Free Whispering Death by Garry Disher Page A

home, meet her in the car park after work or during a work break? Are you aware of any confrontations between Chloe and a stranger, a customer or another member of staff? When did you last see her? Where? What was she doing at that time?
    The other waitresses, Kelly and Gabi, grew frightened and tearful. Kelly was in Year 12 at Westernport Secondary College, Gabi was on a gap year between school and university. Neither knew much about the world beyond home, school, the Peninsula and the Chicory Kiln. They’d been vaguely aware that something had happened to Chloe, but snatched ? Raped ? She was just so nice, always friendly and cheerful. They looked out over the car park with dark eyes and wrapped themselves inside their arms. Pam asked how they were getting home.
    â€˜Dad,’ said Kelly.
    â€˜My boyfriend,’ said Gabi.
    â€˜Did anyone ever pick Chloe up after work?’
    â€˜She’s got a car,’ they said, forgetting Chloe briefly, thinking about what a car would mean for them.
    The boys who flicked around the kitchen, darting from cutting board to frying pan, freshly washed plate and pinned-up dinner orders, said they barely knew Chloe. ‘Take a look around. We’re flat out. We’d divvy up the tips at the end of the night, say goodbye and that was that.’
    Poor Chloe.
    We barely knew her.
    She hadn’t been working here that long.
    She was nice. A fun person.
    She kept to herself a bit but she wasn’t, you know, a snob or anything.
    It’s so dark out there at night. The car park and that.
    Myers Road is always a bit creepy at night.
    Yeah, you get your perverts. They, like, put their hand on your hip while you’re telling them the specials, even when their wife is sitting right there.
    Look down your top and that.
    Ask what time you get off work.
    Complaints? Sure. Sometimes. You know, this fork’s dirty, my meal’s cold, this hasn’t been cooked properly, if you think I’m giving you a tip you’ve got another think coming—that kind of thing. No big deal.
    Not enough to stalk and abduct and rape a girl over.
    The owner-manager lived on the premises. She and her husband— retired accountant, liked to grow the Chicory Kiln’s herbs and vegetables and manage the wine cellar—would clean up when everyone had gone, then unwind in front of the television, and last night had been no different. Skype conversation with their daughter in Salzburg. Studying violin.
    â€˜Any police officers ever come to the Chicory Kiln?’ Challis asked.
    â€˜Police? Like, on a raid?’
    â€˜As customers.’
    â€˜Sure, I guess so, but how would we know? It’s not as if this is a McDonald’s, we’re not handing out free hamburgers and chips to the boys in blue. No offence.’
    And so Challis and Murphy stayed on for two more hours, eating dinner, talking, watching, making everyone nervous.
    Challis had ordered lasagne, Pan gnocchi. ‘How come you get yours straight away and I have to wait?’
    â€˜They make each gnocchi ball lovingly by hand,’ said Challis.
    â€˜Ha, ha. How come you always order lasagne?’
    â€˜I’m trying to replicate a formative experience, when I ate the perfect lasagne.’
    â€˜Okay, I’ll bite—where and when?’
    â€˜Johnny’s Green Room, Carlton. Late 1980s.’
    â€˜Was I even born then? And are you eating the perfect lasagne this evening?’
    â€˜Not even close.’
    â€˜What you might call a lost cause.’
    It occurred to Pam Murphy that she was happy. She hadn’t been happy. Last year she’d gone to bed with a fellow cop who’d posted naked images of her on the Internet. She’d destroyed him, the revenge sweet. Then some kind of reaction had set in, panic attacks, anxiety, jitteriness. And Pam Murphy—athlete, expert pursuit driver, competent detective—was not at ease with the fact that she hadn’t been able