Challis - 04 - Chain of Evidence (12 page)

* * * *

At
nine that same Sunday morning, Scobie Sutton was at the little Waterloo hospital.
He was entitled to a day at home with his wife and daughter, a quiet time,
church and Sunday School, a spot of gardening after lunch, but the station was
short staffed. Hed be working the Katie Blasko case laterand it
was
a case
in Scobies mind: his own daughter was Katies age, and if she went missing for
even thirty minutes hed be calling it a casebut right now he was the only CIU
detective available to interview the victim of an aggravated burglary.

How are you feeling, Mr Clode?

Ill live, Neville Clode said.

Extensive bruising to the head and
torso, a cut lip, cracked ribs. Clode was swaddled in bandages and lying very
still in the bland, pastelly room. The place was overheated and so hed thrown
off the covers, revealing skinny legs and the ugliest feet that Scobie had ever
seen: yellowed nails and a blotchy birthmark. No flowers, fruit or books. Im
possibly his first visitor, Scobie thought. You took quite a beating last
night.

The voice came in a strained
whisper, Yes.

Did you recognise the men who
attacked you?

No.

Do you know if they took anything?

Cash, whispered Clode.

Cash. Do you know how much?

Six.. .seven hundred dollars.

Scobie whistled. It was a lot. It
would also grow when Clode submitted his insurance claim. Do you always have
that much cash on you?

Won it at the horses yesterday. Emu
Plains.

It was the spring racing carnival
everywhere, metropolitan racetracks and regional, including Emu Plains on
Coolart Road, just a few kilometres from Waterloo. No security cameras, though.
Do you think you were followed home from the track?

Could have been.

Were you alone?

Yes.

And nothing else was stolen?

No.

Clode hadnt once made eye contact
but stared past Scobie at the TV set bolted high on the wall, so high it was a
wonder hospitals didnt get sued for encouraging neck strain in their patients.
Scobie dragged the visitors chair around; Clode slid his eyes to the beige
door. Scobie said gently, Are you telling me everything, Mr Clode? Was this
personal? Did you owe money to anyone? Is there anyone who would want to hurt
you?

Scobie had visited the crime scene
before coming to the hospital. Clode lived in a brick house along a secluded
lane opposite the Seaview Park estate. Like its neighbours, it was comfortably
large and barely visible from the road, a low, sprawling structure about ten
years old, the kind of place where well-heeled tradesmen, teachers and shop
owners might live, on largish blocks, screened by vigorous young gum trees,
wattles and other native plants. Residents like Clode were several steps up
from the battlers of Seaview Park estate, and several steps down from the
doctors and real estate agents who lived in another nearby enclave, Waterloo
Hill, which overlooked the town and the Bay. Clode himself was some kind of New
Age healer, according to a sign on a post outside his house.

Letting a forensic tech dust and
scrape, Scobie had done a walk-through of the house. It was evident that a
woman had once lived therea woman slightly haunted by life or by Clode,
judging by the face she revealed to the world in the only photograph Scobie
found, a small, forgotten portrait in a dusty cream frame, the woman unsmiling
in the front garden of the house, Clode with his arm around her. No signs of
her in the bathroom cabinet, bedside cupboard or wardrobe. The rooms themselves
were sterile, a mix of mainly worn and some new items of furniture, in careful
taste, neither cheap nor costly, with here and there an ornamental vase or forgettable
framed print. A couple of fat paperbacks, several New Age magazines, some CDs
of whale and waterfall music. It was the house of an empty man. The only oddity
was a small room taken up with a spa bath, bright wall tiles and cuddly
floating toys.

And the damage, of coursethe
overturned TV set, rucked floor mats, splintered chair and broken glass. And
blood.

Did you injure any of your
assailants, do you think? Scobie asked now. There seemed to be a lot of blood
in the sitting room.

Clode put a hand to his cut lip and
winced. Dont know.

Scobie watched him for a while. Are
you telling me everything, Mr Clode?

Signs of anal penetration, according
to the doctor whod examined Clode. No semen present. Were you raped?

Clodes eyes leaked and he shook his
head minutely. Scobie waited. Clode swallowed. A bottle.

There had been no bottles at the
scene. Before or after they beat you?

It was part of the whole deal,
Clode said.

You were also kicked?

Yes.

What were they wearing?

Jeans. T-shirts.

What about footwear?

Runners.

Scobie had scouted around the house:
lawn right up to the verandah, so no shoe prints, and none in the blood. You
didnt recognise them?

Happened too quickly, plus I
covered my face to protect it.

When did it happen?

About midnight.

Yet you didnt report it until six
this morning?

Unconscious.

I dont understand why they didnt
take anything elseyour DVD player, for example.

Scobie watched Clode. The mans face
was bruised and swollen, but evasiveness underlay it. Dont know.

I think this was personal, Mr
Clode.

No. Never seen them before.

Are you married?

My wife died a couple of years ago.
Cancer.

Grandchildren?

Yes.

That explained the spa bath and
toys. How old were these men?

Dont know. Youngish,

Youre almost sixty?

Whats that got to do with it?

What about their voices. Did you
recognise anyone? Anything distinguishable, like an accent?

They didnt say much. Didnt say
anything.

What about names, did they let any
names slip out?

Nup.

Did they address you by name?

No.

Have you got any enemies, Mr Clode?

No. Im in pain.

* * * *

Pam
Murphy, conditioned by years of police duty and triathlon training, was also up
and about.

According to the surf report,
Gunnamatta Beach was too big and turbulent today, Portsea had messy onshore
waves, Flinders onshore waves to 1.5 metres, and Point Leo a fair,
one-metre-high tide surf, so she settled on Point Leo. The surfing conditions
were right. It was also her closest surf beach and shed learnt to surf there.

It was uncanny the way certain
memories and sense traces hit her the moment she drove past the kiosk and over
the speed bumps. Sex, mainly, together with the taste of salthuman and
marineand the sounds of the seagulls, the offshore winds, the snap of
wetsuits, kids waxing their boards. Desire flickered in her. The guy whod
taught her to surf had been scarcely seventeen years old, she in her mid
twenties. A disciplinary offence, maybe even dismissal from the police force,
if it had ever come out. But it hadnt, and theyd both moved on and no hearts
had been broken or psyches damaged. It had been a tonic to her, that summer.
Shed never been desired quite like that before. Shed scarcely felt desire
herself, or desirous. Her body had always been a beautiful, flexible instrument
whenever she swam, ran or hit a ball around, but sexual desire had been its
untapped dimension. A male colleague like John Tankard, commenting on her tits in
the confines of a police car, was hardly going to awaken her.

She parked on a grassy verge beside
a cluster of familiar roof-racked panel vans and small cars, pulled on her
wetsuit, and trudged over the dunes with her surfboard, passing the clubrooms,
a poster of Katie Blasko pinned to a noticeboard. The beach curved slowly to
the west; a few solitary people walked their dogs; gulls wheeled above the sea;
surferstiny patient dotsrose and fell, rose and fell, as small waves rolled
uneventfully to the shore. Pam felt a surge of feeling for the lost summers of
her life and for the end of her years in uniform.

Unless she blew it. You have the
right instincts, Ellen Destry would often tell her, but becoming a detective
also means writing essays and passing exams.

Things that Pam had never been good
at.

* * * *

15

Thank
you for coming in, said Ellen Destry, late morning. I know its Sunday, and
youve all clocked up a lot of overtime, but we cant afford to drop the ball.

They shrugged good-naturedly, all
except John Tankard, who looked tired and edgy, and Superintendent McQuarrie,
who glanced at his watch and said, Lets get on with it, Sergeant.

Why was he here? Ellen could sense
his impatience. Maybe he was supposed to be meeting his pals on a golf course
somewhere. Yes, sir.

Hed always treated Challis with
impatience, too. McQuarrie was a pen-pusher, a man who resented the competence
and usefulness of street cops, for they made the kinds of decisions and
intuitive leaps that left him bewilderedand so he took it out on them. More
so, if a female officer was calling the shots. He was the kind of man whod
want her to fail so that he, or a male appointee, could step in. Sure, he
probably wanted Katie Blasko found, but a corner of him didnt want
Ellen
to
do it. Meanwhile the other men in the briefing room, particularly Kellock and
van Alphen, were reserving judgement. If she revealed emotions or doubts, theyd
roll their eyes, put their arms around her bracingly, and tell her how things
should be done.

So she acted hard and fast,
assigning tasks to the CIU detectives and to the uniforms. Weve interviewed
many of these people before, she said, but I want you to do it again, and
given that its a Sunday, you should be able to catch up on those who were not
at home yesterday or on Friday. Teachers, shopkeepers, neighbours, school
friends, enemies. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The Show finishes
today, everyones packing up and moving on to another town, so I want ticket
sellers, roustabouts, drivers and hangers-on interviewed and checked before
they disappear into the never-never. Search their vehicles. She paused. Public
transport. Did Katie take a train to the city? Dump her bike and hail a taxi?
Go into a shop, accompanied by someone, a friend or a stranger? Check security
camera footage again. Re-interview everyone on the sex offenders register. And
dont rule out other children: check Childrens Services for local kids who
have a record of violence and inappropriate sexual behaviour.

The acknowledgement, Boss, went
raggedly around the room.

Justin Pedder. So far he checks
out, but keep an open mind. All of the open land in and around Waterloo has now
been searched, without result, but broadening the perimeter is not warranted
yet, theres just too much of it on the Peninsula. Its eyewitnesses we want.
Hopefully tomorrow afternoons bike re-enactment will help.

Boss.

Has Katie turned up in Sydney or
Brisbane or Adelaide, giving a false name? Is she sleeping rough somewhere? Is
she in a homeless shelter? Check empty and condemned buildings. Make sure every
detail is entered in the computer for cross-checking.

She let her gaze settle on each of
them in turn, encouraging but firm. McQuarrie stirred, looking irritable. I
hope you realise how much all this is costing, Sergeant Destry.

Ellen flushed. He had no right to
carp and criticise her in front of her colleagues. I think a missing child
warrants it, sir.

He seemed to realise that he might
make enemies here rather than be admired for leadership qualities. Very good,
carry on.

Thank you, sir.

They all began to file out.
McQuarrie went first, John Tankard last. She stopped him. Everything all
right, John?

His eyes were bloodshot. Hed shaved
badly. When he answered, she caught a whiff of negligence and carelessness in
his life: Just a bit tired, Sarge. I was on patrol last night.

Ellen regarded him carefully, then
smiled. Why dont you help Scobie manage the incident room today? Let others
do the door-to-door.

He managed a smile. Thanks, Sarge.

With a nod, Ellen gathered her notes
and returned to her office. The phone rang immediately; a reporter from the
local newspaper was in the foyer. Ellen trudged down the stairs and out through
the security door beside the front desk. The reporter was aged about thirty,
jittery looking, hectically dressed in a swirling peasant skirt, purple singlet
top, ropes of coloured beads and clanging bangles. Her smile was vivid. Hi!
Thanks for seeing me!

Ellen nodded non-committally and
took her through to an interview room. The
Progress
was pretty much a
weekly broadsheet of advertising, sporting results and flower-show photographs,
but it couldnt afford to ignore a big local story. I have a child of my own,
the reporter said, when they were seated. Ive been walking around the town,
listening to what people are saying. Theres a lot of concern out there, a lot
of fear.