Challis - 04 - Chain of Evidence (30 page)

She gave him a sympathetic smile. He
must hate being desk-bound. Youll be cleared for duty soon, Sarge, dont
worry.

His lean, saturnine face relaxed
into what passed for a warm smile. As you say, Murph, Im a dinosaur. Three
thousand words! Jesus.

Exactly, said Pam, who was
accustomed to writing terse arrest reports, in which narrative flow, tone and
even grammatical sentences were a handicap.

You said psychology. Its all
psychology.

Pam wrote the word on her pad and
looked at him expectantly.

Youre interviewing a suspect,
said van Alphen. You want him or her at a disadvantage.

Pam nodded. She knew that but had
never labelled it before. It was instinct. How do
you
achieve that,
Sarge?

Little things, and you let them
accumulate. For example, use of their first name, not their surname, helps to
undermine them. The use of silencelet it build until theyre desperate to fill
it. Fire a series of answers to unasked questions at them, your tone frankly
disbelieving: So you say you dont know how the knife got under your mattress?
for example.

Pam scribbled to keep up.

You used the term body language,
Murph. Terrible expression, but I guess it explains what one does in an
interview room. You let your face and body show contempt, doubt, ridicule,
sometimes sympathy. You get in their faces, pat them gently on the wrist,
exchange scoffing looks with your partner, slam your palm down hard on the
table, stuff like that.

All things Pam had done. Sarge,
she said dutifully.

And you vary your approach, keep
them unsettled. Kind, then cruel.

Sarge.

In the corridor outside, and in the
nearby offices, were the sounds of voices, laughter, footsteps, doors
slammingfamiliar sounds that Pam badly missed. She glanced at her watch. Shed
spend thirty more minutes with the sarge, then drive home and relax in the
bath. But what about
their
body language, Sarge?

What about it?

Pam flicked back to her lecture
notes. If they have their legs together, ankles crossed and hands in their
laps theyre protecting their genitalsfending off trouble, in other words.

If you say so, scoffed van Alphen,
rocking back in his chair and slamming one booted foot and then the other onto
the top of his desk, giving her a wry look.

Pam grinned. If they touch their
nose and lips, it means theyre stressed. There are many capillaries in the
nose and lips. Blood rushes there...

Van Alphen drew his slender hands
down his narrow cheeks comically.

Arms folded across the chest is
another protective gesture protecting the heart, concealing powerful emotions,
Pam said.

A little book learning is a fine
thing, Murph, van Alphen said. He paused. On the subject of psychology: you
need to find out what they want.

Their dominant need, Pam said brightly.
Respect, safety, flattery, sympathy. One should stimulate or exaggerate this
need, then finally offer to gratify it in return for a confession or
co-operation.

So why the fuck are you asking me
all this? growled van Alphen, not unkindly.

Its questioning techniques, Sarge.
I know the psychology: I just need to know how to frame questions.

But its all psychology, insisted
van Alphen. For example, if a suspects tired, you fire hard questions at him.

The
wording,
Sarge.

Apart from who, what, where, when
and why?

Yes.

All right, try to get at motive.
Ask things like: Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill
him? or Did they argue over money? or Was she involved with another man?
Obvious, surely.

Sarge.

Psychology, insisted van Alphen. Just
when they think an interview is overyoure going out the door, in factyou
turn back and hit them with whats really on your mind. Or you ask a series of
absurd, grotesque or mild questions to throw them off balance, then hit them
with the million-dollar question. Or you give them back their answers twisted
slightly, to see what corrections they make.

Pam scribbled, her head down, commas
of hair brushing her jaw.

You throw them a series of quick
questions requiring short, simple answers, then suddenly lob a difficult one at
them, a trick question. Or they answer, but you look at them quizzically until
they qualify it to fill the silence. Its
answers
that matter, not
questions. The absences in answers, their tone, and the specifics that can be
challenged or disproved or that contradict other specifics.

Sarge, said Pam, still scribbling.

You force suspects and witnesses
alike to separate what they think they know from what is actually true, you
help them through uncertainties and attack their certainties.

Fair enough.

And always, always, you ask earlier
questions again, worded differently.

Sarge, said Pam, wondering if she
had enough for three thousand words. She thought she might look up old case
notes and reproduce interview transcripts, generally pad out her essay in the
time-honoured way of all students everywhere.

Always get their story first, van
Alphen said. Get them to commit to it. Then you take it apart,
detail-by-detail. Youll find that most people can lie convincingly some or
even a lot of the time, but only the good liars remember exactly what they
said.

* * * *

He
doesnt work here any more, said the manager of Prestige Autos late that
Friday afternoon. I sacked him.

John Tankard stood there with his
mouth open, feeling powerless. He hadnt felt this bad since that time hed
shot a deranged farmer. Hed gone on stress leave for it, then returned to work
and thrown himself into the job, together with coaching a junior football team,
and these things had been pretty successful in staving off depression, but it
was his new car that hed been counting on most to make himself feel better.

The guy ripped me off, he said
hotly, while employed by you.

The manager, a portly older guy with
furry eyebrows, made a what-can-I-do? gesture. Plastic pennants snapped in the
breeze. A salesman in a sissy-looking suit was putting the hard word to a young
guy who was critically but longingly circling a Subaru WRXdrug dealers car,
thought Tank sourlywhile his girlfriend looked on in boredom. A bus belched
past. And so life was going on unchanged around John Tankard but he himself was
breaking inside. Over a car, but still.

I was sold the car on your
premises. I bought it in good faith. Youre obliged by law to provide a
warranty.

The manager was unmoved. The
salesman who sold you that car was doing so off the books. The car was never
possessed by this business. Im a victim here, too. This is bad for my
reputation.

Tank was incredulous. I have to
feel sorry for
you?

Look, son, I have no legal obligation
to give you your money back.

Im not your son. Anyway, this does
involve you because your finance company financed the deal.

Again, that was done without my
authority. As I understand it, your contract is with them. I think youll find
its legally binding. It has nothing to do with me.

Im out thousands and thousands of
dollars, Tank said, wiping away tears.

Sell the car. Youll get most of
your money back. You might even make a profit.

I cant. Its been black-flagged in
all states and territories. I cant register the fucking thing anywhere.

All right, the manager said
slowly, spend a few thousand to get it in compliance.

Where am I going to get that kind
of money? asked Tank rhetorically.

I could structure a loan for you,
said the manager smoothly

Prick.

Theres no need for that.

Thousands of dollars, John Tankard
said, his mind shooting in all directions. Had anyone been cheated like hed
been cheated...? Refuse payments to the finance company.. .Put a bullet through
his brain...

That night Evening Update floated
the idea that a person of interest to the police in the Katie Blasko case had
possibly been active for years in Victoria and interstate. It was a good story,
kept the level of moral panic raging in the community, and worth a thousand
bucks to John Tankard.

But it was more than the money. Tank
considered it important to keep people in the loop. Keep them vigilant against
the creeps. Protect little kids like his sister. He kept telling himself that.

* * * *

Scobie
came home feeling so hurt and aggrieved that he was curt to his wife. Is this
the man? he demanded, showing her Duykers mugshots.

Yes, said Beth defensively.

They were in their sitting room,
Beth putting aside one of their daughters T-shirts, in the act of cutting out
the label inside the collar, which Roslyn said was itching her.

You paid him money for photographs.

Beth looked mortified. The house
needed airing. She sometimes shut herself in for hours, trying to keep busy.
Scobie often found her gazing into space, or in tears. I need to find a job,
Scobe, shed say.

By cheque or cash? he went on
furiously. He didnt like himself for it. Its the pressure, he told himself.
The police shooting board inquiry. His feelings for Grace Duyker. He was
confused and lonely and unhappy.

Beth was close to tears, and that
made it worse. Cash, she said.

Damn.

I can show you the receipt.

She left the room and came back with
a receipt torn from a receipt book that had probably been purchased in a
stationery store for $2. Scrawled blue ballpoint writing. Maybe the lab could
lift Duykers prints from it, but so what?

Beth, listen carefully, did you
ever leave Ros alone with him?

Beth went very still and turned an
appalled face to him. Is this more than fraud? Do you suspect him of, you
know, youre working on the Katie Blasko abduction and you...

He touched her wrist to stop the
panic. Settle down, for Gods sake.

You have to believe I would never
knowingly put our daughter at risk like that. He never touched her.

Did he look at her in a certain
way?

No!

Good.

He was a bit creepy. Smiled a lot,
Beth said.

Scobie patted her forearm absently.
He prowled around the house and garden, muttering, clenching his fist. He went
to the back fence and pulled out his mobile phone. Grace? Scobie Sutton here.

She sounded pleased to hear from
him, and that gave him an absurd little lift, the kind hed not felt for years
and years and one of the first things to go in a marriage. I wondered if I
could pop round tomorrow, he said. A few more questions.

Of course, she said.

* * * *

That
same night, Kees van Alphen went on a prowl of the beaches. He knew them all,
the nude beaches, small and tucked away, known only to nudists and a few
pathetic peeping toms, the gay beaches, one near the Navy base, another near
the huge bayside estatenow carved into a few exclusive house blocksof an
airline magnate. He knew all of the hangouts of the Peninsulas druggies,
street kids, prostitutes, gays and rent boys. He knew that a place could be one
thing by day and quite another by night.

He waited until almost midnight, and
then he started to make contact. Matches flared in the darkness, briefly
lighting hollow cheeks. The susurrations of the sea, the moon glow on it. A
drift of marijuana smoke. Feet squeaking on the sand. Somewhere in the distance
a dog barked and far away a siren sounded down a long, empty road.

Fifty bucks for a blowjob.

Van Alphen said he could be
interested.

Five hundred for the whole night. Or
a threesome could be arranged.

He moved on. They were very young,
some of them. Barely twelve, and looking youngerolder, if you looked at the
experiences behind their eyes.

Then he found Billy DaCosta.

* * * *

38

But
you had a history with him, Paddy, said Challis on Saturday morning. Gavin
had it in for you.

Like I told them city coppers, I
never fucking seen Hurst that day.

They were standing in Paddys dusty
yard, which was a vast area of soil erosion stained here and there by motor
oil, paint and animal droppings. Around it were rusting truck bodies,
ploughshares, harrows and car batteries, standing in collars of tall dry grass,
and several corrugated iron sheds: doorless sheds for Paddys tractor, plough,
truck and hay bales, a set of low-slung pig pens, a fenced dog run and a hen
house. Challis had set all of the animals into a frenzy when he drove his aged
Triumph into the yard.

He was due to come here, Challis
said. There was a report against you.