my colleagues or me but went straight to Kellock and van Alphen-mates of theirs? By the time they came to see us, they’d already made up their minds.’
‘Did they interview the girls?’
‘If you can call it that.’
‘Explain.’
‘The interviews were a joke, lasting only ten or fifteen minutes. We saw the reports: nowhere do these so- called detectives give any detail about what questions they asked or what the children said in reply. Brief summaries are all you get, and even they are contradictory. I talked to the school’s welfare coordinator, who was allowed to sit in on the interviews. She said the detectives were rude and intimidating. It was clear to her that they’d prejudged the children. In tone and body language they were accusing the children of being liars, stirrers, troublemakers.’
Ellen closed her eyes briefly. ‘Oh, God,’ she murmured.
‘Then these three esteemed members of Victoria Police went to the pub with Kellock and van Alphen.’
‘You saw them?’
‘Yes. We tried to talk to them immediately after the interviews, but they warned us off, said it would be all in their report. I was so pissed off I followed them to the pub. They gave me the cold shoulder.’
‘I’d like copies of all reports.’
‘I’m a step ahead of you,’ Jane Everard said, passing a folder across the desk. ‘Main summary on top.’
Ellen scanned it quickly, catching the phrase ‘on the grounds that no criminal offences were disclosed’. She looked up. ‘Did you follow through?’
‘We decided to report the matter to the Department of Human Services. They followed it up, then reported back to us, saying they’d elected not to pursue the matter further because the sexual crimes unit and the Waterloo police had told them that a full investigation had been carried out and the children were safe.’
‘Safe to be abused by Clode again,’ Ellen muttered.
‘Are you going to do anything about this?’Jane demanded.
‘Yes.’
Jane got to her feet, gathered her things. ‘Good luck,’ she said, evidently not believing in luck, or Ellen.
Meanwhile Scobie had been assigned to interview Neville Clode’s married stepdaughter, Grace Duyker. He was shown into the kitchen of a kit house situated on a sandy track among ti-trees in Blairgowrie, on the Port Phillip Bay side of the Peninsula. The house was vaguely American log cabin and mid-western barn in design, the air laden with a headachy mix of new wood, carpet, plasterboard, paint and wood stain odours. And freshly baked muffins on a rack. Green numerals on the oven gave the time as 13.10. Scobie realised that he hadn’t had lunch. He’d been poured a mug of weak tea but not offered a muffin.
He took out a pen and his notebook. ‘First if I could have Mr Duyker’s work details.’
Grace Duyker was confused. ‘What?’
‘We’d like to speak to your husband as well, Mrs Duyker.’
Grace Duyker threw her head back with an appreciative laugh. ‘Duyker is my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t take my husband’s surname.’
‘Forgive me,’ Scobie Sutton said, making the alteration in his notebook. He said delicately, ‘Is there a reason why you didn’t take your father’s name?’
‘He was never in the picture. It was only my mother and me. Then when I was fourteen, Mum married Nifty Nev.’
Scobie grinned. ‘Nifty Nev.’
Grace Duyker grinned back. She was about thirty-five, he guessed. His gaze flickered around the kitchen, taking in further information. There were crayon drawings under fridge magnets, a bicycle abandoned on the back lawn, which was visible through the window above the sink, and four or five photographs of Grace, her husband and seven-year-old daughter. Typical family snaps: plenty of sunshine, grinning teeth and bright T-shirts. But there was also a photograph of a middle-aged woman who looked worn down by life.
‘My mother,’ Grace said, following his gaze.
He nodded. ‘Clode has a similar photo of her.’
‘That’s not exactly reassuring.’
There was something unbalanced about the composition of Grace’s photograph of her mother, as though part of the subject matter had been cropped with scissors. Clode?
‘She died last year,’ Grace continued.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Neville Clode wore her down,’ said Grace simply.
Scobie said nothing but waited.
‘A real creep.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, nothing overt. He never touched me or anything when I was a kid, but the way he looked at me gave me the creeps. I used to hate taking my daughter to visit. Now that Mum’s gone I don’t see him. Look,’ she said, changing her tone, ‘what’s this about? I know he was attacked, it was in the paper, but somehow I don’t think that’s why you’re here.’
‘We’re investigating another matter.’
‘And keeping it close to your chest,’ said Grace Duyker, scooping up their empty cups and taking them to the sink. Scobie heard the tap run, saw her upend the cups on the draining board. She wore lycra bicycle pants under a shapeless T-shirt that reached her thighs. Her feet were bare. She returned to her chair, a solid, capable woman with a challenging air. The antithesis of her sad-looking mother, Scobie thought.
‘He’s clean,’ Grace said, surprising him.
‘Clean?’
‘My husband and I tried for years to get Mum to leave him. We looked into him.’
‘Private detective?’
‘Yes. Nifty Nev’s never been in trouble with the law.’
Scobie already knew that. ‘But he made you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t want him around your daughter.’
Grace Duyker gave him a lopsided grin. ‘Finally.’
‘Finally what?’
‘Finally you want to know if he’s a paedophile.’
Scobie shrugged minutely.
‘My instincts say yes, but I have no evidence,’ Grace admitted. ‘My uncle, on the other hand.’
Scobie stiffened, got his pen ready. ‘Uncle?’
‘Write it down: Peter Duyker. My mother’s brother.’
Scobie recorded it dutifully. His stomach rumbled. Silently Grace crossed to the cooling muffins and placed two before him on a plate. ‘They needed time to cool. Enjoy.’
‘Thank you.’
He nibbled cautiously: blueberry. Slightly doughy. But warm-centred and delicious. He took another bite, almost cramming it in.
Grace smiled. ‘You’re enjoying that, aren’t you.’
‘Delicious.’
She folded her arms. ‘A real piece of work is my Uncle Pete.’
Scobie finished chewing, nodding for her to continue.
‘Convictions for fraud in New Zealand and Queensland.’
Scobie ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘Fraud.’
‘He’s a photographer, so-called. Offers to produce a professional portfolio, but fails to deliver.’ Grace gave him a crooked smile. ‘He photographs children, mostly.’
Scobie tingled. ‘Do you know what he calls himself?’
