oddity
was a small room taken up with a spa bath, bright wall tiles and cuddly
floating toys.
And the damage, of coursethe
overturned TV set, rucked floor mats, splintered chair and broken glass. And
blood.
Did you injure any of your
assailants, do you think? Scobie asked now. There seemed to be a lot of blood
in the sitting room.
Clode put a hand to his cut lip and
winced. Dont know.
Scobie watched him for a while. Are
you telling me everything, Mr Clode?
Signs of anal penetration, according
to the doctor whod examined Clode. No semen present. Were you raped?
Clodes eyes leaked and he shook his
head minutely. Scobie waited. Clode swallowed. A bottle.
There had been no bottles at the
scene. Before or after they beat you?
It was part of the whole deal,
Clode said.
You were also kicked?
Yes.
What were they wearing?
Jeans. T-shirts.
What about footwear?
Runners.
Scobie had scouted around the house:
lawn right up to the verandah, so no shoe prints, and none in the blood. You
didnt recognise them?
Happened too quickly, plus I
covered my face to protect it.
When did it happen?
About midnight.
Yet you didnt report it until six
this morning?
Unconscious.
I dont understand why they didnt
take anything elseyour DVD player, for example.
Scobie watched Clode. The mans face
was bruised and swollen, but evasiveness underlay it. Dont know.
I think this was personal, Mr
Clode.
No. Never seen them before.
Are you married?
My wife died a couple of years ago.
Cancer.
Grandchildren?
Yes.
That explained the spa bath and
toys. How old were these men?
Dont know. Youngish,
Youre almost sixty?
Whats that got to do with it?
What about their voices. Did you
recognise anyone? Anything distinguishable, like an accent?
They didnt say much. Didnt say
anything.
What about names, did they let any
names slip out?
Nup.
Did they address you by name?
No.
Have you got any enemies, Mr Clode?
No. Im in pain.
* * * *
Pam
Murphy, conditioned by years of police duty and triathlon training, was also up
and about.
According to the surf report,
Gunnamatta Beach was too big and turbulent today, Portsea had messy onshore
waves, Flinders onshore waves to 1.5 metres, and Point Leo a fair,
one-metre-high tide surf, so she settled on Point Leo. The surfing conditions
were right. It was also her closest surf beach and shed learnt to surf there.
It was uncanny the way certain
memories and sense traces hit her the moment she drove past the kiosk and over
the speed bumps. Sex, mainly, together with the taste of salthuman and
marineand the sounds of the seagulls, the offshore winds, the snap of
wetsuits, kids waxing their boards. Desire flickered in her. The guy whod
taught her to surf had been scarcely seventeen years old, she in her mid
twenties. A disciplinary offence, maybe even dismissal from the police force,
if it had ever come out. But it hadnt, and theyd both moved on and no hearts
had been broken or psyches damaged. It had been a tonic to her, that summer.
Shed never been desired quite like that before. Shed scarcely felt desire
herself, or desirous. Her body had always been a beautiful, flexible instrument
whenever she swam, ran or hit a ball around, but sexual desire had been its
untapped dimension. A male colleague like John Tankard, commenting on her tits in
the confines of a police car, was hardly going to awaken her.
She parked on a grassy verge beside
a cluster of familiar roof-racked panel vans and small cars, pulled on her
wetsuit, and trudged over the dunes with her surfboard, passing the clubrooms,
a poster of Katie Blasko pinned to a noticeboard. The beach curved slowly to
the west; a few solitary people walked their dogs; gulls wheeled above the sea;
surferstiny patient dotsrose and fell, rose and fell, as small waves rolled
uneventfully to the shore. Pam felt a surge of feeling for the lost summers of
her life and for the end of her years in uniform.
Unless she blew
was a small room taken up with a spa bath, bright wall tiles and cuddly
floating toys.
And the damage, of coursethe
overturned TV set, rucked floor mats, splintered chair and broken glass. And
blood.
Did you injure any of your
assailants, do you think? Scobie asked now. There seemed to be a lot of blood
in the sitting room.
Clode put a hand to his cut lip and
winced. Dont know.
Scobie watched him for a while. Are
you telling me everything, Mr Clode?
Signs of anal penetration, according
to the doctor whod examined Clode. No semen present. Were you raped?
Clodes eyes leaked and he shook his
head minutely. Scobie waited. Clode swallowed. A bottle.
There had been no bottles at the
scene. Before or after they beat you?
It was part of the whole deal,
Clode said.
You were also kicked?
Yes.
What were they wearing?
Jeans. T-shirts.
What about footwear?
Runners.
Scobie had scouted around the house:
lawn right up to the verandah, so no shoe prints, and none in the blood. You
didnt recognise them?
Happened too quickly, plus I
covered my face to protect it.
When did it happen?
About midnight.
Yet you didnt report it until six
this morning?
Unconscious.
I dont understand why they didnt
take anything elseyour DVD player, for example.
Scobie watched Clode. The mans face
was bruised and swollen, but evasiveness underlay it. Dont know.
I think this was personal, Mr
Clode.
No. Never seen them before.
Are you married?
My wife died a couple of years ago.
Cancer.
Grandchildren?
Yes.
That explained the spa bath and
toys. How old were these men?
Dont know. Youngish,
Youre almost sixty?
Whats that got to do with it?
What about their voices. Did you
recognise anyone? Anything distinguishable, like an accent?
They didnt say much. Didnt say
anything.
What about names, did they let any
names slip out?
Nup.
Did they address you by name?
No.
Have you got any enemies, Mr Clode?
No. Im in pain.
* * * *
Pam
Murphy, conditioned by years of police duty and triathlon training, was also up
and about.
According to the surf report,
Gunnamatta Beach was too big and turbulent today, Portsea had messy onshore
waves, Flinders onshore waves to 1.5 metres, and Point Leo a fair,
one-metre-high tide surf, so she settled on Point Leo. The surfing conditions
were right. It was also her closest surf beach and shed learnt to surf there.
It was uncanny the way certain
memories and sense traces hit her the moment she drove past the kiosk and over
the speed bumps. Sex, mainly, together with the taste of salthuman and
marineand the sounds of the seagulls, the offshore winds, the snap of
wetsuits, kids waxing their boards. Desire flickered in her. The guy whod
taught her to surf had been scarcely seventeen years old, she in her mid
twenties. A disciplinary offence, maybe even dismissal from the police force,
if it had ever come out. But it hadnt, and theyd both moved on and no hearts
had been broken or psyches damaged. It had been a tonic to her, that summer.
Shed never been desired quite like that before. Shed scarcely felt desire
herself, or desirous. Her body had always been a beautiful, flexible instrument
whenever she swam, ran or hit a ball around, but sexual desire had been its
untapped dimension. A male colleague like John Tankard, commenting on her tits in
the confines of a police car, was hardly going to awaken her.
She parked on a grassy verge beside
a cluster of familiar roof-racked panel vans and small cars, pulled on her
wetsuit, and trudged over the dunes with her surfboard, passing the clubrooms,
a poster of Katie Blasko pinned to a noticeboard. The beach curved slowly to
the west; a few solitary people walked their dogs; gulls wheeled above the sea;
surferstiny patient dotsrose and fell, rose and fell, as small waves rolled
uneventfully to the shore. Pam felt a surge of feeling for the lost summers of
her life and for the end of her years in uniform.
Unless she blew
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