‘You sound doubtful. In fact, you have doubtful outcomes mounting up all around you, Sergeant.’
He sounded cocky and provocative. He was the kind of man who hated and feared women-the hate and the fear being one and the same thing, really, for he hated women because they made him fear them. She said nothing, but a kind of black light suffused her. If he’d been there with her she’d have struck him. Instead, she hit him another way. ‘Speaking of doubtful outcomes, sir,’ she said, ‘did you know that Sergeant van Alphen had been coaching a witness, a street kid called Billy DaCosta, to give false evidence against the men we suspect of abducting and abusing Katie Blasko?’
There was a silence. Then, in a constrained voice, McQuarrie said, ‘Is he connected to the Jarretts, this DaCosta person?’
Ellen had checked. ‘No, sir.’
‘How can you be sure? The Jarretts are behind this. It’s a revenge killing, of a police officer, and won’t be tolerated.’
‘Sir.’
‘It’s too big for you, for your team.’
‘Sir.’
She felt oddly relieved as McQuarrie went on to tell her that Homicide Squad officers would come down from the city to take over the investigation into van Alphen’s murder. ‘They have the resources and the expertise.’
‘Sir.’
‘Leaving you free to do whatever it was you were doing before this.’
As though Katie’s abduction and abuse were minor things, easily forgotten. In his mind, McQuarrie probably thought that he’d successfully undermined Ellen. She had a creepy sense of the forces at work around her.
50
The days passed and she made no headway. The urgency had gone from the investigation. Not even the van Alphen murder could galvanise anyone, for when the Homicide Squad detectives took over the case, they immediately shut Waterloo staff out. There were four of them, three men and a woman, young, sleek, educated and close-mouthed.
Commandeering one of the conference rooms, they interviewed all thirty of the staff based at the station-uniformed officers, probationary constables, Ellen’s CIU detectives, collators, civilian clerks and cleaners-their manner clipped and impersonal, arousing resentment.
On Friday they interviewed Ellen. They seemed cynical with her. Doubting. Probably because she’d had charge of the investigation for the first few hours, she thought.
‘I didn’t really know him,’ she told them.
‘You had him digging around in that abduction case.’
‘He was assigned to desk duties pending the inquiry into the Nick Jarrett shooting,’ Ellen said. ‘He wanted to be useful.’
‘So useful he left his desk and operated in secret.’
They were well informed. Ellen said, ‘Unfortunately he didn’t confide in me.’
‘Did he like little boys?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘He was shacked up with a street kid.’
She supposed that their besmirching van Alphen was part of a strategy. They wanted to know if van Alphen’s hidden interests and activities had made him a target. They wanted people to be outraged, and talk.
‘As I understand it,’ she said carefully, ‘he was protecting a witness.’
‘Do you still understand that to be the case?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘The witness claimed that he’d been coached by Sergeant van Alphen, so I don’t know what to believe.’
‘Hissy fits, sudden flare-ups of temper, biting, scratching and kicking. It can get quite volatile, the gay scene.’
Ellen wasn’t going to let them provoke her. ‘We don’t know that he was gay. We don’t know that he liked little boys. They’re not even the same thing. Look, I know you have to examine every contingency, but why this one? It impinges on my case. Why aren’t you looking at the Jarrett clan?’
‘Like you said, we’ll look into everything.’
Ellen watched them expressionlessly, their four clever faces staring back at her, giving nothing away. She’d scarcely registered their names or ranks. Not even gender factored here. The four detectives were interchangeable. ‘I expect, or at least request, full co-operation from you,’ she said firmly.
They said nothing.
‘If your investigation into Sergeant van Alphen turns up anything related to child abductions or the activities of a supposed paedophile ring on the Peninsula, then I want you to pass it on to me,’ she continued. ‘Formal or informal witness statements, names and addresses, case notes, jottings, files, computer records, child pornography, phone numbers scribbled on napkins, anything at all.’
‘And if this material also relates to his murder?’
‘Then we overlap,’ Ellen said. She hesitated. ‘Is there anything? Have you got suspicions?’
She wanted them to articulate her suspicions-that van Alphen had been protecting paedophiles, hence his sloppy police work and indifference regarding Alysha Jarrett. That he’d intended to betray Billy DaCosta by claiming Billy had lied to him, which would have raised doubts about information given by genuine victims. That, even so, the members of his paedophile ring had killed him to shut him up. Killed Billy, too.
‘Have you?’ she repeated. ‘Can I see it? Did you find stuff on his computer?’
‘We’ll let you know if we do find anything,’ they said, with sharkish good will. ‘But a few minutes ago you pointed the finger at the Jarretts. Now you imply that van Alphen was killed because he was doing work for you, or that you would find out about him. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘They are the two most logical avenues to explore.’
‘Sergeant van Alphen must have made enemies over the years.’
‘We all do,’ said Ellen, bored and hostile now.
‘This is off the record, but we understand that the police shooting board findings will exonerate Kellock and van Alphen. Perhaps the Jarrett clan sensed this, and wanted revenge for Nick Jarrett.’
Ellen was expressionless. As far as she was concerned, truth, or at least the police version of it, was never black and white, A or B, but many things together, merging, overlapping and existing simultaneously.
‘If that’s all?’ she said, getting to her feet.
They smiled broadly and emptily as she let herself out of the room.
She found Scobie waiting. ‘Well, that was fun.’
He nodded. He’d already had his turn with them.
‘Some good news for you, though,’ Ellen said. She told him what she’d been told about the shooting board’s findings. She’d never seen a man so relieved, or so troubled. ‘Meanwhile, what have you been doing?’ she said.
‘I tried to get in and search Van’s house. I was refused permission.’
Ellen shrugged. For a long time afterwards, she didn’t reflect on Scobie’s remark. It was Friday. All she wanted to do was go home, pour herself a stiff drink, hang out with her daughter and call Hal Challis.
When she got home at eight that evening, she saw a familiar red Commodore in the driveway. Her husband was in the sitting room, drinking a glass of wine with Larrayne, Larrayne with her long, youthful bare legs curled under her on the sofa. Alan was in the armchair that Ellen normally chose. He raised his glass. ‘The great detective returns.’
He wasn’t being snide. It had been an old joke between them, back when the marriage had been tolerable. She gave her husband and her daughter a wintry smile. ‘Not such a great one this evening.’
Alan nodded soberly. ‘I heard they gave the van Alphen shooting to some hot shots from the city.’
Ellen poured herself a glass of wine. It was a good wine, a Peninsula pinot noir, and therefore probably raided from Hal Challis’s own stock. She glanced from the label to Larrayne, who winked. ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit?’
‘Dad said he’d take me out to that new Thai place in Waterloo,’ Larrayne said.
‘You’re welcome too, Ells,’ said Alan, clearly not meaning it.