And so first thing on Saturday morning they examined the list of items that had been removed from Adrian Wishart’s house: the home computer, shared by Wishart and his wife, letters, photograph albums, household files…
And four items grouped together as: Four (4) USB flash drives/ memory sticks.
‘I can’t risk adding a fifth to the list,’ said Challis. ‘Or crossing out the 4 and substituting a 5, without alerting the guy’s lawyer further down the track. It’s part of the formal log now.’
‘Sorry, Hal,’ Ellen said again.
‘We’ll work it out.’
They were in the CIU incident room, the first floor quiet. But not quiet downstairs: the station was always busy on Saturday mornings, with a steady stream of people reporting incidents from the previous night or needing a police officer to witness a statutory declaration. There was also Adrian Wishart, cooling his heels in an interview room-and not a happy boy.
‘Has anyone examined the flash drives yet?’
‘Scobie’s had a quick look. One contains digital images of houses and other buildings, including the house that was demolished, another job applications and different versions of Wishart’s CV, the third some articles on domestic architecture written by Wishart for architectural magazines. The fourth is new, still in its packaging.’
Ellen felt a tingle. ‘The paperwork doesn’t stipulate that it’s new, still in its packaging.’
‘True.’
‘So we do a switch.’
Challis raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Could work…’
‘Did Scobie report to you verbally about the details of the memory sticks? Or did he add a formal written note to the murder book?’
‘Verbally.’
‘Then we’re okay.’
Challis had brewed coffee in the tearoom. Grabbing Tim Tams from someone’s private stash, they headed downstairs to Interview Room 2, where Adrian Wishart was stewing with his lawyer. Challis had seen the lawyer around town. Her name was Hoyt and she operated from an office suite above a pharmacy on High Street, specialising in wills and property conveyancing. That didn’t make her ineffectual in criminal matters however, and she exploded when Challis and Ellen entered the room:
‘It’s unconscionable, keeping my client waiting like this. I should also point out that he’s already been interviewed and provided a full and open account of his movements the day his wife was murdered. He’s grieving, and treating him like this is prolonging the pain.’
She had to say all of that, while Challis and Ellen nodded pleasantly, and Challis followed up with an apology. ‘We’re terribly sorry, but some important new information has come to light and it needed processing.’
‘What information?’ demanded Hoyt.
She was a thin, raddled-looking smoker, the skin of her face pinched and grey, no nourishment on her bones. She also looked uncomfortably hot: the room was warm from too many bodies overnight and noxious smells lingered. It was partly why Challis had chosen it.
He turned to Wishart, who was wilting, his hair damp, face drawn, moist patches showing on his shirt. ‘You were tracking your wife’s movements.’
Wishart frowned. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
Challis revealed the TrackStick in a clear plastic evidence bag and stated the evidence number and a description for the tape. ‘This was found in your home and subsequently logged into evidence.’
Wishart looked hunted; his eyes darted; he swallowed. He’d hidden it in a secret place. If he challenged them on that, he’d also have to explain the hiding place and the reason for it. ‘So?’
‘A flash drive,’ said the lawyer. ‘So what? Is there blood on it?’
A weak crack and it annoyed Challis. ‘It’s a GPS device. Suspicious people like your client hide these devices in their spouse’s handbag or briefcase or glovebox, or in their teenage kid’s backpack, and it records the various locations visited during the day or night, and how much time was spent at each location. You simply plug it into your computer afterwards and up comes the information.’
‘So what?’ said Hoyt dismissively. ‘You can’t blame people for wanting peace of mind, especially parents of autistic or Down Syndrome children, or husbands whose wives spend a lot of time visiting remote locations and angry clients.’
Wishart gazed at her in appreciation, then swung his gaze to Challis. ‘That’s what I was doing,’ he said. ‘I was worried about my wife.’
Challis had expected this. ‘Did you track her movements on the day she was murdered?’
‘No, I was at my uncle Terry’s shop in the city. I told you that.’
Challis picked up the TrackStick. ‘You’ve been tracking your wife for weeks.’
Wishart shrugged. ‘So?’
‘Why didn’t you track her on Wednesday? Was it because you knew where she’d be and had already intended to kill her?’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘I think you were insanely jealous and protective of your wife. You needed to control and monitor everything she did.’
‘No.’
‘That’s why you used a tracking device. It wasn’t to protect her-after all, you could only read the findings after the event-but to know her every move, so that you could stalk her, anticipate her, challenge her, ambush her.’
‘No!’
Ellen had broken her Tim Tarn into nibble-sized portions. She wet a finger, transferred a flake of chocolate to her mouth. ‘Did she really have a lover, as you suggested the other day? Carl Vernon denies emphatically that he was her lover.’
‘I was mistaken. On reflection, all of her movements were innocent. Work related. But I was worried about her. People would threaten her.’
‘Tracking your own wife,’ said Ellen flatly. ‘A pretty sleazy thing to do, Ade, don’t you think?’
He flushed and Hoyt said, ‘It’s not a crime. That tracking device is not hard evidence. You’re fishing. You’re badgering my client. We’re finished here.’
They had to let him go.
Only Smith and Jones were in the incident room, hunched over a computer screen, plenty of nudge nudge, wink wink in their body language. Porn, thought Ellen. They made her feel immensely weary. They each gave a little jump, then Smith joggled the mouse, Jones returned to his desk.
Hal, at her side, seemed equally fed up. ‘Seen Scobie?’
Smith and Jones pantomimed bafflement and helpfulness. ‘Haven’t seen him all morning.’
‘We need his analysis of Ludmilla’s bank statements. We need to know if she shows up on CCTV cameras.’
This time it was a slow-dawning appreciation for the urgency and seriousness of the work. ‘We’ll let him know, boss.’
‘Pam?’
‘Haven’t seen her, boss,’ Smith and Jones said, some undercurrents in the way they said it.
The room was oppressive. Ellen tugged on Challis’s sleeve. ‘Let’s grab a bite to eat.’
They clattered down the stairs. In the canteen Challis said, ‘The TrackStick helps confirm our instincts about Adrian, but it doesn’t prove he killed his wife.’
Suddenly Ellen couldn’t look at him. Ever since last night a vague, unwelcome anxiety had been settling in her, and now it took shape. It wasn’t so much that she felt bad about stealing the TrackStick, or being found out, as that she thought less of her confessor. Not by much, hardly at all, but in a tiny corner of herself she was disappointed in Challis. Why didn’t he hate her? Why wasn’t he admonishing her, punishing her?
Maybe helping him nail Wishart would cure that. Her mouth very dry, her face probably revealing her wretchedness, she placed a hand on his slender forearm. ‘It comes down to his alibi. I vote we have another crack at the uncle.’
Challis was doing his long stare across vast distances. He blinked, recovered, and said, ‘You’re right. Could you do that? Deep background first. Really check him out.’