by Garry Disher
Variations on his weekend movements, apparently, and sufficient to arouse their suspicions. Ellen herself reported that she had seen him cruise slowly past a school playground one lunchtime and again at going-home time. At morning recess the next day he’d returned to the school and parked next to the fence line, where an old woman wheeling a shopping cart had stopped to watch the children at play, together with two much younger women, the kind of idle, anxious mothers who live through their children and haunt their children’s schools.
‘Duyker actually joined them,’ she reported. ‘You’d think that would have made them suspicious, but he seemed to be sharing a joke with them.’
Later in the week John Tankard reported that Duyker had spent the whole lunch hour watching from his van. ‘Finally a teacher came out of the gate and tapped on his window.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Talked to her, then drove off. I asked her what he’d said. Apparently Duyker had a newspaper propped on his steering wheel and was eating a sandwich. Said he was a tradesman on his lunch break. She wasn’t suspicious.’
Scobie Sutton tailed Duyker on Wednesday night. At Thursday morning’s briefing he reported that Duyker had watched netball training.
‘Netball again?’
Scobie looked sick at heart. ‘Kids Ros’s age.’
‘And after netball?’
‘He went straight home.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I removed a globe from his rear lights so I wouldn’t lose him in the dark.’
‘Scobie, put it back again.’
‘It’s just a globe.’
‘I don’t want some gung-ho traffic cop pulling him over and spooking him. Put it back.’
Scobie sighed. ‘Fair enough.’
Ellen witnessed the next incident. At 3.45 on Thursday afternoon she tailed Duyker to a dusty lot opposite a small church hall on the outskirts of Penzance Beach. Several cars were waiting, some of the occupants leaning against their doors, talking to each other. A few minutes after 4 pm a succession of school buses pulled in, discharging kids from a range of far-flung secondary schools. One by one the waiting parents drove away until only Duyker’s van was left, parked among trees and almost invisible. She couldn’t see Duyker.
Alarmed, she got out, peeked in his window, looked around wildly. A sealed bicycle path wound through a scattering of nearby pine trees. On the other side of the pines it veered past a set of rusty swings and seesaws and around the perimeter of the football ground and tennis courts. There were houses after that, backing on to open farmland. It was a desolate stretch of land, choked with chest-high grass, blackberry canes and shadowy hollows. A solitary figure was walking along the bicycle path, almost one hundred metres ahead of Ellen, who recognised the uniform of Woodside, a well-heeled private school on the other side of the Peninsula. The girl wore the skirt very short, her long legs shapely but lazy under it, as she scuffed along the path. Suddenly the girl stiffened, stood stock-still in the centre of the path as Ellen hurried up behind her. Duyker was in a little clearing, barely visible in the transfiguring light. What a clichй, was Ellens first thought, for he wore a long coat. He was hunched a little, his hands busy, but Ellen could only speculate, for the girl was obscuring her view.
Suddenly Duyker crashed away through the trees and the girl laughed raucously at his back and tossed a stone after him. ‘Loser!’
‘Excuse me!’ yelled Ellen, out of breath.
‘What?’
It was Holly Stillwell. Ellen’s daughter had gone to school with Holly’s older sister. ‘Didn’t recognise you, Holly.’
‘Hi, Mrs Destry.’
‘Did that man…was that man…’
‘Creep!’ said Holly, laughing.
‘Did he expose himself to you?’
‘Gross!’ said Holly, still laughing. ‘Pathetic!’
‘I’ll walk you home,’ Ellen said.
‘That’s okay, Mrs Destry. No need, I’m all right.’
‘No, I insist.’
They walked. ‘How’s Larrayne? I haven’t seen her for like ages,’ Holly said.
‘She’s fine. Got exams soon. Look, Holly, I need you to give me a statement.’
Holly still thought it was a huge joke. ‘Forget it,’ she said, as if Ellen had offered to do her a favour. ‘I’ve seen worse. He’s just a pathetic little man.’
‘Still, it was indecent exposure and it’s illegal.’
‘Yeah, but all he did was wave his stupid willie at me. It’s not the first time that’s happened. I mean, it’s gross, but no big deal. No big deal, get it?’
The girl was irrepressible. ‘I get it,’ Ellen said. ‘But if it’s happened to you before, was it that man?’
‘Never seen him before,’ said Holly.
Ellen left it at that. Duyker would be on his guard now-in fact, Scobie Sutton saw Duyker dump half-a-dozen pornographic magazines that night.
And then, at Friday’s evening briefing, Ellen presented her little team with a more pressing development.
‘Owing to Van’s work, trawling through the files,’ she said, nodding her head at van Alphen, who replied with the briefest of expressionless smiles, ‘we have a very instructive cold case.’ She indicated an array of crime scene photographs, tapping them with her forefinger. ‘Serena Hanlon, eight years old, raped and strangled in 1996. Her body was found here, in Ferny Creek.’ She tapped a wall map that showed the city of Melbourne and the ranges to its east. ‘Her schoolbag was later found here, several kilometres away.’ She indicated the town of Sherbrooke.
‘Duyker?’ said Scobie.
Ellen leaned both hands on the back of her chair, inclining her body tensely over the head of the table. ‘In 1996 Duyker was living near Ferny Creek. He was working near Sherbrooke.’
‘Was he questioned?’
Ellen looked to van Alphen, who said, ‘No. He should have been a person of interest because he’d been questioned over an indecent behaviour incident in Sherbrooke a year earlier, but his name wasn’t passed on to detectives investigating the murder.’
They all shook their heads. ‘I know, I know,’ Ellen said. ‘One thousand suspects were eliminated in that case, two and a half thousand homes searched, one thousand cars searched, and Duyker wasn’t on the list.’
They were quiet, thinking that Katie Blasko had been lucky, and wondering how many other Serena Hanlons were out there, rotting in the ground.
‘He has a record for sexually deviant behaviour,’ Ellen said. ‘We ourselves have witnessed instances of it. What we don’t have is hard evidence that he also abducts and rapes, let alone kills, little girls. Mounting suspicion, yes. Evidence, no. Meanwhile the super, in his infinite wisdom, has cut down on our resources.’
She noticed, and ignored, the way that Kellock-the super’s friend-was watching her, giving her a sardonic smile, as if she were being unprofessional. ‘Kel?’ she queried.
He shrugged. ‘You could get Duyker for flashing that schoolkid.’
‘And see it thrown out because she won’t press charges? No thanks.’
‘You were there, Ellen.’
‘I didn’t actually see his penis,’ said Ellen, unable to hide her distaste for the word in this context.
‘Come on, Sarge, just say you did see it, and arrest him,’ said John Tankard.
‘Thank you, constable, for encouraging me to pervert the course of justice.’
Tankard flushed and muttered.
Ellen was angry now. ‘You guys just don’t get it, do you? Let’s say I do arrest him. He gets bail because some magistrate decides it’s trivial, and immediately absconds after destroying incriminating evidence. Or, if he sticks around and it goes to court a year from now, it’s my word against his because the girl won’t press charges. Or if he is convicted he gets a rap over the knuckles or a short custodial. I don’t want him to go down for a bullshit charge. I want him to go down for a very long time on charges of abducting and raping Katie Blasko and, if we’r
e lucky or he confesses, abducting, raping and murdering Serena Hanlon and God knows who else. Understood?’
‘Sarge,’ they said, looking away awkwardly.
‘I’ve got his DNA,’ said Scobie shyly.
Ellen paused, her mouth open. She closed it. Someone else said, ‘How?’
‘The porn magazines.’
‘He’d wanked over them?’
‘Yes,’ Scobie said. He looked around the room. ‘Probably inadmissible in court, but at least we can compare it to the samples found at the Katie Blasko scene and the murder of this other girl.’
Ellen smiled. ‘True. Good work.’
It was a nail in the coffin. That’s how most cases were built, a nail at a time. Even so, too much was resting on DNA matches and Ellen wanted more and better evidence than that. ‘Go home,’ she said. ‘I’ve arranged half-day shifts for each of you over the weekend, and we’ll begin in earnest again on Monday.’
Meanwhile Pam Murphy had come to the end of her second week of intensive study, this time at the police complex in the city. She had another week to go. Her parents had urged her to stay with them, for they lived only fifteen minutes by tram from police HQ, but they were old and frail, and she knew she’d get caught up in their lives, spend all of her free time shopping, cooking, cleaning, ironing and taking them to the doctor. They’d want to domesticate her. It was okay for her brothers to have professional lives but she’d always had the niggling feeling that her parents had assumed she’d get married and have kids.
And so she’d been commuting to the city from her home in Penzance Beach: thirty minutes by car up the Peninsula to the end-of-the-line station in Frankston, then one hour by train into the centre of the city-one hour of madly finishing essays or catching up on her seminar reading. Yeah, she felt guilty because she could have been helping her parents, and was tired from all of that travelling, but she was very glad to sleep in her own bed at night.
Like her-like almost everyone who worked at the Waterloo police station-Kees van Alphen didn’t live in the town. He lived in Somerville, a town some distance away, in a 1970s brick house that was much the same as the others in his cul-de-sac between the shops and the railway line. On her way home that Friday evening, Pam went by, checking his driveway. Good, his little white Golf was parked there.
‘Thought you’d like to read this, Sarge,’ she said, moments later, thrusting a manila folder at him.
Her essay on questioning techniques and strategies, back promptly from her tutor, marked A+. She could have e-mailed it to van Alphen, but wanted him to see the original, with the annotations, the ticks, the big red A+.
Van Alphen looked edgy. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare. It was odd to see him in casual clothes instead of his uniform, which always looked crisp and clean. His hair was damp; he smelt of shampoo and talc. He’d come home from work, showered and changed. Was he going out later? Did he have a woman with him? Pam realised that she knew nothing about his personal life and half hoped he’d ask her to dinner or a movie. She was attracted to him, only just realising it, her mind running with the thought. He reminded her of Inspector Challis, the same leanness, olive skin and air of stillness and prohibition. But in Challis the stillness and prohibition spelt shyness, a sensitivity that she didn’t necessarily want. In van Alphen there was coiled anger, and the air of a man who took shortcuts to get results, and she found that attractive right now. He’d always been kind to her.
He didn’t invite her in, and suddenly, she just knew, he wasn’t alone. The confirmation came immediately, a voice calling, ‘Hey, you got any vodka?’
A young guy, blue jeans, tight black T-shirt and vivid white trainers. Fifteen? Sixteen? Trying to pass as twenty, and almost succeeding, owing to the knowingness and deadness in his eyes. How was van Alphen going to explain this? ‘Pam, meet my nephew’? Pam waited, hoping that her face wasn’t betraying her.
‘Pam, this is Billy. Billy, Pam.’
‘Hi,’ Pam said.
The Billy guy smiled prettily and did a little exaggerated quiver and pout behind van Alphen’s back, enjoying himself.
‘Anyway, I’d better go,’ Pam said.
‘I’ll enjoy reading this,’ van Alphen said, gesturing with her essay.
Billy cooed ‘See ya!’ at her departing back.
40
It had been a long week for Hal Challis, too. First there were the mundane tasks associated with arranging his brother-in-law’s funeral. Until the state lab released the body, the family couldn’t even nominate a date, and had to be content with sounding out a firm of undertakers and the local Uniting Church minister.
Then there was the old man’s health. On Monday morning Challis found his father twitching on the sunroom floor, eyes badly frightened, the left side of his face and body entirely slack. He rang for an ambulance, and then for Rob Minchin, and finally for Meg.
The doctor beat the ambulance by a couple of minutes. He bent over Challis’s father, his fingers nimble. ‘I don’t think it’s a stroke, but we’ll take him in for observation.’
Later, in the hospital, Meg and Challis were obliged to wait. They were finally shown to their father’s bedside that afternoon. He looked weak, diminished, but gave them his old mulish, critical, combative glare. ‘Stop fussing. Rob said I can go home in a couple of days.’
‘But Dad-’
He lifted his frail hand but there was no frailty in it for Challis and Meg, who saw only his old sternness and lack of compromise.
On Wednesday, the old man back in his sunroom chair, Challis finally heard from Freya Berg, the Victorian pathologist, who gave him the name of her South Australian counterpart. ‘He’s a by-the-book kind of guy, Hal. Don’t expect much joy. But I did get a bit of information out of him. The techs didn’t find any prints or useful traces anywhere: the garbage bag, the body or the grave.’
‘Ballistics?’
‘Inconclusive. A couple of fragments, consistent with a projectile, but it must have been powerful, went straight through the skull.’
‘Thanks. I’ll give him a call.’
But the South Australian pathologist refused to answer questions or speculate. ‘I have released the body for burial. Kindly speak to the police if you want answers.’
Challis called the Homicide Squad’s office at police headquarters in Adelaide. Nixon returned his call that afternoon-from Mawson’s Bluff. ‘We’ve just taken your mate into custody.’
For a wild moment, Challis thought he meant Rob Minchin. ‘My mate?’
‘One Patrick Finucane.’
Challis was silent. He said, ‘How solid is your case?’
‘Probably less solid than if you hadn’t been sniffing around. Sir.’
Challis’s final calls of the day were to the undertaker and the Uniting Church minister. After some to and fro, they settled on Saturday morning for the funeral.
Ellen called him on Friday night. ‘Sorry it’s been a few days, Hal.’
She explained that she’d been working a lot of unpaid overtime, following one of her suspects. ‘But that’s not all.’
She told him about Serena Hanlon. He listened to her voice, far away, and sitting in one of his armchairs. He was listening to the meaning of her words, and listening for a sense of her face and body and personality. But the name Serena Hanlon seeped through. ‘Ferny Creek? Ten or so years ago? I worked that case. It was huge at the time.’
‘We think Duyker did it.’
‘He was in the area?’
‘Yes.’
They talked on, a kind of closeness building, and an antidote to the bad shadows of the night. She told him that McQuarrie had been ranting and raving to her about an ‘Evening Update’ story which had linked the Katie Blasko abduction with the Ferny Creek case.
‘He doesn’t strike me as an “Evening Update” kind of guy.’ Challis said.
‘Oh, sure. “Big Brother”, “Australian Idol”.’
‘At one with the common people?’
&n
bsp; ‘Of course.’
‘Couple of jars in the pub after work?’
Ellen snorted, as if registering the image of Superintendent McQuarrie in a crowd of beer drinkers. ‘Thanks, Hal, you’re a tonic’
He smiled at that.
‘But you do have a leak to the media, Ells.’
‘I know I do. What about you? Found your killer yet?’
‘The locals think they have. They arrested a guy I went to school with, Paddy Finucane.’
‘And…?’
‘I don’t think he did it.’
Saturday morning was like all of the other mornings that spring: mild to hot, a little dusty, the gum trees still and apt to creak as the temperature rose, the galahs and cockatoos wheeling and screeching. But the church was cool, dimly lit, with comforting gleams from the gold crosses and the stained glass. Challis was surprised to see that the pews were full, then realised that it wasn’t Gavin that people had come for necessarily but sympathy for the family, dismay at the kind of death suffered by Gavin, and a break from the long, monochrome days out here at the edge of the rain shadow.
That impression was reinforced at the graveside. Everyone was aware that Gavin had been found there; the freshly turned earth was suggestive of his original resting place, not his final one.
And while the minister said his final words and the coffin was lowered into the ground, Challis for a short time did what a good detective will do. He was standing with Eve, Meg and his father on one side of the grave, and from this position had a commanding view of the other mourners, who had spread out on the opposite side. His gaze roamed among their faces, which were serious, curious, blank, dutiful. Only two faces gave away more than that: Paddy Finucane’s wife, who stood at the margins of the mourners, and the RSPCA boss, Sadler. Mrs Finucane caught Challis’s eye, flushed sadly and when he looked again later, she’d disappeared, but Sadler was staring intently at Meg and Eve, almost as if he wanted to rush to their aid. Then he grew aware of Challis and the expression vanished. Challis didn’t see him again.