Lack of Evidence

17

Lack Of Evidence

    “Well, FIND some evidence, Mike!” shouted Chief Superintendent McElroy.

    Very red, Mike replied stiffly: “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s like I’ve been saying: there isn’t any. It’s like picking up handfuls of sand: it trickles away the moment—”

    “You can drop the flaming metaphors!” shouted the Chief Super.

    Mike found he didn’t have the guts to correct this to “similes”. “No, well. There isn’t anything concrete.”

    “Someone must have been soaking wet from the flaming pool!” snarled his superior officer.

    “The boffins have been over the cars—”

    “I know that, Collingwood!” shouted the Chief Super.

    “Any clothes must’ve been washed,” said Mike gloomily.

    “Shoes?”

    “We’ve tested all those. Tested the shoes of half the Coast, what with looking for pool water or that stuff Carrano’s got round his shru—”

    “The Banks kid!” McElroy stabbed a stubby forefinger at him.

    Sighing, Mike agreed: “I know. Only if we do him for having that bark mixture on his shoes we also do young Jablonski, and Roger Browne and Polly Mitchell. Not to mention Carrano’s gardener—”

    “All RIGHT!” shouted the Chief Super.

    Mike said nothing.

    McElroy got up irritably and marched over to his window. He glared out at the dozing city on a hot, peaceful January day. “Look, somebody musta done it. He never fell in by himself, did he?”

    “No, the ruddy medicos are sure of that,” said Mike glumly.

    “And those scratches on his head and the bruises on his shoulders never got there by accident, eh?”

    “No, sir.”

    “Drop the ‘sir’ crap, Mike,” McElroy said wearily. “It’s not helping.”

    “No. Sorry.”

    McElroy stared at the city. Mike stared at McElroy’s office carpet.

    Finally the Chief Super gave a long sigh. He turned from the window and sat down at his desk. “All right, Mike: let’s have it.”

    Mike opened his mouth. He met the Old Man’s eye. “There’s no evidence,” he warned.

    “So?”

    “We-ell…”

    “Look, for God’s sake siddown! You’re not on the flaming mat!”

    “What? Oh—no. Ta,” said Mike sheepishly, sitting down.

    “Come on. Who was it?”

    “Jock, I don’t really—”

    Jock McElroy shouted: “Drop the CRAP, Mike! I wanna know who did it!”

    Mike sighed. “It must have been the Jablonski woman.”

    “Go on,” the Old Man said neutrally.

    “She’s given us nothing but a string of contradictions from the word ‘Go.’ I’ve been trying to tell myself that it’s just because she’s that sort—and she is, I’m not denying it. Can’t stick to one line about anything at all for more than five minutes at a time. But—” He grimaced.

    “Well?”

    “I can feel it,” said Mike reluctantly.

    “Mm,” he said thoughtfully.

    “She’s over the edge. I can’t explain how I know, but— Well, you’ve seen the sort of thing yourself, Jock.”

    “Yeah.”

    There was a long silence in McElroy’s small, hot office, high up in the ugly slab of a building that leered down at the city from the edge of the park.

    “You’d better give us what details there are.”

    Mike frowned. “Well—to start with, she does admit she went up to Carrano’s around half-past nine. He reckons he was expecting her then and she agrees. And young Jablonski confirms it—said she told him both before and after that that was when she was supposed to be up there.” He paused. “Can’t get a thing out of the old joker, though. I think we might have to look for a Polish interpreter, if it comes to the crunch, Jock.”

    Grimacing, his superior said: “That’ll be fun. Remember that bloody stabbing? No, it woulda been well before your time. There was a clutch of ’em, round King Street way. Most of those houses have been pulled down for the motorway, now. Or else they’re full of Islanders. But this was back before that lot moved in. Mostly whites and Indians; there was quite a few immigrants: a bunch of Hungarians”—he shuddered—“and these Poles. Stuck together like glue. According to them, none of them spoke a flaming word of English. Hadda get an interpreter up from Wellington, and then it turned out he belonged to some lot that our lot had been having a feud with...” He grimaced again. “Lovely, that was.”

    “Yeah. Well, old Jablonski’s definitely that sort. Jake Carrano reckons he speaks kind of Cambridge English when he wants to: really plummy.”

    “Gawdelpus,” muttered the Chief Super.

    “Yeah. Well, we haven’t got any joy out of him. But their neighbour definitely noticed Mrs Jablonski leaving round nine-fifteen. Thought it was an odd time for the car to be going out—they don’t go out much. And she was afraid it might have been the old boy on a drunken binge—he lost his licence years back but evidently that hasn’t stopped him roaring off in the car a couple of times when he’s been pissed out of his mind. Anyway, she had a good look and it was only Mrs. So she went back to the TV.”

    “What about getting back?”

    Mike rubbed his nose. “The neighbour wasn’t that interested. But she reckons that she put her bottles out around ten-thirty—that’d be right, they do get their milk delivered in the morning still, round that way—and called the cat. And it didn’t come, so she thought it might be in next-door, sitting on the bonnet of the Jablonskis’ car.” He hesitated. “I dunno whether this was all my eye and Betty Martin and she just wanted an excuse to snoop; she reckons it does that when the bonnet’s warm.”

    “YES!”

    Mike stared at him.

    “So does the wife’s bloody cat. Don’t you know how the other half lives, Mike?”

    “I’ve never had a cat,” Mike replied weakly.

    “A dog?”

    “What? No,” he said weakly. “My mate, Bob, he usually had a dog, when we were kids.”

    McElroy grunted. “Oughta get yaself one. Might humanise you a bit or something.”

    Mike hesitated. “I’m out all day. And often half the night, if I’m working on a case. It wouldn’t be fair on the dog.”

    The Chief Super sighed heavily. “No. –All right, this neighbour reckons the car was back around half-past ten.”

    “And still warm. She felt it. –The cat was on it.”

    “Mm.”

    “And she reckons she heard the washing-machine going—the laundry’s right beside the carport.”

    McElroy rubbed his chin. “She volunteer this?”

    “Yes. I interviewed her myself. I asked her if there was anything even faintly unusual that she noticed and she came out with that. Mind you, she had to admit that Ma Jablonski’s odd enough to suddenly decide to do her washing in the middle of the night.”

    “Mm. She ever known her to do it before at that hour, though?”

    “No.”

    The Chief Super sniffed. “Makes ya think, eh?”

    “Yeah; it’d explain why we didn’t find traces of pool water on her clothes, all right.”

    “Well, lessee.” The Old Man began to tick off points on his fingers. “Esmé Jablonski leaves round nine-fifteen like she would of if she was going up to Carrano’s. She’s back by ten-thirty—fairly close to ten-thirty, if the car was still warm when this neighbour felt it. Plus she’s doing the washing at ten-thirty. Plus she’s nutty as a fruit-cake.”

    “Yeah.”

    There was a pause. “What’s this neighbour’s name?” asked the Chief Super in an idle voice.

    Mike winced. “Mrs Bernstein.”

    The Old Man just looked at him.

    “I know old Count Jablonski’s a raving fascist—”

    “Look, Mike, you get this little lot into court and Ma Jablonski’s brief’s gonna say Mrs Bernstein’s got it in for her because she’s a bloody anti-Semite!”

    “It’s him more than her,” said Mike weakly.

    The Chief Super merely replied in a slow, evil voice: “Wal Briggs.”

    Mike gulped. “She couldn’t afford him!”

    “No, but Jake Carrano could, you stupid tit!” shouted the Chief Super.

    “Christ, I s’pose he would, too...”

    “Of course he would!” he shouted.

    There was a depressed silence.

    “It won’t get to court, anyway,” said Mike sulkily.

    “Not if that’s gonna be your attitude, no.”

    “Jock, there isn’t any evidence!”

    “Other neighbours? Anyone notice exactly what time the car came back?”

    “There is an old joker further up the road... One of these old-age pensioners that does nothing but clock-watch. According to him she came back past his place at ten twenty-four precisely. Um—I think you’ve read the report,” he ended weakly.

    “This would be the old joker that reported those flying saucers in the football field at the back of his place the week before the murder,” noted McElroy heavily.

    Mike swallowed. “That’s him, yeah.”

    “Jesus!”

    “Well, it explains why he was keeping such a sharp watch,” he said on a weak note.

    Rolling his eyes frantically, McElroy replied: “Can you imagine what Briggs’d do with that in court?”

    “Very clearly.”

    McElroy supposed he could, yeah. He had a law degree himself, didn’t he? One of the new police, or some such thing... Bright enough, he’d give you that, and a damned hard worker, but— He rubbed his chin. “That It?”

    “Mm. Well, it’s a fairly quiet street but reasonably close to the main drag. No-one had any reason to notice cars coming and going at that sort of hour.”

    “Nothing from the Pohutukawa Bay end?”

    Mike shook his head.

    “This dairy bloke—the one that’s the witness to the time Banks went up there—he didn’t notice her car?”

    “Well, he thinks he might have seen it go up there: he was having a quiet smoke in his doorway around nine-thirty and thinking he might as well shut up shop—he usually closes at ten, but he’d only had one customer since—uh—since the female that was in the shop when Banks came in. Mrs McEldowney, that’s it.”

    “And?”

    “He noticed an old white rattletrap of a car—thought it was young Jablonski’s Triumph, by the racket, and wondered why he was turning into Matai Street instead of going on up the hill. Then he thought he must be going up to drop in on Carrano and didn’t think anything more about it.”

    McElroy stared at him.

    “Hers is a Triumph, but a slightly later model.”

    “But—”

    “If it was young Jablonski’s car, it wasn’t him in it, that was the night he’d lent it to that Wiseman woman, her Mini was in dock.”

    “Who?”

    “She’s nothing to do with the case, as far anyone can figure out: young Rod knows her through the Puriri tennis club. Got a crush on her, far’s I can make out, though she must be old enough to be his mum. Well, practically.”

    “And she swears she had his car?”

    “Yes. Went to work in it in the morning and took her kids to the flicks that evening. She went up to collect Rod first thing next morning—so’s he could drive the thing home after she’d collected her Mini from the garage—and got a Helluva shock to find coppers all over the show.”

    “Anything known about her?”

    “No. A respectable solo mum—divorced. Had one or two boyfriends, never in any trouble, works as a bank clerk. Quite a pleasant woman. Not in debt or anything. It couldn’t have been her in his car, or him in his car, come to that, unless all her kids are lying in their teeth. And I defy any kid to lie in his teeth to Sergeant Baxter!”

    The Chief Super’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know old Jim Baxter. –No, well, that makes it pretty definite, eh? Esmé Jablonski did get up to Carrano’s around nine-thirty like she was s’posed to.”

    “Mm.”

    “Coming back?”

    Mike shook his head. “Not a sausage. No-one saw or heard a thing. Pohutukawa Bay’s dead as a doornail at night.” He sighed. “I suppose they were all inside glued to the idiot box. –Well, I know they were, we’ve spoken to every single soul in flaming Matai Street!”

    “Mm. Pity Jake Carrano’s place is so isolated.”

    “Tell us about it,” Mike said sourly.

    “Mm... Say that bloody broken watch of Banks’s is right and she did do it at ten o’clock. Makes it about right, eh? Half an hour to—uh—work herself up and shove ’im in; and she woulda got back to Brown’s Bay around twenty past ten or so.”

    “Yes. And if her story about being up at Carrano’s round nine-thirty for a couple of minutes at the most, ringing the bell and getting no reply, is accurate—or even halfway accurate—I don’t see there’s any way the bonnet could still have been warm at ten-thirty.”

    “No. Pussycat an’ all. –You had that tested?”

    Sighing, Mike said: “Yes. The lab boys reckon they never want to see another white Triumph as long as they live. Even under the warmest conditions it cools down at night well within three-quarters of an hour.”

    “Mm... I wouldn’t make too much of it, meself. Jury won’t like it.”

    “No, but it’s corroboration, Jock!”

    “Yeah. Like the washing-machine. Corroboration that’ll never stand up in court.”

    “Quite,” agreed Mike acidly.

    “Anything else?”

    “No,” he said sourly. “Except that there’s a long history of absolute refusal to sell her interest in that land up at Carter’s Inlet. Then she suddenly caves in—Carrano confirms that, and I don’t suppose he’d have set up a meet with Banks over nothing.”

    “Mm. And then she changed her mind again, eh?”

    “Well, she changes her mind about everything else under God’s good sky, why would selling that bit of land be an except— Sorry, Jock. Yeah, I think she did. Quite possibly because Don Banks needled her over it—said the wrong thing: you know. Set her off. He’d be more than capable of it. As far as we can make out she’s touchy about everything, but super-touchy about that land because it’s the last of her inheritance from her father.”

    McElroy sighed. “Old Harry Carter, yeah. Left half of his estate to her, and the other half to Jake outright, did you know that? Never wanted her to marry him, to start off with, but he came round pretty quick once he saw what Jake was made of. He wasn’t a bad sort, old Harry... Bad blood in that family, mind you. Their—was it grandma? I’m not sure; Harry’s grandma, coulda been. Well, anyway, she was a Finlay. Jim Baxter told you about them?”

    “F— The bitch Prior was mixed up with?”

    The Old Man shrugged. “Dunno. S’pose it could be the same family. The one I’m thinking about was an old bloke that went troppo up there. Be more than twenty years back: Jim Baxter was still a P.C., then. Created a Helluva fuss: Puriri was just a respectable little seaside town—before the road was upgraded and the varsity campus was built. Tore all his clothes off and roared down the road firing his rifle. Bloody lucky not to have killed anyone. Probably would of, only it was midwinter: hardly anyone around.”

    Mike stared at him. Finally he said weakly: “I believe there is emotional instability in the Carter family; wasn’t there a sister—?”

    “Greta. Pretty girl. Wouldn’t call it emotional instability, meself: more like mad as a hatter. She committed suicide. ’Bout twenty-one, she’da been. Yeah, that’s right: Esmé was still at school but Greta had been a deb and all that crap. Drove over a cliff.”

    “Drunk?”

    “Never touched a drop. Left a note to say she was sick of it all and so on.”

    “I see. Were you on the case, Jock?”

    “Eh? No, it was yonks ago. Well, lessee, Esmé’s a fair bit older than Jake, she must be—uh—sixtyish?”

    “Fifty-nine,” said Mike weakly.

    “Mm. Well, Greta was quite a bit older than her, again. Musta been in the early Fifties...” He muttered to himself. “Yeah. Jake married Esmé in 1957, I remember that. He was only just twenty-one and she’da been thirtyish.”

    “Did you know him, back then?” said Mike feebly.

    “Known ’im all me life,” he grunted. “Known bloody Wal Briggs, too, before you ask. –Yeah, Greta musta topped herself way back in the Fifties, coulda been the late Forties, even. We were all at school.”—The younger man was staring at him.—“Wal and Jake and me! And that tit, John Westby, come to think of it.”

    “The gynaecologist?”

    “Sir John—yeah,” said the Old Man sourly. “Stop goggling at me like that, ya stupid young sod! Aren’t I entitled to an autonomous existence outside this bloody office?”

    “Uh—yeah, of course.”

    McElroy rubbed his chin again, hiding a smile. Autonomous, eh? That had been a good one: young Collingwood had had no idea that that one was in the Old Man’s vocabulary! “We were good pals—I wasn’t in their class, mind you, they’re all a couple of years younger than me. But we lived just across the road from the orphanage, and the Westbys were up the road a bit. Old Doc Westby had ten acres with a few pet sheep and some fruit trees on ’em. Sold up for a small fortune when they built the high school, I believe.”

    “I see,” said Mike weakly.

    “So, there’s definitely a streak of insanity in the Carters!” said the Old Man briskly.

    “Yes. –Didn’t she and Carrano have an imbecile son?”

    “Yeah. Helluva thing. Never seen a bloke so— Well, anyway, dunno if it was just a coincidence, or linked to whatever it is that’s wrong with the Carters—but yeah, that’s right.”

    Mike swallowed. “So you agree that Esmé Jablonski could have done it, Jock?”

    McElroy sniffed and grimaced. “Sounds pretty bloody like it, eh?”

    “Mm.”

    “Right, now as I see it we need to do two things next.” –No, three, he thought to himself, but he wasn’t going to mention the third to a young smart-ass like Mike Collingwood. He pointed his finger at him and said: “First off, I want a totally detailed report about Esmé Jablonski. All the evidence—right?”—Mike nodded.—“In some sort of logical order,” he added grimly. Mike nodded again, expressionless.—“And second, I want you to lean on Jack Banks.”

    “But—”

    McElroy got up. He watched with satisfaction as Mike did, too. “No buts. I reckon there’s a good chance you’re right about Esmé Cart—Jablonski, and if you are, it’s about a hundred to one it’ll never come to court. But if you’re wrong—and I’ve got nothing against gut feeling, mind you: ya can call it intuition or psychological probabilities or whatever the fuck you like, but in my book it all boils down to gut feeling—well, I’ve got nothing against it. A good copper’s got to have it. But what I’m saying is, if you’re wrong, we’d better make bloody sure that we nab the bloke who did do it. And if you leave bloody Esmé out of it, then Jack Banks is Number One, isn’t he?”

    “Mm. I think he was with—”

    “I don’t wanna know what you think, Mike, I wanna KNOW!” he howled. “Now get outa here and get on with it!”

    “Right.”

     He went over to the door but McElroy said: “Hang on.”

    “What?”

    “This Mitchell girl—you got the hots for her?”

    “No!”

    “Wouldn’t be surprising if ya had, by all accounts; saw John Westby—now, when was it, just before Christmas? Aw, yeah, that bloody dinner, something to do with the flaming Art Gallery or something, Lucille made me go— Where the fuck was I? Yeah: John reckons Jake’s dippy about her. Reckons she’s a stunner. Well, I don’t think ’e’s ever laid eyes on her, personally, but that’s what Wal Briggs told him.”

    “All right, she goes for older men,” said Mike in a nasty voice, “and they apparently go for her.”

    “Look, older men or not, young feller-me-lad, if this bint’s clouding your judgement—”

    “No! For God’s sake, I’ve known her all my life, she’s like my little sister, if anything!”

    “She’d better be. Because if I find out she’s not, you’ll be off this case before the cat—”

    “Look, drop it, Jock: you put me on it because I knew the damned cast!” shouted Mike.

    McElroy bared his long yellow teeth in a sudden grin. “Kindly allow me the illogicality suitable to me age and station. And now get outa here and start writing that report, I want it yesterday!”

    “All right. And I wish you joy of it.” He went out.

    McElroy padded over to the door. He made sure the latch had caught. Then he went back to his desk, sat down heavily in the big leather chair, and picked up the phone. No use ringing the company switchboard, of course: it was like trying to ring the flaming White House, or something. He flipped irritably through his directory.

    “Carrano,” the familiar voice said.

    “Jake: Jock McElroy here. I think we’d better have a wee talk.”

    “I’m supposed to be going to Sidders tomorrow, if your boys’ll let me out of the country... Um, well, the club?”

    “No, too many ears. Make it the golf course, eh?”

    “All right. Do I display immense surprise at bumping into you there, Jock?”

    “Might as well. Bring ya cloak and ya dagger, too, if ya like.”

    “Hah, hah. Well, when do you want it for?”

    “This arvo?”

    “Am I about to be arrested?”

    “Don’t be a birk. –And that reminds me, don’t bring Wal.”

    “What?”

    “He knows too much about the law of defamation,” said Jock with a smile in his voice.

    “Made a fortune out of it, yeah. –All right, I won’t. Around—uh—two-thirty?”

    “Yeah. I’ll be on the third, fighting the dog-leg. Act surprised.”

    “What’s surprising about that? You’ve never played that hole in less than fourteen. –All right, then. See ya!” He rang off.

    “Are you in at work?” said Bill Michaels in astonishment. He came and perched a hip on Polly’s desk.

    “No. I see you’re not, either.”

    “Yeah, but it’s different for me, I’ve got a wife and four kids to escape from. Not to mention the dog, she’s shedding like billyo. Mostly on my chair in my study.”

    “I could lend you a vacuum-cleaner,” said Polly in a vague, faraway voice.

    “Sounds like fun!” he said with a chuckle.

    Polly looked up, sighing. “I’m trying to work, Bill! I thought I might at least get a bit of peace and quiet in the middle of January! If you’re only here because Angie’s kicked you out of the house, you can go away again.”

    “No, I’m here both because Angie’s kicked me out of the house and because the house is full of shedding bitch and bitching, not to say itching, Barbara.”

    “What’s she got?” said Polly resignedly.

    “A nasty case of sunburn on top of measles.”

    “Measles!”

    “She never had ’em when she was little. All the others did, but Babs missed out. She’s been ratty as Hell all week, so Angie packed her off the other day for an all-day picnic in the open air, and she went up North Head with some school pals and they all got burnt to a crisp, silly little sods, and then she threw such a temperature that Angie panicked and called the doc. And he said it was measles. Underneath the sunburn, as it were.”

    “Poor Barbara!”

    The engineer shook his head. “Nah, you’re wrong there. Slightly poor Barbara and very poor the rest of us.”

    Polly bit her lip.

    Smirking, Bill said: “So I thought, if I tracked you down, you might (a) be able to help me with me French studies, and (b) be able to give me the gen on The Swimming-Poo-wull Mur-dah.” He leered horribly at her.

    “You thought wrong, then.”

    “Aw, come on, Polly! Be a sport!”

    “I only know what was in the papers.”

    “Come off it! Isn’t that detective bloke your brother Bob’s oldest mate?”

    “So?”

    “Don’t tell me he hasn’t coughed the lot after one melting look from those big green peepers of yours!”

    “All right, Bill, I won’t tell you that.”

    “Aw, don’t be mea-yun!” he whinged.

    “I don’t know anything, Bill. Mike hasn’t told me anything. Well, I can tell you he’s done his damnedest to break Jake’s alibi, will that make you happy?”

    “Ooh, yes! –What is his alibi?”

    “Well, partly me.”

    “Only partly? He come down with something in ’is old age, has ’e?”

    “He’s not old,” said Polly shortly, going very red. “And I wouldn’t know if he’s come down with anything or not, I haven’t seen him for ages.”

    “Eh?”

    “Piss off,” she said, hunching over her terminal.

    “Don’t tell me the Grate Ro-mance is off!”

    “Yes. Get out and let me do some work.”

    “Why?” demanded Bill blankly.

    “I wouldn’t know, it wasn’t my idea.”

    “He must be out of his tree! –No, I tell ya what, he must’ve done it!”

    “RUBBISH! And GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!” shouted Polly.

    “Well, if it wasn’t him, who was it? You must have a fair idea!”

    “Look, I barely knew Don Banks! He was a blackmailer and a money lender, it could have been any one of about a hundred people! Now go—away.”

    “Blackmail! Money-lending!” gasped Bill. “The Shylock of The Hibiscus Coast! This is better than the fillums!”

    Polly’s mouth tightened. She punched a key. The disk-drive whirred. Bill watched this with some unease. The unease increased as she removed the disk. She turned the terminal off and stood up.

    “Where are you off to now?” he said weakly.

    “Computer Sciences. Andy Sinclair said he’d look at my program any time I liked, so I’m taking him up on—”

    “Andy Sinclair? The man’s a tit!” howled Bill.

    “—on his offer. He may be a tit but at least he’s only interested in computer programming and not gossip!” She walked out.

    Bill sat there pouting for a moment. Then he picked up the phone and dialled.

    “Ya know what? They’ve busted up!” he said the minute someone answered.

    The phone spoke sharply. Bill winced and held it away from his ear. When the noise had died down he put it back. “No, I—”

    The phone spoke sharply again.

    “Sorry, Angie. Polly and bloody Jake Carrano,” he said meekly.

    The phone spoke sharply and at length.

    Eventually Bill tried to cry: “No, I never!”—but was drowned out. Finally he said sulkily: “Well, I reckon it’s because he dunnit.”

    There was a short, sharp, staccato burst from the phone and then a crash. Wincing, Bill hung up and rotated his forefinger slowly in his ear.

    “I still reckon it’s because he dunnit,” he said, pouting, to Polly’s empty office.

    Jake whacked viciously with an iron. The ball whanged up into the air, whizzed off at an angle of about eighty-five degrees, clattered against the trunk of a gnarled puriri, and disappeared into its foliage.

    “Well played,” noted Wal Briggs.

    “You aren’t supposed to be here; I wish to God you’d push off,” replied his oldest friend.

    Wal said in amazement to the sky: “I’m having a quiet round of golf, this maniac millionaire turns up before I’m barely off the fairway on the first, and all of a sudden I’m in the doghouse! What’ve I done? Or have they suddenly made you Subs Secretary?”

    “No.”

    Wal’s crumpled, yellowish, unhandsome face expressed nothing but ostentatious childish sulks, but the little brown eyes were sharp and watchful. “Nobody loves me!”

    “No,” agreed Jake, shoving his club viciously into his bag.

     “We could declare that a lost ball,” offered Briggs in a very kind voice.

    “Why in God’s name aren’t you down at that poncy palace of yours in Taupo?” returned Jake irritably.

    “I was. It’s hotter than here, and full of ex-wives. Not to mention the offspring of ex-wives.”

    “With which you had nothing to do.”

    “I’m bloody sure I didn’t have anything to do with the last one, it’s a dead ringer for Owen Bligh!”

    Choking slightly, Jake returned: “That Treasury type? Never! ’E’s far too cautious: couldn’t have committed himself to the point of, uh, getting to the point, if ya get me drift!”

    “Well, she was letting someone down in Wellington do her, I know that for a fact!”

    “Would this be Leila?”

    “Yes. –Well, Suzanne, too, of course. No, well, I do mean Leila. I don’t mind being taken for a ride—a woman’s entitled to get what she can while her looks last, the way I look at it—but I do object to being taken for a fool!”

    “There’s a fair few blokes in Wellington,” Jake pointed out mildly. “Some of ’em are even male, too.”

    Choking slightly, Wal returned: “Yeah. Well, bloody Bligh is. I never found out for sure if it was him, because I’d already decided to get rid of her and I wasn’t that interested, but he was all over her that last summer we had down the bach together, I can tell ya!”

    “Oh, that’s right, he’s a got a place at Taupo, too, eh?”

    “Mm. Did you know he belongs to that gambling club?”

    “What gambling club?” replied Jake without interest.

    Rolling his eyes to High Heaven, Briggs replied: “The Wellington one, you jerk!”

    “Never been to any gambling clubs in—”

    “It isn’t a place, you fool, it’s a—a circle!” choked Briggs.

    “Aw, one o’ them. Bloody boring. –Bligh’s got family money. Refrigeration, mainly. And all that land in Hawke’s Bay—that’s the same family.” He paused. “Didn’t you know?”

    “No,” said Wal sadly, “I was envisaging leaking the gambling bit to Truth and having them find out he’s been embezzling government funds.”

    “What government funds?” returned Jake drily.

    Choking slightly, Wal said: “Do you wanna find that ball, or not?”

    “Eh? Aw—could look for it, I s’pose.”

    It was now plain to Wallace Briggs, not that it hadn’t been pretty plain before, that Jake wasn’t here for the golf. He accompanied him over to the puriri tree, saying amiably: “So they haven’t clapped you up for The Swimming-Pool Murder yet?”

    “No, but you’ll be me one phone call if they do!”

    “Who’s on it—Collingwood, isn’t it?”

    “Mm.” With one foot he poked unenthusiastically in the dry grass at the foot of the tree. Briggs investigated another clump of grass with equal interest.

    “Is that really how you think of women?”

    “Eh?” Briggs swung round and goggled at him.

    The colour rose up under the bronze skin but Jake said with an assumption of ease: “That they’re entitled to get what they can while their looks last.”

    The lawyer shrugged. “Yeah. Why not? Society doesn’t offer them many other choices.”

    “No... What about a really clever one? I mean brainy.”

    “If she’s really brainy she’ll go for the lot. The house, the car, the boat, the bach, custody; and maintenance on top of—”

    “Very funny.”

    Wal eyed him cautiously. “There’s no guarantees, ya know, Jake.”

    “No,” he said, sighing.

    “Ya might get collected by a bus crossing the road tomorrow.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Or the dame might take you for all you’ve got after one year of wedded bliss.”

    “Hah, hah,” he said sourly. After some more poking around in the grass he said: “What say I did drop dead tomorrow?”

    “There’d be an awful lot of assets begging for a home,” replied the lawyer lightly, trying to hide his astonishment.

    “No, there wouldn’t, I’ve left most of ’em to young Rod.”

    Wal hadn’t drawn up Jake’s will: he was a barrister by trade. So at this he gulped and said feebly: “What?”

    “Got no-one else,” he muttered. He got out a club and slashed viciously in the long grass. “Kid’ll probably give it all away to Corso or one of those bloody pinko charities. Head stuffed full of socialism and Eggzy-whats-ism and all that crap.”

    “He’s a student, isn’t he?” replied Briggs kindly. “He’ll grow out of that.”

    Jake grunted.

    “Does he know?” said Briggs cautiously.

    “No, ’course not. No point. Anyway, say I—uh—”

    “Yeah?”

    “Well, what’d be the position if a bloke did get engaged and—uh—dropped dead?”

    “Of over-exertion?” Briggs raised his eyebrows.

    “Of anything, you tit!”

    “Do you mean if this highly hypothetical bloke hadn’t changed his will?”

    “Yeah.”

    “The lady would lose out. This isn’t America yet, thank Christ. –Mind you, I suppose she could contest it. If she was hard-boiled enough.” He eyed him sardonically.

    “Trial by media, followed by trial by the bloody male legal establishment—yeah. Lovely,” said Jake in a remarkably hard voice.

    “I don’t make the law, old friend, I only—”

    “All right!” He paused. Then he said: “Say I change my will, then.”

    “And?”

    “Could she refuse it, ya fuckwit?” he shouted.

    “Yes. Or give it all to the nearest cats’ home. –Whassup?”

    “Nothing. –Cats!” He swiped the grass viciously.

    Briggs bit his lip. “Would the lady be purely hypothetical, too?”

    “No. You’ve met her.”

    “Uh...”

    “At that flaming stupid party of Magda von Trotte’s, you idiot!” he shouted.

    Briggs smacked his forehead. “God Almighty! The lady lecturer? The Women’s Libber? The one that bawled me out because I said that  provocation was still a great defence in a rape case?”

    “WILL YA JUST DROP IT, WAL!” he shouted.

    Briggs smiled. “She’s a gorgeous bint, I’ll say that much for her. But you’ll have your work cut out there, Jake.”

    “She’s not like that all the time. –If ya wanna know, tits like you set ’er off!”

    Briggs choked.

    “Anyway, I’m too old for her,” he said moodily, mashing the grass with his club.

    “In what way?”

    “Cut it out,” said Jake tiredly.

    “No, I mean it. You’re damned fit, you can support her, you can give her a houseful of housekeepers and nannies and governesses while she carries on working, if that’s what she wants, and you can leave her enough to make her the wealthiest woman in the country. –Plus a quiverful of brats, if she wants that, too. I assume you are capable of that?”

    “How would I know?” he said sourly.

    “Even vasectomies have been known to be reversible in some cases.”

    “Eh? No! No, I mean... Well, look at Grant,” he said in a low voice.

    “Look at the flaming Carters, ya mean. That bloody sister of Esmé’s—and wasn’t there an aunt or something that was the same way?”

    “Yeah. Old Harry’s sister. Never breathed a word about it while he was alive. Left me a note with his will. Only by then it was too bloody late.” He grimaced.

    “Well, there you are. On her side, eh?”

    “Ye-ah... I wish to God I knew who my parents were!”

    “You can wish all ya like, but if no-one could find it out fifty years back—”

    “All right!” After a minute he said weakly: “At least your kids turned out all right.”

    “Oh, sure.” Wal began to tick them off on his fingers. “Bruno’s all easy charm and no guts or willpower, Stewart’s a mean little shit that wouldn’t give you a two-cent piece to save your life, George is a budding stuffed-shirt with his eye fixed on leading the Nats to flaming victory in the year 2020, and the girls are dumb bunnies without a thought in their head beyond discos and make-up!”

    “Yeah, well, look at their mums. No, what I mean is, they’re all healthy and—and all there.”

    “No reason to suppose yours and hers wouldn’t be.”

    “No-o... Even if we started one now, I’d be sixty before the kid was ten.”

    Briggs replied drily: “Then you’d better get on with it.” He bent. “Is this your ball?”

    “Dunno.” Jake pocketed it. “I’ve gotta get on to the third.”

    “I wouldn’t bother, here comes Jock now.”

    Jake looked round with a startled expression.

     “I could ooze off tactfully,” offered Wal.

    “You’d better, he especially asked for your absence.”

    Wal leant on his club. “Then I’ll definitely stay. Whenever a pleeceman asks you to do something, you’ll be safe if ya do the opposite. First law of self-preservation of us underworld types.” He winked.

    Jock marched up to them, breathing heavily and scowling. “What’s he doing here?”

    “What in God’s name are they doing here?” replied Briggs, goggling at his bright yellow slacks.

    “Lucille. Thinks I’m ruddy Greg Norman, or something,” grunted McElroy sourly.

    “Well, you’re not Bob Charles, that’s for sure: what’s that thing on top of ’em?” asked Briggs, eyes bolting from his head.

    “Look, Lucille forced it on me for Christmas, will ya just drop it?”

    “Not unless you’ll tell me whether you’ve got a matching jersey for draping negligently round the shoulders like Carrano, here.”

    “Lee style. Youse jokers don’t know where it’s At,” said Jake, smiling.

    “Did she choose it, Jake?” asked Briggs, grinning.

    “Yeah. Got ruddy good taste.”

    Briggs put a hand on his hip. “Ooh, yes, Jake, the glowing purple tee-shirt matches your eyes!”

    “Don’t do that,” said McElroy, wincing. “I’ve got my reputation to think of, if you two idiots haven’t.”

    “I try not to think of your reputation, Jock,” said Briggs. “Especially in the chilly watches of the night.”

    “Look, are you gonna push off, or not?”

    “Not. I am here to protect my client’s interests.”

    “Are you his client?” said McElroy immediately.

    “Dunno. Are I ya client, Wal?”

    “Ya could be if you’d give me a retainer!”

    “Here.” Jake produced a cigar.

    Briggs sniffed it suspiciously. “Ah-hah!” he said, basset-hound face lighting up. He stowed it carefully in the pocket of his golf bag.

    “This is not a bribe,” said Jake clearly, offering one to McElroy.

    “Okay. And I’m not taking it,” he agreed, taking it.

    “Well, shoot,” said Jake, lighting it for him.

    McElroy sucked and puffed. “Mm—good! Uh—yeah. Well, tee off or something.”

    “Jake’s in the rough,” explained Briggs.

    “No, I’m not, I put it in me pocket.”

    “Isn’t there a rule about that?”

    “Your ball is over there,” said Jake pointedly.

    “Well, come on, then!” Briggs shepherded them over to it. “Christ,” he said.

    “Aim at that tree,” suggested McElroy sourly.

    “Yeah: then you’ll end up in the drink,” explained Jake.

    Wal looked at the tree, over to his left. He looked at the view of the sparkling harbour, over to his right. “Ugh,” he said.

    “Well, hit the thing!” said McElroy irritably.

    “This requires careful thought.”

    “Go on, shoot,” said Jake glumly to Jock as Wal positioned himself over the ball and then appeared to go into a careful-thought mode.

    “This is defamation,” McElroy warned, removing the cigar.

    Jake replied mildly: “Ya don’t need to tell him that, he’s read the books.”

    “I’m saying it so’s we know where we stand.”

    “All right, we know where we stand. Get on with it.”

    McElroy sighed and rubbed his nose. “What would you say if I said your ex done in that Banks bloke?”

    Jake scratched his head. “I’d say anyone’d have to be crackers to kill the goose that lays the golden egg.”

    “Come on, Jake!” he said crossly.

    “Uh—evidence?”

    —Briggs snorted, but didn’t look up from his ball.

    “We may or may not find some.”

    “Well, in that case she may or may not’ve done it.”

    “Look, quit farting around, Jake. Is she capable of it, in your opinion?”

    “Don’t answer that,” said Briggs mildly to his ball.

    Jake ignored him. “Uh—I dunno, Jock. She’s always been a bit— Well, you know her, you know what she’s like. And I haven’t seen much of her, these last few years. But I must say…” His voice trailed off. McElroy just waited, puffing on his cigar. Briggs looked fixedly at his ball but didn’t move. “Well, of course she hates my guts, so it’s a bit difficult to tell... But the last few times I’ve seen her, I’ve had a damned funny feeling. As if there was something really wrong. Nothing you could put ya finger on...” He shrugged. “Gut feeling.”

    “Yeah. It’s something a decent copper with a bit of experience can often pick up—Collingwood got that from her, too. Over the edge, he reckons.”

    Suddenly Briggs hit his ball with a terrific thwack. It shot diagonally across the fairway, hit a tree and vanished into the rough.

    “Talking of Bob Charles, I once saw him play this course,” said Jake dreamily. “He made just the same mistake that Wal did, back there: his ball was in almost the identical position. Only funnily enough, when he hit it from over here, it—”

    “Very funny! I declare that a lost ball!” said Briggs, looking round angrily. “Oh, Christ, look out!”

    McElroy blew a smoke ring. “Who is it?”

    “Sir Jerry Cohen. Old joker that looks like a frog.”

    Jake looked round. His lips tightened for an instant. The old man’s nephew was with him. He’d last seen Philip Cohen at that dinner party Polly had made him throw. So much had happened since, that it seemed like a lifetime ago. “And his nephew,” he said, lightly enough.

    “Both rolling in it. The best type of Jew,” explained Briggs elegantly.

    “Well, it won’t do you any good, old Jerry’s daughters are all married off and Philip’s is only a kid!” replied Jake with something of an effort.

    “Cripes, he’s not looking round for another, is he?” asked Jock in alarm.

    “I wouldn’t say ‘no’, if it was attached to the Cohen gelt,” Briggs replied cheerfully.

    “I would,” muttered McElroy, watching the genial frog-like face come nearer and nearer. “If it was attached to a face like that!”

    Sir Jerry greeted Jake and Wal with great cordiality—though he didn’t know either of them very well. After introductions Jake said to Philip with a smile: “How was Hawaii?”

    “Warm, tropical and reasonably Paradise-like, thanks,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

    “Had a good time, then?”

    “Mm. Well, Nat and I did, yeah. Poor old Debbie spent the whole time moping over that Browne chap.”

    “Crikey,” said Jake weakly. Well, Polly had explained the kid had fallen for Rog Browne, which was why she’d wanted him to have the bloody dinner party, but— Poor little soul.

    “Not that there’s anything wrong with him,” said Philip hurriedly.

    “Nothing that a dose of gorm wouldn’t fix, no,” he agreed drily.

    Philip bit his lip. “Mm.”

    “Mind you, he’s the sort of bloke that’s full of—uh—principles and that sorta thing. Not a wrong ’un, at all.”

    “No,” agreed Philip with a sigh. “And our Debbie’s a bossy little thing... I suppose they’d suit each other well enough.”

    Jake’s mouth twitched.

    Sir Jerry, who had observed the flight of Briggs’s ball, was urging them all over to the rough on the other side of the fairway.

    “Do you play much, Philip?” asked Jake.

    Philip smiled. “No, hardly at all. But Uncle Jerry enjoys a round occasionally.”

    “Mm...” The grey eyes followed the old man as he explored earnestly for Briggs’s ball. “No sons, eh?”

    “Uh—Uncle Jerry? No,” replied Philip, rather startled.

    Jake frowned. “Helluva pity. A bloke wants a son to carry on the business.”

    “Yes,” agreed Philip with a tiny sigh.

    “His girls got no head for business?”

    “What? Oh—well, the oldest three certainly haven’t. Veronica’s very bright, though: if he’d ever given her the slightest encouragement I think she might well have gone into the business. But I don’t think it ever occurred to the old man that a girl might want to. She’s a political scientist—lectures over in Sydney.”

    “Oh. Grandsons?”

    Philip smiled. “One. After endless granddaughters.”

    Jake grinned. “What a relief, eh?”

    “Mm. Though I’m reliably informed that Damian hates sums!” He laughed. “He’s only twelve.”

    “Uh-huh... Your boy’s not married, eh?”

    “Uh—no,” said Philip politely. “He’s a bit young, yet. Still playing the field—you know. New girl every other weekend.”

    “Yeah,” he said, smiling.

    Philip was silent. Since he was a far from stupid man, he was recalling quite clearly Natalie’s opinion of the relationship between Carrano and that pretty Polly Mitchell. It looked as if she was right, and the fellow was serious. Well, he’d better get a move on, then. How old would he be? Kept himself pretty fit, but— About his age, surely...

    Sir Jerry had found the ball. He was making Wal play it. They watched in silent amusement.

    “Never play chess with him,” murmured Philip, very quietly.

    Jumping, Jake said weakly: “Too late.”

    “Oh, dear.”

    They grinned at each other.

    Wal had sent his ball a reasonable distance down the fairway, in fact a reasonable distance down it, across it, and into the rough on its far side. Sir Jerry set off in determined pursuit.

    “We could let you two play through,” noted Jake.

    “Please don’t!” begged Philip.

    Chuckling, they ambled after the others.

    Mike’s report had been almost ready when he spoke to McElroy but he hadn’t been about to admit he had anything in writing until he saw which way the wind blew. He finished it off, rang Dave Short at the Pohutukawa Bay HQ—nothing more to report and the D.S. sounded half-asleep—and went out for a breath of air. The park was temptingly near so he wandered down to it. Lunchtime was over; he had it practically to himself. He walked slowly onto the grass and headed more or less in the direction of the fountain, thinking vaguely he ought to go and find something to eat.

    “Mike! MIKE!”

    Mike jumped a foot and swung round.

    “Hi, Polly,” he said, going up to her tree.

    “Hi—come and sit down.”

    Mike subsided onto the grass beside her. “Been working in at varsity?”

    “I’ve been trying to. Well, I did get quite a bit done. But then that idiot Bill Michaels started pestering me about the Banks thing, so I gave up. –You met him and Angie at my birthday party, but you might not remember them.”

    “Uh—no. Oh, hang on, is he an engineer? Um—in his forties. Mad on boats?”

    “Yes. Well, just mad, really. But he is mad on boats as well.” She picked up a sandwich from the plastic container at her side and said: “And full of ’satiable curiosity. It can be very hard to take.” She bit into the sandwich.

    Mike watched her hungrily. Polly said through the sandwich: “Have one: there’s masses.”

    There did seem to be, so he said: “Sure?” and when she nodded, said: “Ta,” and took one. Wholemeal bread with cottage cheese, alfalfa sprouts, tinned asparagus and mayonnaise. “Mm—goob,” he said through it.

    “Aunty Vi made them—she’s feeding me up. Is that an asparagus one?”

    Mike nodded.

    “I hate tinned asparagus: you can have all of those ones, if you like.”

    Mike chewed and swallowed. “Okay—thanks.”

    Polly said cautiously: “The others have got alfalfa sprouts and cottage cheese too, only with dates and Vegemite.”

    Mike make a sick face.

    “Good: I like those.” She divided the sandwiches into two piles.

    “Did she expect you to eat all of these?”

    “Yeah. She thinks I’m still fifteen, I think.”

    “Deluded woman,” he murmured.

    Polly eyed him sideways and didn’t say anything.

    Mike ate two sandwiches in silence and then said: “Aren’t you going to ask me how close I am to an arrest?”

    “No. I was going to ask you if you’d like half of this juice, but now I’m not so sure I will.”

    “What is it?”

    “Aunty Vi’s special. Mum and Dad gave her one of those juicers for Christmas; she’s awfully hard to buy presents for because she’s got most things that open and shut and you can never second-guess what’s going to appeal. But Mum thought it’d be ideal because of this health-food thing she’s on.”

    Mike picked up the plastic container and unscrewed it. He sniffed gingerly and peered into it. “It’s a funny colour.”

    “It’s mainly apple juice. I have tried telling her it goes brown in about five seconds, but you can’t tell Aunty Vi anything. And I think this lot’s got a bit of carrot juice in it and—um—watermelon, I think.”

    “Watermelon?”

    “They were on special,” said Polly simply.

    Mike tasted it cautiously. “Very odd.”

    “Yes, isn’t it?”

     He drank some. “Here, you can have the rest.”

    “It’s not actively unpleasant.” Polly drank some.

    “No, just odd.”

    It wasn’t until they’d finished the sandwiches that he ventured: “So you’re staying with old Vi, are you?”

    “Mm.”

    “Very wise.”

    “What?” said Polly, staring at him.

    Mike went rather red. He shrugged and tried to say lightly: “Well, there is a murderer loose in Pohutukawa Bay, after all.”

    “I’m not mixed up in any of Don Banks’s nefarious little schemes, why would anyone want to bump me off?”

    Mike shrugged again. “Depends who the anyone is, doesn’t it?” He stared out across the velvety lawn. He could feel Polly looking at him.

    “You’ll be much safer with old Vi,” he said, not looking at her.

    “Well, for Heaven’s sake don’t tell her that,” she said weakly, “or I’ll never get away!”

    “Why are you there, anyway?” he asked in an idle voice, still gazing across the lawn. “Thought you reckoned she drives you dippy?”

    “She does. Um, well, it’s very handy to varsity.”

    “Uh-huh. Ten minutes in the car. On a Sunday afternoon. Otherwise thirty-five sweaty minutes in the traffic jams.”

    “The rush-hour isn’t too bad at this time of year, most people are still on holiday. And I wish you’d leave the detection out of your private life, Mike!”

    “Ah, but the good detective is always on the alert.”

    “Is he?” replied Polly blankly.

    “Okay, you’re not gonna tell me. Haven’t seen Carrano at all, I suppose? The scuttlebutt is, he’s been going round like a bear with a sore h—”

    “NO!”—Mike didn’t react.—“Has he?” said Polly in a small voice.

    “Yes. I have it on the word of Dave from your dairy. Not to say personal observation.”

    “Oh.”

    Mike just waited.

    Finally Polly said, looking very sulky: “Look, Chief Inspector Gadget, it was all his idea. He reckons he’s too old for me. Or I’m too young for him. Or some such garbage.”

    “I see. He didn’t ask you whether you wanted to break it off?”

    “Ask me?” returned Polly very loudly. “Of course not, I’m only a woman: we have to have decisions made for us!”

    Mike replied drily: “Maybe you’re better off without him, at that rate.”

    “Maybe I am,” said Polly in a hard voice.

    There was a pause. Mike stared across the park; Polly stared moodily at the grass in front of her.

    “Don Banks wasn’t mentioned in connection with this breaking-off, I suppose?”

    “What? No! You never let up, do you, Mike? It’s just ridiculous to think that Jake could have killed a—a pathetic little squirt like Don Banks!”

    “Physically, financially, or morally?”

    “What?”

    “A pathetic little squirt.”

    “Oh. Well, financially, definitely. But mainly physically. Jake isn’t the sort of person who—who’d inflict physical violence on a person who’s smaller and older than him.”

    “Episodes in Council Chambers notwithstanding.”

    “That was nothing!”

    “You weren’t there,” replied Mike mildly.

    “No, but— He wouldn’t really have hurt him, though, Mike!”

    “Like he didn’t hurt that bloke who was beating a dog?”

    “That was years and years ago!”

    “It could be germane.”

    “Rubbish!”

    “It demonstrates that Carrano isn’t particularly averse to a spot of GBH.”

    “That is total bullshit!” she cried.

    “Is it?” said Mike without emphasis.

    Polly replied in a trembling voice: “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

    “No, I know I don’t: if I did know everything I’d have figured out a way to nab Don Banks’s murderer by now,” he said on a sour note.

    “I expect it was a burglar,” said Polly sulkily.

    “That theory has been put forward. So has the ‘The taxi-driver dunnit’ theory.”

    “Old Sid Pakiri?” she cried. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

    “I didn’t say these theories had been put forward by persons of any intelligence.”

    Scowling, Polly gathered together her Tupperware lunch containers and got up. “You can stay here and be overwhelmingly smart all by yourself, Mike Collingwood, I’m going back to work!” She marched off forthwith.

    Mike’s eyes followed her speculatively. He wasn’t speculating on Carrano’s probable chances—which on balance, he’d already decided, still looked pretty good. Presuming the bloke had broken it off out of some misconceived notion of chivalry, or some such crap. What he was thinking about was that alibi of his, and when the appropriate moment might be to put a bit more pressure on Polly just in case she’d been lying about him being at her place from elevenish until well into the small hours. –If I’d been him, he thought idly, I’d have stayed up there—wonder why he did bother to go home? Bit of a spat? His lip curled. Very possibly. Well, according to him it had been because he had to get up early for some business meeting in the Big Smoke, but…

    He’d have to grab Polly while she was still sufficiently pissed off with Carrano to want to stab him in the back, but not still so pissed off that she simply saw red at the mention of his name and blew up. And before she’d got over it enough to start reconsidering her chances with him—and certainly before he’d changed his mind about it. Tricky... Not that there was more than one chance in five thousand that it had been him, mind you.

    Mike sighed suddenly, lay down on the grass, and closed his eyes.

    “FORE!” bellowed old Sir Jerry.

    Somehow it had turned into a foursome. Sir Jerry and his nephew against Jake and Wal. McElroy had got out of it on the grounds of just intending to walk round today anyway because of a touch of sciatica. His old friends had watched with evil pleasure as Sir Jerry had taken him confidentially by the arm and told him a terrific lot about his own sciatica. Sir Jerry seemed to be keeping score, but no-one else sure as Hell was. Fortunately, Philip reckoned the old boy only ever played nine holes and this was the ninth, now. Jake sighed.

    “It’s gone into that macrocarpa, I think,” said Philip neutrally.

    “No, it’ll have fallen into the rough! Come on!” Sir Jerry forged over to the rough. Philip rolled his eyes to the skies, but followed.

    Jake groaned and stayed where he was.

    “Well?” said McElroy.

    “If you’re caddying, why don’t you caddy?” Jake held out his bag of clubs.

    McElroy looked down his bulbous nose and said: “Why don’t you get yourself a proper cart like everybody else, for God’s sake?”

    Grinning, Jake replied: “Because I don’t have to keep up with the Joneses, that’s why!”

    Wal gave a crack of laughter.

    McElroy said irritably: “Look, piss off, Wal, I’m gonna— What is the fucking verb from ‘defamation’ anyway?”

    “Defamate?” Jake suggested, poker-face.

    Choking, Briggs gasped: “Defame! But since it’s verbal as well as actionable, you might as well say ‘slander’ and be done with it! –It’s true what they say about having to have Failed-School-Cert to be a copper, isn’t it?”

    “I might have got Failed-School-Cert, but to be a bloody millionaire you apparently have to have Never-Sat-School-Cert,” replied McElroy sourly.

    “Nah, the correct phrase is Left-School-At-Fifteen,” corrected the lawyer.

    “Aw, yeah.”

    “Never mind all that, if you’re gonna defamate get on with it, unless you want it to be all over the bloody club by afternoon teatime,” said Jake, eyeing Sir Jerry and his nephew scrabbling in the long grass near the macrocarpa.

    “Well, do you seriously think Esmé’d be capable of murder?”

    Jake sniffed and rubbed his chin slowly. “Given provocation—yes,” he said finally.

    “How are you going to prove it, Jock?” asked Briggs in a tone of kindly interest.

    “Shut up, you aren’t here, remember? –Mm, well, I won’t put young Collingwood on the mat just yet, then.”

    “No, wait until he tells you there isn’t any evidence,” suggested Briggs.

    McElroy replied calmly: “I’ll do that. –Come on, let’s sort this lot out, I’m dying for a drink.” He marched over to the macrocarpa.

    “It went into it,” said Wal definitely.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jake.

    There was a short pause, during which the sounds of Sir Jerry telling Jock loudly he’d looked there could be heard. “Is there any evidence?” said Wal.

    “No. Or Collingwood would’ve arrested her by now.”

    “Mm. –As opposed to thinking she could have done it, Jake, do you actually think she did do it?”

    Jake looked at him sharply. Wal’s ugly face was bland.

    “That’d be telling, Wal,” he said drily.

    “Mm. Well, just watch your bloody step. –Come on, let’s go over there, Philip was saying that two of the old bloke’s daughters are divorced, now.”

    “Christ. Well, if funny little hats in church are your cup of tea—!”

    “That much lolly is, definitely. –You ever met these dames?”

    Jake shrugged. “Nope. Never met any of ’is family. Know ’im about as well as you do.”

    “Bugger. I was gonna suggest a select little dinner party up your place—you know: him, Lady C., an unattached daughter, and yours truly!”

    “And the ghost of Don Banks hovering on the patio. Yeah, fun.”

    “Plus a lady for you, of course. What about the lovely lady lecturer?”

    “We’ve busted up.”

    “Eh?” gasped the lawyer, his jaw dropping.

    “Shut up.”

    “Look here, just now you were giving me the impression that you were ready to pop the question!”

    “So?” he returned sourly.

    “Well, make your fucking mind up, Jake!” said Briggs weakly, goggling at him.

    Grimacing, Jake replied: “What the Hell do you think I— Anyway, just shut up about it, will ya?”

    “Did she dump you or did you—”

    “I said, Shut up!” He shouldered his bag and marched off towards the macrocarpa.

    Briggs’s crooked eyebrows rose very, very high. He pursed his lips and gave a whistle. Then, drawing his golf-cart after him, he walked very slowly towards the group under the tree, murmuring to himself: “Anyone care to lay odds? On the evidence so far? ...Mm: six to four on Holy Matrimony?”