Snapshot

45

Monday morning.

Tessa Kane, Joe Ovens and the hypnotist had been shown to a room called the victim suite, so-called because it was recognised that rape victims, lost or recently orphaned children and distressed adults needed a non-threatening room for their waiting and grieving. Soft lighting, comfortable armchairs, a box of cuddly toys in the corner. Coke, Fanta and mineral water in the fridge, spirits in a locked wall cupboard. A table and padded chairs, TV/VCR set with tapes of ‘The Simpsons’, ‘The Wiggles’ and Notting Hill.

Joseph Ovens was old school and promptly stood when Ellen entered the room ahead of Challis and Sutton, a smile on his broad, pleasant face. He gestured with a walking stick as Challis introduced him to the others. ‘The leg’s a bit gammy today.’

‘Must be the fog, or hanging around rivers with a fishing rod,’ Challis said with a grin. He knew Joe: Tessa Kane had recommended him. Joe often drove Challis to conferences, the airport and police headquarters in the city.

Challis turned inquiringly to the hypnotist, a short, plump woman with severely permed grey hair, who cast quick, assessing looks at each of the CIU detectives and immediately took control.

‘My name is Fran Lynch,’ she said. ‘I’ll state from the outset that I know very little about the case, or the witness, or the results of the police investigation. I prefer not to know. I don’t want to bias my approach through foreknowledge, making assumptions, offering leading suggestions or asking leading questions, for the very good reason that I don’t want any potential evidence thrown out of court. Fair enough?’

Challis shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘I have no idea what Mr Ovens will say in response to my questions, I don’t know if what he says will help you or not, and I don’t even know if he’ll make a good subject for deep hypnosis-no offence, Mr Ovens.’

‘None taken.’

Ovens exchanged a grin with Challis. He was getting a kick out of this.

‘As for my credentials,’ Lynch continued, ‘I trained as a psychologist and therapist, developing an interest in forensic psychology and hypnosis. I lived in New York City for many years, where I trained alongside an expert who was used regularly by the police and the district attorney’s office. Here in Australia my hypnosis has covered everything from helping kids stop chewing their nails to getting descriptions that have put rapists and murderers behind bars.’

Challis nodded. There was a challenge in her voice, and he simply wanted to get the session over and done with.

Then the curtains were closed, the dimmer switch set to low, and Challis, Tessa, Ellen and Scobie sat in the shadows and watched. Ovens was shown into a deep, enveloping armchair, with Fran Lynch sitting opposite in a stiff-backed chair. She began in a low, gentle voice:

‘Close your eyes and relax, you are letting go, feeling comfortable, no tension, no pain…

‘Now I’m going to count to three, and on the count of three your arms and hands will feel pleasantly loose and heavy.

‘You will continue to relax, drifting, drifting, deeper, deeper, all of your tensions draining away, no cares or worries, no fears or anxieties, just deeper and deeper.’

The lead-up took twelve minutes, at the end of which Lynch counted to three again and said, ‘And now you feel totally relaxed, wonderfully peaceful in mind and body, and it’s time to go back to a particular morning, you’re heading along Lofty Ridge Road, a familiar route, and something you see lodges in your mind. There is a house that you’ve passed many times before, a steep driveway and an unfamiliar vehicle. Perhaps you could describe it to me.’

His posture limp, his voice slurred, Ovens said:

‘I was driving along the road there where it runs higher than the level of the houses on either side, and there’s this house and driveway I always watch out for because the old lady who lives there hires me to drive her to the shops or her doctor once or twice a month, in fact I drove her to hospital for a hip operation, so I don’t expect to see a strange car in her driveway. Two cars.’

‘Could you describe these two cars?’

‘There was a newish silver Volvo station wagon near the house, and an older car coming up the driveway towards me.’

‘Describe that car for me.’

‘It was a Holden Commodore, mid 1980s vintage.’

‘Can you be sure?’

‘My son had one, his first car.’

‘What else can you tell me about the Holden?’

‘I noticed the number plate because it was sort of partly my initials and my phone number.

At this point, Ovens’s finger began writing, tracing numbers and letters on the soft leather arm of his chair. Lynch gently slipped a pad of notepaper under his hand and wrapped his fingers around a pen. Ovens wrote, then stopped.

‘What else did you see?’

‘The driver had to brake suddenly or he would have collected me. He was youngish, shaved head, puffy kind of face.’

‘Any other distinguishing features?’

There was a long pause, and Challis wondered if Ovens had gone to sleep. Then, in a slow, even voice, ‘Not that I can recall.’

Challis scrawled a hurried note and passed it to Lynch: Ask if he noticed the drivers right hand.

Lynch scowled, pondered, and said, ‘Did the driver have both hands on the steering wheel?’

Joe paused and said slowly, ‘Yes.’

‘Did you notice anything about them?’

‘I don’t follow you.’

Challis could see that Lynch was struggling not to lead Joe. She lost the struggle and said simply, ‘Was he wearing gloves, a watch, a ring?’

Joe, in a fog, said slowly, ‘No.’

Challis sighed, disappointed.

‘And the other man?’ Lynch went on. ‘Where was he sitting?’

‘The passenger seat.’

‘Describe him for me, please.’

‘His face was obscured by his arm. I think he was putting on or taking off his cap, a black beanie. But he bothered me,’ the taxi driver said. ‘They both bothered me.’

‘And the car, Mr Ovens. Can you be more specific about the car?’

This was the crucial question, and Challis leaned forward intently. He hadn’t wanted to disturb the rhythm of the session, or offer Lynch leading material, but he did need to know if Ovens’s description reinforced Georgia McQuarrie’s.

Joe Ovens grunted, as if finding himself on familiar ground, and recited, ‘Holden Commodore, early to mid 1980s, mag wheels, a dirty white colour, tinted windows-an amateurish job because you could see the bubbles under the film-and rust on the sill of the rear door but not the driver’s door. That was a kind of pale yellow, like they’d got it from a wrecker’s yard.’

Challis exchanged a smile and nod with Ellen and Scobie, their differences temporarily forgotten.

‘You saw the car clearly, Mr Ovens?’

In his dull voice, Joseph Ovens said, ‘I know all about cars. Plus I saw the driver’s side of the car, then the front number plate, as I passed it.’

Ten minutes later, it was clear that Lynch would get nothing more out of Ovens. Challis gathered the tape, which would be transcribed immediately, and the notepaper on which Ovens had jotted those letters and numbers he could remember seeing on the Commodore: OT?, he’d written,?59.