that he looked sweet and exotic. Long lashes, Ellen noted, dusky skin.
Larrayne returned, looking tense. ‘Mum, he’s got a girlfriend. I had to sit there and hear all about her.’
So that was it. Larrayne seemed miserable, like a child who had tried and failed to keep her parents together. ‘It was bound to happen, sweetheart.’
‘It’s not fair.’
Ellen tried to hug her. Larrayne shrugged her off. ‘I’m going to bed.’
When the house was silent again under a barely moonlit sky, Ellen returned to van Alphen’s case notes. She read for some time, finally coming to his summary, written as fragmentary observations in his neat, pinched hand: A litany of errors or wilful obstruction. Two of AR’s statements missing, computer files been tampered with. Parents were urged to let matters drop. Officers interviewed Neville/Shirley Clode, owners of the house where the abuse took place, Sept. 2005. They accepted Clodes’ explanation re spa room-had been set up for granddaughter. Quote: “The Clodes were interviewed and subjected to a background check. This showed them to be normal, everyday citizens, who were completely shocked by the allegations”. AR’s parents angry re Office of Police Integrity’s decision to take no further action, despite independent confirmation that A had been abused (see report, Royal Children’s Hospital’s Gatehouse Centre). Parents told me the senior sergeant in charge was v. aggressive. Warned them kids often lied about being sexually abused; allegations could destroy decent families, etc., etc. Quote: “There is nothing further the police service can do for you”. Meanwhile police members investigating A’s allegations did not contact his psych or the Gatehouse Centre.
‘Managed to speak to AR. He’s unwilling to make further statements to police. Had been shown porn videos and magazines depicting him having sex with his abusers, feels deeply ashamed etc.
Asked AR’s parents if they wish to swear out a complaint against Snr Sgt Kellock. Declined. Asked AR to identify abusers from a photo array. Declined, but gave me the name of another abused youth, Billy DaCosta. Talked to a snitch who told me where to find DaC
Ellen felt cold all over and the dark night pressed darker around the house on its quiet back road. If only van Alphen had come to her instead of finding Billy DaCosta himself. But he’d always been a loner, despite his apparent matiness with Kellock and men like Kellock. And if he’d always considered Kellock a friend, he’d want to make pretty sure of his facts before accusing him. Perhaps he feared that Kellock would withdraw his support over the Nick Jarrett shooting, even change his story.
The fear corroded her. She called Challis, and he answered immediately, sounding alert. ‘Sorry to call you so late.’
‘Something’s wrong.’
‘We’ve got a rotten apple,’ she said.
She told him all about it. ‘What do I do?’
‘Make absolutely certain of everything. Cover your back. Watch your back. Make multiple copies of every report, file and conversation, and secure them in separate locations. Trust no one. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
51
At lunchtime on Monday, John Tankard stood in the canteen serving line, watching but not registering the wisps of steam escaping from the stainless-steel trays of Bolognese sauce, lasagne and Irish stew. He felt wretched: another weekend, nightmares and depression, so bad that he’d barely made it through. He’d thought he’d beaten the nightmares and depression. Clearly not. He could put it down to the stress of the job, but knew better: he was bitter and sad because he’d lost his dream car.
Not lost, exactly. It was in a mate’s lock-up garage, where it would never be found by the finance company.
He took his bowl of lasagne to a corner table and picked at it. Someone cast a shadow over the table. ‘Hello, Tank.’
Pam Murphy sat, beaming at him across the greasy Formica. ‘I’m back,’ she said.
He noted sourly that she wasn’t in uniform. That made him feel worse. ‘Detective duties,’ he said flatly.
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s the Iron Lady got in store for you?’
That’s what he called Sergeant Destry, who’d always made him feel small, and more than once bawled him out over trifling incidents.
‘Cut it out, Tank,’ Pam said, in a tone that said ‘grow up’.
She looked good: leaner, more assured, and ready for business. Somehow he knew she’d blossom in CIU and he hated her for it. He also wanted her more. He couldn’t fight his body language: his eyes flicked over her with pathetic desire and longing, as of a lover left far behind, and she registered it, too, the bitch, unconsciously turning her trunk away from him, crossing her legs and shielding her breasts. One body reacting to another. He wished he wasn’t so overweight.
He changed the subject. ‘Shitty thing, what happened to Van.’
He saw her eyes fill with tears. ‘Yes.’
‘You going to the funeral tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Aren’t you?’
He shifted in his seat, then said, his voice imploring: ‘Have you, like, heard any whispers?’
‘What about?’
‘You know, that he was, you know…’
He saw a flicker in her eyes. She had heard things, or had suspicions. ‘I don’t fucking believe it, myself,’ he snarled.
She struggled to give him a bright, releasing smile. ‘Same here. Good to see you again, Tank. Must go.’
Tank watched her leave the canteen, watched Senior Sergeant Kellock hold the door for her, big grin and a welcome back. Then Kellock was crossing the room toward him like a purposeful bear. ‘Constable Tankard.’
Tank stood awkwardly. ‘Sir.’
‘Sit down, son, sit down.’
Tank complied, Kellock sitting where Murphy had sat. He wondered what Kellock wanted, and felt his legs turn to jelly. They know I’ve been selling information to the media, he thought. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times gaspingly.
‘John,’ said Kellock in a kind uncle voice, ‘you did the right thing last week, telling me that Sergeant van Alphen had found a witness.’
‘Sir, it just slipped out. I assumed you knew, actually. I would never have-’
‘Of course I knew, son. Don’t fret it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s important at the senior level to keep abreast. That’s an important part of my job, John, making sure I keep in the loop.’
‘Sir.’
‘So if you ever hear anything you think I should know about-like Sergeant van Alphen’s secret witness-even though I already knew- then you must tell me. Because sometimes the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing.’
‘Sir.’
‘You did the right thing. It’s not your fault he was shot, remember that. The fucking Jarretts shot him.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Tank. ‘Sir.’
There was a pause. Kellock said, ‘Another thing, John-I’ve been looking through Sergeant van Alphen’s paperwork.’
At once Tank knew what this was about, but he said innocently, ‘Sir?’
