that,’ he said.
‘Miss you,’ she said.
33
Challis pocketed his mobile and hurried through to the kitchen before the phone disturbed his father. Then he realised: Ellen had said ‘Miss you.’ Grinning, he answered the phone.
‘Hal,’ said his sister. ‘They think they’ve found Gavin.’
She sounded panicky. It was seven o’clock and stars hung in the sky, a vastness of sky above the plains, clearly visible through the window above the kitchen sink.
‘Where?’
Meg’s voice was tight, barely controlled, as she explained it to him. It was a vivid account: he could see the lonely cemetery and the body coming into view, the latter image coloured by his years as a homicide inspector. He knew what time and certain conditions-water, air, chemicals, earth, and the lack of these-could do to a corpse.
‘How certain is it?’
‘His wallet was in his pocket. And his keys.’
Challis sat at the table. ‘They will still need to carry out a proper identification. Dental records, DNA.’
‘I know. They told me that. Hal, they said he’d been shot in the head and did I know anything about that and where was I when he disappeared.’
Challis straightened. ‘Who are you talking about? Who’s asking these questions?’
‘Two detectives. They came up from Adelaide.’
Homicide Squad, thought Challis. ‘I’ll come over. Is Eve there?’
‘She’s staying the night with a friend. They’re studying together. I haven’t even had time to tell her.’
Challis checked on his father, wondering what to tell him. ‘That was Meg. She-’
‘I didn’t see her today,’ he replied querulously. ‘Why didn’t she come to see me today?’
The voice and manner were fretful. He had good and bad days, good and bad periods every day. Challis sat on the edge of the bed, where the air was stale, close and redolent of age and illness. ‘Dad, they’ve found a body. They think it could be Gavin.’
The eyes turned sharp. ‘Suicide? Out east? He’ll be a skeleton by now.’
Challis touched his father’s frail wrist. ‘Buried, Dad. They suspect foul play.’
The eyes grew sharper. ‘They suspect Meg, you mean.’
‘Possibly. I’m going over there now. I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Dad.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
It took Challis thirty minutes to get his father ready. They took the old man’s boxy station wagon, driving in silence, his father leaning forward as though to speed them through the evening to Meg’s house on the other side of the Bluff. It was a ramshackle place, with plenty of small pens and shelters, from when Gavin had rescued orphaned, injured or mistreated animals. The animals were long gone and the garden looked untamed, the spring growth getting away from Meg and Eve. The gravelled turning circle glowed white in the moonlight and the headlights flashed on the lenses of three cars: Meg’s Holden, which was in the carport, a police car and an anonymous white Falcon.
Challis braked and switched off the engine. His father fumbled with the door catch, dropping his cane between his seat and the door. ‘Let me help you, Dad.’
Before he could do that, Meg was there, opening the door. ‘Dad, you shouldn’t have come out.’ She glanced reprovingly at Challis across the roof of the car as if to say, Are you trying to hasten his death? Challis shrugged.
They went into the house, to the shabby but homely sitting room, where three men waited. All three stood politely, the local man, Sergeant Wurfel, saying, ‘Hello, Mr Challis.’
Challis’s father gestured impatiently and turned to the other men, who were hard and suited, but weary looking, aged in their forties. Challis recognised the type: they were dedicated, hard working, cynical and exhausted. They weren’t about to take anything at face value. They also knew that you start looking close to home when it’s a homicide.
They stepped forward expressionlessly and shook hands with Challis and his father, announcing their names as Stormare and Nixon.
Stormare was dark-haired, Nixon carroty and pale. Challis needed to get something out of the way immediately. ‘Did my sister tell you that I’m-‘
‘An inspector in the Victoria Police? Sergeant Wurfel told us,’ Stormare said.
‘May I ask what you have?’
They gave him their flat looks. Nixon jerked his head. ‘Let’s talk in the kitchen.’ He glanced at Wurfel. ‘You stay here.’
Wurfel flushed but nodded.
Challis followed them into the kitchen. Here the three men stood tensely for a moment before sitting, mutually untrusting, around the little table. Cooking odours lingered: a garlicky sauce, guessed Challis.
‘According to Sergeant Wurfel, you’ve been asking questions about your brother-in-law.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s my brother-in-law,’ said Challis with some heat. ‘My father is dying, my sister and my niece haven’t been able to get on with their lives because they didn’t know if Gavin was alive or dead. Wouldn’t you want answers?’
He wasn’t reaching them. He knew he wouldn’t. Like them, he always treated these situations with an unimpressed mind.
‘We don’t want you meddling in this.’
‘At least tell me copper to copper about the body.’
Nixon shrugged. ‘Fair enough. It was found in a garbage bag, which slowed decomposition. Not a pretty sight. Pretty much a soupy sludge.’
Challis nodded. He knew exactly what the body would have looked like. ‘What forensics do you have?’
‘We’ll try to get prints off the bag, but don’t hold your breath,’ Stormare said.
‘We’ve sifted the soil,’ said Nixon. ‘Nothing.’
They stared at him. ‘That’s all we can tell you.’
‘What did the autopsy reveal?’
‘We’re not at liberty to say.’
‘But he was shot. My sister told me he’d been shot in the head.’
‘We can confirm that, yes.’
Both men were watching him almost challengingly, as if to say: We know our job, pal.
‘If there’s any way I can help…’ said Challis.
‘You can’t,’ said Nixon flatly.
‘My sister didn’t do it,’ Challis said. ‘Nor did my father.’
They gave their empty smiles and said nothing. They all returned to the sitting room, where Wurfel sat awkwardly on a stiff-backed chair and Meg and her father shared a sofa, holding hands. Meg looked washed out. The old man looked mulish. ‘Dad,’ she said warningly.
He shook her off. ‘So it’s not suicide.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Stormare said indifferently.
The old man smarted at his tone. ‘Gavin made enemies. He wasn’t himself at the end.’
‘Is that so?’
