Saturday Night Fever

24

Saturday Night Fever

    Sergeant Baxter was still officially off duty on the Saturday evening but he popped into the Puriri Station just to cast his eye over things. “You been here all day, Mike?”

    “Just about,” he grunted. He was surrounded by files. Several road maps lay spread open on the floor beside the desk.

    “Going over the evidence again?”

    “Yeah.” Mike fumbled around amongst the files. “Look—think we might be on to something here. Was it you who interviewed this—uh—Mrs Bailey?”

    Jim came round the desk to peer over his shoulder. “Yeah—thass right. Um... she’s a bit of a nutter, ya know, Mike. Well known round here: always ringing us up about nothing in particular. You know: noisy parties that turn out to be one kid with a guitar, stolen milk money, kids throwing litter into her garden—that sort of thing. Rings up the Council all the time, too.”

    “Mm... Pull up a chair, Jim.”

    Jim did so, his face carefully neutral,.

    “I know she’s got a bit of a bee in her bonnet; but does that mean we necessarily have to disbelieve what she says she’s observed?”

    Jim thought it did: Old Ma Bailey was pretty well bats. He preserved a discreet silence.

    “Look,” Mike went on: “here.” He pointed to a page of the verbatim report, typed up from Jim’s tape recording. They weren’t always that particular, but when it came to an eye witness, or anyone who might be crucial to an alibi, Mike insisted on having it word-for-word. Jim peered at the page in question.

    “We don’t have to accept her interpretation of what she saw or heard,” Mike went on, “but that doesn’t mean she’s got the actual facts wrong. Here: where she’s talking about the do at the Greens’ next-door.”

    Jim began to read; as he did so, the circumstances of the visit and the tone of Ma Bailey’s voice—half querulous and indignant, half avidly greedy for sensation—came back to him, and the feeling of distaste that he’d had then filled him all over again. It had been stiflingly hot in the little front room—all the windows were closed. A fly buzzed against a pane; the room smelled of furniture polish, fly spray, and the ghosts of a million meals of fish fingers and boiled cabbage. The old woman had forced a cup of tea on him; it was too hot for tea—he was dying for a cold beer.

    “This bit, ya mean?” he grunted, pointing.

    “Yeah.”

    “Mm.” At the time they’d only been interested in what Ma Bailey had to say about the Greens. Not that he’d ever suspected— After all, he’d known young Daphne all of her life, used to play bowls with her dad, for Chrissakes! But as Mike said, with murder, you had to check up on everybody.

    “She was in a state, evidently, because of the comings and goings next-door,” said Mike.

    “Yeah—thass right, she was more or less at the front curtains all evening, from what I gathered.” He read on a bit and added: “Seems to’ve been making any excuse she could to go out to the front gate.”

    “Yes. –Look,” said Mike. He picked up a piece of paper and sketched a vertical line on it. “That’s Pohutukawa Bay Road: right? Just goes straight up the hill from the main north highway and stops at the top of the cliff.” He tapped the top of the paper.

    “Now, here,”—he drew a line in the middle of the page, at right angles to the first, coming off it to the right—“you’ve got the road that you’d have to take if you were going to Carrano’s or the Reserve.”

    “Matai Street,” agreed Jim, who knew the whole area like the back of his hand. “It’s closer to the cliff end of the road than that, really.”

    “Uh—right, well, this isn’t to scale. Now, to get up to Carrano’s you go left at the end of Matai Street, here.” From the end of his horizontal line he drew in a new one, parallel to the first line, extending it up towards the top of his piece of paper.

    “Yeah—Reserve Road,” agreed Jim. “Only goes up to Carrano’s place; this is it, up here.” He put his finger at the top of the new line.

    Mike put a cross there. “Right. Now; back down here”—his pencil hovered about a centimetre below his “Matai Street”—“you’ve got the street where Ma Bailey and the Greens live—right?” He drew in another line, parallel with Matai Street but not quite as long.

    “Yep: Kupe Street,” said Jim. “Ma Bailey’s right at the far end of it”—he picked up a ballpoint and marked a “B” at the end of Kupe Street farthest from the main road—“and the Greens are next to her.” He put a “G” to the left of the “B”.

    “Right. Now, there’s nobody opposite Bailey and the Greens on Kupe Street, right?”

    “No; that end of the street hasn’t been developed yet,” Jim agreed. He pointed to the far end of Matai Street, where it met the start of Reserve Road. “There’s no-one on this corner yet, either—none of this bit’s developed.” He paused. “Think Carrano owns most of it, actually—he owns all this side of Reserve Road, anyway, opposite the Reserve.” His pen hovered below Mike’s cross. He could see what Mike was driving at, of course, but he politely let the superior officer carry on.

    “Now, coming from Carrano’s you’d come down Reserve Road, turn right into Matai Street, and then left onto the main road—Pohutukawa Bay Road—and up to the highway—right?”

    “Mm.” Jim wished he’d get on with it.

    “But—” said Mike. His pencil hovered at the junction of Matai Street and Reserve Road. “If you wanted to get back to the highway without going through the settlement at all, you could take this old road, here!” His pencil drew a careful dotted line from the corner of Reserve Road and Matai Street down to the end of Kupe Street where Jim had marked the “B” and then in a long diagonal across to meet the end of his original vertical line, right at the bottom of the page.

    “Old Reserve Road,” said Jim. “Comes out in those pootercows just before the Bay Road meets the main highway—yeah.” He stared at Mike’s rough map for a moment and then said awkwardly: “But it’s a Helluva surface, Mike: hasn’t been used for years—shit, must be getting on for twenty years, now, I reckon: ever since the old farm was sold up.”

    “Yes; it isn’t even on the maps any more; but I reckon it could be done if you were desperate enough!” said Mike excitedly. “And old Mother Bailey’d be the only one with a snowflake’s hope in Hell of ever spotting you!”

    “Ye-ah.” Jim scratched his bald spot. He’d just remembered that it had been Bailey’s Farm—that’d be old Mrs Bailey’s husband, he remembered him vaguely: much older than her, he musta been, a crusty old bloke—used to chase the kids off his land with a shot-gun; never actually used it, though. It made him feel a bit funny, all of a sudden.

    Mike was tapping the file, all lit up; Jim had never seen him so excited. “And look! See?—Here—see what she says!”

    Reluctantly Jim read it over again. “‘Cars coming and going half the night,’” he quoted. “Ye-ah; but she means to the Greens’, doesn’t she?” Mike grunted, and he went on hurriedly: “And then she says: ‘I finally thought I was going to get a bit of peace at last, Sergeant—and then they started playing that dreadful music! It was so loud I thought the top of my head was coming off! Disgraceful! Can’t something be done about people like that, Sergeant? Total lack of consideration for others!’ –From what Daphne Green told me they were only playing a few old Country and Western records—not loud at all; they were having a bit of supper and playing cards, not dancing.”

    “Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Mike impatiently. “What time does she reckon that was?”

    “Um... da-da-da... Here: I said: ‘About what time would that have been, Mrs Bailey?’ and the old girl says: ‘It was really quite late, Sergeant: I was just thinking of making myself a nice cup of tea before bed; I always have a cup of tea at nine-thirty: it stimulates the digestion and soothes the stomach, you know.” He frowned, momentarily diverted. “Don’t see how it can do both.”

    “Don’t keep changing the subject!” said Mike irritably. He was uncomfortably aware that the sergeant wasn’t nearly as enthused with his wonderful new theory as he’d expected him to be.

    Jim’s stubby forefinger followed the typescript slowly as he obediently carried on: “So I said was it at nine-thirty that the music got really loud, and she said—um... ‘It was quite unbearable by then, Sergeant.’ Um... Yeah, and then she rang the Council, and there was no reply, so then she rang us. –We logged that.”

    “Yes—nine twenty-seven, that was,” said Mike briskly.

    Jim was mentally thanking his lucky stars that they had logged it; they didn’t always bother, with these nutty old pensioners that were always on the blower about one thing or another.

    “And it was after that that she went out to the letterbox for the first time, right?” said Mike.

    “Um... no; that woulda been the second time, actually,” Jim remembered. “She’d been out earlier because she thought she heard the flap on the letterbox go. That was when the Greens’ guests started arriving—she was having a snoop at them.”

    “Yes, well, never mind about that!” said Mike crossly. “She went out to the letterbox, right?”

    “Yeah—here: ‘It was getting on for half-past nine and so I went to put my milk bottle out’—then I asked her what she could hear from the garden and she goes on about the music being very loud out there—” He cast a quick glance at Mike’s face and went on hurriedly: “Then she says she decided to stretch her legs.” He made a rueful face. “Bit me head off then—’course I thought she’d gone down past the Greens’ to perve at the goings-on there and I said ‘Oh—down Kupe Street, didja go?’”

    “Mm—but she said no, she didn’t, she went up the old road to the corner of Matai Street!”

    “Yeah, thass right: I said: ‘Heck, isn’t that old road a bit overgrown for you, Mrs Bailey?’ and she says: ‘I’m a countrywoman, Sergeant Baxter!’ Poor old dame! Anyway, she got up as far as the corner of Matai Street—wouldn’t go on up Reserve Road because of ‘that man’—Carrano, she meant—and she was turning round to come home when she saw the two bikes.”

    “Mm.” Mike was peering at the transcript.

    The sergeant read laboriously: “‘I was breathing in deep lungfuls of God’s sweet air, Sergeant, when suddenly there was a dreadful noise and two horrible motorbikes roared down the road at about a hundred miles an hour, nearly knocking me off my feet!’ –Then she goes on about vandals in the Reserve, and that.”

    “And the police not doing anything to stop them!” said Mike with a smile in his voice.

    Jim was looking dubiously at the transcript. “Doesn’t seem to of noticed anything much about these motorbike riders,” he muttered. He looked up and met Mike’s eye. “Too early, anyway.”

    “Ye-es; but think, Jim! It’s significant, if the bikes were what she saw coming down Reserve Road around half-past nine!”

    “Aw—I getcha,” said Jim, looking at him with an odd expression on his face.

    “Yeah; and the next bit’s even more significant: go on!”

    “We-ell, lessee: she goes back home and makes her cuppa; that right? Yeah, she reckons that was at quarter to ten—she was later than usual, she reckons; okay, so she drinks her cuppa and goes to bed... Mm... Right! It’s this bit, isn’t it? ‘Of course I couldn’t sleep, Sergeant, because of the incessant noise from next-door; and then I heard that cat at my milkbox again!’” He looked up apologetically at Mike. “That’d be right, Mike: it’s the cat from the house the other side of the Greens’. She’s rung us up about it before: reckons it knocks her milk bottles over in the box—knocks the money out of them. Then the boys don’t see the money and don’t leave her any milk.”

    Mike in his turn was momentarily diverted. “Funny sort of thing for a cat to do,” he murmured, rubbing his straight nose.

    “Yeah—well, anyway,” said Jim uncomfortably—he reckoned it was a two-legged cat, with a remarkable resemblance to a milk boy: “she looked at her clock—it was just on ten-five—and put on her dressing-gown and went out to investigate.”

    Mike frowned. “Do you think that’s right, Jim: would she’ve looked at the time?”

    Jim scratched his bald spot. “I think so,” he said slowly. “Lot of these old girls—old blokes, too—well, they’ve got a kind of obsession about time; nothing else to do, half the time, but watch the clock.”

    Mike nodded thoughtfully. “She’d better be bloody sure about it—she may have to swear to it in court.”

    Jim swallowed and began to read again. “‘Of course there was no sign of that animal—it’s far too cunning! I was about to go inside again to rest my weary old bones, Sergeant—’ What’s this he’s got here in brackets? ‘Titters!’ Thinks he’s bloody Hansard, or something! Um... ‘when I heard the most shocking racket up on Reserve Road. Of course I said to myself, It’s those dreadful young vandals on their horrible motorbikes again; and went to the corner to do my civic duty and try to identify them for you, Sergeant. Well, as it turned out it wasn’t them at all but those other dreadful boys who have those car races—drag races, they call them—up and down Old Reserve Road all night until you feel as if the top of your head’s going to come off with the noise. It went past me like a—really, I’m not one for strong language, Sergeant, but I have to say it: like a bat out of the hot place—’” He stopped suddenly and said indignantly: “Little bastard!”

    “Aw, yeah! That’s where he’s written ‘The Sergeant chokes’, isn’t it?”

    Jim grunted crossly and went on: “Um... ‘the hot place. I would take my Bible oath to you, Sergeant, that that car was doing a hundred miles an hour when it passed me! And the noise: clanking and crashing! Disgraceful—I’m sure it couldn’t possibly have had a warrant of fitness: I could hear it all the way down the Old Road. And no lights! Not a light showing! It went past me like a—like a great white ghost in the night, Sergeant! I could have been killed! My heart nearly stopped!’ –And then there’s a lot more about drag racing, and keeping decent citizens out of their beds all night, and so on.” He was looking unhappily at the younger man.

    “Well?” said Mike, bright and challenging.

    “We-ell,” replied Jim reluctantly, “I don’t see that there’s all that much in it, Mike, really—she says it was boys, drag racing, eh?—says she’s seen ’em before.”

    “Ah!” pounced Mike. “But does she say that? Look: you’ve gotta distinguish between what she actually saw, and the conclusions she’s drawn.”

    Jim looked down at the transcript rather sulkily.

    “Look,” said Mike. “She doesn’t say it was a race this time: just says ‘it’ went past her—one car, eh? And if the car was going that fast, how could she possibly have seen it was boys in it? No lights, either. Look: all she actually saw was a big, pale rattletrap of a car, coming bloody fast down the road from Carrano’s place, with no lights showing. Now!”

    Jim passed his hand wearily over his face. “Yeah—you’re right, of course... I should’ve spotted it at the time... I’m sorry, sir.”

    Mike, too, rather thought Jim should’ve spotted it at the time; but he’d had enough disillusioning experience of the way most of his colleagues’ minds worked—not to mention what passed for the general public’s minds—to know that very few people were capable of making the kind of cross-connection that his own mind seemed to make without conscious effort. It was, he knew, a major reason for his success in his chosen profession. He often found himself wondering, at some particularly gross ineptitude of his superiors, how the Hell they’d got where they were; sometimes he wondered if there was anyone else in the entire police force whose mind functioned the way his did. At such times he felt achingly alone. He was very far from realising that his mind worked in the way a good scholar’s does, and that he had far more in common with the intellectual Pommy tit, Browne, than he did with such men as cosy, simple Jim Baxter.

    Come to think of it, he thought uncomfortably, he himself should have read the verbatim transcript of Ma Bailey’s evidence before this, instead of merely checking over the statement she’d eventually signed; but they’d been concentrating their search for witnesses so much on the residents of Matai Street... And he should’ve had a good look at the old maps before now, too!

    “Never mind, Jim: you were concentrating on the Greens’ alibis. And cut out the ‘sir’ crap, eh?”

    Jim grunted. To make amends for his lapse he said hurriedly: “A big old pale car: well, how many of them have got cars that’d fit that bill? Lessee: young Rod Jablonski—he’s got that old white Triumph; um, well, Carrano’s got that big silver Merc, but you couldn’t call it a rattletrap. Then there’s Prior: big Volvo, eh? Pale fawn. Not a clunker, though.” Their eyes met. Jim finished: “And Ma Jablonski’s old heap, old off-white job—Triumph, too, isn’t it? ’Course it’s her old man’s, really, but he doesn’t drive it since he lost his licence.”

    “Exactly.”

    There was a long silence.

    Then Jim said abruptly: “Hang on: does she actually say it was a big job?” He read over the typescript slowly, his lips moving silently. “No-o,” he said at last. “Look—all she really says is it went past her ‘like a great white ghost’. That doesn’t mean it had to be a big car!”

    “No, but isn’t it indicative?” said Mike.

    “We’ve been over all those cars with a fine-tooth comb, Mike!”

    “Ye-ah, but I think we were looking for the wrong thing—we were concentrating on the insides, for evidence of pool water and that; shoulda been looking outside—underneath—for evidence of that old track!”

    Jim sighed. “Don’t think we’ll find any now, it’s over two months. Still, better bring them all in again, eh? Get onto it tomorrow, shall I?” He was supposed to have Sunday off this week, too—bugger.

    “Yes,” Mike said decisively. “If you can organise that, Jim—I’ve already been on to Central to get the blokes back up here to go over that old back road.”

    Have you, by Jeez! thought Jim. Aloud, he said: “Had a bit of rain since then, too.”

    “Yes, but... Well, you know what I’m thinking? That busted exhaust...”

    “Looked recent, didn’t it?” agreed Jim.

    “Yeah.” He added energetically: “We’ll go over every inch of that bloody road, Jim!”

    “Don’t suppose there’s any hope of Ma Bailey giving us more about the car,” Jim muttered.

    “Shouldn’t think so; she’s not actually going to be that convincing in court, anyway; still, I’ll go and see her myself tomorrow.”

    Jim shifted uncomfortably. “Um... dunno that it’d be a Helluva good idea to visit her tomorrow, actually, Mike.”

    “Why the Hell not?” Jesus, these small-town coppers! Mike was tempted to point out acidly that murder investigations, unlike the Good Lord, don’t take a rest on the seventh day; if Jim had been a younger man, he would’ve. But he was looking exhausted; and he’d worked so hard on this case—not as if he’d needed to, either: it was C.I.B. business, really; but the murder had happened on his patch, and he was a conscientious beggar. So he held his peace.

    Jim said awkwardly: “Well, Old Mother Bailey’s a strict Brethren or something; doesn’t do anything on Sundays except go to church and read the Bible. You’d probably put her back up if you went round there on a Sunday.”

    Mike sighed. “Okay, I’ll leave it till Monday; searching the old road’s the first priority, anyway.”

    That was gonna to be a real needle in a haystack job! Jim got up and stretched. “Fancy a cuppa, Mike?”

    Mike yawned and looked at his watch. “Yeah—ta, Jim. Think I’ll just tidy this lot up and then I’ll push off.”

    When they’d finished their mugs of tea Jim said in a casual voice: “My lads been reporting in okay?” –Two of the local constables were helping out on surveillance tonight.

    Mike suppressed a grin. “Yeah, fine.”

    “How’s the lad up on the cliff doing—young Jase, isn’t it?”

    This time Mike did grin. “Young Jablonski spotted him straight off: came over and offered him a beer, cheeky little sod! –He didn’t take it,” he added consolingly, at the sight of poor Jim’s face. Then he fell silent, rubbing his nose. “Jim…”

    “Yeah?”

    “If old Ma Bailey was standing out there at the corner of Kupe Street…” he said slowly.

    Jim’s eyes met his. “Ya reckon…?”

    “No moon, but it was a clear night,” Mike reminded him.

    “Shit! Ya don’t think—?”

    Mike frowned. “I don’t think she’s in any more danger than any of the others,” he said slowly.

    “Want me to roust out one of my lads?”

    “No; I’ll get hold of Dave Short; do him good to do a bit of night duty for a change!”

    He issued crisp instructions down the phone. There was a groaning noise from the receiver. Mike’s instructions got distinctly crisper.

    “Said he was planning to watch the late movie with a bit of crumpet,” he said as he hung up.

    Jim laughed heartlessly

    Tim and Daphne were in bed at last; it’d been a Hell of an evening. Aunty Kathleen had urged them to stay the weekend up at the bach, but Tim, guiltily aware that he really should’ve got that wiring job up at the new old-folks’ home—sorry, Kowhai Grove Retirement Village—done today, had regretfully said that they’d have to get on back. Unfortunately Chrissy and Charlie overheard the invitation and immediately threw tantrums, demanding to stay. Aunty Kathleen had gone and said they’d love to have them, of course they could stay—in front of the kids, silly old bat; still, she’d never had any kids of her own, s’pose you couldn’t expect her— But of course Daph had promised her mother that she’d bring them over there on the Sunday. Chrissy had become alarmingly rigid, screaming and drumming her heels on the rug, until Uncle Ben—at least he had a bit of sense—had picked her up bodily and dumped her under the shower—cold, too. The tantrum had stopped abruptly, but she’d sulked for the rest of the evening. Charlie had sulked, too, and Harry was cross and whiny, overtired. Take it for all in all, tea had been pretty Hellish, in spite of poor old Uncle Ben’s efforts to cheer them up. Daph had got a bit of sunburn on her back—the new fancy bathing-suit was lower than the old one—and at the top of her thighs: stupid way they cut them, these days. The sunburn had started to hurt after tea, and what with Harry grizzling all the way back, and Chrissy and Charlie starting to whine... And then he’d had the bloody puncture!

    “So much for missing the crowds of Saturday drivers,” he’d said sourly, changing the wheel in the pitch dark—well, practically—two K north of Kowhai Bay with not another soul on the road. He’d just about finished when a truck with a crowd of Maori jokers on it had come rattling up and stopped, and they’d all jumped off to see if they could give him a hand. A great big bloke had insisted on doing up the wheel nuts for him—didn’t even seem to put any effort into it, either. Tim, who’d sweated and cursed to get the things off, with Daphne watching him, which didn’t help, had felt a bit of a nana.

    “He seemed to find that easy enough,” she’d said snidely, once the Maori blokes had pushed off, waving and grinning—at least they’d cheered the kids up a bit, specially the one who’d given Charlie and Harry a ride on his shoulders and let Chrissy walk on his feet: she adored that, funny kid.

    “He’s twice my size!” he’d replied indignantly.

    There’d been a long silence. “Your sunburn playing up?”

    “Oh, shut up!”

    Neither of them had said another word, the whole way back.

    At least Daph had cheered up a bit after he’d got some Bepanthen lotion onto her. “It’s for the kids, really—it’s a bit expensive... I’ll be all right, Tim—don’t waste it!”

    “Rubbish. Do I have to tie you down, or what?”

    “Oh—all right, then.”

    “Take your skirt off.” Then, as she unwillingly obeyed: “Shit! Take those damn pants off, they’re cutting right into it!” He’d knelt, ignoring the grumble of “I can do that!” and gently anointed the fiery red patches. She’d shuddered as the cold lotion went onto her—poor old Daph!

    “Take your blouse off, I’ll do your back.”

    “Don’t, Tim—what are you doing?” He was unhooking her. “It’s not up there!”

    “Yes, it is—over at the sides, by your arms, here.”

    “Ow!”

    “Sorry, old girl.” He hurled the bloody bra to the floor.

    “Don’t call me that!”

    “Sorry, hon’,”—smoothing lotion: “is that better?”

    “Mm.”

    “I’ll do this bit down here, now.”

    “Argh!”

    “Cold?”

    “Yes—good, though... Thanks, Tim.”

    “You better sleep on your front tonight,”—looking ruefully at the horrible band of red across her at the waist—bloody stupid to cut those damned suits so low—and the burning curves of her buttocks. “Shoulda put a bit more suntan lotion on;” but that was a mistake.

    “I put lots on!”

    “Yeah, well—bits of you here that’ve never seen the sun.”

    Now she lay on her side, turned away from him. She was always in a bad mood the night before she had to go on a visit to her mother’s: Mrs Howarth was a real nag, always criticising the way Daph handled the kids; no wonder her old man had popped his clogs only two months after he’d retired—he was well out of it! She always expected the kids to be all gussied up for a visit, too; ruddy stupid, especially in this heat—only got them all cross and uncomfortable and then of course they started misbehaving; and she always gave Harry bloody orange cordial that turned him silly. Daph said it was because of the dye in it, but the old cow’d always say: “Oh, no, dear; he’s just excited because he’s come to see his Grandma; aren’t you, Grandma’s baby boy!” You had to hand it to the kid: little Harry’d do his best to knock the old bat back: “I’se NOT a baby; I’se a BIG boy!”

    After a bit she sighed, Tim said cautiously: “Is it sore, hon’?”

    “A bit.”

    “Want me to put some more stuff on it?”

    “Yeah—ta, Tim,” she sighed gratefully.

    Tim switched the bedside light on and hauled himself out of bed.

    “Tim, could you get me a couple of Panadols while you’re up?”

    “Got a headache?”

    “Yeah—splitting,” she admitted miserably.

    She gulped the tablets down thankfully and admitted: “My thighs—well, hips, really—aren’t too bad; it’s my back!”

    “Lie on your front, eh? I’ll put lashings on.” He finished applying the lotion, switched the light off and lay down again.

    “Leave the sheet off for a bit, eh?” she mumbled.

    “Yeah—too hot for it, anyway.”

    She kept stealthily turning over, just when he was almost off, maddening, but he’d almost drifted off when the bloody phone rang!

    He sat up groggily but he wasn’t quick enough: she’d slid out of bed and was in the passage answering it, pulling her cotton housecoat on with one hand, before he’d barely realised what the noise was. Tim stood groggily in the bedroom doorway, scratching his head and yawning.

    “Who is it, Daph?”

    “It’s Mrs Bailey!” she hissed.

    “Wha’?” He pointed incredulously in the direction of the next-door house, and she nodded hard.

    “What the Hell?” He came up close beside her.

    “Yes... Where? I can’t understand you, Mrs Bailey; what did you say? Out—oh, out in the street; and he’s what?” She peered incredulously up at Tim. “She says there’s a man in a car parked in the street outside her place, and he’s watching her!”

    “Watching... It’s the dead of night! How can ’e— Oh, give me that!” He grabbed the receiver and began interrogating poor old Ma Bailey.

    Daphne said uncertainly: “I’ll just go and look out the front...” She went into the sitting-room and peered out into the dark.

    “Don’t turn the light on!” Tim called urgently.

    “I won’t!”

    “See anything?”

    There was a wail from Chrissy’s room: “Maa-mee-ee!”

    “Damn!” muttered Tim. “No—sorry, Mrs Bailey: one of the kids.”

    “I think there is a car,” Daphne said doubtfully.

    “I’ll come and look. –Just a mo’, Mrs Bailey, I’m going to have a look myself—no; no—just hang on...”

    He peered over her shoulder.

    “See—down there.”

    “Ye-ah—there’s a car there, all right. Can’t see if there’s anyone in it, though.”

    “No-o,” agreed Daphne.

    “Maa-mee-ee! I’m frightened!”

    “Aw, Hell,” muttered Tim.

    “I’m coming, darling—Mummy’s coming!” Daphne hurried off to Chrissy’s room.

    Tim went back to the phone. He could hear Daphne soothing Chrissy: “It’s all right, darling; go back to sleep; Mummy’s here... What? Never mind, darling...”

    “Hullo—Mrs Bailey? –Yes; I can see a car—”

    “Just go back to sleep, Chrissy, ssh...”

    There was a sudden wail from the boys’ room—sounded like Harry.

    “Hush, Chrissy; yes, Harry’s crying, that’s all it is; ssh; go back to sleep, everything’s all right now, Mummy’s here... A bear, darling? A big bear?”

    “Look, Mrs Bailey, I’ll go and take a look myself; just hang on, will you?”

    “No, there’s no bear, Chrissy... TIM!” She was suddenly in the lobby, clutching at him. “Tim, don’t go out there!”

    “Eh? If the old girl’s spotted a prowler or something...”

    There was another wail from Harry.

    “Maa-MEE! A bear!” –Chrissy working herself up.

    “Tim! It isn’t safe! Remember Don Banks!”

    “A BEAR!” roared Chrissy.

    “Mummy! Harry’s crying!” Damn! Now Charlie was awake.

    Daphne was clutching Tim with both hands. “I won’t let you! Ring the police!”

    Amidst bellows from Harry, roars of “A BEAR! A BIG bear!” from Chrissy, and officious shouts of “Mummy! Harry’s crying!” from Charlie, Tim stumbled back to the phone and tried to tell Mrs Bailey to ring the police.

    “WHAT? No, of course they’ll believe you! WHAT? –Be QUIET, Charlie! –No, sorry, Mrs Bailey: talking to my son.”

    “It’s all right, darling, there’s no bear!” Daphne staggered out carrying Chrissy. “Come on—let’s see what Harry’s crying about.” She vanished into the boys’ room.

    “What? Of course they’ll come! ...Eh? ...Aw. Look, I’ll ring them myself. …What? No, don’t put your lights on! …Yes, I’m hanging up now!” He hung up.

    He wasn’t gonna ring the Emergency number; he fumbled in the book for the number of the Puriri Police Station, but finally found it and dialled, aware that he was probably about to make a tit of himself: fifty to one there was no-one in that car at all, and the whole thing was all in the old girl’s imagination...

    When the phone rang the young constable on duty dropped his Wilbur Smith and sat up with a jerk. Shit—what now? Couldn’t be another brawl up The Tavern—the pubs’d closed hours ago. Noisy party? Trouble at the motor camp?

    “Puriri Police Station.” You had to say that—the Sarge did his nut if you just said “Police”. He listened wearily. Sounded like a lot of fuss about nothing to him.

    “Where was that, again, sir? …Kupe Street; aw, yeah, up Pohutukawa Bay.” He made a note. “You say you didn’t actually see this man yourself? The old lady next-door?” He put his ballpoint down. “Yeah, we know all about Mrs Bailey here.” He began to tell Tim to get the old girl calmed down—give her a cup of tea, or something.

    At the other end of the line Tim’s colour rose. “Look here, Constable: there’s been a murder done round here, in case you’ve forgotten!”

    Guiltily the constable remembered that this Green bloke was a witness, or a suspect, or something. What had the Sarge said about keeping a watch out for anything remotely related to the Banks case, however trivial? Well, this was trivial, all right... But he didn’t want to get in the Sarge’s black books; and as for getting on the wrong side of that D.C.I. from the Big Smoke—! He sighed and picked up his ballpoint again.

    “We’ll look into it; yeah, we’ll get someone onto it straight away.”

    Should he call up the patrol car? If he knew them, they were down the waterfront stuffing themselves at Ching’s All-Nite Takeaways. He hesitated, then, remembering the Sarge’s acid instructions—words of one syllable, too, Jeez, the Sarge’d been narked: D.C.I. Collingwood must of been having a piece of him—God, he was a hard bugger—he reached for the phone instead and dialled the Sarge’s home number.

    Jim and Moana were fast asleep. She turned over onto her back and muttered “Phone” at the same time as Jim fumbled the receiver up.

    “What?” he said sleepily. “Eh? Whassa time?” He switched on the bedside light and peered blearily at his watch. Har’ past one. –Moana’s eyes were tightly shut.

    “Bloody Hell!” said Jim violently. “What’s the matter with you, lad?”

    The constable said weakly: “What, Sarge?”

    “Haven’t you looked at the surveillance roster tonight?”

    “Yes—’course I have,” the young idiot mumbled.

    “Well, look at it again—NOW!”

    Dazedly the boy peered at the list. Three names and locations neatly typed, with call-in times and places to put a tick. Underneath these, in small, neat, very black handwriting, a fourth name and location...

    “Sorry, Sarge,” he said weakly into the phone.

    “D.S. Short—right? Kupe Street—RIGHT?”

    “Yes, Sarge,” he said miserably.

    “‘Yes, Sarge’—you fat-witted young moron!”

    The constable began to cheer up. The Sarge never called you “fat-witted” if he was really going crook at you—it was when he got very polite you knew you were in real hot water.

    “You sent the patrol boys out yet?” Jim said wearily. –Moana yawned and turned over.

    “No, Sarge: thought I better ring you first.” –Getting cocky again, cheeky young devil!

    “Well, at least you did something right!”

    “Yes, Sarge—sorry, Sarge.”

    Moana was on her side, looking up at him. He pulled a face at her and said into the receiver: “Right—get back to it, then. And try to stay alert, eh?” He hung up on a final mutter of “Yes, Sarge—sorry, Sarge.”

    “Whassup?” mumbled Moana.

    He looked down at the sleepy face and grinned. “Aw—young Snowy Barker making a tit of himself as usual. Go back to sleep, eh?”

    “Mm.” She closed her eyes and he switched off the light again. At least, he reflected grimly, the kid hadn’t sent the patrol car round to check out Detective Sergeant Short on his lonely vigil outside Ma Bailey’s place! Jeez, they’d never of heard the last of that from the City boys! He grinned ruefully into the dark.

    Moana was almost off again when she felt him move his hand stealthily to his tummy and heard him give a tiny grunt.

    “Jim? You okay?”

    “’S nothing—bit of a pain in the puku,” he grunted.

    Moana raised herself anxiously on her elbow. Not that ulcer again! She thought it had settled down, these last couple of years; he’d been really bad with it a few years back, when they’d had all that trouble with that gang that used to hang round The Tavern.

    “What: not the old trouble?”

    Jim grunted uncomfortably.

    Thinking bitter thoughts about stuck-up Chief Inspectors from the Big Smoke who couldn’t do their own bloody job without roping in her Jim, Moana sat up. “I’ll get you a glass of milk.”

    Of course he said not to bother, it wasn’t that bad, really. She ignored this, switched her bedside light on, and got up.

    She stood over him grimly while he sipped the milk. “Better?” He’d had half of it.

    “Mm.” He smiled sheepishly at her.

    She came round the bed and got in on her side. “Mind you finish it!”

    “Yeah,” he said meekly.

    She stayed awake until she was sure he was well and truly off, calculating for the millionth time how many more years he had to go, and how they could manage if he had to retire a bit early. At least the kids were off their hands, now. She had her job at The Deli, of course, but it was only part-time, didn’t bring in that much... Jim was snoring slightly. She turned on her side, and sighed heavily. Maybe Mr and Mrs Turner’d take her on full-time, if she asked them—Mrs T’s arthritis had been bad lately, she wasn’t able to do as much in the shop as she used to. …If only that stupid Mike Collingwood would catch the murderer! Everything’d go back to normal, and Jim could relax.