he wished for the ways and means to speed his own death.
Challis privately agreed, for the town’s gossips claimed that Ted Anderson had been despondent in recent months. But Challis was feeling contentious, a reaction to the past few days spent cooped up with his father. ‘The Pass is a dangerous stretch of road, Dad.’
‘The poor man lost his wife to cancer. He wasn’t coping.’
‘That was five years ago.’
‘Still,’ his father said.
Challis felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t been here to see what his mother’s death had done to his father. Like Ted Anderson, the old man wished for death, his body obliging him slowly, but Ted Anderson’s method had been quicker and more absolute.
That afternoon, Challis wandered down to the police station, a small brick building behind the shire council offices. The walls and floor were a pale, institutional green, the reception desk high and laminated, the noticeboards rustling with wanted posters, a faded gun amnesty notice, and pamphlets regarding home security and driving offences. A civilian clerk said, ‘Help you?’
She was young. He didn’t know her. ‘Is Sergeant Wurfel in?’
Her jaws snapped. ‘Yeah.’
Challis said patiently, ‘Then may I see him?’
Her face cleared. ‘Okay.’
She disappeared through a door and returned with Wurfel, who gave him a flat cops’ look and jerked his head. ‘Come through.’
Wurfel took Challis along a short corridor to his office. ‘Take a seat. I asked around about you.’
Challis shifted a little in his chair. ‘I’m here as a civilian.’
‘Fair enough.’
Carl Wurfel was a familiar type to Challis: large-framed, a heavy drinker but not a drunk, tough and pragmatic but not necessarily a bully, probably divorced. He scared people and got the job done. He wouldn’t respond to cop talk from Challis.
‘If you know about me then you know that my brother-in-law disappeared out east a few years ago.’
Wurfel nodded.
‘I’m looking into it,’ Challis went on.
‘It was looked into at the time.’
‘You checked the file?’
‘Soon as I knew who you were.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Why?’
Challis eyed him carefully. ‘I need to see if there is anything in it that’s not in the Misper file at police headquarters.’
‘They gave you access?’
Challis nodded. ‘Last Friday.’
‘Wait outside,’ Wurfel said. ‘Let me make a call.’
Challis waited in the corridor; Wurfel beckoned him back a minute later. He was frowning. ‘I’ll let you see our file. But I thought your brother-in-law committed suicide?’
‘Most of the locals think so. He was a bit unstable.’
‘Your mate in missing persons told me your sister’s been receiving strange mail, as if he’s still alive.’
‘Yes,’ said Challis levelly.
Wurfel was about to say something more, then shrugged and went to his filing cabinet. ‘Here’s the file. You can read it here. No copying.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
Wurfel remained in the office, ignoring Challis. He raced through his in-tray in a kind of habitual fury and made several abrupt phone calls while Challis tried to concentrate. The file was brief and told him nothing he didn’t already know. There was no mention of the letters that Meg had received, only a brief, handwritten update made several months after Gavin’s car had been found abandoned at the side of the road: ‘Suicide scenario not favoured by Mrs Hurst. Says her husband ran away.’ But there were two unrelated reports in the file. One a domestic disturbance callout to the residence of Gavin and Meg Hurst, another an interview with Meg following a report that she’d been assaulted by Gavin: ‘Mrs Hurst declines to press charges.’
Challis pushed the file across the desk to Wurfel. ‘Thanks, sergeant. I appreciate it.’
Wurfel grunted. ‘We gave the kid a verbal warning.’
Challis blinked, then understood. ‘Mark Finucane?’
‘He’s not a bad kid, considering the family he belongs to.’
‘I know all about the Finucanes,’ Challis said.
He returned to the main street and wandered, his mind drifting, but after a while the town began to impinge on him. People kept stopping to say hello, ask after his father and reminisce about the old days, when he’d been just another town kid and later, for a short time, one of the town’s three policemen. They didn’t dwell on this latter aspect of his past, and Challis was thankful for that, but, as he walked, he wondered what he’d gained and lost by moving away. Professional advancement, sure, broader horizons, but at a cost. Did he have a family now, or a community? He was remote from the former, and despite his years on the Peninsula, and in the police force, he inhabited the margins, not the centre. How much that owed to his not fitting in, and how much to not wanting to, he really couldn’t say.
He walked on. Small things-a voice, a gait, the hot-wood smell of a verandah post in the bright springtime sun-aroused in him powerful memories of his school days and weekends in Mawson’s Bluff, a time of idle, harmless vandalism, boredom and longing. He even found himself feeling the same hostility or indifference toward some people, the same affection for others.
And the same desire. He’d slipped into the Copper Kettle for coffee, and was standing at the cash register, when a lithe shape pressed against his back, arms encircled him from behind, and a voice breathed, ‘Guess who, handsome?’
He knew at once. He felt his body yielding, arching, his head tipping back and inclining toward her mouth, which reached up and pecked him on the hinge of his jaw. He turned around then. ‘Lisa.’
She grinned and released him.
‘Lovely to see you,’ he said.
She continued to grin. He was a little discomposed. A part of him meant what he’d said, for she was as lovely as he’d remembered, still slight, nimble, direct, her dark hair cropped short, her dark eyes bright with affection. Another part of him remembered her directness and how uncomplicated and selfish her ambitions had been.
‘Join me?’ he said.
‘What are you having?’
‘Coffee and a muffin.’
Another customer was already waiting, but Lisa, smiling apologetically, called to the counter hand, ‘I’ll have the same. Strong coffee.’
‘Yes, Mrs Joyce.’
‘You have to tell them to make it strong, Hal.’
Challis forked out more money and they found a table beside a window. There had been nothing like the Copper Kettle when they were growing up. The decor suggested sidewalk cafй bohemia, and you could consume anything from a soy latte to a smoked salmon baguette. It was evident that the locals patronised it, too: he saw shopkeepers, farmers, housewives, visiting salesmen, kids on their way home from school.
‘Sorry to hear about your dad,’ Lisa said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Is he, you know…’
‘Meg thinks he’ll go soon, but he’s so pigheaded he could rally for a few weeks or months, or even go on like this forever.’
Lisa nodded. ‘My parents are still going strong. Rex’s are barely hanging on.’
Her wealthy husband’s parents had retired to the town, signing everything over to their son. Challis wondered
