by Garry Disher
Scobie stared at the coffee rings on the incident room table. He gave a shuddering sigh.
‘Scobie!’
He blinked and jerked. ‘Yep. Sure.’
Ellen saw Kellock and van Alphen watching her appraisingly, the former built like a wrestler, the latter slender and hawkish and surprisingly like Hal Challis. Then van Alphen dropped his scrutiny, the narrow planes of his face relaxing into a slight, commiserative smile. ‘Forensics, Ellen?’
She shook her head bleakly. ‘Not as much as I’d hoped for. We’ve got a handful of prints and partials, but most of those will match people who have recently lived in the house, some of whom will be in the system for a range of unrelated offences-mothers jailed for dealing, kids for burglary, etcetera, etcetera. But all will have to be eliminated, which will take time. On the other hand, the cleaners do a pretty good job between tenants, and the last tenant, a battered wife, says she cleaned pretty thoroughly after herself, so we might pick up fresh prints.’
‘Only if our guy didn’t wear gloves,’ Kellock said.
‘True.’
Van Alphen was watching her again but not seeing her. ‘What is it, Van?’
‘He might have got careless.’
‘How?’
‘When he’s finished with her, is he going to kill her? Take her somewhere and release her? Either way, he’s not going to leave her in the house, is he?’
Ellen nodded. ‘You’re right. He knew the house would be vacant. He knew he had a few days. Whether he released her alive, or killed and dumped her, he would clean up after himself, with the obvious benefit of the cleaners coming along afterwards and accounting for anything he overlooked. It means he knew about the house and the emergency housing scheme. It was bad luck for him that the cleaners came along sooner than expected.’
‘Yes.’
‘An insider, someone who works for the shire or social services,’ Ellen said. ‘Scobie, can you look into that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. Now, forensics. We have a blanket, towels, a mattress, a chain and manacle, a range of clothing. And dog hairs.’
‘Dog hairs,’ Kellock said, throwing down his pen. ‘Could have come from anywhere. She patted a dog on the way home from school. A friend took a dog to school. The neighbours have a dog. Maybe it’s cross contamination: the cleaners carried dog hair in on their clothing or shoes. Can we get DNA? Do we have a dog to match it to? Dog hairs,’ he said in disgust.
‘Look,’ Ellen said, ‘I know we’re all frustrated by this case. But we don’t have much to go on, and the dog hairs were found at the scene and have to be accounted for.’
‘I heard there was blood, Sarge,’ John Tankard said.
‘Yes, but it might all be from the child.’
Of course, they were hoping otherwise. They were hoping their abductor had been scratched by Katie, or suffered a nosebleed. If his DNA was in Crimtrac, the national database of DNA, fingerprints, palm prints and paedophiles, then they could make an arrest and move on. In the best-case scenario, Crimtrac would give them a specific name, face and record, but Crimtrac was also proving itself helpful in solving cold cases, where identities were unknown, for most crims were repeat offenders, and most graduated from low-level to serious crimes. They cut themselves on glass pulling a modest burglary, and years later found themselves arrested for leaving DNA at a rape or murder scene. And Crimtrac was national, which helped in a country where the population was highly mobile. Twenty per cent of fingerprint inquiries lodged through Crimtrac led police to crimes committed hundreds, even thousands of kilometres away.
‘Semen?’ said Scobie. A good churchgoing man, it was a word he tiptoed around.
‘The techs ran a black light over the whole house but didn’t find any.’
‘He used a condom.’
‘Or washed everything. Bathed the girl afterwards,’ van Alphen said. ‘Ask her, Ellen.’
Ellen winced. She was not looking forward to that.
22
Katie Blasko had been taken to the Children’s Hospital in the city. Ellen waited through the long morning. When the call came to say that Katie was well enough to be interviewed, Ellen was in the CIU tearoom, rinsing her coffee mug and trying to think of ways to further deface the sign that read: ‘Don’t expect someone else to wash up after you-you’re not at home now.’ She shook the water off her hands, flipped open her mobile phone. ‘Scobie, we’ve got the okay. Meet you downstairs in five.’
She encountered Kees van Alphen on the stairs. ‘Take me with you,’ he said.
Ellen shook her head. ‘I need your eyes on the records, Van. Sorry.’
He scowled, stalked away, unaware of Ellen’s real reason for not wanting him with her when she interviewed Katie Blasko. Van Alphen was a prohibitive-looking man, and long estranged from his wife and teenage daughter: quite simply, Ellen felt that he would frighten the child.
She drove. Scobie Sutton could be an appalling passenger, given to outlining the daily inanities of his home life, but an even worse driver: slow, talkative and easily distracted. She was prepared to ask him to shut up if he got started, but he rode in silence that afternoon. He’s still shocked, she thought. He’s conflating Katie Blasko and his daughter.
She headed along the old Peninsula highway to Frankston, where the road widened, three lanes in and out, a ribbon of black bisecting hectares of low brick houses with tiled roofs. Frankston is Australia, she thought, with its modest, usually disappointed expectations and achievements, its anxieties and conservatism. We admire rapist footballers, own plasma TVs we can’t afford, grow obese and vote to keep out strangers. Our fifteen-year-olds get poor educations and move on to senseless crimes, addiction, jail time or death behind the wheel of a stolen car, and if they make it past fifteen they can’t find work. A great, banal sameness defines us, making us mostly soporific- but nasty if cornered. We’re vicious with paedophiles, probably because we produce them. Ellen felt sick and sour and an atmosphere built up in the car, as if they both felt it.
She made an effort. ‘It’s a pity Pam Murphy can’t be assigned to this. Good experience for her.’
Scobie stirred in the passenger seat. He wore old-fashioned aftershave, stale and dense in the confines of the CIU car. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he struggled to cross his long legs under the glove box.
‘Yes.’
Ellen sighed and drove on, through the endless suburbs, and then finally along the river, the glassy office buildings of the city centre now clearly visible. The traffic raced and darted, unnerving her. She edged across to the outer lane, took the exit that would lead her to the hospital.
They were shown to a suite intended to comfort children whenever the authorities were obliged to step in with questions, intervention orders or counselling. The surfaces were soft, the colours cheery, the light muted. There was a TV set, a sound system, plenty of books and toys. Donna Blasko was seated on a sofa, cuddling Katie. A paediatric nurse, smiling, bouncy, like a big sister, sat in the corner. Scobie joined the nurse, leaving the interview to Ellen.
The first thing Ellen did was separate mother and daughter. ‘Donna,’ she murmured, ‘I’d like you to sit with the others. That way Katie can concentrate for me, but know that you’re still in the room.’
Looking doubtful, Donna complied. Katie immediately reached out, alarmed, but Donna reassured her, saying, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m right here.’
Out of Katie’s direct line of sight, fortunately. Ellen smiled encouragingly at both of them. Katie swallowed, fighting down her panic, lost in a vast stretch of flowery upholstery. Donna said from her chair next to Scobie, ‘If Katie can’t hack it, I’m terminating. Terminating.’
‘Of course,’ said Ellen gently.
‘Sweetie, the police just need to ask you some questions, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Ellen smiled at Katie. ‘My name is Ellen. That kind man is Scobie. He’s got a daughter your age. And you know what?
Yesterday she pretended to be you. We dressed her up like you, put her on a bike like yours, and she rode home from your school for us, to help jog people’s memories.’
Katie, mouth open, in awe as she grasped the significance of the police effort and her notoriety, risked a meek smile at Scobie. Scobie returned it, a huge, transfiguring smile, one of great sweetness. Katie relaxed further and turned her attention back to Ellen.
‘We want to catch the man who hurt you.’
‘Catch all the men,’ Katie said.
Ellen said carefully, ‘How many were there?’
‘I think four.’
Ellen closed her eyes briefly, opened them again. Her voice cracked a little. ‘Four men. Can you describe them to me?’
Katie grimaced, wiping her palms on her thighs. She wore a striped hooded top over a pink T-shirt and yellow cargo pants, the colours pastelly and new. Red canvas shoes. Pink ankle socks. Her fingernails were bright red, but chipped, and Ellen realised with a shock that the men had probably painted them for her.
‘They had grey hair and moustaches,’ Katie said. ‘And glasses.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
Disguises, Ellen thought. Anything else?’
Katie tossed in distress. ‘I was so sleepy. I could hardly keep my eyes open.’
Temazepam had been found in her system. ‘Let’s concentrate on something else,’ Ellen said. After school on Thursday you set out on your bike to ride home.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Katie.
‘What route did you take?’
Katie looked hunted. She swallowed and said, ‘I went past the Show.’
Donna attempted joviality, tut-tutting in the background. ‘Oh, Katie, we told you not to do that.’
The interruption had an unintended effect. Katie’s face grew stubborn, as though she were tired of being nagged, and this small rebellion made her stronger. Ellen stepped in, taking advantage. ‘I used to do that, when I was a kid. Did you ride past the Show every day after school?’
‘Yes.’
‘During those rides, did you ever see the man who kidnapped you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever see a white van driving or parked nearby?’
‘I can’t remember. Don’t think so.’
But the abductor and his van would have been nearby, Ellen was convinced of that. ‘Did you ever go into the showgrounds? Spend your pocket money on the rides, for example, or just wander around?’
With a look at her mother, Katie whispered, ‘Yes.’
Ellen nodded. She would make a public appeal asking Show visitors to hand in their photographs and video footage. They might get lucky and spot Katie, particularly Katie being followed or watched. ‘Describe what happened after you left the Show last Thursday.’
Katie took a deep breath and matter-of-factly described the man who had abducted her and the circumstances of the abduction itself. ‘Then I woke up in a strange house,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember getting there.’ She swallowed once or twice. ‘I hardly remember anything,’ she wailed. ‘I felt woozy all the time. My tummy was really sore, I was bleeding.’
Donna uttered an inarticulate cry; Scobie and the nurse murmured reassuringly. Ellen, trying hard not to weep, said, ‘But you’re sure that only one man put you in the van? There were no passengers inside it?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘You already asked me that.’
‘No,’ said Ellen gently, ‘I asked if you’d seen that man in the days leading up to Thursday.’
‘I didn’t know him,’ said Katie. ‘He said my mum needed me.’
Again Donna wailed. Ellen said above it, ‘What can you tell me about the van?’
‘It was white.’
‘That will help us very much. Thank you. What about the inside of it?’
Katie cast her mind back. ‘It was white. There were these boxes and stuff, and plastic bags.’ Her mind cleared. ‘And this cute little dog. Sasha.’
Ellen beamed. ‘How do you know it was called Sasha?’
‘It was on her collar, this tag thing.’
‘Any other name?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘An address, or phone number?’
‘I don’t remember!’
‘That’s all right, you’re doing extremely well. That man made a big mistake, letting you read his dog’s collar.’
Katie gave an almost comical look of dismay. ‘Sasha wasn’t his. He was really surprised. Sasha must have jumped in when he wasn’t looking.’
There goes one line of inquiry, thought Ellen gloomily. ‘Did he let her out again?’
‘No. She came with us. We cuddled each other. She stayed in that room with me.’ Katie started to wail. ‘Then next day she was gone.’
Ellen knew she’d not get much more out of the child. ‘Perhaps she ran away.’
‘She was scared. They hurt her.’
‘Poor Sasha.’
‘Once she knocked over the tripod for the camera. Another time she bit one of the men when he touched me.’
She was deeply distressed now, suddenly gulping, and reaching for Donna. Donna shook off Scobie and hugged her daughter, too late to avoid a jet of vomit, but not caring about that at all, just as Ellen didn’t care.
23
The death of Ted Anderson on Isolation Pass, the earlier death of his wife from cancer, and the survival of their little daughter resolved themselves into the kind of small-town tragedy that on a slow news day will go national. The story was an ABC news item on Monday night and in the Adelaide Advertiser on Tuesday morning. Challis’s father took a gloomy interest in it, seated in the sunroom with a blanket over his knees, the newspaper in tented sections on the floor, the sofa, and the coffee table. ‘Suicide,’ was his verdict, gloomily expressed, as though he wished for the ways and means to speed his own death.
Challis privately agreed, for the town’s gossips claimed that Ted Anderson had been despondent in recent months. But Challis was feeling contentious, a reaction to the past few days spent cooped up with his father. ‘The Pass is a dangerous stretch of road, Dad.’
‘The poor man lost his wife to cancer. He wasn’t coping.’
‘That was five years ago.’
‘Still,’ his father said.
Challis felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t been here to see what his mother’s death had done to his father. Like Ted Anderson, the old man wished for death, his body obliging him slowly, but Ted Anderson’s method had been quicker and more absolute.
That afternoon, Challis wandered down to the police station, a small brick building behind the shire council offices. The walls and floor were a pale, institutional green, the reception desk high and laminated, the noticeboards rustling with wanted posters, a faded gun amnesty notice, and pamphlets regarding home security and driving offences. A civilian clerk said, ‘Help you?’
She was young. He didn’t know her. ‘Is Sergeant Wurfel in?’
Her jaws snapped. ‘Yeah.’
Challis said patiently, ‘Then may I see him?’
Her face cleared. ‘Okay.’
She disappeared through a door and returned with Wurfel, who gave him a flat cops’ look and jerked his head. ‘Come through.’
Wurfel took Challis along a short corridor to his office. ‘Take a seat. I asked around about you.’
Challis shifted a little in his chair. ‘I’m here as a civilian.’
‘Fair enough.’
Carl Wurfel was a familiar type to Challis: large-framed, a heavy drinker but not a drunk, tough and pragmatic but not necessarily a bully, probably divorced. He scared people and got the job done. He wouldn’t respond to cop talk from Challis.
‘If you know about me then you know that my brother-in-law disappeared out east a few years ago.’
Wurfel nodded.
‘I’m looking into it,’ Challis went on.
‘It was looked into at the ti
me.’
‘You checked the file?’
‘Soon as I knew who you were.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Why?’
Challis eyed him carefully. ‘I need to see if there is anything in it that’s not in the Misper file at police headquarters.’
‘They gave you access?’
Challis nodded. ‘Last Friday.’
‘Wait outside,’ Wurfel said. ‘Let me make a call.’
Challis waited in the corridor; Wurfel beckoned him back a minute later. He was frowning. ‘I’ll let you see our file. But I thought your brother-in-law committed suicide?’
‘Most of the locals think so. He was a bit unstable.’
‘Your mate in missing persons told me your sister’s been receiving strange mail, as if he’s still alive.’
‘Yes,’ said Challis levelly.
Wurfel was about to say something more, then shrugged and went to his filing cabinet. ‘Here’s the file. You can read it here. No copying.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
Wurfel remained in the office, ignoring Challis. He raced through his in-tray in a kind of habitual fury and made several abrupt phone calls while Challis tried to concentrate. The file was brief and told him nothing he didn’t already know. There was no mention of the letters that Meg had received, only a brief, handwritten update made several months after Gavin’s car had been found abandoned at the side of the road: ‘Suicide scenario not favoured by Mrs Hurst. Says her husband ran away.’ But there were two unrelated reports in the file. One a domestic disturbance callout to the residence of Gavin and Meg Hurst, another an interview with Meg following a report that she’d been assaulted by Gavin: ‘Mrs Hurst declines to press charges.’
