Chain of Evidence ic-4

by Garry Disher

  The little family was obliged to linger. Lisa Joyce was one of the last to approach them. She wore a sombre dress and shoes, her hair in a French bun, her face almost devoid of makeup, and to Challis looked the more beautiful for it. She clasped Meg’s hands, then Eve’s, and finally Challis’s. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She was frankly sad, all of her sensuality muted, and continued to grasp him, her slender fingers fierce. She was full of unexpressed emotions. He found himself searching her face, almost as if twenty years hadn’t passed and he was young again, wanting to know who she really was.

  Then she released him, stepped away and crossed the parched dirt reluctantly to the black Range Rover, where Rex Joyce waited. Joyce looked clean and crisp in a white shirt and dark suit, only his eyes giving his privations away.

  Challis felt exhausted suddenly. A week had passed, marked by tedium, frustration and banality, but overlying all of it, for Challis, was a sense of being watched and judged and found wanting.

  41

  On the following Monday morning, Sasha was out and about, lunging and veering after fugitive odours, nostrils to the ground, sometimes pausing to dribble on a post to mark her passage along the side streets of this part of Waterloo. She’d slipped her lead the moment her owner had left for work that morning, then squeezed through the gap where the drunken gate failed to seal the picket fence around 57 Warrawee Drive. The neighbours all knew her; one would feed her some kitchen scraps and return her to number 57 eventually. There was almost no traffic along these little streets, so no one was particularly concerned for her welfare. Besides, she had good road sense, for a dog.

  What neither the neighbours nor the owner knew was that she sometimes ventured several blocks away before returning to Warrawee Drive, and so she had a second encounter with Katie Blasko, who was being walked to school by her mother. This was a big day for Katie. She’d not been at school for the past fortnight, but both she, and Donna, knew that couldn’t last. Donna was walking her. There had been a time when Katie rode her bike to school, alone, but not any more. They were both too fearful for that, and both had endured two weeks of whispering, pointing and appalled fascination. And Donna had been feeling an obscure kind of shame, these past few days. Nothing would have happened to Katie if she hadn’t hired that photographer, or if she’d been a better mother instead of giving all of her attention to Justin and not enough to Katie. Then again, Katie could be a real little brat sometimes.

  But not just at the moment.

  They were a block from the school, Donna unfurling her umbrella against a spring shower, when Sasha bounded up to them, eyes bright, hindquarters in a frenzy. ‘Sasha!’ cried Katie, kneeling to hug the dog.

  ‘You’ll get wet,’ said Donna automatically. Dogs dismayed her. She was a cat person. Cats minded the rain.

  ‘This is Sasha!’ said Katie, still joyful.

  Donna frowned. It was great to see Katie so animated, but what was the story with this dog? ‘Sasha?’

  ‘She was in the van with me, and at the house,’ Katie said. Days had gone by and this was her first unconscious reference to that terrible time.

  Donna’s wits were about her. She went cold and still. ‘Are you sure?’

  Katie flipped around the registration and ID tags on Sasha’s collar. ‘See? Sasha Lowan, 57 Warrawee Drive, Waterloo. I remember now. And she knows me, don’t you, Sash? Oh, you’re a good girl, you’re such a good girl.’

  Dimly Donna remembered the police asking about a dog, dog hairs discovered on Katie’s clothing and in that horrible house. So horrible in Donna’s imagination that she’d vowed never again to drive anywhere near the place.

  She stood there in the gathering rain and got out her mobile phone. She had Sergeant Destry on speed dial.

  Ellen was in mid-briefing when the call came. She listened intently, then directed a slow-burning smile around the room. ‘We’ve found the dog.’

  She sent John Tankard to bring in the dog, and Scobie to contact the owner, then packed up and returned to her office.

  She was immersed in paperwork when Scobie reported back. ‘Spoke to the owner,’ he said, standing in her doorway.

  ‘Is he known to us?’

  ‘No. And he has an alibi. He’s one of the opticians in High Street. Bemused to think his dog might help us.’

  Then there was a commotion downstairs and Ellen found John Tankard there, surrounded by uniforms and civilian clerks oohing and aahing over the dog. Kellock was in the middle of it, clearly irritable. ‘This is a police station, not a bloody lost dogs’ home.’

  ‘Do you bite?’ said Ellen to the dog.

  Tankard, a little smitten, said, ‘Not a harmful bone in her, Sarge.’

  Ellen drove Sasha up to the ForenZics lab herself, a slow journey, owing to scudding rain. To her irritation, Riggs was on duty. She was beginning to think of him as her bete noire. He was a spike-haired young guy, with pierced eyebrows, earrings and a studded belt looped through black jeans. Lab-cool, as though he’d modelled himself on a character in a US forensic policing show. He looked askance at Sasha. ‘This is still a grey area. We might not be able to get DNA from the hairs found at the house. We can maybe testify that the hairs are similar, but a good lawyer will laugh that out of court.’

  Ellen shrugged. She was tired of Riggs. Meanwhile, police work often boiled down to ‘maybe’ and ‘might’. She watched him examine Sasha, who stood trembling, eyes rolled mournfully at Ellen, as though terrified that a vet with a big needle or greased finger was examining her. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered, fondling Sasha’s silky ears.

  ‘You’re in my way,’ said Riggs crossly. He elbowed Ellen aside and bent his head to Sasha’s neck. ‘Well, hello.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Looks like dry blood on the collar.’

  Ellen peered. ‘Sasha’s?’

  ‘There’s no injury here.’ He glanced quickly over the dog. ‘Nor elsewhere. She might have been in a fight. Or it’s her owner’s blood.’

  ‘Or a stranger’s.’

  ‘We’ll test it,’ said Riggs. ‘Test to see if it’s animal blood, then extract DNA and compare it to database samples.’

  ‘And that will take how long?’

  Riggs sniffed. ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘However,’ said Ellen, wanting to put the guy in his place, ‘the sample might prove to come from a ninety-year-old grandmother who died in a house fire three years ago.’

  Riggs went tight and red. ‘We’ve put new procedures in place,’ he said.

  Ellen returned to the Peninsula, Sasha asleep on the back seat, snoring a little. She went straight to van Alphen’s office, but the sergeant was out of the station, so she sought Kellock, who refused to let her have a couple of uniforms.

  ‘But I need to know if anyone witnessed the dog’s movements.’

  ‘The dogs movements? For God’s sake, Ells.’

  ‘It’s crucial,’ Ellen said stubbornly. ‘There was blood on the collar.’

  Kellock gazed at her for a long moment. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, or if indeed he was thinking. Eventually the words rumbled from his broad chest: ‘Sorry, can’t spare the troops.’

  Ellen scowled. ‘It’s as if all the urgency’s gone now that Katie’s been found.’

  Kellock shrugged massively. He was busy with files and barely glanced at her. ‘Have you seen the roads? They’re wet and slippery. We’ve had a spate of accidents-one of them caused by a Jarrett kid, incidentally, all of twelve years old, driving a stolen car.’

  Ellen didn’t doubt him, but she sensed that he’d lost interest in the Katie Blasko case. Meanwhile, where was van Alphen?

  And so she took Scobie Sutton with her. Scobie got behind the wheel before she could. His usual bad driving was exacerbated by the heavy rain, which Ellen knew was stirring the patina of grease and oil into a dangerous slick on the road surfaces. She grabbed the dashboard as he rounded a corner and braked mid-way down Warrawee Drive, his hands clutching th
e wheel inexpertly as he checked house numbers.

  ‘Two blocks from Katie Blasko’s,’ he said. ‘What do you think happened? Sasha wanders off, finds herself on Trevally Street, sees Duyker’s van with the door open, and somehow or other climbs aboard without being noticed.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Ellen said, gingerly letting go the dashboard.

  ‘But how did Sasha find her way home again? How long was she missing?’

  Ellen’s head snapped forward as Scobie reversed. ‘Obviously Duyker brought her back here,’ she gasped.

  Scobie braked again. ‘He’d rape and maybe kill a child, but be kind to a dog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Scobie considered that, full of doubt. ‘But why not let the dog out somewhere else? Why risk bringing it back?’

  ‘People would wonder. They’d take her to the pound, the RSPCA, a vet, the police. That would generate a record. But if Sasha is found or released a block or two from home, no one’s going to wonder about it.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  And so they began doorknocking. At 5.15 they got lucky.

  ‘Sasha? I know Sasha. She was with the little Blasko girl, the one who was abducted.’

  Ellen went cold. She regarded the speaker, an elderly woman, intently. ‘How do you know that, Mrs Cooper? That detail has never been made public’

  ‘I heard the child’s mother talking about it in the shop this afternoon.’

  Curse the woman, Ellen thought. ‘We need to know Sasha’s movements at the time of the abduction.’

  Mrs Cooper’s eyes twinkled. ‘You make Sasha sound as if she’s a suspect.’

  Ellen gave her a lop-sided grin. ‘My report-writing language infects my regular speech sometimes.’

  Mrs Cooper smiled. ‘I was an English teacher,’ she said cryptically. ‘Now, let’s see. I feed Sasha sometimes. Bacon rind. It’s too tough for my teeth.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I probably saw her that day, but I can’t be sure. Ask me something that happened forty years ago and I’ll remember every detail.’

  Ellen said carefully, ‘Did Sasha have a history of jumping into people’s cars?’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed she did! Sometimes she’d appear just as I was about to drive to the shops. She’d leap in and immediately go to sleep in the back. I always leave the window part-way down for her, whilst shopping. If it’s too hot, I make her get out of the car.’

  To halt the flood, Ellen said, ‘How did other people hereabouts treat her?’

  Mrs Cooper smiled at the ‘hereabouts’. ‘We all know her. Most try to discourage her. I suppose I should, too.’

  ‘What if someone didn’t realise that she’d jumped in?’

  ‘Then they’d drive all over the Peninsula with her, maybe even to Queensland with the holiday luggage.’

  ‘But people know where she lives. They’d bring her back eventually.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Scobie spoke for the first time. ‘Can you recall any instances of people letting Sasha out of their cars?’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was a white car,’ said Mrs Cooper after some thought. ‘I think it was white. I think it was recently.’

  ‘Could it have been a van?’

  ‘You know, it was a van. I saw Sasha jump out.’

  ‘Did you see or know the driver?’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t looking at the driver,’ Mrs Cooper said.

  Van Alphen reappeared for the evening briefing, offering an explanation but no apology. ‘I’ve been running down some leads,’ he said, his voice and body giving nothing away.

  It was contemptuous, and pissed Ellen off. ‘I’m trying to coordinate an inquiry here, Van, and you’re supposed to remain in the station and trawl through records.’

  Van Alphen shrugged.

  Ellen sighed. It was fruitless. She changed the subject, told them more about the dog. ‘I just got a call from the lab: the blood on Sasha’s collar is human, not animal. It will be some time before we have the DNA result.’

  ‘Human?’ said Kellock sharply. He threw down his pen. ‘Even if it is, there’s no way of determining how it got there. Meanwhile the procedures of that lab don’t exactly inspire confidence.’

  ‘Back to time-honoured methods, eh, Kel?’ Ellen said.

  Kellock looked fed up. ‘Always been good enough for me.’ He pushed back his chair, gathered his files. ‘Have to go. I’m giving a talk at a retirement home this evening.’

  Ellen was reminded again that a police station had a community role, a welfare role. Officers like Kellock went to schools, hospitals and other institutions, giving talks and assistance. It was something she hadn’t done for many years and she felt chastened.

  ‘Thanks, Kel.’

  Kellock left and the briefing continued. Everyone was tired, dispirited, and finally Ellen dismissed them. But as they filed out, van Alphen took Ellen aside. He looked sly and satisfied. ‘You need a decent witness, Ellen.’

  Ellen didn’t bother to reply. She was pissed off with him.

  ‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘I’ve found you one.’

  ‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘What kind of witness? Witness to what?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said hoarsely. ‘A street kid called Billy DaCosta.’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘Abused by several men over a period of three years, from when he was eight until puberty, when he no longer interested them. It happened at a house here on the Peninsula, but he’s not sure where.’

  Ellen straightened her back, feeling her old keenness returning. She looked fully at van Alphen, who was giving her his most cryptic half smile.

  ‘Several men. Like who?’

  ‘Clode and Duyker, among others.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Van. When were you intending to tell me this?’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘This kid identified them? How?’

  ‘Photos,’ van Alphen said. Suddenly he stiffened, and called, ‘Everything all right, Constable?’

  John Tankard had been hovering in the corridor. He came in, looking embarrassed. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’

  ‘Sarge.’

  Tankard turned back toward the door, looking stung. Ellen called after him: ‘John, you’ve been a great help to this investigation.’ She paused. ‘I’m confident we’ll see some results tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  When the room was clear again, van Alphen said, ‘Is he our media leak, do you think?’

  Ellen cocked her head. ‘You’ve been wondering about that, too?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It can wait,’ Ellen said. ‘What we need to do now is get this kid of yours to make a formal ID. Can you bring him in first thing in the morning?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Meanwhile I’d better tell Kellock about him.’

  Van Alphen grabbed her upper arm, his fingers like manacles, but his voice was mild and apologetic: ‘Not yet, Ellen, okay?’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Look, Kellock and I go back a long way, but he’s the senior officer in this station, and the eyes and ears of the superintendent. If you tell him I’ve found a witness, he’ll be obliged to pass the information on, and I can’t afford for the super or the shooting board to learn that I’ve been out in the field instead of desk bound.’

  Ellen wasn’t convinced by the argument, but said, ‘Suit yourself.’

  42

  It was odd having a kid around the place again. Kees van Alphen decided he liked it. His wife and teenage daughter long gone, living up in Melbourne now, he’d spent too many years living alone in this soulless house. Sure, a teenage boy is not the same thing as a teenage girl, especially if he sells his body for a living, but certain factors remained constant-the noisiness, the irreverence, the untidiness. Van Alphen decided that he’d been too obsessed with silence, solitariness and order. Billy
DaCosta was doing him good, especially with investigators sniffing around the Nick Jarrett shooting. It could be months before they reported back to the commissioner, and he didn’t know if Scobie Sutton would withstand the pressure.

  ‘You can’t keep me here forever,’ Billy said.

  On this Monday evening they were sitting at the kitchen table, going over Billy’s statement, van Alphen also preparing Billy for the types of questions he could expect from Ellen Destry and others. It was 9 pm, Billy wired, van Alphen weary. Cooking odours hung in the air: roast chicken and potatoes, salad with a sharp dressing. Billy had wolfed down the chicken, ignored the salad. He was extraordinarily thin, and van Alphen suspected that he’d slipped out during the day, maybe taken the train to Frankston and scored dope near the station.

  ‘I know I can’t keep you here forever,’ he replied, ‘but these are dangerous people.’

  ‘I can handle them,’ said Billy sultrily. ‘Got any ice cream?’

  Van Alphen went to the fridge, passing close to Billy’s chair, Billy stinking a little. You can’t expect a street kid to feel immediately at home and want to shower and launder his clothes regularly. Van Alphen longed to teach him these things, longed to meddle and guide, but he’d lost his wife and daughter that way, so kept his trap shut. Billy’s fingernails were grimy, his jeans torn at the knee, his T-shirt funky. Billy projected a certain look to attract the punters. It was a skinny urchin look, with a touch of cheekiness and vulnerability. Van Alphen was taken by it, but not sexually-although Billy thought he was.

  Billy shovelled the ice cream down his throat. ‘When are we going to do this?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow morning. Sergeant Destry’s getting impatient.’

  ‘I don’t want to appear in court.’

  ‘You might not have to.’

  ‘I could just disappear. You’d never find me.’

  That’s what van Alphen was afraid of. ‘Let’s at least get you on record,’ he said. ‘Video and audiotape, and a signed statement. That, together with other evidence we have, will help nail these bastards.’