Chain of Evidence

35

‘Peter Duyker,’ said Ellen Destry that same morning.

Faces tired, glum and plain resistant stared back at her. Van Alphen hadn’t even bothered to attend the briefing. Kellock was flipping through and annotating a folder of reports and statements unrelated to the Blasko case. She wanted to say: What is it with you people? Is it because Katie’s a child? Is it because she wasn’t murdered? Suddenly irritated, she rapped the display board with her knuckles. ‘Neville Clode’s brother-in-law,’ she explained, her voice sharp and loud.

There was a stir of interest. The photographs were candid shots, taken with a telephoto lens by Scobie the previous afternoon, and showed a fibro shack on stilts, tangled foliage, Duyker carrying groceries into the house, a white van in the driveway. Duyker was nondescript looking: medium height, average build, short brown hair. You wouldn’t look twice at him. Then Ellen pinned three booking photographs to the wall. ‘Duyker in 1990,1993 and 1998: fraud and indecent exposure, here and in New Zealand.’

Neither prison nor age had wearied him, Ellen thought, pausing briefly. Duyker was as forgettable looking now as he’d been in 1990. She focussed again. ‘The indecent exposure involved minors.’

John Tankard, looking as if he hadn’t slept, raised his hand. ‘Have you shown Katie Blasko these photos?’

‘Yes. I called in there yesterday afternoon as soon as I had copies. She failed to identify Duyker or the van. But the van is common, and the man who’d abducted her was bearded.’

‘So Duyker shaved it off or wore a disguise.’

Ellen glanced at Scobie. He also looked tired, distracted, dark circles under his eyes. ‘Scobie?’

He seemed to shake himself awake. ‘His niece says she’s never seen him with a beard.’

‘Clode?’

‘She’s never known him to have a beard, either.’

‘Can we get either of them on tape?’ van Alphen asked, entering the room at that point. ‘The Blasko kid might recognise a voice.’

Ellen was curious to see him avoid the empty chair beside Kellock and sit opposite, beside Scobie Sutton. Maybe Van wanted to distance himself from Kellock after the Nick Jarrett shooting. Maybe he wanted to intimidate Scobie. She shrugged inwardly. ‘Katie was doped the whole time,’ she replied.

‘Bring Duyker in and get heavy with him. He’ll fold.’

Scobie Sutton edged his chair away from van Alphen and found the nerve to say, ‘The same way you got heavy with Nick Jarrett?’

Kellock snarled, ‘Shut the fuck up, Sutton.’

Scobie was shocked.

‘Boys, boys,’ said Ellen.

It was van Alphen who defused the tension. ‘It’s okay, Scobes,’ he murmured apologetically, ‘don’t sweat it.’

There were undercurrents. Ellen couldn’t work them out. ‘We need more and better evidence,’ she continued. ‘The convictions against Duyker are old. We need to know what he’s been doing since 1998, and who his friends are-apart from Clode. What are his interests, hobbies? What clubs does he belong to?’

John Tankard shifted his bulk in his plastic chair and gave her a look of unconvincing alertness and concern. ‘Are you thinking Duyker and Clode are part of the same paedo ring, Sarge?’

Ellen kept her face neutral but inside she was tingling a little. Was Tank their leak to the media? ‘I won’t speculate, John, not without evidence. I especially don’t want the media speculating about paedophile rings.’

‘Just thinking aloud, Sarge,’ Tankard said. He swallowed and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

‘And your instincts are valid, John,’ she said warmly. She included the room in her gaze now. ‘You know the drill, people. I want surveillance on Peter Duyker: where he goes, what he does, who visits him, anything and everything.’

‘Sarge,’ they said, and they filed out disgruntledly, Scobie and van Alphen holding back.

She cocked her head. ‘A problem, gentlemen?’

Van Alphen seemed to change his mind. ‘It can wait, Ells. Catch you later,’ he said, and left.

‘Scobie?’

Scobie stared at his shoes as though they might inspire him. ‘There’s something I have to reveal.’

Ellen felt alarmed. ‘What?’

‘Duyker’s convictions for fraud. He cheated people, right? Promised to provide them with a portfolio of photos, if not modelling work?’

Where was he going with this? ‘So?’

‘So Beth hired a man to take Roslyn’s photo. She paid him but he hasn’t sent her the photographs yet.’

‘Duyker?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll ask her tonight, get her to ID him from photographs. But what if he had his eye on Roslyn, too? It makes my skin creep.’

Ellen screwed her mouth up in thought. ‘We could get him on defrauding your wife, but I need something stronger.’ She shook her head, frustrated. ‘I’m sorry, Scobie, fraud of a few hundred dollars would be a bullshit charge. Duyker would plead guilty, the magistrate would let him out, and that would be the last we’d see of him.’ She paused. ‘What does he call himself?’

‘Rising Stars Agency.’

‘Why didn’t you bring this up in the briefing?’

He went bright red. ‘I didn’t want anyone getting a laugh out of it, Beth being conned by Duyker.’

He sounded like a child. But Ellen thought he had a point. He’d barely left the room when the phone rang. It was Superintendent McQuarrie. He was in regional HQ in Frankston, and said, without preamble, ‘I’ve been speaking to Senior Sergeant Kellock.’

That was quick, Ellen thought. Five minutes ago Kellock had smiled benignly, promising he’d do what he could to find spare officers for her surveillance teams, and then turned around and gone straight to McQuarrie. ‘Sir?’

‘Your proposed surveillance of this Duyker character. The budget won’t allow it, Sergeant.’

‘Sir, Duyker’s a firm suspect. He has a record for sexual…’

‘So, bring him in for questioning.’

‘We need more evidence, sir.’

‘We don’t have the manpower. You know that. Here in Frankston we’re sometimes thirty uniformed members below the accepted profile for a twenty-four-hour complex. Waterloo is understaffed, Mornington, Rosebud. We can’t even respond to some calls for police assistance; others we respond to hours, days later. We have cadets appearing on staffing rosters. Our members find themselves patrolling solo because we don’t have the manpower to partner them, putting them at risk every day and night of the week. Sometimes there are only two patrol vehicles for the whole of the Peninsula.’

Ellen knew all of this. She’d been to the stop-work meetings and read the newsletters. What did surprise her was that McQuarrie would dare to cite the Federation’s grievances to support his denial of more backup and overtime. McQuarrie was management, and hated the Federation. What a cynic.

‘Sergeant? Did you hear what I just said?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get yourself some evidence and arrest him.’

‘With respect,’ Ellen said, ‘that’s why I want surveillance.’

‘Like I said, we don’t have the resources.’

‘Fine, I’ll do it myself,’ Ellen said, feeling childish.

‘Sergeant,’ he said warningly.

‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ Ellen said, putting the phone down and wishing she’d said something to him about ForenZics. She began to juggle times and obligations in her head, wondering who would agree to put in hours of unpaid overtime on this.

She telephoned Laurie Jarrett. ‘I’d like to show Alysha a photograph.’

‘Who of?’

‘A man who might be an associate of Neville Clode.’

‘Might be an associate,’ sneered Jarrett. ‘When it comes to acting against my family, everything’s black and white. When it comes to helping my family, everything’s “might” and “maybe”. The answer’s no. She’s been through enough. Find evidence and make arrests, Ellen, okay?’

He cut her off. She called Jane Everard. ‘Have any of the kids you work with ever mentioned the name Peter Duyker?’

‘As an abuser? No.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Slowly.’

Then Scobie was standing in her doorway. He looked wretched. ‘I’m going to be grilled about the Jarrett shooting.’

‘When?’

‘After lunch. They’re already in the station.’

What am I, everyone’s mother? Ellen sighed and touched his upper arm reassuringly. ‘Just play it straight, Scobie, okay?’

Desperately needing to get away from the station, she slipped out through the rear doors and got into her car. Within a couple of minutes she was knocking on Donna Blasko’s door. ‘Just checking to see how you’re getting on,’ she said.

‘Pretty good, thanks,’ Donna said, showing Ellen through to the sitting room.

And she did look pretty good: somehow tidier, calmer, healthier. Even the house was neater. But Katie remained close by, almost glued to Donna’s hip and watching Ellen solemnly.

Ellen smiled. ‘How are you, Katie?’

‘She’s very strong, aren’t you, pet?’ said Donna, kissing the crown of her daughter’s head.

‘Donna, could we-’

‘Katie, love, I just need a few minutes with Sergeant Destry.’

‘Okay.’

They watched Katie leave the room. ‘We get the full treatment, you know,’ said Donna suddenly, still gazing after Katie. She swung her head to face Ellen again. ‘Whispers in the street, finger-pointing in the supermarket, people finding excuses to stop and say hello, when all they want is to grill Katie for the gory details.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘I don’t know whether to put her in another school or not. I’m giving her another week at home, then I’ll decide.’

‘Have the counsellors helped?’

Donna shrugged. Ellen thought she understood: she’d struck it before. People like Donna were intimidated by educated, quietly spoken professionals. They’d rather struggle than admit to pain and helplessness.

‘Donna,’ she said slowly, ‘the other day I saw a brochure on your fridge. Rising Stars Agency.’

Donna went alert, a little indignant. ‘Hey, yeah, now you’re here I want to lodge a complaint.’

‘You paid for photos that you didn’t get?’

‘How’d you know that?’

Ellen explained. Donna was appalled. ‘But how come Katie didn’t recognise him?’

‘He wore a disguise. He drugged her.’

Donna began to punish herself. ‘It’s all my fault, isn’t it?’

Ellen stayed for an hour, trying and failing to comfort Donna, and left needing reassurance of her own. She pulled to the side of the road and took out her mobile phone.

‘Hi, sweetie.’

Percussive music, punctuated by raucous shrieks, and her daughter’s voice saying, ‘Mum? I can hardly hear you.’

Ellen checked her watch. Late afternoon. ‘Where are you?’

‘A pub.’

Ellen almost said, acting on her immediate instinct, ‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’ Instead she said, ‘Everything okay?’

‘What?’

‘Is everything okay with you?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Just checking.’

‘Look, Mum, today we had our last lecture before exams, okay?’

Ellen pictured the pub at the end of the airwaves that joined her to her daughter’s mobile phone. Was Travis there? Would they party on later? Go clubbing? Head-numbing music, drug-and-alcohol-dazed faces, swirling lights, slender young things crammed together, some of them predators and some of them prey. ‘Don’t leave your drink untouched.’

‘You think I’d let some creep spike my drink? Mum, get real.’

‘You can’t be too careful,’ Ellen said, feeling like someone’s old churchgoing granny.

‘Have to go, Mum, love you, bye.’

‘Bye,’ Ellen said but the connection was dead.