Blood Feud (33 page)

Feeling strangely depressed, I checked that the windows and back door were locked, tidied the kitchen and turned off my computer. The Sarge and I didn’t talk much over lunch up at his house, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Mine inevitably turned to Dad and what I was going to do when his cancer left him unable to look after himself. I would never begrudge a cent spent on him, but I just didn’t earn enough money to be able to hire him ongoing respectful and dignified care. This left me with no solution except quitting my job to care for him myself. But then instead of having little money, we’d have
no
money.

“You look as though your brain is hurting you,” said the Sarge, polishing off his sandwich (tuna and salad, of course).

“It is. I just had a terrifying vision of life with no money. Oh hang on, that’s not a vision, that’s reality.”

“Don’t fret about things, Tessie. They’ll work themselves out in the end.”

“That’s what Dad says, but that’s simply infuriating.
How
can it work itself out if I don’t try to find a solution?”

“You might win the lottery.”

I rolled my eyes, noticing that it hurt a lot less than it had this morning. “Well, that’s a sensible plan on which to pin all my hopes. I might also sprout wings and turn into an angel.”

“Doubt it,” he smiled. “You might meet a wonderful, rich man and marry him.”

I sighed in exasperation. “Right, because that’s achievable too and so terribly modern of you, Sarge. How about a plan not mired in fairytale land? And anyway, I bet most rich men aren’t wonderful. They’re probably all bastards.”

“Probably.”

I conceded, “Maybe one or two might be nice guys.”

“But then sadly, they’d be boring kissers.”

“Sarge, stop it! You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope. Now what should we do this afternoon? I’m thinking that a bit of beat patrol would be a good idea after what happened to Miss Greville and with Red Bycraft on the loose again. Help the community feel a little safer.”

“Good thinking. Let me just –”

His phone rang. He looked at the screen and groaned. “Ma’am, a pleasure as usual . . . I told you this morning her phone was broken . . . In that case, I’m coming as well . . . That’s what you ordered – for me to stay with her at all times . . . We can’t possibly get there by then. We need at least ninety minutes . . . Okay, but I’m not sure that complies with the laws of velocity . . . No, of course I’ve never done that to a horse and what does that have to do with anything we’re talking about? . . . Sorry to interrupt another rant . . . No, you misheard me . . . I said, sorry to interrupt you, ma’am . . . I don’t know. I suppose ma’am and rant sound similar. Maybe it’s time for a hearing test . . . No, I’m not implying that you’re old . . . I’m not sure that particular object would fit comfortably there, ma’am, but thanks for the suggestion . . . And by the way, we have some more information about –”

He stared down at the phone with incredulity. “She hung up on me!”

“What am I in trouble for now?” I sighed gloomily.

“She didn’t say, but what she did say was said through gritted teeth.” He smiled tightly. “She wants you in her office now. Better bring your bulletproofs.”

“Oh dear.”

He mock-punched my jaw. “You live for excitement, don’t you, kid?”

“Don’t call me kid,” I complained. “It makes you sound like some third-rate gangster.”

“Thank you. I only ever aspired to be a fifth-rate gangster, so I really feel like a winner now.”

I laughed. “You big idiot.”

“I don’t believe you’re allowed to call me that when we’re in uniform.”

“I’m changing into civvies then.”

“You’re killing me, kid.”

“I will kill you if you keep calling me kid.”

“Why don’t we both change into civvies and we’ll take the Beemer for a spin to Big Town. That will show the Super that we’re carefree and unworried by any further allegations of incompetence or bestiality.”

“That’s a brilliant idea. That will show her. Or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or you could kiss her into narcolepsy and she’d forget why she’s angry with me this time.”

He shuddered. “That’s some nightmare fodder for me for the rest of my life. It’d be more fun to kiss a piranha. I’ll pass, thanks.”

Changed out of our uniforms, we trooped down to his BMW.

He noticed my lingering envious glance as we climbed in. “Not going to happen, Fuller. Forget about it.”

I huffed and crossed my arms, sinking lower in my seat as he drove off. “I bet you didn’t share your toys when you were a kid either,” I accused.

He smiled faintly. “I would have, but I didn’t have anyone to share them with.”

I threw him a sympathetic glance. “Me neither. One of the problems of being an only child, hey?”

“I’m not an only child. In fact, I’m blessed with a multitude of brothers and sisters.” His tone was somewhat sardonic as if he hadn’t found it quite the blessing he claimed.

I turned sharply to study him, frowning. That didn’t make any sense – if he had lots of brothers and sisters why didn’t he have anyone to share his toys with? And why hadn’t he mentioned
any
of his siblings in the nine months we’d been working together? That was unusual. But no matter how much my curiosity burned me, the set of his jaw meant he wasn’t going to answer any further questions on the topic. He was so infuriatingly taciturn about his life. Why?

To show my disapproval of men who were deliberately mysterious, I kept my gaze confined to outside the passenger seat window and didn’t engage him in further conversation. I wasn’t sure he noticed though, engrossed in listening to a lengthy and serious radio report on some deathly dull state political development. I reached out to change the station to one playing music.

“Leave it,” he ordered, forcing me to retract my hand. “I’m listening to that.”

“Why? It’s so boring.”

“It’s an important budgetary debate that might impact on a number of departments, including the Police Service.”

“Yawno. As long as we keep getting paid, who cares?”

“I do,” he insisted, wisely ignoring the histrionic sigh I heaved in response. And so we listened to the boring debate for the rest of the trip.

At the police station in Big Town, he parked in one of the ‘police vehicles only’ bays and turned off the engine. We looked at each other.

“Ready to throw yourself into the volcano again?” he asked.

“I feel like a human sacrifice,” I said unhappily. Nobody enjoyed one of the Super’s bollockings.

“We’ll get through it together and afterwards I’ll buy you dinner.”

I brightened immediately. “Really?”

“Yep,” he said, opening his door and preparing to step out. “Because you’re going to need it, kid.”

Chapter 22

She made us wait. We sat in a little reception room she’d recently converted for that purpose from an old work space that previously contained a photocopier and stationery stores. The fresh paint hadn’t quite dispelled the smell of toner in the air.

It was a small room, barely space for two. The Sarge and I sat in opposite seats, our knees virtually knocking together. I found the waiting the hardest part. I just wanted the Super to tell me what I’d done in great and foul-mouthed detail. I’d make a half-hearted apology to her and promise to never do it again, and then I could escape to fill my tummy with some delicious food paid for by the Sarge. I jumped up and paced the tiny space, edging around the Sarge’s knees, sitting down for thirty seconds before springing to my feet again to resume my pacing.

“Sit down and stay down,” the Sarge demanded, exasperated by my prowling. Obediently, I sank onto a rather uncomfortable chair, but immediately started wriggling my legs up and down.

Every cop who walked by glanced inside at us, but kept hurrying past. That was never a good sign. Nobody else wanted to be tainted with the stench of a reprimanded cop, though most of the furtive glances were sympathetic in nature. Bum, large enough to block out the sun but whose brain struggled to power a lightbulb, filled the doorway.

“The Super’s not in a good mood today,” he warned, openly ogling my chest, forcing me to cross my arms.

“Is she ever in a good mood?” muttered the Sarge.

I groaned. “Why is she in a bad mood today of all days?”

“You’ll see,” said Bum, trying for an enigmatic smile but only managing to look constipated.

On his departure, light flooded back into the room. A couple of minutes later we heard the dreaded summons.

“
Tessie Fuller, get your arse in here now!
”

Some Big Town cops compared her voice to the hideous sound of Wolverine screeching his claws down a chalkboard; others to the bone-chilling shriek of the minions of Hell calling you to your eternal damnation. Whatever it sounded like, it brought on immediate medical symptoms like goosebumps, heart palpitations, sweaty palms and a dry mouth.

I took a deep breath and stepped into her office with a jaunty air. “Afternoon, ma’am. Is that a new . . .” My words died in my throat.

With shameless sycophancy, I’d been about to compliment her on her hair. But it was beyond compliments. Since I’d last seen her, it appeared to have been hacked at by a vision-challenged gardener with a set of blunt secateurs and a burning desire to create something ‘interesting’. It jutted out all over her head in uneven clumps.

“Anyone say one fucking word about my hair and you’ll find my foot so far wedged up your arse you’ll be shitting shoes for weeks.”

She pulled a cigarette pack out of her top drawer and lit up. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. She stared at us, not offering either of us a seat.

“My mother decided to give me a trim last night,” she explained. I could see why she hated her mother so much.

“It’s um . . .” I floundered to finish the sentence. “Um . . . very modern, ma’am.”

“It’s fucked, that’s what it is, and I don’t have time to have it fixed today because I’m too busy dealing with problems like you, Tessie.”

Here we go
, I thought nervously.

She leaned back in her executive chair and regarded us, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“What am I supposed to do about you two? You fucked up the forensics at a murder scene. You failed to capture Red Bycraft at a road-block where there was only one fucking road to block. You wasted the time and resources of half my staff on some bullshit story about Red Bycraft on the hunt for prey here in Wattling Bay. I’ve had that banshee-on-legs, Villiers, still shitting me to tears with her tedious complaints about you. You spend more on petrol and car maintenance than any other two-cop town in not just my district, but the whole fucking state.” A pang of guilt twinged through me at that. “And now this.”

I wasn’t quite brave enough to ask what ‘this’ was.

“Tessie, please remind me again why you took a police recruit to a violent murder scene.”

“Um . . . I didn’t exactly take him, ma’am. He was there with me when we went to the callout. And to be fair, I didn’t know it was going to be a murder scene.”

“And did you take him back there in the middle of the night?”

“Again, I didn’t exactly ‘take’ him. He kind of tagged along on another callout.”

“And did you involve him in a high speed pursuit that was
not fucking authorised?
”

I remained silent. Not even I could defend myself on that one.

“Fuck. I just knew it,” she said quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It might interest you to know that this particular recruit has an extremely influential, and possessive, mother. And by influential, I mean she donates shitloads of money to the government, so they listen to her. She’s not happy that her precious little darling was exposed to such things, particularly as
he hasn’t yet done any formal fucking training in dealing with shit like that!
”

I flinched at her anger. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“His mother’s been up the Police Minister’s arse about it, so she’s been up the Police Commissioner’s arse about it, so he’s been up the Deputy Commissioner’s arse about it. And now guess whose arse has just been reamed?”

“Yours, ma’am,” I said miserably.

“And now guess whose arse
I’m
just about to ream?”

My misery level grew. “Mine, ma’am.”

“Bingo! Someone give the woman some prize money.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. That’s all I ever hear from you.” She took a final huge drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out on a thick report marked:
URGENT. CONFIDENTIAL. New budgetary directives from the Hon Georgina Stretton, Minister for Police, Corrective and Court Services
. “How about you do me a favour and stop doing things you need to say sorry about? You’re giving me wrinkles I really don’t need.”

“She’s giving me gray hairs,” ventured the Sarge.

“Shut up, Maguire,” she snapped. “Tessie, I want you to pay attention to what I say next. If you don’t pull your head in, I’m going to have to reassign you to a station where you’ll be supervised more closely. You don’t want that, do you?”