Chain of Evidence Page 7

  They had the Show sussed out within five minutes. The eleven-year-old said, You like it up the arse? to a young woman pushing a pram. The nine-year-old snatched a purse. The twins pushed and shoved an old geezer who went red and breathless and an ambulance was called. They grabbed a fistful of Have You Seen Katie? leaflets from Donna Blasko and dumped them in a rubbish bin. On flowed the estate kids, untouchable, undetectable until the last moment, which was when their victims recognised that distinctive estate/Jarrett look, something quick and soulless.

  Where you from? they demanded at one point.

  Four kids visiting from Cranbourne, thirty minutes away. Outsider kids. The Jarretts knew all of the local kids.

  Nowhere, the Cranbourne kids said.

  Gotta be from somewhere.

  Over there, said one of the Cranbourne kids, meaning a few hundred metres up the road.

  Liar.

  They crowded the outsiders, poked and jabbed. Wallets were taken. A knife was pulled, flashed once, leaving a ribbon of blood. Miraculously, an opening appeared. The Cranbourne kids ran for their lives. Whooping, the estate kids chased them, herded them, out of the showgrounds and back up High Street.

  Save us! cried the visitors.

  Get out, said the local shopkeepers, recognising the pursuers.

  Youths hospitalised, said the next edition of the local paper.

  * * * *

  While that was going on, Alysha Jarrett climbed over the fence at the rear of Neville Clodes house, trampling the onion weed as it lay limp and dying, and knocked on his back door. When it opened she stood there wordlessly, looking at but not seeing the doorsill or his bare feet, the left foot with its birthmark like the remnant of a wine-red sock, the nails hooked and yellow.

  Dont remember inviting you, he said, smirking.

  She said nothing. He made room for her and she passed him, into the house. She breathed shallowly. He never aired the place, but that wasnt uncommon in Alyshas experience. She came from people who kept their doors and windows closed and abhorred the sun. She could detect cigarettes, alcohol and semen. She knew those smells.

  Cant keep away, can you? he said. She was thirteen and would soon be too old.

  She shrugged. She never talked, never looked him in the face. Never looked at him anywhere if she could help it. She never used her own hands and mouth on him but pretended they belonged to someone else. Everything switched off when she came here. In fact she was never entirely switched on when she was away from here. She floated. She was unmoored. Her body had nothing to do with her.

  Here you go, he said afterwards, giving her twenty dollars. Sometimes it was smokes, lollies, a bottle of sweet sherry. At the back door he sniffed, holding a tissue to his nostrils; he often got a nosebleed from the strain of labouring away at her body. Giving her what he called a cuddle, he peered out into his yard like a nervy mouse. The coast is clear, he said, giving her bottom a pat. Hed washed her in the spa. She felt damp here and there. Alysha floated away with her $20, which she later spent on pills and went further away in her head.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile Tank had the morning off. Hed been slotted for a grid search of Myers Reserve later in the day, followed by night patrol, so the morning was his one chance to take delivery of his Mazda. He went by train, getting off one station past Frankston, where the road that ran parallel to the tracks was used-car heaven, yards stretching in either direction, plastic flags snapping joyously in the breeze from the Bay. He set out on foot for Prestige Autos.

  It was good to be decisive. Last weekend hed driven all the way up to Car City, on the Maroondah Highway, and been told, at more than one yard, Its no good taking this car for a drive unless you mean to do business today Tank couldnt believe it. How do you sell cars if you dont let anyone test drive them? The salesmen would gesture as if they didnt care. Perhaps they didnt. Perhaps there were plenty of idiots with money to burn. Do I look like a tyre kicker to you?Tank had demanded. Another indifferent shrug. Dont you want my business? Do you think Im broke? And theyd said, Are you prepared to do business today, or are you just looking?

  Tank shook his head now at their stupidity and the obscure shame hed felt. Anyhow, last weekend hed also stopped off here in Frankston, and in the third caryard visited hed found the Mazda. Sleek lines, as new, Yokohama tyres, the paint still glossy and unmarked. The guy there had no problem with Tank taking the car for a burn: Go for your life, mate, hed said. Luckily, the freeway was close by, and Tank was able to really test the car. In the blink of an eye he was doing 140 km/h on the straight. Effortlessly. The car sat straight and true, braked well, the exhaust snarling so sweetly it got him in the pit of the stomach. Tank, being canny, had even run a fridge magnet all over the bodywork. Not a trace of filler anywhere.

  Ill take it, he said, moments later. As hed told Murph yesterday, hed negotiated the guy down in price by $5000. What he hadnt told her was hed arranged a loan through the caryards finance company.

  We havent had time to register the car in Victoria, the guy had said last weekend, its only just come in, but the Northern Territory registration is still current, so you can drive it around.

  No problemo, Tank had said. All he needed to do was get a roadworthy certificate from Waterloo Motors, then register the car at the VicRoads office in Waterloo.

  He strolled into Prestige Autos now, and there she was, gleaming in the sun.

  * * * *

  11

  The long day passed. At 3.30 that Saturday afternoon, Pam Murphy uncovered a lead. Given that her detective training was due to start on Monday, this was possibly her last act as a uniformed constable. Katie Blasko had been missing for forty-eight hours.

  This was when? she asked the woman in Snapper Way.

  After school.

  On Thursday?

  I think it was Thursday.

  Pam gazed at the woman, said politely, Could it have been yesterday?

  Lets see, yesterday was Friday. No, it wasnt yesterday I saw her. I dont work on Fridays. It must have been Thursday. Or Wednesday.

  Pam was door knocking in an area bounded by Katie Blaskos house, her school, Trevally Street and the Waterloo foreshore. Some of the houses were fibro-cement or weatherboard holiday and weekender shacks owned by city people, but most were brick veneer houses dating from the 1960s and 70s, their old-fashioned rose gardens pointing to leathery retirees who walked their dogs on the nearby beach and collected sea weed for fertiliser, and their bicycles, plastic toys and glossy four-wheel-drives pointing to young families who probably had no cash to spare after paying off their gadget, car and home loans. Pam met many women aged around sixty that afternoon, and many aged around thirty, like this woman, Sharon Elliott, the library aide at Katie Blaskos primary school. Short, round, cheery, anxious to please, denseand, Pam decided, blind as a bat without her glasses.

  If you could tell me where you saw her, it might help jog your memory.

  Near the shops.

  In High Street?

  Well, no, Elliott said, as though that should have been obvious to Pam. Of course, I do my main shopping at the Safeway, but if I run out of bread or whatever I nip across to the corner shop. She pointed vaguely. You pay more, but if I drove over to Safeway every time I wanted bread or milk, what I spent on fuel would outweigh the money I saved.

  Pam felt her eyes glazing over. And you bought something in the corner shop last Thursday?

  Im pretty sure. No. Wait. Yes, it was Thursday. I needed the latest Trading Post. I placed an ad to sell a mattress, and wanted to see if it had appeared.

  Pam knew that the Trading Post was published every Thursday. She beamed. The air was briny from the sea, the afternoon sun benign. The Peninsula had erupted with flowers, too, drawing the bees. It was a lazy, pleasure-laden Saturday in spring, and you were apt to forget that children could be abducted or murdered regardless of the season.

  Good, said Pam encouragingly. And youre sure this was the girl?

  They examined the
flyer again. It looks like the girl I saw.

  Do you know her? Have you taught her?

  Im just an aide at the school. Almost five hundred children go there. I know quite a few by sight and many by name.

  Yes, but did you ever have anything to do with this girl? Pam asked, wanting to beat the woman around the head with a damp fish.

  Sharon Elliot gazed at her blankly. What do you mean?

  Not for the first time, Pam realised that suspects and witnesses alike looked for traps behind your questions. They anticipated, evaded, lied, glossed the picture, told you what they thought you wanted to know, or got needlessly defensive. Or they were stupid. Im wondering, she said, trying to conceal her irritation, if you recognise this likeness of Katie Blasko precisely because youd encountered her at school recently, helped her find a library book, perhaps, comforted her because shed been crying about something, or because you saw her outside the corner shop between three-thirty and four this past Thursday afternoon.

  Both, said Sharon Elliott promptly.

  I see.

  She was a bit noisy during quiet reading. Mrs Sanders had the Preps that session so I was taking the Grade 6s, and had to ask Katie to keep the noise down, except I didnt know her name was Katie, this was earlier in the week, so I was surprised when she waved to me.

  Pam didnt try to sort through the account. Her feet and back ached. Shed welcome a cup of tea or coffee, but Sharon Elliott was keeping her there on the front verandah, beside potted plants that were leaking water onto the decking. Above her the roofing iron flexed in the heat. She waved to you?

  Like this, said Sharon Elliott, gesturing.

  Was it a cheerful wave? Did she smile? Or might it have been a gesture of some kind?

  A gesture?

  Pam didnt want to lead this witness, but really, the woman was dense. A beseeching gesture, for example, as if she needed help.

  Sharon Elliott gave her a blank look. I dont know. It was just a wave.

  Did you get a good look at the driver?

  No. I just assumed it was her dad.

  But it was a man?

  I think so. It could have been her mother.

  Did teachers aides ever become teachers, Pam wondered. She waited a beat and said, What can you tell me about the vehicle.

  It was just a car.

  A car? I thought you said it was a van?

  The womans face crumpled. Car, van, I dont really know much about that kind of thing. My husbands the driver in the family.

  Lets see, said Pam, glancing up and down the street. Was it the shape of that silver vehicle over there?

  A bulky four-wheel-drive. Not really.

  Like that blue one?

  An old Nissan sedan. Now that I think about it Im sure it wasnt small like that or have a lot of windows and big wheels like that silver one. More of a boxier shape.

  A van or a panel van, thought Pam. Colour?

  Oh, now, white, I think.

  And what time did you see this vehicle?

  After school.

  Yes, but three-fifteen, three-thirty, quarter to four?

  Before four, anyway.

  And were not talking about separate things here, youre saying the vehicle and the girl who waved at you are part of the same incident?

  I think so, said Sharon Elliott.

  Pam made a note.

  She might have been saying Help me, said Sharon Elliott into the pause.

  As Sergeant Destry had mentioned at last nights briefing, witnesses often save the best till last. And not because theyre artful or mischievous, either. Help me?

  I can see her mouth saying it.

  We may need to speak to you again, Mrs Elliott.

  Glad to help.

  * * * *

  12

  At five that afternoon, Tank and the team finished the grid search of Myers Reserve. Tank showered and changed in the station locker room, and then slipped away to the car park behind KFC, where the producer of Evening Update slipped him an envelope containing $500. Tank had hoped for more than $500 but the Evening Update producerbearded guy, lots of white teeth and a hint of makeup reckoned there would be more dosh down the track, depending on the quality of the information that Tank could pass on. Tank put it into perspective: $500 was a years registration on his new car. The cash was burning a hole in his pocket, though, Saturday night, Waterloo Show, the district humming. Too bad he was on duty. Could have been having a glass of suds with his mates.

  He went home and crashed for a couple of hours. At eight oclock he returned to the station, yawning his head off, and logged on for his solo patrol.

  The long night unspooled. First up was a radio call: would he respond to an agitated citizen, 245 Bream Street, whod phoned in a complaint, not making much sense. Bream Streetplenty of marine names in Waterloo, owing to the fishing industry in Westernport Bayhugged the mangrove flats and was one of the main routes into the foreshore area, where the Ferris wheel revolved prettily and overweight families gorged on popcorn and fairy floss. John Tankard was overweight, too, but despised it in the common herd. He pulled up outside number 245, a featureless brick veneer from the 1950s. Just down the road from it was a police presence, plenty of lights and traffic cones glowing in the dark: a booze bus and a roadworthy checking station. We cops can be pricks sometimes, Tank thought, grinning. The local citizenry out for a good time at the Show, and bang, theyre breathalysed and a roadworthy infringement notice is stuck onto the windscreen of the family rust bucket. He knocked on the door of245.

  Who are you?

  Constable Tankard, ma am. You called the station?

  I cant go out.

  She was about sixty, fierce and aggrieved on the other side of her screen door. Sorry? said Tank.

  She came out and pointed. Look.

  He followed her finger, which was quivering at the booze bus and the constables flitting about in the misty evening light. What?

  Dont say what. Where are your manners? Why do they have to set up so close?

  He understood finally. Have you been drinking, madam? he asked, trying hard to keep the grin out of his voice.

  How dare you. Im teetotal.

  Then you have nothing to worry about from a breath test.

  My car, the woman said.

  There was a new Corolla in the driveway. Are you sure its unroadworthy? Looks new to me.

  Not fair, sulked the woman.

  Tank pushed back his uniform cap. Tyres?

  Thats a new car. Its not fair.

  You have nothing to worry about.

  But I love to drive down to the Show. Too far for me to walk.

  Then drive, said Tank irritably.

  But theyll make me unroadworthy.

  John Tankard made the necessary leap and nodded slowly. Its not their job to make you drunk or unroadworthy. If youre neither then theyll let you through.

  She was sceptical. What if theres a quota?

  Doesnt happen, said Tank emphatically. He cocked his head. I think thats my car radio. Sounds urgent.

  He peeled out of Bream Street, reporting to base that hed resolved the matter. On through the night he roamed, a lone ranger and liking it, issuing warnings, taking in the occasional abusive drunk or cokehead. He always checked them for concealed weapons or drugs before bundling them into the divisional van, always checked the cage for discarded drugs afterwards. At one point he answered a call to Blockbuster Video and nabbed a guy well known to the Waterloo police for a string of offences proven and suspected. The guy had four new-release DVDs stuck inside his underdaks, and, enjoying himself hugely, began admitting to all kinds of shitrape, assault, burglary before Tank could read him his rights. Tank knew how it would go: once in the interview room and cautioned, hed clam up, not even admit to his name or even to being in a police station.

  And Joe Public thinks were corrupt or incompetent? Fuck Joe Public.

  Finally there were the pull-overs. Typically you had kids in a lowered or hotted up Falcon or Holden, dr
iving erratically, going too fast, not wearing seatbelts, music too loud, tossing a can or a butt out on the street, busted tail light, etcetera, etcetera. Some of the Waterloo police cars were fitted with an MDT, a moving data terminal, meaning you could get a rapid readout of a vehicle owners address, licence status and criminal history, but Tanks divvy van was your basic model, cracked and faded plastics, stained upholstery and an odour suggestive of takeaway food, sweat and poor digestion, and so he was supposed to radio in the registration details and wait for a response before approaching a driver. But radio traffic was heavy that night, so he compromised, radioing in the registration request and approaching the driver before the answer came back. He usually had an answer in less than four minutes.