Pam Murphy tried to keep a cool head. First she made a mental list of the options open to her. She could report Andrew Cree to the new senior sergeant in charge of the station’s uniformed officers. Or to Ellen Destry. Or to Ethical Standards, at Force Command headquarters. Cree would be formally investigated, possibly charged with several offences and probably kicked off the force.
But his nastiness would emerge again, wherever he was, whatever he did for a living, and other women-maybe women with fewer resources than she had-would suffer.
Also, Cree had been a very busy networker since arriving at Waterloo. If he didn’t exactly have close friends among the uniforms, the probationers and the clerical staff, he did have cronies. He had influence. In a culture that valued the simple bonds between men-beer, football, hatred of women-he had influence. This was Australia, after all. These things mattered and always had.
So if she took formal action against him she’d be the one to suffer most. Bullets delivered to her mailbox, dog shit in her locker, car tyres slashed open. A whispering campaign: she was a lesbian, or frigid, or sleeping her way to the top.
And she couldn’t count on the young female cops to help her, either. Some of them were blokier than the blokes. Better, more vicious haters.
Should she tackle Cree head on? That was her instinctive inclination. He was not such a big guy, or particularly fit or brave. She could beat the shit out of him so that he and his mates got the message loud and clear.
But would he? Would they?
And what if she lost, or won but they all scoffed at her anyway, called her a sore loser, couldn’t take a joke? And what if he lodged an official complaint that saw her charged with assault? She could be busted back to uniform or even drummed out of the force.
What could a female member of Victoria Police do? Not much. To Pam Murphy’s knowledge, women who complained were ostracised and bullied until they quit the job they loved and had been expensively trained to do. Or they quit meekly and carried their stress-related illnesses for years.
Even though she was supposed to be on duty, and tonight was the last night of Schoolies Week, Pam Murphy drove home to Penzance Beach, thinking, thinking, and seeing Cree’s declarations of love for what they really were. At home she walked from room to room, still thinking, renewing contact with the gritty core of selfhood that had always been there, deep inside her. She stared at the crumpled bedclothes. Her little shack was blighted now. She could almost smell Cree in the air. She bundled together the bedding and the towel he’d used-it was lying on the bathroom floor-into the washing machine and turned it on, extra detergent. She took up the Police Academy graduation photograph and wiped away his greasy paws.
Then she called him, as light and innocent as a girl in love.
Then she called Caz Moon.
There was nothing for Scobie Sutton to do now. Challis told him to go home, the paperwork could wait, Adrian Wishart wasn’t going anywhere. ‘See you Monday, Scobie. Spend some time with your wife and daughter.’
So Scobie went home and there was Ros, giddy after her party, dancing around the house, an antidote right then to all of his gloomy thoughts. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Lying down.’
Scobie thought about the long walk down the hallway to the bedroom, but there was a knock on the door. The crackpot pastor stood there, proffering his hand, which Scobie shook, even though he knew it was a mistake. ‘I’m afraid Beth’s indisposed,’ he said, to gain control and shut the visitor down. To reinforce it he backed up a step and made to shut the door.
The guy actually shoved his foot in it.
Scobie looked past Jeffreys to a station wagon parked at the kerb, two kids inside. To show he’s a family man, Scobie thought. The sour feelings, the sharpened perceptions, the ability to see how things truly are, were new to Scobie, and coming in fast. ‘No,’ he said.
But suddenly Jeffreys was looking past Scobie’s shoulder, his damp face wreathed in smiles. ‘Beth, how lovely.’
Scobie did a little dance of frustration, one hand blocking ineffectually as Beth ducked around him and stood before the pastor. He tried to jostle her aside, saying, ‘She doesn’t want to see you. Tell him you don’t want to see him, love, please. She’s finished with you crackpots.’
‘I think we should let her decide that, don’t you?’ Jeffreys said, reverting to his hard-nosed mercantile voice.
Before any of them could move, Ros was inserting herself in the doorway, her little body toned by netball and the recently acquired knowledge that her mother needed more help than her father could provide. ‘Go away,’ she said sternly. ‘Mum, come inside this instant.’
Jeffreys stepped back, astonished, then revealed a flash of something nasty before he put his hands up placatingly. Scobie beamed at him, feeling small and huge at once.
Meanwhile John Tankard’s shift had finished at 4 p.m. but he’d stayed behind for a quick aerobics workout in the station’s little gym which left him fatly hot, pink and sweating even after a shower. Then he prowled the corridors, canteen, carpark and storerooms, looking for Cree. He’d seen those pictures of Pam; he intended to make the prick remove every image he’d ever posted on the Web.
Pam’s shining admiration, not disregard, would be his reward.
She wasn’t inside the station. Nor was Cree.
He looked out into the yard, finding one of the probationers who’d been watching porn in the basement on Wednesday.
‘Seen Andy Cree?’
The probationer, washing and waxing one of the patrol cars, straightened his back and looked blank, mouth open. Finally he woke up, wrung soapy water out of his chamois and said with a frown, ‘Andy Cree?’
Christ Almighty, thought Tank. ‘No, Aloysius Cree. Yes, Andy Cree. Have you seen him? Did he leave the station? If so, did he say where he was going?’
‘Where he was going?’
Tank closed and opened his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t say.’
With barely controlled fury, Tank turned to go.
‘But he reckoned he was on to a good thing,’ the probationer said.
Tank turned back. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Said he was going to dip his wick.’
‘But he’s on duty,’ said Tank foolishly.
‘You know Andy,’ laughed the probationer.
‘Yeah, I know him,’ said Tank. Then he had a thought: ‘That DVD you were watching the other day.’
The guy blushed. ‘What about it?’
‘Cree set that up?’
The probationer looked hunted. Finally he nodded.
Tank pointed at the driver’s door. ‘Missed a spot.’
His own car was baking in the sun. He cranked up the air-con and drove out of the carpark, flipping open his mobile phone. ‘Murph?’
‘What?’
‘Look, I need to talk to you. It’s a bit delicate.’
‘If it’s Cree’s Internet bullshit, I already know about it.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anything else?’
Tank shook himself into good order. ‘Let me deal with it. I’ll get the bastard to take the site down.’
She said in a hands-off voice, ‘Butt out, Tank.’
Tank couldn’t believe it. ‘A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go astray.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ she said and hung up.