Nunn’s scepticism was almost palpable.
‘I badly underestimated him. I didn’t believe he was capable of lateral thinking.’
Before Beverley Nunn could press her agenda, Buckley said, ‘Well, as I said we can ask Ben Bovell about his plans and intentions if and when he’s fit for interview. However, from what you witnessed, am I correct in assuming that you have formed the opinion that the police were forced into a position where they had no choice but to open fire?’
‘Vision was poor. I knew what it was, and it looked like a gun to me. And Ben appeared intent on shooting Don.’
‘Senior Sergeant Collison?’
‘Yes.’
‘In other words, in circumstances forced upon them, the police used reasonable force?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything you want to add, that our questions haven’t covered?’
‘No.’
From the corner of his eye Buckley could see Nunn taking a breath to launch a new assault. But they had what they wanted. ‘Thank you, David. Interview concluded at …’ He gave the time and flipped the switch on the machine.
Beverley Nunn stood over David Edge like Xena the Warrior Princess. ‘We have the what, when, where and how, Mr Edge, but they’ve found more fucking weapons of mass destruction in Iraq than we have reasons why, here.’
‘If you get to know Ben, Sergeant Nunn, you might find his motives have an internal logic – emotional, psychological. But you need to take the time to get to know him. Have you got the time?’
Nunn glared down at him. He absorbed the heat without discomfort. They both knew there weren’t enough hours in a copper’s day.
‘Then you’ll have to take my word, for now.’
Nunn wasn’t going to let go yet. ‘He called out something – when he pulled his stunt – to you. Two words. What were they? Nile thought it was a name.’
‘There were a lot of people yelling a lot of things.’
‘Look …’ Nunn bridled.
‘Any change in his condition, do you know?’ asked Buckley stepping between them verbally.
‘I’m not in the loop. The last I heard, he was too weak to risk an operation.’ This shut everyone up.
When he was gone Nunn said, ‘Fucking cold prick.’
‘Seemed to warm to you.’
She gave him the finger. ‘Jeezus, Ian, you don’t buy this bullshit – an elaborate, convoluted suicide plot? Do me a favour.’
‘We’ve got what we need, Bev. Physical evidence and material witnesses all concur. Textbook. Let’s us off the hook.’ He shrugged. ‘You heard him, have you got the time?’
She looked up under a wintry brow. ‘I wonder what he promised the poor little bastard.’
Buckley popped the tape from the machine. ‘According to Collison – everything.’
8
Hazel Walker did experience a misgiving. It was when she was pouring the hot water into the teapot. But it was only a momentary misgiving, lasting from when the water splashed into the belly of the brown ceramic pot to when it lapped the bottom of the spout. And it was just a teensy misgiving. Well, if she thought about it, it was two misgivings really, one sort of plopped on top of the other like pancakes – or those drop scones Clarry liked. And, she supposed, if she thought even more about it, one was probably more of a little twinge of guilt than a true misgiving. Perhaps a guilty feeling could be a misgiving? She’d look it up in her Macquarie Dictionary when her visitor left. Anyway, the guilt was the bottom pancake; the misgiving was definitely the one on top.
The misgiving was about her visitor (in an indirect way so was the guilt). Her daughter-in-law and her niece were constantly warning her about the dangers of letting strangers, particularly strange men, into the house. Who’d want to jump her old bones? she’d scoffed, raising eyebrows. Jump her bones: she liked that phrase, she’d heard it on her favourite soap. She had tried, she really had, but old habits die hard. And here she was letting all manner of stranger cross her threshold. Of course some of them had been policemen and she didn’t think they would count. And Bron and Trish, they were lovely girls, and had her best interests at heart, but if they visited more often she wouldn’t be tempted.
The guilt, though, wasn’t about that. The guilt was about having so many visitors (and so much pleasure) because a very bad thing happened to someone else. Someone she liked a lot, who had been very kind to her.
The misgiving was about that. In particular, it concerned her present visitor. But it was as submerged as the bottom of the pot, before she finished pouring. Who’d want to jump her bones? Not a nice-looking young man like that, surely. And what did she have to steal? Her collection of salt and pepper shakers? Everyone said they must be very valuable, but she knew they weren’t – just sentimental frippery.
She slipped the crocheted cosy over the teapot – it was a cold day – and placed it on the tray with the cups and saucers, plates, sugar bowl, milk jug, Monte Carlos, Tim Tams and date scones. It made a fearful rattle as she lifted it and carried it down the draughty hall.
‘Hold on, I’ll give you a hand,’ came a voice from the lounge room.
‘No, no! You stay there and keep an eye on things,’ she cried over the clatter of the tea tray.
She put the tray on the low table between the couch and the widescreen television set, backed to her end of the couch and fell the last few centimetres into its plush cushions. She sighed deeply and smiled at her visitor.
‘Ooh, I think I got a little out of breath,’ she said. ‘Now, what’s happening?’
‘The one with the jaw …’ her visitor said, fingers spanning his lower face and pulling down.
‘Ridge.’
‘Ridge has been having a very long discussion with someone who might be his brother, his father-in-law or his uncle, perhaps all three.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hazel said, reaching for the remote. ‘I should have taped it.’
He placed his hand over hers, which she had to admit gave her a little fright (or was it a thrill?). ‘No, it’s alright, let’s watch.’
‘You don’t mind?’
He just smiled and gave his head a small shake. She pushed her spectacles onto the bridge of her nose with one finger and turned to the TV. They sat on the couch in silence until the ad break.
‘That was funny,’ said Hazel as she poured the tea. He looked at her and one eyebrow hooked a little higher. ‘What you said about Ridge.’ He smiled. ‘I know they’re silly. These serials. But I enjoy them.’
‘Many of the girls do too,’ he said as he took his cup.
‘Girls?’
‘Ladies, really, that I work with.’
‘They can watch these shows during the day?’ Hazel asked, a little intrigued. ‘Is it night work?’
‘A lot of it. Service industry. All go one minute, time on your hands the next.’
The ads finished and Hazel’s attention returned to the telly. The scene was a hospital room. The patient was a woman with strategically placed bruises and wounds decorating her pretty face. A handsome man with a cute child in his arms and another pretty woman were at the bedside. Everyone in the room took turns to say deep and meaningful things very slowly with long pauses between. When the man