Challis - 04 - Chain of Evidence (21 page)

Ellen shook her head. Most crimes
were stupid. Most criminals were stupid. This pin, van Alphen went on, indicates
reports of men seen lurking near public toilets and schools.

Fantastic, Van, thank you. Were
stretched for resources.

No worries.

But broaden what youve been doing.
In addition to incidents that are clearly sex related, I want everything you
can find about abductions, abduction attempts, unsolved disappearances and
murders, particularly of children and young people.

Peninsula wide?

Australia wide, Van. Our guy could
be very mobile.

Van Alphen scowled. I guess that
will keep me out of trouble, but Id rather be out in the field, kicking down
doors.

Ellen patted him on the shoulder. Thats
my boy. But right now I want everything you can give me on a Neville Clode.
She gave the details. A full background check, she urged. Criminal record,
vehicles registered in his name, circle of friends, his relatives, work
colleagues, acquaintances, you know the drill.

Van Alphen gave her an unreadable
look and nodded abruptly. She crossed the room and said, Scobie? We have a
suspect. She told him about Neville Clode and the DNA.

Neville Clode? I questioned him a
few days ago, that ag burg, guy ended up in hospital.

Ellen nodded slowly. Interesting.

He was knocked about pretty badly,
wouldnt give straight answers. A falling out with his pals?

Or maybe it wasnt an ag burg.
Maybe he has a history, and one of his victims got revenge.

He didnt seem the type.

Scobie Sutton was easily, and often,
impressed by the people he dealt with. He was a churchgoer, a decent family
man, and perhaps the police would have a better press if more officers were
like him, but the police also needed officers who could step over the line and
inhabit the minds of the bad guys. Tell me about him.

Scobie perched his bony rear on the
edge of the main table while Ellen sat attentively. He works from home.

As?

Some kind of counsellor or healer.

Psychologist? Physio? What?

Cant recall.

What
can
you recall?

His place was trashed. A real mess.
He was beaten pretty badly.

Anything else?

Scobie searched his memory. Theres
a kind of spa room in his house. Spa bath and toys.

Toys? Does he have children? A
partner?

Hes almost sixty.

Scobie, does he have children or a
partner?

No sign of either.

Lets go and rattle his cage,
Ellen said, rattling her car keys at him.

* * * *

27

Thirty
minutes later, Ellen and Scobie were in an unmarked silver Falcon from the
motor pool. Ellen drove. Scobie stretched his stick legs and yawned. The
interior was stuffy, for the car had been sitting in the sun. Bird shit
streaked the windscreen: trees ringed the car park behind the station and the
birds were busy now, building nests. Scobie sneezed. Presently Ellen sneezed.
Spring on the Peninsula brought a special kind of hell to hayfever sufferers.
The air was laden with pollen. People suffered through it and their eyes
itched.

Roslyn cant stop talking about it,
Scobie announced after a short period of blessed silence.

About what? said Ellen before she
could stop herself. At least the poor kids bowel movements had ceased to
matter to her devoted father. Now it was how she coped with maths, friendship
crises and the scary bits in Harry Potter.

About riding her bike, dressed up
like Katie Blasko.

Ellen stirred, irritated. What
mattered was what had happened to the real Katie Blasko, not the pretend Katies
moment of fame. She didnt say any of this to Scobie Sutton. Hed be
crestfallen, offended or bewildered, and Ellen didnt feel like coping with any
of his reactions. Left or right? she said at the next intersection.

Straight ahead, then the second on
the left.

He directed her past the fenced
boundary of the Seaview Park estate to a low, newish-looking house set behind a
screen of trees. Ten years old, Ellen guessed, assessing the architecture and
the height of the trees. Not long after shed settled on the Peninsula with
Alan and Larrayne, several streets had been carved out of what had been farmland
on the outskirts of Waterloo. Alan had been interested in buying a plot and
putting up a house, but Ellen had been adamant that as a copper she was not
going to live where she worked, and so theyd bought the old fibro holiday
house ten minutes drive away in Penzance Beach. And now that house had been
sold and she was marking time in Challiss house.

She braked the car. A small sign,
burnt into a polished board mounted on a low concrete pillar that doubled as a
letterbox, read
Wellness Centre.
Oh, for Gods sake, she muttered.

Scobie knew what she meant. A
hypochondriac, he was defensive. Dont knock it, Ellen. Our naturopath has
really helped my arthritis and Beths depression.

Naturopaths were probably the
acceptable face of what bugged Ellen. It seemed to her that on every back road,
side street or strip of shops on the Peninsula, a healer of some kind could
be found. They set up wellness boutiques and read palms, Tarot cards and
probably tea leaves, offered massage, crystal therapy or ear candlingwhatever
that was and taught certificate courses in automatic writing and angel
visions whatever they were.

If you wanted to awaken your
life-force, then a powerful and ancient Tibetan modality was available in
Mornington. A woman in Penzance Beach offered Sandplay and Expressive Therapy.
There was a Holistic clinic next door to a shoe shop in Waterloo, and even an
Inner Balance Master a few hundred metres along the dirt road past Challiss
house (yeah, she could just see Hal checking in for a treatment). Quacks came
through lecturing on Thought Field Therapy at $500 a pop, or sold books and
CDs that showed you how to become animal spirit intuitives, so long as you
forked out $89.99 for a shamanic field guide that offered insight into the wisdom
of Mother Earths natural creatures.

The practitioners and devotees of
this alternative Peninsula gave their children weird names, wore flower-power
and vaguely Indian clothing and entered wispy, inept paintings in the local art
shows. Ellen was pretty sure that the intelligence quotient of the Peninsula
was lower than anywhere else on the planet.

She ignored Scobie and got out.
There was a small wooden rack mounted to the wall beside the front door. She
took out a brochure and read that Neville Clodes Wellness Centre specialised
in wellness for children, promising to cure their irritability, hypertension,
nervousness, fears and phobias. Let me unlock the feelings, emotions and
hidden belief systems that block the journey process to true maturity, he
offered.

Scobie stood beside her. He pushed
the bell. She thrust the brochure at him. Jesus Christ, Scobiehe works with
kids.

Scobie read. Time ticked by. Here on
Clodes street the houses were silent and far apart from each other, separated
by trees and high paling fences. No witnesses, in other words. Im checking
around the back, Ellen said.

She prowled down the side of the
house, passing a carport hung with grapevines that sheltered a Saab. A moment
later she rounded the corner onto a broad yard and a scattering of fruit trees.
There was a small aluminium garden shed. Two children, a girl and a boy aged
about twelve, were disappearing over the back fence. They looked gleeful,
panicky and hard-eyed, as if theyd been in trouble with the authorities for
all of their short lives and werent about to reform. Even so, they were
children, and they should have been in school.

Ellen shouted futilely, then turned
her attention to the rear wall of the house. Scobie was coming around the
corner, still reading the brochure. The back door opened and a man stepped out,
moving stiffly. Facial bruises were vivid on his face; blood streaked the
whites of his blackened eyes; his top lip carried a couple of stitches..

Mr Clode? My name is Sergeant
Destry and youve met Constable Sutton.

Did you get the little buggers?
Clode said, his voice melodious, as though remembering that he was supposed to
be a healer, a man who brought comfort to people. He approached Scobie warmly
and shot out his hand. The two men shook. Then he offered his hand to Ellen and
she ignored it. Do you know those children, Mr Clode? Were they visiting you?

Through the damage to his face she
could see a bleak, scoffing expression. Kids from the Seaview Park estate, he
said. Surely no strangers to the police.

Do you think theyre the ones who
attacked you, Mr Clode? said Scobie.

Could well be.

Ellen wasnt having this. Shed read
Clodes statement. I thought you said that men attacked you, not children.

Youngish men, I think.

All right, did you recognise those
children just now?

No. I told them to clear off

Would you recognise them again?

I only saw their backs.

Ellen stared at him, unconvinced.
But she doubted shed recognise them, either. Are you in the habit of inviting
children to your home, Mr Clode?

He flushed. I didnt invite them.

But you treat children.

Thats different. And their parents
bring them to me for therapy.

May we come inside, please?

He looked uncertain, but took them
through to his sitting room. Has a parent made a complaint against me?

Are the parents present when you
treat their children? Ellen responded.

No way. It destroys the energy.

Ellen supposed that it probably did.
Can you tell us what you were doing between Thursday afternoon last week and
Monday afternoon this week?

Whats this about? said Clode,
appealing to Scobie.

Just answer the question, Ellen
said.

I was in hospital for two days.

And the other two days?

Here.

Can you prove that?

I live alone, so no, I cant, said
Clode, irritable now.

Your appointment book might hold
the answer.

Clode coughed and shifted about.
Actually, I didnt have any appointments. Im retraining.

Retraining? As what?

A thought field therapist.

Ellen smirked.

Look, why do you want to know my
movements? What am I supposed to have done? Im a
victim,
remember.

Do you own a white van?

No, why?

Do any of your friends or family?

Dont think so. How would I know?

I understand you have a spa room,
with toys in it.

To cover his confusion or
apprehension, Clode threw up his hands. Whats that got to do with anything?

Is it part of childrens therapy?

No. Its for when my granddaughter
visits.

Ellen watched him for a long moment.
He didnt waver. Is your wife with you, Mr Clode?

She died.

Oh, Im sorry, Ellen said
unconvincingly. How many children do you have?

My wife had a daughter from her
previous marriage. Her names Grace.

Oh.

I rarely see them.

Them?

Grace is married. Husband and one
daughter.

They live some distance away?

Clode shook his head. Just on the
other side of the Peninsula.

But you rarely see them.

Im not related by blood, said
Clode.

How old was Grace when you married
her mother?

Clode thought about it. Early
teens.

How old is her daughter?

About seven.

An address, please, Mr Clode.

Why? You havent told me what this
is about.

Whose white van did you borrow last
Thursday?

Clode was ready. I didnt borrow a
white van. I didnt rent a white van. I dont own a white van. I dont know
anyone who owns or drives a white van.

Ellen sneezed and her eyes itched.
She fished a damp tissue from her pocket, feeling obscurely undermined by her
hayfever.

Satisfied? said Clode. I get
beaten up and you lot treat me like Im a suspect in some crime.

We were thinking the assault on you
might have been personal, Ellen said. I understand they also trashed your
house pretty badly.

The signs were still apparent in the
sitting room: the remains of a chair in the corner and a crooked print on the
wall. Clode shook his head. They would have been high on drugs. They stole a
digital camera and a coin collection.

Scobie frowned. You told me they
hadnt taken anything.