Nuts and Bolts

26

Nuts And Bolts

    “Look, piss off!” shouted Dave Short. What with having been up all night and now being called out again at crack of dawn on a Sunday— In any case, the D.C.I. was mad: there was no proof at all that the Jablonski woman had done it; if they arrested all the middle-aged moos that had gone a bit batty, by Christ the gaols’d be— “I SAID, PISS OFF!”

    Anne stood her ground. “It’s a public road, and my mother’s a tax-payer!” –This remark would considerably have startled Felicity Wiseman. Mr Forsyth, Anne’s teacher of last year, would probably have been very pleased to hear it, however.

    Jim Baxter came out of the station, yawning and looking cross. As well he might, thought Dave sourly, being hauled out of bed at this hour—though at least he hadn’t been stuck up the boo-eye in a flaming car all night!

    “What in God’s name’s all the yelling in aid of?”

    “Her,” said Dave sourly.

    “What’s she done?”

    “Nothing!” shouted Anne.

    Jim raised his eyebrows comically at Dave.

    “She keeps asking fatuous bloody questions and getting in the way.”

    “I’m entitled to be on a public street!” shouted Anne.

   “Not if you’re blocking public access, you’re not,” said Jim mildly.

    Glaring, Anne backed off a bit.

    “We could say she’s an unlicensed demo,” suggested Ronnie Ngatea, appearing in the doorway.

    “Get out of here!” choked Jim. Ronnie retreated regretfully inside the station.

    “Ooh, is he an ordinary pleeceman or a SWAT man?” cried Anne, jigging up and down.

    “What?” said Jim weakly.

    Dave began heavily: “It’s those jokers from town that came in the bus, she thinks they— Yeah, all right, laugh!” he shouted. “Only when I tried to line ’em up and inspect ’em she—It’s all right for SOME!” he shouted. “You don’t have to answer to my guv’nor!”

    Jim replied genially, rocking on his heels a bit in the morning sun and hooking his thumbs into his belt: “He hates being called ‘Guv’nor’, did you know that? Also ‘Chief’ and all those other dumb things that you musta got off those Pommy and Yank TV shows you’ve trained yourself on.”

    “Very funny. I suppose you’re full of bacon and eggs.”

    “Eh? No: too much cholesterol for a bloke of my age. No: grilled tomatoes, a wee bit of grilled ham, and wholemeal toast. Followed by a few stewed nectarines with cornflakes.”

    Dave made a growling noise through his teeth and stomped inside.

    Jim put his hand over his mouth.

    Anne came closer. “Hullo. You’re the sergeant, aren’t you?”

    “Yeah.” He looked at her again. Red plaits... “Didn’t we interview your mum?”

    Anne came much closer. “Yeah! We had Rod’s car the night that man was murdered, so he couldn’t of done it, could he?”

    “Couldn’t he?”

    “No-o... Well, he said we were his alibi.”

    Jim debated telling her that young Jablonski had been having her on, but decided against it. “Yeah, I guess you are, at that. And you’re certainly his car’s alibi.”

    “Yes, it couldn’t possibly have been the getaway car, could it?”

    “No,” said Jim, very weakly indeed.

    “Who do you think did it?” breathed Anne.

    “I’m not allowed to say.”

    “Aw.” She thought this over. “Is that man your boss, or are you the boss of him?”

    “Eh? Oh! The D.S. Uh—neither. We’re both sergeants, ya see.”

    “He hasn’t got a uniform, though.”

    “No, he’s a D.S.: Detective Sergeant,” said Jim, poker-face. “They don’t wear uniforms.”

    “No; Mike doesn’t wear a uniform, either.”—Jim gulped.—“Are you in the pleece union?”

    “Uh—yeah.”

    “Can I have a go on your radio?”

    “No,” said Jim definitely.

    Anne looked disappointed but not surprised. “He hasn’t got a radio, eh?”

    “Who?”

    “The D.S., of course,” she replied as to the manner born.

    “Well, he has, but he’s not carrying it at this precise moment.”

    “Oh. Well, where is it?”

    “Um—in his car, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Jim, very weakly indeed.

    “Which is his car?”

    “Uh—that white job.”

    “It’s quite nice, I suppose. –Mike’s got a red car!”

    “Yeah, I know. Is he a friend of yours?”

    “Yes, he showed me the cells!” said Anne, jumping up and down.

    “When?” replied Jim weakly, goggling.

    “Yester—day!” she gasped, still jumping.

    “He never told me,” he said feebly.

    Anne stopped jumping. “He’s higher up than you, isn’t he?”

    “Yeah. Too right. He’s very high up. Much higher up than D.S. Short,” he added with satisfaction as Dave reappeared in the doorway.

    “Where is he?” he demanded sourly.

    “Don’t ask me,” returned Jim mildly.

    “Well, do you reckon I should start the briefing?”

    In reply, Jim merely snorted.

    “I know what that is!” volunteered Anne.

    “Piss off,” said Dave sourly.

    “It’s when the high-up pleeceman tells all his men what to do!” said Anne, jigging a bit. “I’ve seen it on TV!”

    “You two oughta get together,” Jim said to Dave. “She’d probably think it was Roger, A-okay when you called your guv’nor ‘Chief’.”

    “I hope those flaming stewed nectarines go through you like a dose of salts!” retorted the D.S. bitterly. He marched indoors.

    “I only had a banana and a peach for breakfast,” said Anne sadly.

    “Shoulda stayed at home, then,” replied Jim mildly.

    Silence fell. Anne gazed at the sergeant. The sergeant gazed at the street. Eventually she said: “Where have they all gone?”

    Jumping, Jim replied: “Eh? Who?”

    “The SWAT team!”

    “Uh—oh. Them. Out the back, they’re having a cup of tea and—uh—polishing their long-range, high-velocity—” he nearly said “pencils” but thought better of it—“rifles.”

    “Ooh! Can I look?”

    Jim shook his head sadly. “Nope. ’Fraid not. Security.”

    Anne’s eyes were very round. “You can rely on me: I’m going to be a woman detective when I grow up!”

    “Sorry. Regulations.”

    “I mean a proper one. In the Force! Not a private eye.”

    Jim gulped, but rather fortunately the little red Mazda hove in sight and he was able to say: “Here’s your high-up mate himself.”

    “Ooh, good!” cried Anne. “Hullo, Mike; hullo, Mike!”

    The Mazda drew up with a graunching of gears and a groaning of brakes. Jim gave the obligatory wince.

    “What in God’s name are you doing here at this hour?” said Mike, getting out.

    “I came to see you!” gasped Anne. “There’s lots and lots of pleecemen here today: there’s the SWAT team and everything!”

    “Eh?” said Mike weakly.

    “The blokes from town. Complete with navy-blue bus,” said Jim, poker-face.

    “Oh! You mean—” He glanced at Anne, lips twitching. “The SWAT team.”

    “Yes,” croaked Jim, staring.

    “Are they all your men?” asked Anne, starting to jump. “Are you going to brief them all?”

    “Uh—yeah. Are your lot here, Jim?”

    “Been here for hours. What kept ya?”

    A little smile hovered on Mike’s lips. “Sorry. Had to have breakfast.”

    “I never had any,” said Anne very sadly.

    “What a lie, you just told me you had a banana and a peach,” said Jim instantly.

    “That was only a snack!” she protested.

    Mike’s lips twitched again. “Well, just possibly if we go inside Sergeant Baxter might be able to rustle us up a cup of tea. And possibly a pleece biscuit.”

    “Like we had yesterday!” gasped Anne, turning puce with excitement.

    “Mm.”

    “You owe this station a packet of Shrewsbury’s,” noted Jim, tottering inside.

    “Half a packet. Only because I restrained her forcibly, mind you.”

    “Ya don’t say. –Oy, RONNIE!”

    “What?” said Ronnie, poking his head round the door of the interview room.

    “What are you doing in there? Get out here!”

    “I can’t, Sarge!” gasped Ronnie, eyes bulging.

    “What the—” said Jim, as Anne investigated busily and Ronnie retreated hurriedly.

    “He hasn’t got any trousers on,” she reported.

    “WHAT? RONALD!” He pounded on the door. “What the fuck are you up to in there?”

    “My zip’s busted, Sarge, I’m trying to fix it!” gasped a strangled voice from beyond the door.

    “Mine did that once. On my school uniform. Mum said it was my fault, but it wasn’t, I never done anything—”

    “Shut up!” gasped Mike.

    “—to it. It just busted, all of a sudden. Down here: see?” She twisted and displayed her flank.

    “What school do you go to?” said Mike, very faintly.

    “I’m going to Puriri High this year!”

    “Oh. Were you at Intermediate last year?”

    “Not really,” said Anne regretfully. “There isn’t one. But the First and Second Formers are allowed to wear uniforms!”

    “Not compulsory,” explained Jim. “RONNIE! Open this door, ya birk! –Only they all want to, isn’t it strange? Conformism run wild, or something. Only then they get to high school and their mums have to battle to make ’em wear the bloody things. –RONALD!”

    Suddenly the door opened a crack and an apologetic voice said: “I think I’ll have to go home and get my spare pair, Sarge.”

    “Why?” asked Jim nastily. “Won’t you be too fat for them, too?”

    “I’m not! It’s the flaming zip, it’s not my fault!”

    “He is quite fat!” hissed Anne.

    Biting his lip, Mike returned in a strangled voice: “Yes. Shall we see if there’s any tea going out the back?”

    “Ye-es... Only I’m not allowed to go out in the yard, because of security!”

    “What?” said Mike—very faintly, the sergeant was glad to hear.

    “The SWAT team! They’re polishing their high-velocity rifles!” hissed Anne.

    “Their—” Mike gulped. “Oh, those rifles,” he said with an evil look at Jim. “Sergeant Baxter told you about those, did he?”

    Anne went very red and gasped: “Yes, but I’m as close as the grave, he wasn’t breaching security with me! And I’m a New Zealand citizen and not a communist or anything and I’m going to be a woman detective on the Force and everything!”

    “Have you ever heard of the Eketahuna?” asked Mike awfully. –Jim gulped.

    “No,” admitted Anne.

    “It’s our equivalent of the Lubyanka, you’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”

    “Yes, it’s where the Russian Secret Pleece put you and you’re never heard of again!”

    “The KGB, yes,” agreed Mike. “Well, people who go round spreading loose talk about our secret high-velocity SWAT rifles end up in Eketahuna and are never heard of again! Especially sergeants with big loose mouths,” he added evilly.

    A muffled snort escaped Jim Baxter.

    Mike put his hand on Anne’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get that cuppa.”

    “And a biscuit.”

    “Yeah, definitely a biscuit.”

    They went behind the counter and through to the back. Sergeant Baxter held onto the door of the interview room, shaking. Strange wheezing noises escaped him.

    Dave came in and stopped dead. “Jim? Are you okay?”

    “I never thought I’d live to see the day!” he wheezed. Slowly he straightened and turned to face him. “That little red-headed kid’s winding him round her little finger!” he gasped. “He’s out the back feeding her on my Shrewsbury’s right now!”

    “No, he isn’t, I ate them,” replied Dave with satisfaction. “Some of us never stuffed ourselves like pigs on tomatoes and ham and bloody nectarines this morning, because some of us were UP ALL NIGHT!”

    Jim mopped his eyes. “You oughta get married, Dave. Nice wee wifey, lovely hot brekkie, steaming hot tea on the table waiting for you with a nice iced beer beside it when you come home all tuckered out from a weary day’s—”

    “GET STUFFED!” shouted the D.S. He flung outside.

    “All in good time, lad, all in good time,” murmured Jim, grinning. “Only just had me breakfast, after all!”

    “What are they doing?” said Polly, hanging out of the window of the upstairs bedroom she’d decided to use for her study.

    Jake came up behind her. “Who cares?” He pressed himself against her bum. “Mmm.”

    “One-track mind!” said Polly with a giggle. “No, look, Jake: those are police cars.”

    Jake peered. “Uh—yeah. Could be.”

    “Down the old road, what on earth—?”

    “Lookin’ for clues,” he said with a sniff.

    “Aw, yeah! Clues like thistles and tea-tree and old prams and used condoms.”

    Jake pressed into her bum again. “Yeah.”

    “I suppose it must be something to do with Don Banks, what do you think?”

    Jake grunted.

    Polly went on hanging out the window but she said: “That was a masculine noncommittal noise, if ever I heard one. You know something about this, don’t you?”

    “Uh—not about this specific do, no.”

    “What did Mike actually say to you the other day?”

    Jake took a deep breath. “He reckons Esmé done it,” he said glumly.

    “What?” she gasped, turning round.

    “You heard,” he said sourly, pulling an awful face.

    “But why?”

    Shrugging, he replied: “Doesn’t have to be a why. She’s mad. Probably decided she didn’t want to make a fortune out of ruddy Don Banks after all and shoved ’im in the pool on the strength of it. Who knows?”

    Polly stared at him.

    Jake sighed. He fiddled with a wispy curl that was tickling her cheek and tucked it back behind her ear. Polly looked at him doubtfully. He made a face. “Collingwood reckons she’s pretty well off her rocker—might take it into ’er noggin to have a go at someone else. Like for instance you or me. Or poor old Jerzy, I suppose.”

    “Did—did Mike actually say that, Jake?” she faltered.

    Jake shrugged, looking very sour. “As far as I can recall, he said something about when a person’s gone over the edge no-one’s safe, and—uh—something about you and me needing to take special care in this particular case.”

    Polly thought about it. Finally she said weakly: “She must have been awfully determined, though: I mean, to—to hold him under.”

    “Determined’s always been her middle name,” he replied grimly.

    Polly shivered. “It’s awful, Jake!”

    “Yes,” he said heavily, putting his arm round her. “It is.”

    There was a long silence.

    “That’s why you weren’t keen on coming back here,” said Polly at last.

    Jake sighed. “Yeah. If she’s off her rocker, she could be gunning for us. You’ll have to be careful, sweetheart. Not go waltzing round the hill all by yourself. Keep the doors locked when I’m at work—you know.”

    “Mm.”

    He gave her a bear-hug. “Come on, let’s make a cup of coffee, eh?”

    He was glad to see that once she’d got some hot coffee down her the pinched, white look disappeared. “Well, whaddaya want to fetch down first?”

    “My books. I’ll measure my bookcases, first. I’m not too sure how they’re going to fit into that spare room.”

    “Look, I could have that room lined with shelves— Oh, all right: have it your own way.”

    “Um—what about Grey?”

    “If bloody Esme’s planning to drown that flaming animal, I’ll be right there holding her coat!”

    “That’s horrible, Jake!” she cried.

    “Yeah. Sorry. Only the brute did bite me ankle.”

    “It was only a joke.”

    “A JOKE?”

    “You were standing in the kitchen right next to his empty bowls and he was hungry. So he—”

    “Bit me for a joke. Yeah, hah, hah. I really laughed. Anyway, what about him?”

    “I’ll have to keep going up and down and feeding him. Every morning and evening.”

    “Let Rog do it.”

    “No!” she cried. “He’s my cat!”

    “All right.” He got up. “I’ll come with ya. Morning and flaming evening. Evening and flaming morning.”

    “Mm. Well, maybe Mike will—will prove she did it.”

    “Yeah. With all them used condoms and old prams they’re finding down Old Reserve Road. Or you could try bringing the animal down here.”

    “Not if you’re gonna get rid of this place, Jake, that’d be two moves for him.”

    They had already had this conversation. The bloody creature was too sensitive and blah, blah. Not that she’d objected when he said he didn’t fancy this dump any more, with the ghost of old Don on the ruddy patio. He sighed. “Right. Come on, let’s get it over with.”

    Up at her chalet she started measuring the miles of bookshelves. No sign of the— Blast!

    “Crrr-oak! Croak, croak, croak!”

    “Can you feed him, Jake?”

    “Look, five thousand to one he’ll’ve already conned a breakfast off Rog this morn—All right!” He didn’t have to call it, the minute he took a step towards the kitchen it did its bloody trick of dashing between your legs.

    In the kitchen Jake looked doubtfully at the cat and the cat looked doubtfully at him.

    “Well, old feller,” he grunted, “looks like we’ll have to get used to each other, eh?”

    To his surprise Grey pressed briefly against his ankles before settling to his food.

    Going back down the hill Polly stopped dead in the middle of the track and sniffed hard.

    “Whassup?”

    “Nothing. Just the smell,” she said, smiling at him. “I remember Rog remarked on it way back when he first came up here. He was right, it has got a lovely smell. Grey’ll miss it awfully when we move.”

    Personally he doubted if the brute’d even notice, so long as it got its two huge meals a day. “Mm-mm…” He looked round slowly. “Well, there are other possibilities… Build up here?”

    “You have built up here, that flaming palace down there belongs—”

    “No, ya clot! Up here, on the cliff top. Lovely view of the sea!”

    Polly’s face lit up. “Then Daph wouldn’t have to lose her job!”

    Uh—yeah. “Mm. Think about it, eh?”

    She beamed at him. “Yes, let’s!”

    “Have you found anything?” asked a breathless voice.

    Mike swung round abruptly. “What the blazes are you doing here?” he yelled.

    Anne shrank. “I only came to watch.”

    He sighed, and passed a grimy hand across his sweaty forehead. “How in God’s name did you get here, anyway?”

    “On the bus. Well, partly.” Mike opened his mouth but before he could say anything she said quickly: “It was my own pocket money, I’m allowed to spend it any way I like!”

    “I thought the bus didn’t come up to the Bay in the weekends?” he replied feebly.

    “No, it doesn’t: it stops up on the main road.”

    She’d trudged all the way from the highway, then. Mike sighed. “Look, you can stay until lunchtime, okay? And”—making the supreme sacrifice—“I suppose you can come back to lunch with me, if you like.”

    “Ooh, ta, Mike! Can I really come to your place?”

    “Yeah, I suppose so. –It isn’t my place, it’s a motel.”

    “Thank you very much!” she gasped ecstatically.

    “That’s okay. Now, look, I’ve got to get back to it. You stay behind the tapes and—uh—if any local kids come nosing around, tell them to push off, eh? Tell them I said— Tell them I put you in charge, and if there’s any nonsense from them they’ll have me to deal with!”

    “Righto, Guv’nor!” replied Anne proudly.

    “I’ve been up here before!” she announced as they pulled in to The Blue Heron.

    “Good,” replied Mike, not listening.

    “You can get down to the creek through there!”

    “Mm.”

    “Alec reckons there’s eels in it, but there aren’t, he’s du—”

    “Yeah. Shut up a minute, if you can. Is there anything you don’t eat?”

    “Parsnips.”

    Mike shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Is that It?” he said, opening them.

    “Well, I don’t much like silverbeet.”

    “That’s a Helluva pity, we were planning to have parsnip and silverbeet sandwiches.”

    “Hah, hah,” replied Anne without animus.

    Mike got out of the car. “Stay put.”

    “Aw-wuh! Can’t I have a look at your room?”

    “It’s not a room, it’s a unit. I suppose you can, if you want to. Here’s the key.” He gave it to her. “I’ve got to go along to the office, I won’t be long. Don’t touch anything in there.”

    “I’m not a baby,” replied Anne with dignity, getting out of the car.

    No, thought Mike glumly: on the whole it might be a lot easier to cope with the situation if you were. He went slowly over to the office.

    “And I’ll have two of those big bottles of Coke and— Did I say cheese?” demanded the fat woman up at the counter. Molly admitted she’d said cheese. “Oh. Well, what else... Stanley! Come over here!”

    Stanley, a meek little man half her size, had been inspecting the shelf of chemist’s articles with interest. He came meekly back to her side.

    “What else do we need?” she demanded.

    “Milk?” he replied hopefully.

    “Don’t you provide that?” said the woman to Molly in threatening tones.

    “We provide a small carton every day. With the coffee and tea.”

    “We’ve used all our tea-bags,” the little man said in a whingey voice.

    The woman glared at Molly.

    “Um—well, I could let you have some more.” She put some on the counter.

    “I think we’re out of sugar,” the little man said.

    Molly put several small packets of sugar on the counter.

    “I suppose we’ll have to buy some milk,” grumbled the woman. Molly didn’t say anything, so she said to Stanley in a commanding voice: “Stanley! Get a carton of milk out of the fridge! And make sure it’s not that horrible skimmed stuff!”

    “It’s sort of bluish, isn’t it?” ventured Molly.

    “Revolting,” said the woman, shuddering. “Tastes like nothing on earth, the Lord knows what they do to it in those factories. –Ham!” she said loudly.—Molly jumped.—“Have you got any ham?”

    “Yes; it’s out the back; I won’t be a minute.” She gave Mike an anxious, timid smile, and vanished.

    While they waited the fat woman told Stanley to have a good look for some decent jam, not that she thought there was any, and to pass her that Woman’s Weekly, though she supposed it was last week’s, places like this never bothered to get the latest issue, and to put that thing back, they’d had a free Sunday newspaper this morning. She then favoured Mike with a view of her false teeth and said: “Humid, isn’t it?”

    “Mm, horrible. Where are you from?”

    The fat woman and Stanley were from Wanganui and according to her it was never this humid down there. Mike informed her, poker-face, that February was the worst month for the humidity, up here.

    She then embarked on a blow-by-blow criticism of The Blue Heron’s facilities and even though Molly came back well before it was over, didn’t lower her voice.

    “Is this the only brand you’ve got?”

    Molly admitted meekly: “Um… Kiwi. Yes, I think it is.”

    The woman inspected the ham narrowly and decided at long length that it’d have to do. Did Molly have any tomatoes? Molly had had but they were all gone.

    “Really!”

    “It’s so humid, most people only fancy a salad in this weather, don’t they?” said Molly timidly.

    Ignoring this totally, the fat woman commanded Stanley to put that back, we never drink that stuff, and demanded a large carton of Wall’s ice-cream. Neapolitan. Molly explained nervously that she only kept Tip-Top.

    “When my sister was up here she had Wall’s,” said the woman threateningly.

    “Tip-Top bought out Wall’s years ago,” said Mike in a very bored voice.

    Bridling, the fat woman supposed it’d have to do. After Molly had brought it in from the big freezer out the back she remembered that she needed a small packet of frozen peas. Molly obediently trotted out again. By this time Mike was simmering, and not only because it was a stiflingly hot day and the little office was like an oven.

    Molly was wrapping the peas when an elderly gent in neat navy shorts, a pale yellow tee-shirt, and a grey cotton hat came in. “Good afternoon,” he said, smiling at them.

    Everybody replied “Good afternoon,” even the fat woman.

    The elderly gent then chatted in an amiable way about the humidity, the fact that he and his wife were from Lower Hutt, the fact that he was getting excellent mileage from his Mitsubishi Lancer, the fact that they’d been for quite a long drive this morning—he described the route in detail—and the fact that they thought they’d go across to Helensville this afternoon, it looked like a nice drive, and he had a good AA route map. Stanley got quite excited at this point and began to tell him about the easiest route, which you couldn’t necessarily tell was the easiest from the map, but you went north—yes, north—and turned off at— But at this point his wife, having paid for her purchases whilst expressing shock, horror and dismay at the prices, dragged him away.

    “If I was you I’d just go down the main road until you get to the big intersection,” Molly said in an anxious voice to the elderly gent.

    He began to tell her about the way he’d found of getting to Opononi last weekend that everybody had said was really impossible, but broke off to urge Mike to be served. After a prolonged interchange of mutual protestations and disclaimers, he was at last talked into letting himself be served first, bought a very small jar of instant coffee and an even smaller jar of Vegemite, warmly recommended the Mitsubishi Lancer to them both, and exited.

    “Phew!” said Mike, leaning heavily on the counter. “How do you stand it?”

    “They’re usually like that. Either awful or very nice,” said Molly, smiling.

    “Which one was very nice?” asked Mike with bulging eyes.

    “Don’t be horrid!” she said, giggling.

    Mike was about to warn her that the planned horizontal lunch was off, but he didn’t have to, because at that moment Anne came in, very red and ruffled, and said crossly: “The key won’t work, Mike!”

    “Who’s this?” said Molly weakly.

    Mike put his hand gently on Anne’s solid shoulder. “This is Anne Wiseman, she’s a friend of mine. She’s going to be a detective when she grows up. Anne, this is Mrs Pettigrew, she’s the lady who owns the motel.”

    “The whole motel?” breathed Anne. “Heck! Are you a millionaire?”

    “Not nearly, I’m afraid,” said Molly, smiling at her. “It’s very nice to meet you, Anne. Are you going to have lunch with us?”

    Anne nodded vigorously. “Mm! If you don’t mind?”

    “No, of course not, dear, you’re very welcome. It won’t be anything fancy, though, Just ham and tomatoes.”

    “Tomatoes?” said Mike pointedly.

    Molly looked at him and giggled.

    Felicity Wiseman sighed and replaced her receiver. She tried very hard not to wonder how old this female motel-owner that was apparently feeding Anne—and Mike—was, and whether she was married. She went into the kitchen and looked sourly at her own lunch: a small carton of cottage cheese, two lettuce leaves and a small tomato, accompanied by a can of Diet Coke. Ugh.

    At the tennis club Rod lay on his stomach on the scruffy grass under an old puriri. “At least bloody Esmé isn’t here,” he said in a muffled voice.

    “No; wasn’t that awful, yesterday?” agreed Jenny Wiseman.

    “You saw it, didja?” he replied glumly.

    “Mm.” There was a pause. “Is it true she once played at Wimbledon?” she asked.

    “Who told ya that?” he grunted, not looking round.

    “She did,” said Jenny in an uncertain voice.

    Rod sniffed. “Well, it isn’t. She could have gone, mind you, but she chickened out at the last minute. There was a stinking row about it, evidently. They told her she’d never play for New Zealand again, or something.”

    “Oh. And did she?”

    “No. But I dunno if that was because they’d blacklisted her, or because she’d taken a scunner to them. –Mind you, I s’pose she wasn’t as mad in those days,” he added fairly, if dubiously. “It was yonks ago.” He rolled over onto his back, and yawned. “Before she married Jake, even.”

    “Oh.” Skinny little Jenny, who was in her last year at school and fully aware that the only reason Rod even noticed her existence was because she was good at tennis—good enough to give him a decent game if he couldn’t get hold of Richpal Singh—looked at him miserably with a heart bursting with love, and didn’t say anything.

    Rod smiled. “Mind you, my Dad made the Commonwealth Games, in his day.”

    “Really?” she gasped. “What in?”

    “Rifle shoot. Crack shot, and all that. Before I was born. He reckons he learned to shoot on ’is ancestral acres, back in Poland, but Jake’s always reckoned ’e learned it poaching off someone else’s ancestral acres!” He chuckled.

    Jenny smiled faintly. “Oh.” She looked at him cautiously. His blue eyes gazed blankly up into the dark branches of the old tree. “Don’t you mind?” she said timidly.

    “What about? Dad being a soak?”

    “No,” she said, going very red. “Not—not being able to have your heritage, and all that.”

    “Eh?” said Rod, turning his head and goggling at her.

    “Your father’s estates,” she explained in a small voice.

    “Estates my arse! No, even if all that garbage he spouts is true—and it isn’t, mind you—I don’t give a stuff. Not into the feudal system.” He sniffed faintly and closed his eyes.

    Jenny went on looking at him, since he couldn’t see her doing it. “No,” she agreed.

    “Are you hungry?” said Rod with his eyes shut.

    “Mm, starving.”

    “So’m I. How much cash have you got on you?”

    “Um... Forty-seven cents,” discovered Jenny sadly.

    “Bugger.” Rod sat up and felt in his pockets.

    “Ten dollars,” pointed out Jenny.

    He made a face. “Petrol money. Can’t spend that, I’d never be able to get into town next week.”

    “Do you have to go? Term doesn’t start till the week after, does it?”

    “No, but I had a note from the library to say they’ve got a book for me from Australia. On interloan—you know. I’ll have to go in and get it.”

    “Oh,” said Jenny in awe. “I never knew they did that.”

    “Only for grads and staff,” said Rod, counting his loose change. “Shit. That makes—um—three dollars sixteen.”

    “I’m not all that hungry,” lied Jenny bravely.

    “Crap.”

    “We could go to my place, Mum wouldn’t mind.”

    Rod wasn’t too sure about that. “I suppose I could offer Mrs Cyril a bribe. Would she be interested in me fair young body, do ya reckon? Haven’t got anything else to offer.”

    Jenny had gasped and turned puce. “No!” she squeaked with her hand over her mouth.

    Rod got up and held out his hand to her, grinning. “Come on. We’ll go back to my place, I’ve got plenty of sardines, and we can get a loaf of bread and a Coke at the dairy.”

    Jenny’s face lit up. She took his hand and let him pull her up. “Okay!”

    “Sorry about this,” said Mike in Molly’s ear when Anne had gone to the toilet.

    “Don’t be silly, she’s a lovely little girl!” she exclaimed, laughing.

    “Mm. Hellishly in the way, though.” He nibbled her ear gently. Molly gave a tiny squeal, and giggled.

    “Kiss me.”

    They kissed tenderly, looking up eventually to find Anne standing in the doorway with a disapproving expression on her round face. “Yeah: soppy, aren’t we?” said Mike, grinning.

    “Yes,” she said definitely.

    “Wait until you’re our age,” he said, still grinning.

    “Ugh,” she returned in disgust.

    Laughing, Mike said: “I’ve got to get back to it. You’ve got three choices: you can let me drop you off at home, you can walk home, or if Molly can stand it you can stay here and help her bottle some peaches.”

    “Stay here!” said Anne eagerly.

    “Can you stand it?” he said to Molly.

    “Of course: I’d love to have her!”

    “All right, then. But get rid of her if she’s a nuisance.”

    “I won’t be!” shouted Anne.

    “I’m not taking any bets,” murmured Mike. He kissed Molly’s cheek, said: “See ya, then!” and went off, whistling.

    Anne ran out to the door and waved madly at the disappearing Mazda.

    “He’s nice,” she said, returning.

    “Yes,” said Molly, going very pink.

    “He’s not your husband, eh?”

    “No.”

    “No, because his name’s Collingwood and yours is Petti—Petti—”

    “Pettigrew. I’m a widow, my husband died several years ago.”

    “Oh,” said Anne in a vague voice. “Mum’s divorced. That’s when you have to go to court and everything.”

    Molly was stabbed by an unexpected jolt of jealousy. “Mm,” she managed to say.

    “I’ve never bottled peaches before.”

    “Well, there’s several ways of doing it. I do it the easy way. You have to peel them first, though.”

    “What about the shop?”

    “What? Oh, the office! It can stay closed, dear, they can’t expect me to be their slave on a Sunday afternoon.”

    “No,” agreed Anne happily.

    “I have got a couple of helpers—a boy and a girl—only they’re not very reliable,” murmured Molly, going into the kitchen.

    “I could be your helper!” gasped Anne.

    Molly realised she shouldn’t have referred to Julie, who had long since left school, as a girl. Oh, dear. “Um—well, possibly in the weekends, dear. During the day. If your mother wouldn’t mind?” she said weakly to the eager, freckled face.

    “Yes, and I could come after school!” gasped Anne.

    “Ye-es... Well, it would let me slip away to the shops,” murmured Molly. “Um—well, we’d better see what your mother thinks, Anne.”

    “I’ll ring her up, shall I?”

    Poor Mrs Wiseman, thought Molly. “Um—no, I think you’d better talk it over with her properly when you get home.”

    “Aw. All right. Where are the peaches?”

    “In that big bag, dear.”

    Anne investigated. “Some of these are quite soft.”

    “Well—well, we could put those ones aside. You could take them home.”

    “Ooh, ta!” she breathed.

    Molly smiled. She got out a clean apron. “Put this on, Anne, dear.” She swathed her in it. “Peach juice stains awfully,” she said, tying the strings and restraining herself with difficulty from giving her a hug: after all, they didn’t really know each other.

    “Does Mike like bottled peaches?”

    Molly went very pink. “Yes. Well, he said he did.”

    “Good,” said Anne simply.

    Molly smiled suddenly. “Yes!” she agreed.

    It was on the Tuesday afternoon that they found it; and then it wasn’t the broken piece of exhaust pipe that Mike and Jim had hoped for, but a nut. Over the Sunday and Monday the team had swept the whole of the old road, metre by metre—without result. Mike, mouth grim, had declared: “Right! We haven’t been thorough enough; we’ll start again tomorrow and do the whole job again.”

    Tuesday was another burning day. Mike had ordered everyone to wear old clothes and sunhats—to Hell with Regulations—but half the silly buggers had nothing on their heads: thought they were immune, or something. One young constable was already off sick with a case of sunstroke—vomiting, terrific headache, blisters all over his back and neck, his mum had reported on the phone in accusing tones. Tough: Mike had warned all the blokes not to take their hats and shirts off. What could ya do?

    “Any man I catch today with his shirt off or without headgear goes on report,” he said sourly, glaring at the assembled ranks.

    A sheepish shuffling of feet ensued.

    D.S. Short offered thoughtfully: “Whatcha really need in this weather is Arab headgear.”

    “Yeah—or képis,” Mike agreed. The younger man looked blank and he explained: “You know: those caps the Frogs wear—with flaps down the neck. Like in the Foreign Legion,” he added as the D.S. was still looking blank.

    Enlightenment spread over Dave Short’s round, not very bright face. “Aw, yeah!”

    Mike looked at the blokes again. “All right—who hasn’t got a hat? Step forward!”

    More shuffling. Four blokes finally edged to the front.

    “Right! You—Jenkins, isn’t it?”

    The young man in question gulped, looking terrified. “Yessir!”

    “Go and scrounge four tea-towels and some string—and quick about it!”

    When he came back with these requisites Mike personally superintended the creation of four customised “Arab” headdresses. “Right—let’s get going!”

    It was just after afternoon smoko when the nut was found: a grimy object about two centimetres across that would have been very easy to miss, especially since it was half-hidden by a sprig of tea-tree that seemed to have sprouted miraculously from what was left of the old road’s asphalt.

    “What do ya think, sir?” asked the young constable who’d found it—one of Jim’s boys, on loan for the occasion.

    “Well done, Constable!” Mike squatted, and peered at the nut. Thank God the boy hadn’t touched it: they’d all had strict instructions not to, but in the heat of the moment... “Doesn’t look as if it’s been here that long,” he muttered to himself.

    “No,” the boy agreed, squatting too. “It’d be covered in muck, I reckon, if it had of been here a while.”

    “Mm.” He stared at it in silence for a while. “Look,” he said finally, “we won’t stop the search—but I think this might be It. You run back to the cars, eh?—and get the photographer over here, pronto!”

    Jase Adams beamed all over his face. “Yes, sir!” And sprinted off up the bumpy road.

    Mike stared hard at the nut. Having photos taken in situ was probably an unnecessary precaution—but with the bloody courts these days...

    As soon as the photographer had finished Mike got the nut into an evidence bag ready for the lab boys. He’d take it in himself and breathe down their necks. He had a Hell of an uneasy feeling about the whole business. Stupid, really, but he couldn’t manage to shake it off. He’d hardly slept a wink last night, in spite of being with Molly... Rather shamefacedly he felt himself stir a little at the mere thought.

    “It’s the heat,” she’d said sympathetically, waking to find him sitting at the window, motionless, at about four in the morning.

    But it wasn’t just the heat. Or in a way, he thought, striding back to the cars, it was the heat. Even ordinary, sane people went a bit crackers when it was this hot—’specially if they were cooped up indoors on a weekend with nothing much to do. It was worse down in the city, of course; at least up here it was easy to escape to the beaches. There was that case a couple of years back: that had been in town: two jokers in a block of flats. Hadn’t been a rundown area, or anything: perfectly ordinary brick-and-tile block of six one-storey flats, just like the one Mike lived in himself, in a perfectly ordinary suburb—but the flats didn’t have gardens: Mike thought that that was significant. It had started with an argument because one bloke reckoned the other one’s whatever-it-was was drowning out his Neil Diamond and the other one said the Neil Diamond was drowning out his crap. Both old enough to know better, too. The argument developed into a wrestling match on the concrete drive outside the flats. As it was a Sunday afternoon most of the other inhabitants were at home, gawping from behind their curtains, but no-one had had the sense to call the police before it got out of hand—or even to turn a hose on the silly buggers. One of them had knocked his funny-bone hard on the concrete, seen red, grabbed a small rock from the scruffy rock garden down the edge of the drive, and bashed the other one with it. On the temple. Too hard.

    All down to the heat, they’d agreed at H.Q. Those were two perfectly ordinary jokers—one of them, Mike couldn’t even remember which, now, divorced with two little kiddies—no previous histories of violence... And look at them now: one life lost, the other ruined forever…

    He shuddered suddenly in the baking afternoon, opening his car doors to air the Mazda a bit before getting in. It was a well-documented fact that the domestic violence figures rose drastically over the Christmas period: ask him, it wasn’t just propinquity like the shrinks said, but that plus the heat. And if ordinary sane people got affected like that, well, what about someone who’d already done one murder, and who’d guessed—as all the suspects must’ve done when their cars were all carted off for examination a second time—that the police were closing in? Someone who was in far too close proximity to innocent people who could unknowingly utter the word that would trigger the flash of violence again. Driving sedately along Kupe Street in his little red car, Mike Collingwood felt sick.