Katie grimaced, wiping her palms on her thighs. She wore a striped hooded top over a pink T-shirt and yellow cargo pants, the colours pastelly and new. Red canvas shoes. Pink ankle socks. Her fingernails were bright red, but chipped, and Ellen realised with a shock that the men had probably painted them for her.
‘They had grey hair and moustaches,’ Katie said. ‘And glasses.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
Disguises, Ellen thought. Anything else?’
Katie tossed in distress. ‘I was so sleepy. I could hardly keep my eyes open.’
Temazepam had been found in her system. ‘Let’s concentrate on something else,’ Ellen said. After school on Thursday you set out on your bike to ride home.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Katie.
‘What route did you take?’
Katie looked hunted. She swallowed and said, ‘I went past the Show.’
Donna attempted joviality, tut-tutting in the background. ‘Oh, Katie, we told you not to do that.’
The interruption had an unintended effect. Katie’s face grew stubborn, as though she were tired of being nagged, and this small rebellion made her stronger. Ellen stepped in, taking advantage. ‘I used to do that, when I was a kid. Did you ride past the Show every day after school?’
‘Yes.’
‘During those rides, did you ever see the man who kidnapped you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever see a white van driving or parked nearby?’
‘I can’t remember. Don’t think so.’
But the abductor and his van would have been nearby, Ellen was convinced of that. ‘Did you ever go into the showgrounds? Spend your pocket money on the rides, for example, or just wander around?’
With a look at her mother, Katie whispered, ‘Yes.’
Ellen nodded. She would make a public appeal asking Show visitors to hand in their photographs and video footage. They might get lucky and spot Katie, particularly Katie being followed or watched. ‘Describe what happened after you left the Show last Thursday.’
Katie took a deep breath and matter-of-factly described the man who had abducted her and the circumstances of the abduction itself. ‘Then I woke up in a strange house,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember getting there.’ She swallowed once or twice. ‘I hardly remember anything,’ she wailed. ‘I felt woozy all the time. My tummy was really sore, I was bleeding.’
Donna uttered an inarticulate cry; Scobie and the nurse murmured reassuringly. Ellen, trying hard not to weep, said, ‘But you’re sure that only one man put you in the van? There were no passengers inside it?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘You already asked me that.’
‘No,’ said Ellen gently, ‘I asked if you’d seen that man in the days leading up to Thursday.’
‘I didn’t know him,’ said Katie. ‘He said my mum needed me.’
Again Donna wailed. Ellen said above it, ‘What can you tell me about the van?’
‘It was white.’
‘That will help us very much. Thank you. What about the inside of it?’
Katie cast her mind back. ‘It was white. There were these boxes and stuff, and plastic bags.’ Her mind cleared. ‘And this cute little dog. Sasha.’
Ellen beamed. ‘How do you know it was called Sasha?’
‘It was on her collar, this tag thing.’
‘Any other name?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘An address, or phone number?’
‘I don’t remember!’
‘That’s all right, you’re doing extremely well. That man made a big mistake, letting you read his dog’s collar.’
Katie gave an almost comical look of dismay. ‘Sasha wasn’t his. He was really surprised. Sasha must have jumped in when he wasn’t looking.’
There goes one line of inquiry, thought Ellen gloomily. ‘Did he let her out again?’
‘No. She came with us. We cuddled each other. She stayed in that room with me.’ Katie started to wail. ‘Then next day she was gone.’
Ellen knew she’d not get much more out of the child. ‘Perhaps she ran away.’
‘She was scared. They hurt her.’
‘Poor Sasha.’
‘Once she knocked over the tripod for the camera. Another time she bit one of the men when he touched me.’
She was deeply distressed now, suddenly gulping, and reaching for Donna. Donna shook off Scobie and hugged her daughter, too late to avoid a jet of vomit, but not caring about that at all, just as Ellen didn’t care.
23
The death of Ted Anderson on Isolation Pass, the earlier death of his wife from cancer, and the survival of their little daughter resolved themselves into the kind of small-town tragedy that on a slow news day will go national. The story was an ABC news item on Monday night and in the Adelaide Advertiser on Tuesday morning. Challis’s father took a gloomy interest in it, seated in the sunroom with a blanket over his knees, the newspaper in tented sections on the floor, the sofa, and the coffee table. ‘Suicide,’ was his verdict, gloomily expressed, as though he wished for the ways and means to speed his own death.
Challis privately agreed, for the town’s gossips claimed that Ted Anderson had been despondent in recent months. But Challis was feeling contentious, a reaction to the past few days spent cooped up with his father. ‘The Pass is a dangerous stretch of road, Dad.’
‘The poor man lost his wife to cancer. He wasn’t coping.’
‘That was five years ago.’
‘Still,’ his father said.
Challis felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t been here to see what his mother’s death had done to his father. Like Ted Anderson, the old man wished for death, his body obliging him slowly, but Ted Anderson’s method had been quicker and more absolute.
That afternoon, Challis wandered down to the police station, a small brick building behind the shire council offices. The walls and floor were a pale, institutional green, the reception desk high and laminated, the noticeboards rustling with wanted posters, a faded gun amnesty notice, and pamphlets regarding home security and driving offences. A civilian clerk said, ‘Help you?’
She was young. He didn’t know her. ‘Is Sergeant Wurfel in?’
Her jaws snapped. ‘Yeah.’
Challis said patiently, ‘Then may I see him?’
Her face cleared. ‘Okay.’
She disappeared through a door and returned with Wurfel, who gave him a flat cops’ look and jerked his head. ‘Come through.’
Wurfel took Challis along a short corridor to his office. ‘Take a seat. I asked around about you.’
Challis shifted a little in his chair. ‘I’m here as a civilian.’
‘Fair enough.’
Carl Wurfel was a familiar type to Challis: large-framed, a heavy drinker but not a drunk, tough and pragmatic but not necessarily a bully, probably divorced. He scared people and got the job done. He wouldn’t respond to cop talk from Challis.
‘If you know about me then you know that my brother-in-law disappeared out east a few years ago.’
Wurfel nodded.
‘I’m looking into it,’ Challis went on.
‘It was looked into at the time.’
‘You checked the file?’
‘Soon as I knew who you were.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Why?’
Challis eyed him carefully. ‘I need to see if there is anything in it that’s not in the Misper file at police headquarters.’
‘They gave you access?’
Challis nodded. ‘Last Friday.’
‘Wait outside,’ Wurfel said. ‘Let me make a call.’
Challis waited in the corridor; Wurfel beckoned him back a minute later. He was frowning. ‘I’ll let you see our file. But I thought your brother-in-law committed suicide?’
‘Most of the locals think so. He was a bit unstable.’
‘Your mate in missing persons told me your sister’s been receiving strange mail, as if he’s still alive.’
‘Yes,’ said Challis levelly.
Wurfel was about to say something more, then shrugged and went to his filing cabinet. ‘Here’s the file. You can read it here. No copying.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’