been trampled beneath the mud and the muddy grasses and reeds. Meanwhile, behind Challis, and supervised by Ellen Destry, a line search of ten constables and cadets had finished tracing the tyre tracks between the body, which was at the reservoir’s edge, and the gravelled surface of the Peninsula Water access track, and now were tracing footprints, two pairs, that headed west from the body toward a belt of scraggly gums. Farmland after that. Not so far away, no more than four kilometres, was Challis’s house.
Challis looked across the reservoir. What a godawful place to die. Blackberry thickets, bracken, stiff, wiry grass, small, dark, knobbled trees, defeated-looking gums, a stink of primeval gases. There were waterbirds, but they were mostly silent, and rather than seeming cool and alive, the body of water sat still and heavy under a layer of algae, and Challis felt oppressed by the humidity. The mosquitos were out. One landed on his wrist. He slapped it, saw a smear of blood.
Freya Berg, the pathologist, stood and waved to him. ‘Hal, you might as well come in now.’
Challis climbed over the tape and approached the body. He should have thought to pack rubber overshoes. He felt water seep into one sock.
First he tried to read the signs. The body itself could wait. ‘One vehicle, quite marked tread pattern, two people on foot. Wearing gumboots?’
‘Looks like it, sir,’ the forensic officer said.
Challis followed the footprints with his eyes. ‘They came around the reservoir, saw the body, walked around it once or twice, then headed out that way.’ He pointed toward the distant gums and farmland.
‘You want my job, sir?’ the officer said.
Challis grinned. ‘You tell me the rest.’
‘No other tracks. I’d say our victim was thrown out of the rear of the vehicle. See how he’s reversed in and gone out again?’
‘He didn’t step out of the vehicle, on to the ground?’
‘No other tracks, sir, only those two.’
‘A car? A van?’
‘Probably something with a rear-opening door, like a station wagon or a hatchback, if it was a car, but the tyre tracks indicate a heavier vehicle than that. Minivan? Four-wheel drive? Something with inside access to the rear compartment.’
‘Or a ute, and he swings over into the tray from the driver’s door ledge.’
‘A possibility, sir.’
Challis turned to the body. It lay on a patch of mud at the water’s edge. He wondered about the absence of grass. People regularly stood there, he decided. Birdwatchers, Peninsula Water engineers, kids skipping stones across the sluggish water, blackberry pickers later on in the new year. People fishing. Anyone at all, really.
The body had been face down. Now it lay on its back. The pathologist had bagged both hands; she’d examine them later for skin samples, traces of fabric, anything that might point to the killer. She’d also take swabs of the mouth, the vagina and the anus for evidence of saliva, sperm or acid phosphatase, the cardinal signs of sexual assault. If it’s the same killer, Challis thought, she’ll find signs of latex condom lubricant and not much else. The legs, from the bare, bruised pubis area to the Nike runners, looked grey and mottled. The upper body was clothed in a T-shirt, torn at the neck. Challis peered. Bite marks. There were also early signs of decomposition. The face was contradictory-swollen as a result of strangulation, yet curiously slack. Even so, it was clearly Jane Gideon.
Where was the lower clothing?
‘Find a skirt, pants, underpants, anything like that?’
‘No, boss.’
Just like Kymbly Abbott.
Ellen Destry joined them. ‘We’re running out of daylight, boss.’
‘I know, but we’re almost wrapped up here. Just make sure the wider scene is sealed off tonight so we can resume the search in the morning.’
‘Will do.’ She nodded at the body. ‘Raped, Freya?’
Freya Berg said, ‘Looks like it, but you know I can’t say till I’ve had a proper look at her.’
‘What can you say?’
‘She was abducted at midnight on the seventeenth, right? I’d say she was killed and then dumped here soon after that. Over forty-eight hours ago, in the hot sun for a lot of that time, so there’s some decomposition. The cause of death was strangulation, but she’s also had a blow to the head.’
Unlike Kymbly Abbott, Challis thought. Then again, Kymbly Abbott had been drunk and half doped and therefore malleable. Jane Gideon had been fit and healthy and wide awake. Either she struggled or the killer thought she might, and so he’d struck her. ‘What kind of blow? The old blunt instrument?’
‘There’s blunt and there’s blunt, Hal. This one had a rounded edge.’
‘Like a rock, or narrower than that?’
‘Narrower. More defined. A metal bar of some kind, or a lump of wood.’
He brooded. A tool handle. A tyre iron. ‘It didn’t happen here in the mud. Anything you can tell me about where it might have happened?’
‘That depends on what your forensic people find on her. Meanwhile I’ll need a closer look at her on the table before I can say anything definite.’
Challis nodded gloomily. Jane Gideon could have been raped and strangled inside the killer’s vehicle, or taken somewhere. Either way, it would have been somewhere away from the highway, for Jane Gideon had made a phone call and the killer would have been expecting someone to come for her.
‘He wanted her to be found,’ Challis said, ‘just like he wanted Kymbly Abbott to be found.’
That was all he knew. That, and to expect another body.
Tessa Kane was at the jetty, waiting for Challis. Six o’clock, her shadow long on the water, the day winding down. She’d bought two rockling fillets for dinner that night, and while she waited she watched the fishmonger toss the day’s fishheads and entrails to the gulls and the pelicans. She gasped and said, ‘My God, a seal.’
The fishmonger pointed across Westernport Bay to the Nobbies, the seal colony at the western end of Phillip Island. ‘He been coming in for a feed last four, five days, missus. He pretty old, I think. See the scars? Can’t look after himself so good no more.’
She watched in awe. The seal thrashed in the water. Whole fish torsos disappeared. The wind was up. Sail rigging pinged against the masts of the yachts moored in the marina. She breathed the air. It was laden with sea salt and mangrove swamp, that living stew of muddied roots, cloudy water, swamp gas and crawling sea life.
‘Good to be alive?’
It was Challis. She rested her palm briefly against his chest. ‘You said you had something for me?’
Challis told her about the body and its discovery. He confirmed that it was Jane Gideon and detailed the comparisons with Kymbly Abbott’s murder.
She scribbled in her notebook, sensing his calm eyes upon her. ‘Just don’t arrest anyone before midnight, okay? Or I’ll miss tomorrow’s issue.’
‘Tess, what do you intend to do about the letter?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I think it would be a mistake to publish it.’
She shrugged. ‘What else can you tell me? I need colour, Hal. I need the broad picture.’
‘The broad picture’s clear enough. There’s a killer out there and women would be mad to go out alone at night. They shouldn’t drive alone, they shouldn’t hitchhike.’
‘I can quote you on that?’
‘Yep.’
‘It might shut him down.’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘Meaning you won’t have anything to work on except what you’ve got already.’
‘Tess, I can’t believe you said that. You want more abductions, bodies dumped at the side of the road?’
‘No, of course not. I was trying to see it from a police point of view.’
‘Don’t try to double guess us,’ Challis said.
