Challis - 05 - Blood Moon (26 page)

Then one word registered. Revenge?
she said, struggling to pay attention.

Uh huh. He doped her with GHB at
last years Schoolies Week, raped her, and forgot all about it.
She
didnt
forget all about it. She recognised him. I even heard her accuse him: Raped
anyone lately, Josh? He probably wondered what she was talking about.

Sorry, who are we talking about?

Irritation from Murphy, very faint. Caz
Moon, Sarge. Manages the surf shop in High Street.

Got you.

Ellen couldnt afford to zone out.
She gripped the steering wheel as if that might help her to concentrate. Youre
saying she got him back by doping him and leaving him naked on the beach with
lipsticked balls? The image struck her properly then, and she laughed.

Pam laughed.

Did he name her?

No.

So you cant prove any of this. You
havent got enough to question her, let alone arrest her.

Not her, Sarge,
him.
I want
to put him away. That sexual assault last Saturday nightIm betting it was
down to him.

They sat quietly as the road unwound
through farmland and then between an industrial park and a new housing estate
on the outskirts of Frankston. Ellen slowed: a list of the parks tenants
listed Delaney Demolition, Patrick Delaney, prop. A minute later theyd
parked outside a nondescript building: prefabricated cement walls, aluminium
windows, shrubs struggling to survive in sunbaked bark chip garden beds. There
was a chain link fence behind the building, crammed with heavy trucks and
dozers, dump bins, and individual piles of recyclable doors, window frames,
bricks, baths, stoves, tiles, corrugated iron roofing sheets and fireplace
surrounds.

There was no receptionist, only
Delaney peering over half-lens spectacles at a keyboard, poking a key, checking
the monitor, and cursing. He looked up with relief. What can I do you for,
ladies?

He was solid, his rolled back
sleeves revealing decades of sun damage and a glimpse of skin as white as
ivory. He wore a check shirt and jeans, grey hair showing at his throat. His
job was to break things, and he looked competent to do it, but he also looked
genial and grandfatherly. The pages torn from calendars and stuck to the walls
were of fishing boats and racing cars. Ellen showed her ID and introduced Pam
Murphy.

Planning Easts infringement
officer was murdered late on Wednesday afternoon. We believe you encountered
her earlier that day.

Whoa, said Delaney, putting up his
hands. Then he frowned in concentration, casting his mind back. His face
cleared. That old joint down in Penzance Beach?

Yes.

She arrived just as we were
finishing. Spitting chips, but what could I do? I was hired to do a job. The
permit to demolish was valid.

Was she angry with you,
specifically?

I guess so. Because I was there, if
you know what I mean. But like I told her, I was hired to do a job, it was a
legitimate job, just as hers was a legitimate job. Youre saying shes dead?

Murdered.

The same day I saw her?

Yes, so I do have to ask you, Mr
Delaney, did you see her again?

Nup. We had another job to go to,
fibro farmhouse near Baxter. My boys are there now.

Pam spoke. She said, Fibro? So
theres asbestos in it?

Delaney regarded her calmly, a half
smile creasing the edge of his mouth. All legit. I have a permit to handle
asbestos and my guys are all suited up in bio-hazard gear, all right?

Ellen recognised Pams tactic, but
also recognised that it hadnt got them anywhere. Who hired you to demolish
the house in Penzance Beach?

Delaney cocked his head at her. The
guy who bought the site.

Name?

Hugh Ebeling.

How much notice did he give you?

He rang me the night before.

So a rush job.

Yes. He tried calling several
demolition firms, but no one could do the job there and then, theres so much
work on at the moment. Then he called me and got lucky. I had a spare crew and
a spare few hours between jobs.

Why the urgency, did he say?

Delaney shifted his massive form
uncomfortably. Said he had builders lined up to put in a cement slab before
Christmas.

You believed him?

Sure.

But?

Delaney coughed delicately. But the
planning lady, the one who got murdered, told me an application had been made
to preserve the existing building. I swear I didnt know that. As far as I
knew, the guy had a permit to demolish and there was no preservation order.

Ellen nodded. No ones blaming you,
she said.

It feels like it. I dont want no
one taking me to court.

There was no preservation order,
Ellen said. There was an application, thats all. Youre in the clear.

Legally,
in the clear, Pam butted in. Not
morally. That was a lovely old house.

Pam, Ellen said.

He doesnt even recognise me,
Sarge, Pam said. She fronted up to him. Do you, eh?

Delaney peered at her uncertainly.
His face cleared. You were there.

Ellen cut in. Do you think the man
who hired you knew that a protection order might be issued?

Wouldnt know, said Delaney. He looked
uncomfortable again. But the planning lady reckoned someone had tipped him off

She told you that?

Yes. She was that mad about it.

Did she say who?

Delaney shrugged. None of my
business. But it would have to be someone in the know, right?

Someone in the planning department?

No idea.

I need to see the job order, Ellen
said.

Delaney fished it out of a tray on
his desk. Ellen copied down Hugh Ebelings address and telephone numbers, and
returned to the car with Pam Murphy. She didnt say anything to Pam. What right
did she have to rebuke her? Pam had justice and a high moral sense on her side.
Pam wasnt a sneak thief.

Settling behind the wheel, Ellen
called Challis with an update. Next stop, Ebeling and his wife?

Yes. Collect me at the station and
well drive up together. Tell Pam to check on Carl Vernon and the residents
committee.

Will do.

She started the engine and eased the
lever into Drive. At that moment, Pams mobile phone rang. Ellen drove slowly
back to the freeway, half listening in on the conversation. Youre kidding,
Pam was saying. Uh huh.. .uh huh.. .But not the sexual assault? Damn... okay,
thanks.

She pocketed the phone and settled a
complicated gaze on Ellen. That was the lab.

And?

Id asked them to run Josh Brownlees
DNA, thinking Id get him on sexual assault...

Ellen gave her a crooked grin,
acknowledging the initiative. And?

No luck. Butand I guess youre
going to like thishe did leave that mucus trace on Lachlan Roes elbow.

Ellen felt lighter, some of the
badness leaking away. Then lets go and pick him up, she said, stopping the
car to call Challis with the change of plan.

* * * *

36

But
at the Sea Breeze Apartments they were told that Josh Brownlee had checked out.

After breakfast, the manager said,
desultorily watering a row of rosebushes at the rear of the building. He wore a
wife-beater singlet, tight shorts and a beer gut.

Damn, said Ellen.

Paid through till Sunday, too, the
manager said.

Pam, feeling nasty, said, If youd
care to give me the refund, Ill be sure he gets it.

The manager backed away agitatedly,
cigarette bobbing amid the bristles around his mouth. Cant do it.
Regulations.

Ellen fixed him with the lenses of
her dark glasses. Did he say where he was going?

Dunno. Home?

The motel building and grounds were
better tended than the manager. It was quiet here at the rear, cool, leafy the
air smelling of freshly watered garden beds. Seagulls called out, and on the
foreshore road at the front of the building a pair of joggers chuffed by but,
otherwise, this corner of the world was asleep. Ellen glanced at all the
curtained windows: schoolies inside, unlikely to stir before noon.

I have his home address, Pam said
as they returned to the car. Here on the street the sun was beating on glass
and metal, softening the tarry road.

Where?

Olivers Hill.

They drove off in the hot car, Ellen
steering along the foreshore and out onto the Frankston road while Pam searched
the street directory. Although Olivers Hill was part of the depressed bayside
suburb of Frankston, it was above it literally and sociologically, with big
houses that looked out over the bay and down on the struggle below. There was
no underemployment on Olivers Hill, no fast-food obesity or
here-today-and-gone-tomorrow kinds of commerce.

Should we call first?

Ellen shook her head. We dont want
him to run again. We also dont want the parents thinking about a lawyer before
we get there.

At Somerville she headed down
Eramosa Road to the freeway and then up and over a spine of hills to the Nepean
Highway, which skirted Olivers Hill. Pam directed her to an exit before the
road began its plummet into the main part of Frankston. As Ellen wound through
the hillside streets she found herself gazing keenly at the houses on either
side. Where had it come from, this sudden interest in where and how other
people lived?

Their destination was a 1960s brick
house on three levels to account for the steepness of the block. Nothing
redeemed it apart from its size and the vast blue haze or the bays curving
waters, which could be glimpsed between a pair of ghost gums. I dont see his
car, Pam said as they got out.

There was only a white Holden,
parked in a carport attached to the upper level of the house. No sign of Joshs
little boulevard racer in the driveway or on the street. They stepped through a
small gate and along a flagstone path to a solid wooden door with a small
triangle of gold glass set in it. Ellen couldnt work the place out. This was
the main entrance, but did it lead to the main living areas? In any other
house, this would be the back door. She rang the bell. A woman dressed in
paint-flecked sleeveless overalls and a singlet top opened the door. She took
one look at them and seemed to know. Is this about Josh?

There was paint over her hands, fine
dots of it on her face and in her hair. Yes.

She sagged briefly against the door.
Im Sue Brownlee. Youd better come in. My husbands here.

She took them along a corridor of
partly-open bedroom doors to a kind of landing arranged with sofas and a flat
screen TV, then down a flight of steps to a sitting room, which Ellen guessed
made up the middle level of the house. The air was dense and heavy with paint
odours. The man standing there was dressed in a fine suit, crisp white shirt, a
blue and gold tie. He looked as wretched and tense as his wife but came forward
decisively and stuck out his hand. Clive Brownlee. Sue called me at work. I
just got here.

All four of them were posed on a
nondescript carpet. Ellen looked inquiringly at the mans wife, who said, I
asked Clive to come home because Josh burst in all upset and then went out
again. I wasnt expecting him till Sunday. She paused. I was painting the
laundry. Its my day off.

Did he say where he was going?

He acted so upset, Sue Brownlee
said.

They were frozen there, the parents
apparently unable or unwilling to think clearly. Perhaps if we all had a cup
of tea? said Ellen gently.

Relieved, the Brownlees led Pam and
Ellen to the kitchen, which was like an annexe to the middle floor of the
house. They sat on stools on either side of a high bench. Clive Brownlee filled
the kettle, his wife rummaged for cups. The kitchen, like the other parts of
the house that Ellen had walked through, was faintly worn and out of date, and
she chided herself for assuming that Josh Brownlee came from a background like
Zara Selkirks. All they had in common was the Landseer School. Zara Selkirk
came from real money, the kind that was offhand, almost unthinking, while the
Brownlees, it seemed, spent most of theirs on school fees and the mortgage.
Theirs was the anxious, struggling face of the middle-class.

Did Josh say what he was upset
about? Pam said.

Sue Brownlees hand went to her
neck, her long, paint-flecked fingers stroking it. I asked what was wrong and
he grabbed my neck and shook me. He said: No ones paid enough. He scared me.

Did he say who hasnt paid, or what
they havent paid for?

The parents exchanged a glance. He
takes drugs, Clive Brownlee said finally. They affect his mood. He imagines
things. He can get quite violent sometimes.

His wife said tensely, Please, whats
he done?