Chain of Evidence

17

Monday.

Ellen started the day with Donna Blasko and Justin Pedder, who seemed confused about Katie’s bike (‘It was a blue bike.’ ‘No, it was purple.’ ‘It had a basket on the handlebars.’ ‘No, that was her old bike.’). Sighing, she drove to the bike shop in High Street and borrowed a purple bike and helmet. The bike shop used to be Cafй Laconic, and a jeans-and-T-shirt shop before that, so she guessed it would be selling something else this time next year. Ellen missed Cafй Laconic. You couldn’t get decent coffee anywhere in Waterloo now.

As she was wheeling the bike to her car, a voice said, ‘Need a hand?’

She turned. Laurie Jarrett, with two teenage boys. Being Jarretts, the boys knew who she was, and smirked. The smirk said, ‘We won, you lost.’

‘How’s it feel, copper?’ sneered one of the boys.

Laurie surprised her. He thumped the back of the boy’s head, not hard, and said, ‘A bit of respect, okay?’

‘Ow!’ sulked the boy.

Ellen glanced at Jarrett, trying to read him. Despite herself, she was compelled by his looks. She was fascinated by the shapeliness of his hands and head, unnoticed by her before. He was dressed neatly and, unlike the other males-and females-of his clan, he didn’t carry scars or tattoos. He wasn’t overweight. He didn’t smell like a brewery. His eyes were clear. No giveaway facial tics or hand tremors. She’d heard he was a charmer. He lived with two women, sisters, apparently. There was also a daughter, Alysha, twelve or thirteen, with learning difficulties, whom Jarrett doted on.

‘Help you with the bike?’ he said again.

Why not? She watched him stow it in her car.

‘Present for your kid?’ he asked.

‘For a re-enactment,’ she said. ‘Katie Blasko, her route home from school. You’ve got a large network: pass the word around.’

He nodded abruptly and left, the boys trailing him.

What had all that been about?

She returned to the station. By late morning she’d obtained reports of three recent abduction attempts on the Peninsula. In June a middle-aged man had tried to lure a ten-year-old boy into his car in Frankston South. Two months earlier, a young man grabbed the arm of an eight-year-old girl who was riding her bike to school in Mornington. And during the January school holidays, a nine-year-old boy had been lured out of his front yard by two young men, who had then been chased off by a neighbour.

No worthwhile descriptions. No trace evidence.

The long day passed. At 3 pm, she met Scobie and his daughter outside the gates of Katie Blasko’s primary school. A dozen uniformed police were there, too, an open jeep fitted with a public-address system, and plenty of media. Scattered among the spectators and the media pack were plain-clothed officers, who would video and photograph the onlookers.

Roslyn Sutton resembled Katie Blasko in colouring, height and build. Ellen crouched beside her. Roslyn looked very pleased with herself. An unappealing child, Ellen had often thought. She smiled stiffly. All set?’

Roslyn immediately planted her foot on the pedal and hunched her shoulders as though to speed away. ‘Steady on, not yet, darling,’ her father said.

Ellen didn’t think she could bear to see all of Scobie’s doting love just then, pouring out, and avoided his eye. She smiled at Roslyn again. ‘The kids don’t get out until 3.15. Wait until we hear the bell, then a while longer for them to appear with their bags. Katie was neither early nor late leaving school last Thursday, so we’ll allow time for half the kids to be picked up or start walking or riding home before you set off, okay?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Your role is very important. We’re very proud of you.’

Roslyn Sutton knew it. She couldn’t mask it.

‘Ride slowly,’ Ellen said. ‘Apparently Katie rode slowly, too, but we also need time for people to watch you, and perhaps remember something. Okay?’

‘Yes.’

At 3.23, the caravan set out, Ellen standing in the Jeep with the microphone. Several times during the forty minutes that followed, she repeated the same message: A child has gone missing. Her name is Katie Blasko and she’s ten years old. We are re-enacting her ride home from school last Thursday afternoon. Did you see Katie on that day or any other day, either alone or in the company of someone? Did she deviate from her routine or route in any way? Any help you can give us, however trivial it might seem, could be vital in finding her. You may approach any of our officers or phone the Waterloo police station.’

People wanted to be helpful. In the days that followed, they flooded Ellen with useless information.

Operation Calling Card-so-called because their burglar liked to leave an unflushed turd at the scene of every break-in-came together quickly for Kellock and van Alphen. Of course, they could have obtained DNA from the calling card and matched it to Nick Jarrett, but you’d have to be keen. Besides, in seven of the eight burglaries so far, the owners had come home, traced the offending odour to its source, and flushed the evidence away, feeling doubly violated.

So van Alphen and Kellock used a time-honoured method: while CIU and most of the uniforms were out looking for the missing kid, they put the hard word on some of their informants. This led them to Ivan Henniker, who had a speed habit, the speed produced in a fortified laboratory by the Yanqui motorcycle gang and distributed by members of the Jarrett family in the Waterloo area. Henniker feared the Jarretts and wanted to be free of them, but he also needed access to a ready supply. A dilemma, but van Alphen and Kellock helped him to resolve it. Surprising how effective a telephone book can be, in a soundless, windowless back room.

‘Your girlfriend works in Waterloo Travel?’

‘Yes,’ sobbed Henniker. A jumpy, scrawny guy, limp hair owing to the speed he’d run through his system over the years.

‘She gives you a list of names and addresses of who’s away on holiday? So we should be arresting her, too?’

‘No! No, don’t do that. She’s got this little notebook computer.’

‘Brings her work home with her.’

‘I access it when she’s taking a shower,’ said Henniker.

‘Lovely guy,’ said van Alphen to Kellock.

‘A real prince.’

Henniker flushed. ‘Do you want the details, or not?’

‘Fire away.’

‘She’s got this file, travel insurance, of people away on holiday.’

‘And you pass on names and addresses to the Jarretts.’

‘Yeah. They’ll kill me for this.’

‘Not unless we kill you first,’ said Kellock. ‘Who in the Jarrett clan?’

‘Nick.’

Van Alphen and Kellock beamed at each other.

‘Here’s what we want you to do,’ van Alphen said, proceeding to lay it out for Henniker.

‘Nick will kill me,’ said Henniker miserably. ‘He’s a mad bastard. They all are.’

‘We’ll protect you,’ van Alphen said unconvincingly.