Or he was completely innocent. Certainly he was unknown to the rape squad, the child exploitation unit and the various government agencies like Children’s Services.
But Ellen was thinking of the six-year-old, Shelly. Was she next? Would Pedder groom her, too, and discard her as easily as he’d discarded Katie? Had Katie been discarded-too old? — or had something gone wrong, she’d been smothered to shut her up, or strangled because someone failed to control himself?
Wanting answers to some of these questions, Ellen knocked on Donna Blasko’s door at eight o’clock. Donna answered, blotchy from weeping and sleeplessness, stale smelling, a tissue in one hand, wearing a grimy towelling robe over men’s pyjama pants and a green T-shirt. The air was laden with odours: breakfast toast and bacon, and older, fuggier layers that Ellen automatically sifted through, identifying cigarettes, beer, marijuana and perspiration. She wanted to open up the house, every door and window. A TV set droned in the background: cartoons.
‘Have you found her?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘Sorry, Donna, and sorry to call so early. May I come in?’
‘S pose,’ said Donna reluctantly.
They moved through the sitting room to the kitchen at the back, skirting a pizza box, a bra, empty DVD case, the Saturday Herald Sun, toys, and the little sister, Shelly, sprawled in front of a wide-screen TV. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘You should see my place,’ said Ellen, then wondered why she’d said it. She didn’t have a place. Her old place had been tidy, with Larrayne no longer living in it. Donna looked at Ellen in astonishment, either because she thought the police were neat or she didn’t expect kindness. ‘Cuppa tea?’
‘Thank you.’
Ellen sat, touched the sticky tabletop, withdrew her hand into her lap. The sink was piled with breakfast dishes, the fridge noisy, the floor grimy, linoleum tiles lifting here and there. And apparently the cat liked to move its food from the bowl to the floor. Ellen itched to get a scraper out.
‘Justin still in bed?’
Donna shook her head. ‘Out with his mates.’
Ellen’s disapproval must have been apparent, for Donna added aggrievedly, ‘They’re looking for Katie.’
Ellen got her notebook out. ‘Bright and early. Their names?’
‘They’re looking for Katie, I’m tellin’ ya.’
‘I don’t doubt it. We need to speak to everyone who’s had contact with your household in the past few weeks and months.’
‘I thought Katie was snatched off her bike?’
‘We’re not absolutely sure what happened,’ Ellen said. ‘But let’s not jump the gun.’ She paused. ‘I saw you on television, Donna. At no point did I state categorically to you that we thought Katie had been abducted.’
‘No, we had to hear that from the “Evening Update” guy.’
Ellen sighed. ‘There are other scenarios.’
‘So? She’s still missing, no matter what happened to her. Are the police actually doing anything to find her?’
‘Search parties went out at first light. From eight-thirty this morning an incident caravan will be parked at the entrance to Trevally Street. Officers will be on standby to hand out leaflets, answer questions and take statements. After school on Monday we’ve arranged for a model to trace Katie’s movements.’
Roslyn Sutton, in fact, Scobie’s daughter, the same age, build and height as Katie Blasko. ‘Do you have a photo of Katie on her bike? Wearing her helmet? We need to match bike and helmet.’
‘Somewhere.’
‘And a spare school uniform we can use?’
Donna was looking alarmed and confused. ‘Yeah, but what do you mean, a model?’
‘A child who resembles Katie will ride slowly from the school gates to this house, taking Katie’s usual route home. Then we’ll do it again, taking alternative routes. Several police officers will follow her, handing out leaflets. We’ll use a megaphone to explain what we’re doing. The purpose is to jog people’s memories, either of last Thursday or of other days when something out of the ordinary might have occurred.’
‘Like what?’
‘Perhaps Katie spoke to an adult along the way, a stranger or someone she knew. Or an unfamiliar vehicle was seen in the area. Anything at all. You’ll be surprised how well it works.’
Ellen held no hopes whatsoever that it would work, but couldn’t say that, and in fact Donna didn’t look gladdened. Her face crumpled.
‘You think she’s dead.’
‘We mustn’t give up hope.’
‘I wish Justin was here.’
‘A bit callous of him to leave you alone,’ Ellen said carefully.
‘I’m not alone,’ said Donna hotly, pointing in the direction of the TV in the other room. ‘Plus he’s not far away. He’s doing more than you lot to find Katie.’
Guilt? Smokescreen? Genuine concern? ‘How well did-do-he and Katie get along?’
Donna sniffed. ‘Not bad. Argue a bit.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff, noise, TV watching, homework, stuff like that. Katie’s always saying, “You’re not my dad”. She’s got a temper on her.’ A sudden change came over Donna’s face. ‘You think he done it, don’t you? Well, he was with me on Thursday and I can prove it. And if he was abusing her regular, or at all, would she shout and yell and give him cheek? I don’t think so. My uncle done stuff to me and I tell you now, it makes you quiet and sad.’
Ellen blinked away sudden tears. ‘I’m sorry, Donna.’
‘Yeah, well, so you should be.’
Ellen said carefully, ‘What about his relationship with the little one. Shelly’ She held up a placating hand. ‘I have to ask, Donna, to get it out of the way. If I don’t, someone harder and more senior will come along and ask,’ she added, feeling nasty and small.
‘Shelly? Shell adores him.’
‘She doesn’t say, “You’re not my father”?’
Donna was disgusted. ‘Justin is her father. God. Get your fucking facts right, why don’t you.’
Ellen blushed. ‘Forgive me, Donna, I should have checked. Are you Shelly’s mum?’
‘No. God. When we first met, I was alone with Katie and he was alone with Shelly.’
Ellen bent her head to her notebook to hide her face. She should have been told all of this. She should have checked.
‘Justin’s not involved, take it from me. His mates aren’t, either. They’ve all got kids of their own; we’re always in and out of each other’s houses. Yeah, they’re rough, they’ve got tattoos, a couple have even been done for minor stuff, but they’re not into anything sick. It’s a stranger, I tell ya.’
Ellen nodded, closing her notebook, glancing at the crowded refrigerator, where drawings, cards and photographs jostled. Peninsula Plumbing, the cards read. Mr Antenna. Waterloo Motors. Rising Stars Agency.
10
The Seaview Park kids were notorious for surging and flickering about the town like a dangerous organism, appearing, disappearing, dispersing, merging again. On Saturday morning they were first spotted forming inside the main entrance to the estate, eight of them, mostly Jarretts and Jarrett acolytes, aged between six and eleven; a moment later they were outside it, throwing eggs at passing cars. They were gone well before the police arrived. ‘So what else is new?’ sighed Pam Murphy, taking witness statements from irate motorists in between doorknocking and handing out flyers.
Over the next hour she tracked them by their crimes. They lifted packets of LifeSavers from Wally’s milk bar and spray paint from High Street Hardware. All along High Street they went, like quicksilver, terrorising the law-abiding. T-shirts from Hang Ten Surf Wear, sunglasses from a rack in the pharmacy, cheap jewellery from a couple of the $2 shops. Their movements were obvious: they were heading straight down High Street to the parkland on the waterfront, to the dodgem cars, shooting galleries, Ferris wheel, ghost train, flower, jam and cake displays, pony rides, outdoor art show, sound stage and food stalls that denoted the annual spring show in Waterloo. Pam didn’t know what they’d do there, but did know they’d do more than merely gawk or spend any money they’d stolen or cadged. It wasn’t in their nature to give to the community but to take. That was the Jarrett way, and there were plenty of takings at the Waterloo Show.