He considered that. ‘There’s an explanation for everything.’
‘You did it by the book, Scobie, tell me you did it by the book.’
He sat finally. He twisted in his seat. ‘I can explain.’
The explanation was disjointed, and at the end of it she said, ‘Was the knife Jarrett’s?’
Scobie stared at the carpet, then lifted his sorrowing face. She heard the fretfulness as he asked: ‘Was he left or right handed? Was he or wasn’t he wearing gloves? I went back there just now: the carpet’s been shampooed already.’
Ellen watched him.
‘I got a bad vibe, Ellen,’ he said, not meeting her gaze.
She wondered if he’d ever uttered the word ‘vibe’ aloud before. It didn’t sound right in his mouth. ‘What kind of knife was it?’
‘Generic kitchen knife. Could have come from anywhere. Could have come from the house.’
‘He always wore gloves?’
‘According to the collators, yes. His girlfriend wouldn’t confirm or deny. Nor would his family.’
An image of Laurie Jarrett came to Ellen. She coughed. ‘God, Scobie, I don’t want a dirty shooting.’
‘It’s not yours to worry about,’ Scobie said sourly. ‘It was a uniformed operation, and the police shooting board will be stepping in.’
‘Still.’
Into the pause that followed, Scobie said softly, ‘They threatened me.’
‘Who? The Jarretts?’
‘Van Alphen and Kellock.’
‘They’re just a bit macho, that’s all. They like to intimidate.’
‘It was more than that. When I arrived just now, Kellock said, “How’s that daughter of yours going?” A clear threat.’
‘Doesn’t sound like one.’
‘You weren’t there,’ Scobie muttered.
Ellen had barely started work when a call came from the front desk: Laurie Jarrett was in the foyer, angry, distraught. ‘He wants to see you, Sarge.’
‘Me? The stakeout was a uniformed operation, not CIU.’
‘He says his nephew was set up, ambushed. He’ll only speak to you.’
‘Put him in a conference room. Have a uniform outside the door.’
‘Sarge.’
Wondering what she’d done to earn Laurie Jarrett’s regard, Ellen went downstairs, a part of her thinking that Nick Jarrett had got what he deserved, another part hoping it had been a clean shooting.
She found the patriarch of the Jarrett clan in the foyer conference room, two nervous constables standing beside his chair. He’d come storming into the station, according to the officers on the front desk, but now looked calm and unreadable. ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he murmured.
Ellen got down to business. ‘You’re saying the police set your nephew up?’
‘I know they did,’ Jarrett said.
The man’s low tone and steady demeanour spelt barely concealed fury. ‘We’re sorry for your loss, Mr Jarrett, but-’
‘You cunts set him up and bushwhacked him.’
Ellen flushed. ‘Mr Jarrett, I know you’re upset, but I find your language offensive.’
‘So charge me.’
It was 9 am. She’d brought her coffee mug with her and toyed with it now, idly noticing the words printed across it: Our day begins when yours ends. She looked up; Laurie Jarrett was staring at her bleakly across the conference room table. ‘I want a face-to-face with the officers who shot Nick,’ he said.
‘There’s no way that’s going to happen.’
‘I want a full inquiry.’
‘All police shootings are rigorously examined,’ she said.
He snorted. ‘Words.’
‘Like I said, the shooting will be-’
‘You’ve always had it in for my nephew. You’ve had it in for all of us.’
She wasn’t going to take that lying down. ‘Our officers are called to your house at least once a fortnight, Laurie. Legal searches of the cars and bedrooms of your sons, stepsons and nephews have regularly uncovered drugs and stolen goods. The younger kids are caught shoplifting almost weekly. You yourself have a record for burglary and assault. Did we fit you up for all of those crimes and charges? I don’t think so.’
‘This time,’ he snarled, stabbing the table top with a slender finger, ‘this time you did.’
Ellen shifted uncomfortably, compelled by his looks again. She didn’t want to admit that it was a form of attraction. In response, something shifted in his gaze. He’d sensed the alteration in her body, and almost but not quite smiled. Then, to her astonishment, his eyes filled with tears.
‘It wasn’t a clean shooting.’
‘Laurie, he attacked two officers with a knife.’
A kitchen knife, possibly from a set found in the kitchen of the house. Ellen made a mental note: how did Nick Jarrett enter the house? Which rooms did he enter before being accosted? Did he go to the kitchen?
‘He was lured, Ellen,’ Laurie Jarrett said.
It was a shock, his using her first name, and quite out of order. ‘He was a burglar, Mr Jarrett. We’ve found burgled items in his girlfriend’s flat from time to time. He burgled to a pattern. We identified that pattern and intercepted him. He took drugs and was prone to violence. It was always going to be a matter of time before something like this occurred.’
Jarrett gave her a look, a man with a permanently unimpressed mind. It was a cops’ look, frankly. Eventually he said gently, ‘You’re a sore loser.’
‘If that’s all,’ Ellen said, standing, ‘I have work to do.’
‘Just the beginning, sweetheart,’ Jarrett said, uncoiling gracefully from his chair.
‘There will be a coroner’s inquest in due course.’
‘You mean a coroner’s whitewash.’
Ellen lost it, just a little. ‘Look, we’ve just had the abduction and sexual assault of a young girl. She’s lucky to be alive. I am yet to find the man, or men, responsible. Meanwhile, the shooting of your nephew will be given full attention, but it’s not my concern.’
Laurie Jarrett, a slender, shapely, dangerous man, a man who had her number, smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Katie Blasko is not the only one,’ he murmured.
Ellen stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
He ignored the question and got to his feet. ‘I have a lot to do, a grieving family, a funeral to arrange.’
Ellen returned to the CIU incident room and waded through reports and witness statements until mid afternoon. It was all fruitless, until Riggs, the technician from ForenZics, called. ‘We have the results on those Katie Blasko samples.’
Ellen was impressed: she’d expected the results much later. Maybe Superintendent McQuarrie had done the right thing in contracting CIU’s forensic testing to the private lab. Not that the situation in any way matched the ideal, the ideal being one of those American cop shows like ‘CSI’, where a detective walks down a flight of stairs with a blood or fibre sample, and there is the lab, and the lab is full of experts who process evidence on the spot with state of the art equipment-and who also go out and make arrests. Even so, ForenZics had processed the samples from the Katie Blasko abuse house quickly. In Ellen’s experience, the state lab was often running weeks, even months behind. Not only had successive state governments failed to fund it adequately, but it was also swamped with work, for defence and prosecution lawyers had come to believe that forensic evidence could prove or disprove everything. Even the privately owned labs like ForenZics were overworked in testing samples-giving second
