by Garry Disher
‘Oh. She had a boy with her.’
‘Travis.’
‘So you know him. You could have told me. Are they living together?’
‘Why don’t you ask her? She’s your daughter.’
‘No,’ said Ellen, feeling hurt and nasty, ‘she’s her dad’s daughter.’
They were silent. The past and the present sat heavily. Ellen sipped her drink and said, ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be home.’
He was attached to the accident investigation squad. He rarely had Friday nights free. ‘Meeting up with a friend later,’ he said.
Code for a female friend, a lover? Ellen wondered if he was telling the truth. It hadn’t occurred to her to think about his love life, for she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him again. Now she felt a faint twinge of something she hoped wasn’t jealousy. Was it jealousy because he had a love life, or jealousy because he had a love life and she didn’t? There was a world of difference between the two.
‘Oh yeah? Who?’
‘Are you jealous, Ells? Lover boy’s gone away and you’re all on your lonesome?’
‘Go to hell.’
She almost cut the connection, but found herself telling him about Katie Blasko. There had been a time, long ago, when they’d talked over their day’s work, the hassles and triumphs. That was before she’d become a sergeant and he’d failed the sergeant’s exam. That was before he’d decided she was sleeping with Challis.
‘I might be able to help there,’ he said, when she’d finished.
She sipped her gin-and-tonic. Challis’s sitting room began to take on warmer configurations. She liked its plain furniture and simplicity, the mix of wood and leather, the CD collection under the rows of books along one wall. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know, Ellen,’ he said impatiently, as though she’d doubted his abilities. ‘Check speed cameras in the area, infringement notices, stolen vehicle reports.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, oddly touched.
‘Yeah, well…’
Into the pause that followed, she said, ‘Don’t be late for your date.’
‘Oh, okay,’ he said mutedly, and she didn’t know if he’d been hinting for an excuse to break his date, or keeping up a pretence to make her jealous. She felt about sixteen again.
As she was getting ready for bed the phone rang, and Hal Challis said, ‘Burnt my house down yet?’
Relief flooded her. There was no cluttered history, he was rock solid and he’d be able to help her. Then, just as instantaneously, complications took shape in her mind. Her boss was a thousand kilometres away. He had troubles of his own. He’d left her in charge.
She cleared her throat, trying to rally. ‘Burnt the toast,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘How’s the grass?’
‘Long, getting longer.’
He said apologetically, ‘Get someone in to mow it for you. I’ll pay you back.’
They were far apart in the night, the staticky murmurs of the atmosphere sounding on the line between them. ‘Bad news,’ she said. ‘Nick Jarrett was acquitted.’
‘Hell.’
‘Tell me about it. McQuarrie’s steaming.’
‘I’ll bet. Look, don’t beat yourself up about it. We’ll get Jarrett on something else.’
‘Yeah, something minor, no jail time.’
They were silent, acknowledging the frustrations of the job. ‘Hal, there’s something else,’ Ellen said, and told him all about it: Katie Blasko, Katie’s home life, the delay, the indifference of van Alphen, McQuarrie’s grandstanding, and, more than anything, her doubts and fears.
‘You’re right to treat it as a worst-case scenario,’ Challis assured her. ‘When it’s a kid, you can’t afford to take chances.’
‘But I did take chances, Hal. Instead of sticking around this afternoon and mounting a proper search, I left Scobie in charge and swanned off to the city. What if she’s dead because I didn’t take it that one step further?’
‘But you have to cover the obvious bases first,’ he said soothingly, ‘and that’s what Scobie was doing.’
‘I know, but I feel guilty.’
‘And you’ve made up for it.’
She laughed without humour. ‘Now everyone thinks I’m overreacting.’
‘You’ve got good instincts,’ Challis said. ‘Better instincts than I have.’
Did she not believe him, or not believe that he believed it? She was about to reply when he said, ‘Get Kellock and van Alphen on side. They’ll look out for their own interests first, but they’re straight and they’re canny. Above all, don’t let McQuarrie stage-manage everything.’
‘I know. It’s just that I keep imagining Katie Blasko somewhere dark,’ she said. ‘She’s hurt. She’s scared. I know you have to take a step back and not get involved, but it’s hard.’
‘Actually,’ Challis said, ‘I don’t think you can be a good investigator if you don’t feel something. Feelings are an essential part of imagination and intuition. You can’t do those things cold.’
They’d never talked like this before. Perhaps it was the phone. She liked it. ‘You think so?’
‘Positive.’
‘Thanks, Hal.’
They lingered on the line. Eventually she heard him say, ‘Goodnight. Call me if you need me.’
‘How’s your dad?’ she said, because she wanted to know, and to prolong his voice in her ear.
9
Early on Saturday morning, Ellen was back at Katie Blasko’s house, acting on the firm principle that you always examine the home situation first. In this case she wanted another look at Justin Pedder, the mother’s de facto. His alibi for Thursday afternoon was sound, but that didn’t mean anything. For all that Ellen knew, he’d been sharing Katie with his mates, only this time something went wrong and they’d killed and dumped the girl. Or he’d stoked them with photos and fantasies and they’d decided they wanted some of that action while he was away at the races.
Or he was completely innocent. Certainly he was unknown to the rape squad, the child exploitation unit and the various government agencies like Children’s Services.
But Ellen was thinking of the six-year-old, Shelly. Was she next? Would Pedder groom her, too, and discard her as easily as he’d discarded Katie? Had Katie been discarded-too old? — or had something gone wrong, she’d been smothered to shut her up, or strangled because someone failed to control himself?
Wanting answers to some of these questions, Ellen knocked on Donna Blasko’s door at eight o’clock. Donna answered, blotchy from weeping and sleeplessness, stale smelling, a tissue in one hand, wearing a grimy towelling robe over men’s pyjama pants and a green T-shirt. The air was laden with odours: breakfast toast and bacon, and older, fuggier layers that Ellen automatically sifted through, identifying cigarettes, beer, marijuana and perspiration. She wanted to open up the house, every door and window. A TV set droned in the background: cartoons.
‘Have you found her?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘Sorry, Donna, and sorry to call so early. May I come in?’
‘S pose,’ said Donna reluctantly.
They moved through the sitting room to the kitchen at the back, skirting a pizza box, a bra, empty DVD case, the Saturday Herald Sun, toys, and the little sister, Shelly, sprawled in front of a wide-screen TV. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘You should see my place,’ said Ellen, then wondered why she’d said it. She didn’t have a place. Her old place had been tidy, with Larrayne no longer living in it. Donna looked at Ellen in astonishment, either because she thought the police were neat or she didn’t expect kindness. ‘Cuppa tea?’
‘Thank you.’
Ellen sat, touched the sticky tabletop, withdrew her hand into her lap. The sink was piled with breakfast dishes, the fridge noisy, the floor grimy, linoleum tiles lifting here and there. And apparently the cat liked to move its food from the bowl to the floor. Ellen itched to get a scraper out.
‘Justin still in bed?’
Donna shook her
head. ‘Out with his mates.’
Ellen’s disapproval must have been apparent, for Donna added aggrievedly, ‘They’re looking for Katie.’
Ellen got her notebook out. ‘Bright and early. Their names?’
‘They’re looking for Katie, I’m tellin’ ya.’
‘I don’t doubt it. We need to speak to everyone who’s had contact with your household in the past few weeks and months.’
‘I thought Katie was snatched off her bike?’
‘We’re not absolutely sure what happened,’ Ellen said. ‘But let’s not jump the gun.’ She paused. ‘I saw you on television, Donna. At no point did I state categorically to you that we thought Katie had been abducted.’
‘No, we had to hear that from the “Evening Update” guy.’
Ellen sighed. ‘There are other scenarios.’
‘So? She’s still missing, no matter what happened to her. Are the police actually doing anything to find her?’
‘Search parties went out at first light. From eight-thirty this morning an incident caravan will be parked at the entrance to Trevally Street. Officers will be on standby to hand out leaflets, answer questions and take statements. After school on Monday we’ve arranged for a model to trace Katie’s movements.’
Roslyn Sutton, in fact, Scobie’s daughter, the same age, build and height as Katie Blasko. ‘Do you have a photo of Katie on her bike? Wearing her helmet? We need to match bike and helmet.’
‘Somewhere.’
‘And a spare school uniform we can use?’
Donna was looking alarmed and confused. ‘Yeah, but what do you mean, a model?’
‘A child who resembles Katie will ride slowly from the school gates to this house, taking Katie’s usual route home. Then we’ll do it again, taking alternative routes. Several police officers will follow her, handing out leaflets. We’ll use a megaphone to explain what we’re doing. The purpose is to jog people’s memories, either of last Thursday or of other days when something out of the ordinary might have occurred.’
‘Like what?’
‘Perhaps Katie spoke to an adult along the way, a stranger or someone she knew. Or an unfamiliar vehicle was seen in the area. Anything at all. You’ll be surprised how well it works.’
Ellen held no hopes whatsoever that it would work, but couldn’t say that, and in fact Donna didn’t look gladdened. Her face crumpled.
‘You think she’s dead.’
‘We mustn’t give up hope.’
‘I wish Justin was here.’
‘A bit callous of him to leave you alone,’ Ellen said carefully.
‘I’m not alone,’ said Donna hotly, pointing in the direction of the TV in the other room. ‘Plus he’s not far away. He’s doing more than you lot to find Katie.’
Guilt? Smokescreen? Genuine concern? ‘How well did-do-he and Katie get along?’
Donna sniffed. ‘Not bad. Argue a bit.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff, noise, TV watching, homework, stuff like that. Katie’s always saying, “You’re not my dad”. She’s got a temper on her.’ A sudden change came over Donna’s face. ‘You think he done it, don’t you? Well, he was with me on Thursday and I can prove it. And if he was abusing her regular, or at all, would she shout and yell and give him cheek? I don’t think so. My uncle done stuff to me and I tell you now, it makes you quiet and sad.’
Ellen blinked away sudden tears. ‘I’m sorry, Donna.’
‘Yeah, well, so you should be.’
Ellen said carefully, ‘What about his relationship with the little one. Shelly’ She held up a placating hand. ‘I have to ask, Donna, to get it out of the way. If I don’t, someone harder and more senior will come along and ask,’ she added, feeling nasty and small.
‘Shelly? Shell adores him.’
‘She doesn’t say, “You’re not my father”?’
Donna was disgusted. ‘Justin is her father. God. Get your fucking facts right, why don’t you.’
Ellen blushed. ‘Forgive me, Donna, I should have checked. Are you Shelly’s mum?’
‘No. God. When we first met, I was alone with Katie and he was alone with Shelly.’
Ellen bent her head to her notebook to hide her face. She should have been told all of this. She should have checked.
‘Justin’s not involved, take it from me. His mates aren’t, either. They’ve all got kids of their own; we’re always in and out of each other’s houses. Yeah, they’re rough, they’ve got tattoos, a couple have even been done for minor stuff, but they’re not into anything sick. It’s a stranger, I tell ya.’
Ellen nodded, closing her notebook, glancing at the crowded refrigerator, where drawings, cards and photographs jostled. Peninsula Plumbing, the cards read. Mr Antenna. Waterloo Motors. Rising Stars Agency.
10
The Seaview Park kids were notorious for surging and flickering about the town like a dangerous organism, appearing, disappearing, dispersing, merging again. On Saturday morning they were first spotted forming inside the main entrance to the estate, eight of them, mostly Jarretts and Jarrett acolytes, aged between six and eleven; a moment later they were outside it, throwing eggs at passing cars. They were gone well before the police arrived. ‘So what else is new?’ sighed Pam Murphy, taking witness statements from irate motorists in between doorknocking and handing out flyers.
Over the next hour she tracked them by their crimes. They lifted packets of LifeSavers from Wally’s milk bar and spray paint from High Street Hardware. All along High Street they went, like quicksilver, terrorising the law-abiding. T-shirts from Hang Ten Surf Wear, sunglasses from a rack in the pharmacy, cheap jewellery from a couple of the $2 shops. Their movements were obvious: they were heading straight down High Street to the parkland on the waterfront, to the dodgem cars, shooting galleries, Ferris wheel, ghost train, flower, jam and cake displays, pony rides, outdoor art show, sound stage and food stalls that denoted the annual spring show in Waterloo. Pam didn’t know what they’d do there, but did know they’d do more than merely gawk or spend any money they’d stolen or cadged. It wasn’t in their nature to give to the community but to take. That was the Jarrett way, and there were plenty of takings at the Waterloo Show.
They had the Show sussed out within five minutes. The eleven-year-old said, ‘You like it up the arse?’ to a young woman pushing a pram. The nine-year-old snatched a purse. The twins pushed and shoved an old geezer who went red and breathless and an ambulance was called. They grabbed a fistful of Have You Seen Katie? leaflets from Donna Blasko and dumped them in a rubbish bin. On flowed the estate kids, untouchable, undetectable until the last moment, which was when their victims recognised that distinctive estate/Jarrett look, something quick and soulless.
‘Where you from?’ they demanded at one point.
Four kids visiting from Cranbourne, thirty minutes away. Outsider kids. The Jarretts knew all of the local kids.
‘Nowhere,’ the Cranbourne kids said.
‘Gotta be from somewhere.’
‘Over there,’ said one of the Cranbourne kids, meaning a few hundred metres up the road.
‘Liar.’
They crowded the outsiders, poked and jabbed. Wallets were taken. A knife was pulled, flashed once, leaving a ribbon of blood. Miraculously, an opening appeared. The Cranbourne kids ran for their lives. Whooping, the estate kids chased them, herded them, out of the showgrounds and back up High Street.
‘Save us!’ cried the visitors.
‘Get out,’ said the local shopkeepers, recognising the pursuers.
‘Youths hospitalised,’ said the next edition of the local paper.
While that was going on, Alysha Jarrett climbed over the fence at the rear of Neville Clode’s house, trampling the onion weed as it lay limp and dying, and knocked on his back door. When it opened she stood there wordlessly, looking at but not seeing the doorsill or his bare feet, the left foot with its birthmark like the remnant of a wine-red sock, the nails hooked and yellow
.
‘Don’t remember inviting you,’ he said, smirking.
She said nothing. He made room for her and she passed him, into the house. She breathed shallowly. He never aired the place, but that wasn’t uncommon in Alysha’s experience. She came from people who kept their doors and windows closed and abhorred the sun. She could detect cigarettes, alcohol and semen. She knew those smells.
‘Can’t keep away, can you?’ he said. She was thirteen and would soon be too old.
She shrugged. She never talked, never looked him in the face. Never looked at him anywhere if she could help it. She never used her own hands and mouth on him but pretended they belonged to someone else. Everything switched off when she came here. In fact she was never entirely switched on when she was away from here. She floated. She was unmoored. Her body had nothing to do with her.
‘Here you go,’ he said afterwards, giving her twenty dollars. Sometimes it was smokes, lollies, a bottle of sweet sherry. At the back door he sniffed, holding a tissue to his nostrils; he often got a nosebleed from the strain of labouring away at her body. Giving her what he called a cuddle, he peered out into his yard like a nervy mouse. ‘The coast is clear,’ he said, giving her bottom a pat. He’d washed her in the spa. She felt damp here and there. Alysha floated away with her $20, which she later spent on pills and went further away in her head.
Meanwhile Tank had the morning off. He’d been slotted for a grid search of Myers Reserve later in the day, followed by night patrol, so the morning was his one chance to take delivery of his Mazda. He went by train, getting off one station past Frankston, where the road that ran parallel to the tracks was used-car heaven, yards stretching in either direction, plastic flags snapping joyously in the breeze from the Bay. He set out on foot for Prestige Autos.
It was good to be decisive. Last weekend he’d driven all the way up to Car City, on the Maroondah Highway, and been told, at more than one yard, ‘It’s no good taking this car for a drive unless you mean to do business today’ Tank couldn’t believe it. ‘How do you sell cars if you don’t let anyone test drive them?’ The salesmen would gesture as if they didn’t care. Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps there were plenty of idiots with money to burn. ‘Do I look like a tyre kicker to you?’Tank had demanded. Another indifferent shrug. ‘Don’t you want my business? Do you think I’m broke?’ And they’d said, Are you prepared to do business today, or are you “just looking”?’
