Scobie said stupidly, ‘That one?’
‘No, a huge Japanese samurai sword that we put back over the fireplace. Of course that fucking knife.’
‘I have to be sure,’ said Scobie defensively. ‘So, he cut you?’
‘No, he gave me a haircut,’ said Kellock, clutching a handkerchief to his forearm.
‘Kel,’ admonished van Alphen mildly.
‘Sorry. Sorry, Scobie.’
Scobie didn’t believe it. ‘Can I see?’
Kellock proffered his arm. Three shallow cuts, parallel to the watchstrap. ‘Defensive wounds.’
Too shallow, too neatly arranged, for that. Scobie swallowed again. ‘That’s what your report will say?’
‘Why? You think I’m lying, Detective Constable Sutton?’
‘I’m just here to note what was said and done, that’s all,’ Scobie said.
‘Mate, you’re a real character.’
They were creeping him out. He heard a vehicle arriving, a heavy motor. ‘That will be the ambulance,’ he said, relieved.
He was gone about a minute, greeting the ambulance crew and showing them to the body. Soon the little room was crowded, and Scobie’s view of the body obscured. ‘Weak pulse,’ one of the paramedics said. ‘We have to get him to the hospital pronto.’
Scobie saw van Alphen and Kellock exchange a complicated glance. Were they relieved? Worried? He couldn’t say.
‘I need to bag the knife,’ Scobie said, pushing through to Nick Jarrett’s body, taking an evidence bag from his jacket pocket. He paused. He could have sworn the knife had been in Jarrett’s left hand. He could have sworn that Jarrett had been wearing gloves. Jarrett gasped then, drawing a painful, rattling breath. His hands fluttered.
‘Mate,’ an ambulance officer said, elbowing Scobie, ‘we have to get him out, now.’
Scobie bagged the knife wordlessly, using his last few seconds to run his gaze over Jarrett. There was a cut above one eyebrow, signs of swelling on one cheek.
‘Mate?’
‘Okay, okay, just remove his overalls first.’
He stood back while it was done. Finally Jarrett was carried out to the ambulance, which tore away, sounding the siren once it had reached the main road.
‘We’ve got a situation,’ Scobie said.
‘No we don’t,’ said van Alphen emphatically.
Scobie trembled and his voice wouldn’t come. There were procedures to follow. But van Alphen and Kellock were his police colleagues. At the same time, he didn’t exactly mourn Jarrett, who was a killer, a man prone to violence. Scobie didn’t doubt that a tox screen would show large amounts of speed in Jarrett’s system. Jarrett would have been volatile, vicious and unpredictable, so it could have happened as described by van Alphen and Kellock.
‘Headquarters will have to look into this.’
‘We know that.’
‘There will be a coronial inquest.’
‘In about a year’s time,’ Kellock said. ‘A lot can happen in that time.’
‘Boss, I need to bag your weapon,’ Scobie said, his voice not holding up. ‘I also need the outer clothing of both of you.’
‘Well, sure,’ said Kellock, not moving.
‘I have to do this by the book,’ gabbled Scobie.
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘I have a couple of forensic suits in the back of my car.’
‘Not a problem.’
Van Alphen and Kellock said nothing more but stared at him. He could feel their eyes at his back as he left the house.
One hour later, dawn light streaking the horizon, Scobie called in at McDonald’s for breakfast, a guilty Big Mac with fries because his nerves were shot. Then he called the hospital, learning that Nick Jarrett had died in the ambulance, and finally called Ellen to report the shooting- a clumsy conversation on his part, he felt. Finally he drove up to the city and delivered the knife, gloves, bagged clothing and.38 to the ForenZics lab, arriving as the doors opened for the day. A guy called Riggs, young, abrupt, irritable, took custody of the evidence, the irritation growing as he removed the items one by one. ‘Jesus, pal.’
‘What?’
‘Cross contamination.’
‘I was rushed,’ said Scobie, feeling sulky. ‘It’s clear enough what happened.’
‘Not to me. Gunshot residue and blood evidence are easily transferred. You’ve got the clothing of several people here.’
‘Three: two police officers and the victim, a burglar.’
‘Oh, well that’s all right, then,’ said Riggs snidely.
‘One officer was slashed with the knife. He then shot the burglar.’
‘Don’t you have procedures for collecting evidence? My findings will be meaningless.’
Scobie felt like weeping. None of this was his fault. ‘Please see what you can do.’
26
When Ellen arrived at work that morning she found people congregated in corridors and doorways, whispering, murmuring. It was partly elation, partly awe, partly apprehension about the fallout that would follow now, not only for Kellock and van Alphen but for all of them. Nobody was very sorry about Jarrett. Some were almost pleased that he’d been shot dead, although they could not have done it themselves. Feelings were complicated, uneven, hard to pin down.
She walked past Kellock’s office. The door was open. He beckoned her in, saying, ‘You heard?’
‘Yes.’
He looked exhausted. ‘Van and I have been limited to desk duties until it’s sorted out.’
Ellen nodded. It was to be expected.
‘But feel free to call on us if you need help with the Blasko investigation.’
Ellen blinked. ‘Really?’
‘No problem,’ said Kellock evenly.
Scobie was waiting for her upstairs. He hadn’t shaved; his thinning hair was awry. ‘Ellen,’ he said, relieved.
She took him into her office. He wouldn’t sit but paced in agitation. She waited, eventually prompting him: ‘The Jarrett shooting.’
He continued to pace.
‘Scobie!’
He jumped. ‘What?’
‘It’s clean, right?’
He was silent for some time. ‘I got there about five this morning.’
‘And?’
‘I was tired. I wasn’t taking everything in.’
Ellen closed her eyes, opened them again. ‘Are you saying there are anomalies?’
