21
Scattered
Clues
Jake knotted his tie swiftly in front of
the long mirror. Polly watched him from the bed.
“I always think that’s very clever,” she
approved. “I get giddy if I try to tie a tie in front of a mirror.”
He came over to the bed and leant over her
with his arms braced on either side of her. “Gi’ss a kiss,” he said, pouting up
his lips.
Polly kissed him gently.
“They tell me it gets better as it goes
on,” he said mildly.
“That last bit was okay!” she replied with
a laugh.
“Good. –Can’t remember when I last had a
horizontal lunch. Well, on a working day!” He straightened, and put his
silver-grey suit jacket on. “Inoue’ll be out for the wedding,” he said out of
the blue.
“Your Tokyo rep?” said Polly weakly. How
far had he broadcast it, for God’s sake?
“Yeah. Told him to bring Mrs. You’ll like
her.”
“Will I?” she said feebly. “How do you
know?”
“Everybody likes her,” he said simply.
“Doesn’t speak any English, mind you.”
“What?” she gulped.
“Never seems to matter,” he said in a vague
voice. “Uh—look, I might be quite late this evening. Seem to’ve got a bit
behind. And if we’re taking off for the farm tomorrow—”
“Yes, all right, Tycoon Jacob.”
“How many people have you given this number
to?” he said mildly as the peach phone on the bedside table trilled.
“Three. Multiplied exponentially by all the
people Mum will’ve given it to.”
“Mm.” He picked the receiver up. “Yeah?” he
said.—Polly winced.—“Whaddaya ringing me here for, ya nana?” he said.—Polly
relaxed.
The phone quacked for some time.
“Well, thanks, Wal. See ya!” he said
finally. He hung up. “You were right about that bloody pansy from the Cheese
Basil, he was getting up young Jack that night—or vice versa, I didn’t ask for details and I’d rather not know,
frankly—the other one was away, or something—and he’s coughed the lot and Wal’s
got bloody Collingwood to let the kid go.”
“That’s good!” she beamed.
“Yeah, well, the whole thing could have
been avoided if the stupid little pansy had told the cops the truth in the
first place!”
“True,” said Polly feebly, sagging against
the pillows.
“Yeah. Um, think we better take Wal out to
dinner some time soon. Not just for looking after young Jack. Well, um, had a
chat to him a bit back, and he—uh—he more or less told me I was fit as a flea
and could provide for you and all that, and to go for it,” he muttered.
Polly’s swallowed hard. “I see. Yes,
dinner’d be nice.”
“Good!” He pecked her check, and went out
briskly, whistling.
Polly sagged all over the pillows again.
It took half an hour to get off the phone
with Maisie Pretty—not that she’d rung to tell her about the engagement, of
course, but to report the good news about Jack and ask after his mother. And,
just incidentally, find out where her car was—she hadn’t been able to get hold
of Rod. There was a lot of it but the short answer was that Maisie had let him
keep the car. In that case it had probably, nay, undoubtedly taken the woman a
minimum of two hours to get home, but by this time Polly wasn’t up to making
the proper tender enquiries. She asked if Rod was in at work today, didn’t get
the short answer, and waited a good ten minutes until Maisie reported, panting,
that he wasn’t.
She’d better ring him and get it over with.
She tried the Jablonskis’ number.
“Yess?” hissed an evil voice.
It could have been either the Count or
Esmé, they both hissed on the phone and both sounded evil. And he had a light
voice for a man and hers was fairly hoarse for a woman, so— “Could I speak to
Rod, please?” she said politely.
“Who? Who you vant?” the voice hissed.
Gathering more from the shaky grammar than
anything that it must be the Count, Polly replied clearly: “I’d like to speak
to Roderick, please, Count Jablonski. Is he there?” –That had just about
covered everything: you had to be clear, otherwise he pretended he hadn’t heard
you; and you had to call Rod “Roderick”, otherwise he pretended he didn’t know
who you meant; and you had to address him by his title, self-endowed or not,
otherwise he pretended he could neither hear nor understand you and, if in a
very bad mood (or, according to Rod, when drying out), lapsed into Polish.
“Who h’iss thiss, pliss?” he hissed.
Bugger, she’d missed that one! “It’s Polly
Mitchell speaking, Count Jablonski,” she said carefully. “May I speak to
Roderick, please?”
“Ah, Dr Mitchell!” said the old man with
immense affability and in richly Oxbridge tones. “How very nice to speak to
you! And did you have a pleasant Christmas, my dear?”
“Very pleasant, thank you,” she said
weakly.
“So you want to speak to my naughty son,
eh?”
“Yes, please,” she said weakly.
“One moment, my dear, I believe the young
rascal is somewhere about!”
“Thank you,” she said weakly.
She heard the old man call out something in
Polish. Then Rod’s voice said crossly in English: “Is that for me?” The Count
replied in Polish, at some length.
Since what he said was: “It’s that
attractive Mitchell girl. Why on earth don’t you make a push to fix your
interest with her? Though I must admit she strikes me as far too intelligent to
want an involvement with a boy of your undeveloped and mediocre intelligence,”
Rod not unnaturally replied very loudly—in English: “Shut up! Give me that!”
He grabbed the phone and said: “Is that
you, Polly? Has the Old Man been rude to you?”
“No, he was very charming,” said Polly with
considerable amusement.
“Was he, the old devil?” said Rod weakly,
sagging against the passage wall.
“Pray do not neglect to give Dr Mitchell my
compliments before you hang up,” said the Count in Polish.
“Push OFF, Dad!” shouted Rod.
Polly heard the Count make a long speech in
Polish. When the noise had died away she said with a laugh in her voice: “Has
he gone?”
“Yeah. Just as well you’re not ringing from
Timbuctoo, or that little lot woulda cost—a MINT! SHUT THAT RUDDY SITTING-ROOM
DOOR!” he roared.
Polly heard a door slam. She said mildly:
“He could have listened; I don’t mind.”
“I do,” replied Rod grimly.
Poor Rod. “What are you doing there,
anyway?”
“Eh? Aw—came down to fix the sink. Esmé’s
blocked it up again with tea leaves. Not ordinary tea leaves, monster great
hunks of weed or something.”
“Herb tea?”
“Yeah. Probably. Hey, listen, do you want
your car? Because I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day—”
“No, that’s okay. Actually I was going to
say you could hang onto the car for a few days, I won’t need it: Jake and I are
going down to the farm for the weekend.”
There was a short pause. Then Rod said
cautiously: “Does this mean it’s all on again?”
“Yes. Well, actually,” said Polly in a shy
voice, “we’re engaged.”
She heard Rod swallow. “Good,” he said
hoarsely.
“Are you really glad?” she said timidly.
“Yes. Well, you’re really in love with him,
eh? And he’s crackers about you, so— Yeah. Congrats, and all that.”
“Thanks,” said Polly in a voice that shook
a little. “Um, you really ought to be concentrating on your Ph.D. for the next
couple of years.”
“Yeah. Well—all the best, and all that!”
“Thank you, Rod,” said Polly, hanging up
quickly.
The sitting-room door opened before Rod’s
receiver had even hit the cradle. “If ya must know,” he cried: “her and Jake
have got engaged. Now will ya just shut UP!”
His father said in a prissy voice in
Polish: “She’s far too young for him.”
“There’s about the same difference between
her and Jake as there was between you and Mum when YOU married HER!” shouted
Rod angrily.
Before the Count could reply Esmé appeared.
“Is this that frightful slut of a girl that was going round with that awful Leo
Schmidt?”
“No! She is not!” cried Rod, turning a rich
maroon.
“In that case, I wish them joy of each
other,” said Esmé with grim satisfaction. She marched out to the kitchen. They
heard a frightful clattering of pots and pans start up.
After a moment Rod said with an effort:
“I’m off.”
His father cast an uneasy glance in the
direction of the kitchen—where the clattering was getting louder—and said:
“Perhaps I’ll accompany you, my son. We could have a meal at that rather
pleasant hotel up past Kowhai Bay.”
“It’s a bit bloody late for that, Dad!”
replied Rod with immense bitterness.
“Roderick—”
Rod marched over to the door. “You made
your bed, Dad, now you can bloody well lie on it!” he cried. He went out
quickly to the little cream Mercedes before his father could see the tears that
were starting to dazzle in his eyes.
In his shabby front room Jerzy Jablonski
swore softly to himself for a long time in several of the languages in which he
was fluent. Then he went over to the old oak chiffonier and, on hands and
knees, grunting a little, groped underneath it.
“Ah!” He sat back, unscrewed the top of the
bottle of ersatz New Zealand vodka and took a good swig, shuddering as it went
down. When Esmé came in and started screaming at him he was too drunk to care.
“So who’ve you rung this arvo?” said Jake,
removing his tie and throwing it in the direction of an aqua sofa.
“Their names are Legion. Joanie was
hysterical when I asked her to be matron of honour: you were right all along. I
got hold of Rod: he was at his father’s place. He sounded as mad as ever: first
he did his Polish hiss and then he turned on the Oxbridge charm. I haven’t rung
Rog, yet.”
“I’ll do it. Want to thank him for having a
go at that bastard of a Leo, anyway.”
“Ye-es. But Jake—”
“He’s gotta know some time. Added to which
he’s known you for a year and got nowhere, eh?”
“Mm.”
He picked up the aqua phone. “What’s his
number?”
She gave him the number and listed numbly
to the spate of macho good cheer that then flowed forth. No-one would have
suspected for an instant that he knew poor Rog had had a crush on her for a
year.
“Did you have to ask him to be an usher?”
she said faintly, after he’d hung up with a cheery: “See ya, Rog!”
“Struck me as being preferable to holding
his hand while he sobbed his wee heart out. Added to which, he wouldn’t have
wanted me to.”
“Um, no. Well, ta, Jake.”
“’S’what we’re for,” he said airily.
Polly eyed him suspiciously. “Who?”
“Male belongings,” he said blandly.
She gulped.
“Gotcha, Ms Liberated!”
“I can’t be lapsing into the stereotypical
weak-woman stance already!” said Polly wildly.
“Why not?” he said comfortably. “Have a gin
and tonic, it’ll help ya lapse like nobody’s biz.”
“Is there any?”
Jake went over to the strange-looking
breakfast bar against the far wall and pressed something on it. Polly gaped as
the whole front then slid back into the casing and a giant array of bottles was
revealed. “One or two bottles here,” he noted.
“Don’t do the laconic macho bit on top of
everything: I can’t take it.”
“All right, I won’t.” He made the drinks
and came to sit beside her. Idly he picked up a scrap of paper that lay on the
coffee table. “What’s this?”
“My list. –People to phone.”
He goggled at it. It started off “Mum”. She
could hardly forget to phone her mother about her engagement, could she?
“You’ve got your mum down here,” he croaked.
“Yes. It’s more or less in order of
priority.”
Eyes bulging, Jake admitted: “Sometimes I
wonder about you, Madam Logic.”
“I know.”
Rolling his eyes slightly, he hauled
himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“Shower. That is, if ya do want to go out
and eat tonight?”
“Yes.”
Jake handed her the scrap of paper. “You
haven’t crossed off Mike, here,” he said in a dry voice.
“No, he wasn’t a priority.”
“Well, ring ’im: ya might be able to pump
him about the case,” he said, going over to the door.
“Oh, all right. Goodness knows if he’ll
approve or not, you can never tell with Mike.”
Jake had a strange idea that he could, if
he put his mind to it. He went out without saying so.
“Oh—Chief Inspector!” said the proprietress
of The Blue Heron Motel breathlessly. “There you are! I’ve got a lady on the
phone for you!”
Mike had come into the stuffy little office
in quest of razor blades. “What—now?”
“Yes:
isn’t that a coincidence?” she beamed.
Sighing, he said: “Shall I take it here, or
what?”
“Oh—well—”
Fuss, fuss. Mike eyed her plump, flustered
form with faint dislike. Aware of this, Molly Pettigrew became even more
flustered.
Finally he got to speak. “Collingwood.”
“Hi, Mike!” said a contralto voice with a
gurgle in it. “It isn’t a lady, it’s me!”
“What do you want?” he replied sourly.
“To suborn the course of justice, what
else?” Polly returned airily.
“Are you pissed?” he said grimly. “Because
if you are, and you’re stuck somewhere without transport, believe me, I’m not
gonna—”
“No!”
“Then what’s the box of birds bit in aid
of? Last time I set eyes on you, you had a face like a fid— God; is it all on
again?”
“Yes. Um, actually, we’re engaged.”
Mike’s ears hummed. “What?”
“We’re engaged; getting married in March.”
Mike didn’t say anything, so she added with a nervous giggle: “That’s why I’ve
rung you: to suborn the course of justice in case you were thinking of
arresting Jake before the ring’s safely on my finger!”
“Cut that out. Are you serious?”
“Yes,” said Polly, swallowing. “You don’t
really suspect him, do you?”
Mike’s lips tightened. He didn’t reply.
“I suppose you’re not allowed to say,” she
admitted.
“Oh, you suppose that, do ya? Fancy!”
After a moment she said in a small voice:
“Aren’t you glad?”
“I suppose so,” he said tiredly. “Not that
you’ve got a thing in common with him, as far as I can— Oh, well. It’s your
life.”
“We’ve got quite a lot in common. We think
the same on lots of things.”
Tiredly Mike replied: “Crap. No-one thinks
like you.”
“Well, not all the time, we don’t. That’d
be boring, anyway!”
“I dare say. Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” said Polly, sounding very unsure
of herself.
Mike sighed. “I don’t suppose you consulted
anybody with a modicum of common sense before you rushed into this, did you?’
“I didn’t rush! I’ve wanted it for ages!”
she cried indignantly.
“Yeah. Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks. Um, would you like to come to the
wedding?”
“Don’t be an idiot!” he said violently.
“That’d look real good, wouldn’t it: the cop in charge of the case cosying up
to the one suspect who just happens to be rich enough to buy off the whole
bloody Force!”
“Oh. Well, um, solve it before then, Mike!”
she suggested with a nervous giggle.
Suddenly Mike really lost his temper.
“Solve it before then yourself, Polly Mitchell!” he shouted. “You’re so bloody
smart, you and your bloody varsity mates! Solve it yourself and show the poor
working cops just how dumb we really are!”
There was a tingling silence. Then Polly
replied in a shaken voice: “My mind doesn’t work like that, at all. I couldn’t
possibly.”
“What about all those flaming detective
stories your sitting-room’s lined with?” he replied nastily.
Polly swallowed. “They’re just, um,
intellectual diversions.”
“Yeah, well, it’s nice to hear you admit
it!” he snarled.
Polly replied in a small voice: “I’m sorry
if you’re stuck, Mike. But maybe something will break, soon.”
“Yeah. And maybe it won’t,” he said
tiredly. “Oh, well. Sorry I shouted. And I do wish you happy.”
“Yes; thanks. Well, night-night, then,” she
said in a little girl’s voice.
Mike replied automatically: “Night-night,
Polly,” and hung up. He was aware that the motel owner was goggling at him—and
by God, if the bloody female said one word—
But she didn’t. He marched out, lips
tight, nostrils flared, totally forgetting his razor blades.
“Oh, dear,” said Molly Pettigrew faintly to
herself.
Angie Michaels hung up numbly. She returned
numbly to the kitchen. “LEAVE THAT ALONE” she roared.
Hurriedly Barbara’s hand retreated from the
salad bowl. “I’m hungree-ee,” she whinged. “Aren’t we y’ever gonna have
tee-ea?”
“It’s barely seven-thirty: in civilised
homes they’re only just sitting down to pre-dinner drinks,” replied Angie
grimly.
“Eh?”
“DON’T SAY ‘EH’!” shouted Angie.
“What’ve I done?” cried Barbara, immensely injured.
Suddenly Angie sat down heavily on a
kitchen chair. “Nothing, thank God. –If you were thinking of starting to grow
up a bit, you can put it off,” she added with a flicker of humour.
Barbara scowled uncertainly. She tried to
squint down her front without letting it be apparent she was doing so.
Angie sighed. “I wasn’t referring to your
breasts. Ignore anything and everything your father may say on that topic. He’s
an idiot male that doesn’t know how to cope with the fact of his own
offspring’s pubescence except by making feeble jokes about it. –Like the rest
of them.”
“I know that!” she said with scorn.
“—They’re all right,” she said, squinting at them openly. “That old blue bra of
Helen’s fits me now.”
“Yes, well, you might as well have it, I’ve
given up hope of ever seeing her in a
bra! –Or a skirt,” she muttered.
“I think she’s grown out of it,” reported
Barbara.
“She may well have done: who would know?
She hasn’t even tried it on since— Never mind,” she sighed. “On second
thoughts, I don’t want her to grow up, either.”
Barbara gave her a shrewd look. “That Polly
Mitchell’s done something dumb, eh?”
Angie groaned.
With great resignation, Barbara said kindly
to her elderly parent: “Go on, then.”
Angie hesitated. “I was gonna wait until
your father got home… Well, if you must know, she’s got herself engaged to that
Jake Carrano.”
“Is that all? I thought you were all for
that sorta stuff.”
Angie took a deep breath. “Where are your
frightful siblings?”
“Mark’s gone to that stuck-up Jocelyne
Houghton’s for tea, he reckons they call it dinner. In fact they’re prolly
having pre-dinner drinks right now.” She eyed her drily.
Angie merely replied dully: “Was that
tonight? I’d forgotten.”
“Good, I’ll have his share.”
“Where are the others?”
“Um, Helen’s waxing her board, I think. In
the garage. And Col and Gwillim are in the front room, didn’tcha see them?”
“No, the door’s— And come to think of it,
the blinds are down!”
“Yeah, they’re watching dirty videos,” said Barbara indifferently.
Angie shot to her feet. “What?”
“Gwillim’s dad’d belt the living daylights
out of him, if he knew,” she said dispassionately.
“I’m not too sure that Col’s dad won’t do
the same,” said Angie in a shaken voice. “Dirty videos? They’re only fifteen!”
“Boys are like that, Mum,” explained
Barbara kindly.
Angie sat down again. Largely because her
knees had given way. “Where did they get them from?”
“They’re Gwillim’s dad’s, of course, he’s
got loads of them.”
Angie swallowed. She wasn’t altogether
surprised to hear this, but—
“Aren’tcha gonna stop them?” said Barbara
wistfully.
“No, I think this is one that can be left
for your father,” she said feebly.
Barbara made a rude noise.
“They are only fifteen,” Angie replied
weakly to the sub-text.
“Yeah, r’an dumb with it! Mu-um, I’m stah-ar-ving!”
Angie sighed. “Mm. Well, I tell you what,
let’s have a sherry!”
Barbara turned puce. “Me?” she gulped.
“Why not?” said Angie with a strange little
smile. “That is, if you’ve got the guts to barge into that all-male blue
enclave in the sitting-room and get the—”
Barbara was already halfway out the door.
Bill came in about fifteen minutes later to
find them two of them giggling like maniacs over the Bristol Cream.
“Crikey, she’s a bit young for that, isn’t
she?” he said weakly. “‘Nilly’ fourteen or not.”
His wife replied grimly: “She’s getting
some because (a) I’ve had a shock, and (b) she’s got more sense in that untidy
noddle of hers than all of the stupid males in this house rolled into one!”
Barbara looked mildly surprised but duly
smirked. “I like it, Dad,” she explained.
“She likes it,” said Angie drily.
“Yeah.” Bill looked round for a glass but
there were only two sherry glasses in evidence so he got a
peanut-butter-jar-type glass out of the cupboard for himself. “Well, go on,
what’s this shock you’ve had?” he said, sitting down and pouring himself a
decent slug.
Angie
held out her glass. “I’ll have a refill, first.”
“I know!” he said brightly, pouring:
“Helen’s wearing a frock!”
“Hah, hah,” noted Barbara.
“Stringy-Bark, here’s, grown out of Helen’s
old bra?”
“THAT’LL DO!” roared his wife.
Barbara smirked.
Bill took a belt of sherry. “God, that’s
sweet!” he gasped. “Uh… Oh, I know. The Queen’s scholar said ‘rilly’.”
Angie gulped. “No. And we need to talk
about him.”
“And Gwillim,” agreed Barbara.
“Eh? If it’s whether the poor kid can stay
for tea, I vote yes, I don’t reckon that dad of his lets her get a decent day’s
nosh into the kid from one year’s end to the—”
“YES!” said Angie loudly. “Not that!”
“He is pretty skinny,” said Barbara
thoughtfully.
Bill eyed her with amusement. He was also a
very handsome boy, but old Stringy-Bark wouldn’ta noticed that. “Well, what?”
he said.
“Polly’s got herself engaged to that Jake
Carrano,” said Angie flatly.
Bill choked on his sherry. Helpfully
Barbara bounced up and bashed him on the back. Coughing and spluttering
violently, he gasped: “Wharrabout—the—murder?”
“I was wondering that,” agreed Barbara.
Angie shuddered.
“Hey!” said Barbara brightly, sitting down
again. “Ya know what I reckon? I reckon it’s so she can’t give evidence against
him! Ya wife,” she explained laboriously to the dimwits round the kitchen
table: “can’t give evidence against you in court, I read it in a book.”
Bill scratched his head. “It’ll’a been one
of those Agatha Christies of yours. First published around 1930,” he noted.
“Um, yes. –Is that still true?” asked Angie
weakly.
“No idea,” he admitted. “Could be, mind
you. The law’s pretty old-fashioned.”
“See?” said Barbara.
“NO!” he shouted.
“Don’t shout, Bill,” said Angie uneasily.
“Uh—sorry, Babs. Not your fault. –Well, ya
may go up North Head with your dumb little mates in the middle of summer and
get yaself fried to a crisp in the ultra-violet, but at least you’re not
running round making a fool of yourself over some bloody male! –Bras or not,”
he noted.
“See?” said Barbara instantly to her
mother.
“Yes. Funny, that; it’s one of the facets
of the male menopause the women’s mags don’t bother to mention.”
Barbara sniggered loudly.
“That’ll do,” he said feebly. “Look, Ange,
to get back to our muttons, who told ya this rumour about Polly?”
“She did.”
Bill gulped.
“She rung up,” agreed Barbara. “Only you
and Mum were both out. So I said you’d be back later. And Mum rung her back.”
“She’s staying at his penthouse,” said
Angie weakly.
“Oh. Um, well, did she say anything about
the murder, love?”
Angie sighed. “No. So Barbara’s guess is
probably as good as any,” she admitted.
Barbara opened her mouth to say “See?” but
strangely enough thought better of it. Possibly this had something to do with
the numbed look on Bill’s face as he poured himself another sherry.
“We did agree,” Angie reminded him
nervously, after he’d got himself round most of it, “that he could well be just
the type she needs.”
“I reckon that Halliday creep sounded more
like a murderer than this one,” volunteered Barbara. “Mum, can we have tea now?
Dad’s home,” she pointed out.
Angie sighed. “I suppose so. –Go and wash
your hands,” she added automatically.
“I have! Aa-aa-ges ago!”
“Well, go and find the rest of ’em and tell
them to—” Bill broke off. “Hang on. Where is
the Queen’s scholar, and would his whereabouts have anything to do with the
fact of the sitting-room blinds being down?” he finished grimly.
“I suppose all boys go through— Blue
videos,” said Angie, swallowing.
“Right!” he said, getting up.
As the sound of the sitting-room door’s
being flung violently open was succeeded by mingled roaring and protestations,
Angie said limply: “Well, I suppose it’s a counterirritant.”
“Yeah,” agreed the benjamin of the Michaels
family, nodding wisely.
“If only we knew who’d done that beastly
murder, then everything would be all right!” she cried. “If ya wanna know, Jake
Carrano sounds like the same sort of macho idiot as your father!”
“Yeah,” agreed the benjamin of the Michaels
family.
Angie smiled faintly. “Mm. Well, run and
get Helen, would you, dear? And if she’s wearing those filthy shorts, tell her
to get out of them: we’re eating in the dining-room.”
The starving Barbara had shot over to the
back door, but at this she paused. “Why?”
“BECAUSE!” she roared.
Barbara disappeared.
Angie sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to
cough up for some sort of present, too,” she muttered. “Blast, what do you give
the man who’s got everything?”
Bill came back into the kitchen looking
grim. “Settled their nasty little hashes for ’em,” he reported.
“Mm.”
Bill sighed. He came over to her and slung
an arm round her shoulders. “Look, from what Polly’s said—not to mention from
what that tit Rog Browne hasn’t said—Carrano sounds like quite a decent joker.
I’d say it’s odds-on he didn’t do it.”
Angie sighed. “Mm.”
He looked down at her dubiously. He was
about to comfort her by pointing out that at least they weren’t the girl’s
parents when she said brightly: “Well, what shall we get them for a wedding
present? Or should it be an engagement present, do you think?”
Bill’s jaw sagged. Women!
Automatically Roger sliced and fried
aubergines and tomatoes for his main course. He set the table, put out the pitta
bread and made himself a tall glass of iced lemonade. Then he fed Grey. Then he
sat down and ate his own dinner. Afterwards he washed up and then watched
television until the end of the Late News. Then he had a shower and went to
bed.
It was only then that the numbness wore off
and his brain began to examine the subject it had successfully avoided
throughout the evening. He tossed and turned, unable to find a cool spot for
his head. He got up, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his
face, still in the dark. Back in bed his mind returned relentlessly to the
forbidden topic. Polly was lost to him forever; not that he’d ever had a
chance, anyway. But maybe, if he’d—Or if— His brain constructed endless
scenarios, all equally implausible. There had never been a real chance for him.
They had too little in common: backgrounds, tastes, temperaments...
Tears began to trickle down his cheeks,
dripping damply and uncomfortably into his ears as he gazed unseeingly up into
the dark. He rolled over, buried his face in his pillow, and began to sob.
Mike was in bed but awake when his phone
rang. “Yeah?” he snarled into it, squinting at his watch. Twenty to one—shit.
“Chief Inspector—I’m so sorry to disturb
you—there’s a call for you,” quavered the woman who ran the motel.
Probably McElroy wanting to know why the
Christ he’d let the Banks kid go. Unfortunately, though he had admitted he’d
used Carrano’s pool during the day, his pansy mate had backed up his story of
having left home around nine to nine-fifteen. They met up on the cliff top at
Pohutukawa Bay, and walked over the cliffs to Puriri Beach and along it to its
far end, and then up to The Hill, where the gay pair’s house was. –Miss Cheese
Basil was away visiting friends, they’d already established that. They hadn’t
found any witnesses to the walk along the cliff and the beach, not surprisingly,
but they’d worked out the times, and you couldn’t possibly do it in less than
half an hour, and the old joker that lived next-door to McNeish and Keating had
seen the pair arrive at around ten. So there you were. What’s more, he’d seen
Jack Banks push off again at a very early hour of the morning. –Spent all his
time lurking behind his curtains, spying—yeah. Only at least he wasn’t watching
out for ruddy flying saucers! None of this ruled young Banks out completely,
true; but then it didn’t give them enough to hold him on, either. McElroy
wasn't gonna be particularly pleased by any of it.
“Put him through,” he said tiredly. “Eh?
No, you did the right thing, Mrs—uh—Pettigrew: put him through!” –With
difficulty refraining from a shout.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said weakly.
“Yeah,” replied Bob Mitchell in a cautious
voice.
There was a brief pause.
“Heard the news?” added Bob.
“Look, if you’re ringing me in the middle
of the flaming night to tell me your stupid kid sister’s got herself mixed up
with yet another undesirable, I already know that, thanks!”
“Uh—yeah. Um, it’s not that late,” said Bob
uneasily.
“Not for you and yer flaming dollybirds
leading the high life in Palmerston North, maybe: but it is for a working cop!”
Bob replied with a laugh in his voice: “You
ever been in Palmerston North after seven at night?”
“No,” replied Mike unencouragingly.
Bob chuckled. “Well, don’t: it’s closed.”
“Witty,” he noted sourly.
“Yeah,” said Bob uneasily. “Uh—look, Mike…”
“Well?” said Mike, after letting him stew
for a bit.
“Uh—well, Vic’s been onto me, he reckoned
he was gonna ring you, only I said I’d— Um, well, he reckons Dad’s a bit
steamed up.”
“About Polly marrying a bloke that’s worth
more than the flaming Rural Bank?”
“Look, cut it out!” shouted Bob.
Mike returned coldly: “All right, I’ve cut
it out. What do you want?”
“You know flaming well what!” shouted his
old mate.
Mike didn’t reply.
Bob said in a sulky voice: “This Carrano
joker.”
“What about him?”
“Well, is he mixed up in this murder, or
not?” said Bob feebly.
“Well, considering the body was found on
his property—”
“Look, stop it, Mike!” he cried. “Dad’s
really upset! Jesus, can’tcha even—even—”
“Even what?”
Bob replied weakly: “Behave like a normal
human being for once in ya life.”
Mike was silent.
Bob didn’t remind him of how decent the
Mitchells had always been to him throughout his childhood and adolescence, but
then on the other hand he didn’t need to. And Mike was in no doubt that, though
Bob wasn’t the brightest of the Mitchells, he was as aware of this as he
himself was.
Finally he said: “You know damn well we’re
not supposed to discuss our cases.”
Bob replied on a bitter note: “Ideas always
have mattered more to you than people.”
Mike bit his lip. “Principles, possibly,”
he corrected colourlessly.
“Anyone else mighta worked out it was the
Dawson boys that stole those chooks, but they wouldn’t have ruddy well told the
cops!” cried Bob.
“Nobody else did, though,” replied Mike coldly.
“And in case you’ve forgotten, the cops were threatening to chuck that gormless
odd-job man in clink for it.”
“You know what I mean,” replied his old
mate grimly.
“Come on, Bob, I was about ten at the
time—”
Bob forgot himself and cried: “Yeah, and ya
still haven’t learned to put people first!”
Mike took a deep breath. “Very likely. All
right, what do you want me to say?”
Bob said in a sulky voice: “Did he do it?”
Mike didn’t reply.
“Answer me, you cold bugger!” he cried.
Mike
sighed. “Put it like this. If I thought he had done it, don’t you think I’d
have warned Polly off myself? –Christ, she is practically my sister,” he
muttered.
“So you don’t think he did it?”
Mike hesitated. Then he said carefully: “I
think someone else did it. I haven’t got any proof one way or the other. It
could still have been Carrano.”
After a minute Bob said sulkily: “I suppose
that’s all I could expect.”
“It’s a damn sight more than you could
expect!” returned Mike strongly.
Bob
was silent for quite a long time. Finally he said: “I think I get it. You
always were a cagey bird. Well, can I tell Dad it’s okay, then?”
Mike sighed.
“Look, if I don’t tell ’im something,
Vic’ll be up there battering your door down till we do get some sense out of
ya!”
“Mm. Look,” he said with a sigh, “I’ll ring
Dave myself, okay?”
Bob swallowed. “If you try giving Dad your
high-hatted, big-time copper line—”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Mike tiredly.
“Oh. Well, okay, then,” he said dubiously.
Mike sighed again.
“Um—well, thanks, Mike,” said Bob weakly.
“Yeah,” returned Mike drily. “I’ll see ya.”
“See ya,” said Bob weakly, hanging up.
“Jesus!” said Mike loudly, crashing his
receiver down.
In the office of The Blue Heron Motel Molly
Pettigrew removed her earphones with a hand that shook. She never listened to guests’ calls, it was
one of her strictest rules! So she couldn’t honestly have said why she’d
listened to this one. Except that at first she’d wanted to just make sure that
it hadn’t been bad news—personal news—for Chief Inspector Collingwood. Because—
Well, just because. And then she just hadn’t been able to hang up. Not that she
was interested in that horrid murder. Except that no matter what anyone said,
she was quite sure Jake Carrano hadn’t done it! Because he was too nice. And
the sort of man that bothered to give obscure nobodies a lift in his big car on
a horrid wet day and go right out of his way to drop them off at home wasn’t
the sort of man that went round drowning people!
Plump, blonde little Molly Pettigrew
blinked and sniffed. Her lips trembled.
“The
poor man,” she whispered. She was not, in this instance, referring to Jake
Carrano.
Dave was just finishing breakfast, and Vic
had just turned up and let Maureen give him a cup of tea, when the phone rang.
“If that’s Bert, the tractor’s broken
down,” noted Vic.
“Victor!” gasped his mother in horror.
Vic shrugged. “He can afford a second one,
Mum.”
“Shoulda got ’im one for Christmas,” noted
Dave, going out to the passage.
“Well, who was it?” said Vic as he came
back and sat down at the table without saying anything.
“Something’s happened to Polly!” gasped
Maureen.
“No!” he returned scornfully.
“Still be snoring her head off, at this
hour,” noted Vic.
“Yeah.” Dave investigated the teapot and
squeezed a last cup out of it.
“That tea’s stewed, dear,” said Maureen
faintly.
Dave ignored this. He added milk and sugar
and stirred. “Mike Collingwood,” he said to his oldest son.
“Oh,” said Vic cautiously.
“Is it his father?” gasped Maureen.
“Eh? Nah. Well, could be, for all I— No,
Maur’, it wasn’t about his father,” he said heavily.
“That’s good. I expect he was ringing about
Polly’s engagement!” she said happily.
At this Vic refrained with difficulty both
from rolling his eyes and from looking at his father.
“David?”
“More or less,” said Dave noncommittally.
“You should have let me speak to him,
dear!” she cried.
“Mum, Mike’s the last bloke that’d want to
hear about wedding dresses and crap,” sighed Vic.
Dave drained his cup. “Yeah. Come on.”
“I thought Kevin was going with you today,”
said Maureen as they went over to the back door.
“Him!” snorted Kevin’s father. “Still in
his pit.”
“You should’ve woken him up, dear, he’ll be
so upset when he finds he’s miss—”
“I shoulda tried, ya mean,” said Vic drily.
“We going, or not?” he said to his father.
“Yeah. See ya later,” said Dave to his
wife.
“Wait
on!” she cried. “How was Mike? How
did he seem?”
“All right,” grunted Dave, going out.
“Oh,” murmured Maureen. “You know, Vic
dear, I always thought—” she began.
“Yeah. Marilyn’ll be over a bit later,
Mum,” he said. He went out.
Maureen went out onto the back verandah and
watched them get on their horses. She already knew they were going up to the
boundary and would be gone all day, so she didn’t ask when they’d be back.
“So you’re taking old Marron Glacé?” she
said to her husband.
As Vic had saddled him up for him when he
arrived, Dave replied mildly: “Seem to be.”
“That pig Plumbago wouldn’t come, I’da shot
the brute yonks back if ’e was mine,” explained Vic. He gave a piercing
whistle; his dog leapt up, tail wagging. “See ya later, Mum.”
“Ta-ta,” agreed Dave. “Come on, then, ya
fool,” he said to his dog. It ran over to him eagerly.
Maureen sighed. “Bye-bye,” she said.
They rode off slowly in the direction of
the steepest part of the property, where horses were still of more use than
motorbikes.
When the homestead was about fifteen
minutes’ ride behind them, Dave said: “Mike reckons that joker’s in the clear.”
“Good,” said Vic.
They rode on in silence.
“You put Bob up to ringing him?”
“Uh—more or less,” admitted Vic. “Well, I
was gonna do it myself, only he said he would.”
Dave sniffed slightly.
“Must be some good in ’im, after all,”
noted Bob’s brother.
Dave sniffed again. “Yeah. –Pair o’ tits.”
“Eh?”
“Anyone but a nong,” explained his father
carefully, looking straight ahead over Marron Glacé’s ears, “woulda known that
if Polly was mixed up with a bloke that was gonna be hauled in for murder, Mike
woulda got onto me long since.”
“Aw,” said Vic in a very weak voice.
“Yeah.”
They rode on in silence.
“Doesn’t mean I’m actually looking forward
to next weekend, mind you,” noted Dave, very dry.
Vic sagged in his saddle. “Me neither,” he
admitted gratefully.
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