by Garry Disher
Jane said coldly, ‘Does that matter? She’s 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 wasn’t keen to do that. Eventually she said, ‘Only because I trust you. It’s Alysha Jarrett.’
Ellen blinked.
‘You know who she is?’
‘We know the family.’
‘Incest?’
‘That’s never been suggested,’ said Ellen carefully. ‘They’re 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 didn’t come to see my colleagues or me but went straight to Kellock and van Alphen-mates of theirs? By the time they came to see us, they’d 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 school’s 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 they’d 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.’
‘I’d like copies of all reports.’
‘I’m 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 they’d 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 Clode’s 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 hadn’t had lunch. He’d been poured a mug of weak tea but not offered a muffin.
He took out a pen and his notebook. ‘First if I could have Mr Duyker’s work details.’
Grace Duyker was confused. ‘What?’
‘We’d like to speak to your husband as well, Mrs Duyker.’
Grace Duyker threw her head back with an appreciative laugh. ‘Duyker is my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t take my husband’s surname.’
‘Forgive me,’ Scobie Sutton said, making the alteration in his notebook. He said delicately, ‘Is there a reason why you didn’t take your father’s name?’
‘He was never in the picture. It was only my mother and me. Then when I was fourteen, Mum married Nifty Nev.’
Scobie grinned. ‘Nifty Nev.’
Grace Duyker grinned back. She was about thirty-five, he guessed. His gaze flickered around the kitchen, taking in further information. There were crayon drawings under fridge magnets, a bicycle abandoned on the back lawn, which was visible through the window above the sink, and four or five photographs of Grace, her husband and seven-year-old daughter. Typical family snaps: plenty of sunshine, grinning teeth and bright T-shirts. But there was also a photograph of a middle-aged woman who looked worn down by life.
‘My mother,’ Grace said, following his gaze.
He nodded. ‘Clode has a similar photo of her.’
‘That’s not exactly reassuring.’
There was something unbalanced about the composition of Grace’s photograph of her mother, as though part of the subject matter had been cropped with scissors. Clode?
‘She died last year,’ Grace continued.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Neville Clode wore her down,’ said Grace simply.
Scobie said nothing but waited.
‘A real creep.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, nothing overt. He never touched me or anything when I was a kid, but the way he looked at me gave me the creeps. I used to hate taking my daughter to visit. Now that Mum’s gone I don’t see him. Look,’ she said, changing her tone, ‘what’s this about? I know he was attacked, it was in the paper, but somehow I don’t think that’s why you’re here.’
‘We’re investigating another matter.’
‘And keeping it close to your chest,’ said Grace Duyker, scooping up their empty cups and taking them to the sink. Scobie heard the tap run, saw her upend the cups on the draining board. She wore lycra bicycle pants under a shapeless T-shirt that reached her thighs. Her feet were bare. She returned to her chair, a solid, capable woman with a challenging air. The antithesis of her sad-looking mother, Scobie thought.
‘He’s clean,’ Grace said, surprising him.
‘Clean?’
‘My husband and I tried for years to get Mum to leave him. We looked into him.’
‘Private detective?’
‘Yes. Nifty Nev’s never been in trouble with the law.’
Scobie already knew that. ‘But he made you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t want him around your daughter.’
Grace Duyker gave him a lopsided grin. ‘Finally.’
‘Finally what?’
‘Finally you want to know if he’s a paedophile.’
Scobie shrugged minutely.
‘My instincts say yes, but I have no evidence,’ Grace admitted. ‘My uncle, on the other hand.’
Scobie stiffened, got his pen ready. ‘Uncle?’
‘Write it down: Peter Duyker. My mother’s brother.’
Scobie recorded it dutifully. His stomach rumbled. Silently Grace crossed to the cooling muffins and placed two before him on a plate. ‘They needed time to cool. Enjoy.’
‘Thank you.’
He nibbled cautiously: blueberry. Slightly doughy. But warm-centred and delicious. He took another bite, almost cramming it in.
Grace smiled. ‘You’re enjoying that, aren’t you.’
‘Delicious.’
She folded her arms. ‘A real piece of work is my Uncle Pete.’
Scobie finished chewing, nodding for her to continue.
/> ‘Convictions for fraud in New Zealand and Queensland.’
Scobie ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘Fraud.’
‘He’s a photographer, so-called. Offers to produce a professional portfolio, but fails to deliver.’ Grace gave him a crooked smile. ‘He photographs children, mostly.’
Scobie tingled. ‘Do you know what he calls himself?’
‘It varies,’ said Grace. She reached behind her to the fridge and fumbled under a crayon drawing. She handed him a brochure. ‘Rising Stars Agency,’ she said.
‘I know it,’ said Scobie, feeling panicky.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’ He coughed. ‘Fraud. And he photographs children. Anything else?’
Grace Duyker grimaced and rubbed at her forehead. ‘I think so but Mum was always cagey about him. Protective, but also embarrassed. I heard rumours in the family that he’d been done for exposing himself, groping schoolkids on a train, something like that. When he was young.’
‘How old is he now?’
About fifty-five.’
Scobie wrote in his notebook and Grace watched him, pleased and avid. He ate the second muffin.
‘More?’
Scobie was warming to her. ‘What about when your daughter gets home from school?’
‘I’ll bake another batch. No problem.’
This time she ate one with him. He didn’t mind being managed in this way. Even so, he knew he’d have to watch what he said. For all he knew, Grace Duyker might contact Neville Clode and Peter Duyker just to gloat, thereby warning them, or her husband was in on it. Or she was.
‘Where is Mr Duyker now?’
‘Mr Duyker. That’s good. Mr Duyker’s too close for comfort.’
‘He’s here on the Peninsula?’
‘He returns every so often-I think when things get too hot for him elsewhere. He rang a few nights ago to say he was back.’ She sensed Scobie’s frustration and added, ‘A shack in Safety Beach. Fibro holiday house. Been in the family for decades.’
Scobie noted the address. ‘You haven’t seen him this time around?’
‘No. He wanted to visit the other day, but I put him off
Scobie said carefully, ‘What does he drive?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Never paid much attention. I’m not good on makes.’
‘Van? Sedan? Four-wheel-drive?’
‘Oh, a van, to cart his gear around in,’ said Grace.
‘Colour?’
Again she shrugged. ‘There have been two or three over the years. White? One year he had a yellow one but it broke down.’
‘Married? Children?’
‘No.’
‘Does he have friends here?’
Grace was enjoying herself again. ‘Oh, Uncle Pete and Nifty Nev have always got along well.’
31
In the mid-north of South Australia, Jim Ely was thinking that the Bluff’s forefathers had chosen a well-drained site for the cemetery. On a gentle slope beyond the town’s stockyards, it was screened by several old gum trees and was an oddly silent place, especially today, a soft spring day, and a good day for digging a new grave.
Ely arrived just after lunch that Thursday, driving his rattletrap truck, a Massey Ferguson tractor on the back. The tractor came with a bucket on the front, and a backhoe, making it a useful piece of machinery for hire in the district. Ely was always in demand. He’d been digging graves for ten years, but he also contoured paddocks to protect against soil erosion, dug septic lines and carved out drains, dams and swimming pools. He’d known Ted Anderson: they’d gone to school together. He’d known Ted’s wife, even dating her a couple of times. With a heavy heart he parked the truck on clear ground near her grave and unloaded the tractor. The funeral was early the next morning, so today was Jim’s only opportunity to prepare the grave. The Catholic priest’s circuit took in several towns, and he was giving the service at two other funerals on Friday, eighty kilometres apart.
Galahs screeched from the trees, disturbed by the racket Jim was making. They wheeled pink and grey against the balmy sky and settled again as he worked.
The soil above Glenda Anderson’s coffin had settled in the five years since her death but soil once disturbed is easier to gouge out than soil compacted or baked hard since the beginning of time. Jim carved away. He knew that Glenda’s coffin was two metres down. He wouldn’t go that deep, of course, but leave a hand’s width of soil above her for her husband’s coffin.
The thing is, when Jim made his first swipe at the soil, going down about half a metre, and had swivelled around in the tractor and deposited that first load, and returned for his second, he spotted an anomaly in the loosened earth. He got down and crouched for a better look.
Heavy-duty black plastic, maybe a garbage bag. But the scoop’s steel teeth had gashed it open and a putrescent mass was oozing out. The stench was stupefying. Odd place, he thought, to bury offal or a dead pet. He didn’t want to think past that.
He climbed aboard the tractor again and manoeuvred the bucket carefully, deftly going in under the plastic and hoisting it out. Soil fell away. The whole oozing mass rolled like jelly.
He swung around and gently trundled to a far corner of the cemetery, where he deposited the putrid bag. Jim’s intention was clear: finish digging the grave, nice and tidy, ready for Ted’s coffin tomorrow morning, then rebury the rubbish somewhere else.
Still his mind wasn’t letting him make the obvious leap. That didn’t happen until the bag split open and slime-covered trousers and shoes emerged into the open air for the first time in several years.
32
The child psychologist’s accusations were serious, but Ellen wanted more facts before she tackled van Alphen and Kellock. Besides, it was too soon after the Nick Jarrett shooting. She would start by talking to Alysha Jarrett, and phoned Laurie to arrange a time.
High school got out at 3.30. Laurie Jarrett arrived with his daughter at 4.15. ‘This had better be good,’ he said. He glanced around Ellen’s office with contempt. ‘I can think of better things to do than share a building with my nephew’s killers. You say you want to talk to Alysha?’
‘Yes.’
Ellen’s gaze went to the girl. Her initial impression was of a pretty child, physically advanced, wearing black leggings and a yellow top that showed her midriff. A typical thirteen-year-old, in fact. But she wore rings in her ears and navel, dark makeup around her eyes, as if she were years older, and knowing.
‘About what?’
‘Neville Clode.’
‘Ah.’
Ellen cocked her head. ‘Laurie?’
‘Nothing. Ask away.’
Ellen began with a series of gentle questions. It soon became apparent that Alysha’s air of knowingness had no foundation: she was a child; her replies in response to Ellen’s gentle probing and her father’s gentle coaxing were slow, monosyllabic and affectless. But she had clearly been abused by Clode. She hadn’t the guile to be a convincing liar, or the ability to read people or situations to her advantage. Ellen was surprised that Kellock and van Alphen hadn’t seen that. Instead, they’d demonised her because she was a Jarrett, hated by the police and the good people of Waterloo.
‘A word in private?’ Laurie said eventually.
Ellen nodded, first arranging for a female constable to take Alysha to the canteen. Alysha went submissively, still vague, inattentive and unaware of the situation she was in. Laurie Jarrett watched her receding back with an expression of grief and tenderness. He caught Ellen’s glance as they re-entered her office. ‘Some slight brain damage at birth.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why? Was it your fault?’
Ellen gazed at the man. Again she had an impression of powerful feelings barely kept in check, and again she felt compulsion and repulsion. He was an attractive man, finely put together. ‘I have a daughter,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but is she a victim?’
Ellen found herself telling Jarrett that Larrayne had be
en abducted several years earlier. Challis would have told her that you never shared personal heartaches and vulnerabilities with the bad guys, so why was she doing it? To impress Jarrett? Get closer to him? Get him on side?
He listened attentively. ‘Fair enough,’ was all he said at the end, and she sensed that he wouldn’t use the information against her.
‘Laurie, Alysha was abused by Neville Clode. Clode was attacked in his home on Saturday night. Did you attack him, or order it done?’
‘No. Poor guy. Remind me to send him some flowers.’
‘You can’t take the law into your own hands,’ Ellen said, hearing the foolishness of the words in this context.
‘Then what are reasonable people expected to do when the law fails them?’ asked Jarrett mildly.
Ellen blinked. Jarrett went on: ‘You think I’m stupid, uneducated?’
‘No, I don’t think that.’
He smiled at her tiredly. ‘The law did not protect my daughter eighteen months ago.’
‘I agree. We should have done more at the time. But-’
‘As far as the police are concerned, the Jarretts are scum. Kellock and van Alphen as good as told me that Alysha was a liar, a manipulator. You saw her. Did she strike you that way?’
‘No.’
‘She kept going back to Clode because he gave her money, cigarettes, clothing, CDs.’
‘Did you try to stop her?’
‘Yes. As far as I knew she’d stopped seeing him. When you phoned asking me to bring her in, I questioned her. She told me she’d started seeing him again.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No. She can be stubborn that way. I assumed she wanted the presents he gave her.’
‘Laurie, you’ll have to monitor her. Meanwhile I want you to stay away from Clode.’
‘Wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.’
Ellen cocked her head. ‘Why didn’t you do anything about him eighteen months ago?’
‘I was in prison. Armed robbery.’
‘You could have ordered it done.’
Jarrett merely watched her, but she could see his mind working, as though he wondered what his family had been up to back then. His head was shapely. The light caught the fine blades of his cheeks. He smirked, destroying the effect. ‘Laurie Jarrett calling Sergeant Destry…Are you receiving me, over?’
