Chain of Evidence

by Garry Disher

  Yes.

  Stay there.

  She was gone for some time. After a while, he strolled idly around the shelves, peering at book titles, and then heard the main door open and close. He peered through a gap in the books and saw a woman enter shyly, scurry to one of the little tables, remove a book from her cane basket and begin to read, all of her movements painfully slow and defeatist.

  You can use the back room, said Mrs Traill behind him.

  He jumped. Thanks.

  She led him behind her desk to a storeroom, where shed dumped dusty bound copies of the Northern Herald on a table. That woman who came in, he said.

  Alice Finucane, married to Paddy. Shes here every Wednesday and Friday, her only escape.

  Challis remembered a story that Meg had told him, of how Paddy had been reported to the RSPCA for mistreating his dogs. Gavin had investigated and been kicked and punched off the property.

  Poor thing, said Mrs Traill.

  Challis smiled non-committally and sat at the table. Ill leave you to it, said Mrs Traill reluctantly.

  When she was gone, Challis began to read. Gavins disappearance had been covered in fair detail, but there were no hard facts beyond the abandoned car and a faint hint that Gavin Hursts job had been demanding, which Challis read as meaning Gavin had been unpopular. He wiped dust from his hands, thanked Mrs Traill and left the building.

  The library was next door to the shire offices. Parked outside it was a dusty new Range Rover with tinted windows. One window whirred down and Lisa said, from the front passenger seat, Afternoon, handsome.

  Challis glanced automatically at the heavy glass doors of the shire offices. Rex is in there making a nuisance of himself, Lisa said.

  What about?

  Council rates. It happens every year.

  Challis stood by her door for a while and they chatted. Life had slowed right down, to this, gentle walks around the town and idle conversation. He half liked it. At the same time, he missed the Peninsula, and catching killers.

  Rex came out, looking angry. He wore the uniform of the successful grazier who doesnt like to get his hands dirty: tan, elastic-sided R. M. Williams riding boots, R. M. Williams moleskin pants, Country Road shirt, even a wool-symbol tie. Then Challis could smell the man: a heavy aftershave, tinged with alcoholic perspiration. Blurry red eyes, heightened red capillaries in his cheeks, dampness under the arms.

  Rex edged between Challis and the passenger door of his Range Rover. He placed a pale soft hand on his wifes forearm, which rested on the windowsill. Everything about him said: I got the girl. The girl chose me, not you.

  Sorry to hear about your father, Hal, he said, probably not meaning it.

  Challis nodded. Well, mustnt keep you.

  Challis nodded again and stepped away from the Range Rover, which sped away soon afterwards, voices muffled inside it.

  * * * *

  29

  That same Wednesday afternoon, John Tankard sloped off work to pick up his car. He intended to take it to the VicRoads office in Waterloo, wave the roadworthy certificate under their noses, and pay for a years registration. But the head mechanic at Waterloo Motors said, Bad news, pal.

  What?

  Im pretty sure your car was a grey import that was subject to rebirthing.

  Explain, Tank demanded.

  Your car was never sold in Australia. It came in as a grey import and was fitted with compliance plates and VIN number from a written-off vehicle. Theres no way it complies with Australian design rules. Even if you did spend the thousands and thousands of dollars necessary to make it compliant, there are no parts available locally, and service costs would be high.

  Tank snarled, Im a police officer.

  I can see that, the guy said, taking in Tanks uniform. As a policeman you know we have to abide by the regulations. Your car is missing many of the items necessary for registration here: side intrusion bars, child restraint mounting points, for example. He was reading from a list. The seatbelts dont pass, the cooling system is insufficient for Australian conditions, the speedo is only graduated to one hundred and eighty kilometres per hour, the exterior mirror on the drivers side is convexI could go on.

  Tears of rage and disappointment pricked Tanks eyes. He felt a black cloud hovering. Youre just loving this.

  The mechanic was unmoved. He handed Tank the keys. Theres no charge. I could see immediately what was wrong.

  Why didnt you call me?

  Busy, said the mechanic.

  Im going to see what VicRoads has to say about this.

  Ive already informed them. Sorry.

  Youre not sorry.

  Tank shot around to the VicRoads office in High Street and asked what could be done. He was hot and blustery and it did him no good at all. Im afraid weve already black-flagged your car, sniffed the guy behind the counter, the sniff owing a little to hayfever and a lot to superciliousness. He had very red lips, dampish eyes and nose. John Tankard wanted to thump him.

  What do you mean, black-flagged?

  Tank had slipped away from work for five minutes. He could see that hed need five hours.

  Just what I said. You cant register that car in Victoria, or anywhere in Australia. Weve black-flagged it.

  But I bought the car from a dealer fair and square.

  But not with a roadworthy certificate, apparently. That should have alerted you.

  Youre saying its my fault?

  Sorry, sir, but youre a policeman. Go back to the dealer and get him to return your money.

  The dealer, then the finance company, thought Tank miserably, and neither one is going to want to know me.

  * * * *

  Evening, the light outside setting toward full darkness as Ellen sat with a scotch in one of Challiss armchairs. The fact that it wasnt her own armchair, glass or scotch served to underline her estrangement from her old life. Shed had foundations back thenher own house, family lifeand now she was living alone in temporary accommodation. She took a gulp of scotch: seeing her situation in those terms was too depressing for words. For a start, it rendered Hal Challis as some kind of remote landlord who might turf her out at any moment. She needed to hear his voice. That would banish the image.

  She called him. No answer.

  She immediately called Larrayne. Everything okay, babe?

  Yes, for the ninetieth time.

  Larraynes voice was muffled, her tone distracted, as though she was engaged in some other activity, like painting her nails, taking notes from a textbook or fondling her boyfriend. Ellen didnt know. Larrayne had a new life now, new daily habits.

  Just checking.

  Yeah, yeah, Larrayne said, and Ellen wanted to slap her.

  Mum, said Larrayne suddenly, her tone focussing, are you working on this paedophile thing?

  Yes, Ellen said. Maybe shed get some respect, some acknowledgement.

  But Larrayne failed to follow through. Ellen heard chewing. Its a nasty one, she went on.

  Dont tell me, I dont want to know, Larrayne said, Ellen sensing a shudder of distaste in her daughter. A creature cried in the night. Maybe a fox, maybe after the ducklings.

  The call finished, Ellen turned to Evening Update, which told her that Katie Blasko had been abused and kept dosed with Temazepam. Now, that information could have been leaked by a hospital worker, but just as easily by a member of her team. Shit, shit, shit.

  * * * *

  30

  Just before lunch on Thursday, Ellen Destry learnt a great deal more about Neville Clode, owing to a visit from a Childrens Services psychologist.

  I dont understand why you didnt come to us as soon as Katie disappeared, Ellen said.

  What good would that have done?

  Jane Everard was about forty, with a cap of pale fine hair, and wore a sleeveless white shirt over a dark blue cotton skirt. Her glasses, costly and fashionable, glinted contemptuously, an impression reinforced by her mouth, half open with a sardonic twist to it. Her teeth were a little crooked, which Elle
n found oddly reassuring. In all other respects, Dr Everard was forbidding.

  They were in Ellens office on the first floor of the Waterloo police station. We would have investigated, Ellen replied.

  Yeah, sure, males investigating males, just like last time.

  Ellen stared at Everard, blinked, then leaned back from her desk, telling herself to be conciliatory, start again. Im sorry if you got no satisfaction last time, she said. But this is all new to me, so please be patient.

  The psychologist evidently weighed it up and returned Ellens smile. I hadnt realised that a woman was in charge of the abduction until I saw a story on the TV news, she said. I came forward, hoping youll be more amenable than a man. Im hoping youre not a part of the masculinist culture of the police.

  Careful, Ellen thought. Its not your place to point that out to meeven if I do agree. Why dont you start at the beginning, Dr Everard?

  After a moment, Everard said, Call me Jane.

  Jane, Ellen said. She didnt return the favour. She wanted to keep some distance. Maybe theyd become pals, but not yet.

  It all started eighteen months ago. A couple of teachers from Waterloo Secondary College started hearing rumours that kids from Seaview Park estate had been sexually molested by a man in the town. They went to the police, who seemed unable or unwilling to do anything.

  Ellen made a mental note to check the logs. Did they say why?

  Lack of evidence. The teachers didnt even have names to give them.

  Well, theres not much that we can do if we dont have possible victims or culprits to interview.

  Again she got a So, whats new? look from the psychologist, who went on to say, To cut a long story short, the principal and the welfare coordinator at the school contacted us to come in and run some workshops.

  Ellen glanced at her notes, hurriedly scrawled when Everard had first come into her office. You are the Child Sexual Abuse Prevention Agency, attached to Childrens Services?

  We are.

  Go on.

  We ran several classroom workshops at all age levels, from Year 7 through to Year 12.

  Ellen waited.

  We discussed the forms and levels of abuse, to help kids realise that they had rights, and the protection of the law, and how to avoid certain situations, and when and how to report abuse.

  And?

  Jane shrugged. As expected, it was new and terrifying information to many kids, nothing new to others. Most looked uncomfortable.

  Embarrassment is a great prophylactic, said Ellen, immediately regretting her choice of words.

  Jane cocked her head. You could say that.

  Ellen flushed. Did any of them come forward?

  We encouraged them to write down their concerns and pass those to us.

  Anonymously?

  Yes.

  And?

  Two girls in Year 7 and one girl in Year 8 asked to speak to us privately. They gave mobile phone numbers. One girl wrote this...

  Jane Everard poked a scrap of paper toward Ellen with a slender forefinger. The nail was blunt, but lacquered a bright red. Out of habit, Ellen prodded the note into position with a ballpoint pen.

  There is this guy Nev Clode in Waterloo, she read, and he does stuff to girls and he tried to do it to me but I run off but one of my friends didnt, I dont want to give you her name.

  Ellen looked up.

  Jane caught her expression. You know this Clode, dont you? Incredible. Absolutely incredible. How is it that hes roaming free?

  I cant discuss an ongoing investigation with you, Jane, you know that.

  Oh, bullshit. We have a paedophile in our midst, Katie Blasko was apparently abducted and raped by paedophiles.. .Are you going to look into this or not?

  Shed cast aside her formal enunciation, showing heat, showing a personality that Ellen could relate to. We are.

  You know this creep?

  Ellen smiled the kind of smile that answered Jane Everards question.

  Well, Ellen, Im telling you now, you wont get very far if youre relying on Senior Sergeant Kellock or Sergeant van Alphen.

  Ellen didnt want to hear this. Is that why youve come forward now? Because theyre in trouble?

  In trouble? They are trouble.

  Youd better explain.

  Glancing at her notes, the psychologist said, First, we spoke to the three girls in person. The writer of that note said, and I quote, Clode tried to kiss me and feel me and he tried to get me drunk. He showed me his dick as well. I ran away but this friend of mine goes back there sometimes. Everard glanced up at Ellen. The second girl gave a similar account, again refusing to name the friend, who turns out to be the third girl. She gave a clear, unprompted account of being abused. Clode would apparently sit her on his lap and reach around and touch her between the legs. On several occasions he raped her. He also took photographs of her.

  Did she consent?

  Jane said coldly, Does that matter? Shes thirteen.

  Ellen shook her head irritably. What I mean is, she goes back there, according to her friends. Why?

  Why do you think? He pays her, some cash now and then, marijuana, booze, cigarettes.

  Ellen felt stricken, and it must have shown in her face. Jane smiled kindly. I know, I know. She said lots of the estate kids visit him. She herself started going to him when she was eleven, in primary school.

  Can you give me her name?

  Jane wasnt keen to do that. Eventually she said, Only because I trust you. Its Alysha Jarrett.

  Ellen blinked.

  You know who she is?

  We know the family.

  Incest?

  Thats never been suggested, said Ellen carefully. Theyre known to us in other contexts. What did you do next?

  Contacted the sexual crimes unit in Melbourne.

  Not the Waterloo police?

  No. We wanted to act quickly and firmly on this. Big mistake.

  How so?

  Melbourne sent down three male detectives. They arrived half a day late. On arrival, they didnt come to see my colleagues or me but went straight to Kellock and van Alphenmates of theirs? By the time they came to see us, theyd already made up their minds.

  Did they interview the girls?

  If you can call it that.

  Explain.

  The interviews were a joke, lasting only ten or fifteen minutes. We saw the reports: nowhere do these so-called detectives give any detail about what questions they asked or what the children said in reply. Brief summaries are all you get, and even they are contradictory. I talked to the schools welfare coordinator, who was allowed to sit in on the interviews. She said the detectives were rude and intimidating. It was clear to her that theyd prejudged the children. In tone and body language they were accusing the children of being liars, stirrers, troublemakers.

  Ellen closed her eyes briefly. Oh, God, she murmured.

  Then these three esteemed members of Victoria Police went to the pub with Kellock and van Alphen.

  You saw them?

  Yes. We tried to talk to them immediately after the interviews, but they warned us off, said it would be all in their report. I was so pissed off I followed them to the pub. They gave me the cold shoulder.

  Id like copies of all reports.

  Im a step ahead of you, Jane Everard said, passing a folder across the desk. Main summary on top.

  Ellen scanned it quickly, catching the phrase on the grounds that no criminal offences were disclosed. She looked up. Did you follow through?

  We decided to report the matter to the Department of Human Services. They followed it up, then reported back to us, saying theyd elected not to pursue the matter further because the sexual crimes unit and the Waterloo police had told them that a full investigation had been carried out and the children were safe.

  Safe to be abused by Clode again, Ellen muttered.

  Are you going to do anything about this?Jane demanded.

  Yes.

  Jane got to her feet, gathered her things. Good luck,
she said, evidently not believing in luck, or Ellen.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile Scobie had been assigned to interview Neville Clodes married stepdaughter, Grace Duyker. He was shown into the kitchen of a kit house situated on a sandy track among ti-trees in Blairgowrie, on the Port Phillip Bay side of the Peninsula. The house was vaguely American log cabin and mid-western barn in design, the air laden with a headachy mix of new wood, carpet, plasterboard, paint and wood stain odours. And freshly baked muffins on a rack. Green numerals on the oven gave the time as 13.10. Scobie realised that he hadnt had lunch. Hed been poured a mug of weak tea but not offered a muffin.