Testing, testing, one two three, the quick brown fox did a pee by the apple tree, etcetera, etcetera…
Then a faint click, Ellen guessing that Ludmilla Wishart had replayed the test run. The MP3 player was new, a birthday gift, so she’d have been playing with it, trying out the various functions.
The time is now…2.45 and I’m at lot number five, Harcourt Drive, in Tyabb, where the owners have laid the foundations for an unauthorised bed-and-breakfast establishment.
That had been listed on her desk diary. They heard Wishart announce her intentions and then there was a faint, atmospheric hiss, an interruption, before the voice returned, announcing the results of the meeting. Amicable results, apparently.
A pleasant voice, Ellen thought. Calm, unhurried, educated and a little self-conscious but pleased with her new toy.
The time is now 3.20 and my next destination is Bluff Road in Penzance Beach. I will need to buy petrol along the way.
Pause, and then her voice came back wryly: Not that this little gizmo needs to know that.
Ellen pictured Ludmilla Wishart’s journey from the Tyabb address to the site of the demolished house in Penzance Beach, with a stop for petrol along the way, Groot tailing her in his old Mercedes, Adrian tailing her in his uncle’s station wagon. Why hadn’t the two men spotted each other? And it all would have consumed forty minutes in real time, if Ludmilla had wanted to leave her gizmo recording while she narrated the conditions and events of her journey:
Taking this bend at eighty kilometres an hour…passing a school bus… just hit a bump… have finished putting 47 litres of unleaded petrol into the tank of my car…
But of course Ludmilla Wishart said none of these things but quickly stopped mucking around with her new toy and recorded only those observations that she would need later when writing up her notes.
There was a pause, a soft electronic interruption, and she returned:
Bluff Road, Penzance Beach. It is now 4.25 in the afternoon. Met with Carl Vernon as arranged. Discussed the demolition of the house known as Somerland. Local residents very upset, as noted this morning. I advised that I’d applied to the planning minister for an interim heritage amendment that would protect Somerland, but, unfortunately, Hugh and Mia Ebeling had exercised their right to demolish before it could be considered or granted. What I didn’t tell Mr Vernon was that my boss had almost certainly tipped off the Ebelings, and that I shall report him to the authorities.
And Groot had known that, Ellen thought. He followed her, intending to talk her out of it, and killed her when that failed.
In the meantime I advised Mr Vernon that the residents’ association should take steps to block the Ebelings’ intended development of the site or at least press for a drastic modification of the excesses of the planned building, which at present is a structure on three levels. My advice was that the association should attend any and all Development Assessments Committee meetings and present transparencies that show what impact the proposed structure would have on their views not only across the water but also in other directions. Pause. Leaving Penzance at 4.35 to drive to Shoreham.
Another pause, and when Wishart’s voice started again it was electric with suppressed emotions:
I need to get this down immediately, in case anything happens. I’m outside the property known as Westering, at 450 Frankston-Flinders Road, which is accessed from Frankston-Flinders Road via a very long driveway down to a headland overlooking the beach. The owner, Jamie Furneaux, who is presently overseas, was charged and fined for removing 52 pine and other trees, and ordered to plant indigenous trees to compensate. I can confirm that Mr Furneaux has abided by the conditions of the ruling made against him. But Mr Groot, the chief planner, arrived soon after I did. He actually followed me! I am annoyed. I am also, I must admit, a little afraid. I’ve seen Groot angry and emotional before, but not like this. He kept going on and on about how I would ruin his career, he had a wife and children to support, he could go to jail, and anyway, what did he do wrong, all he did was keep the Ebelings apprised of the progress of their applications to demolish an old house and erect a new one. I said, how much did they pay you? He got angry and said they hadn’t paid him anything, but I didn’t believe him. Then he got a bit physical with me, grabbing my arms and shoving me against the car. God, he’s repulsive. He scares me, too. He went away in tears but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to hurt me in some way. Physically? Professionally? I wish I knew what was going through his head. Anyway, this record is in case something bad happens to me.
There was a sense of time passing, even though only a second had elapsed on the recording, and Ludmilla’s voice returned, sounding altered in unnameable ways but suggesting puzzlement and faint annoyance:
Ade? What are you doing here?
Ellen heard a man’s voice, a low undertone, none of the words distinguishable, and Ludmilla Wishart’s response:
You were parked behind that shed the whole time? Whose car is that?
More deep growling, then Ludmilla again, admonition and tension in her voice:
Ade, you mustn’t follow me like this-I was so embarrassed when you showed up yesterday, I don’t know what Mr Vernon thought… Of course he’s not…I’m not seeing anyone on the sly… Who? That was my boss, Mr Groot…No, Ade, I’m telling you…He didn’t hug me, he was a bit cross about a work matter and grabbed my arms for emphasis, that’s all…No, Ade…I do not…I do love you… There’s no one else…No… Of course I don’t want to leave you…But she’s my friend, I can’t stop seeing her…I’ve never slept with anyone but you…I think he’s disgusting…
Adrian Wishart’s voice came clearly now, asking her about the MP3 player. Ludmilla made no mention that she was taping:
Just listening to music… Carmen gave it to me at lunchtime…No, she loaded some songs on it for me… Honest, I didn’t spend any of our money on this, it was a gift…
Ellen Destry and Hal Challis hunched over the little device, frozen, listening to the fear, the pleading and the barely controlled hysteria in Ludmilla Wishart’s voice. Adrian Wishart sounded angry, almost shrieking at his wife as he first accused her and then dragged her out of the car and beat her with the meaty sounds of death blows, all the time talking and shouting. There were other sounds then, muffled ones as he cleaned up, and finally his voice, sobbing the words:
See what you made me do? Don’t you know I love you?