Challis - 03 - Snapshot Read Free Page B

chill in the air last night, which had come into contact with sea
water still warm from a mild autumn, and the result was this dense, transfiguring
fog. He knew from experience that it would sit over the Peninsula for hours, a
hazard to shipping, school buses, taxis and commuters. And a hazard to the
police. Challiss job was homicide but he pitied the traffic cops today.
Maniacs passed him at over 100 kmh, before being swallowed up by the fog;
irritated with him, the sedate driver in his old Triumph. Old, lacking in
compression and the heater didnt work.

    Soon he reached a stretch of open
land beside a mangrove belt, and finally the tyre distributors, petrol stations
and used-car yards that marked the outskirts of Waterloo. New, cheap houses,
packed tightly together, crouched miserably in the fog. There was high
unemployment on the new estates; empty shops in High Street; problems for the social
workers. Yet on a low hill overlooking the town was a gated estate of
million-dollar houses with views over Westernport Bay.

    Waterloo was the largest town on
this side of the Peninsula, hemmed in between farmland along one flank and
mangrove swamps and the Bay on the other. Three supermarkets, four banks, a
secondary college and a couple of state and Catholic primary schools, some
light industry, a fuel refinery across from the yacht club, a library, a public
swimming pool, a handful of pubs, four $2 shops, several empty shopfronts. A
struggling town to be sure, but growing, and less than an hour and a quarter
from Melbourne.

    Challis slowed for a roundabout, and
then headed down High Street to the shore, where he passed the swimming centre
and the yacht club on his way to the boardwalk, which wound through the
mangrove flats. Here he parked, got out and walked for an hour, his footsteps
muted and hollow on the treated pine boards. Beneath him the tidal waters ran,
and once or twice there was a rush of air and a hurried warning bell as a
cyclist flashed past him, too fast for such a narrow pathway in such struggling
grey light.

    Seven-thirty. He stopped to watch a
black swan and thought about his dead wife. Shed never understood his need to
wake early and walk, or his need to walk alone. Maybe the rot had set in
because of that essential difference between them. His solitary walks focused
him: he solved problems then, plotted strategies, drafted reports, did his best
loving and hating. Other peoplelike his wifewanted to chat or drink in their
surroundings when they walked, but Challis walked to think, get his blood
moving and look inwards for answers.

    Strange the way he kept referring to
her in his mind. Strange the way she continued to be the person to whom he
presented arguments and information, as if she still mattered more than anyone
else, as if he still hoped to shine in her eyes, as if she hadnt tried to kill
him and her own death hadnt interrupted everything.

    Seven forty-five. He swung away from
the swan, returned to his car and drove back to High Street. Here the early
birds in the bakery, the cafe and the newsagency were opening their doors,
sweeping the footpath, seeding their cash registers. He entered Cafe Laconic,
bought takeaway coffee and a croissant, and consumed them in his car, watching
and waiting.

    At five minutes to eight, Lowry
appeared, walking from the carpark behind the strip of shops. The man wore
jeans, a parka and a woollen cap, a tall, thick-bodied guy who liked to show a
lot of teeth when he talked. Challis watched him fish for keys and open the
door to his shop. Both the windows and the door were plastered with
advertisements for mobile phones and phone plans. Waterloo Mobile World the
shop was called.

    Challis gave Lowry a couple of
minutes and then entered, setting off a buzzer. We dont open until... Lowry
began, then something stopped him, some stillness and focus in Challis. What
do you want?

    Another talk, Mr Lowry, Challis
said.

    Raymond Lowry showed indignation and
bafflement with his