There was no way that Ellen was going. She glanced at Larrayne, trying to read her daughter, ready to step in if Larrayne wanted to study but couldn’t say no to him. ‘I’m fine with it, Mum.’
Ellen looked more closely at her husband. He’d lost weight. He’d dressed up: new chinos, a new shirt. ‘You look nice.’
He waggled his jaw from side to side. He did that when he was hiding something. He dissembled, glancing around the room. ‘So, this is the boyfriend’s house.’
Ellen felt deeply fatigued. ‘Shut up, Alan.’
He flushed dangerously and sloshed some of Challis’s costly wine onto the hardwood floor. ‘Dad, we’d better go,’ Larrayne said.
It was when they were gone that Ellen remembered Scobie’s remark. He’d wanted to search van Alphen’s house, and been refused permission. Well, naturally, for van Alphen’s murder wasn’t their case. But van Alphen had been working on a case that was theirs, and he was a man full of secrets.
Forty-five minutes later, with a hastily prepared ham sandwich inside her, Ellen snapped latex gloves onto her hands, slid open Kees van Alphen’s bathroom window catch with a thin blade, and let herself in. She’d called at the station first, going to the hardware cupboard and borrowing-but not signing for-a piece of equipment used by electricians to check if power sockets were live. A dead socket could mean that a small safe was concealed behind it.
She went through van Alphen’s house swiftly; all of the electrical sockets were genuine. Then she checked behind the paintings and prints hanging on his walls, kicked baseboards, listening for tell-tale hollow sounds, looked under the dirty clothing in the laundry basket, examined tins, jars and freezer packages. She was an expert at this. Now and-then over the years she’d found small amounts of cash. Sometimes she’d pocketed it. It was a kind of pathology that she should do something about, she thought idly. But she didn’t want to see a counsellor or therapist. She believed that she could control it herself.
Frustrated now, she went through the house again, hoping to avoid searching van Alphen’s garden shed, with its noisy tools, bins and cans, and uncomfortably close to the neighbour’s bedroom window. She pulled out drawers and felt under them. She looked behind the faзade at the top of his old-fashioned wardrobe. The computer had been removed by the Fab Four from headquarters, but wouldn’t van Alphen have concealed backup CDs or floppies somewhere? Books. CD and DVD covers. A tissue box.
She looked at the TV set. It was small, years old, worth nothing to a junkie. She lifted it experimentally. It felt light. Van Alphen had gutted it.
She waited until she got home. The material was a thin folder of statements, forms and photographs, and she quickly saw why van Alphen had hidden it, and she was betting that he hadn’t signed it out from Records. She read right through, glad that he’d been so thorough, heartbroken that the thoroughness had got him killed.
In 2005, a boy named Andrew Retallick, then aged thirteen, had approached teachers at Peninsula High School-who had contacted the Department of Human Services and Waterloo police-to say that he’d been abused by a group of men for many years, in several locations, but mainly at a house on the outskirts of Waterloo. He described the house. He remembered a spa bath and soft toys. He’d been photographed in the spa bath, naked, with the men who’d abused him. He’d been asked to suck his thumb and pose naked with the soft toys. The men varied: there was a hard core of four or five, with others whom he saw occasionally or only once. Some were dressed as policemen. The abuse had started when he was seven years old and continued for many years. He hadn’t liked it but hadn’t let himself think it was wrong. After all, policemen were involved. Whenever he was hurt, someone would tend to him. Going to high school had changed everything: not only was his body changing but sex education classes had opened his eyes to what had been done to him for all of those years. And so he’d told his teachers, and DHS officers, counsellors and, finally, the police. But nothing had been done, and so he’d stopped talking. He changed schools three times. He tried and failed to kill himself by cutting his wrists. That was last year.
Ellen leafed through the file, making sense of the statements and forms. The photographs of Andrew showed a small, hunted-looking boy, although in one instance he was smiling, a sad smile but it transformed his face, so that he looked sweet and exotic. Long lashes, Ellen noted, dusky skin.
Larrayne returned, looking tense. ‘Mum, he’s got a girlfriend. I had to sit there and hear all about her.’
So that was it. Larrayne seemed miserable, like a child who had tried and failed to keep her parents together. ‘It was bound to happen, sweetheart.’
‘It’s not fair.’
Ellen tried to hug her. Larrayne shrugged her off. ‘I’m going to bed.’
When the house was silent again under a barely moonlit sky, Ellen returned to van Alphen’s case notes. She read for some time, finally coming to his summary, written as fragmentary observations in his neat, pinched hand: A litany of errors or wilful obstruction. Two of AR’s statements missing, computer files been tampered with. Parents were urged to let matters drop. Officers interviewed Neville/Shirley Clode, owners of the house where the abuse took place, Sept. 2005. They accepted Clodes’ explanation re spa room-had been set up for granddaughter. Quote: “The Clodes were interviewed and subjected to a background check. This showed them to be normal, everyday citizens, who were completely shocked by the allegations”. AR’s parents angry re Office of Police Integrity’s decision to take no further action, despite independent confirmation that A had been abused (see report, Royal Children’s Hospital’s Gatehouse Centre). Parents told me the senior sergeant in charge was v. aggressive. Warned them kids often lied about being sexually abused; allegations could destroy decent families, etc., etc. Quote: “There is nothing further the police service can do for you”. Meanwhile police members investigating A’s allegations did not contact his psych or the Gatehouse Centre.
‘Managed to speak to AR. He’s unwilling to make further statements to police. Had been shown porn videos and magazines depicting him having sex with his abusers, feels deeply ashamed etc.
Asked AR’s parents if they wish to swear out a complaint against Snr Sgt Kellock. Declined. Asked AR to identify abusers from a photo array. Declined, but gave me the name of another abused youth, Billy DaCosta. Talked to a snitch who told me where to find DaC
Ellen felt cold all over and the dark night pressed darker around the house on its quiet back road. If only van Alphen had come to her instead of finding Billy DaCosta himself. But he’d always been a loner, despite his apparent matiness with Kellock and men like Kellock. And if he’d always considered Kellock a friend, he’d want to make pretty sure of his facts before accusing him. Perhaps he feared that Kellock would withdraw his support over the Nick Jarrett shooting, even change his story.
The fear corroded her. She called Challis, and he answered immediately, sounding alert. ‘Sorry to call you so late.’
‘Something’s wrong.’
‘We’ve got a rotten apple,’ she said.
She told him all about it. ‘What do I do?’
‘Make absolutely certain of everything. Cover your back. Watch your back. Make multiple copies of every report, file and conversation, and secure them in separate locations. Trust no one. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
51
At lunchtime on Monday, John Tankard stood in the canteen serving line, watching but not registering the wisps of steam escaping from the stainless-steel trays of Bolognese sauce, lasagne and Irish stew. He felt wretched: another weekend, nightmares and depression, so bad that he’d barely made it through. He’d thought he’d beaten the nightmares and depression. Clearly not. He could put it down to the stress of the job, but knew better: he was bitter and sad because he’d lost his dream car.