What are you doing?’
Challis had thought she was asleep. He himself had been asleep, but then he’d awoken, and the strangeness of the bed, the house and the situation had swamped him suddenly, there in the darkness lit only by the digital display of her bedside clock and a glimmer of moonlight from behind the curtain that he remembered was heavy, too heavy for the room, and he’d been dragging on his clothes, and was hunting for his shoes, ready to leave, but she’d caught him.
He stretched across the bed and kissed her. ‘I have to go, Tess.’
She stared at him, then looked away. ‘I’d thought we’d have breakfast together.’
He sat for a while, one hand cupping her neck until the tendons there told him that she was unrelaxed. He removed the hand. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
She rolled away from him. ‘Fine. I’ll see you around.’
‘Tess-’
She turned back to him. ‘Hal, it’s okay. I’m not angry. You feel strange, I understand, so you should go.’
‘I’ll see you again.’
She kissed him and collapsed onto her pillow. ‘No talking. I’m tired. See you around.’
Ginger taught two classes on Saturday mornings. He was able to fit Pam into his ten o’clock. She almost didn’t pack the Bolle sunglasses she’d bought him, thinking not to make a fool of herself, but he seemed to pay special attention to her, so she presented them with a shy flourish at the end of the lesson, when the others were getting changed and driving off.
‘Christmas present for you.’
He blushed. ‘I didn’t get you anything.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected you to.’
‘I wanted to,’ he said.
‘Did you?’
‘I thought you’d take it the wrong way.’
‘No,’ she said.
The colours of the sky and the water were pink and grey, a typical soft Peninsula beach day. Pam went home in a pleasant muddle, a tingle on the surface of her skin, but that soon evaporated. The button was flashing on her answering machine. Sergeant Kellock wanted her at the station at two o’clock and she’d better not be late, if she knew what was good for her.
Rhys Hartnett arrived ten minutes early, just as Ellen was getting back from the shops with lunch things and the Saturday papers. She dumped everything in the kitchen and began to show him around the house, apologising for its faults. Alan trailed suspiciously behind them, asking what was the best way of cooling it without air- conditioning. Ellen knew what that was about: he wanted to see if Rhys was prepared to give them neutral advice.
‘Insulation, for a start.’
‘It’s already insulated,’ Alan said.
‘Have you thought of ceiling fans?’
‘They’re no good if the air’s already hot.’
‘Blinds? Shutters? Grapevine on a trellis?’
Ellen said, ‘We’re clutching at straws, Rhys, that’s obvious. So why don’t you finish looking around and give us a quote.’
‘We can’t afford it,’ Alan said.
Rhys looked inquiringly at Ellen, who said, ‘It can’t hurt to get a quote.’
‘Noisy bloody things.’
‘It’s possible to station the main unit some distance away from your living areas,’ Rhys said. ‘You won’t really hear anything.’
They came to Larrayne’s bedroom. She was on her bed, reading, dressed in skimpy shorts and a singlet top. A small desk fan ruffled her lank hair. Rhys Hartnett flashed her a grin and said, ‘Hi there. Hot enough for you?’
Ellen felt a twinge of pure jealousy. It surprised her. She watched for her daughter’s reaction to Hartnett and was pleased to see a customary scowl. Larrayne flounced out, saying, ‘So much for privacy in this house.’
Ellen rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, Rhys. She can be very rude sometimes.’
‘Rude? That? Nah. I’ve done quotes on tax-dodge farms for Brighton society cows who could show your daughter a thing or two about rude.’
Challis had rung the state distributor of Cooper tyres, who’d said: ‘I used to be the only distributor, but these days there’s a rip-off merchant selling them in your neck of the woods,’ and now he was driving along a side street in Rosebud. Tyre City covered half a block, an eyesore of stacked tyres, grimy sheds, oily dirt and dead grass caught in the cyclone perimeter fence, cheap tyres in letters taller than a man covered the front wall of the main building. When Challis drove in, and parked to one side, and showed himself, half of the workforce seemed to melt away into the shadows while the other half stared hostilely at him. Challis knew that he smelt like a cop. All cops do-to those who have reason to be sniffing for one. Meanwhile the din-rock music, pressurised air escaping, the hammering of hand tools-was stupefying.
He showed his ID to the man who emerged from a small, glassed-off office. ‘Are you the boss?’
The man nodded. ‘You’re talking to him.’
‘You sell a brand of tyre called Cooper?’
A cigarette bobbed in the man’s mouth. ‘Might do.’
‘Either you do or you don’t.’
‘All right, I do. So what?’
‘Not a common tyre,’
‘Not real common, no.’
‘Not many sales?’
The man shrugged. ‘People buy ‘em.’
‘You’d remember it if someone wanted to fit a set of Coopers?’
The man seemed to have oil and grease deposits on his face, hands and clothing. He was small, shaped like a barrel, and wore a permanent scowl. ‘Probably not.’
‘Come on. A deal like that would stand out in a business like this.’
The man squared his jaw. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning most of your business consists of selling barely roadworthy tyres to people who drive rustbuckets,’ said Challis harshly. ‘I want your undivided attention for a minute.’
‘Mate, I sell all kinds of tyres and buy all kinds. Blokes in Jags come here, blokes in VWs. I sell truck tyres. I got tractor tyres out the back. I buy job lots at auction and I buy single tyres. I buy from other dealers. I buy bankrupt stock. I’m an acknowledged dealer for most of the main brands.’
‘Point taken, point taken,’ Challis said. ‘So the only way we can investigate your sales of Cooper tyres is if we look at your books, is that it? You’d have them recorded, wouldn’t you? I’m sure you’re the type of bloke who does the right thing by the tax man.’
The man shifted uneasily. ‘Bit behind in me paperwork this month. Take a bit of finding, the office is in a bit of a mess. Plus, I wouldn’t necessarily have the customers’ names written on the invoices.’
‘What about car registration numbers? Surely you’d record them on the invoices?’
The man scratched his head. ‘Not always.’
An hour later, defeated by the man’s office chaos, Challis returned to Waterloo. As he drove into the car park at the police station he recognised McQuarrie’s car in the visitor’s slot and was tempted to turn around and go out again. He needed a haircut, he hadn’t walked on the beach for weeks, he had Christmas shopping to do.
