Chain of Evidence

26

When Ellen arrived at work that morning she found people congregated in corridors and doorways, whispering, murmuring. It was partly elation, partly awe, partly apprehension about the fallout that would follow now, not only for Kellock and van Alphen but for all of them. Nobody was very sorry about Jarrett. Some were almost pleased that he’d been shot dead, although they could not have done it themselves. Feelings were complicated, uneven, hard to pin down.

She walked past Kellock’s office. The door was open. He beckoned her in, saying, ‘You heard?’

‘Yes.’

He looked exhausted. ‘Van and I have been limited to desk duties until it’s sorted out.’

Ellen nodded. It was to be expected.

‘But feel free to call on us if you need help with the Blasko investigation.’

Ellen blinked. ‘Really?’

‘No problem,’ said Kellock evenly.

Scobie was waiting for her upstairs. He hadn’t shaved; his thinning hair was awry. ‘Ellen,’ he said, relieved.

She took him into her office. He wouldn’t sit but paced in agitation. She waited, eventually prompting him: ‘The Jarrett shooting.’

He continued to pace.

‘Scobie!’

He jumped. ‘What?’

‘It’s clean, right?’

He was silent for some time. ‘I got there about five this morning.’

‘And?’

‘I was tired. I wasn’t taking everything in.’

Ellen closed her eyes, opened them again. ‘Are you saying there are anomalies?’

He considered that. ‘There’s an explanation for everything.’

‘You did it by the book, Scobie, tell me you did it by the book.’

He sat finally. He twisted in his seat. ‘I can explain.’

The explanation was disjointed, and at the end of it she said, ‘Was the knife Jarrett’s?’

Scobie stared at the carpet, then lifted his sorrowing face. She heard the fretfulness as he asked: ‘Was he left or right handed? Was he or wasn’t he wearing gloves? I went back there just now: the carpet’s been shampooed already.’

Ellen watched him.

‘I got a bad vibe, Ellen,’ he said, not meeting her gaze.

She wondered if he’d ever uttered the word ‘vibe’ aloud before. It didn’t sound right in his mouth. ‘What kind of knife was it?’

‘Generic kitchen knife. Could have come from anywhere. Could have come from the house.’

‘He always wore gloves?’

‘According to the collators, yes. His girlfriend wouldn’t confirm or deny. Nor would his family.’

An image of Laurie Jarrett came to Ellen. She coughed. ‘God, Scobie, I don’t want a dirty shooting.’

‘It’s not yours to worry about,’ Scobie said sourly. ‘It was a uniformed operation, and the police shooting board will be stepping in.’

‘Still.’

Into the pause that followed, Scobie said softly, ‘They threatened me.’

‘Who? The Jarretts?’

‘Van Alphen and Kellock.’

‘They’re just a bit macho, that’s all. They like to intimidate.’

‘It was more than that. When I arrived just now, Kellock said, “How’s that daughter of yours going?” A clear threat.’

‘Doesn’t sound like one.’

‘You weren’t there,’ Scobie muttered.

Ellen had barely started work when a call came from the front desk: Laurie Jarrett was in the foyer, angry, distraught. ‘He wants to see you, Sarge.’

‘Me? The stakeout was a uniformed operation, not CIU.’

‘He says his nephew was set up, ambushed. He’ll only speak to you.’

‘Put him in a conference room. Have a uniform outside the door.’

‘Sarge.’

Wondering what she’d done to earn Laurie Jarrett’s regard, Ellen went downstairs, a part of her thinking that Nick Jarrett had got what he deserved, another part hoping it had been a clean shooting.

She found the patriarch of the Jarrett clan in the foyer conference room, two nervous constables standing beside his chair. He’d come storming into the station, according to the officers on the front desk, but now looked calm and unreadable. ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he murmured.

Ellen got down to business. ‘You’re saying the police set your nephew up?’

‘I know they did,’ Jarrett said.

The man’s low tone and steady demeanour spelt barely concealed fury. ‘We’re sorry for your loss, Mr Jarrett, but-’

‘You cunts set him up and bushwhacked him.’

Ellen flushed. ‘Mr Jarrett, I know you’re upset, but I find your language offensive.’

‘So charge me.’

It was 9 am. She’d brought her coffee mug with her and toyed with it now, idly noticing the words printed across it: Our day begins when yours ends. She looked up; Laurie Jarrett was staring at her bleakly across the conference room table. ‘I want a face-to-face with the officers who shot Nick,’ he said.

‘There’s no way that’s going to happen.’

‘I want a full inquiry.’

‘All police shootings are rigorously examined,’ she said.

He snorted. ‘Words.’

‘Like I said, the shooting will be-’

‘You’ve always had it in for my nephew. You’ve had it in for all of us.’

She wasn’t going to take that lying down. ‘Our officers are called to your house at least once a fortnight, Laurie. Legal searches of the cars and bedrooms of your sons, stepsons and nephews have regularly uncovered drugs and stolen goods. The younger kids are caught shoplifting almost weekly. You yourself have a record for burglary and assault. Did we fit you up for all of those crimes and charges? I don’t think so.’

‘This time,’ he snarled, stabbing the table top with a slender finger, ‘this time you did.’

Ellen shifted uncomfortably, compelled by his looks again. She didn’t want to admit that it was a form of attraction. In response, something shifted in his gaze. He’d sensed the alteration in her body, and almost but not quite smiled. Then, to her astonishment, his eyes filled with tears.

‘It wasn’t a clean shooting.’

‘Laurie, he attacked two officers with a knife.’

A kitchen knife, possibly from a set found in the kitchen of the house. Ellen made a mental note: how did Nick Jarrett enter the house? Which rooms did he enter before being accosted? Did he go to the kitchen?

‘He was lured, Ellen,’ Laurie Jarrett said.

It was a shock, his using her first name, and quite out of order. ‘He was a burglar, Mr Jarrett. We’ve found burgled items in his girlfriend’s flat from time to time. He burgled to a pattern. We identified that pattern and intercepted him. He took drugs and was prone to violence. It was always going to be a matter of time before something like this occurred.’

Jarrett gave her a look, a man with a permanently unimpressed mind. It was a cops’ look, frankly. Eventually he said gently, ‘You’re a sore loser.’

‘If that’s all,’ Ellen said, standing, ‘I have work to do.’

‘Just the beginning, sweetheart,’ Jarrett said, uncoiling gracefully from his chair.

‘There will be a coroner’s inquest in due course.’

‘You mean a coroner’s whitewash.’

Ellen lost it, just a little. ‘Look, we’ve just had the abduction and sexual assault of a young girl. She’s lucky to be alive. I am yet to find the man, or men, responsible. Meanwhile, the shooting of your nephew will be given full attention, but it’s not my concern.’

Laurie Jarrett, a slender, shapely, dangerous man, a man who had her number, smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Katie Blasko is not the only one,’ he murmured.

Ellen stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

He ignored the question and got to his feet. ‘I have a lot to do, a grieving family, a funeral to arrange.’

Ellen returned to the CIU incident room and waded through reports and witness statements until mid afternoon. It was all fruitless, until Riggs, the technician from ForenZics, called. ‘We have the results on those Katie Blasko samples.’

Ellen was impressed: she’d expected the results much later. Maybe Superintendent McQuarrie had done the right thing in contracting CIU’s forensic testing to the private lab. Not that the situation in any way matched the ideal, the ideal being one of those American cop shows like ‘CSI’, where a detective walks down a flight of stairs with a blood or fibre sample, and there is the lab, and the lab is full of experts who process evidence on the spot with state of the art equipment-and who also go out and make arrests. Even so, ForenZics had processed the samples from the Katie Blasko abuse house quickly. In Ellen’s experience, the state lab was often running weeks, even months behind. Not only had successive state governments failed to fund it adequately, but it was also swamped with work, for defence and prosecution lawyers had come to believe that forensic evidence could prove or disprove everything. Even the privately owned labs like ForenZics were overworked in testing samples-giving second opinions, confirming the state lab’s results or throwing them into doubt. Consequently judges and prosecutors were putting pressure on the police to find additional, better and more irrevocable evidence.

‘That was quick,’ Ellen said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Just doing our job,’ Riggs said.

Ellen swivelled in her chair. She gazed at the perforated ceiling battens, then unseeingly through the window that overlooked the car park and its scattering of police and private cars. ‘So, what did you find?’

‘The bad news first. Plenty of fibres, but they’re generic to all kinds of cotton and synthetic clothing.’

‘DNA,’ said Ellen firmly, ‘that’s what I want.’

‘Don’t rush me. We found blood, other fluids and skin traces that are a DNA match to Katie Blasko.’

‘As expected. I want to know who else was there.’

‘Don’t rush me,’ said Riggs again. ‘For your information, we did find traces of someone other than the victim.’

‘Enough for DNA?’

‘Yes.’

Ellen felt her skin tingle.

‘And he’s in the system,’ Riggs said. ‘Neville Clode. He lives in Waterloo.’

Ellen left her office and found Scobie Sutton in the incident room, examining the doorknock canvass sheets, studiously ignoring Kees van Alphen, who was thumb tacking a wall map of the Peninsula. Ellen paused. ‘Heard about the shooting, Van,’ she murmured. ‘Bad luck.’

‘Or good luck. Depends how you see it.’

‘Quite.’ She pointed at the map. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Since I’m desk bound, I thought I’d help CIU. I’m mapping sex crimes. The blue pins are the home addresses of known sex offenders.’

There were not many of these, and most lived in the main population areas: Waterloo, Mornington and the coastal strip from Dromana to Sorrento. ‘The red and yellow pins?’

‘The red pins show the locations of sexual assaults on children by strangers, the yellow pins show the locations of related offences.’

‘Good work,’ Ellen said. And it was, painstaking and probably pointless. A lot of police work was like that. ‘What do you mean by “related offences”?’

‘Women, and young girls, have reported flashers along here,’ van Alphen said, indicating a couple of popular beaches. ‘This woman-’ he indicated another yellow pin ‘-was walking her dog and a man grabbed her breasts from behind. She screamed and he ran. She followed him to a nearby house, then called the police, who promptly arrested him.’

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. We’re stretched for resources.’

‘No worries.’

‘But broaden what you’ve 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 I’d rather be out in the field, kicking down doors.’

Ellen patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s 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, wouldn’t give straight answers. A falling out with his pals?’

‘Or maybe it wasn’t an ag burg. Maybe he has a history, and one of his victims got revenge.’

‘He didn’t 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?’

‘Can’t recall.’

‘What can you recall?’

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

‘Anything else?’

Scobie searched his memory. ‘There’s a kind of spa room in his house. Spa bath and toys.’

‘Toys? Does he have children? A partner?’

‘He’s almost sixty.’

‘Scobie, does he have children or a partner?’

‘No sign of either.’

‘Let’s go and rattle his cage,’ Ellen said, rattling her car keys at him.