Chain of Evidence

by Garry Disher

  Have you? she repeated. Can I see it? Did you find stuff on his computer?

  Well let you know if we do find anything, they said, with sharkish good will. But a few minutes ago you pointed the finger at the Jarretts. Now you imply that van Alphen was killed because he was doing work for you, or that you would find out about him. You cant have it both ways.

  They are the two most logical avenues to explore.

  Sergeant van Alphen must have made enemies over the years.

  We all do, said Ellen, bored and hostile now.

  This is off the record, but we understand that the police shooting board findings will exonerate Kellock and van Alphen. Perhaps the Jarrett clan sensed this, and wanted revenge for Nick Jarrett.

  Ellen was expressionless. As far as she was concerned, truth, or at least the police version of it, was never black and white, A or B, but many things together, merging, overlapping and existing simultaneously.

  If thats all? she said, getting to her feet.

  They smiled broadly and emptily as she let herself out of the room.

  She found Scobie waiting. Well, that was fun.

  He nodded. Hed already had his turn with them.

  Some good news for you, though, Ellen said. She told him what shed been told about the shooting boards findings. Shed never seen a man so relieved, or so troubled. Meanwhile, what have you been doing? she said.

  I tried to get in and search Vans house. I was refused permission.

  Ellen shrugged. For a long time afterwards, she didnt reflect on Scobies remark. It was Friday. All she wanted to do was go home, pour herself a stiff drink, hang out with her daughter and call Hal Challis.

  * * * *

  When she got home at eight that evening, she saw a familiar red Commodore in the driveway. Her husband was in the sitting room, drinking a glass of wine with Larrayne, Larrayne with her long, youthful bare legs curled under her on the sofa. Alan was in the armchair that Ellen normally chose. He raised his glass. The great detective returns.

  He wasnt being snide. It had been an old joke between them, back when the marriage had been tolerable. She gave her husband and her daughter a wintry smile. Not such a great one this evening.

  Alan nodded soberly. I heard they gave the van Alphen shooting to some hot shots from the city.

  Ellen poured herself a glass of wine. It was a good wine, a Peninsula pinot noir, and therefore probably raided from Hal Challiss own stock. She glanced from the label to Larrayne, who winked. Cheers, she said, raising her glass. To what do we owe the honour of this visit?

  Dad said hed take me out to that new Thai place in Waterloo, Larrayne said.

  Youre welcome too, Ells, said Alan, clearly not meaning it.

  There was no way that Ellen was going. She glanced at Larrayne, trying to read her daughter, ready to step in if Larrayne wanted to study but couldnt say no to him. Im fine with it, Mum.

  Ellen looked more closely at her husband. Hed lost weight. Hed dressed up: new chinos, a new shirt. You look nice.

  He waggled his jaw from side to side. He did that when he was hiding something. He dissembled, glancing around the room. So, this is the boyfriends house.

  Ellen felt deeply fatigued. Shut up, Alan.

  He flushed dangerously and sloshed some of Challiss costly wine onto the hardwood floor. Dad, wed better go, Larrayne said.

  * * * *

  It was when they were gone that Ellen remembered Scobies remark. Hed wanted to search van Alphens house, and been refused permission. Well, naturally, for van Alphens murder wasnt their case. But van Alphen had been working on a case that was theirs, and he was a man full of secrets.

  Forty-five minutes later, with a hastily prepared ham sandwich inside her, Ellen snapped latex gloves onto her hands, slid open Kees van Alphens bathroom window catch with a thin blade, and let herself in. Shed called at the station first, going to the hardware cupboard and borrowingbut not signing fora piece of equipment used by electricians to check if power sockets were live. A dead socket could mean that a small safe was concealed behind it.

  She went through van Alphens house swiftly; all of the electrical sockets were genuine. Then she checked behind the paintings and prints hanging on his walls, kicked baseboards, listening for tell-tale hollow sounds, looked under the dirty clothing in the laundry basket, examined tins, jars and freezer packages. She was an expert at this. Now and-then over the years shed found small amounts of cash. Sometimes shed pocketed it. It was a kind of pathology that she should do something about, she thought idly. But she didnt want to see a counsellor or therapist. She believed that she could control it herself.

  Frustrated now, she went through the house again, hoping to avoid searching van Alphens garden shed, with its noisy tools, bins and cans, and uncomfortably close to the neighbours bedroom window. She pulled out drawers and felt under them. She looked behind the faade at the top of his old-fashioned wardrobe. The computer had been removed by the Fab Four from headquarters, but wouldnt van Alphen have concealed backup CDs or floppies somewhere? Books. CD and DVD covers. A tissue box.

  She looked at the TV set. It was small, years old, worth nothing to a junkie. She lifted it experimentally. It felt light. Van Alphen had gutted it.

  * * * *

  She waited until she got home. The material was a thin folder of statements, forms and photographs, and she quickly saw why van Alphen had hidden it, and she was betting that he hadnt signed it out from Records. She read right through, glad that hed been so thorough, heartbroken that the thoroughness had got him killed.

  In 2005, a boy named Andrew Retallick, then aged thirteen, had approached teachers at Peninsula High Schoolwho had contacted the Department of Human Services and Waterloo policeto say that hed been abused by a group of men for many years, in several locations, but mainly at a house on the outskirts of Waterloo. He described the house. He remembered a spa bath and soft toys. Hed been photographed in the spa bath, naked, with the men whod abused him. Hed been asked to suck his thumb and pose naked with the soft toys. The men varied: there was a hard core of four or five, with others whom he saw occasionally or only once. Some were dressed as policemen. The abuse had started when he was seven years old and continued for many years. He hadnt liked it but hadnt let himself think it was wrong. After all, policemen were involved. Whenever he was hurt, someone would tend to him. Going to high school had changed everything: not only was his body changing but sex education classes had opened his eyes to what had been done to him for all of those years. And so hed told his teachers, and DHS officers, counsellors and, finally, the police. But nothing had been done, and so hed stopped talking. He changed schools three times. He tried and failed to kill himself by cutting his wrists. That was last year.

  Ellen leafed through the file, making sense of the statements and forms. The photographs of Andrew showed a small, hunted-looking boy, although in one instance he was smiling, a sad smile but it transformed his face, so that he looked sweet and exotic. Long lashes, Ellen noted, dusky skin.

  Larrayne returned, looking tense. Mum, hes got a girlfriend. I had to sit there and hear all about her.

  So that was it. Larrayne seemed miserable, like a child who had tried and failed to keep her parents together. It was bound to happen, sweetheart.

  Its not fair.

  Ellen tried to hug her. Larrayne shrugged her off. Im going to bed.

  * * * *

  When the house was silent again under a barely moonlit sky, Ellen returned to van Alphens case notes. She read for some time, finally coming to his summary, written as fragmentary observations in his neat, pinched hand: A litany of errors or wilful obstruction. Two of ARs statements missing, computer files been tampered with. Parents were urged to let matters drop. Officers interviewed Neville/Shirley Clode, owners of the house where the abuse took place, Sept. 2005. They accepted Clodes explanation re spa roomhad been set up for granddaughter. Quote: The Clodes were interviewed and subjected to a background check. This showed them to be normal,
everyday citizens, who were completely shocked by the allegations. ARs parents angry re Office of Police Integritys decision to take no further action, despite independent confirmation that A had been abused (see report, Royal Childrens Hospitals Gatehouse Centre). Parents told me the senior sergeant in charge was v. aggressive. Warned them kids often lied about being sexually abused; allegations could destroy decent families, etc., etc. Quote: There is nothing further the police service can do for you. Meanwhile police members investigating As allegations did not contact his psych or the Gatehouse Centre.

  Managed to speak to AR. Hes unwilling to make further statements to police. Had been shown porn videos and magazines depicting him having sex with his abusers, feels deeply ashamed etc.

  Asked ARs parents if they wish to swear out a complaint against Snr Sgt Kellock. Declined. Asked AR to identify abusers from a photo array. Declined, but gave me the name of another abused youth, Billy DaCosta. Talked to a snitch who told me where to find DaC

  Ellen felt cold all over and the dark night pressed darker around the house on its quiet back road. If only van Alphen had come to her instead of finding Billy DaCosta himself. But hed always been a loner, despite his apparent matiness with Kellock and men like Kellock. And if hed always considered Kellock a friend, hed want to make pretty sure of his facts before accusing him. Perhaps he feared that Kellock would withdraw his support over the Nick Jarrett shooting, even change his story.

  The fear corroded her. She called Challis, and he answered immediately, sounding alert. Sorry to call you so late.

  Somethings wrong.

  Weve got a rotten apple, she said.

  She told him all about it. What do I do?

  Make absolutely certain of everything. Cover your back. Watch your back. Make multiple copies of every report, file and conversation, and secure them in separate locations. Trust no one. Ill be back as soon as I can.

  * * * *

  51

  At lunchtime on Monday, John Tankard stood in the canteen serving line, watching but not registering the wisps of steam escaping from the stainless-steel trays of Bolognese sauce, lasagne and Irish stew. He felt wretched: another weekend, nightmares and depression, so bad that hed barely made it through. Hed thought hed beaten the nightmares and depression. Clearly not. He could put it down to the stress of the job, but knew better: he was bitter and sad because hed lost his dream car.

  Not lost, exactly. It was in a mates lock-up garage, where it would never be found by the finance company.

  He took his bowl of lasagne to a corner table and picked at it. Someone cast a shadow over the table. Hello, Tank.

  Pam Murphy sat, beaming at him across the greasy Formica. Im back, she said.

  He noted sourly that she wasnt in uniform. That made him feel worse. Detective duties, he said flatly.

  Thats right.

  Whats the Iron Lady got in store for you?

  Thats what he called Sergeant Destry, whod always made him feel small, and more than once bawled him out over trifling incidents.

  Cut it out, Tank, Pam said, in a tone that said grow up.

  She looked good: leaner, more assured, and ready for business. Somehow he knew shed blossom in CIU and he hated her for it. He also wanted her more. He couldnt fight his body language: his eyes flicked over her with pathetic desire and longing, as of a lover left far behind, and she registered it, too, the bitch, unconsciously turning her trunk away from him, crossing her legs and shielding her breasts. One body reacting to another. He wished he wasnt so overweight.

  He changed the subject. Shitty thing, what happened to Van.

  He saw her eyes fill with tears. Yes.

  You going to the funeral tomorrow?

  Of course. Arent you?

  He shifted in his seat, then said, his voice imploring: Have you, like, heard any whispers?

  What about?

  You know, that he was, you know...

  He saw a flicker in her eyes. She had heard things, or had suspicions. I dont fucking believe it, myself, he snarled.

  She struggled to give him a bright, releasing smile. Same here. Good to see you again, Tank. Must go.

  Tank watched her leave the canteen, watched Senior Sergeant Kellock hold the door for her, big grin and a welcome back. Then Kellock was crossing the room toward him like a purposeful bear. Constable Tankard.

  Tank stood awkwardly. Sir.

  Sit down, son, sit down.

  Tank complied, Kellock sitting where Murphy had sat. He wondered what Kellock wanted, and felt his legs turn to jelly. They know Ive been selling information to the media, he thought. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times gaspingly.

  John, said Kellock in a kind uncle voice, you did the right thing last week, telling me that Sergeant van Alphen had found a witness.

  Sir, it just slipped out. I assumed you knew, actually. I would never have

  Of course I knew, son. Dont fret it.

  Thank you, sir.

  Its important at the senior level to keep abreast. Thats an important part of my job, John, making sure I keep in the loop.

  Sir.

  So if you ever hear anything you think I should know aboutlike Sergeant van Alphens secret witnesseven though I already knew then you must tell me. Because sometimes the right hand doesnt know what the left is doing.

  Sir.

  You did the right thing. Its not your fault he was shot, remember that. The fucking Jarretts shot him.

  Yeah, I know, said Tank. Sir.

  There was a pause. Kellock said, Another thing, JohnIve been looking through Sergeant van Alphens paperwork.

  At once Tank knew what this was about, but he said innocently, Sir?

  Trouble over a certain car?

  Tank blurted it out, the car, the finance company coming after him for the money and wanting to repossess.

  I mean, my cars on a black list, sir. It cant be registered anywhere in Australia, so what good is it to the finance company? I dont know why they want to repossess.

  But you are refusing to give it to them? They do have a legal right to it.

  Tank swallowed, barely concealing the shiftiness and desperation he was feeling. Actually, sir, he said, his voice not quite making the grade, some bastard stole it.

  Kellock put his huge head on one side. Incredible.

  Tank said nothing.

  How did Sergeant van Alphen get involved?

  Sir, he went with me to the finance company. You should have seen him, sir. He told them they had no legal standing, they loaned me money on an illegal car. Failed to do due diligence. Left themselves open to investigation for their part in a car re-birthing racket. It was bloody magnificent, sir. He told them if they wanted their money to go after the caryard proprietor. Unreal.

  Kellock was spoiling his grim exterior with a small smile. We lost a good man.

  We did, sir, said Tank, welling up, his throat thick with sudden grief.

  But thats where it ends, as far as the police are concerned, understood?

  Sir. Tank also took that as an obscure warning not to contact Evening Update ever again. Cross my heart, sir.

  You have dragged us into what is essentially a personal matter. Use a lawyer next time.

  Understood, sir.

  Back to work, John. Bike patrol, okay?

  Aww, sir, Tank protested.

  John.

  Sir.

  Tank went back to work. Bike patrol. Another of Kellocks bullshit innovations, like that road safety campaign a few months back, when he and Pam Murphy had driven around in a little sports car, rewarding courteous drivers. Bike patrol entailed zipping around Waterloo on a bicycle, an exercise aimed at keeping down bag snatching, car theft and theft from parked carscrimes that had escalated in recent years, what with Waterloos paradoxical growth in social distress and commercial activity. People were getting poorer but Waterloo also had a new K-Mart now, plus a Coles, a Ritchies and a Safeway, all with vast, choked car parks, a boon to thieving kids from the Seaview
estate.

  Hed barely completed a circuit of the foreshore reserve parking area when his mobile phone jangled. He dismounted, answered the call. The well drying up? growled the producer of Evening Update.

  Tank said, the words simply popping into his head and feeling right, I cant do this any more.

  Oh, I see. A crisis of conscience.

  Tank hated the guys tone and fluency. ItsIjust...