Whispering Death by Garry Disher Page A

distinguishing features of antique sterling silver.
    Some of Grace’s magazine clippings went back months, even years. Some she might never act on; a clipping was rarely enough, in itself, to give her all the information she needed. As for the Lascar story, she’d clipped it out two years ago, and was only moving now because she’d spotted another Lascar story: according to the latest Who Weekly , the Lascars were in Honolulu for the marriage of their daughter to a minor American actor, and would be away for three weeks.
    As afternoon faded that Sunday, Grace walked along the beach at Breamlea and planned the hit on Lascar. She was alone, and the waters raced towards her flank and the wind howled hard against her back. She reversed direction. Now the wind was gritty, stinging her face and hands. The seabirds fought it, wheeling like paper scraps. She altered course to avoid a dead seal, then veered inland, up and down a canyon in the dunes, finally emerging near the general store at the entrance to the caravan park before walking back along the road towards her house. Drive to South Australia on Wednesday, she thought, hire a car in Murray Bridge on Thursday, clean out the Lascars that night, return to Victoria early Friday morning. Fence some of the gear to Steve Finch around lunchtime, stow the best in her safe-deposit box in Waterloo that same afternoon.
    And, as she walked, Ian Galt’s harsh voice scraped across her mind: ‘Always know that you can walk away from a job, even if you’ve invested a lot of time and money in setting it up.’
    Rules, rules…

17
    Eight a.m. Monday, Challis checking his pigeonhole for mail. A shift was going off duty, another coming on, so the main corridor was hectic, uniformed and plainclothed police and civilian staff shouldering in and out of doors, balancing files, equipment belts, canteen tea and coffee. Since Friday he’d received several memos and a handful of flyers, most of which he tossed into the recycle bin before heading upstairs. An officer from the sex crimes squad was due, but she was coming down from the city and Challis had no idea when she’d arrive.
    As always, he brewed coffee in the tea room, making enough for Scobie Sutton and Pam Murphy, who were not in yet. After that he sat, thinking, in his corner office.
    The Triumph had been difficult to start that morning, and the idea of selling had grown firmer in his mind. There was bound to be a Triumph nut somewhere in Australia, willing to fork out for an elderly TR4—but the car was probably worth very little, and if, like the Niekirks, he wasn’t allowed to sell his plane, he’d never be able to afford a new car.
    Challis sipped his coffee and swivelled in his chair, using his feet on the open bottom drawer of his desk as leverage. The outer offices were quiet. He checked his watch, idled a while, then jerked forward and typed ‘Trading Post’ into Google, waited five years for the site to load, and made an Australia-wide search of TR4 prices.
    Christ. One car in the whole country, fully restored, low mileage on a new motor, new everything, asking price $35,000. Surely his old bomb would fetch at least twenty?
    He continued to idle, listening to voices and footsteps. Pam Murphy arrived, stuck her head around his door, grinned and chatted. They never ran their tongues for long. She disappeared into the tea room, and then Sutton was knocking, saying, ‘Someone from sex crimes at the front desk.’
    â€˜Thanks. You and Murph wait in the briefing room.’
    Challis headed downstairs, pausing for a moment to gauge the visitor on the other side of the glass before he stepped through to the foyer. He saw a young woman with long black hair and stylish black-rimmed glasses, dressed in a cotton jacket over tight jeans and a T-shirt. She also wore the fatigue of long hours, but that vanished when Challis was buzzed through. She seemed to spark with energy, sticking