Marion
Something.
Marion Nunn, the manager said.
Tankard laughed. Marion Nunn? Every
policemans friend. Plus being a lawyer, he said, leaning his face close to
Pams, she deals in real estate. Hence the pictures. Live and learn,
Pammy. Youll run into the lovely Mrs Nunn sooner or later.
Pam pushed the photographs away. I
already have.
* * * *
Ellen
Destry fielded phone calls from journalists and worked on the sex offenders
file again. Shed left it too long; it was clear that Lance Ledwich deserved a
closer look. She picked up the phone. Shed try his employer first, then his
home number.
By the time Sutton had returned to
the station, she was ready to roll. She had the CIB Falcon waiting, a forensic
technician in the back seat. Dont get too comfortable, Scobie. Youre coming
with me.
Ledwich lived on a new estate near
the racecourse on the northern edge of Waterloo, and they came to his house
along a narrow court, creeping over speedbumps to get to it. The area depressed
Ellen. A stained pine fence and a metre of air were all that separated the
houses from one another on this estate. There were no trees to speak of. The
nature strips looked raw, still to recover from trench-digging equipment and
the summers dryness. There was a steel lockup garage at the end of Ledwichs
driveway, the door closed. A well-kept Volvo station wagon was parked in front
of the garage, near a ragged patch of oil drips. The forensic technician went
immediately for the Volvo.
As Ellen and Sutton approached the
front door, a man slipped out of the metal side door of the garage and
padlocked it hurriedly before coming toward them, wiping his palms on his
trousers. Ellen recognised him from the photograph in his file.
Mr Ledwich? Were
You dont have to tell me who you
are, Ledwich said.
Dont we?
There was something oily about
Ledwich. Oily hair, an air of surreptitious oozing. You bastards ever going to
leave me alone?
That depends, Lance, Sutton said.
Ledwich stared angrily at the
forensic technician, who was taking photographs of the Volvos tyres. Whats
that arsehole doing?
Why dont we come inside, Lance?
Ellen said, moving to usher Ledwich to the front door.
Ledwich twisted away from her. Whatever
it is, we do it out here. I dont want the wife
Fair enough, Lance. I can understand
that. Why dont we move over here, let the technician do his job.
They took Ledwich to the CIB Falcon.
Ellen sat in the drivers seat, Ledwich beside her, Sutton in the rear. Youre
all the fucking same, Ledwich said. A bloke goes straight, and you lean on
him, hoping hell fuck up so you can put him away again.
Are you going straight, Lance?
Im a storeman.
Irregular hours, some night shift
work, right?
So what? Whats it to do with you?
That other business, that was years ago.
Not that long ago, Sutton said.
Ellen leaned confidingly toward
Ledwich. About your Volvo, Lance.
His eyes shifted. What about it?
Nice set of wheels, Sutton
remarked.
Ledwich was obliged to swivel his
head, from Ellen and then around to Sutton and back again. I look after it,
yeah.
How did you afford to buy it,
Lance? Ellen said.
Christ, its twelve years old. Its
not worth all that much.
How long have you owned it?
Few years.
Why a Volvo? Sutton asked. Why
not a Ford or a Holden, like everyone else?
Ellen leaned closer. Is it so
people will think youre an ordinary bloke, Lance, rather than a pervert?
He flushed. Its the wifes car,
all right?
How about tyres, Lance, between you
and the road. Youd want to fit pretty good ones, yeah?
Ledwich narrowed his eyes. I wouldnt
know what brand they are. Whats this about?
Do you own any other vehicles?
Ledwich looked away, out at the
forensic technician. Nup.
We can check with the Department of
Motor Vehicles.
Check all you like, Ledwich said.
He turned back to them. You going to tell me what this is about?
Youre well set up, arent you,
Lance? Roomy set of wheels, the freedom to move around
Something.
Marion Nunn, the manager said.
Tankard laughed. Marion Nunn? Every
policemans friend. Plus being a lawyer, he said, leaning his face close to
Pams, she deals in real estate. Hence the pictures. Live and learn,
Pammy. Youll run into the lovely Mrs Nunn sooner or later.
Pam pushed the photographs away. I
already have.
* * * *
Ellen
Destry fielded phone calls from journalists and worked on the sex offenders
file again. Shed left it too long; it was clear that Lance Ledwich deserved a
closer look. She picked up the phone. Shed try his employer first, then his
home number.
By the time Sutton had returned to
the station, she was ready to roll. She had the CIB Falcon waiting, a forensic
technician in the back seat. Dont get too comfortable, Scobie. Youre coming
with me.
Ledwich lived on a new estate near
the racecourse on the northern edge of Waterloo, and they came to his house
along a narrow court, creeping over speedbumps to get to it. The area depressed
Ellen. A stained pine fence and a metre of air were all that separated the
houses from one another on this estate. There were no trees to speak of. The
nature strips looked raw, still to recover from trench-digging equipment and
the summers dryness. There was a steel lockup garage at the end of Ledwichs
driveway, the door closed. A well-kept Volvo station wagon was parked in front
of the garage, near a ragged patch of oil drips. The forensic technician went
immediately for the Volvo.
As Ellen and Sutton approached the
front door, a man slipped out of the metal side door of the garage and
padlocked it hurriedly before coming toward them, wiping his palms on his
trousers. Ellen recognised him from the photograph in his file.
Mr Ledwich? Were
You dont have to tell me who you
are, Ledwich said.
Dont we?
There was something oily about
Ledwich. Oily hair, an air of surreptitious oozing. You bastards ever going to
leave me alone?
That depends, Lance, Sutton said.
Ledwich stared angrily at the
forensic technician, who was taking photographs of the Volvos tyres. Whats
that arsehole doing?
Why dont we come inside, Lance?
Ellen said, moving to usher Ledwich to the front door.
Ledwich twisted away from her. Whatever
it is, we do it out here. I dont want the wife
Fair enough, Lance. I can understand
that. Why dont we move over here, let the technician do his job.
They took Ledwich to the CIB Falcon.
Ellen sat in the drivers seat, Ledwich beside her, Sutton in the rear. Youre
all the fucking same, Ledwich said. A bloke goes straight, and you lean on
him, hoping hell fuck up so you can put him away again.
Are you going straight, Lance?
Im a storeman.
Irregular hours, some night shift
work, right?
So what? Whats it to do with you?
That other business, that was years ago.
Not that long ago, Sutton said.
Ellen leaned confidingly toward
Ledwich. About your Volvo, Lance.
His eyes shifted. What about it?
Nice set of wheels, Sutton
remarked.
Ledwich was obliged to swivel his
head, from Ellen and then around to Sutton and back again. I look after it,
yeah.
How did you afford to buy it,
Lance? Ellen said.
Christ, its twelve years old. Its
not worth all that much.
How long have you owned it?
Few years.
Why a Volvo? Sutton asked. Why
not a Ford or a Holden, like everyone else?
Ellen leaned closer. Is it so
people will think youre an ordinary bloke, Lance, rather than a pervert?
He flushed. Its the wifes car,
all right?
How about tyres, Lance, between you
and the road. Youd want to fit pretty good ones, yeah?
Ledwich narrowed his eyes. I wouldnt
know what brand they are. Whats this about?
Do you own any other vehicles?
Ledwich looked away, out at the
forensic technician. Nup.
We can check with the Department of
Motor Vehicles.
Check all you like, Ledwich said.
He turned back to them. You going to tell me what this is about?
Youre well set up, arent you,
Lance? Roomy set of wheels, the freedom to move around
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