and in the paddocks ibis were
feeding. A strip of bark fell on her, scratching her neck. Challiss ducklings
were down to six, she noticed, as she entered his yard, and she wanted to cry.
* * * *
At
nine that same Sunday morning, Scobie Sutton was at the little Waterloo hospital.
He was entitled to a day at home with his wife and daughter, a quiet time,
church and Sunday School, a spot of gardening after lunch, but the station was
short staffed. Hed be working the Katie Blasko case laterand it was a case
in Scobies mind: his own daughter was Katies age, and if she went missing for
even thirty minutes hed be calling it a casebut right now he was the only CIU
detective available to interview the victim of an aggravated burglary.
How are you feeling, Mr Clode?
Ill live, Neville Clode said.
Extensive bruising to the head and
torso, a cut lip, cracked ribs. Clode was swaddled in bandages and lying very
still in the bland, pastelly room. The place was overheated and so hed thrown
off the covers, revealing skinny legs and the ugliest feet that Scobie had ever
seen: yellowed nails and a blotchy birthmark. No flowers, fruit or books. Im
possibly his first visitor, Scobie thought. You took quite a beating last
night.
The voice came in a strained
whisper, Yes.
Did you recognise the men who
attacked you?
No.
Do you know if they took anything?
Cash, whispered Clode.
Cash. Do you know how much?
Six.. .seven hundred dollars.
Scobie whistled. It was a lot. It
would also grow when Clode submitted his insurance claim. Do you always have
that much cash on you?
Won it at the horses yesterday. Emu
Plains.
It was the spring racing carnival
everywhere, metropolitan racetracks and regional, including Emu Plains on
Coolart Road, just a few kilometres from Waterloo. No security cameras, though.
Do you think you were followed home from the track?
Could have been.
Were you alone?
Yes.
And nothing else was stolen?
No.
Clode hadnt once made eye contact
but stared past Scobie at the TV set bolted high on the wall, so high it was a
wonder hospitals didnt get sued for encouraging neck strain in their patients.
Scobie dragged the visitors chair around; Clode slid his eyes to the beige
door. Scobie said gently, Are you telling me everything, Mr Clode? Was this
personal? Did you owe money to anyone? Is there anyone who would want to hurt
you?
Scobie had visited the crime scene
before coming to the hospital. Clode lived in a brick house along a secluded
lane opposite the Seaview Park estate. Like its neighbours, it was comfortably
large and barely visible from the road, a low, sprawling structure about ten
years old, the kind of place where well-heeled tradesmen, teachers and shop
owners might live, on largish blocks, screened by vigorous young gum trees,
wattles and other native plants. Residents like Clode were several steps up
from the battlers of Seaview Park estate, and several steps down from the
doctors and real estate agents who lived in another nearby enclave, Waterloo
Hill, which overlooked the town and the Bay. Clode himself was some kind of New
Age healer, according to a sign on a post outside his house.
Letting a forensic tech dust and
scrape, Scobie had done a walk-through of the house. It was evident that a
woman had once lived therea woman slightly haunted by life or by Clode,
judging by the face she revealed to the world in the only photograph Scobie
found, a small, forgotten portrait in a dusty cream frame, the woman unsmiling
in the front garden of the house, Clode with his arm around her. No signs of
her in the bathroom cabinet, bedside cupboard or wardrobe. The rooms themselves
were sterile, a mix of mainly worn and some new items of furniture, in careful
taste, neither cheap nor costly, with here and there an ornamental vase or forgettable
framed print. A couple of fat paperbacks, several New Age magazines, some CDs
of whale and waterfall music. It was the house of an empty man. The only
feeding. A strip of bark fell on her, scratching her neck. Challiss ducklings
were down to six, she noticed, as she entered his yard, and she wanted to cry.
* * * *
At
nine that same Sunday morning, Scobie Sutton was at the little Waterloo hospital.
He was entitled to a day at home with his wife and daughter, a quiet time,
church and Sunday School, a spot of gardening after lunch, but the station was
short staffed. Hed be working the Katie Blasko case laterand it was a case
in Scobies mind: his own daughter was Katies age, and if she went missing for
even thirty minutes hed be calling it a casebut right now he was the only CIU
detective available to interview the victim of an aggravated burglary.
How are you feeling, Mr Clode?
Ill live, Neville Clode said.
Extensive bruising to the head and
torso, a cut lip, cracked ribs. Clode was swaddled in bandages and lying very
still in the bland, pastelly room. The place was overheated and so hed thrown
off the covers, revealing skinny legs and the ugliest feet that Scobie had ever
seen: yellowed nails and a blotchy birthmark. No flowers, fruit or books. Im
possibly his first visitor, Scobie thought. You took quite a beating last
night.
The voice came in a strained
whisper, Yes.
Did you recognise the men who
attacked you?
No.
Do you know if they took anything?
Cash, whispered Clode.
Cash. Do you know how much?
Six.. .seven hundred dollars.
Scobie whistled. It was a lot. It
would also grow when Clode submitted his insurance claim. Do you always have
that much cash on you?
Won it at the horses yesterday. Emu
Plains.
It was the spring racing carnival
everywhere, metropolitan racetracks and regional, including Emu Plains on
Coolart Road, just a few kilometres from Waterloo. No security cameras, though.
Do you think you were followed home from the track?
Could have been.
Were you alone?
Yes.
And nothing else was stolen?
No.
Clode hadnt once made eye contact
but stared past Scobie at the TV set bolted high on the wall, so high it was a
wonder hospitals didnt get sued for encouraging neck strain in their patients.
Scobie dragged the visitors chair around; Clode slid his eyes to the beige
door. Scobie said gently, Are you telling me everything, Mr Clode? Was this
personal? Did you owe money to anyone? Is there anyone who would want to hurt
you?
Scobie had visited the crime scene
before coming to the hospital. Clode lived in a brick house along a secluded
lane opposite the Seaview Park estate. Like its neighbours, it was comfortably
large and barely visible from the road, a low, sprawling structure about ten
years old, the kind of place where well-heeled tradesmen, teachers and shop
owners might live, on largish blocks, screened by vigorous young gum trees,
wattles and other native plants. Residents like Clode were several steps up
from the battlers of Seaview Park estate, and several steps down from the
doctors and real estate agents who lived in another nearby enclave, Waterloo
Hill, which overlooked the town and the Bay. Clode himself was some kind of New
Age healer, according to a sign on a post outside his house.
Letting a forensic tech dust and
scrape, Scobie had done a walk-through of the house. It was evident that a
woman had once lived therea woman slightly haunted by life or by Clode,
judging by the face she revealed to the world in the only photograph Scobie
found, a small, forgotten portrait in a dusty cream frame, the woman unsmiling
in the front garden of the house, Clode with his arm around her. No signs of
her in the bathroom cabinet, bedside cupboard or wardrobe. The rooms themselves
were sterile, a mix of mainly worn and some new items of furniture, in careful
taste, neither cheap nor costly, with here and there an ornamental vase or forgettable
framed print. A couple of fat paperbacks, several New Age magazines, some CDs
of whale and waterfall music. It was the house of an empty man. The only
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