Challis - 05 - Blood Moon by Garry Disher

wondering if that were a lie.

    He relived this and other
conversations as he wheeled a shopping trolley up and down the aisles of the
supermarket. In particular, he relived the special hell of shopping for Roslyns
concert dress last Saturday, a task that should have fallen to Beth. What did
he know about shopping for girls clothes? He was none the wiser now, knowing
only that his daughter belonged to a class of female for whom there were no
suitable clothes. At twelve years old, with tiny, tiny breasts, she was too old
for the kids section of every store they entered. Too young surely for the
truly appalling teen wear: micro skirts and tops that were mere scraps, the
flimsy fabric barely extending from bellybutton to nipple. Eventually they
bought a plain but pretty skirt and top in Myer and went home.

    And another headache to look forward
to: How was he supposed to help Roslyn with her first period?

    He wheeled his shopping to the car,
raised the tailgate, stowed it away. Then a kid was there, about Roslyns age
but years older in all other respects. A nuggetty kid from one of the estates.
Full of nerve. Finished, mister?

    You want to return my trolley and
claim my hard-earned money from the coin slot, said Scobie evenly.

    The kid pantomimed guilt and
embarrassment. You got me, he said, slapping his hand against his forehead.

    Scobie offered a smile he only half
felt. Go on, then, take the blessed thing.

    The kid raced away with the trolley,
shouting, Suckerrr!

    Thats about right, Scobie thought.
He drove home with his shopping and then he went in search of his wife.

    * * * *

    By
late afternoon the schoolies had drifted back from the surf beaches, the bike
paths and walking tracks. Theyd scrubbed themselves in the shower, pulled on
clean outfitsjeans, T-shirts, mini-skirts, cargo pantsand were roaming
through the town, looking young, healthy and almost appealing. Pam Murphy found
them buying beer, trying on sunglasses, nipping through racks of CDs. They
seemed to be taller than she remembered her generation being; fitter, blonder.
They formed and reformed in clusters and their sounds were grunts, bursts of laughter,
the liquid snap of chewing gum, the scuffling of bare feet and the heel slaps
of their sandals. They seemed nice. They didnt seem very bright. They glanced
at her photograph of Lachlan Roe and said theyd never seen him before.

    Pam ranged widely through the
streets, takeaway joints and pubs. She handed out identity bracelets, gave a
teary kid a $20 bus fare, helped an old woman hose vomit away from the footpath
in front of her house. Just as she got to the Fiddlers Creek carpark, John
Tankard was leaving. He didnt see her. She went in, looking for schoolies, and
found Andy Cree in the beer garden. He gave her a huge smile, face creasing,
the kind that says only you, and although she didnt believe it for a minute,
it was nice to be on the receiving end. Pull up a pew, he said.

    I cant really stay long.

    But she sat, and he turned all of
his attention to her, full wattage, so she lingered and sipped a lemon, lime
and bitters for a while. White wine? she said, raising an eyebrow at his glass.

    Im trying the local wines one by
one.

    It hadnt occurred to her before
that anyone would want to do that. Ive lived in the area for too long, she
thought. I take it for granted. She gave another mental tick to Cree, along
with those for his looks, body, ratbaggery, willingness to have a proper
conversation and ability to make her laugh. Should keep you going for a while,
she said. What did Tank have? One of the local pinot noirs?

    It was Crees turn to laugh, and she
walked out of there with a date to look forward to.

    She glanced at her watch. Time for
Inspector Challiss end-of-day briefing. First she called in at the Chillout
Zone, to tell the volunteers shed be back that evening, and found Scobie
Sutton in a corner with his wife. Beth Sutton seemed distressed, hands scraping
down her cheeks, crying, No, its