fibro holiday house ten minutes drive away in Penzance Beach. And now that house had been sold and she was marking time in Challis’s house.
She braked the car. A small sign, burnt into a polished board mounted on a low concrete pillar that doubled as a letterbox, read Wellness Centre. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she muttered.
Scobie knew what she meant. A hypochondriac, he was defensive. ‘Don’t knock it, Ellen. Our naturopath has really helped my arthritis and Beth’s depression.’
Naturopaths were probably the acceptable face of what bugged Ellen. It seemed to her that on every back road, side street or strip of shops on the Peninsula, a ‘healer’ of some kind could be found. They set up ‘wellness boutiques’ and read palms, Tarot cards and probably tea leaves, offered massage, crystal therapy or ear candling- whatever that was- and taught certificate courses in automatic writing and angel visions- whatever they were.
If you wanted to awaken your life-force, then a powerful and ancient Tibetan modality was available in Mornington. A woman in Penzance Beach offered Sandplay and Expressive Therapy. There was a Holistic clinic next door to a shoe shop in Waterloo, and even an Inner Balance Master a few hundred metres along the dirt road past Challis’s house (yeah, she could just see Hal checking in for a treatment). Quacks came through lecturing on ‘Thought Field Therapy’ at $500 a pop, or sold books and CDs that showed you how to become animal spirit intuitives, so long as you forked out $89.99 for a shamanic field guide that offered insight into the wisdom of Mother Earth’s natural creatures.
The practitioners and devotees of this alternative Peninsula gave their children weird names, wore flower- power and vaguely Indian clothing and entered wispy, inept paintings in the local art shows. Ellen was pretty sure that the intelligence quotient of the Peninsula was lower than anywhere else on the planet.
She ignored Scobie and got out. There was a small wooden rack mounted to the wall beside the front door. She took out a brochure and read that Neville Clode’s Wellness Centre specialised in wellness for children, promising to cure their irritability, hypertension, nervousness, fears and phobias. ‘Let me unlock the feelings, emotions and hidden belief systems that block the journey process to true maturity,’ he offered.
Scobie stood beside her. He pushed the bell. She thrust the brochure at him. ‘Jesus Christ, Scobie-he works with kids.’
Scobie read. Time ticked by. Here on Clode’s street the houses were silent and far apart from each other, separated by trees and high paling fences. No witnesses, in other words. ‘I’m checking around the back,’ Ellen said.
She prowled down the side of the house, passing a carport hung with grapevines that sheltered a Saab. A moment later she rounded the corner onto a broad yard and a scattering of fruit trees. There was a small aluminium garden shed. Two children, a girl and a boy aged about twelve, were disappearing over the back fence. They looked gleeful, panicky and hard-eyed, as if they’d been in trouble with the authorities for all of their short lives and weren’t about to reform. Even so, they were children, and they should have been in school.
Ellen shouted futilely, then turned her attention to the rear wall of the house. Scobie was coming around the corner, still reading the brochure. The back door opened and a man stepped out, moving stiffly. Facial bruises were vivid on his face; blood streaked the whites of his blackened eyes; his top lip carried a couple of stitches..
‘Mr Clode? My name is Sergeant Destry and you’ve met Constable Sutton.’
‘Did you get the little buggers?’ Clode said, his voice melodious, as though remembering that he was supposed to be a healer, a man who brought comfort to people. He approached Scobie warmly and shot out his hand. The two men shook. Then he offered his hand to Ellen and she ignored it. ‘Do you know those children, Mr Clode? Were they visiting you?’
Through the damage to his face she could see a bleak, scoffing expression. ‘Kids from the Seaview Park estate,’ he said. ‘Surely no strangers to the police.’
‘Do you think they’re the ones who attacked you, Mr Clode?’ said Scobie.
‘Could well be.’
Ellen wasn’t having this. She’d read Clode’s statement. ‘I thought you said that men attacked you, not children.’
‘Youngish men, I think.’
‘All right, did you recognise those children just now?’
‘No. I told them to clear off…’
‘Would you recognise them again?’
‘I only saw their backs.’
Ellen stared at him, unconvinced. But she doubted she’d recognise them, either. ‘Are you in the habit of inviting children to your home, Mr Clode?’
He flushed. ‘I didn’t invite them.’
‘But you treat children.’
‘That’s different. And their parents bring them to me for therapy.’
‘May we come inside, please?’
He looked uncertain, but took them through to his sitting room. ‘Has a parent made a complaint against me?’
‘Are the parents present when you treat their children?’ Ellen responded.
‘No way. It destroys the energy.’
Ellen supposed that it probably did. ‘Can you tell us what you were doing between Thursday afternoon last week and Monday afternoon this week?’
‘What’s this about?’ said Clode, appealing to Scobie.
‘Just answer the question,’ Ellen said.
‘I was in hospital for two days.’
‘And the other two days?’
‘Here.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘I live alone, so no, I can’t,’ said Clode, irritable now.
‘Your appointment book might hold the answer.’
Clode coughed and shifted about. Actually, I didn’t have any appointments. I’m retraining.’
‘Retraining? As what?’
‘A thought field therapist.’
Ellen smirked.
‘Look, why do you want to know my movements? What am I supposed to have done? I’m a victim, remember.’
‘Do you own a white van?’
‘No, why?’
‘Do any of your friends or family?’
‘Don’t think so. How would I know?’
‘I understand you have a spa room, with toys in it.’
To cover his confusion or apprehension, Clode threw up his hands. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Is it part of children’s therapy?’
‘No. It’s for when my granddaughter visits.’
Ellen watched him for a long moment. He didn’t waver. ‘Is your wife with you, Mr Clode?’
‘She died.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Ellen said unconvincingly. ‘How many children do you have?’
‘My wife had a daughter from her previous marriage. Her name’s Grace.’
‘Oh.’
‘I rarely see them.’
‘Them?’
‘Grace is married. Husband and one daughter.’
‘They live some distance away?’
Clode shook his head. ‘Just on the other side of the Peninsula.’
‘But you rarely see them.’
