scarcely registered their names or ranks. Not even gender factored here. The four detectives were interchangeable. ‘I expect, or at least request, full co-operation from you,’ she said firmly.
They said nothing.
‘If your investigation into Sergeant van Alphen turns up anything related to child abductions or the activities of a supposed paedophile ring on the Peninsula, then I want you to pass it on to me,’ she continued. ‘Formal or informal witness statements, names and addresses, case notes, jottings, files, computer records, child pornography, phone numbers scribbled on napkins, anything at all.’
‘And if this material also relates to his murder?’
‘Then we overlap,’ Ellen said. She hesitated. ‘Is there anything? Have you got suspicions?’
She wanted them to articulate her suspicions-that van Alphen had been protecting paedophiles, hence his sloppy police work and indifference regarding Alysha Jarrett. That he’d intended to betray Billy DaCosta by claiming Billy had lied to him, which would have raised doubts about information given by genuine victims. That, even so, the members of his paedophile ring had killed him to shut him up. Killed Billy, too.
‘Have you?’ she repeated. ‘Can I see it? Did you find stuff on his computer?’
‘We’ll let you know if we do find anything,’ they said, with sharkish good will. ‘But a few minutes ago you pointed the finger at the Jarretts. Now you imply that van Alphen was killed because he was doing work for you, or that you would find out about him. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘They are the two most logical avenues to explore.’
‘Sergeant van Alphen must have made enemies over the years.’
‘We all do,’ said Ellen, bored and hostile now.
‘This is off the record, but we understand that the police shooting board findings will exonerate Kellock and van Alphen. Perhaps the Jarrett clan sensed this, and wanted revenge for Nick Jarrett.’
Ellen was expressionless. As far as she was concerned, truth, or at least the police version of it, was never black and white, A or B, but many things together, merging, overlapping and existing simultaneously.
‘If that’s all?’ she said, getting to her feet.
They smiled broadly and emptily as she let herself out of the room.
She found Scobie waiting. ‘Well, that was fun.’
He nodded. He’d already had his turn with them.
‘Some good news for you, though,’ Ellen said. She told him what she’d been told about the shooting board’s findings. She’d never seen a man so relieved, or so troubled. ‘Meanwhile, what have you been doing?’ she said.
‘I tried to get in and search Van’s house. I was refused permission.’
Ellen shrugged. For a long time afterwards, she didn’t reflect on Scobie’s remark. It was Friday. All she wanted to do was go home, pour herself a stiff drink, hang out with her daughter and call Hal Challis.
When she got home at eight that evening, she saw a familiar red Commodore in the driveway. Her husband was in the sitting room, drinking a glass of wine with Larrayne, Larrayne with her long, youthful bare legs curled under her on the sofa. Alan was in the armchair that Ellen normally chose. He raised his glass. ‘The great detective returns.’
He wasn’t being snide. It had been an old joke between them, back when the marriage had been tolerable. She gave her husband and her daughter a wintry smile. ‘Not such a great one this evening.’
Alan nodded soberly. ‘I heard they gave the van Alphen shooting to some hot shots from the city.’
Ellen poured herself a glass of wine. It was a good wine, a Peninsula pinot noir, and therefore probably raided from Hal Challis’s own stock. She glanced from the label to Larrayne, who winked. ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit?’
‘Dad said he’d take me out to that new Thai place in Waterloo,’ Larrayne said.
‘You’re welcome too, Ells,’ said Alan, clearly not meaning it.
There was no way that Ellen was going. She glanced at Larrayne, trying to read her daughter, ready to step in if Larrayne wanted to study but couldn’t say no to him. ‘I’m fine with it, Mum.’
Ellen looked more closely at her husband. He’d lost weight. He’d dressed up: new chinos, a new shirt. ‘You look nice.’
He waggled his jaw from side to side. He did that when he was hiding something. He dissembled, glancing around the room. ‘So, this is the boyfriend’s house.’
Ellen felt deeply fatigued. ‘Shut up, Alan.’
He flushed dangerously and sloshed some of Challis’s costly wine onto the hardwood floor. ‘Dad, we’d better go,’ Larrayne said.
It was when they were gone that Ellen remembered Scobie’s remark. He’d wanted to search van Alphen’s house, and been refused permission. Well, naturally, for van Alphen’s murder wasn’t their case. But van Alphen had been working on a case that was theirs, and he was a man full of secrets.
Forty-five minutes later, with a hastily prepared ham sandwich inside her, Ellen snapped latex gloves onto her hands, slid open Kees van Alphen’s bathroom window catch with a thin blade, and let herself in. She’d called at the station first, going to the hardware cupboard and borrowing-but not signing for-a piece of equipment used by electricians to check if power sockets were live. A dead socket could mean that a small safe was concealed behind it.
She went through van Alphen’s house swiftly; all of the electrical sockets were genuine. Then she checked behind the paintings and prints hanging on his walls, kicked baseboards, listening for tell-tale hollow sounds, looked under the dirty clothing in the laundry basket, examined tins, jars and freezer packages. She was an expert at this. Now and-then over the years she’d found small amounts of cash. Sometimes she’d pocketed it. It was a kind of pathology that she should do something about, she thought idly. But she didn’t want to see a counsellor or therapist. She believed that she could control it herself.
Frustrated now, she went through the house again, hoping to avoid searching van Alphen’s garden shed, with its noisy tools, bins and cans, and uncomfortably close to the neighbour’s bedroom window. She pulled out drawers and felt under them. She looked behind the faзade at the top of his old-fashioned wardrobe. The computer had been removed by the Fab Four from headquarters, but wouldn’t van Alphen have concealed backup CDs or floppies somewhere? Books. CD and DVD covers. A tissue box.
She looked at the TV set. It was small, years old, worth nothing to a junkie. She lifted it experimentally. It felt light. Van Alphen had gutted it.
She waited until she got home. The material was a thin folder of statements, forms and photographs, and she quickly saw why van Alphen had hidden it, and she was betting that he hadn’t signed it out from Records. She read right through, glad that he’d been so thorough, heartbroken that the thoroughness had got him killed.
In 2005, a boy named Andrew Retallick, then aged thirteen, had approached teachers at Peninsula High School-who had contacted the Department of Human Services and Waterloo police-to say that he’d been abused by a group of men for many years, in several locations, but mainly at a house on the outskirts of Waterloo. He described the house. He remembered a spa bath and soft toys. He’d been photographed in the spa bath, naked, with the men who’d abused him. He’d been asked to suck his thumb and pose naked with the soft toys. The men varied: there was a hard core of four or five, with others whom he saw occasionally or only once. Some were dressed as policemen. The abuse had started when he was seven years old and continued for many years. He hadn’t liked it but hadn’t let himself think it was wrong. After all, policemen were involved. Whenever he was hurt, someone would tend to him. Going to high school had changed everything: not only was his body changing but sex education classes had opened his eyes to what had been done to him for all of those years. And so he’d told his teachers, and DHS officers, counsellors and, finally, the police. But nothing had been done, and so he’d stopped talking. He changed schools three times. He tried and failed to kill himself by cutting his wrists. That was last year.
Ellen leafed through the file, making sense of the statements and forms. The photographs of Andrew showed a small, hunted-looking boy, although in one instance he was smiling, a sad smile but it transformed his face, so
