by Garry Disher
Ellen scowled. She pushed down with her palms as if to rise from her desk. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll-’
‘What about Kellock and van Alphen?’
‘What about them?’
‘Dinosaurs, aren’t they? Time they were pensioned off?’
‘Are you making a threat against them, Laurie?’
‘I don’t know. Am I?’
His face belied the words and tone, for he looked sad and empty. His gaze went to the bullet graze on her neck, and his fingers to his own neck. ‘You were lucky,’ he said softly.
She touched the scar. ‘Thank you.’
When he was gone, she began working on a warrant to arrest Clode and search his house. By themselves, Alysha’s allegations would be difficult to substantiate, the word of a simple-minded child, further undermined by the lack of admissible evidence, the reputation of the Jarretts and the recommendations of that earlier investigation. But taken together with the discovery of Clode’s DNA at De Soto Lane, the scene of Katie Blasko’s abuse…
Her elation was short-lived. Before taking the paperwork a step further, she called Riggs at the ForenZics lab.
‘Actually, I was going to call you,’ he said.
‘About?’
Riggs was apologetic. ‘That DNA match.’
Her skin crept. ‘What about it?’
‘It turns out we already have the guy’s blood sample here in the lab.’
‘So? You said he was in the system.’
‘Yes, but as a victim. He’s not in Crimtrac. Another sample of his blood had been sent to us before the one found with the girl, what’s her name, Katie Blasko.’
‘You have a victim sample for Clode?’
‘An aggravated burglary.’
Ellen closed her eyes, opened them again. Scobie Sutton must have taken samples at Clode’s house and forwarded them to the lab. Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t she anticipated that? She had to keep on an even keel. ‘Okay, so you have that sample. But you also have his DNA from the Katie Blasko scene, right? That’s how we know he was there-he’d been a victim in an unrelated incident. I don’t see the problem. He either abducted Katie Blasko and held her for several days while he raped and photographed her, or someone else abducted her and he was invited to join in. Katie told me that a small dog had been present. It attacked one or more of the men who were abusing her. That might account for the blood.’
Riggs was silent. ‘It’s our procedures,’ he offered finally.
Ellen went cold. She understood at once. ‘You’re saying the evidence is contaminated.’
‘I can’t…we don’t…what I mean is…’
‘Spit it out,’ she snarled.
‘We had several blood samples come in from several jurisdictions and agencies over a short period of time,’ said Riggs in a whining rush. ‘We’re overworked and understaffed.’ He paused, coughed. ‘Unfortunately victim blood samples were somehow stored with suspect and offender blood samples. If this comes to court, we’re not in a position to say for certain which Clode sample is which, or even that there are two separate samples.’ He coughed again. ‘Procedures weren’t followed.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Riggs. ‘If it helps, I don’t think there was a mixup in this particular instance, and there’s the presence of mucus in the sample, possibly from a nosebleed, but we’ve had a few stuffups in the past couple of years, and a good lawyer will cast doubt on our procedures in this case. We can’t lie on the witness stand.’
Ellen’s head pounded. A few stuffups? Now this stuffup. ‘I have nothing but contempt for you,’ she said.
‘There’s no need to be like that.’
Wanting to lash out further, Ellen tracked van Alphen and Kellock down to the sergeants’ lounge.
‘If not for you two clowns, we could have arrested Neville Clode eighteen months ago and Katie Blasko’s abuse need never have happened.’
She was rigid in the doorway. Kellock turned his massive head to her slowly, then back to his newspaper, which was spread open on a coffee table. He flicked slowly through the pages, stopping at the crossword. He uncapped his pen, tapped his teeth with it. ‘And hello to you, too, Ellen.’
Ellen advanced into the room. ‘Just because she’s a Jarrett doesn’t mean she’s a liar. Before he went to prison, Laurie noticed changes in Alysha. Nightmares, inappropriate sexual behaviour.’
Van Alphen was a few metres away, arms folded and legs outstretched in an old vinyl easy chair. He gave Ellen a chilly smile. ‘Maybe he was diddling her himself. Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Or it’s all bullshit,’ said Kellock, rapidly beginning the crossword as he spoke. ‘You know the Seaview poverty, poor parent supervision, parents in jail, all leading to kids wagging school, shoplifting, getting their kicks out of gullible punters…’
‘I’d like to know where the main file is from that time,’ Ellen said. ‘Which one of you two characters got rid of it?’
A couple of Traffic sergeants, rocking an old pinball machine in the corner, looked up with interest. ‘Lower your voice,’ said Kellock contemptuously. ‘And act with professionalism.’
‘I’ve looked everywhere in the system,’ said Ellen. ‘It’s missing, and one or two reports have been tampered with.’
‘Don’t look at us for that,’ van Alphen said. ‘Plenty of agencies are after the Jarretts: the drug squad, major crimes, fraud…’
‘There was nothing to the case anyway,’ said Kellock.
‘The school counsellor thought there was. A psychologist thought there was. And now, after talking to Alysha, I think there’s something worth investigating.’
‘Get more evidence.’
Her face twisting aggrievedly, she told them about Neville Clode’s DNA. Kellock gave her his wintry smile. ‘So you can’t use it in court.’
‘No.’
‘He was attacked last weekend?’
‘I think Laurie Jarrett ordered that as payback for molesting Alysha.’
‘It had nothing to do with the Katie Blasko case?’
Ellen gestured irritably. ‘Clode could be part of a loose circle of paedophiles. They don’t do everything together. Perhaps Alysha Jarrett was his own project.’
Van Alphen was contemptuous. ‘Alysha Jarrett is a little slut.’
‘You decided that before you even investigated the complaint,’ said Ellen hotly, ‘and that’s the story you gave the sex crimes detectives from Melbourne. You didn’t even bother speaking more closely with the other girls who claim Clode molested them.’
‘“Claim” being the operative word.’
‘They support her story.’
Now van Alphen got heated. In the little room where the sergeants got their rest and recreation while in the station, she could smell him, his perspiration and stale aftershave. ‘If there was anything going on,’ he said, ‘it was at the Jarrett bitch’s hands. I know for a fact she was standing over Clode for favours, demanding money, booze and smokes or she’d go to the police and say he’d raped her.’
‘Know for a fact?’
‘Yes.’
‘The fact being that he told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What amazing insights you have, Van. So you’re saying paedophiles don’t groom their victims, don’t coerce them into abusive relationships. Maybe you even believe that paedophiles are the victims themselves. The children take charge. Is that what you think?’
Kellock interrupted mildly. ‘It’s not unusual, Ellen. Kids enter these relationships willingly in exchange for gifts, then when they get found out or the supply gets cut off, they claim they were forced into it.’
An unholy alliance, Ellen thought, her gaze shifting from one man to the other. Kellock had flown through the crossword. Van Alphen sipped at a mug of coffee-marked, she noticed, like hers: Our day begins when yours ends. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. In effect, you both let Clode carry on abusing children for another eightee
n months.’
‘We talked to Mr Clode,’ said van Alphen, smooth now, his outburst forgotten. ‘Alysha’s story was a complete beatup. I’d look more closely at the Jarrett household if I were you.’
Ellen flashed mentally on the Jarrett household and wondered irrationally who Laurie was sleeping with. She sensed all kinds of murkiness, but not father in bed with daughter. But what of the legions of cousins, brothers, stepbrothers, family friends and uncles?
‘The attack on Clode,’ she said.
Van Alphen shrugged. ‘Could be a simple ag burg, could be Laurie decided to get revenge for the kid’s false claims, could be anything.’
‘Laurie is vengeful,’ Ellen said. ‘I’d watch your backs if I were you.’
‘That prick doesn’t scare us,’ van Alphen said.
‘Is that all, Ellen?’ said Kellock. ‘We’re entitled to unwind without plainclothes coming in and hassling us.’
‘Us against them,’ muttered Ellen.
Van Alphen smiled. ‘That’s what policing’s all about.’
She felt tired and discouraged, and changed the subject. ‘Van, have you found any cold cases of interest?’
‘Still looking,’ he told her.
Chain of Evidence
That evening Ellen told Challis about ForenZics and the DNA cockups.
He was perplexed. ‘Go back a step. You used a private lab?’
She told him about McQuarrie’s cost-cutting measures. ‘I’ll call you back,’ Challis said.
She prowled his sitting room, restlessly scanning his CD collection. One caught her eye: k. d. lang, Hymns of the 49th Parallel. She supposed it made sense: Challis seemed to like female vocalists: Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams, even Aretha Franklin. What did it say about the role of music in her own life that her car radio was set to a news station and she owned very few CDs-and they were in storage? Her daughter liked techno, her husband the edgier kind of country music, but her CD purchases had always been random and sporadic. Did that denote a formless mind, or the pressures and anxieties of her professional life? She felt obscurely that she’d hate to disappoint Challis.
With her slender forefinger Ellen flipped out the k. d. lang, removed the disc and played it. The strong, sad voice filled her up. She played two of the songs again: Neil Young’s ‘Helpless’ and Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’.
What was keeping Challis?
Twenty minutes later, he said, ‘I had a word with Freya Berg.’
The government pathologist. ‘And?’
‘Good and bad. She’s lost some highly trained people to ForenZics. They pay a lot more and have better equipped labs. But some of their procedures have been suspect or careless.’
He listed a number of instances. Technicians had transported and stored items of clothing with recently-fired automatic pistols, thus transferring gunshot residue; they had stored victims’ clothing with suspects’, thus transferring blood, semen and fibres; they had handled the evidence from different cases over a period of time without changing their gloves; they had even contaminated new evidence with old. In one notorious instance, the DNA of a 2003 rape victim had been found on the clothing of a 2005 murder victim.
‘Great,’ said Ellen. She paused: ‘Maybe McQuarrie holds shares in ForenZics.’
It was good to hear Challis laugh. It was good to hear his encouragement. She told him about Peter Duyker. ‘He and Clode are close, apparently.’
‘If you can’t get Clode, get Duyker.’
‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’
She’d called his mobile; now she could hear his father’s house phone ringing in the background. ‘I’d better get that,’ he said.
‘Miss you,’ she said.
33
Challis pocketed his mobile and hurried through to the kitchen before the phone disturbed his father. Then he realised: Ellen had said ‘Miss you.’ Grinning, he answered the phone.
‘Hal,’ said his sister. ‘They think they’ve found Gavin.’
She sounded panicky. It was seven o’clock and stars hung in the sky, a vastness of sky above the plains, clearly visible through the window above the kitchen sink.
‘Where?’
Meg’s voice was tight, barely controlled, as she explained it to him. It was a vivid account: he could see the lonely cemetery and the body coming into view, the latter image coloured by his years as a homicide inspector. He knew what time and certain conditions-water, air, chemicals, earth, and the lack of these-could do to a corpse.
‘How certain is it?’
‘His wallet was in his pocket. And his keys.’
Challis sat at the table. ‘They will still need to carry out a proper identification. Dental records, DNA.’
‘I know. They told me that. Hal, they said he’d been shot in the head and did I know anything about that and where was I when he disappeared.’
Challis straightened. ‘Who are you talking about? Who’s asking these questions?’
‘Two detectives. They came up from Adelaide.’
Homicide Squad, thought Challis. ‘I’ll come over. Is Eve there?’
‘She’s staying the night with a friend. They’re studying together. I haven’t even had time to tell her.’
Challis checked on his father, wondering what to tell him. ‘That was Meg. She-’
‘I didn’t see her today,’ he replied querulously. ‘Why didn’t she come to see me today?’
The voice and manner were fretful. He had good and bad days, good and bad periods every day. Challis sat on the edge of the bed, where the air was stale, close and redolent of age and illness. ‘Dad, they’ve found a body. They think it could be Gavin.’
The eyes turned sharp. ‘Suicide? Out east? He’ll be a skeleton by now.’
Challis touched his father’s frail wrist. ‘Buried, Dad. They suspect foul play.’
The eyes grew sharper. ‘They suspect Meg, you mean.’
‘Possibly. I’m going over there now. I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Dad.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
It took Challis thirty minutes to get his father ready. They took the old man’s boxy station wagon, driving in silence, his father leaning forward as though to speed them through the evening to Meg’s house on the other side of the Bluff. It was a ramshackle place, with plenty of small pens and shelters, from when Gavin had rescued orphaned, injured or mistreated animals. The animals were long gone and the garden looked untamed, the spring growth getting away from Meg and Eve. The gravelled turning circle glowed white in the moonlight and the headlights flashed on the lenses of three cars: Meg’s Holden, which was in the carport, a police car and an anonymous white Falcon.
Challis braked and switched off the engine. His father fumbled with the door catch, dropping his cane between his seat and the door. ‘Let me help you, Dad.’
Before he could do that, Meg was there, opening the door. ‘Dad, you shouldn’t have come out.’ She glanced reprovingly at Challis across the roof of the car as if to say, Are you trying to hasten his death? Challis shrugged.
They went into the house, to the shabby but homely sitting room, where three men waited. All three stood politely, the local man, Sergeant Wurfel, saying, ‘Hello, Mr Challis.’
Challis’s father gestured impatiently and turned to the other men, who were hard and suited, but weary looking, aged in their forties. Challis recognised the type: they were dedicated, hard working, cynical and exhausted. They weren’t about to take anything at face value. They also knew that you start looking close to home when it’s a homicide.
They stepped forward expressionlessly and shook hands with Challis and his father, announcing their names as Stormare and Nixon.
Stormare was dark-haired, Nixon carroty and pale. Challis needed to get something out of the way immediately. ‘Did my sister tell you that I’m-‘
‘An inspector in the Victoria Police? Sergeant Wurfel told us,’ Sto
rmare said.
‘May I ask what you have?’
They gave him their flat looks. Nixon jerked his head. ‘Let’s talk in the kitchen.’ He glanced at Wurfel. ‘You stay here.’
Wurfel flushed but nodded.
Challis followed them into the kitchen. Here the three men stood tensely for a moment before sitting, mutually untrusting, around the little table. Cooking odours lingered: a garlicky sauce, guessed Challis.
‘According to Sergeant Wurfel, you’ve been asking questions about your brother-in-law.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s my brother-in-law,’ said Challis with some heat. ‘My father is dying, my sister and my niece haven’t been able to get on with their lives because they didn’t know if Gavin was alive or dead. Wouldn’t you want answers?’
He wasn’t reaching them. He knew he wouldn’t. Like them, he always treated these situations with an unimpressed mind.
‘We don’t want you meddling in this.’
‘At least tell me copper to copper about the body.’
Nixon shrugged. ‘Fair enough. It was found in a garbage bag, which slowed decomposition. Not a pretty sight. Pretty much a soupy sludge.’
Challis nodded. He knew exactly what the body would have looked like. ‘What forensics do you have?’
‘We’ll try to get prints off the bag, but don’t hold your breath,’ Stormare said.
‘We’ve sifted the soil,’ said Nixon. ‘Nothing.’
They stared at him. ‘That’s all we can tell you.’
‘What did the autopsy reveal?’
‘We’re not at liberty to say.’
‘But he was shot. My sister told me he’d been shot in the head.’
‘We can confirm that, yes.’
Both men were watching him almost challengingly, as if to say: We know our job, pal.
‘If there’s any way I can help…’ said Challis.
‘You can’t,’ said Nixon flatly.
‘My sister didn’t do it,’ Challis said. ‘Nor did my father.’