Chain of Evidence

by Garry Disher

  There was a pause. Am I?

  Then, as he was beginning to think hed gone too far, she said, You are, too, Hal.

  * * * *

  24

  Operation Calling Card.

  While Ellen Destry had been interviewing Katie Blasko, van Alphen and Kellock found their ambush site, a house behind the fitness centre. It belonged to Kellocks wifes cousin, who worked on a Bass Strait oil rig and was therefore away for several days at a time. They fed the details to Ivan Henniker, and he fed them to Nick Jarrett. To cover themselves, van Alphen and Kellock obtained three other addresses, of people who were genuinely away on holiday, and arranged for each location to be staked out that night. Ivan Henniker was not told those addresses. We might get lucky and catch Nick Jarrett in the act, van Alphen and Kellock told the stakeout teams in one of the little briefing rooms behind the canteen, later that afternoon, or we might sit on our arses all night. It could be weeks before we trap the bastard.

  So Jarretts been fed four potential locations to burgle? asked John Tankard, who was highly motivated. Hed spent a fruitless morning in De Soto Lane with Scobie Sutton, and still cringed inside at the memory of his fear last Saturday night, encountering the Jarretts on that back road behind Waterloo.

  Yes, lied van Alphen. He glanced at his watch. Take the rest of the afternoon off. Meet you back here at eight tonight.

  John Tankard hurried out of the station. Four oclock. He was anxious to grab this small window of opportunity to do something about his new car. Hed shown it to a few mates at work, and their reactions had ranged from envy to ridicule (which Tank read as envy), but hed not had a chick in the passenger seat yetnot counting his little sister and the Northern Territory registration would run out soon.

  And so he drove around to Waterloo Motors and booked it in for a roadworthy test. He wouldnt be able to register the car in Victoria without it.

  I can fit you in early next week, the head mechanic said, flipping through the grimy pages of his desk diary.

  But the rego runs out on Friday, Tank said. He cursed that hed changed out of his uniform. The uniform gave him authority. In jeans and a T-shirt he was merely bulky.

  Hed had a shower though.

  The mechanic made tsk sounds and ruminated on the problem. Get it privately, did you?

  A dealer, Tank said.

  Dealers are supposed to provide a roadworthy certificate.

  The cars from Darwin, just traded in, not much registration left, so the guy discounted the price if Id buy it as it is, said Tank in a defensive rush.

  The mechanic said nothing but was unimpressed. Electric tools whirred and clattered beyond the door that led to the workshop area. Someone whistled, another dropped a spanner, and the air was laden with the odours of oil and grease. Everything was satisfying to John Tankard, except this hitch regarding the mechanics busy diary.

  I could do it first thing tomorrow, the guy said eventually.

  Awesome, said Tank.

  Seven-thirty?

  Tank intended to be still in bed at seven-thirty tomorrow, what with working late tonight on Kellocks and van Alphens operation to nab Nick Jarrett. You couldnt make it later?

  Nope.

  Tank thought about it. How about I give you the car now, you lock it up overnight, and start on it first thing in the morning.

  No problem.

  Got a loan car?

  Sorry, mate, none available, said the mechanic glibly.

  What he meant was, he didnt intend to loan Tank a car to compensate for a measly thirty-minute roadworthy test. So Tank walked home to his flat. It didnt feel right, walking. It put him too close to the populace, some of whom hed arrested over the years, and all of whom knew him as a bully.

  His mobile rang. Im waiting, said the producer from Evening Update.

  * * * *

  That same afternoon, Pam Murphy was trying to do things by the book. Excuse me, sir, she said.

  Confronting a guy who looked young, about twenty, and indistinguishable from other guys his age: baseball cap, loose T-shirt, baggy jeans, bulky, expensive trainers on his feet. And hostile with it.

  Im Constable Murphy, Pam said. One day shed be able to say Detective Constable, but not yet. She stood about four metres away from the kid, and to one side, the side hed try for if he wanted to make a run for it. On his other side was a chain-link fence, behind him a brick wall.

  So? said the guy, showing plenty of attitude, reminding her of a Jarrett hoon from the Seaview estate.

  How long have you been standing here?

  Whats it to you?

  Answer the question, please, sir, Pam said.

  Couple hours.

  Alone?

  Yeah.

  You havent moved from here in two hours?

  Nup. Whats this about?

  Theres been a report of a robbery near here.

  Yeah? So? You sayin I done it?

  Dont you want to know what kind of robbery? Perhaps you already know?

  Listen, bitch, I done nothin to no one.

  Youre in the vicinity. We have a witness description that matches yours.

  The guy getting edgy now, looking for a way out, even prepared to use violence. Yeah? Who?

  If I could see some ID please, sir.

  Last nights seminar had involved conflict resolution, a visiting American lecturing to them for three hours on how to use speech to deflect or negate threatening situations. The gun youre carrying isnt the most dangerous thing about you, hed said. Neither is your ability to use a baton or your fists or your boots. Its your tongue.

  Tongue = danger, Pam had written on her A4 writing pad, feeling a little absurd.

  Its your tongue and how quickly you use it to show anger or contempt, the lecturer continued, how quickly you use it to say the wrong thing or take the wrong tone. In certain situations it can be like throwing a match into a gas tank.

  John Tankards approach, Pam had thought, listening to the lecturer drone away. Hed gone on to explain how you should avoid conflict phrases such as Whats your problem, pal? and use peace phrases like May I help you, sir?

  Pam had scribbled dutifully: conflict phrases, peace phrases.

  Its all about sublimating ego and anger, the lecturer continued. Try to read your customers. What they say and what they mean can be two entirely different things.

  Customers? Jesus Christ. Sometimes Pam could sympathise with the likes of John Tankard. Shed raised her hand last night, the lecturer giving her plenty of lecture-circuit teeth. Yes, young lady?

  And when words fail?

  Then you kick ass, the lecturer said.

  So now Pam was trying the softly, softly approach with this twenty-year-old would-be gangster. Perhaps you have a drivers licence you can show me, sir?

  Got no pockets.

  You dont carry a wallet?

  Nah.

  Your name and address, then, sir.

  Why should I tell you my fucking name? This is bullshit. I done nothin wrong.

  Sir, Im obliged to investigate. Id like to be able to eliminate you from our inquiries, let you be on your way, so if you could just give me a name...

  Fuck you! the kid screamed.

  He had a knife. It seemed to materialise in his hand. He was wild-eyed, waving it around, there in that alley that smelt of cat piss and mouldering cardboard.

  Just as suddenly, Pam had her .38 centred on his chest. Sir, put the knife down, please. I dont want anybody to get hurt.

  Im not goin back to jail! I didnt steal nothin!

  Then you have nothing to worry about. Just put the knife down, please, sir.

  The tension left the kids face. It was gone in an eyeblink. He tossed the knife aside, said cockily, There. Satisfied?

  Pam bolstered her .38 warily. Thank you, sir. Now, if you could just step away from the knife.

  The kid snatched the knife from the ground. He lunged, the blade winking in the dim light, flicking cruelly past her unprotected stomach. Any closer and her gut
s would have spilt out. Shed relaxed too soon. She might fumble getting her revolver out again, drop it, have it snatched by this quicksilver kid, something shed never live downif she lived.

  She had a fallback position, her capsicum spray. Before the kid could take another swipe at her, she let him have it full in the face.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, overkill, he said, wiping water from his eyes.

  She grinned, handed him her handkerchief commiseratively.

  Not bad, Constable Murphy, the training officer said. Behind him the other trainees applauded ironically.

  Thank you, sir.

  But you know where you went wrong?

  Yes, sir. Didnt shoot him, sir.

  The other trainees cheered, and the kid, a senior constable, gave her the finger.

  * * * *

  Scobie Sutton got home at six that evening to a house full of cooking smells, but something else registered in his senses, too, an atmosphere. Maybe Beth had been yelling at Roslyn. She did that sometimes. She hadnt used to, before she was retrenched from her job with the shirevia e-mail. Scobie came to the back door, as usual, removed his shoes in the little space they called the mud room, as usual, and walked in his socks to the kitchen, where the fluorescent light was merciless, showing up the essential tackiness of their out-of-date cabinets and bench tops. Theyd had plans to renovate the kitchen, back when Beth still had her job. The atmosphere: it wasnt frustration or anger, it was guilt.

  Hello, my darlings, Scobie said, wondering if his tone alone would tip the balance toward harmony.

  Beth was brushing oil over an uncooked chicken. Cubes of potato and pumpkin ringed it. She hardly dared to glance at him but kept her face and eyes averted as she accepted his kiss. She felt stiff in his arms.

  Scobie turned to his daughter, who was absorbed with her homework. She liked to do her homework here. The kitchen was at the centre of things. The cheap pine desk in her bedroom wasnt. He ruffled her hair and kissed her bent neck. She squirmed delightedly before saying Daddy! and throwing her arms around him. He couldnt get enough of that.

  How was everyones day?

  Fine, his wife muttered.

  His had been miserable. That poor, poor child.

  Presently Roslyn wandered into the sitting room to watch The Simpsons. Scobie turned to his wife. Whats wrong? he said, his tone a little sharp.

  Ive done something stupid.

  Such as?

  They kept current bills, letters and junk mail in an old in-tray beside the fridge. Beth took out a brochure. I paid for this, she said, her face furiously red. My own money.

  Scobie scanned the brochure. It said Rising Stars Agency in bold type, with a list of the agencys accomplishments, including modelling contracts in Sydney and New York, and young actors placed in several films and TV shows. I thought it would help our finances if Ros got picked, Beth said.

  Scobie was pretty blind when it came to his daughter. His coworkers could have told him thatand some did. But even he didnt think it likely that Roslyn would be hired to model little dresses and tops for the Myer or Pumpkin Patch catalogues, or get picked to play someones kid in a TV serial. When was this?

  A month ago, said Beth in shame.

  Scobie dimly recalled it. Hed been embroiled in a murder inquiry at the time, obliging him to spend long hours away from home, and had thought his daughter was having her photograph taken at school. He felt stricken: poor Beth. All she wanted was to help ease the familys financial situation. But to do it like this! The world must be full of hopeful mothers, he thought, who believed their children photogenic enough to be models and actors. Oh well, he said gently, these sorts of things are bound to be a long shot.

  Its not that, Beth whispered. They promised theyd deliver the photos within seven days, but its been weeks now and they still havent arrived. I called the number on the brochure and got a recorded message, Please check the number and call again.

  Scobie frowned down at the brochure. No address, not even a post office box. Only a cell phone number.

  Youve been conned, sweetheart.

  Beths face crumpled. Oh, Scobie, Im so sorry.

  No harm done, Scobie said. Hed pass it on to the fraud squad. The guys prints might even be on the brochure.

  You dont have to go out again, do you? Beth said, wringing her hands a little.

  Scobie shook his head. Im staying home all night.

  * * * *

  25

  The darkest hours, well past midnight. Inside the ambush house, a roomy weatherboard cottage on a quiet street behind the fitness centre, van Alphen examined the expensive gear, the highly polished floorboards. The owner clearly made good money on the oil rigs. A tasteful place, if you discounted the Harley Davidson pennants and Grand Prix posterswhich van Alphen didnt.

  A night spent in silence in an unfamiliar house is a long night. From time to time Kellock and van Alphen took turns to prowl through the dark rooms, but otherwise they were still, and rarely conversed. They pinpointed which floorboards creaked, which leather armchair crepitated under their weight. Van Alphen was a smoker but he couldnt smoke tonight; Kellock badly wanted a drink. They didnt touch a light switch, rarely used the torch.

  At five minutes to four on the morning of Wednesday, 2 October, van Alphen whispered to Kellock, We have a visitor.

  They waited. They tracked the glow of a torch as it passed one window and then another. Nothing happened for ten minutes. Finally there came the sounds of a window being forced. They were in the sitting room. A short hallway led from it. They moved to the hallway, listened again.

  The spare bedroom.

  Still they waited, allowing time for the guyNick Jarrett?to boost himself through the window and into the room. They heard a soft thump, as though someone had jumped down onto a carpeted floor. Now, whispered van Alphen.

  Kellock moved first, a torch in one hand and his .38 Smith and Wesson service revolver in the other. Police, dont move! he shouted. Police, dont move!

  A retired forklift driver lived next door. Owing to his years of shift work at the oil depot on Westernport Bay, he often woke at four in the morning. He heard Kellocks shout. I heard it twice, he told investigators, in the days and weeks that followed.

  And then?

  Nothing for a while, then I heard a couple of shots.

  Two shots?

  Yes.

  How long after the shouted warning?

  Hard to say, really. Could have been two minutes, could have been five.

  * * * *

  So much for Scobie Suttons vow to stay in all night. He got the call, beating the ambulance, in fact. Kellock and van Alphen met him at the door. Hed always been intimidated by them. They were big men, in size and in the way they carried themselves, and had always treated him with faintly amused contempt, as though he were not a man, as though decent men, churchgoing men, were a joke. It couldnt be contempt though, could it? What sorts of upbringings had they had? What values had their parents instilled in them? Scobie couldnt work them out and was afraid, as they stood there in the doorway, not letting him in.

  Somehow he found the nerve to say, Unusual for a sergeant and a senior sergeant to be on a stakeout together.

  Kellock made a wide, lazy gesture, snideness in his sleepy eyes.

  Staff shortages, Scobe old son. Plus I had uniforms watching three other houses.

  Scobie swallowed. Can I come in?

  Both men pantomimed are-we-stopping-you? Scobie edged past them, then paused, looking at Kellocks arm. Youve cut yourself.

  Defensive wounds, van Alphen said matter-of-factly. He was right behind Scobie, practically breathing in his ear. The little cunt pulled a knife on him, didnt he, Kel?

  Yep.

  Who shot him? Scobie said, backing away from them.

  I did, Kellock said.

  Where is he?

  Along here.

  They took him to the spare bedroom. Nick Jarrett had apparently stumbled backwards, collided with the bed, and then fallen crooked
ly beside it. He wore overalls and had been shot twice in the chest. Gloved hands, his left clutching a knife. Good riddance, eh, Scobe? said Kellock, crowding him there in the doorway.