“Course it does.’
Ellen regarded her for a moment. ‘That’s his blood on your floor and wall.’
Rosemary McIntyre screwed up her face tightly, then relaxed it, breathed out, looking bewildered. ‘Don’t know anything about that. I mean, what was he doing here?’
‘Well, you’re the one who says his name means something to you.’
‘Well, duh.’
‘Explain, please. Are you having a relationship with Sergeant van Alphen?’
The woman flushed angrily. ‘Are you having a go at me? Are you? Fucking bitch.’
‘No, I am not having a go at you. I’m trying to piece together what happened here.’
‘Van Alphen,’ said Rosemary McIntyre heavily, ‘is one of the bastards that shot Nick.’
‘You knew Nick Jarrett?’
‘He’s my second cousin,’ said Rosemary McIntyre, as if Ellen and the whole world should have known that.
47
Leaving Scobie to finish up, Ellen drove to van Alphen’s house. The kid who opened the door looked about eighteen but he could have been as young as thirteen. Dark clothes, untidy, a little grubby-looking. Music was blaring behind him, and she had to lip read him say, ‘Yeah?’
‘My name is Sergeant Destry, from the Waterloo police station,’ she said. ‘I’m a colleague of Sergeant van Alphen’s.’
His face was blank for quite a while and then it screwed up and she saw him cup one ear and shout, ‘What?’
She repeated her name. A light seemed to go on in his head and he held up a finger and ducked through an archway into the sitting room. He turned the music down. Then, as though having second thoughts, he turned it off. By then Ellen was in the room with him, a room that gave her an insight into an arid life. Van Alphen owned few books or CDs. Some four-wheel-drive and camping magazines, TV Week and the Bulletin on a cheap plywood coffee table. The TV set was small, a portable tucked away in a corner. Through a further archway was a dining-room table, manila folders and a computer heaped at one end-reminding her of Larrayne, taking over Challis’s table. But with Larrayne it was temporary; Ellen guessed that van Alphen had lived like this since his wife and daughter had left him.
Or maybe they’d been driven out because he lived like this.
She turned to the kid. ‘May I have your name?’
‘Er, Billy. Billy DaCosta.’
Either he’s nervous about giving his name to a police officer or he uses a false name, Ellen thought. She had to be sure who he was. ‘Billy. Are you Sergeant van Alphen’s witness? You were abused by certain men when you were younger, and have been able to identify them from photographs?’
‘Er, yep.’
‘I’ll have to ask you to come to the station with me, Billy. We need a formal statement and you may be asked to attend identity parades.’
She had her doubts about the latter, thinking that a defence lawyer could claim the identification had been tainted because Billy had already been shown photographs, by a man now dead, and not in a formal context.
‘Er, Mr Alphen’s not here.’
Ellen cocked an eye. Van Alphen was always called Van, or Sarge. Then, taking in Billy’s curly hair and delicate features, she wondered if they’d been lovers. Did that account for van Alphen’s secretiveness and evasions? Was that why his marriage had failed? How old was Billy? If he was underage, that would help to account for van Alphen’s recent behaviour. What, finally, would it do to Billy to learn that van Alphen had been shot dead?
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He got a phone call,’ said Billy, not looking at her and apparently concentrating furiously. ‘Last night. He went out straight after.’
‘Last night. You weren’t worried when he didn’t come back?’
‘Nup.’
She needed to get the kid into safe custody. She needed the controllable environment of the police station in which to break the news to him. If she told him here and now, he might bolt.
‘Well, we’d been expecting him to bring you in to make a statement this morning,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we can do that now. It’s all right, he’s a colleague.’
Billy looked hunted. ‘I’ll get my things.’
Ellen knew enough to follow him. He went to the main bedroom. All of the intermediate doors were open. There were signs she didn’t like: drawers open, cupboards ajar, papers spilled here and there. Had Billy been searching through Van’s things? Was he the kind of young male prostitute who liked to set up house with an older man, then do a midnight flit with the guy’s valuables?
‘This way, Billy,’ she said, taking him to her car.
They drove in silence to the station, where she set him up in the artificial comfort of the Victim Suite, with its DVD player, armchairs and fridge stocked with soft drinks and chocolate bars. ‘I’ll be in to see you shortly, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Billy, putting his feet up. Spotless new trainers, Ellen noticed, at odds with the grimy black jeans.
She encountered Scobie Sutton in the corridor. ‘Did you bring in Laurie Jarrett?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go.’
Jarrett was in one of the interview rooms, arms folded, at peace with the world. Ellen was faintly alarmed to realise that she could smell him. It wasn’t unpleasant. His eyes were clear, his manner taut but not threatening, the narrow planes of his neat head inclined toward her half mockingly. ‘Ellen.’
‘Mr Jarrett.’
‘Good to see you again.’
‘Cut the crap, Laurie. Tell us about Rosie McIntyre.’
‘Rosie’s a cousin.’
‘Quite a clan,’ Scobie said.
Jarrett ignored him.
‘Are you close,’ said Ellen, ‘you and your cousin?’
‘Not really.’
‘But you’d know her general habits,’ Scobie asserted. ‘After all, you’re cousins and you live on the estate.’
‘It’s a big estate,’ Jarrett said, addressing Ellen.
It is, she thought, and getting bigger. She cleared her throat. ‘You’d know that Rosie works in Siren Call, up in the city. Know she puts in long hours there.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘Did you call her in the past day or two? Landline or mobile? Or go around to see her?’
‘She looked after Alysha a couple of weeks ago. That was the last time I saw her. What’s this about?’
‘Did she tell you her work schedule this week, specifically yesterday?’
‘Like I said, haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks. She in trouble? She hurt?’
Scobie said, ‘Where were you last night, Laurie?’
Jarrett turned at last to Scobie and snarled, ‘Mr Jarrett to you, arsehole.’
Scobie flushed. ‘There’s no need for that.’
‘With you,’ Jarrett said, ‘there is.’
