by Garry Disher
Meg drew him onto a chair beside her. Eve gave him a wobbly smile.
He said gently, What happened?
Massive cerebral haemorrhage.
He found that he couldnt bear to think of it. There would have been suffering, brief, but intense. There would have been a moment of extreme fear. He didnt like to think of his fathers last moments.
Meg held his hand in her left and Eves in her right. It could have been worse, she said.
They sat quietly. Can I see him?
Meg released his hand and pointed. In there.
The room was ablaze, a nurse and an orderly bustling and joking as they worked. They sobered when they saw him. Hal, said the nurse.
He peered at her. Nance?
She nodded. Another one hed gone to school with, the younger sister of...
Hows... He couldnt remember her husbands name.
Oh, hes history. Good riddance.
She took Challis by the elbow and gently ushered him to the bedside. We have to move him soon, but I can give you a few minutes. She patted him and he was aware of the lights dimming and of Nance leaving with the orderly.
His fathers mouth hung open, and that, with his scrawny neck and tight cheekbones, seemed to configure despair, as though the old man wasnt dead but imploring someone to help him. Challis began to weep. He tried to close his fathers mouth but nothing was malleable. Maybe the old guy had never been malleable. Challis pulled up a chair, sat, and held a light, papery hand. He let the tears run until Meg joined him and he found the strength to say to himself, Enough. Enough for now, at any rate.
* * * *
44
On Tuesday morning Scobie Sutton stared in fascination at the man who had abducted and raped Katie Blasko, possibly abducted and murdered other young girls, and also cheated a stack of people of $395 plus booking fee. Duyker, with his eyes dead as pebbles, dry, heavily seamed cheeks and neck, and patchy, tufted brown hair, did look disturbing close up. At surveillance distance hed seemed nondescript, a tradesman on his day off, maybe, a man who favoured pale coloured chinos, deck shoes and a polo shirt. You wouldnt look twice at him. Now Scobie couldnt take his eyes off the man. He visualised Grace Duyker, sweet Grace, with her skin like ripe fruit, sitting unconsciously close to him as hed interviewed her about Duyker. Well, the closeness was probably unconscious, but Scobie had liked it, and had unconsciously moved his bony thigh closer to hers as she told him about family occasions when she was young, and the creepy way Uncle Peter had looked at her.
He forced himself to pay attention, and heard Ellen Destry say, Youve been identified by a witness, Mr Duyker. You, Neville Clode and other men have for many years been sexually abusing underage boys.
An equal opportunity child rapist, Scobie thought, boys and girls. Of course, Ellen was jumping the gun here. Van Alphen hadnt produced his witness yet, hadnt even come in to work yet.
Duyker, on the other side of the interview table, folded his arms and stared at the ceiling panels. Scobie looked up, astonished and angry to see wadded tissue stuck up there, as though this was a public toilet. He privately vowed never to leave a witness alone in an interview room. Mr Duyker? he prodded.
Im not saying anything until my lawyer gets here.
Out of the corner of his eye, Scobie saw Ellen lean back in her seat. Now, where have I heard that before? she said. Scobie continued to stare at Duyker, looking for the flinch that said to keep pushing. Duyker was expressionless. The air in the little room contained an evil stink, suddenly, as if Duyker exuded contempt through his pores while his eyes remained fiat and dead. Contempt for young girls, police, anything decent at all. Scobie shivered involuntarily and said a few words of prayer to himself.
We have enough to hold you, Mr Duyker, Scobie said. May I call you Pete? Peter?
Nothing.
Fraud, in addition to the sex offences.
Nothing.
You defrauded my wife of $395, Scobie went on. A policemans wife. We have a pattern here, dont we? Your record shows fraud charges in New South Wales and across the water in New Zealand.
Duyker said flatly, My lawyer.
Hes not helping us with our inquiries, Pete, you are, Ellen said.
Scobie pretended to read a page from the file that lay before him on the chipped table, where coffee rings overlapped like Olympic logos rendered by deranged children. This pretend photography. It wasnt all pretend, was it? You took actual photographs sometimes? Little girls? Naked? Having sex with you and your mates while they were too drugged to resist?
Scobie found himself reeling in distress at the sudden pictures in his head, of his sweet daughter at Duykers hands, and he himself floundering, unable to save her.
Duyker sat unblinking.
So Scobie said, headlong and spiteful, Your DNA matches DNA found in the house where Katie Blasko was found.
Beside him Ellen threw her pen down softly. Around him the air shifted, and a slow smile started up in Duykers face, an empty smile but a smile.
I dont recall giving you a sample from which to make a match. I dont recall that you asked for one. Meanwhile my DNA is not on file anywhere. Stop playing games.
Well be asking for a sample, Scobie said, going red. Ellen breathed out her disgust.
Duyker was amused. I wonder what my lawyer will say.
Scobie and Ellen were silent, Scobie mentally kicking himself. Never give them ammunition to use against you: Challis had drilled that into him time and time again. And this interview was being videotaped: a good copper always keeps his facial expressions neutral in those circumstances.
Ellen tried to take the initiative. Youve been identified from a photograph array as being one of the men involved in the sexual abuse of underage boys, Pete.
According to Kees van Alphen, thought Scobie in disgust. Van Alphen had been evasive lately, supplying partial answers or none at all, and he was never in his office. Running his own investigation, as Ellen had said in frustration last night.
Then, out of nowhere, an appalling thought came to Scobie: van Alphen was running interference for this gang of paedophiles. Van Alphen had assured Ellen that his informant, some kid named Billy DaCosta, had identified Duyker and Clode from a photo array, but maybe that was a delaying tactic, or an outright lie. And where were van Alphen and his mystery informant?
Duyker was yawning. Are we done? Can I go?
Youre not going anywhere, Ellen said. We intend to make the fraud charges stick.
So, make them stick.
We will
My lawyer will have me back on the street so fast your heads will spin, said Duyker, showing heat for the first time.
Scobie suspected it was true. A search of the mans house had found nothing. His van was clean, apparently washed, waxed and vacuumed until it was like new. But Scobie and Ellen knew what Duyker didnt know: there was a paint smear in the rear compartment. Purple enamel, the same colour as Katie Blaskos bike, a smear so tiny that it was no wonder Duyker had missed it, amongst all of those other scuffs and scratches, obtained from years of loading and unloading. They were waiting for a paint analysis. Theyd already approached the manufacturer of the bike for the composition of the paint that had been used on bikes like Katie Blaskos.
They didnt have the bike, though. It will be at the bottom of the bay, Ellen had said last night. We might prove he had a bike on board, but not that he had Katie Blaskos bike.
Now Scobie heard her ask Duyker to account for his movements on the afternoon Katie Blasko was abducted.
Duyker shrugged. Out and about, probably. He shifted in his seat, fishing for his wallet. It was a fat wallet, the leather worn, the cotton stitches unravelling. And full of business cards, receipts and paper scraps. Scobie and Ellen watched as he leafed through it all, wetting his index finger laboriously, loving every minute of it. Here we are, he said eventually.
He slid a cash register receipt across the table. Ellen poked it into position with her fingernail. Scobie peered at it with her. At 4
pm on the day Katie Blasko was abducted, Peter Duyker had been buying a photography magazine in a city newsagency, one-and-a-half hours away by car or van. My filing system, he said apologetically, leaves a lot to be desired.
* * * *
45
Then Duykers lawyer arrived and advised Duyker to say nothing more. Nothing more? echoed Duyker. I havent said anything to begin with.
How long will you be holding my client, Sergeant Destry, assuming you dont charge and remand him?
The full twenty-four hours.
Is that necessary?
Its necessary, said Ellen flatly.
The door closed on Duyker and the lawyer. In the corridor outside the interview room, Scobie began to apologise. Im sorry, Ellen. I wasnt thinking.
No, you werent, were you? We still dont know if the DNA found on Duykers skin magswhich might belong to someone else, incidentallycan be matched to the DNA found in De Soto Lane, or to the degraded DNA found on Serena Hanlon.
I thought Id throw a scare into him.
Well you didnt, Ellen said.
Perhaps she was being unfair. The truth was, she was finding it hard to get Hal Challis out of her head this morning. Hed phoned her with the news about his father, and she could still hear the desolation in his voice, the particular timbre of his grief and sadness. A hint of longing and loneliness, too? She thought so. She wanted to be with him, but could hardly do that, for hed be too distracted, she didnt know his family, and she had important investigations to run. And so he resided in her mind.
She made for her office. Maybe DNA evidence would help solve this case, but the lab was dragging its heels, and who knew what appalling errors of procedure it was making. She cast back in her mind, Duyker sitting comfortably across from her in the interview room. No bite marks on his fingers or forearms. Maybe Sasha had bitten him on the leg.
She was leafing desultorily through paperwork in her in-tray when the lab called. That paint chip, one of the techniciansnot Riggs said.
Yes?
We traced it to a line of childrens bicycles manufactured by Malvern Star between 2003 and 2005.
Yes! said Ellen.
We aim to please.
Ellen pressed the disconnect button of her desk phone and sat like that for a while. She should have made a more concerted effort, sooner, to find the bike. Everything that had happened, especially finding Katie alive, had blinded her to obvious matters. She released the button and called the media office, arranging for a wide circulation of descriptions and photographs of the bike. She was in a kind of trance now. She was stepping inside Duykers skin, not Duyker the paedophileshe knew that side of himbut Duyker with an unwanted childs bike on his hands.
This Duyker would have left the bike, helmet and schoolbag in his van after taking Katie Blasko to the empty house, but he wouldnt have wanted to keep them for long. There were remote places he could dump everything, but what if he were seen by someone. Also, a newish bicycle found in the middle of nowhere is going to raise questions, especially if the police have been saying theyre looking for one just like it (here Ellen squirmed in her seat). Dumping the stuff at sea would require a boat. No, she could see Duyker leaving the bike in a public place, where children playedthe sort of community where claiming an abandoned bike as your own was not a matter of dishonesty but of keeping your trap shut and thanking your lucky stars. The helmet and schoolbag he could have dumped anywhere.
Her only hope now was a firm ID from van Alphens street kid, Billy DaCosta. She went downstairs. Van Alphen was not in his office, or Kellocks. According to the front desk, he hadnt checked in yet. She made for the sergeants lounge. Kellock was there, flipping through a newspaper, turning the pages in typical style, as if to tear them out. He looked up at her with barely controlled patience. Kel, she murmured, turning to go out.
Sergeant Destry, Kellock roared.
She turned back.
What is it?
Im looking for Van.
Maybe I can help you.
She tried not to show her frustration. I need a statement from his witness. I need to take it myself, face to face. I cant take Vans word for it that this kid of his can identify Clode and Duyker.
Kid?
A street kid called Billy DaCosta. Van Alphen found him and was supposed to be bringing him in this morning.
Kellock tossed the newspaper aside and lumbered across the room to her. He spoke, a gust of coffee breath: Look, Vans one of the good guys, but this shooting board investigation of the Jarrett shooting has got him worried. Im worried. He could lose the plot, crack under the pressure. Go easy on him. Give him time.
Hes running around finding witnesses and collecting evidence, said Ellen exasperatedly. If its useful, great. But I cant afford to waste time on red herrings, or fail to act because he cries wolf once too often.
Leave it to me.
He could run into some nasty people, doing what hes doing.
I know that.
Ellen cocked her head. Unless hes protecting them.
She hadnt meant to say it. You always divided the officers you worked with into those who made you uncomfortable and those who didnt. You did it every time you were posted to a new station or squad. It didnt mean the men or women who made you feel uncomfortable were dishonest in the strictly legal sense, or unlikely to watch your back in a tricky situation, but you knew to be wary of them. You didnt offer them anything of yourself. Kees van Alphen had always made Ellen feel uncomfortable. Hal Challis had always said, Be careful of that guy.
Now Kellock had his head on one side. Ill pretend I didnt hear that.
Ellen blushed and to defuse the moment said, Its all a bit too murky for me, Kel, this case.
Leave it to me. Ill track him down and reel him in.
Thanks.
She returned to her office and found Duykers lawyer waiting in the corridor. Sam Lock was short, damply overweight in a heavy suit, the knot of his yellow tie a fat delta under his soft chins. In all other respects he was hard and sharp. A quick word, Ellen?
She led him into her office. He looked around it amusedly. Hal Challiss office, if Im not mistaken. How is the good inspector?
Get on with it, Sam.
I want you to let my client go. Fraud charges? A few hundred dollars here and there? Resides locally?
Resides all over Australia, Sam. Sure, he owns a place in Safety Beach, but he likes to travel, stay a while, rip off star-struck mothers of young childrenamongst other things more seriousand move on again.
Lock examined his fingernails. Like all lawyers, he was full of little diversions that masked or delayed his real intent. Police officers did it, too. Ellen waited.
You think he abducted Katie Blasko?
Ellen gazed at him, wondering how much to reveal. Sam Lock would battle furiously on behalf of a client but he also had small children, two boys and a girl. He had something to do with it, even if not directly. He was there in that house with her. We also suspect him of the rape and murder of a child back in 1995, and are currently matching his movements nationwide with unsolved rapes and abductions of young girls.
He said you have DNA.
Yes, Ellen said neutrally.
But is it his? You dont have strong enough grounds to compel a sample from him, and his DNA is not on file anywhere. I wouldnt get your hopes up even if you had a sample, and matched it, because your forensic science lab is prone to stuffups. Witness the Neville Clode debacle.
Ellen watched him carefully. Who told you about that?
Lock shrugged.
You do know that Clodes late wife was Duykers sister?
That was mentioned.
Doesnt it bother you? Sure, the lab has admitted instances of cross contamination, but what if there wasnt any contamination in this instance?
It all goes to reasonable doubt, Ellen. Youll need something stronger if youre going to charge my client with Blasko. Meanwhile hes going to walk on that chickenshit charge you brought him in on.
Meanwhile you keep your children where you can see them, Ellen snapped.
Locks eyes flared, then he was impassive again, and Ellen watched him walk away. Moments later, her mobile rang, Kellock asking her to meet him on the Seaview Park estate.
* * * *
46
Ellen stared at the body. The blood, bone chips and brain matter had slid down the wall here and there, and were beginning to dry. A couple of flies had got into the house. The left side of van Alphens skull had taken the brunt of the shot: massive damage that still left enough of the face intact to confirm identity. Scobie Sutton was sketching the scene in his notebook. Like Ellen, and the crime scene technicians, he wore disposable overshoes.