‘Tank,’ she said, ‘is everything okay?’
After a pause he said, ‘I’m working a “one-up” tomorrow night.’
A ‘one-up’ was a lone patrol, just you in the vehicle, owing to a shortage of police on the Peninsula. Pam herself had made several lone patrols in the past few weeks. Nothing bad had happened to her, but you heard stories. ‘Take it easy, okay?’ she said, meaning it.
His voice lightened, welcoming the concern in hers. ‘No worries.’
Pam daydreamed. Then she heard him say, ‘Katie Blasko. I’ve got a bad feeling.’
‘Me, too.’
‘It’s no bullshit, there really is a paedo ring on the Peninsula?’
‘I’ve heard rumours, that’s all.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got a sister her age. I was at her birthday last weekend. It makes you think. Makes you…’ He rolled his hand, searching for the word. ‘Makes you feel how vulnerable they are.’
He’d never mentioned a kid sister before. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Natalie. Nat. My parents had her late in life.’
‘Pretty name.’
He shrugged. He’d revealed too much, and gave a blokey squaring of his shoulders. ‘I’m picking up a new set of wheels tomorrow.’
Until recently he’d driven a real shitheap, a barge-like Falcon station wagon, in which he’d hauled the local kids to and from football matches, but the motor had seized on it and he’d given up coaching the Waterloo Wallabies at the end of the season. ‘What kind?’ said Pam.
‘Mazda RX, one of the scarce series.’
She had no idea what that was. ‘Where from?’
‘Caryard up in Frankston. I saw it in the Trading Post. Thirty grand,’ he said proudly.
‘Thirty grand? Jesus, Tank.’
He said defensively. ‘Low kilometres, one owner. I beat him down from thirty-five.’
Pam gazed out of her side window, not wanting to talk about cars or let him see that she thought he’d done a stupid thing. They reached the station, parked at the rear and got out, but instead of heading inside, Tank walked off into the shadows with his mobile phone. ‘Oi, we’re supposed to be at the briefing,’ Pam said.
‘I’ll be there in a sec. Gotta make a phone call.’
Shrugging, Pam entered the station and climbed the stairs to CIU.
8
The evening light was drawing close in Waterloo. Ellen stood at the head of the incident room’s long table, waving around a small plastic object clipped to a narrow woven neck strap. It resembled a flattened purple egg with buttons and a screen. ‘This is a Tamagotchi,’ she said. ‘A pink one resembling this was found on Trevally Street, not far from the foreshore reserve, and identified by Donna Blasko as belonging to her daughter, Katie.’
She’d sent the original Tamagotchi to the new lab, ForenZics. This one belonged to Scobie Sutton’s daughter, Roslyn. He’d gone home for the day, but she’d called him in again. You don’t get time off when a kid’s missing.
Just then, John Tankard hurried in. ‘Nice of you to make it, Constable.’
Tank went red and sulky. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’
Her face tight, Ellen said, ‘To continue, Donna Blasko found her daughter’s Tamagotchi lying on the footpath near her home and-’
Kees van Alphen raised a lazy hand. ‘What the hell’s a Tamagotchi?’
Scobie said indulgently, ‘It’s a little electronic toy. You give it a name and a personality. My Ros spends all of her free time-’
Ellen had to cut him short before he bored the pants off everybody. ‘I was there for an hour before Katie’s mother mentioned the damn thing.’
‘Nothing else?’ asked van Alphen, bored, picking nuggets of Styrofoam out of the rim of a disposable cup. ‘No signs of a struggle? No witnesses?’
‘No.’
‘No sign of the bike, helmet or school bag?’
‘Correct.’
‘So what are you saying?’
They all looked bored, this was just a missing kid, but, in her bones, Ellen was afraid for Katie Blasko. She wanted to act swiftly. There were three whiteboards behind her: photographs of the girl, and headings and notes in her neat hand. ‘Here are the obvious alternatives,’ she said, using a pointer. ‘One, Katie Blasko ran away.’
‘Exactly,’ said van Alphen heavily.
Ellen ignored him. ‘She has a history of it, always returning home of her own accord or being discovered at a friend’s house. But she’s never stayed away as long as this before, and none of her friends have seen her. Second scenario: she’s had an accident, possibly on her bike, possibly while running away or exploring waste ground somewhere. If that’s the case, she’ll be found eventually, but if she requires urgent medical care we need to send out search parties at first light tomorrow morning. Uniforms have already begun searching the mangrove flats, the tip and the quarry.’ Here Ellen nodded an acknowledgement to Kellock. ‘Third alternative, her classmates, or older children, have done something with her. Locked her in a shed, perhaps. An abandoned house. Again, we need to search thoroughly. Four, this is revenge for something. Does the family have any enemies? Five, the mother’s de facto, Justin Pedder. He had access to Katie. She’d go with him willingly. He has an alibi, however, and I didn’t really get a feeling that there was anything amiss in the home situation. But what if his mates are involved? Six, she’s been abducted by a stranger or strangers. She might be found alive, or dead, or never found. For years now there have been rumours of a paedophile ring on the Peninsula.’
‘Rumours, that’s all they are,’ said van Alphen.
Ellen ignored him. ‘Trace, interview, eliminate,’ she said. ‘That’s what police work boils down to in cases like this. Friends, family, neighbours, teachers, everybody. But we don’t have a lot of time. According to statistics, most kidnapped or abducted children are killed in the first twenty-four hours. If a paedophile ring is involved, they’ll abuse her for a few days and then kill her. We can’t sit around worrying about our shift entitlements, childcare arrangements or overtime. This is too important for that. She could be in a car or house on the other side of the country by now This is the worst kind of case: no body, no obvious crime scene, and no clear place to start.’
She hoped she wasn’t communicating her performance anxieties and doubts to the room. Of course she wasn’t Challis, but how would Challis handle this case? Would he move swiftly, too, and hang the criticisms? She visualised the way he liked to stand at briefings, either propping up a wall, pacing at the head of the long table or tapping wall maps or displays of surveillance and arrest photographs. There were always coffee cups and plates of scones and apricot Danish on the table, but her table was bare, apart from reams of paper. She didn’t want him to hear whispers about her. She didn’t want the officers now watching her expressionlessly to smirk, roll their eyes, look bored or later go bolshie on her because they didn’t think she was up to the job.
Friday, early evening. They’d all rather be at home. She glanced out of the window at the darkening night. She could see flags and streamers curling lazily outside, lit by the streetlights, advertising the Waterloo Show. A perfect weekend coming up.
‘The mother and the boyfriend told you she’s run away before?’ van Alphen asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then she’s run away again.’
‘Leaving her favourite toy behind?’
He shrugged as if the whole thing was beneath him.
‘Kees,’ Ellen said exasperatedly, ‘tell us what you really think.’
He pushed away the ruins of his cup and looked at her finally. ‘She has a history of running away, right? And she’s a kid-kids have short attention spans. She dropped her stupid toy and forgot about it. As for running away, maybe she’s reacting to tensions at home; maybe she’s trying to throw a scare into her mother. Note she didn’t leave the bike behind, a bike’s too precious for that. She’ll turn up. They always do.’