EARLIER THAT SAME Sunday, Des Liddington told his inspector: ‘They’re letting me out after lunch.’
‘Uh huh.’
The inspector, standing at the foot of the hospital bed, was not really listening to Des. Peter Renshaw was a man who listened to God. He was wearing a suit and tie, having popped in on his way to church.
But Liddington’s wife, in the chair beside the bed, wasn’t about to let Renshaw get away with it. ‘He’s lucky they didn’t kill him!’
Renshaw blinked. Turned to her as laboriously as a ship at sea and said, ‘Right.’
‘Cuts, bruises, a cracked rib. He’s lucky there’s no internal bleeding!’
‘Right.’
‘Or concussion.’
‘I understand.’
Josie gave a cross little sniff. Liddington squeezed her hand. And then Gabi Richter came bustling in with a grin and gift-shop flowers. Switched to flustered deference when she spotted Renshaw. Eyed her flowers desperately, as if wondering if they were appropriate.
Josie saved her. ‘Let me find a vase for those.’
The relief was palpable. ‘Thank you,’ Gabi said. Then, breathlessly: ‘Sorry to hear what happened, sir, Des…’
Meanwhile Renshaw looked on as if everyone was mad. He was a thin, dry, rustling man and, flicking his wristwatch into view, said, ‘Time I was off. Get better soon, Des.’
‘Sir.’
Now in the doorway, Renshaw said, ‘Take tomorrow off. Take the week off, in fact. Friday’s your last day anyway.’
‘Sir,’ Liddington said, having no intention of taking time off.
When Renshaw had gone, Des turned to Gabi and said, ‘Thanks for coming.’
She winced. ‘Actually…’ She wouldn’t look at him. Bit her bottom lip and eyed Josie plumping up the flowers, which were sorry-looking chrysanthemums threaded with baby’s breath and eucalyptus leaves.
Suddenly he understood: ‘The sergeant sent you.’
She rolled her shoulders, shot him a pained look. ‘Sorry.’
‘I gave a statement last night.’
‘He wants to know if you’ve remembered anything more.’
‘Fair enough, I’d do the same in his shoes, and, to answer your question, I don’t really have anything to add. Have you checked my dashcam?’
‘It’s missing.’
Liddington had to think. ‘The woman must have taken it.’
‘Why?’
‘Good question. Witnesses often don’t stick around, but to take my dashcam?’
‘We need her statement.’
‘Plus I’d like to thank her,’ Liddington said. He paused. ‘You’d better have them print my car.’
‘Okay.’
‘What do you know about the triple-zero call?’
‘She used your phone.’
Liddington was hurting all over. He shifted against the plumped-up pillows and smiled at Josie, who was back in her chair, squeezing his hand. Then he turned to Gabi again and said, ‘Did anything else happen last night?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t mean ordinary Saturday night pub brawls; I mean something more serious or out of the ordinary.’
Richter cocked her head. ‘You think the woman…?’
Liddington shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll check the logs.’
‘She was driving a dual-cab ute, not sure what brand. Dark blue or black. Hard to tell.’
Richter checked her notes and nodded, confirming Liddington’s earlier statement. ‘Early model? Recent? Did you see the plates?’
‘Not the latest model, but not too old. New South Wales plates.’
‘Roof racks? Bull bar? Stuff like that?’
‘Bull bar.’
‘And she rammed one of the men?’
Liddington nodded and that hurt like buggery. ‘She did, so if or when you find a vehicle, check for dents, a cracked headlight, the usual. Course, if she hit him with the bull bar, there might not be any damage.’
‘How fast was she going?’
‘Not fast, but she hit the guy hard enough to knock him off his feet.’
Gabi Richter said, as if it hurt to ask: ‘And you think it was the Patmores?’
‘I do.’
‘They all said they didn’t go out last night. Didn’t know what we were talking about.’
‘Naturally. But was one of them in pain, by any chance? Limping? Bruised?’
‘No.’
‘Check them all. Second and third cousins. Drinking buddies.’ He paused. ‘Clinics, hospitals…’
‘The boss said—’
‘The boss said not to indulge my fantasies,’ Liddington said. ‘It’s okay, Gabi, I know what I know.’
Richter shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. Looked at her notes. ‘Can you remember anything else about the woman?’
‘Like I said last night, slight build, maybe mid- to late twenties. Fair hair, what I could see of it under a cap. Wearing gloves, I just remembered, so forget prints.’
‘Tatts? Piercings?’
‘I was lucky to spot that much,’ Liddington said.
Gabi Richter got to her feet. ‘Get well soon, sir. I mean, Des.’
‘Thanks, Gabi. You’re doing a great job,’ Liddington said, a corner of him thinking that his whole career had been like that. Saying well done to others.