opinions, confirming the state lab’s results or throwing them into doubt. Consequently judges and prosecutors were putting pressure on the police to find additional, better and more irrevocable evidence.
‘That was quick,’ Ellen said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Just doing our job,’ Riggs said.
Ellen swivelled in her chair. She gazed at the perforated ceiling battens, then unseeingly through the window that overlooked the car park and its scattering of police and private cars. ‘So, what did you find?’
‘The bad news first. Plenty of fibres, but they’re generic to all kinds of cotton and synthetic clothing.’
‘DNA,’ said Ellen firmly, ‘that’s what I want.’
‘Don’t rush me. We found blood, other fluids and skin traces that are a DNA match to Katie Blasko.’
‘As expected. I want to know who else was there.’
‘Don’t rush me,’ said Riggs again. ‘For your information, we did find traces of someone other than the victim.’
‘Enough for DNA?’
‘Yes.’
Ellen felt her skin tingle.
‘And he’s in the system,’ Riggs said. ‘Neville Clode. He lives in Waterloo.’
Ellen left her office and found Scobie Sutton in the incident room, examining the doorknock canvass sheets, studiously ignoring Kees van Alphen, who was thumb tacking a wall map of the Peninsula. Ellen paused. ‘Heard about the shooting, Van,’ she murmured. ‘Bad luck.’
‘Or good luck. Depends how you see it.’
‘Quite.’ She pointed at the map. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Since I’m desk bound, I thought I’d help CIU. I’m mapping sex crimes. The blue pins are the home addresses of known sex offenders.’
There were not many of these, and most lived in the main population areas: Waterloo, Mornington and the coastal strip from Dromana to Sorrento. ‘The red and yellow pins?’
‘The red pins show the locations of sexual assaults on children by strangers, the yellow pins show the locations of related offences.’
‘Good work,’ Ellen said. And it was, painstaking and probably pointless. A lot of police work was like that. ‘What do you mean by “related offences”?’
‘Women, and young girls, have reported flashers along here,’ van Alphen said, indicating a couple of popular beaches. ‘This woman-’ he indicated another yellow pin ‘-was walking her dog and a man grabbed her breasts from behind. She screamed and he ran. She followed him to a nearby house, then called the police, who promptly arrested him.’
Ellen shook her head. Most crimes were stupid. Most criminals were stupid. ‘This pin,’ van Alphen went on, ‘indicates reports of men seen lurking near public toilets and schools.’
‘Fantastic, Van, thank you. We’re stretched for resources.’
‘No worries.’
‘But broaden what you’ve been doing. In addition to incidents that are clearly sex related, I want everything you can find about abductions, abduction attempts, unsolved disappearances and murders, particularly of children and young people.’
‘Peninsula wide?’
‘Australia wide, Van. Our guy could be very mobile.’
Van Alphen scowled. ‘I guess that will keep me out of trouble, but I’d rather be out in the field, kicking down doors.’
Ellen patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s my boy. But right now I want everything you can give me on a Neville Clode.’ She gave the details. ‘A full background check,’ she urged. ‘Criminal record, vehicles registered in his name, circle of friends, his relatives, work colleagues, acquaintances, you know the drill.’
Van Alphen gave her an unreadable look and nodded abruptly. She crossed the room and said, ‘Scobie? We have a suspect.’ She told him about Neville Clode and the DNA.
‘Neville Clode? I questioned him a few days ago, that ag burg, guy ended up in hospital.’
Ellen nodded slowly. ‘Interesting.’
‘He was knocked about pretty badly, wouldn’t give straight answers. A falling out with his pals?’
‘Or maybe it wasn’t an ag burg. Maybe he has a history, and one of his victims got revenge.’
‘He didn’t seem the type.’
Scobie Sutton was easily, and often, impressed by the people he dealt with. He was a churchgoer, a decent family man, and perhaps the police would have a better press if more officers were like him, but the police also needed officers who could step over the line and inhabit the minds of the bad guys. ‘Tell me about him.’
Scobie perched his bony rear on the edge of the main table while Ellen sat attentively. ‘He works from home.’
‘As?’
‘Some kind of counsellor or healer.’
‘Psychologist? Physio? What?’
‘Can’t recall.’
‘What can you recall?’
‘His place was trashed. A real mess. He was beaten pretty badly.’
‘Anything else?’
Scobie searched his memory. ‘There’s a kind of spa room in his house. Spa bath and toys.’
‘Toys? Does he have children? A partner?’
‘He’s almost sixty.’
‘Scobie, does he have children or a partner?’
‘No sign of either.’
‘Let’s go and rattle his cage,’ Ellen said, rattling her car keys at him.
27
Thirty minutes later, Ellen and Scobie were in an unmarked silver Falcon from the motor pool. Ellen drove. Scobie stretched his stick legs and yawned. The interior was stuffy, for the car had been sitting in the sun. Bird shit streaked the windscreen: trees ringed the car park behind the station and the birds were busy now, building nests. Scobie sneezed. Presently Ellen sneezed. Spring on the Peninsula brought a special kind of hell to hayfever sufferers. The air was laden with pollen. People suffered through it and their eyes itched.
‘Roslyn can’t stop talking about it,’ Scobie announced after a short period of blessed silence.
‘About what?’ said Ellen before she could stop herself. At least the poor kid’s bowel movements had ceased to matter to her devoted father. Now it was how she coped with maths, friendship crises and the scary bits in Harry Potter.
‘About riding her bike, dressed up like Katie Blasko.’
Ellen stirred, irritated. What mattered was what had happened to the real Katie Blasko, not the pretend Katie’s moment of fame. She didn’t say any of this to Scobie Sutton. He’d be crestfallen, offended or bewildered, and Ellen didn’t feel like coping with any of his reactions. ‘Left or right?’ she said at the next intersection.
‘Straight ahead, then the second on the left.’
He directed her past the fenced boundary of the Seaview Park estate to a low, newish-looking house set behind a screen of trees. Ten years old, Ellen guessed, assessing the architecture and the height of the trees. Not long after she’d settled on the Peninsula with Alan and Larrayne, several streets had been carved out of what had been farmland on the outskirts of Waterloo. Alan had been interested in buying a plot and putting up a house, but Ellen had been adamant that as a copper she was not going to live where she worked, and so they’d bought the old
