, or the next morning, as if he had to clear his head. He seemed to
want her, then feel crowded, compounded by a desire not to hurt her or lead her
on.

Anyway, that was Tessas two-dollar
analysis. She thought all of these things in the time it took for him to spot
her, smile, cross the room and kiss her cheek. He pulled out a chair and sat.
Their knees banged together; they moved apart politely, almost automatically.

This is a privilege, she said, morning
coffee with you in a trendy cafe.

As trendy as Waterloo gets, anyway.

She studied his face. You look
tired.

Its a nasty one, he said, and
told her all he knew. She made notes, trying not to be distracted when his
sleeve rode up, revealing a bony wrist and a centimetre of crisp white shirt.
Normally she hated white shirts, but Challis was suited to them, with his
leanness, and the olive cast of his skin.

What happens next?

We speak to the child.

Could I speak to her?

Challis said tiredly, McQuarrie
would never allow it. Shes too young, and he doesnt like you.

She smiled ruefully. McQuarrie had
friends in Rotary, local businessmen who didnt want a local newspaper that was
left-wing and edited by a woman.

But you wont keep me out of the
loop, Hal?

He shook his head.

Of course, you might solve it this
afternoon, she muttered, and this time next week it will be stale news and no
good to me.

He gave her a twisted grin. So
write another story like the one on well-mannered and well-run suburban orgies,
where theres no time imperative.

Yeah, yeah, rub it in.

People look at me oddly, kind of
smirkingly, Challis said, as if Im still involved with you and were always
having kinky sex.

Poor you. She stared at him
challengingly. Arent you going to ask me what it was like?

He shook his head. Your article
pretty much covered it. Apart from a mild titillation, it left me unmoved. And
its hardly a police matter, not unless any of the players are underage.

She sighed. Ive had so much crank
mail, my heads spinning. Distributions up, but advertising is down.

Crank mail in addition to the other
stuff?

By other stuff he meant a string of
hate mail shed been receiving for the past few months, along with anonymous
phone calls and hang-ups, messages in soap smeared across her windscreen, and
on one occasion a rock heaved through the glass panel of her front door. It all
seemed to be the work of one man, who called her a bitch and said shed get
what was coming to her, one day soon. There hadnt been much that the police
could do about it.

It will all blow over eventually,
she said.

What else are you working on?

The detention centre.

But isnt it being phased out?

Tessa shrugged. Very few asylum
seekers were left in the Waterloo centre. Most of the detainees now
incarcerated there had breached or overstayed their visas, and were quickly
processed and repatriated. But Tessa, in her role as editor of the
Progress,
had been critical of the centre from the outset, in the face of massive
local apathy, and wanted one last shot at Charlie Mead, the manager. There are
still abuses there, Hal.

She paused. It looks like Ill be
moving on.

He looked at her quizzically. Moving
on?

Theyre pulling the plug on me. The
sex-party story was the last straw.

She explained. Challis knew some of
the details. The
Progress
was owned by a wealthy man who had a social
conscience and tolerated Tessas stance on most issues. What Challis didnt
know was the man also leaned towards the Christian right and was furious with
her for attending the sex party and writing about it. Ive got three months of
my contract left.

Challis squeezed her hand and let it
go. Youll be missed, he said.

Ill be missed, or youll miss me?
Which is it, Hal?

Both.

She sighed. I thought about you the
other day. I was out at the airfield doing a story and had a peek at your Dragon,
hoping to find you working on the engine or something.

Neither the plane nor its
restoration had meant much to her, when she was seeing Challis, but theyd
clearly meant something to him, and his obsession with such an arcane interest
had been oddly appealing at the time.

Im thinking of selling it.

No! Why?

I havent worked on it since Kitty
was shot. It feels like bad luck.

Hal, Ive never heard you talk like
that before.

Ill take up golf with McQuarrie
instead, he said.

He grinned, but didnt mean the grin
and she didnt return it.

Then he was on his feet and planting
a kiss beside her ear. Id better get back, he said.

When he was gone, she stayed in Cafe
Laconic for a while, checking messages on her mobile phone. Then, on a whim,
she tried the detention centre again, and twenty seconds later, against all
odds, was put through to Charlie Mead, who for months had been unavailable. How
did you get this number? he demanded.

She frowned. Your secretary
switched me through.

Shes a temp, stupid cow. What can
I do for you?

Now that the centre is winding back
its operations, I thought it would be a good time to run a survey article.

The usual crap? Riots,
self-mutilation, bullying guards?

Well, you were never available to
give me the other point of view, Mr Mead, Tessa said carefully.

Sure, why not, one-thirty this
afternoon.

Unbelievable. Tessa returned to her
office, forgetting all about Challis.

* * * *

8

Ellen
and Scobie were in Mount Eliza, where Bayside Counselling Services occupied a
new but nondescript two-storey building in the main street. The bistro and the
delicatessen on either side of it might have been lifted from one of the
lifestyle magazines, and were inhabited, so far as Ellen could tell, by people
whod stepped from the pages of a lifestyle magazine. She wondered if they ever
made independent decisions, and said so.

Sorry? said Scobie.

Never mind, Ellen said. Scobie
Sutton liked to think the best of people. There wasnt a sour bone in his body.

They went in, finding an unoccupied
reception desk. Ellen picked up a glossy brochure and showed it to Scobie:
Janine McQuarrie was a good-looking woman, if surfaces counted for anything.
The face in the brochure was contained and humourless.

Just then a man approached the
reception desk, looking furious. He was about fifty, balding and as neat as a
pin. Ellen disliked him immediately. Excuse me, sir, she began.

Yes? he snapped. He didnt meet
her gaze but addressed a point several centimetres above her head.

We need to see

Make an appointment
when
our
esteemed receptionist returns from wherever she is.

Its important, Ellen said. We
need to see someone in authority.

And you are?

They showed their warrant cards. Well,
Im Dominic OBrien, one of the senior partners, the man said, still
refusingor unableto make eye contact.

Mr OBrien, Im afraid I have some
bad news. Your colleague, Janine McQuarrie, was found murdered in Penzance
North earlier this morning.

There was a moment of silence, a
throat-clearing cough, and OBrien said, Sorry? Who did you say you were? What
are you saying?

Ellen repeated herself. OBriens
voice gained in strength and passion. And you thought youd just bowl up and
drop this little bombshell on me?

Oh God. Ellen said gently, Im
terribly sorry, Mr OBrien, of course youre right, but theres no easy way to
break this kind of news, and we need to act swiftly. Do you know why Mrs
McQuarrie was in Penzance North this morning?

No idea.

Was she seeing a client? I
understand that she was a psychologist, a counsellor.

She was. Are you suggesting one of
her clients murdered her?

I dont know. Do
you
think
that might have happened?

Youd better come into my office,
OBrien said.

He took them upstairs to a vast,
oppressive corner room. God help the poor soul who seeks solace here, thought
Ellen. We need to see Mrs McQuarries files, she said.

OBrien was on firm ground now;
resistant ground. Janine appointed me to look after her records in the event
of anything happening to her. Its standard practice, he said, to forestall
any objections that the police might like to make.

May we see those records? We need
to identify anyone who has a volatile background and rule out everyone else.

A fishing expedition? Request
denied. Youll need a warrant, and even then youll need a good reason,
and
well
challenge it.

Ellen sighed. She knew that a
magistrate would grant a subpoena without hassle, for this was a murder
inquiry, but only if the police could present a compelling case for the
murderer being one of the dead womans clients rather than anyone else. All
right, then perhaps you can tell me the
sorts
of people Mrs McQuarrie
counselled.

OBrien breathed out heavily. Childrenbedwetting
kids and troubled teenagers. People grieving the death of a loved one. Women
finding the strength to leave unhappy marriages. All kinds of ordinary
afflictions, and none that might give rise to the impulse to murder, I wouldnt
have thought.

Ellen agreed privately. According to
Challiss descriptions of the circumstances, Janine McQuarries murder had been
a carefully arranged contract killing, not the product of impulsive or skewed
reasoning. Her mind drifted.
Women finding the strength to leave unhappy
marriages,
she thought. Is that what I need?

Scobie Sutton broke in. Well need
to see her desk calendar, and talk to everyone in the clinic, before the press
do.

OBrien rolled his eyes. Ill see
what I can do.

He showed them to the conference
room and for the next hour they interviewed the staff: OBrien, three other
therapists, the office manager and the receptionist, all of whom had solid
alibis for earlier than morning. The office manager, a vigorous, no-nonsense
woman named Iris, was the most helpful, but her information merely bore out in
clearer terms what everyone was saying: that Janine McQuarrie had been a real
piece of work, not only considered a poor therapist but also reviled. A woman
whose bitter personality had permeated the building, she had minions, not
friends. She was manipulative, a gossip, and would spread rumours against those
whom she believed had wronged her. At staff meetings she liked to chuckle over
her clients sad secrets and off-the-wall phobias. She wasnt motivated to
help, Iris said, but to bring down people and institutions, and she was
obsessed with money: accumulating it, not spending it.

Scobie Sutton stirred, as if money,
or all of this dirt being spread about Janine McQuarrie, was distasteful to him.
Was she a gambler?

Not her, Iris said. Gambling is a
sign of weakness, quote unquote.

Any irregularities in the firms
bookkeeping?

Iris bristled. I keep the books.

Scobie back-pedalled. I mean, did
she have access to the books? Was she keeping income back from the firm?
Anything like that?

Not that Im aware of

Her clients, said Ellen. Were any
of them unstable enough to murder her? Did she offend any of them?

She whisked them in and out, or met
them elsewhere, so I wouldnt know, Iris said.

What about her private life? Anyone
in the background? Friends? Enemies?

Look, said Iris. We pitied her
more than anything. We avoided her. She was most probably lonely, but
everything about her said back off. I wonder how on earth she found herself a
husband and mothered a child, frankly.

Do you know who she was seeing this
morning? Ellen had examined Janine McQuarries desk calendar, and the days
entry was typically cryptic:
Penzance North 9.30.

No.

That was all they could get. Ellen
called Challiss mobile number. Were on our way back to Waterloo.

Good. I want a quick briefing
before we talk to the supers granddaughter.

Be there in twenty minutes, said
Ellen.

* * * *

9

Scobie
drove, with Ellen sitting tensely in the passenger seat, her hands braced on
the dash, her foot on a phantom brake pedal. Suttons driving style was full of
fits and starts, swivel necking, and hand gestures as he talked, punctuated
with occasional swigs from a bottle of mineral water.