That’s if Kellock’s wife was involved.
Ellen knocked. A shy-looking kid answered.
‘Is Mrs Kellock in?’
‘Er, yep.’
‘Could you fetch her, please?’
A moment later, Kellock’s wife appeared from the gloomy interior. She was bulky, blowsy-looking, with short, stiff, carroty hair, an affronted jaw and a hard face. She wore dressy black pants and a silk shirt, with plenty of gold on her fingers, wrists and neck. Narrow, tanned feet in elegant sandals, with bright red nails. A woman who tans joylessly all year round, Ellen thought.
‘Mrs Kellock, I’m Sergeant Destry and this is Constable Murphy. May we speak to your husband?’
The reply was guarded. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He doesn’t tell me his every move. Why do you want to know? He’s in charge of the station. He doesn’t have to justify himself to anybody.’
It was absurd pride. Ellen said firmly, ‘We need to speak to him.’
‘Try his mobile.’
Ellen knew that would spook him-that’s if he hadn’t already flown the coop. She asked, ‘Do you and your husband live here, Mrs Kellock?’
‘We have a flat at the back.’
‘Could he be there? Maybe he slipped home while you’ve been in the main building?’
‘No.’
‘Can you think where else he might be?’
‘Why?’
Because he’s on a murderous rampage, Ellen thought. She cleared her throat, suddenly uneasy: had she sent Scobie Sutton into a trap? ‘We need his input on something,’ she said with an empty smile.
The eyes narrowed and an expression passed across them, as though Kellock’s wife knew why they were there, and that everything was about to fall apart in her life. She recovered and said tartly, ‘He could be at a conference, at divisional headquarters, at one of the other stations. Check his diary.’
‘We have, Mrs Kellock.’
Pam had been silent until now. ‘Your husband is closely involved here, Mrs Kellock? He’s close to the children who live here?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Who do you think you are? My husband is senior in rank to both of you and I want you to remember that.’
It was pointless grandstanding. Ellen said, ‘Do you have another house?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where is it?’
Kellock’s wife scowled, then muttered an address in Red Hill, twenty minutes south.
‘Could your husband be there?’
‘Well, why don’t you go and look,’ snapped the woman, stalking off around the side of the big house.
Ellen got out her mobile phone, walking around with it in the grounds of the building until she got a clear signal. ‘Scobie? Thank God.’
He cut in hurriedly: ‘I was just about to call you. Clode’s dead.’
She breathed in and out. ‘Any sign of Kellock?’
‘No.’
‘Same MO as Duyker?’
‘Yes. Shotgunned in the groin and bled out on the floor.’
‘You know the drill, Scobie. Secure the scene. We’re heading for Red Hill: the Kellocks have a house there.’
She gave him the address. He grunted. ‘He’ll have done a runner.’
‘I know that, Scobie,’ Ellen said. She ended the call, jerked her head at Pam. ‘Let’s go.’
They sped down the Peninsula, taking the freeway south and exiting onto a road that climbed steeply away from the coast, past vineyards, orchards and little art-and-craft galleries. Red Hill was a ribbon of houses amid huge gums, with vines and hobby farms on the nearby slopes. It was a well-heeled town, home to wineries that offered costly wines and meals to weekend tourists from the city. Ellen navigated, directing Pam to Point Leo Road and finally a gravelled track that plunged between dense stands of gum trees. A firetrap in summer. Pam braked suddenly.
They’d come to a clearing, a house fronting a tight turning circle. There were two vehicles, a police car and a Toyota twin-cab, a dented working vehicle. The house, of sandy brick, red tiles, gleaming aluminium window and door frames and potted ferns, looked out of place amongst the native trees. Ellen leaned forward, one hand on the dash. ‘I know that Toyota. It belongs to Laurie Jarrett.’
Both women glanced at each other then. ‘I should have realised,’ Ellen said.
‘We need backup, Sarge.’
‘Yes.’
But their arrival had alerted Jarrett. He burst from the house, pushing Kellock ahead of him with the barrel of a shotgun. ‘Stay out of this,’ he yelled.
Ellen and Pam alighted from the car. They did not approach him but stood behind their open doors.
‘Laurie,’ Ellen said, feeling futile and pointless, ‘put the gun down.’
He was coiled and powerful behind Kellock, who looked soft, depleted, in shock, his shirt hanging out and blood around his nose. ‘I’m doing what you lot should have done a long time ago,’ Jarrett said, prodding Kellock closer to the Toyota.
He had something in his free hand: a rolled magazine. To distract him, Ellen said, ‘What have you got there, Laurie?’
‘Have a look.’
He tossed it deftly; the magazine fluttered then fell like a stone. Ellen emerged cautiously from the shelter of the car and retrieved it. She was now about fifteen metres from Jarrett and Kellock, who were beside the Toyota. She straightened the pages of the magazine. It was printed on glossy paper, with plenty of pale, defenceless flesh on show, the children otherwise dressed in Little Bo Peep outfits, nurses’ uniforms and schoolgirl tunics. It was called Little Treasures.
‘What am I looking at, Laurie?’
His face burned with a kind of exultation. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re looking at?’
There was silence while she flipped through the pages. Then she heard him snarl, ‘No you don’t, sweetheart.’
Ellen glanced up: he was gesturing with the shotgun. She looked back over her shoulder. Pam had moved away from the car, her hand on her holstered.38. ‘Both of you,’ Jarrett said, ‘guns on the ground. Now!’
‘Do it, Pam,’ Ellen said.
She placed her own gun on the gravelled driveway, watched Pam follow suit, and then she returned her attention to the magazine. A moment later, she found Alysha Jarrett. Laurie’s daughter had been allocated a four- page spread. Her smiles were mostly empty, but there was pain in the emptiness.
Feeling sickened, Ellen looked up. Laurie was watching, still burning. ‘Now you know,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Look closer.’
Ellen forced herself to comply. Hairy groins, but no faces, no way of identifying the abusers. Then she froze: she’d almost overlooked a bare foot with a birthmark like blood spilt across it. And there was Clode’s spa bath. She looked up again. ‘Taking care of business, Laurie?’
‘Yes. First Clode, then Duyker. Clode told me about Duyker, snivelling piece of shit. They both told me about Kellock.’
‘Don’t make it worse, Laurie. Let Mr Kellock go, so that DC Murphy and I can arrest him.’
Kellock struggled. He still hadn’t spoken. Jarrett clubbed him with the shotgun, a meaty thud. ‘Fuck that, Ellen,’ he said savagely. ‘The police will protect their own, just like they always do.’
