Challis - 03 - Snapshot by Garry Disher Page B
Authors: Garry Disher
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Police, australia, Police Procedural, Large Type Books, Melbourne Region (Vic.), Destry; Ellen (Fictitious Character), Challis; Hal (Fictitious Character)
Ads: Link
Great body.
Suddenly the elements of his
personality, fractured after hed shot dead that farmer, were clashing inside
him. Hed had counselling, and told himself he was a better person for it, but
before he could stop himself he felt a carnal tug deep inside and was touching
her smooth behind and pulling her towards him, and then he was crying
wretchedly.
Im sorry, Im sorry, he gasped.
She pulled away angrily. Whats got
into you?
Im sorry. Dont report me.
You deserve to be reported.
I know, Im sorry, I feel
all...all...
She folded her arms and said, with
vicious reasonableness, Yeah, I can see how that would work. Give me a quick
grope, and if I object, you can blame it on stress. She unfolded her arms. Youre
pathetic, John.
Pam, Im sorry, I dont know what
got into me. His hands pressed against his cheeks. Ive stuffed up big time,
havent I?
The look she gave him then was weary
and disgusted, but not angry or vengeful. You came back to work too soon, she
said.
Mate, I was going stir crazy at
home.
If you touch me again, Ill flatten
you, and then Ill report you.
I know, I know. Im really sorry.
He made an effort and said, without looking at her thighs, smooth in their lycra
sheaths: Wherere you going?
Training.
For what?
Triathlon.
When?
January.
Thats six months away.
Exactly.
The new Tankard struggled, finally
remembering that shed been in a bad car smash at her last station, so maybe
she was trying to get fit again.
What about you? she said, more out
of politeness than actual interest.
Tankard said shyly, Im coaching
footy this season.
Pam went slackjawed. Youre joking.
Nope.
Good for you.
Good for me, good for the kids, Tankard
thought. He was a copper, so that gave him some clout to begin with, but he was
trying to be more than copper and footy coach. Like hed intervened in this
dispute between the club and the Fiddlers Creek pub. Some of the guys would get
legless after training or a game on a Saturday and walk across the road from
the clubrooms to the pub, where theyd get even more loaded, and brawl, swear,
trash the bar or the mens room, reverse into patrons cars on the way home. It
had got so bad, the pub withdrew sponsorship from the team and banned club
members from drinking there. John Tankard had a quiet word with the pub
management, and then with the players, and now everything was sweet again.
Well, gotta run, he said. See ya.
She shrugged and walked to her car.
He got into his old station wagonchosen because he could cart a lot of kids
and gear around in itand drove to the clubhouse, where he got kitted out
before running a few gasping laps of the oval to warm up. Soon the kids were
arriving, some straight from school, others driven by their parents, a few
dropped by their girlfriends. And Andy Asche; that was a change. Half the time
the guy failed to turn up. Tankard waited until they were all kitted out then
called them to run a few laps of the oval.
* * * *
Nathan
Gent had spent all day smoking joints and sinking cans of Melbourne Bitter, but
his anxiety wouldnt go away. Yeah, thered been a heavy fog this morning, and
no cars about, only that fucking taxi, but had the driver seen anything? Would
he come forward when the shooting hit the TV news and tomorrows newspapers?
Nathan had been paid, and he
intended to stay clear of Vyner, but hed crossed a divide this morning.
Accomplice to a murder. Plus the kid had seen him. That little face, maybe six
years old, sees her mum shot down in cold blood.
Nathan wanted to go, Whoa! Stop the
world, I want to get off. But hed crossed the divide. He was no longer his
old self, a simple sort of bloke, likes to sink a few beers at the pub, watch
the footy, see if he can use his missing finger to pull a chick at the Krypton
Klub in Frankston. Choof on a bit of weed occasionally.
Three things gnawing at him: murder,
the look on the kids face, the car. Particularly the car. No worries, hed
assured Vyner, its stolen,
Suddenly the elements of his
personality, fractured after hed shot dead that farmer, were clashing inside
him. Hed had counselling, and told himself he was a better person for it, but
before he could stop himself he felt a carnal tug deep inside and was touching
her smooth behind and pulling her towards him, and then he was crying
wretchedly.
Im sorry, Im sorry, he gasped.
She pulled away angrily. Whats got
into you?
Im sorry. Dont report me.
You deserve to be reported.
I know, Im sorry, I feel
all...all...
She folded her arms and said, with
vicious reasonableness, Yeah, I can see how that would work. Give me a quick
grope, and if I object, you can blame it on stress. She unfolded her arms. Youre
pathetic, John.
Pam, Im sorry, I dont know what
got into me. His hands pressed against his cheeks. Ive stuffed up big time,
havent I?
The look she gave him then was weary
and disgusted, but not angry or vengeful. You came back to work too soon, she
said.
Mate, I was going stir crazy at
home.
If you touch me again, Ill flatten
you, and then Ill report you.
I know, I know. Im really sorry.
He made an effort and said, without looking at her thighs, smooth in their lycra
sheaths: Wherere you going?
Training.
For what?
Triathlon.
When?
January.
Thats six months away.
Exactly.
The new Tankard struggled, finally
remembering that shed been in a bad car smash at her last station, so maybe
she was trying to get fit again.
What about you? she said, more out
of politeness than actual interest.
Tankard said shyly, Im coaching
footy this season.
Pam went slackjawed. Youre joking.
Nope.
Good for you.
Good for me, good for the kids, Tankard
thought. He was a copper, so that gave him some clout to begin with, but he was
trying to be more than copper and footy coach. Like hed intervened in this
dispute between the club and the Fiddlers Creek pub. Some of the guys would get
legless after training or a game on a Saturday and walk across the road from
the clubrooms to the pub, where theyd get even more loaded, and brawl, swear,
trash the bar or the mens room, reverse into patrons cars on the way home. It
had got so bad, the pub withdrew sponsorship from the team and banned club
members from drinking there. John Tankard had a quiet word with the pub
management, and then with the players, and now everything was sweet again.
Well, gotta run, he said. See ya.
She shrugged and walked to her car.
He got into his old station wagonchosen because he could cart a lot of kids
and gear around in itand drove to the clubhouse, where he got kitted out
before running a few gasping laps of the oval to warm up. Soon the kids were
arriving, some straight from school, others driven by their parents, a few
dropped by their girlfriends. And Andy Asche; that was a change. Half the time
the guy failed to turn up. Tankard waited until they were all kitted out then
called them to run a few laps of the oval.
* * * *
Nathan
Gent had spent all day smoking joints and sinking cans of Melbourne Bitter, but
his anxiety wouldnt go away. Yeah, thered been a heavy fog this morning, and
no cars about, only that fucking taxi, but had the driver seen anything? Would
he come forward when the shooting hit the TV news and tomorrows newspapers?
Nathan had been paid, and he
intended to stay clear of Vyner, but hed crossed a divide this morning.
Accomplice to a murder. Plus the kid had seen him. That little face, maybe six
years old, sees her mum shot down in cold blood.
Nathan wanted to go, Whoa! Stop the
world, I want to get off. But hed crossed the divide. He was no longer his
old self, a simple sort of bloke, likes to sink a few beers at the pub, watch
the footy, see if he can use his missing finger to pull a chick at the Krypton
Klub in Frankston. Choof on a bit of weed occasionally.
Three things gnawing at him: murder,
the look on the kids face, the car. Particularly the car. No worries, hed
assured Vyner, its stolen,
Similar Books
