Chain of Evidence

30

Just before lunch on Thursday, Ellen Destry learnt a great deal more about Neville Clode, owing to a visit from a Children’s Services psychologist.

‘I don’t understand why you didn’t come to us as soon as Katie disappeared,’ Ellen said.

‘What good would that have done?’

Jane Everard was about forty, with a cap of pale fine hair, and wore a sleeveless white shirt over a dark blue cotton skirt. Her glasses, costly and fashionable, glinted contemptuously, an impression reinforced by her mouth, half open with a sardonic twist to it. Her teeth were a little crooked, which Ellen found oddly reassuring. In all other respects, Dr Everard was forbidding.

They were in Ellen’s office on the first floor of the Waterloo police station. ‘We would have investigated,’ Ellen replied.

‘Yeah, sure, males investigating males, just like last time.’

Ellen stared at Everard, blinked, then leaned back from her desk, telling herself to be conciliatory, start again. ‘I’m sorry if you got no satisfaction last time,’ she said. ‘But this is all new to me, so please be patient.’

The psychologist evidently weighed it up and returned Ellen’s smile. ‘I hadn’t realised that a woman was in charge of the abduction until I saw a story on the TV news,’ she said. ‘I came forward, hoping you’ll be more amenable than a man. I’m hoping you’re not a part of the masculinist culture of the police.’

Careful, Ellen thought. It’s not your place to point that out to me-even if I do agree. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning, Dr Everard?’

After a moment, Everard said, ‘Call me Jane.’

‘Jane,’ Ellen said. She didn’t return the favour. She wanted to keep some distance. Maybe they’d become pals, but not yet.

‘It all started eighteen months ago. A couple of teachers from Waterloo Secondary College started hearing rumours that kids from Seaview Park estate had been sexually molested by a man in the town. They went to the police, who seemed unable or unwilling to do anything.’

Ellen made a mental note to check the logs. ‘Did they say why?’

‘Lack of evidence. The teachers didn’t even have names to give them.’

‘Well, there’s not much that we can do if we don’t have possible victims or culprits to interview.’

Again she got a ‘So, what’s new?’ look from the psychologist, who went on to say, ‘To cut a long story short, the principal and the welfare coordinator at the school contacted us to come in and run some workshops.’

Ellen glanced at her notes, hurriedly scrawled when Everard had first come into her office. ‘You are the Child Sexual Abuse Prevention Agency, attached to Children’s Services?’

‘We are.’

‘Go on.’

‘We ran several classroom workshops at all age levels, from Year 7 through to Year 12.’

Ellen waited.

‘We discussed the forms and levels of abuse, to help kids realise that they had rights, and the protection of the law, and how to avoid certain situations, and when and how to report abuse.’

‘And?’

Jane shrugged. ‘As expected, it was new and terrifying information to many kids, nothing new to others. Most looked uncomfortable.’

‘Embarrassment is a great prophylactic,’ said Ellen, immediately regretting her choice of words.

Jane cocked her head. ‘You could say that.’

Ellen flushed. ‘Did any of them come forward?’

‘We encouraged them to write down their concerns and pass those to us.’

‘Anonymously?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Two girls in Year 7 and one girl in Year 8 asked to speak to us privately. They gave mobile phone numbers. One girl wrote this…’

Jane Everard poked a scrap of paper toward Ellen with a slender forefinger. The nail was blunt, but lacquered a bright red. Out of habit, Ellen prodded the note into position with a ballpoint pen.

‘There is this guy Nev Clode in Waterloo,’ she read, ‘and he does stuff to girls and he tried to do it to me but I run off but one of my friends didn’t, I don’t want to give you her name.’

Ellen looked up.

Jane caught her expression. ‘You know this Clode, don’t you? Incredible. Absolutely incredible. How is it that he’s roaming free?’

‘I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you, Jane, you know that.’

‘Oh, bullshit. We have a paedophile in our midst, Katie Blasko was apparently abducted and raped by paedophiles…Are you going to look into this or not?’

She’d cast aside her formal enunciation, showing heat, showing a personality that Ellen could relate to. ‘We are.’

‘You know this creep?’

Ellen smiled the kind of smile that answered Jane Everard’s question.

‘Well, Ellen, I’m telling you now, you won’t get very far if you’re relying on Senior Sergeant Kellock or Sergeant van Alphen.’

Ellen didn’t want to hear this. ‘Is that why you’ve come forward now? Because they’re in trouble?’

‘In trouble? They are trouble.’

‘You’d better explain.’

Glancing at her notes, the psychologist said, ‘First, we spoke to the three girls in person. The writer of that note said, and I quote, “Clode tried to kiss me and feel me and he tried to get me drunk. He showed me his dick as well. I ran away but this friend of mine goes back there sometimes.”‘ Everard glanced up at Ellen. ‘The second girl gave a similar account, again refusing to name the friend, who turns out to be the third girl. She gave a clear, unprompted account of being abused. Clode would apparently sit her on his lap and reach around and touch her between the legs. On several occasions he raped her. He also took photographs of her.’

‘Did she consent?’

Jane said coldly, ‘Does that matter? She’s thirteen.’

Ellen shook her head irritably. ‘What I mean is, she goes back there, according to her friends. Why?’

‘Why do you think? He pays her, some cash now and then, marijuana, booze, cigarettes.’

Ellen felt stricken, and it must have shown in her face. Jane smiled kindly. ‘I know, I know. She said lots of the estate kids visit him. She herself started going to him when she was eleven, in primary school.’

‘Can you give me her name?’

Jane wasn’t keen to do that. Eventually she said, ‘Only because I trust you. It’s Alysha Jarrett.’

Ellen blinked.

‘You know who she is?’

‘We know the family.’

‘Incest?’

‘That’s never been suggested,’ said Ellen carefully. ‘They’re known to us in other contexts. What did you do next?’

‘Contacted the sexual crimes unit in Melbourne.’

‘Not the Waterloo police?’

‘No. We wanted to act quickly and firmly on this. Big mistake.’

‘How so?’

‘Melbourne sent down three male detectives. They arrived half a day late. On arrival, they didn’t come to see my colleagues or me but went straight to Kellock and van Alphen-mates of theirs? By the time they came to see us, they’d already made up their minds.’

‘Did they interview the girls?’

‘If you can call it that.’

‘Explain.’

‘The interviews were a joke, lasting only ten or fifteen minutes. We saw the reports: nowhere do these so-called detectives give any detail about what questions they asked or what the children said in reply. Brief summaries are all you get, and even they are contradictory. I talked to the school’s welfare coordinator, who was allowed to sit in on the interviews. She said the detectives were rude and intimidating. It was clear to her that they’d prejudged the children. In tone and body language they were accusing the children of being liars, stirrers, troublemakers.’

Ellen closed her eyes briefly. ‘Oh, God,’ she murmured.

‘Then these three esteemed members of Victoria Police went to the pub with Kellock and van Alphen.’

‘You saw them?’

‘Yes. We tried to talk to them immediately after the interviews, but they warned us off, said it would be all in their report. I was so pissed off I followed them to the pub. They gave me the cold shoulder.’

‘I’d like copies of all reports.’

‘I’m a step ahead of you,’ Jane Everard said, passing a folder across the desk. ‘Main summary on top.’

Ellen scanned it quickly, catching the phrase ‘on the grounds that no criminal offences were disclosed’. She looked up. ‘Did you follow through?’

‘We decided to report the matter to the Department of Human Services. They followed it up, then reported back to us, saying they’d elected not to pursue the matter further because the sexual crimes unit and the Waterloo police had told them that a full investigation had been carried out and the children were safe.’

‘Safe to be abused by Clode again,’ Ellen muttered.

‘Are you going to do anything about this?’Jane demanded.

‘Yes.’

Jane got to her feet, gathered her things. ‘Good luck,’ she said, evidently not believing in luck, or Ellen.

Meanwhile Scobie had been assigned to interview Neville Clode’s married stepdaughter, Grace Duyker. He was shown into the kitchen of a kit house situated on a sandy track among ti-trees in Blairgowrie, on the Port Phillip Bay side of the Peninsula. The house was vaguely American log cabin and mid-western barn in design, the air laden with a headachy mix of new wood, carpet, plasterboard, paint and wood stain odours. And freshly baked muffins on a rack. Green numerals on the oven gave the time as 13.10. Scobie realised that he hadn’t had lunch. He’d been poured a mug of weak tea but not offered a muffin.

He took out a pen and his notebook. ‘First if I could have Mr Duyker’s work details.’

Grace Duyker was confused. ‘What?’

‘We’d like to speak to your husband as well, Mrs Duyker.’

Grace Duyker threw her head back with an appreciative laugh. ‘Duyker is my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t take my husband’s surname.’

‘Forgive me,’ Scobie Sutton said, making the alteration in his notebook. He said delicately, ‘Is there a reason why you didn’t take your father’s name?’

‘He was never in the picture. It was only my mother and me. Then when I was fourteen, Mum married Nifty Nev.’

Scobie grinned. ‘Nifty Nev.’

Grace Duyker grinned back. She was about thirty-five, he guessed. His gaze flickered around the kitchen, taking in further information. There were crayon drawings under fridge magnets, a bicycle abandoned on the back lawn, which was visible through the window above the sink, and four or five photographs of Grace, her husband and seven-year-old daughter. Typical family snaps: plenty of sunshine, grinning teeth and bright T-shirts. But there was also a photograph of a middle-aged woman who looked worn down by life.

‘My mother,’ Grace said, following his gaze.

He nodded. ‘Clode has a similar photo of her.’

‘That’s not exactly reassuring.’

There was something unbalanced about the composition of Grace’s photograph of her mother, as though part of the subject matter had been cropped with scissors. Clode?

‘She died last year,’ Grace continued.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Neville Clode wore her down,’ said Grace simply.

Scobie said nothing but waited.

‘A real creep.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, nothing overt. He never touched me or anything when I was a kid, but the way he looked at me gave me the creeps. I used to hate taking my daughter to visit. Now that Mum’s gone I don’t see him. Look,’ she said, changing her tone, ‘what’s this about? I know he was attacked, it was in the paper, but somehow I don’t think that’s why you’re here.’

‘We’re investigating another matter.’

‘And keeping it close to your chest,’ said Grace Duyker, scooping up their empty cups and taking them to the sink. Scobie heard the tap run, saw her upend the cups on the draining board. She wore lycra bicycle pants under a shapeless T-shirt that reached her thighs. Her feet were bare. She returned to her chair, a solid, capable woman with a challenging air. The antithesis of her sad-looking mother, Scobie thought.

‘He’s clean,’ Grace said, surprising him.

‘Clean?’

‘My husband and I tried for years to get Mum to leave him. We looked into him.’

‘Private detective?’

‘Yes. Nifty Nev’s never been in trouble with the law.’

Scobie already knew that. ‘But he made you feel uncomfortable.’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t want him around your daughter.’

Grace Duyker gave him a lopsided grin. ‘Finally.’

‘Finally what?’

‘Finally you want to know if he’s a paedophile.’

Scobie shrugged minutely.

‘My instincts say yes, but I have no evidence,’ Grace admitted. ‘My uncle, on the other hand.’

Scobie stiffened, got his pen ready. ‘Uncle?’

‘Write it down: Peter Duyker. My mother’s brother.’

Scobie recorded it dutifully. His stomach rumbled. Silently Grace crossed to the cooling muffins and placed two before him on a plate. ‘They needed time to cool. Enjoy.’

‘Thank you.’

He nibbled cautiously: blueberry. Slightly doughy. But warm-centred and delicious. He took another bite, almost cramming it in.

Grace smiled. ‘You’re enjoying that, aren’t you.’

‘Delicious.’

She folded her arms. ‘A real piece of work is my Uncle Pete.’

Scobie finished chewing, nodding for her to continue.

‘Convictions for fraud in New Zealand and Queensland.’

Scobie ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘Fraud.’

‘He’s a photographer, so-called. Offers to produce a professional portfolio, but fails to deliver.’ Grace gave him a crooked smile. ‘He photographs children, mostly.’

Scobie tingled. ‘Do you know what he calls himself?’

‘It varies,’ said Grace. She reached behind her to the fridge and fumbled under a crayon drawing. She handed him a brochure. ‘Rising Stars Agency,’ she said.

‘I know it,’ said Scobie, feeling panicky.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’ He coughed. ‘Fraud. And he photographs children. Anything else?’

Grace Duyker grimaced and rubbed at her forehead. ‘I think so but Mum was always cagey about him. Protective, but also embarrassed. I heard rumours in the family that he’d been done for exposing himself, groping schoolkids on a train, something like that. When he was young.’

‘How old is he now?’

About fifty-five.’

Scobie wrote in his notebook and Grace watched him, pleased and avid. He ate the second muffin.

‘More?’

Scobie was warming to her. ‘What about when your daughter gets home from school?’

‘I’ll bake another batch. No problem.’

This time she ate one with him. He didn’t mind being managed in this way. Even so, he knew he’d have to watch what he said. For all he knew, Grace Duyker might contact Neville Clode and Peter Duyker just to gloat, thereby warning them, or her husband was in on it. Or she was.

‘Where is Mr Duyker now?’

‘Mr Duyker. That’s good. Mr Duyker’s too close for comfort.’

‘He’s here on the Peninsula?’

‘He returns every so often-I think when things get too hot for him elsewhere. He rang a few nights ago to say he was back.’ She sensed Scobie’s frustration and added, ‘A shack in Safety Beach. Fibro holiday house. Been in the family for decades.’

Scobie noted the address. ‘You haven’t seen him this time around?’

‘No. He wanted to visit the other day, but I put him off

Scobie said carefully, ‘What does he drive?’

Grace shrugged. ‘Never paid much attention. I’m not good on makes.’

‘Van? Sedan? Four-wheel-drive?’

‘Oh, a van, to cart his gear around in,’ said Grace.

‘Colour?’

Again she shrugged. ‘There have been two or three over the years. White? One year he had a yellow one but it broke down.’

‘Married? Children?’

‘No.’

‘Does he have friends here?’

Grace was enjoying herself again. ‘Oh, Uncle Pete and Nifty Nev have always got along well.’