Challis - 04 - Chain of Evidence (3 page)

You think she drowned? said
Pedder.

Donna moaned. Ellen gave Pedder a
look that made him go pale. What about the area between here and the highway?

Katies scared of snakes, said
Donna.

Larrayne had been, too.

Theyd all run out of things to say.
Ellen gathered her notes together and got to her feet.

What do you think happened to my
baby? whispered Donna.

That was in the script, too: the
words and the whispered voice. Kids go missing every day, said Ellen warmly. They
always turn up again.

She glanced at Justin Pedder as she
said it, warning him not to say the obvious.

* * * *

3

It
was now 11 am. Ellen was due at the Supreme Court by early afternoon. Saying
goodbye to Donna Blasko and Justin Pedder, she called Scobie Suttons mobile,
and met him outside Katie Blaskos primary school. Ill have to leave it in
your hands for a few hours, she told him. Its possible that Katie simply ran
away, but why would she stay away for this long? To be on the safe side,
continue the doorknock, check with hospitals, contact family and friends. Im
going to see Kellock. We need more uniforms.

Thanks. He shivered. Missing kid.
I hate it, Ellen.

Scobie Sutton was nuts about his own
child, Roslyn, who was also aged ten. He could be a bore about it. Stay in
touch during the day, Ellen told him. Call or text me if you find anything.

The police station was by the
roundabout at the head of High Street. She parked at the rear and entered,
heading first for her pigeonhole, where she collected a sheaf of letters and
memos. She found Kellock, the uniformed senior sergeant in charge of the
station, in his office. He was a barrel of a man, his head a whiskery slab on a
neckless torso. There were cuts on the hunks of flesh that were his hands. He
tugged down his shirtsleeves self-consciously and scowled, Been pruning roses.

She was about to say that she should
have been mowing Hal Challiss grass, but stopped herself. She didnt want to
broadcast the fact that she was staying in Challiss house. Just then Kellocks
desk phone rang. Be with you in a minute, he said.

She sifted through her mail while he
took the call. Most of it shed bin; the rest was bound for her in-tray. One
item enraged her. It was a memo from Superintendent McQuarrie: Owing to
budgetary constraints, all of Peninsula Commands forensic testing will
henceforth be carried out by ForenZics, an independent specialist laboratory
based in Chadstone. Not only are ForenZics fees significantly lower, their
laboratory is closer and their promised turnaround time quicker than the state
governments lab. Ellen shook her head. Shed never heard of ForenZics. She
and Challis had always worked with Freya Berg and her colleagues in the state
lab.

Just then Kellock snarled, Theyre
all scum.

Ellen glanced at him inquiringly. He
put a massive hand over the receiver and said, Its Sergeant van Alphen. Hes
in the courtroom, says Nick Jarretts familys been heckling and jeering.

Doesnt surprise me, Ellen said.

Kellock ignored her, barking into
his phone: I want a car stationed outside their house all night, okay?

He listened to the reply, grunted,
replaced the receiver and said to Ellen, If the jury acquits, the Jarretts
will come home and celebrate. If they convict, the Jarretts will hold a wake.
Either way, its not going to be much fun for us. Now, how can I help you?

Katie Blasko, aged ten, been
missing since yesterday.

She wasnt sure that Kellock had
heard her. His face was like bleak wastes of granite, revealing no emotions,
but under it he probably continued to be furious and vengeful about the
Jarretts. Then there was a subtle shift. He twisted his mouth. She supposed it
was a smile. With Kellock you couldnt be entirely sure, not until he spoke. You
want some uniforms to help search?

If you can spare them.

You already have Murphy and
Tankard. I can spare a couple more, maybe a probationer or two.

Ellen grimaced. The perennial
shortage of available police on the Peninsula affected them both. Thanks. If
we dont find her soon, well need more bodies, more overtime.

He nodded. Ill square it with the
boss.

He meant Superintendent McQuarrie.
It was said that he was McQuarries spy, but that could be a good thing if he
was also able to drum up support when it was needed. Thanks, Kel.

Well find her, Ells, dont worry.

Kellock was bulky and confident.
Ellen felt a little better about everything.

* * * *

Finally
she headed up to the city, striking heavy traffic. It took her ninety minutes
to reach. Melbourne and then find a car park near the Supreme Court. It was two
oclock by the time she entered the courtroom, and she was dismayed to see
McQuarrie there.

Youre late, sergeant.

Sorry, sir, Ellen murmured,
sliding onto the bench seat, her movements stirring the air, arousing faintly
the odours of floor wax and furniture polish.

McQuarrie sniffed: a good sniffer,
Ellen thought. He was a neat, precise, humourless man who professed a glum kind
of Christianity, like many ministers in the federal government. She darted a
glance past his costly dress uniform at Sergeant Kees van Alphen, who with
Ellen had arrested Nick Jarrett all those months ago, and helped put the case
together for the Office of Public Prosecutions. He winked; she grinned.

Finally she gathered herself, willed
her racing pulse to settle. It soon became clear that she hadnt missed much of
the prosecutors final summation to the jury. He droned on, a man with almost
no presence, when the trial of Nick Jarrett surely required prosecutorial
outrage. Eventually, with a weak flourish, he finished.

Nick Jarrett s lawyer leapt to his
feet, placed his hand on his clients shoulder, and said, Reasonable doubt,
ladies and gentlemen.

Ellen snorted. McQuarrie glanced at
her sourly. So did the judge. She ignored them. Reasonable doubt? Nick Jarrett
was twenty-four, a wiry, fleshless speed addict, his skin jumping today in a
suit that might have come from the Salvation Army op-shop in Waterloo. Barely
literate, but cunning, driven by amphetamines and base instincts, not
intellect. Young men like Nick Jarrett passed through the courts every day of
the week. Owing to the drugs and the alcohol, they were vicious and
unpredictable. They hurt people, and got hurt. They made stupid mistakes and
got arrested. But not all of them ran over cyclists for sport.

One day in May, Nick Jarrett and his
mate, Brad OConnor, had been engaged in their latest enterprise, carjacking.
Theyd done it six times since March, and had developed a taste for it. What
you did was, you hung around a car park, like the dusty overflow area of a
hospital, somewhere there are no security cameras, and some woman comes along,
blinded by tears because her husbands dying in intensive care, or joy because
shes newly a grandmother, and you shove a blood-filled syringe in her face
before she can buckle her seatbelt. Sometimes, for a laugh, you take her for a
little ride to the middle of nowhere, and shove her out of the door.

The cars from the first five
carjackings had never been found. Ellen suspected theyd been stolen to order
by Nick and Brad, taken to a chop-shop or straight onto a shipping container,
but that wasnt the issue before the court today. The issue here was vehicular
manslaughter, and the police had impounded the sixth car, which had yielded
someadmittedly not very compellingforensic evidence.

What young Nick Jarrett liked to do,
while driving his carjacked vehicle to who-knew-where, was play chicken with
cyclists and pedestrians. Hed got pretty good at it, pretty deft with the
brakes and the steering wheel. To give his victims an extra thrill, he liked to
open his door at the last minute, watch those schoolkids and old ladies duck and
weave, throw themselves down on the bitumen. Hed always liked mucking around
with cars. Never meant no harm by it.

But on 13 May hed crossed a median
strip and misjudged things a little. A lot, really. Tony Balfour, aged fifteen,
on his way home from school. Everything to live for, said the newspapers. A
young life cruelly snatched, etcetera. Not only that, he was the son of a
popular civilian clerk employed at the Waterloo police station.

Ellen and van Alphen had gone for
murder, but the OPP had reduced that to criminal negligence. After all, Nick
had been driving under the influence of amphetamines and alcohol, to which he
was addicted.

Now his defence lawyer had the nerve
to argue reasonable doubt, and was doing a pretty good job of it, too, Ellen
realised. She stiffened to see thoughtful nods on the faces of the jury. It had
barely registered during the trial, but now the testimony of Nicks mate, Brad
OConnor, was looking pretty shaky. Yes, Brad had testified against his friend,
but had he really done that to assuage his guilty feelings and see justice
done? I dont think so, Nicks lawyer thundered. Mr OConnor was driven by
malice and greed: malice because his de facto wife had developed a relationship
with my client, and greed because he wanted the fifty thousand dollars reward
offered by the victims family. Put that together with the fact that no
forensic evidence places my client in the car that struck the particular blow,
and you have no alternative, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but to find that
a reasonable doubt exists, and find him not guilty.

I thought the forensic evidence
proved it, snarled McQuarrie from the corner of his mouth. I thought this was
sewn up, Sergeant Destry.

It links the vehicle with the
victim but not to Jarrett, sir, but even so...

McQuarrie gestured for her to shut
up. A chill went through her. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The dead
boys mother and sister were weeping on one side of the courtroom; the Jarrett
clan was taking up three rows of seats on the other. Rowdy and ever-present
during the trial, they were now flashing grins at the prosecution team. They
clearly thought a reasonable doubt had been shown to exist. The only exception
was the clans patriarch, Laurie Jarrett. Aged fifty, a hard, motionless
presence, he was staring at Ellen as though hed never had a thought or a
feeling in his life.

* * * *

4

The
jury retired to consider its verdict, and now it was a waiting game. Hours.
Days. Ellen left the court building and glanced at her watch. Mid-afternoon,
but it was Friday, so the traffic would be hell wherever she went now. She bit
her lip indecisively: return to Waterloo and the search for Katie Blasko, or
catch up with her daughter?

She pulled out her phone. Its me,
Scobie. Any news?

Not yet. What about you?

The jurys out. Look, Id like to
see Larrayne, since Im in the city.

He was silent; she could imagine his
sombre face. I guess thats okay.

She wanted to say that she didnt
need his permission, then wondered if he were judging her for not racing back
to help find Katie Blasko. Ill be back before five oclock. I want to have
another go at the parents.

All right.

The man irritated her. She made
another call. Hi, sweetie. Im in the city. Would it be okay if I popped in to
say hello?

Ellens daughter was nineteen, a
health sciences undergraduate who shared a house in Carlton with two other
students. She was always prickly these days. She blamed Ellen for splitting the
family up. I should be studying, Mum. Exams soon.

I wont stay long, promise.

Larrayne sighed heavily. If you
like.

A ringing endorsement. Ellen
retrieved her car and skirted around the glassy office towers of Melbournes
central business district, fighting the traffic to the inner suburb of Carlton.
Workers had lived here in the boom years after the 1850s gold rushes. In the
early decades of the twentieth century much of Carlton had been a slum, then
home to the waves of Italian and Greek immigrants after the Second World War,
and was now sought after by yuppies, who paid half-a-million dollars for the
little brick cottages along the side streets, either living in them or renting
them out to students like Larrayne Destry. Ellen could see the appeal:
Melbourne University, RMIT, Chinatown and the downtown boutiques and cinemas
were only a short walk or tram ride away.

She parked on a hydrant, hoping she
wouldnt get booked. Owing to the lack of off-street parking, small European
and Japanese cars crowded both kerbs. These days, in this place, it was
difficult to tell if the Audis and the Subarus belonged to student renters or
yuppie owners, but there was no mistaking her daughters 1991 Toyota Camry. It
was a first car, a student car, through and through.

Ellen banged the iron knocker on the
front door. After a long delay, Larrayne answered, and Ellen picked up
conflicting clues. Her daughter looked flustered, her pinned-up hair escaping
in wisps, her T-shirt wrinkled, but she also looked studious in the elegant
reading glasses shed been prescribed a year earlier.

Mother and daughter kissed and
hugged briefly. I wont stay long, Ellen said again.