Match Point

27

Match Point

    By Saturday the lab boys had come to a tentative conclusion but were still refusing to commit themselves on paper—they’d have something more definite next week, they said. The murder H.Q. had been closed about a month back when the case had been in the doldrums, and it didn’t seem worthwhile setting it up again, so Mike, Jim Baxter and Dave Short sat round the wood-grain Formica table in the little interview room at Puriri Police Station, gloomily looking at a pile of glossy photos amidst a litter of used coffee mugs, crumpled sandwich bags and empty soft-drink cans.

    “They reckon it’s the right make and model, then?” Jim said heavily.

    “Yeah. They’re still waiting to hear from the manufacturers, though,” Dave replied.

    Jim sniffed.

    Mike picked up two photos and compared them. “You can see these match. Look: here—and here—this tiny fault in the bolt’s screw thread: it’s marked the nut—see?”

    Jim and Dave stared at the photos in glum silence. The boffins had refused to commit themselves on this, too, without hearing from the manufacturers. It could have been a fault in the whole run, not just that one bolt. But that model was so old—God knew if they’d get any results now.

    “Who the Hell else has got that model, anyway?” grumbled the D.S. “Of the suspects, I mean!” he added hurriedly. The picture was unnecessarily complicated—typically of the bloody case, in Mike’s considered opinion—by the fact that one of the drag-racing teenagers did have that precise make and model. It didn’t have a bolt with a fault in it: it had lost both the nut and the bolt. But it couldn’t have been them down Old Reserve Road that night, they all had solid alibis. None of them were as wild as they liked to think they were: it had been too late in the school year for homework, of course, but two brothers had been home under their dad’s eye cleaning his car, harmlessly watching TV, and going to bed; another boy had been at his granny’s golden wedding anniversary with the whole of his extended family; one lucky soul had had the dubious honour of being taken ten-pin bowling by an uncle and the uncle’s bowling mates, not one of them a day under forty-five; and the remaining lad had been forced by his mum to take his younger brother and sister to the bug-house in Takapuna—the five o’clocks, not the evening show—then being firmly met by his dad afterwards, taken to McDonald’s, and seen home to TV and bed.

    Dave fidgeted for a bit. “Don’tcha reckon we could move on this, Chief?” he burst out.

    Mike grunted noncommittally.

    “Coulda been lost at any time,” Jim pointed out. “At least, that’s what the defence’ll say. Could of even come off the other car, too.” He paused. “Nothing to say who was driving the car, even.”

    A glum silence fell.

    Dave Short stared down at his bare toes in their blue rubber jandals. After a little he conceded grudgingly: “Juries hate forensic evidence, too. Better to wait until we know just how solid it is, I s’pose.”

    Another, longer silence. Jim picked up the photos and looked at them rather blankly. The D.S. continued his examination of his toes. Mike stared blindly in the direction of the window and its view of the sunny little side street.

    Eventually Jim said thoughtfully: “’Course, a lot depends on who they get for the defence...”

    “Wal Briggs, for example?” said Mike sourly, with a vivid mental picture of McElroy’s face as he looked down his ugly nose at him. “Ten to one bloody Carrano’ll offer to pay his fee!” He got up abruptly and strode over to the window. Standing there with his back to the other two men he was irritably conscious both of his impatience with them and of how unfair this impatience was.

    Behind his back the two sergeants looked cautiously at each other, and said nothing.

    At last, without turning round, the D.C.I. said: “Right. That’s it, then. We’ll wait for the lab report. But as soon as it’s in, one way or another, we’ll move.”

    “Good!” said Dave, brightening.

    Jim said nothing, just looked steadily at Mike’s straight back.

    After a moment Mike turned round and said with an effort: “What’s the programme for this arvo, then?”

    “Tennis tournament,” Jim reminded him.

    “Yeah. I’d better come with you. You take the afternoon off, Dave. Rendezvous back here, eh? At—uh—”

    “After tea?” suggested Jim hopefully.

    “Yeah; say about eight o’clock—okay?”

    Happily the D.S. agreed to this and shot off before the boss could change his mind.

    Mike gave an unconscious sigh, staring at the spot his stocky subordinate had just vacated.

    Jim said mildly: “You don’t really need to come, Mike. There’ll be crowds there: I don’t suppose anything’ll happen.”

    “No-o… I don’t mind, though, Jim; nothing much else to do this afternoon.” –Molly would be doing her accounts; if he went back to his motel unit the knowledge she was so close would be a distraction, whether he tried to work or catch up on some sleep; if he went over to keep her company he knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from distracting her!

    “Tell ya the truth,” said Jim easily, “I’d be glad of the company, Mike. You know how it is in the Force: you’re always an outsider, kind of.” He made a rueful face.

    “Thought you were pretty much part of the community here, Jim?”

    Jim shrugged. “Much as a copper can be, I s’pose. I’ll just get changed—won’t be a tick.”

    Mike drifted after him and leant against the wall, watching unseeingly as the burly figure climbed out of its dampish uniform shirt and slacks and into cotton shorts and a loose cotton shirt with a hideous bright pattern of yachts and palm trees.

    “Jim—” he said hesitantly.

    “Yeah?” the sergeant grunted, stripping off his uniform socks.

    “I was wondering if you and Moana would like to have dinner with me some time.”

    Jim concealed his surprise—both at the invitation and at the fact that the C.I.B. man had remembered his wife’s name—and accepted with thanks.

    As Jim let in the clutch of his well cared for but elderly Cortina, Mike asked: “What’d be a good restaurant up here?”

    “We-ell—” He broke off.

    “Yeah?”

    Jim glanced over his right shoulder—nothing coming, although back on the main road you could see the usual steady stream of Saturday afternoon traffic—and slid smoothly out from the kerb. “Well,” he admitted feebly, “there’s not much choice. Most people reckon the Chez Basil’s the best. I know we hadda interview that fairy pair that run it, but, um, they have been eliminated...”

    There was a tiny, pregnant silence. Then Mike caught Jim’s eye.

    It was just as well there was nothing much moving on the side streets of Puriri in the early afternoon, for the neat little blue car made a rather wavering progress towards the Puriri & District Lawn Tennis Club, with both of its occupants shaking with gusts of helpless laughter.

    “You’ve ruined poor old Cyril’s timetable, ya know,” Rod said to Jake with a grin as they sat watching Richpal Singh and Eloise Tamehana in one of the quarter-finals. It was pretty clear they were going to lose: so far Eloise hadn’t managed to hit a ball, apart from the ones she’d served into the net, and poor Richpal was exhausting himself trying to reach all the shots that should’ve been hers as well as his own.

    “Eh? –Well played!” There was a scattering of applause as Richpal played a seemingly impossible shot. “Ruined it? Thought I’d rescued it, when I said I’d fill in for that joker that dropped out.”

    “Nah: see, he reckoned you and the Wiseman kid’d be knocked out yesterday in the first round—or at least the second.”

    “Eh? Same numbers: how the Hell could it upset his timetable?” Actually, if anything it was ruined it was his weekend: he’d had to play tennis all day yesterday and now he was wasting the Sunday, as well!

    Rod sniggered. “The thing is, he had Jenny scheduled to help Mrs Cyril with the sandwiches this morning!”

    “Scheduled?” echoed Jake weakly.

    “Honest: he timetables everything, old Cyril!”

    Jake’s eyes followed the movement on the court mechanically. “She’s a good little player, Jenny—could be really good, with some decent coaching.”

    “Yeah; don’t think they can afford it, though. Mrs Wiseman’s a solo mum, and there’s three more of ’em at home. Jenny woulda left school this year if she could’ve found a job.”

    “That right? Seems a bright enough kid. –Jesus, that woman should never have been let loose on a court!”

    “Not easy to get a decent job these days without qualifications,” Rod pursued. “And getting qualified costs money, ya know.”

    “How old is she?” Jake asked abruptly.

    “Who, Jenny? Seventeen; she’s in the Seventh Form this year.”

    “Got a few cadetships going in the Group—see what I can do,” he grunted.

    “Thanks, Jake.”

    Jake shot him a sideways glance. “Fancy the girl, do ya?”

    “Hell, no! She’s only a kid; feel sorry for her, that’s all.”

    Jake’s eyes twinkled. Polly had already reported that Rod had a crush on Jenny’s mum. But as he was quite aware of the prevailing suburban mores of Puriri County—though he’d flouted them in his time—he didn’t comment.

    From the court where the second of the four quarter-finals was being played came loud applause.

    “Looks as if we should’ve watched the other match, after all,” Jake murmured, with faint malice.

    Rod shuddered. “Do me a favour!” It was Esmé with Jimmy Tamehana (Esmé’s temper having miraculously held out this far) against Kamala Singh and young Heath Simmonds, who was only fifteen, and by rights shouldn’t have been playing at all, but Cyril had been desperate for another male player. Rod wouldn’t have watched it for a million dollars: if Esmé was on form she’d slaughter the poor bastards, and if she wasn’t... it didn’t bear thinking about.

    The match in front of them reached its expectable conclusion, everybody clapped, and Jake nipped into the clubhouse to phone Polly—his own match would be on the other court, where Esmé’s was still going strong.

    She was feeling much better. “You make that appointment with the doc?” he asked.

    “Yeah, yeah. Stop fussing. Um, listen, I’ve been thinking. I know Esmé’s, um, quite unstable, but I can’t really believe she’d go that far. I think Mike might be wrong, and it was someone trying to break in to rob you, and poor old Don just happened to be in the way.”

    “There’s nothing to suggest that,” he said glumly.

    “I don’t think there’s anything to contradict it, though, is there?”

    “No. Well, if you’re lucky,” he said heavily, “you’ll see just how mad she is for yourself, ’cos at the moment it looks like either me and Jenny are gonna end up playing her at some point, or Rod and his partner are!”

    “Help.”

    “Keeping it in the family, eh? Anyway, don’t come down here by yourself, give old Rog a bell, he can come down with you.”

    “I don’t think he likes tennis, Jake.”

    He sniffed faintly. “Rod was saying young Debbie Cohen’s keen on it, so it’s about time ’e started. See ya!”

    All that rushing about in the heat! Roger looked sourly, and with a certain envy which he was at pains to conceal from himself, at the capable, athletic figures on the court.

    Wham! That was Jake returning Mrs Jablonski’s serve—possibly a serve. The shot seemed to whistle past the outstretched racquet of the scrawny figure in the dingy tennis clothes at the speed of light. Presumably it was “in”—if that was the correct expression—for the spectators clapped enthusiastically and the umpire droned something to which he didn’t bother to listen.

    Jake and a little red-headed girl who was practically young enough to be his granddaughter were playing Mrs Jablonski and a plumpish, hot-and-bothered Maori fellow who even Roger could see was perfectly hopeless at the game. Jake hit the ball again and the Maori, swiping furiously, sent it straight into the net. More clapping, mixed with sympathetic murmurs this time, and the umpire gave another of those ridiculous tennis scores which meant nothing more than “two: nil.”

    Roger gave a tiny sigh, pushed his sunglasses further up his nose with his other hand, and allowed his gaze, ostensibly directed towards the semi-final on the court, to go dreamily out of focus…

    Some sort of argument seemed to be going on now on the court, involving Mrs Jablonski, her partner, and the umpire; weren’t they ever going to get on with it? The grassy patch they were sitting on was very dry, and rather lumpy; added to which the tree was a pohutukawa, and the area surrounding it was covered with those horrid little hard, brown things that fall from pohutukawas. Roger shifted irritably, and was only slightly mollified when Rod opened his large foam hamper and passed round cold drinks.

    For a while the match continued along what presumably was a predictable, if boring path: the brown, perspiring Jimmy appeared to get hotter and sweatier and to make even less contact with the ball; Esmé became visibly more and more annoyed with him and her game visibly more vicious; Jake and the red-haired child still rushed about, but with rather more effect for rather less effort; and Roger’s knowledgeable companions agreed that “poor old Jimmy (sympathetically) and “poor old Esmé” (with a marked lack of sympathy) might as well “hand in their cards”, since Jake and his partner were so obviously going to “take it out”. Roger shuddered, and began to brood on the prevalence of periphrastic usages in modern sporting jargon: how many months was it since he’d heard a media sports commentator say anything as simple as “win” or “lose”?

    He was awakened from this reverie by a stir amongst the spectators, and became aware that his companions’ attention to the game had turned into a rigid and horrified fascination. He focussed on the court. Mrs Jablonski was gesturing fiercely with her racquet, telling the umpire loudly: “That was IN!” The sweating Jimmy came over to her and said something in a low voice—judging from the accompanying gesture, intended to pacify her.

    “Shut up, you stupid man! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she shouted.

    The umpire muttered something. Esmé shouted violently: “RUBBISH!” and hurled her racquet to the ground.

    The spectators on the seats at the opposite side of the court were murmuring and rustling: the sound of a crowd about to enjoy a really good scene. Jake had his arm round the little red-haired girl; he said something into her ear. She gave a convulsive sniff, followed by a weak smile. Jake pulled a handkerchief from the hip pocket of his white tennis shorts and gave it to her; she took it and blew her nose hard. He gave her a little hug, then walked up to the net.

    “Come on, Esmé—”

    “Keep out of this, Jacob Carrano! This is between me and this—this incompetent!” spluttered Mrs Jablonski. She turned to the umpire: “You admit that ball was IN, or I walk off this court right now!”

    “We should be so lucky,” muttered Rod, wincing.

    “Oh, dear,” said Polly with a sigh.

    On the court Jake had involved himself in the argument between Esmé and the umpire; Esmé’s partner kept trying to interrupt with soothing noises that were having no effect at all. The boy who had been down at one end of the court—a linesman, was he, or maybe a ball boy?—had come up and appeared to be indulging in some sort of self-exculpation...

    “It’s only a game,” Roger said cautiously to Polly in an under-voice.

    She jumped, and gave him a wobbly smile. “Yes.”

    The pleasant Indian fellow who was sitting with them gave a little laugh, and put in, in a comforting tone: “You see much worse at Wimbledon these days!”

    “Yes,” agreed Polly, sounding less shaky; she blew her nose.

    Rod cheered up slightly. “Pity she isn’t over there, then!”

    “Yeah!” agreed Jack Banks, grinning.

    On the court the voices got louder; a small, wiry, grey-haired man in immaculate tennis gear had joined the group.

    “Oops—there’s Cyril!” said Jack happily. “This’ll do it!”

    Sure enough, after some arm-waving and a few more shouts of “RUBBISH!” from Mrs Jablonski, everything appeared to settle down again and the match resumed. Not, however, along its former path, for where Mrs Jablonski had earlier been vicious she was now quite unbelievably erratic, missing easy shots but retrieving some that looked impossible—not that Roger would have trusted his own judgement in this, but there was reluctant clapping and grudging murmurs of admiration from the spectators. Jake’s game was as competent as ever, but his young partner, who had been good before, now seemed inspired, running about the court like a little avenging fury.

    After watching this for a while Roger said quietly: “What was the result of that argument, anyway, Polly?”

    “They got the point, of course.”

    Jack leaned forward and made a face. “Of course they shouldn’t have, that ball was out by miles.”

    “Won’t make any difference,” said Rod. “Esmé’s game’s gone right off—always does when she does her bun.”

    Sure enough, Mrs Jablonski and the sweating Jimmy lost heavily. The match ended with Esmé sending a very easy ball straight into the net. In a voice that failed to conceal his satisfaction, the umpire called the final score. There was loud applause. Jake and his partner, panting, grinned at each other, and turned to walk towards the net—presumably to perform the usual rituals of “good sportsmanship”. Roger watched uneasily, feeling that this was a mistake. Jimmy ambled up to the net, smiling—no doubt from relief that it was all over—and shook hands. Further back, Mrs Jablonski just stood there on the court, twisting her racquet in her hands. The three at the net turned to look at her. A nasty silence fell.

    “Come on, Esmé—no hard feelings, eh?” said Jake cheerily, holding out his hand to her.

    Under the blazing blue sky Esmé’s scrawny chest heaved in a deep breath. She began to walk unsteadily towards the net. Roger had time to think that perhaps it was going to be all right, after all, before the skinny arm raised the racquet and hurled it at Jake’s head.

    “DAMN you, Jacob Carrano!” she screamed. “Damn you to HELL!”

    Jake had dodged neatly, and the racquet clattered harmlessly to the ground. He bent to retrieve it.

    Mrs Jablonski burst into noisy sobs and began to scream incoherently at him; the spectators, held in an awed, silent paralysis until now, suddenly burst into excited speech; and the wiry little older man who had earlier settled the dispute over the ball shot onto the court as if propelled by an invisible force, and attempted to remonstrate with Mrs Jablonski. A panting, plump woman of about his own age followed him at an uncomfortable jog-trot and put her arm around the sobbing, gesticulating figure.

    “Jesus!” groaned Rod.

    On the court Jake and his partner had backed away from the agitated group at the net; Jake looked towards their tree. Polly sat up very straight and waved energetically; he smiled, waved back, and said something to the little red-head. They walked slowly off the court together.

    By the net the attempts to calm Mrs Jablonski down failed: she broke from the plump elderly woman’s restraining grasp, and ran off the court. Another burst of delighted speculation from the spectators; then, as the older couple and Esmé’s partner followed her, the din gradually began to die down and the crowd began to disperse in search of afternoon tea.

    Jake stood over them, grinning sheepishly. “Bit of a bloody farce, eh?”

    “Come and sit down, Jenny,” said Polly, smiling at her. “Would you like a drink?”

    Jenny accepted in a timid little voice and Rod passed her a can of Coke. Jake took a beer, drank half of it in one draught, and sighed loudly.

    “Hey!” said Rod suddenly. “That means you’re through to the finals, Jake!”

    Jake and Jenny looked at each other, startled. “I suppose we are,” said Jake weakly.

    “Yes,” she agreed. “I hadn’t really thought...”

     Suddenly they all began to laugh.

    “How the Hell did we end up with this lot?” he growled into her neck, coming up behind her in the kitchen as she prepared a huge bowl of non-alcoholic punch.

    Polly dropped some slices of lemon into the bowl, sighed, leant back against his warm, sturdy body, and admitted ruefully: “I dunno, Jake! Old Jack Hanly came up just as I was asking Jack and Marjory Banks, so of course I had to invite the Hanlys, too... But I dunno how the rest of them got here!”

    “No! Well, Rod said would I ask the Wisemans, but I dunno how the Higginbothams got invited.” He lifted the plait off the back of her neck and kissed her just underneath the hairline. “I remember now: that was when me and little Jenny had just beaten Jack and Mrs H. in the quarter-final; musta got a bit carried away!”

    She smiled, and opened a carton of pineapple juice. “What about the Singhs?”

    “You like them, don’t you?”

    “Yes, they’re very nice.” She poured the juice into the bowl.

    “Yeah—thought you liked them; that’s why I asked them!” he said happily.

    He felt her body shake with silent laughter against him. “What about your old cobbers and their wives?”

    “Forgot it was this evening I’d asked Ron and Muriel and Ces and Nell over for drinks,” he admitted sheepishly.

    She was definitely laughing now. “I thought you must’ve! Thank God we got home before they arrived!”

    “Don’t seem to be operating on all cylinders,” he mumbled, pressing himself into her. “Too many other things on me mind!” His hands came round and cupped her breasts. “How soon do ya reckon we can get rid of them all?”

    “We-ell...” Polly looked in a considering way at the bowl of fruit punch, and began to slice a lime for it. “Most of them’ll probably go after they’ve had a couple of drinks—but if you’ve asked Rod and the Wisemans to tea... And I suppose we’d better feed Rog, too.”

    “Mm.” She was wearing her lacy white blouse today; his hands caressed the smooth skin of her midriff, then came quickly up inside the abbreviated blouse.

    “That’s awfully distracting! What if someone comes in?” she said weakly.

    “Don’t care,” he murmured, pressing even closer.

    Polly found that her eyes had filled with tears. What an idiot! The idiot said aloud, in a very odd voice: “I love you so much, Jake!”

    He turned her swiftly to face him, pushed her back firmly against the bench and began to kiss her hungrily, hands still in her blouse, prick hot and hard against her green shorts.

    After a while Polly drew a very deep breath and said shakily: “We’d better stop, I think.”

    “Yeah.” He made a face. “Wish we could get shut of this crew.”

    Swallowing a smile, Polly gave him the trigger: “The sooner we get some drinks down them, the sooner they’ll go!”

    Sure enough, he was galvanized: “This about ready, now?” (Taste—doubtful face.) “Needs more ice—and it’s a bit too sweet...” (Grab lemon, squeeze busily.) “Whaddabout putting some bubbly in it, eh?” (Bustle over to fridge, grab ice-block tray; empty ice-blocks into bowl; taste again) “Yeah—needs something to brighten it up!”

    Polly objected that young Jenny wouldn’t drink alcohol—and she rather thought the Singhs didn’t, either. Jake emptied a bottle of Perrier into the bowl, tasted, emptied another bottle of Perrier, tasted again, made a face. “No guts.”

    “It doesn’t have to have guts, it just has to be cool and refreshing. Why don’t you open a bottle of champagne, if that’s what you feel like?”

    “Okay!” He dug eagerly in the fridge. “Ah!”

    They all seemed to be having such a bloody good time, their host thought ungraciously, that it was ages before the last of ’em pushed off, leaving him and Pol with just Rog, young Rod and the Wisemans, mother and daughter, and Marjory and Jack Banks. They were all out on the patio, and the younger ones were fooling around in the pool, wearing the spare togs that Jake kept for guests. –Maybe choosing the patio wasn’t that tactful, but no-one had seemed to mind, and it had been a very warm day.

    Then the doorbell went.

    Jake and Polly looked at each other uncertainly.

    “Was that the front door?” she said.

    “Sounded like it,” he grunted.

    “I’ll go.”

    Jake bounded up. “No! Uh—you stay here, Pol—I’ll get it.”

    “Violet!” he said in astonishment at the front door.

    Old Miss Macdonald almost fell into his arms. “Is Polly all right—is everything all right?”

    Over her head he could see the taxi—a city taxi! Musta cost the old duck a fortune! As he stared the driver called out crossly: “Hey, lady! You gonna pay me, or what?”

    “Pol’s fine,” he said numbly. “Look, you come in; I’ll take care of the taxi.”

    Miss Macdonald heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord—I’m in time! Where is she?”

    “Out on the patio,” he said blankly. “What the—”

    But she’d shot past him and was heading for the living-room and the patio. Numbly Jake paid off the taxi and turned to follow her. What the Hell? Had the old duck lost it?

    Miss Macdonald threw the French windows wide. “Polly!”

    Polly was sprawled on a sun-lounger in the yellow bikini that matched the pool furniture, rather full of champagne and the little cheesy biscuits that she’d developed a craving for lately.

    “Hullo, Aunty Vi,” she said numbly.

    “Thank Heavens you’re all right!” said the old lady on a sob.

    She sat up quickly. “’Course I’m all right! What on earth’s up?”

    “I came to warn you—” the old lady gasped.

    “Warn me?” faltered Polly, getting slowly to her feet.

    “Warn both of you—about Esmé Jablonski! I tried to ring you—but that silly machine was on!” Miss Macdonald gasped. “So I had to come—to warn you—to tell you—”

    “Don’t bother to tell her anything, Violet Macdonald!” broke in a harsh voice.

    “Jesus!” said Jake from behind Violet; at the same moment Rod, sitting up abruptly on his sun-lounger, gasped: “Esmé!” and dropped his glass with a crash.

    “Yes: Esmé,” said Mrs Jablonski with grim satisfaction, advancing on them steadily from the direction of the pool gate.

    “Look out—she’s got a gun!” cried Rod.

    She swung round on him. “That’s right: your stupid father’s pistol—so shut up, or you’ll get it first!”

    Rod turned chalk white and sank back onto his yellow and white striped cushions. Mutely Felicity Wiseman reached from the neighbouring sun-lounger to lay a comforting hand on his. Rod clutched it convulsively.

    “Just keep still, the rest of you,” said Mrs Jablonski in a frighteningly normal tone, “and you won’t get hurt.”

    She continued her steady advance towards the group by the French windows: Polly, motionless by her sun-lounger, Miss Macdonald in the doorway, and Jake behind her.

    In the shallow end of the pool the trembling Roger gauged the distance from where he stood. No: he could never make it—he’d splash too much—she’d shoot him before he was even out of the water. Everyone else was too far away: Rod and Mrs Whatsername on the far side of Polly, and Mrs Banks beyond them. Jack Banks and the little red-haired teenager were down at the deep end of the pool: they’d been diving from the springboard.

    “Get out of the way, Violet Macdonald,” said Mrs Jablonski, still in that awful conversational voice. “Not that I’d mind having to shoot you: all you Macdonalds have always thought you were Lady Muck or someone, haven’t you?” She gave her dreadful socialite titter. The hand with the gun shook slightly.

    “Come on, Aunty Vi,” said Jake’s soft rumble. His big hands came down on the old lady’s frail shoulders. Reluctantly the little elderly figure moved outside.

    Esmé waved the gun at her. “Stand over there!”

    Slowly Violet moved away to Esmé’s left, out of the line of fire and on the other side of the doorway from Polly.

    Jake stepped out and glared at his ex-wife. “Right: you got me where you want me; get on with it!”

    Esmé grinned at him. “Don’t think I won’t, Jacob Carrano! Just step out a bit further—that’s right: stop there!”

    She raised the gun.

    “Esmé!” said Miss Macdonald sharply. “Stop this silly nonsense at once!”

    “Shut up, Violet,” said Esmé pleasantly, not looking at her. She smiled at Jake, and took aim. “Now...”

    “NO!” screamed Polly.

    Then everything happened at once: Polly flung herself at Jake; the gun went off with a deafening roar; somebody screamed; and the tall, honey-tan figure in the yellow bikini and the dark, stocky one still in tennis whites crashed heavily to the ground.