afford this car. Because Pam Murphy gets to be a detective and I’m stuck driving a stinking divvy van. Because causing people grief is about the only thing that makes me feel better. He didn’t hear the other car until it was too late.
The tyres alerted him, gently crunching the gravel at the side of the road. He swung around: a silver Mercedes, not new, running only on sidelights, came purring in from the intersecting road. Lowered, alloy wheels, smoky glass all around. It stopped and waited, and then Tank wasn’t surprised when all of the doors opened. He began to back away from the Subaru. He backed right up to the divvy van and sped away from there, trying to swallow. Sometimes there was weird shit going on at night and he was better off out of it.
The dispatcher’s voice cut in then. ‘The registered owner of the Subaru is a Trent Jarrett of Seaview Park estate.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ muttered Tank.
And the guy driving the Merc had been the killer, Nick Jarrett.
John Tankard went home and didn’t sleep.
13
One thousand kilometres northwest of Waterloo, Hal Challis had spent a long Saturday caring for his father. He felt inadequate to the task. At the same time, he couldn’t concentrate fully. Being ‘home’ again had put him into a dreamlike state, brought on by old familiar objects-like his mother’s jacket.
It was heavy cotton, faded navy, with a cracked leather collar, still hanging on a peg by the back door, and, in his mind’s eye, Challis could see his mother on one of her solitary rambles. He’d quite forgotten that she liked to do that, yet she had always done it, right through his childhood and adolescence. He’d taken it for granted back then. It had simply been his mother out walking. Now he wondered if it had signified more than that. She’d been a big-city girl. Had she been lonely out here? Had she yearned for more? People had always said that Challis resembled her- olive colouring, dark hair, narrow face-but had they also meant character? His mother tended to be silent, watchful and withholding. She’d tolerated Gavin for Meg’s sake. She’d adored Eve. She hadn’t judged or prodded Challis. She’d stood up to the old man’s nonsense. The coat brought a lump to his throat.
To throw off the dreaminess, he began to make notes about his brother-in-law. Gavin Hurst had suffered extreme mood swings in the months leading up to his disappearance. He’d become paranoid, argumentative, suspicious and belligerent. RSPCA regional headquarters had received dozens of complaints. Then his car had been found abandoned in dry country several kilometres east of the Bluff. Suicide, that was the general verdict, but, four months later, Meg had begun to receive unusual mail. National Geographic arrived, followed by an invoice for the subscription. She complained, and was faxed the subscription form, filled out in her name. An Internet service provider sent her a free modem, part of the two-year package deal she’d ‘signed’ for. She received catalogues, mail-order goods, book club samples, and applications for life insurance policies naming her husband as beneficiary. Challis had to ask himself: Was Meg capable of setting something like this up-maybe with the old man’s help? Or had Gavin staged his disappearance, then begun to taunt her out of malice?
He was relieved when Meg arrived, as arranged, to cook dinner. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ he told her.
She was already clattering about in the kitchen. ‘I know.’
‘Eve couldn’t come?’
‘Give the girl a break. It’s Saturday night. She’s going out with some of her friends.’
Challis helped. Soon a stir-fry of onions, garlic, ginger, soy sauce and strips of chicken was hissing and crackling in a wok. ‘I didn’t know Mum had a wok.’
‘There are a lot of things you didn’t know about Mum.’
‘Ouch.’
Meg looked mortified and touched his forearm. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.’
‘Probably deserved,’ Challis said. Meg had carried the burden of the last couple of years. She’d been closer to their parents in all respects, yet the family dynamics had always demonstrated, very faintly, the sense that he was the favoured one, the first-born.
Challis glanced guiltily through the archway at his father, who was slumbering in one of the sitting room armchairs. He’d rarely given much thought to the South Australian compartment of his life: his mother, when she was alive, his father, Meg and Eve, their individual heartaches and vulnerabilities. Partly distance, and partly that he was a bad son? Certainly self-absorption wasn’t a factor, for he rarely considered his own heartaches and vulnerabilities but lived inside the crimes and criminals he dealt with. Now, here, he had things to face up to.
‘I didn’t tell you why I came through Adelaide.’
Meg was busy at the wok, but cast him an inquiring glance.
‘Do you remember Max Andrewartha?’
‘The sergeant here when you were a probationer?’
‘Yes. Well, he’s head of the missing persons unit now.’
‘Oh, Hal.’
‘I read their file on Gavin.’
Meg seemed distressed. ‘Why would you do that?’
Could he tell her that a sense of responsibility was growing inside him, threatening to swamp him?
‘Hal?’
‘Sorry, miles away.’
‘Forget about Gavin. That’s what I’m trying to do.’
‘The case is still open. Nothing can change that.’
Meg breathed out exasperatedly. ‘Did you learn anything new?’
‘No. I thought I’d ask around while I’m here.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Low key, sis, low key.’
She gave him a shove. ‘Out of the kitchen. You’re in my way.’
Challis went through to his father, woke him gently, and read to him from Mr Midshipman Hornblower. When Meg called, ‘It’s on the table,’ he helped the old man through to the dining room. Three plates steamed on the table, one of them minuscule and plain, chicken without soy sauce, cut into tiny pieces, adorned with a spoonful of rice and what looked like overcooked carrots and peas. Dad’s dodgy digestion, Challis thought.
‘Wine, I think,’ he said, and went to his bedroom, returning with a bottle he’d packed before leaving Waterloo.
‘You read my mind, son.’
‘Dad,’ warned Meg.
The old man ignored her, waggling his glass at Challis, who poured a tiny measure.
‘Jesus Christ, son. A bit more wrist action.’
‘You shouldn’t have alcohol, Dad,’ Meg said, tucking a napkin into the old man’s collar.
‘Too late.’
Challis said ‘Cheers’ and they toasted each other and began to eat and talk, their conversation punctuated by peaceful silences. Early evening, the sun settling, darkening the room but not removing its essential warmth. Now and then the old man tore a knuckle of bread from the white slice on his side plate and masticated slowly. The wine, and the presence of his children, rallied him in contestable ways. Challis found it exhausting, and was relieved when his father fell asleep.
Meg smiled. The light was soft all around them and encouraged release and harmony. They murmured into the night, sipping the wine. Meg examined the bottle. ‘This is good. Elan. Never heard of it.’
‘A small winery just up the road from where I live,’ Challis said.
‘I guess it doesn’t really matter if Dad has a glass now and then. You know…’
‘Yep.’
Their father continued to sleep, diminished by age and illness.
