Chain of Evidence

by Garry Disher

  She emerged with a shotgun and motioned with it. Out, she said, or I swear to God...

  Challis tried to hold himself upright but his spine tingled as he passed her in the long hallway and on down to the front door and out into the gathering darkness.

  * * * *

  53

  Meanwhile Scobie Sutton had arrived home and found Beth getting ready to go out. She was small, round, unfashionable and always did her duty as a wife and a Christian. With a pang, he compared her to Grace Duyker, who seemed to him the kind of woman whod admit some risk and improvisation into her life. Risk and improvisation like him, in fact. If he dared make the move. If she let him.

  Anything wrong, Scobe?

  He pushed the fingers of both hands back through his sparse hair tiredly. The van Alphen shooting.

  It was a good diversion, and close to the truth. The Fab FourEllen Destrys term, but entirely apthad questioned him again, this time concentrating on van Alphens role in the Nick Jarrett shooting. Pretty sketchy, these notes of yours, DC Sutton, they said, and Perhaps you were steered by Kellock and van Alphen, and It would appear that a culture of protection and containment exists in this police station. They asked questions that the shooting board officers had asked: Why had he failed to test for gunshot residue on the hands of Kellock and van Alphen? Why had he bundled items of clothing from both men together with the victim? Why had he let them move the body, or at least before he photographed it? Why had he failed to have the blood on the carpet tested, and allowed the carpet to be steam-cleaned?

  Scobie was a wreck.

  Where are you going? he asked his wife now.

  The Community House on the estate.

  Why?

  Beth gave him her mild, reproving smile. Sweetheart, I told you, the public meeting. The petition.

  Scobie remembered. The locals were trying again to have the Jarretts kicked out. Five hundred signatures from residents and local shopkeepers. Officials from Community Services and the Housing Commission would be there, together with Childrens Services welfare workers and a senior officer from Superintendent McQuarries HQ.

  Good luck, said Scobie tiredly, looking around the kitchen absently to see if shed prepared something for his dinner. He could see Grace Duyker coming up with something rare and subtle, a vaguely French sauce over tender veal, a fragrant Middle Eastern dish.

  I hate to see families broken up, Beth was saying worriedly, kids taken away. In my opinion this kind of pressure is only going to lead the Jarretts to more crime, not less.

  Scobie thought approvingly of Grace Duykers toughness and scorn, and found himself snarling at his wife: The Jarretts continue to commit crime because theyre evil, and because gullible people like you believe they can be saved.

  Beth stood stock still, her face white and shocked. Is that how you see me? Gullible?

  Scobie swallowed. I think you try to do good where it sometimes isnt warranted, where it wont work.

  Her hand went to her throat. Oh, Scobie, I thought I knew you.

  Forget I said it. Im sorry.

  I cant.

  Scobie touched her upper arm, his voice gentle. Go to your meeting, love.

  Beth said stoutly, I might just vote to let the Jarretts stay.

  Scobie, punch-drunk with tiredness and strange emotions, said, Do what you like.

  Suddenly he was bawling. Beth, with a brave little face, said, You work out whats wrong and well talk about it when I get back. For dinner you could zap last nights leftovers in the microwave.

  * * * *

  Detective Constable (provisional) Pam Murphy still had to sit a Police Board interview, but shed passed all of her core subjects and been assigned to work with Ellen Destry in Waterloo CIU, so life was looking pretty good by Monday evening.

  She didnt miss the physical training, the theory or the gruelling tests. She didnt miss the Academy at Glen Waverley or the classrooms at Command headquarters, where each day shed had to pass through the foyer with its glass cabinets displaying guns and other murder weapons. Instead, she was feeling thankful that it was all over. Sure, shed be obliged to take a million training courses in the coming years, but none of the really gruelling stuff. God, last week shed run into a group of guys whod enrolled for Special Operations Group training: of the sixty candidates, only nine had survived.

  Seven oclock, clouds across the moon, so it was pretty dark out, especially at the Penzance Beach yacht club. Uniform had checked it out: a burglary, meaning it was now a CIU case. Sergeant Destry, looking edgy and distracted, had told her John Tankard had called it in. Apparently the managers on the premises, waiting to give you a statement.

  The wind rose on the water, moaning through the ti-trees, and soon there was a lonely metallic pinging. Sail rigging, Pam realised, slapping against the masts of the yachts parked in the yard behind the clubhouse. She approached the building and found a door open but almost pitch black inside. She went in, one hand patting the wall for a light switch. Shed left her torch in the CIU Falcon. It occurred to her that she still had a lot to learn.

  Police! she called.

  Maybe the burglars had come back and beaten the manager over the head, tied and gagged him.

  The door slammed behind her.

  She spun around, thoroughly spooked now, and felt for the doorknob. It wouldnt budge. She was locked in. She looked up and around, trying to find the patches of lighter darkness that indicated the windows.

  They were clerestory windows, up high, far out of reach.

  She tried to swallow and her heart was hammering. She fumbled for her radio, badly panicked, the weeks of training counting for nothing.

  Stay cool, she told herself, releasing the call button of her radio, her mind racing. Think.

  Her thoughts didnt take her in the direction of burglars and burglary. They took her in the direction of rookies, probationary cops, who are always good for a laugh. It was entirely probable that everyone at the Waterloo police station was waiting to hear how she coped tonight. They wanted fear, loss of control, booming through the public address system. Theyd preserve her shame on tape, burn it onto a CD, for the world to enjoy over and over again.

  DC Pam Murphy, requesting urgent assistance, she said, pressing the transmit button.

  The radio crackled in delight, Go ahead, DC Murphy.

  Pam gave her location. Im with Constable John Tankard, she continued. Im afraid hes soiled his trousersfear, or a dodgy lasagne at lunchtime. Please send assistance and a spare nappy. The smell is awful.

  The dispatcher snorted. Will do.

  I got a peek when he cleaned himself up, Pam said. I know theres a height requirement for the Victoria Police, but shouldnt there also be a length requirement?

  Behind her the door was flung open and a teary, angry voice beseeched her to shut the hell up.

  * * * *

  54

  All through that long Monday, Ellen repeated it like a mantra: Trust no one. It made sense. According to Andrew Retallick, not just one but several policemen had abused him. Kellock, presumably, but who else? Maybe even the superintendent. Maybe even Scobie Sutton. She wasnt dealing with a couple of miserable individuals but a secretive, protective and organised circle of men. Shed known from other cases in Australia, Europe and the States how powerful these circles could be. The makers and keepers of the law often dominated: judges, lawyers, cops, parole officers. These men had the clout and know-how to protect themselves, subvert justice, and kill.

  At least now she knew that van Alphen hadnt been involved. That didnt mean hed been a sensitive, caring individual: fuck, he was so blinded by hatred of the Jarretts that hed branded Alysha a tart and liar and helped ambush Nick Jarrett. A vaunting avenger, yeah, but not a paedophile.

  Hed been working for the good guys, and that had cost him his life. Who had shot him? Kellock, probably. Ellen, in the incident room on Monday evening, glanced back over her shoulder and kept misjudging the reflections in the darkened windows. Would he come for her her
e? At Challiss? Arrange an ambush somewhere?

  She tried Larrayne again. The phone went to voice-mail again. Where was she? Finally she tried Larraynes mobile phone, knowing it was futile, for there was no signal in the little valley where Challis lived.

  But, bewilderingly, Larrayne was there on the line, shouting, shouting because there was background noise, not a weakened signal. Im in my car, Mum.

  Ellen practically fainted with relief. Where?

  Just coming in to Richmond.

  Ellen pictured the old suburb, on the river and close to the inner city. Students, yuppies, small back street factories, a solid working-class core and a long street of Vietnamese restaurants and businesses. She was puzzled and concerned. What are you doing there?

  Do I have to tell you everything? A group of us are having a swot session for next weeks exams.

  Thank God for that. When will you be back?

  I left a note on the table. Ill stay overnight, work in the library tomorrow, and come home tomorrow evening.

  Sweetie, can you stay away longer?

  Larrayne was the daughter of police officers. She said warily, Somethings happened.

  Ellen said simply, Someone might try to do me harm.

  Mum! You cant stay at that house any more, out in the middle of nowhere!

  I know that, sweetheart.

  Well?

  Ill find somewhere else, I promise.

  I dont like this, said Larrayne, a little hysterical now. Van was shot. Are the same people after you?

  Not if I get them first.

  Larrayne went into full paranoia mode. Text me, okay? Or send an e-mail with the details. Dont trust the phones.

  I will, sweetie.

  Ellen finished the call and went to the head of the stairs to listen. The station was muted but not dead. She heard voices and laughter. Suddenly Pam Murphys voice came crackling out of the public address speaker above Ellens head. There was an edge to it. Ellen listened tensely, realising that Pam was in trouble. But as she listened, she relaxed. Soon she was grinning. She said aloud, Good one, Pam, and returned to the incident room, where she made a call.

  I need you back here now.

  Sarge, Pam said, Im sorry about the radio business, but

  Forget that. I need you on another matter.

  Sarge.

  While she waited, Ellen mused. She dipped into her store of Kellock memories, Kellock over the past few weeks. The cuts on his hands, that morning she asked for extra uniforms. Scratches? From a dog, or Katie Blasko? The briefings in which hed discredited Alysha Jarrett. The briefings in which hed emphasised the DNA cockups. Hed been protecting Clode and Duyker, she realised. And in murdering van Alphen, hed been protecting the entire ring.

  But how did Billy DaCosta factor into all of this? How had Kellock got to him in time? Had Kellock intimidated or paid the kid into changing his story? Had Billy acted alone, spurred by the murder of van Alphen? Or had van Alphen, a man who would help shoot dead a criminal in the interests of meting out rough justice, not hesitated to create a witness to bring down Kellocks gang?

  There were no women in the lives of Clode and Duyker, but Kellock had a wife. A wife who suspected something? Colluded? Knew nothing? Ellen had once investigated a case of child abduction and murder in which the killer had a wife and children. On the surface he was a decent, plausible man, who went to church and was active in youth groups. When arrested, hed denied everything. Then hed claimed that the child had been the instigator. Then he said the child had choked in his car and hed panicked and buried her. A kind of accident, in other words: can I go home now? Finally, as Ellen and the other investigators pulled apart his story, he got angry. A moment later he was full of apologiesnot for losing his temper, as such, but for allowing his faade to slip. Yet it was the mans wife whom Ellen remembered. Shed known nothing of her husbands hidden life, or his past convictions for indecent exposure to children. She was protective of him. She dismissed everything that Ellen had to say.

  But Ellen had sown a seed. Before long the woman remembered that her husband had washed his own clothes on the day of the murder. Hed never done that before. Hed also washed and vacuumed his car, something he never did unless the family was going on vacation.

  Men like him are dead inside, Ellen thought now, feeling spooked by a movement in the window. Shed signed for a service .38 and put her hand on the butt, ready to slip it out of the holster on her hip. But it was only a passing headlightpossibly reflected upwards from a raked windscreencatching the corner of the whiteboard. On an impulse, she called Challis in South Australia.

  Voice-mail.

  She badly needed him here. She didnt deny it. She wanted his stillness. It was a supple kind of stillness. He was respected, and respectful, but people were wary, too, for they couldnt always read him. He was good at spotting complexities and nuances that others missed, but he also knew when to look the other way in the interests of commonsense and the best outcomes. He was a chameleon sometimes, able to connect with a homeless kid one moment and a clergyman the next. He remembered names: not only of criminals, informants and the people in the corner milk bar but also their families, friends and acquaintances.

  She also liked the shadows and planes of his face. The way his backside looked in a pair of pants, too, a nice distracting thought while it lasted. But right now she needed to know what hed do, if he were stuck in her situation. She swivelled agitatedly in her office chair.

  Funny how the mind works. Stuck in her situation. There was that old Creedence song shed played last night, Stuck in Mobile again. Why did place names in American popular songs sound mysterious, sad, romantic? Shed also played Sweet home, Alabama, singing along to the words. Yeah, she could see that working in Australia: Sweet home, New South Wales.. .Stuck in Nar Nar Goon North again... Twenty-four hours from Wagga Wagga.

  Sarge?

  Ellen jumped.

  I did knock, Sarge.

  Sorry, million miles away, Ellen said. Close the door, pull up a chair.

  Sarge, Pam said, obliging.

  You had a little fun tonight, Ellen said, when they were settled. It was now 10 pm.

  Pam laughed. Not the first time its happened to me. Back when I was fresh out of the academy they sent me to an address, said Mr Lyon was drunk and disorderly. It was the zoo.

  Ellen grinned. They sent me to the arms locker to get a left-handed revolver.

  God, that had been twenty years ago. Without wasting any more time, Ellen told Pam everything, watching the younger woman shift from perky interest to distaste and finally nervy alertness as she responded with the question uppermost in Ellens mind: If they can kill Van, whats to stop them from killing us?

  Ellen felt a tiny surge of hope. Pam had used the word us. It said that she saw herself as part of a team.

  We need to work fast. We need to talk to Billy DaCosta again; for a start.

  I saw him at Vans, Pam said, explaining the circumstances.

  Ellen regarded the younger woman for some time. You were fond of Van, werent you?

  Pam nodded, her eyes damp. I know he wasnt a paragon of virtue, Sarge, but he was on the right side.

  Ellen nodded. Youre going to his funeral?

  Yes.

  Me too.

  There was a brief, fraught pause, then Ellen coughed and said, Heres my interview with Billy. See if it tells us anything.

  She aimed the remote control and pushed the play button. Pam watched. She stiffened. Thats not Billy DaCosta.

  Ellen paused the tape. Thats not the kid you saw at Sergeant van Alphens house?

  Positive. Completely different kid. Sure, there are vague similaritiessame sort of clothing, same grubby gothic lookbut thats not the Billy I was introduced to.

  Ellen was silent. They looked at each other. The real Billys dead, Pam said.

  Yes.

  God, Pam said fervently, the nerve, the ability, not only to kill Van but also substitute a witness to discredit him.

  The substitu
te could also be dead.

  Sarge, Im scared.

  Me, too.

  What do we do?

  We try to find whoever this is, Ellen said, indicating the flickering screen. He might not be dead. He might be a victim whom theyve turned. He might be one of the gang now, and be willing to talk.

  Pam stared at the false Billy DaCosta. It looks like you interviewed him in the Victim Suite.

  Yes.

  Hes drinking Coke.

  Ellen sat very still for a moment, then went around and hugged the younger woman. Brilliant.