Chain of Evidence

54

All through that long Monday, Ellen repeated it like a mantra: Trust no one. It made sense. According to Andrew Retallick, not just one but several policemen had abused him. Kellock, presumably, but who else? Maybe even the superintendent. Maybe even Scobie Sutton. She wasn’t dealing with a couple of miserable individuals but a secretive, protective and organised circle of men. She’d known from other cases in Australia, Europe and the States how powerful these circles could be. The makers and keepers of the law often dominated: judges, lawyers, cops, parole officers. These men had the clout and know-how to protect themselves, subvert justice, and kill.

At least now she knew that van Alphen hadn’t been involved. That didn’t mean he’d been a sensitive, caring individual: fuck, he was so blinded by hatred of the Jarretts that he’d branded Alysha a tart and liar and helped ambush Nick Jarrett. A vaunting avenger, yeah, but not a paedophile.

He’d been working for the good guys, and that had cost him his life. Who had shot him? Kellock, probably. Ellen, in the incident room on Monday evening, glanced back over her shoulder and kept misjudging the reflections in the darkened windows. Would he come for her here? At Challis’s? Arrange an ambush somewhere?

She tried Larrayne again. The phone went to voice-mail again. Where was she? Finally she tried Larrayne’s mobile phone, knowing it was futile, for there was no signal in the little valley where Challis lived.

But, bewilderingly, Larrayne was there on the line, shouting, shouting because there was background noise, not a weakened signal. ‘I’m in my car, Mum.’

Ellen practically fainted with relief. ‘Where?’

‘Just coming in to Richmond.’

Ellen pictured the old suburb, on the river and close to the inner city. Students, yuppies, small back street factories, a solid working-class core and a long street of Vietnamese restaurants and businesses. She was puzzled and concerned. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘Do I have to tell you everything? A group of us are having a swot session for next week’s exams.’

‘Thank God for that. When will you be back?’

‘I left a note on the table. I’ll stay overnight, work in the library tomorrow, and come home tomorrow evening.’

‘Sweetie, can you stay away longer?’

Larrayne was the daughter of police officers. She said warily, ‘Something’s happened.’

Ellen said simply, ‘Someone might try to do me harm.’

‘Mum! You can’t stay at that house any more, out in the middle of nowhere!’

‘I know that, sweetheart.’

‘Well?’

‘I’ll find somewhere else, I promise.’

‘I don’t like this,’ said Larrayne, a little hysterical now. ‘Van was shot. Are the same people after you?’

‘Not if I get them first.’

Larrayne went into full paranoia mode. ‘Text me, okay? Or send an e-mail with the details. Don’t trust the phones.’

‘I will, sweetie.’

Ellen finished the call and went to the head of the stairs to listen. The station was muted but not dead. She heard voices and laughter. Suddenly Pam Murphy’s voice came crackling out of the public address speaker above Ellen’s head. There was an edge to it. Ellen listened tensely, realising that Pam was in trouble. But as she listened, she relaxed. Soon she was grinning. She said aloud, ‘Good one, Pam,’ and returned to the incident room, where she made a call.

‘I need you back here now.’

‘Sarge,’ Pam said, ‘I’m sorry about the radio business, but-’

‘Forget that. I need you on another matter.’

‘Sarge.’

While she waited, Ellen mused. She dipped into her store of Kellock memories, Kellock over the past few weeks. The cuts on his hands, that morning she asked for extra uniforms. Scratches? From a dog, or Katie Blasko? The briefings in which he’d discredited Alysha Jarrett. The briefings in which he’d emphasised the DNA cockups. He’d been protecting Clode and Duyker, she realised. And in murdering van Alphen, he’d been protecting the entire ring.

But how did Billy DaCosta factor into all of this? How had Kellock got to him in time? Had Kellock intimidated or paid the kid into changing his story? Had Billy acted alone, spurred by the murder of van Alphen? Or had van Alphen, a man who would help shoot dead a criminal in the interests of meting out rough justice, not hesitated to create a ‘witness’ to bring down Kellock’s gang?

There were no women in the lives of Clode and Duyker, but Kellock had a wife. A wife who suspected something? Colluded? Knew nothing? Ellen had once investigated a case of child abduction and murder in which the killer had a wife and children. On the surface he was a decent, plausible man, who went to church and was active in youth groups. When arrested, he’d denied everything. Then he’d claimed that the child had been the instigator. Then he said the child had choked in his car and he’d panicked and buried her. A kind of accident, in other words: can I go home now? Finally, as Ellen and the other investigators pulled apart his story, he got angry. A moment later he was full of apologies-not for losing his temper, as such, but for allowing his faзade to slip. Yet it was the man’s wife whom Ellen remembered. She’d known nothing of her husband’s hidden life, or his past convictions for indecent exposure to children. She was protective of him. She dismissed everything that Ellen had to say.

But Ellen had sown a seed. Before long the woman remembered that her husband had washed his own clothes on the day of the murder. He’d never done that before. He’d also washed and vacuumed his car, something he never did unless the family was going on vacation.

Men like him are dead inside, Ellen thought now, feeling spooked by a movement in the window. She’d signed for a service.38 and put her hand on the butt, ready to slip it out of the holster on her hip. But it was only a passing headlight-possibly reflected upwards from a raked windscreen-catching the corner of the whiteboard. On an impulse, she called Challis in South Australia.

Voice-mail.

She badly needed him here. She didn’t deny it. She wanted his stillness. It was a supple kind of stillness. He was respected, and respectful, but people were wary, too, for they couldn’t always read him. He was good at spotting complexities and nuances that others missed, but he also knew when to look the other way in the interests of commonsense and the best outcomes. He was a chameleon sometimes, able to connect with a homeless kid one moment and a clergyman the next. He remembered names: not only of criminals, informants and the people in the corner milk bar but also their families, friends and acquaintances.

She also liked the shadows and planes of his face. The way his backside looked in a pair of pants, too, a nice distracting thought while it lasted. But right now she needed to know what he’d do, if he were stuck in her situation. She swivelled agitatedly in her office chair.

Funny how the mind works. Stuck in her situation. There was that old Creedence song she’d played last night, ‘Stuck in Mobile again’. Why did place names in American popular songs sound mysterious, sad, romantic? She’d also played ‘Sweet home, Alabama’, singing along to the words. Yeah, she could see that working in Australia: ‘Sweet home, New South Wales’…’Stuck in Nar Nar Goon North again’… ‘Twenty-four hours from Wagga Wagga’.

‘Sarge?’

Ellen jumped.

‘I did knock, Sarge.’

‘Sorry, million miles away,’ Ellen said. ‘Close the door, pull up a chair.’

‘Sarge,’ Pam said, obliging.

‘You had a little fun tonight,’ Ellen said, when they were settled. It was now 10 pm.

Pam laughed. ‘Not the first time it’s happened to me. Back when I was fresh out of the academy they sent me to an address, said Mr Lyon was drunk and disorderly. It was the zoo.’

Ellen grinned. ‘They sent me to the arms locker to get a left-handed revolver.’

God, that had been twenty years ago. Without wasting any more time, Ellen told Pam everything, watching the younger woman shift from perky interest to distaste and finally nervy alertness as she responded with the question uppermost in Ellen’s mind: ‘If they can kill Van, what’s to stop them from killing us?’

Ellen felt a tiny surge of hope. Pam had used the word ‘us’. It said that she saw herself as part of a team.

‘We need to work fast. We need to talk to Billy DaCosta again; for a start.’

‘I saw him at Van’s,’ Pam said, explaining the circumstances.

Ellen regarded the younger woman for some time. ‘You were fond of Van, weren’t you?’

Pam nodded, her eyes damp. ‘I know he wasn’t a paragon of virtue, Sarge, but he was on the right side.’

Ellen nodded. ‘You’re going to his funeral?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’

There was a brief, fraught pause, then Ellen coughed and said, ‘Here’s my interview with Billy. See if it tells us anything.’

She aimed the remote control and pushed the play button. Pam watched. She stiffened. ‘That’s not Billy DaCosta.’

Ellen paused the tape. ‘That’s not the kid you saw at Sergeant van Alphen’s house?’

‘Positive. Completely different kid. Sure, there are vague similarities-same sort of clothing, same grubby gothic look-but that’s not the Billy I was introduced to.’

Ellen was silent. They looked at each other. ‘The real Billy’s dead,’ Pam said.

‘Yes.’

‘God,’ Pam said fervently, ‘the nerve, the ability, not only to kill Van but also substitute a witness to discredit him.’

‘The substitute could also be dead.’

‘Sarge, I’m scared.’

‘Me, too.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We try to find whoever this is,’ Ellen said, indicating the flickering screen. ‘He might not be dead. He might be a victim whom they’ve turned. He might be one of the gang now, and be willing to talk.’

Pam stared at the false Billy DaCosta. ‘It looks like you interviewed him in the Victim Suite.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s drinking Coke.’

Ellen sat very still for a moment, then went around and hugged the younger woman. ‘Brilliant.’

‘But the cleaners would have cleared the can away, I suppose.’

‘Billy handled every single can of drink in that fridge,’ Ellen said. ‘No one has used the room since. We can lift his prints for sure.’

She stood and placed her hand on Pam’s shoulder. ‘We can’t do any more tonight. Go home. We have a lot to do tomorrow.’

Meanwhile Challis had reported to Sergeant Wurfel and was waiting by the phone. The call came at 10 pm, clamorous in his father’s gloomy house. ‘Was she there?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The voice was disobliging. ‘And?’ Challis demanded.

Wurfel waited before he spoke again. Challis read hesitation, tact and a hint of impatience in it. ‘Look, I questioned her as a favour to you. You were persuasive, I’ll give you that. But it was a monumental waste of my time and I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.’

‘She and her husband are in it together,’ Challis said heatedly. ‘Gavin intended to prosecute Rex for mistreating his horse, and Rex lost his temper and killed him. They staged his disappearance, and created evidence incriminating Paddy Finucane, just in case.’

‘So you keep saying. She denies it.’

‘Of course she denies it.’

‘She says you barged in on her this evening, throwing your weight around. You scared her.’

‘Rubbish. She waved a shotgun at me.’

‘You scared her, Inspector. She looked scared to me.’

Challis shook his head in the cheerless room. ‘Check with Sadler, Gavin’s boss. He’ll tell you that Gavin was going after Rex Joyce.’

‘Look, this is not my case. Sadler’s been interviewed. A suspect is in custody. Case closed.’

‘Do you think I’m making all this up?’

‘Well, are you?’ demanded Wurfel. ‘Isn’t this personal? Mrs Joyce told me that you and she had been romantically involved in the past. She said you had trouble accepting that it was over and have hassled her from time to time ever since. I advised her to file a complaint, in fact.’

‘You bastard,’ Challis snarled. He felt close to losing it.

‘Inspector.’

Challis swallowed. ‘Was Rex there?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t you at least ask where he was?’

‘Rex Joyce is away on business,’ Wurfel said flatly. ‘He often is.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re his little mate, too,’ Challis said, before he could stop himself.

‘Let’s pretend I didn’t hear you say that, shall we?’

He’s going to inform Nixon and Stormare, thought Challis. They’ll inform McQuarrie. And I don’t care.

‘I think it’s worth getting up a search party tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘It’s possible Rex is suicidal. He could be up on the Bluff somewhere. He likes to go there, Lisa said.’

‘Rex Joyce,’ said Wurfel with false brightness, ‘is away on business. Goodbye.’