‘Only if our guy didn’t wear gloves,’ Kellock said.
‘True.’
Van Alphen was watching her again but not seeing her. ‘What is it, Van?’
‘He might have got careless.’
‘How?’
‘When he’s finished with her, is he going to kill her? Take her somewhere and release her? Either way, he’s not going to leave her in the house, is he?’
Ellen nodded. ‘You’re right. He knew the house would be vacant. He knew he had a few days. Whether he released her alive, or killed and dumped her, he would clean up after himself, with the obvious benefit of the cleaners coming along afterwards and accounting for anything he overlooked. It means he knew about the house and the emergency housing scheme. It was bad luck for him that the cleaners came along sooner than expected.’
‘Yes.’
‘An insider, someone who works for the shire or social services,’ Ellen said. ‘Scobie, can you look into that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. Now, forensics. We have a blanket, towels, a mattress, a chain and manacle, a range of clothing. And dog hairs.’
‘Dog hairs,’ Kellock said, throwing down his pen. ‘Could have come from anywhere. She patted a dog on the way home from school. A friend took a dog to school. The neighbours have a dog. Maybe it’s cross contamination: the cleaners carried dog hair in on their clothing or shoes. Can we get DNA? Do we have a dog to match it to? Dog hairs,’ he said in disgust.
‘Look,’ Ellen said, ‘I know we’re all frustrated by this case. But we don’t have much to go on, and the dog hairs were found at the scene and have to be accounted for.’
‘I heard there was blood, Sarge,’ John Tankard said.
‘Yes, but it might all be from the child.’
Of course, they were hoping otherwise. They were hoping their abductor had been scratched by Katie, or suffered a nosebleed. If his DNA was in Crimtrac, the national database of DNA, fingerprints, palm prints and paedophiles, then they could make an arrest and move on. In the best-case scenario, Crimtrac would give them a specific name, face and record, but Crimtrac was also proving itself helpful in solving cold cases, where identities were unknown, for most crims were repeat offenders, and most graduated from low-level to serious crimes. They cut themselves on glass pulling a modest burglary, and years later found themselves arrested for leaving DNA at a rape or murder scene. And Crimtrac was national, which helped in a country where the population was highly mobile. Twenty per cent of fingerprint inquiries lodged through Crimtrac led police to crimes committed hundreds, even thousands of kilometres away.
‘Semen?’ said Scobie. A good churchgoing man, it was a word he tiptoed around.
‘The techs ran a black light over the whole house but didn’t find any.’
‘He used a condom.’
‘Or washed everything. Bathed the girl afterwards,’ van Alphen said. ‘Ask her, Ellen.’
Ellen winced. She was not looking forward to that.
22
Katie Blasko had been taken to the Children’s Hospital in the city. Ellen waited through the long morning. When the call came to say that Katie was well enough to be interviewed, Ellen was in the CIU tearoom, rinsing her coffee mug and trying to think of ways to further deface the sign that read: ‘Don’t expect someone else to wash up after you-you’re not at home now.’ She shook the water off her hands, flipped open her mobile phone. ‘Scobie, we’ve got the okay. Meet you downstairs in five.’
She encountered Kees van Alphen on the stairs. ‘Take me with you,’ he said.
Ellen shook her head. ‘I need your eyes on the records, Van. Sorry.’
He scowled, stalked away, unaware of Ellen’s real reason for not wanting him with her when she interviewed Katie Blasko. Van Alphen was a prohibitive-looking man, and long estranged from his wife and teenage daughter: quite simply, Ellen felt that he would frighten the child.
She drove. Scobie Sutton could be an appalling passenger, given to outlining the daily inanities of his home life, but an even worse driver: slow, talkative and easily distracted. She was prepared to ask him to shut up if he got started, but he rode in silence that afternoon. He’s still shocked, she thought. He’s conflating Katie Blasko and his daughter.
She headed along the old Peninsula highway to Frankston, where the road widened, three lanes in and out, a ribbon of black bisecting hectares of low brick houses with tiled roofs. Frankston is Australia, she thought, with its modest, usually disappointed expectations and achievements, its anxieties and conservatism. We admire rapist footballers, own plasma TVs we can’t afford, grow obese and vote to keep out strangers. Our fifteen-year-olds get poor educations and move on to senseless crimes, addiction, jail time or death behind the wheel of a stolen car, and if they make it past fifteen they can’t find work. A great, banal sameness defines us, making us mostly soporific- but nasty if cornered. We’re vicious with paedophiles, probably because we produce them. Ellen felt sick and sour and an atmosphere built up in the car, as if they both felt it.
She made an effort. ‘It’s a pity Pam Murphy can’t be assigned to this. Good experience for her.’
Scobie stirred in the passenger seat. He wore old-fashioned aftershave, stale and dense in the confines of the CIU car. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he struggled to cross his long legs under the glove box.
‘Yes.’
Ellen sighed and drove on, through the endless suburbs, and then finally along the river, the glassy office buildings of the city centre now clearly visible. The traffic raced and darted, unnerving her. She edged across to the outer lane, took the exit that would lead her to the hospital.
They were shown to a suite intended to comfort children whenever the authorities were obliged to step in with questions, intervention orders or counselling. The surfaces were soft, the colours cheery, the light muted. There was a TV set, a sound system, plenty of books and toys. Donna Blasko was seated on a sofa, cuddling Katie. A paediatric nurse, smiling, bouncy, like a big sister, sat in the corner. Scobie joined the nurse, leaving the interview to Ellen.
The first thing Ellen did was separate mother and daughter. ‘Donna,’ she murmured, ‘I’d like you to sit with the others. That way Katie can concentrate for me, but know that you’re still in the room.’
Looking doubtful, Donna complied. Katie immediately reached out, alarmed, but Donna reassured her, saying, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m right here.’
Out of Katie’s direct line of sight, fortunately. Ellen smiled encouragingly at both of them. Katie swallowed, fighting down her panic, lost in a vast stretch of flowery upholstery. Donna said from her chair next to Scobie, ‘If Katie can’t hack it, I’m terminating. Terminating.’
‘Of course,’ said Ellen gently.
‘Sweetie, the police just need to ask you some questions, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Ellen smiled at Katie. ‘My name is Ellen. That kind man is Scobie. He’s got a daughter your age. And you know what? Yesterday she pretended to be you. We dressed her up like you, put her on a bike like yours, and she rode home from your school for us, to help jog people’s memories.’
Katie, mouth open, in awe as she grasped the significance of the police effort and her notoriety, risked a meek smile at Scobie. Scobie returned it, a huge, transfiguring smile, one of great sweetness. Katie relaxed further and turned her attention back to Ellen.
‘We want to catch the man who hurt you.’
‘Catch all the men,’ Katie said.
Ellen said carefully, ‘How many were there?’
‘I think four.’
Ellen closed her eyes briefly, opened them again. Her voice cracked a little. ‘Four men. Can you describe them to me?’