Garry Disher - Chain of Evidence

Seven o’clock, clouds across the moon, so it was pretty dark out, especially at the Penzance Beach yacht club. Uniform had checked it out: a burglary, meaning it was now a CIU case. Sergeant Destry, looking edgy and distracted, had told her John Tankard had called it in. ‘Apparently the manager’s on the premises, waiting to give you a statement.’

The wind rose on the water, moaning through the ti-trees, and soon there was a lonely metallic pinging. Sail rigging, Pam realised, slapping against the masts of the yachts parked in the yard behind the clubhouse. She approached the building and found a door open but almost pitch black inside. She went in, one hand patting the wall for a light switch. She’d left her torch in the CIU Falcon. It occurred to her that she still had a lot to learn.

‘Police!’ she called.

Maybe the burglars had come back and beaten the manager over the head, tied and gagged him.

The door slammed behind her.

She spun around, thoroughly spooked now, and felt for the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. She was locked in. She looked up and around, trying to find the patches of lighter darkness that indicated the windows.

They were clerestory windows, up high, far out of reach.

She tried to swallow and her heart was hammering. She fumbled for her radio, badly panicked, the weeks of training counting for nothing.

Stay cool, she told herself, releasing the call button of her radio, her mind racing. Think.

Her thoughts didn’t take her in the direction of burglars and burglary. They took her in the direction of rookies, probationary cops, who are always good for a laugh. It was entirely probable that everyone at the Waterloo police station was waiting to hear how she coped tonight. They wanted fear, loss of control, booming through the public address system. They’d preserve her shame on tape, burn it onto a CD, for the world to enjoy over and over again.

‘DC Pam Murphy, requesting urgent assistance,’ she said, pressing the transmit button.

The radio crackled in delight, ‘Go ahead, DC Murphy.’

Pam gave her location. ‘I’m with Constable John Tankard,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid he’s soiled his trousers-fear, or a dodgy lasagne at lunchtime. Please send assistance and a spare nappy. The smell is awful.’

The dispatcher snorted. ‘Will do.’

‘I got a peek when he cleaned himself up,’ Pam said. ‘I know there’s a height requirement for the Victoria Police, but shouldn’t there also be a length requirement?’

Behind her the door was flung open and a teary, angry voice beseeched her to shut the hell up.

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.