‘They showed me the tape, you can’t even tell it was me.’
Her eyes were red, she was trembling, sweat circles under her arms, dampness at her neck. Hirsch said, ‘Would you like a beer? It’s beer weather.’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘Beer. Juice, tea, coffee...’
She actually stamped her slender foot. ‘Bob Reid died because of you.’
‘Bob Reid died because he shot himself in the head.’
Perhaps no one had spoken to her frankly yet. She put her hands across her stomach as if he’d hit her. ‘Because his life was ruined.’
‘He ruined his own life. He let Quine corrupt him, and when he got found out, he couldn’t cope with the strain.’
‘He only got found out because of you.’
‘Listen to yourself, Jenny. Are you saying it would have been okay for him to go on stealing and lying? Corrupting others? Internal Investigations knew all about him before they spoke to me.’
‘You’re lying.’ She ran out.
He didn’t follow her. In her departing words was what his life would always be. What people would always believe.
~ * ~
25
COULTER, THE CIRCUIT magistrate, rotated through the district every couple of weeks and at noon on a Friday in mid-November, a day dry and dusty, building in heat, Hirsch headed down Barrier Highway for the Venn drink-driving case. On the outskirts of Redruth he noticed the first of several posters on power poles and crumbling walls:
Police Methods in Redruth, Voice Your Concerns
and a date in December. He was surprised: they must be going up faster than Nicholson and Andrewartha could rip them down.
Venn and his wife were waiting on the steps, together with a man Hirsch recognised as Ray Latimer’s lawyer. He should have walked right on by, he knew it. But he got his phone out, thumbed the camera icon and made straight for the little group, snapping as he went.
Stopping on the step below them—at a disadvantage, psychologically—he said, ‘I repeat my warning, Mrs Venn: if you persist in claiming you were the driver, I’ll arrest you for perjury.’
The Venns were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, well dressed, people for whom nothing went wrong. Jessica Venn took a pace towards Hirsch on thin, stabbing heels, the tendons flexing in her toned legs. ‘You jumped up little—’
The lawyer touched her sleeve. ‘Jess...’
‘Well he is.’
Now the lawyer fixed on Hirsch, his eyes flat. ‘Was that a threat I heard, Constable Hirschhausen? Directed at my client? As though I, an officer of the court, were invisible?’
‘Perjury is perjury,’ Hirsch said. He stuck out his hand, not sure if the man would shake with him. ‘And you are?’
The lawyer was obliged to hunch over, reach down. ‘Ian Logan.’
The grip was firm, almost a test, and Hirsch took stock. They were of an age, the men who ran Redruth, he decided. Early- to midforties, confident, smooth, full of secret knowledge. This one wore a costly grey suit, stiff white cotton shirt and paisley tie. Paisley was coming back? No one had told Hirsch. A very clean man, darkhaired, buffed to a shine. Hirsch glanced down at the slender hand: a centimetre of white cuff, a hint of neat, black, expensive wrist hairs curling there.
‘Logan,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your ads in the
Weekly
.’ Wills, Trusts, Deeds, Conveyancing, Family Law, and a cheesy head-and-shoulders of the man himself.
He retrieved his hand. ‘Look, I don’t know what your clients have told you but—’
‘We’ll thrash that out before the magistrate, shall we?’ Logan said. He nodded at Hirsch’s phone. ‘What have you got there, pictures of the crime?’
He chortled. He was fully alert, never still, taking in the passing vehicles and pedestrians, knowing the secret business of the town. Then he went still, staring across the street. His lips moved, a silent, ‘Oh, fuck.’ He ushered the Venns ahead of him into the building.
Curious, Hirsch turned around. A young woman with a rope of blonde hair was parting the curtain beads at the entrance to the café fifty metres down the road. She stepped through, the beads briefly disturbed in her wake.
Then the court stenographer and general dogsbody stuck her head out to call Hirsch and he went in.
~ * ~
‘We meet again, Constable
Hirschhausen,’ the magistrate said.
What can you say to that? Hirsch nodded, said ‘Mr Coulter,’ and glanced around the courtroom. No other cases were listed, but Kropp was there. No one else.
In the end, Hirsch had filed two charges, driving under the influence and giving a false statement to police. The damaged guardrail was a matter for the roads department; he’d sent them the details. Now, as Coulter announced the charges, Hirsch glanced at Kropp uneasily. Kropp had seemed pissed off with Coulter and Logan the last time they had been in this courtroom, and seemed so now.
Coulter was speaking. ‘Mr Logan, your client has elected to contest these charges in court rather than pay the relevant fines and lose demerit points?’
‘That’s so, your honour.’
‘Very well. Constable Hirschhausen?’
Hirsch, with another glance at Kropp, gave his account of the arrest. He turned to Logan, expecting questions, but Coulter called Venn to the stand.
Venn, duly sworn, winked at his wife and grinned at his lawyer and explained that Hirsch was mistaken, it had been his wife at the wheel.
‘I’d had a couple of drinks, your honour, and thought it best not to drive and risk endangering other lives.’
‘Drinks?’ said Coulter. ‘This was the middle of the day.’
His tone sounded wrong to Hirsch. It wasn’t judicial indignation. It sounded staged, as if he’d practised his lines.
Venn said, ‘We had successfully negotiated a sale, your honour. Mrs Elizabeth Jennings. You might recall she was widowed tragically two years ago and in the depressed real estate climate had been unable to sell her property. Until now.’
‘Of course. Fine woman,’ Coulter said. ‘Mr Logan?’
‘If I may, your honour, I should like to present a sworn statement made by Mrs Jessica Venn, wife of the accused, in which she states that she, not her husband, was driving the car in question on the day and at the time and on the road in question.’
The magistrate flicked his comfortable fingers. Handed the statement, he read rapidly, then stared at Hirsch, hunched and pugnacious. ‘Constable? Is this statement a true account of events?’
‘I have yet to read it, your honour.’
Coulter glanced at Logan, who fished another copy from his briefcase and handed it to Hirsch.
First: date, time, location and background circumstances. Then: Mindful of his responsibilities, my husband elected not to drive and gave me the key. It was shortly after leaving Mrs Jennings’ property that I got into difficulties. Unused to the potholes, gravel surface, sharp bends and narrowness of the road, I inadvertently side-swiped a guardrail. Alarmed and upset, I pulled over as soon as it was safe to do so and attempted to gather my wits, whereupon Constable Hirschhausen appeared in his four-wheel-drive. I got out at once to apologise and explain and, I must confess, seek reassurance and comfort and understanding. Instead, Constable Hirschhausen berated my husband and myself, falsely accusing my husband of driving and me of swapping places with him in order that he might keep his licence and avoid a fine.
Witnessed by a notary public in Clare.
‘Your response, Constable Hirschhausen?’
Hirsch stood. ‘Your honour, at the conclusion of this session it is my intention to arrest Mrs Venn for perjury, and may I state that further charges against Mrs Venn, and her husband, may be lodged at a later date.’
He sat.
‘Your honour, really,’ Logan said, getting wearily to his feet. ‘If it pleases the court, Constable Hirschhausen made threats to this effect on the steps of the courthouse a few minutes prior to the commencement of today’s session. The threats were directed at my clients in my presence and there was no mistaking Constable Hirschhausen’s intent. In fact, my clients and I felt most intimidated by the constable’s words and manner.’
Coulter swung his head, doing pretty convincing outrage. ‘Is this true, Constable Hirschhausen? Did you threaten Mr Logan and his clients?’
‘Your honour, Mr and Mrs Venn are making a mockery of this court. They—’
‘You attempted to influence a witness so that she might alter her evidence before the court?’
‘I attempted to help her avoid facing a serious—’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ the magistrate said with a little smack of his gavel. ‘I find that Mr Venn does not have a case to answer and is free to go. As for your conduct, Constable Hirschhausen, I’m inclined to notify Superintendent Spurling.’
~ * ~
There was a bit of gleeful
backslapping on the steps outside the courthouse. Hirsch looked on gloomily, the sun warm but unrestorative. Then the steps cleared; cars whisked the Venns and Logan away. His day shot, Hirsch headed down the steps. He was brought to a halt by Kropp growling in his ear: ‘Tell me they’re wrong, Constable. You did not threaten to arrest the Venn woman for perjury.’
Hirsch paused where he was, but decided he’d feel safer on the footpath than mount the steps again. ‘Not wrong, Sarge.’
Kropp joined him and side by side they surveyed the town, which was doing nothing just then. The silence stretched; the bollocking didn’t come. All was peace and silence and the sun beat down. Presently Kropp said, ‘Jenny Dee.’
‘Sarge?’
‘She tried to do the dirty on you?’
‘Apparently.’
‘I had nothing to do with that.’
‘Thought never crossed my mind,’ Hirsch said. He didn’t mention the hundred-dollar note on the floor of the file room. But this was the warmest Kropp had ever been with him, and he wondered how far to trust it.
They stood there. Kropp said, ‘Don’t worry about Spurling. I’ll have a word.’
Hirsch did worry. He hadn’t passed on any information about Kropp and the others. Didn’t really want to, despite the fact that Spurling was the closest thing he had to a source of support. And now here was Kropp offering to put in a good word. What a confusing bloody mess. ‘It’s okay, Sarge. I’ll wear it.’
‘Suit yourself.’
A farm truck trundled through the town, hauling hay. Presently, Hirsch sneezed, and then the woman with the swinging ponytail emerged from the café, crossed the street and approached the two men. She lifted a hand to Kropp. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Linda.’
They regarded each other. Kropp said, ‘You wouldn’t be stalking your husband by any chance.’
She gave him the ghastly, fixated grin of a stalker. ‘Heaven forbid.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
This was interesting. Hirsch looked on.
‘Linda, meet Constable Hirschhausen. Constable, meet the ex-Mrs Ian Logan.’
A quick flash, a brief hint of fire. ‘I do have an independent identity, Sergeant Kropp.’
‘Of course. Forgive me.’
‘I’ll forgive you when you take Ian’s guns away.’
‘The court lifted the order, Linda, we had no choice.’
She snorted. ‘You mean
Coulter
lifted the order.’
Kropp said nothing; Hirsch took it as assent.
‘You were Coultered,’ she said with a sunny smile. ‘Like everyone else.’
‘Thanks, Linda.’
‘You’re welcome. Well, I’ll be off. Nice seeing you, Sergeant.’
‘A hundred metres, Linda.’
The ex-Mrs Logan waved vaguely at the café. ‘I was no closer than a hundred and twenty.’
‘Excellent.’
When she was gone, Hirsch put his head on one side. ‘What was that all about?’
‘Old history. Logan got a restraining order put on her.’
‘Why?’
Kropp in his brutal solid way turned slowly to face Hirsch, a fascinating contradiction playing across his face. Hirsch—the dog, the maggot—was also a fellow member who’d just been stitched up by Coulter and Logan.
Hirsch waited. Kropp, gathering himself, there on the footpath, under the early afternoon sun, said, ‘Ian Logan liked to thump his wife. Just now and again, you know. Liked to forge her signature, too—banking matters, real estate contracts. Linda reported it, and when we heard he had this violent streak, we confiscated his guns. Shotgun, couple of hunting rifles. Anyway, she got screwed on the divorce and no action was taken on the issue of questionable documents and so he thought it was okay to ask for his guns back. Filled out the forms, asked to be deemed, quote, “a non-prohibited person in relation to a firearms application”. Coulter approved it. Linda went ballistic and started hassling everybody.’
‘They’re friends, Coulter and Logan?’
‘I’ll tell you what else about Coulter,’ Kropp said, as if Hirsch hadn’t spoken. ‘Last year we went into bat for a wife and kids who were being bashed pretty regularly by the husband. She turns up to court on time, we turn up on time, Coulter doesn’t. Apparently he turned up in Rothwell. Redruth, Rothwell, yeah, easy to confuse the two—if you were drunk or didn’t give a damn. So Coulter races back here all pissed off, blaming everyone but himself, and refuses to grant an intervention order or let the woman read her victim impact statement. A week later, her husband hospitalises her.’