Chain of Evidence

by Garry Disher

  Peninsula wide?

  Australia wide, Van. Our guy could be very mobile.

  Van Alphen scowled. I guess that will keep me out of trouble, but Id rather be out in the field, kicking down doors.

  Ellen patted him on the shoulder. Thats my boy. But right now I want everything you can give me on a Neville Clode. She gave the details. A full background check, she urged. Criminal record, vehicles registered in his name, circle of friends, his relatives, work colleagues, acquaintances, you know the drill.

  Van Alphen gave her an unreadable look and nodded abruptly. She crossed the room and said, Scobie? We have a suspect. She told him about Neville Clode and the DNA.

  Neville Clode? I questioned him a few days ago, that ag burg, guy ended up in hospital.

  Ellen nodded slowly. Interesting.

  He was knocked about pretty badly, wouldnt give straight answers. A falling out with his pals?

  Or maybe it wasnt an ag burg. Maybe he has a history, and one of his victims got revenge.

  He didnt seem the type.

  Scobie Sutton was easily, and often, impressed by the people he dealt with. He was a churchgoer, a decent family man, and perhaps the police would have a better press if more officers were like him, but the police also needed officers who could step over the line and inhabit the minds of the bad guys. Tell me about him.

  Scobie perched his bony rear on the edge of the main table while Ellen sat attentively. He works from home.

  As?

  Some kind of counsellor or healer.

  Psychologist? Physio? What?

  Cant recall.

  What can you recall?

  His place was trashed. A real mess. He was beaten pretty badly.

  Anything else?

  Scobie searched his memory. Theres a kind of spa room in his house. Spa bath and toys.

  Toys? Does he have children? A partner?

  Hes almost sixty.

  Scobie, does he have children or a partner?

  No sign of either.

  Lets go and rattle his cage, Ellen said, rattling her car keys at him.

  * * * *

  27

  Thirty minutes later, Ellen and Scobie were in an unmarked silver Falcon from the motor pool. Ellen drove. Scobie stretched his stick legs and yawned. The interior was stuffy, for the car had been sitting in the sun. Bird shit streaked the windscreen: trees ringed the car park behind the station and the birds were busy now, building nests. Scobie sneezed. Presently Ellen sneezed. Spring on the Peninsula brought a special kind of hell to hayfever sufferers. The air was laden with pollen. People suffered through it and their eyes itched.

  Roslyn cant stop talking about it, Scobie announced after a short period of blessed silence.

  About what? said Ellen before she could stop herself. At least the poor kids bowel movements had ceased to matter to her devoted father. Now it was how she coped with maths, friendship crises and the scary bits in Harry Potter.

  About riding her bike, dressed up like Katie Blasko.

  Ellen stirred, irritated. What mattered was what had happened to the real Katie Blasko, not the pretend Katies moment of fame. She didnt say any of this to Scobie Sutton. Hed be crestfallen, offended or bewildered, and Ellen didnt feel like coping with any of his reactions. Left or right? she said at the next intersection.

  Straight ahead, then the second on the left.

  He directed her past the fenced boundary of the Seaview Park estate to a low, newish-looking house set behind a screen of trees. Ten years old, Ellen guessed, assessing the architecture and the height of the trees. Not long after shed settled on the Peninsula with Alan and Larrayne, several streets had been carved out of what had been farmland on the outskirts of Waterloo. Alan had been interested in buying a plot and putting up a house, but Ellen had been adamant that as a copper she was not going to live where she worked, and so theyd bought the old fibro holiday house ten minutes drive away in Penzance Beach. And now that house had been sold and she was marking time in Challiss house.

  She braked the car. A small sign, burnt into a polished board mounted on a low concrete pillar that doubled as a letterbox, read Wellness Centre. Oh, for Gods sake, she muttered.

  Scobie knew what she meant. A hypochondriac, he was defensive. Dont knock it, Ellen. Our naturopath has really helped my arthritis and Beths depression.

  Naturopaths were probably the acceptable face of what bugged Ellen. It seemed to her that on every back road, side street or strip of shops on the Peninsula, a healer of some kind could be found. They set up wellness boutiques and read palms, Tarot cards and probably tea leaves, offered massage, crystal therapy or ear candlingwhatever that was and taught certificate courses in automatic writing and angel visions whatever they were.

  If you wanted to awaken your life-force, then a powerful and ancient Tibetan modality was available in Mornington. A woman in Penzance Beach offered Sandplay and Expressive Therapy. There was a Holistic clinic next door to a shoe shop in Waterloo, and even an Inner Balance Master a few hundred metres along the dirt road past Challiss house (yeah, she could just see Hal checking in for a treatment). Quacks came through lecturing on Thought Field Therapy at $500 a pop, or sold books and CDs that showed you how to become animal spirit intuitives, so long as you forked out $89.99 for a shamanic field guide that offered insight into the wisdom of Mother Earths natural creatures.

  The practitioners and devotees of this alternative Peninsula gave their children weird names, wore flower-power and vaguely Indian clothing and entered wispy, inept paintings in the local art shows. Ellen was pretty sure that the intelligence quotient of the Peninsula was lower than anywhere else on the planet.

  She ignored Scobie and got out. There was a small wooden rack mounted to the wall beside the front door. She took out a brochure and read that Neville Clodes Wellness Centre specialised in wellness for children, promising to cure their irritability, hypertension, nervousness, fears and phobias. Let me unlock the feelings, emotions and hidden belief systems that block the journey process to true maturity, he offered.

  Scobie stood beside her. He pushed the bell. She thrust the brochure at him. Jesus Christ, Scobiehe works with kids.

  Scobie read. Time ticked by. Here on Clodes street the houses were silent and far apart from each other, separated by trees and high paling fences. No witnesses, in other words. Im checking around the back, Ellen said.

  She prowled down the side of the house, passing a carport hung with grapevines that sheltered a Saab. A moment later she rounded the corner onto a broad yard and a scattering of fruit trees. There was a small aluminium garden shed. Two children, a girl and a boy aged about twelve, were disappearing over the back fence. They looked gleeful, panicky and hard-eyed, as if theyd been in trouble with the authorities for all of their short lives and werent about to reform. Even so, they were children, and they should have been in school.

  Ellen shouted futilely, then turned her attention to the rear wall of the house. Scobie was coming around the corner, still reading the brochure. The back door opened and a man stepped out, moving stiffly. Facial bruises were vivid on his face; blood streaked the whites of his blackened eyes; his top lip carried a couple of stitches..

  Mr Clode? My name is Sergeant Destry and youve met Constable Sutton.

  Did you get the little buggers? Clode said, his voice melodious, as though remembering that he was supposed to be a healer, a man who brought comfort to people. He approached Scobie warmly and shot out his hand. The two men shook. Then he offered his hand to Ellen and she ignored it. Do you know those children, Mr Clode? Were they visiting you?

  Through the damage to his face she could see a bleak, scoffing expression. Kids from the Seaview Park estate, he said. Surely no strangers to the police.

  Do you think theyre the ones who attacked you, Mr Clode? said Scobie.

  Could well be.

  Ellen wasnt having this. Shed read Clodes statement. I thought you said that men attacked you, not children.

 
Youngish men, I think.

  All right, did you recognise those children just now?

  No. I told them to clear off

  Would you recognise them again?

  I only saw their backs.

  Ellen stared at him, unconvinced. But she doubted shed recognise them, either. Are you in the habit of inviting children to your home, Mr Clode?

  He flushed. I didnt invite them.

  But you treat children.

  Thats different. And their parents bring them to me for therapy.

  May we come inside, please?

  He looked uncertain, but took them through to his sitting room. Has a parent made a complaint against me?

  Are the parents present when you treat their children? Ellen responded.

  No way. It destroys the energy.

  Ellen supposed that it probably did. Can you tell us what you were doing between Thursday afternoon last week and Monday afternoon this week?

  Whats this about? said Clode, appealing to Scobie.

  Just answer the question, Ellen said.

  I was in hospital for two days.

  And the other two days?

  Here.

  Can you prove that?

  I live alone, so no, I cant, said Clode, irritable now.

  Your appointment book might hold the answer.

  Clode coughed and shifted about. Actually, I didnt have any appointments. Im retraining.

  Retraining? As what?

  A thought field therapist.

  Ellen smirked.

  Look, why do you want to know my movements? What am I supposed to have done? Im a victim, remember.

  Do you own a white van?

  No, why?

  Do any of your friends or family?

  Dont think so. How would I know?

  I understand you have a spa room, with toys in it.

  To cover his confusion or apprehension, Clode threw up his hands. Whats that got to do with anything?

  Is it part of childrens therapy?

  No. Its for when my granddaughter visits.

  Ellen watched him for a long moment. He didnt waver. Is your wife with you, Mr Clode?

  She died.

  Oh, Im sorry, Ellen said unconvincingly. How many children do you have?

  My wife had a daughter from her previous marriage. Her names Grace.

  Oh.

  I rarely see them.

  Them?

  Grace is married. Husband and one daughter.

  They live some distance away?

  Clode shook his head. Just on the other side of the Peninsula.

  But you rarely see them.

  Im not related by blood, said Clode.

  How old was Grace when you married her mother?

  Clode thought about it. Early teens.

  How old is her daughter?

  About seven.

  An address, please, Mr Clode.

  Why? You havent told me what this is about.

  Whose white van did you borrow last Thursday?

  Clode was ready. I didnt borrow a white van. I didnt rent a white van. I dont own a white van. I dont know anyone who owns or drives a white van.

  Ellen sneezed and her eyes itched. She fished a damp tissue from her pocket, feeling obscurely undermined by her hayfever.

  Satisfied? said Clode. I get beaten up and you lot treat me like Im a suspect in some crime.

  We were thinking the assault on you might have been personal, Ellen said. I understand they also trashed your house pretty badly.

  The signs were still apparent in the sitting room: the remains of a chair in the corner and a crooked print on the wall. Clode shook his head. They would have been high on drugs. They stole a digital camera and a coin collection.

  Scobie frowned. You told me they hadnt taken anything.

  Ive had time for a proper look since then, Clode said. This is just a junkie burglary.

  More than that, Mr Clode, Scobie said. You were beaten up pretty badly.

  Ellen was watching Clode, and saw him go very still. Im fine. I dont want to make a fuss, he said. It hardly seems worth bothering about.

  Now, why is that? Ellen wondered. Muttering about briefings and deadlines, she nodded goodbye to Clode and hurried Scobie out to the car. So, what do you think?

  Scobie swung his mournful face toward her. About what?

  Scobie, wake up. What did you make of Clode?

  He seemed to make an effort. Er, its hard to tell.

  His head was all over the place. Forget it, Ellen said. Hal Challis had always been her sounding board, but he wasnt here.

  * * * *

  28

  This was his routine now, to leave the house for a couple of hours in the afternoon while his father napped. Meg was usually sitting with the old man when Challis returned. A freelance bookkeeper who worked from home, she had the freedom to come and go.

  That Wednesday Challis made for the little library, briefly pausing on the footpath for a road-train as it headed north with huge bales of hay to where the drought was most acute. He crossed the road and went in. The library opened on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and he was the only borrower. He selected three talking books for his father and took them to the desk.

  Hows your dad doing? the librarian asked.

  Retired now, shed been Challiss English teacher twenty-five years ago. Fine, Mrs Traill.

  She sighed. And Meg? I bet she needed the break.

  Did Mrs Traill know how demanding the old man could be? Challis smiled neutrally. Nothing was sacred or secret in the Bluff.

  Arms went around him from behind and his first thought was: Lisa. Even the words were the same. Guess who!

  More exuberant than Lisa. He turned and kissed his niece. You wagging school?

  As if Id come hereno offence, Mrs Traill.

  None taken, dear.

  Eve wasnt in school uniform, a liberty allowed the senior students, Challis supposed. She was returning a couple of books. Research?

  Exams soon, Uncle Hal.

  Have you seen Mark?

  Eve nodded. They gave him a ticking off, made him pay for petrol. She paused. Sorry I overreacted on Sunday.

  You were sticking up for your friend, Challis said. Thats important.

  She gave him a brief hug. Thanks. Wurfels okay, I suppose. A bit law and order, friends with the local gentry. She beamed at him challengingly.

  Challis glanced at Mrs Traill, who was seventy years old, round, comfortable and powdered, an old grandmother who had a perspective on everything and a sense of humour. She gave them both an enigmatic smile, as though she understood many of the things that happened in the town but kept them to herself. Let me take those books from you, dear.

  Eve handed them over. Hows Gramps?

  The same, said Challis.

  Tell him Ill try to pop in later.

  I will.

  Have to go, she said, looking at her watch.

  Challis glanced through the window. An old car, two girls and a boy in it, bopping to music. See ya, he said.

  See ya, and she was through the door and into the car.

  Mrs Traill smiled fondly after her. Shes often in here. She studies hard, that girl.

  Challis nodded.

  A tragedy.

  Challis gazed at her. Did you know Gavin very well?

  He wasnt from around here.

  Challis gave her a half smile. But did you know him?

  I was one of your mothers best friends. She told me about the strange mail Meg was getting.

  Mum and Meg didnt tell Dad about any of that.

  Who can blame them? A lovely man, your father, but some things are best kept quiet.

  Yes.

  Anything else?

  It suddenly occurred to Challis: the weekly Northern Herald would have covered Gavins disappearance. Unfortunately it was based in another town. Do you keep back issues of the local paper?

  Of course.

  Going back five years?

  Gavin?

 
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