Baxter's Last Case

24

Baxter’s Last Case

    “Oh, help,” reported Jenny Fermour to herself, peering from her kitchen window. “He’s early.” She hesitated; then she rushed out to the milking-shed where Gerry was ostensibly milking: more like mooning over the blessed creatures and playing the Concert Programme to them on that radio he’d bought specially.

    “He’s come home early.”

    “Eh? Oh.”

    “Gerry, turn that music off, I can’t hear myself think!”

    He scratched his chin. “The cows like it.”

    “Rubbish!”

    Gerry turned it down. “Shall we hide?”

    Jenny choked. “I’d like to,” she admitted.

    “Yeah. Uh—disclaim all knowledge?”

    “And what then? Self-destruct in five seconds before he spots we’re lying?”

    “Uh—yeah. Something like that,” he said lamely.

    “Um… we could just say she was upset and she got a taxi.”

    “That’s true, as far as it goes.”

    They eyed each other uneasily.

    “He’ll ring up Noelle,” predicted Gerry.

    “He won’t get any joy out of her!”

    “Uh—no: you’re right.”

    Jenny fidgeted. “Maybe I should give him a ring.”

    “Ye-ah…” Gerry scratched his chin again. “He’s not all bad, in his way, ya know,” he offered cautiously.

    “I know that!” she said scornfully.

    He blinked. “Yeah.”

    “And Catherine can be awfully silly… Well, I mean: a trip to Rotorua? I’d have gone like a shot!”

    “Wairakei,” he murmured. “Me, too.”

    “Bertha’s shaking her head again,” noted Jenny abruptly.

    “Uh—oh. Silly moo,” said Gerry with a smothered grin. He went over to her and readjusted the strap that was supposed to keep her from the maniacal head-shaking, patting her warm forehead as he did so, but not neglecting to say to his wife as he returned: “Number 232. Ya don’t give cows names on a working dairy farm, love.”

    “Bertha,” replied Jenny firmly.

    “The Farm Management System’s not set up to take names, Jenny.”

    “I dare say, but Alan says he can alter that for you as easy as easy! It’s just a question of getting into the—um… program, or something,” she ended weakly.

    “Yes, well, like I say, he’s not all bad. Mind you, I don’t think he realises that those extensions he’s planning are a bit over the top: probably what set her off.”

    “Mm…”

    They stared moodily at the cows.

    “Bertha’s—”

    Gerry jumped. “Yeah, right: they’re finished.” He hurried over to Bertha and, first patting her head soothingly, took the cups off her first.

    “Pet,” said Jenny under her breath, but quite mildly: Bertha was a good old cow, they’d had her for yonks, since well before Gerry got the blimming Farm Management System and had to pretend the poor old girl was Number 232.

    When that lot was out in the yard, milling around aimlessly, and the very last lot, that had started mooing uneasily, had been brought in and connected to the cups—Jenny helping in this task as a matter of course—she said, clearing her throat: “Um—do ya think that fax was true, Gerry?”

    They had already gone over this ground: nevertheless Gerry replied glumly: “Dunno. Could have been a malicious piece of gossip; I’m bloody sure Alan's got enough enemies on the staff.”

    “Mm. Um—well, shall I give him a ring?”

    Gerry looked at his watch. “Don’t think you’ll need to, now.”

    Jenny winced.

    “Uh—no, go on, love, ya better: don’t want to give the poor sod the impression we’re entirely on her side.”

    “Well, I’m not! I think she’s been very silly.” With this she hurried off to the house,

    Gerry raised his eyebrows slightly but as the Concert Programme was now playing Chopin, which was a great favourite with the old girls, he did not neglect to turn it up.

    When the phone rang Alan leapt upon it but then found his throat had closed up so that he could hardly utter. “Yes?” he croaked.

    “Hullo, Alan, it’s Jenny Fermour,” said a cautious voice.

    “Is she with you?” replied Alan grimly.

    He heard her swallow. “Um—no. Did she leave that fax for you?”

    “Yes. Plus what possibly might in her terms have constituted a note. Written on the bottom of it.”

    Jenny shut her eyes for a moment. “What did it say?” she faltered.

    “‘I can’t’,” returned Alan grimly, no reflection on the impertinence of this enquiry so much as flickering on the edge of his consciousness.

    “Oh, help,” said Jenny numbly. “I’m awfully sorry, Alan. Um—look, would you like to come over? Gerry’s just finishing the milking, or we’d— ”

    “Yes. Thank you, Jenny.” He hung up.

    Blindly Jenny tottered over to her kitchen bench and made a cuppa.

    … “Sit down, Alan,” she said as he came into the kitchen, looking very grim. “The kids are watching TV, they won’t disturb us. Gerry’ll be in in a minute, if he can drag himself away from his blimmin’ Rachmaninoff.”

    “Chopin, from what I heard.”

    “Same difference; his story is he plays it for the cows.” She poured tea and sat down opposite him with a sigh.

    “May I ask, do you know where Catherine’s gone?” he said grimly.

    Jenny shook her head. “She wouldn’t tell us. She got a taxi. And before you say anything, I would tell you if I knew, because I think she’s been pretty silly about this!”

    “About all of it,” agreed Gerry from the back door.

    “Take your b—”

    “I’ve taken me ruddy boots off, how many years have we been married? –Gidday, Alan,” he said glumly.

    “Hullo, Gerry. Sorry to inflict our troubles on you.”

    “Shit, that’s okay. What are neighbours for? –Jenny tells me you can change the system for me so’s I can put names in instead of numbers if I want to.”

    “Uh—oh. Yes, certainly. But you would have to be very careful about not repeating the names: otherwise you’d get the cows’ records muddled.”

    “I knew there was some method in the MAF’s madness,” said Gerry to his wife.

    “Stop talking about your blimmin’ computer, Gerry.” Jenny put a mug of tea in front of him and set a plate of biscuits on the table. Shop-bought, Alan noticed wryly. “I was just saying, Catherine got a taxi, but she wouldn’t tell us where to.”

    “Mm.” Alan took the fax out of his pocket and smoothed it out. It had no cover sheet, it was merely a typed thing, with the hotel’s return number on it. The typeface was completely anonymous and could have been generated by one of their own laptops or any of the laptops or p.c.’s provided by the hotel. What it said was:

Alan Kincaid is spending the weekend with an American woman he picked up at the conference hotel. Her name is Dr Millicent McNabb-Kowalski and she is registered with the hospital administrators’ conference. She slept in his room last night.

THIS IS THE SORT OF MAN HE IS.

    There was, hardly surprisingly, no signature.

    “This arrived on Monday morning, did it?”

    “Yesterday: yeah,” agreed Gerry, clearing his throat. “Breakfast-time, more or less.”

    “Before school,” said Jenny, chewing her lip. “She rang me up in a dreadful state.”

    “Seemed to make it worse that she’d actually nerved herself to go and see what the thing was doing when it pinged— Sorry,” muttered Gerry, subsiding.

    “Honestly, Gerry!”

    “No, he’s quite right,” said Alan, trying to smile. “That would have made it worse: she’s terrified of anything that even smacks of technology.”

    Jenny began: “That dishwasher—” and then thought better of it.

    “It’s true,” said Alan tightly, the nostrils flaring. He waited in some trepidation for the expectable respectable middle-class condemnation of his inexcusable libertinage.

    After a moment Gerry said mildly: “Bloody idiot.”

    “I know,” he admitted, running his hand over his bald pate. “We’d had a stupid row: well, more than one. First over her refusal to set a date for the wedding, and then over her refusal to come to the hotel with me… Well, it was no excuse.”

    “No. But I did try to explain to her,” said Jenny cautiously, “that you’ve been living—um—that sort of life, for ages now, and—and it can take a while for a person to change, even if they’ve think they’ve made up their mind to. And—um—if you were cross with her anyway…”

    “Thank you very much, Jenny,” said Alan in some surprise.

    “The consensus is,” explained Gerry, rubbing his nose, “that you’ve both behaved like a pair of nongs.”

    “People do,” said Jenny hurriedly.

    “Yeah. You two have got nothing on Jenny’s sister and her husband. Husband-ex-husband, if ya get my drift, it’s like ruddy Liz Taylor or something!”

    “Yes. They’ve got kids, too, that makes it much worse: Dorian, that’s their eldest, she’s gone to live with Gavin’s mum: she’s divorced, too, but at least that dim boyfriend of hers is okay with the kids. And Vernon, that’s their youngest, he’s a nervous wreck, poor little thing.”

    “Bed-wetter," elaborated Gerry with a wry face. “He’s ten, poor little tyke.”

    “I see,” said Alan tightly.

    “Alan,” said Jenny urgently, leaning over the table: “I really think that if you want this thing with Catherine to work, you’re going to have grovel to her and promise not to do it again. And—and not do it again.”

    “Mm,” said Alan, biting his lip and blinking.

    “Depending on if ya want it to work, or not,” drawled Gerry.

    “Don’t be a bloody fool: of course I do,” said Alan tiredly.

    “Ya better pull ya socks up, then,” he said mildly.

    “Yes.” Alan glared fiercely at the Formica table.

    The Fermours just drank tea and ate biscuits.

    “It’s all so bloody difficult,” he admitted at last, not looking up.

    “Mm,” murmured Jenny.

    Alan nerved himself to look at them. They were both looking at him mildly.

    “Marriage is. Well, living with a person—same difference,” said Gerry.

    “Yes. Gerry and me used to have the most frightful rows over the stupidest things,” Jenny admitted.

    “She had these bloody fuzzy slippers— Well, never mind,” said Gerry feebly.

    Jenny smiled limply. “That was about two years after we got married. Scott was just a baby. I wouldn’t admit that they were totally unsuitable for living on a dairy farm surrounded by seas of mud.”

    “And cow shit,” said Gerry mildly.

    “Yes, right. So, um, when a strange dog came onto the property and started pestering the cows and I rushed out to chase it off, um, it was all Gerry’s fault.” She smiled sheepishly.

    “Well, it was, in a way. She had told me that bloody fence wouldn’t stop a dog. Only I’d reckoned there were no strays round here. Then—uh—we had a real barney and I chucked the bloody things out into the yard, and old Davey—that was the dog we useda have, he was Jess’s father—he thought it was a game and tore them to shreds.”

    “Before my very eyes!” said Jenny with a laugh. “Of course I accused Gerry of doing it on purpose, and then we had a really stupid row about him training up poor old Davey—who was as thick as a brick and barely capable of bringing the cows in from the paddock— Well!” she ended with another laugh.

    “That was the time she went home to her mum—well, the first time,” said Gerry fairly.

    “Yes. I got pretty short shrift there!” admitted Jenny with a guilty laugh.

    “Mm. I do see what you mean,” said Alan. “But this is a bit more serious than the suitability of fuzzy slippers for a dairy farm.”

    “No, you twit! That wasn’t it!” cried Jenny loudly.

    Alan stared at her, reddening slightly.

    “She didn’t mean to call you a twit,” said Gerry soothingly. “It’s just her verny-whatsit, like what Catherine was telling us you’re always going on about.”

    “Vernacular,” said Alan limply. “I suppose I do go on. You can’t help noticing, when you’re living in a foreign country. –I’m sorry, Jenny: please, do explain.”

    “I think,” said Jenny, wrinkling her brow, “that I still hadn’t accepted the fact that my life had necessarily changed when I married Gerry: that the farm was my gonna be my life, and that I’d have to grow up and stop being Daddy’s little girl: well, all that sort of thing—you know!”

    “Er—possibly I don’t know, Jenny,” admitted Alan, staring at her. “Though I think I’m beginning to see…”

    “Yeah. Not bloody easy, admitting to yourself you’re an adult and not a carefree teenager any more,” conceded Gerry. “Or in your case, foot-loose and fancy-free, eh? Cuts both ways, too, of course: Catherine’s had it all her own way for a fair time, now.”

    “Gerry’s always been all right, he's pretty much the most stable person ever born,” admitted Jenny, sighing. “Born adult, more or less.”

    “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I could cope with having another person to take into account in everything, big and small. Big wasn’t so hard, it was the small things,” admitted Gerry.

    “We had to get separate tubes of toothpaste, in the end,” said Jenny with a sigh. “This fanatic always rolls it up in a weeny, neat, tight roll from the bottom—” She stopped, perceiving an odd look on Alan’s face.

    “Er—me, too,” he said meekly.

    “Have you had a row over that, too?” asked Gerry with friendly interest.

    “A dreadful one,” admitted Alan, biting his lip. “Poor little Dicky even got dragged into it, too. Um—she’d been reading some of my psychology tomes, and she called me hopelessly anal. Well, it doesn’t matter what it means, precisely, but in terms of the rubbish she’d been reading it was an insult and—er—”

    “It was an insult, anyway!” said Gerry with a laugh. “Yeah, we get that!”

    “Right,” agreed Alan, smiling at him.

    After that a silence fell in the Fermours’ neat, modern kitchen.

    Eventually Alan said awkwardly: “Thanks.”

    “No sweat,” replied Gerry with a sigh. “Wish we’d had a neighbour to talk it over with, in our time, actually.”

    “Mm! Well, Catherine was here, but—” Jenny broke off, very pink.

    “Yes,” said Alan mildly. “Look, have you any idea where she might be? She doesn’t really have any close friends in Carter’s Bay, does she?”

    “No,” agreed Jenny. “Well, there’s Janet Wilson, she seems to have got quite pally with her, but she’s only got a tiny cottage, I don’t think… You could try her.”

    “Thanks, I will. Um—Shane’s mother?”

    Jenny shook her head. “Lucy Tamehana’s one of those frightfully efficient women who always do everything right; Catherine does like her, but I don't think she’d have gone to her.”

    “No. Uh—I did ring Noelle, but she claimed not to know a thing.” The Fermours exchanged glances and he said heavily: “I realise she loathes me and would lie to me without a second thought; but do you think Catherine would have gone to her?”

    “Doubt it,” said Gerry briefly.

    “No-o… Well, she is her daughter,” said Jenny more cautiously.

    “Love, she’d earbash her to death!” he objected.

    “She may be in the right mood for listening to earbashings about me,” said Alan heavily.

    Jenny sighed. “Yeah. I don’t see how you’re ever gonna get Noelle to admit it, if she is staying there, Alan.”

    “Get on to that drip of a Krish,” advised Gerry, grinning. “Bully it out of ’im.”

    “I may do that. Um—what taxi company did she use, did you happen to notice?”

    “Flaming Hercules Parrot,” noted Gerry genially.

    “Shut up,” said Jenny weakly. “And it's ‘Her-kyool Pwy-roh’, people’ll only think you’re ignorant, Gerry.”

    “I thought it was funny,” admitted Alan meekly.

    “Yeah, but we’re the wrong sex, mate,” said Gerry with a wink.

    “Just stop it,” ordered Jenny with dignity. “It was George Tamehana, actually, Alan: Puriri Taxis.”

    “Steve’s brother. Not so upwardly moh-bile,” drawled Gerry.

    “Shut up, Gerry. Shall we give him a ring?” she said kindly.

    Alan agreed and Jenny rang Puriri Taxis, apparently getting on to one, Kylie, but getting the facts out of her, nonetheless. “Kylie Tamehana says it was The Blue Heron,” she admitted. “Then George was coming back up here anyway, so he gave Dicky a lift to school.”

    “Yeah, Dicky come to school in a taxi. They’re staying at The Blue Heron,” volunteered Normie Fermour from the passage doorway. “I’m hungry,” he informed the company, ignoring the fact that his mother had turned a strange blue shade and was gasping for breath and that his father had collapsed in splutters.

    “There you are,” said Jenny at last, very limply. “–We’re having tea soon!” she snarled at the luckless Normie.

    “But I’m hungree-ee!”

    “Normie, get out; the grown-ups are talking,” she said grimly.

    “Aw-wuh! You’re MEAN!” he shouted.

    Gerry rose to his feet. “What did you say?’

    “NOTHING!” he shouted, hurriedly vanishing.

    Gerry shrugged and sat down again.

    “Thank you so much, Jenny,” said Alan feebly.

    She smiled weakly. “That’s okay. Are you gonna go down there?”

    “What would you advise?”

    “We-ell… Maybe if you just give her a ring tonight?”

    “Jenny, she’ll think he doesn’t give a damn, she’s had two days to mull it over,” warned Gerry.

    Alan owned feebly: “Um—yes, that was my thought, too.”

    Jenny found that they were both looking helplessly at her with that sheepish male look on their faces. Help! Alan Kincaid? “Um—yeah, you’re right. Um—only if she doesn’t want to talk just yet, Alan, I wouldn’t insist.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Gerry on a thankful note. “Try not to have another row, eh?”

    “Not just yet, you mean. Mm. Thanks very much, both of you,” said Alan, stuffing the fax into his pocket and exiting rapidly.

    The Fermours looked at each other limply.

    “Help,” concluded Jenny after quite some time.

    “Yeah. Uh—I think he really does care about her, love.”

    “Yes. But will it be enough?” she said grimly.

    Earlier that same day Mike Collingwood, leaning on the counter of the little motel shop, grinning all over his lean, attractive countenance, had asked: “Got the gen, didja?”

    Molly gave him a repressive look: young Huia Henare was in charge of the shop, today (her sister Julie being now rather busy with the new baby). “Just come through, would you, Mike?”

    Grinning, Mike came through to the kitchen. “Scones?” he said hopefully.

    “What, dear? Oh—well, yes,” said Molly, looking at her watch, “I might as well.”

    “Make enough for them,” said Mike pointedly as she turned the oven on. “Dicky’ll be home from school soon. Incidentally, who’s gonna get on up to Carter’s Bay and fetch him, if he misses the bus? Mrs Burchett doesn’t drive, does she? Or are we all gonna rely on the continued goodness of George Tamehana’s heart? Well, that in conjunction with Mrs B.’s frontal development, I gotta admit.”

    “You're being silly, Mike,” said Molly in a weak voice.

    Mike came up behind her and hugged her fiercely. “No, I’m not: brutally realistic,” he said in her ear. “This here’s brutally realistic, too,” he explained, pressing it against her rounded bum.

    Molly squeaked and giggled explosively; she always did, which was perhaps why he often did.

    “Ye-ah…” he said on a long-drawn note, releasing her reluctantly after a bit of nuzzling into the neck for good measure. “Don’t overdo it, love, we’ve got that load of corporate ning-nongs from CohenCorp booked in for dinner tonight, remember.”

    “I’m doing that fake flan thing," said Molly in a vague voice, getting the flour out: “I can rustle it up in no time. They’ll think it’s yuppie. With the filo pastry: you know, Mike, you use it instead of real pastry,”—Mike swallowed a grin—“and just chuck all the ingredients in. You just crumble the fetta cheese roughly, it melts right into the egg.”

    “Oh, yeah. With the silverbeet?”

    “No, they’re paying for the more expensive version.”

    “Not with asparagus?” he said in horror.

    “No, it’s a bit early for asparagus. With the eggplants and funny ham.”

    “Prosciutto. Molly, it’s spring: where are these eggplants gonna come from?”

    “They’re the ones I cooked up and froze last summer, but they’ll never know.”

    “You’re right, there!” he owned, shaking slightly.

    Molly chopped margarine briskly into the flour. “I’ll put marg in this, then we can have butter on it.”

    “Or cream…” he said in a vague voice, investigating the top cupboards. “Ah!” He produced a pot of homemade raspberry jam. “Devonshire scones, eh?”

    “All right, dear. I expect little Dicky will like those, too. Just ask Huia if she likes raspberry jam, Mike, would you? I can’t remember.”

    Mike popped out and returned to report: “Only if it’s your home-made. She reckons old Horry Henare reckons the bought stuff’s got little bits of araldite in it. Funny, that: Dad used to say the very same thing. Must be that generation, I s’pose. Well, old Horry’s almost as much of an old soak as Dad was, too.”

    “Are they together again, dear?” she said cautiously.

    “Old Horry and Mrs Henare, ya mean? Yeah: once he started living on his tod he discovered that doing your own shopping and cooking is bloody hard yacker, so he came back, after failing to force the daughters-in-law to take him on.”

    “Good for them,” said the fluffy Molly militantly.

    Mike grinned. “Yeah. –So what is the gen?” he asked, pulling up a kitchen chair and sitting astride it.

    “We-ell… It might be a storm in a teacup. Dr Kincaid’s been away at some conference thingy.”

    “Oh, boy,” said Mike, wincing horribly.

    “You can’t know what I was going to say!”

    “I can: conferences are notorious for marital infidelities, extra-marital infidelities, and just plain fornication.”

    “Mike Collingwood!”

    “Well, they are.”

    “What about those criminal ones you used to go to when you were in the Force?”

    “Criminological. They were pretty criminal, though. Uh—well, yeah,” he said uneasily. “Uh—lady lawyers, mainly. Never did fancy female policemen.”

    “I see. Everybody does it, then.”

    “Not the nice people, Molly,” said Mike uneasily.

    “No. But after all, Dr Kincaid’s been single for years, hasn’t he? And she said herself he’s used to going to lots of conferences: three or four a year, when he was in England.”

    “If you're trying to say he did it without a second thought,” said Mike, pulling his ear, “I’d have to say you’re probably right. But I’d also have to say that doesn’t excuse him.”

    “No.”

    “How the Hell did she find out?” he asked curiously. “Don’t tell me he up and confessed!”

    “No, he’s not back, yet, dear.”

    “Eh?”

    “Some nasty person sent her one of those fax things,” said Molly, scowling.

    Mike cleared his throat. “Just let’s get this straight, Molly. She hasn’t seen him, but she’s taking the unverified word of some malicious anonymous—was it anonymous? Right: of some anonymous fax?”

    “Yes.”

    “Or has she verified it? Did she ring him up and ask him if it’s true?”

    “No.”

    “Christ Almighty!”

    “I think they’d had a row before. She said he was cross because she didn’t want to go to the conference at Wairakei with him. –I thought that was just a power station.”

    “No, there’s a nice hotel there. Why didn’t she want to go? It’s bang in the middle of the thermal area, and it’s a good time of year, so long as it doesn’t rain; the geysers have been topped up after winter. How long was it for?”

    “Just a long weekend, he’s coming back today.”

    “For God’s sake! She could have taken Dicky!”

    “Mm.” Molly put the scones in the oven. “But I think they’d had a row before that. I’m not quite sure why, but she kept saying he was trying to take her over.”

    “In what way?” he said cautiously.

    “I’m not sure. She kept going on about his renovations: he wants to build on. And something about stables.”

    “Well, he was talking about getting a horse, that time they were down here. And a pony for Dicky. Poms don’t realise that horses live out in the paddocks, down here in the Antipodes.” Mike smiled to himself. “At the bottom of the rabbit hole. Dare say he’s been having trouble adjusting.”

    “What to?” she said in bewilderment.

    He got up and kissed her cheek gently. “To the New Zealand way of life, sweetheart. Come and sit down; take the weight off. I’ll make a pot of tea when the scones are ready.”

    “Ta, Mike.” Molly sat down, smiling at him.

    Mike sighed a bit. “It’d be no use pointing out to you that she’s a silly hen and we oughta keep out of it, I s’pose?”

    “No.”

    “No, I didn’t think so. Look, she’s gonna have to find out if it’s true.”

    “She seemed convinced it was,” she warned him.

    “Yes, but— Oh, I see: get our game plan together, eh?”

    “Isn’t it a contingency thingy, Mike?” she replied placidly.

    “Yeah,” he said with a silly grin. “Did she show you the fax?”

    “No, she left it for him.”

    The ex-policeman stared at her in horror.

    “I know it’s giving him the chance to destroy the evidence,” said Molly placidly, “but that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s seen it.”

    “Mm. What did it say, exactly; did she manage to tell you?”

    “She was very upset… It said he’d been playing around with a horrid American lady.”

    That, Mike silently recognised, was probably partly Molly-ese, and partly Mrs Burchett-ese. Doubtless it did represent the factual content of the fax; but as for drawing any conclusions about the sender from it—!

    “Ye-ah… What do you think, Molly?”

    “I think it was probably true,” she said shrewdly. “If they’d had a row—several rows, I think: it sounds as if she’s got cold feet at the thought of marrying him—and then he went off to the sort of conference thingy he’s used to, with all those up-market ladies in suits that he’s used to—”

    “Absolutely,” agreed Mike with a groan. “Spot-on. Hell.”

    “At least it was an American lady.”

    “Huh?”

    “Not from his work,” she explained placidly.

    Mike’s eyes bulged. “No,” he croaked. “Boy, that would upset the apple cart!”

    “Mm. I expect he’ll come round to talk to her. But I don’t think she’ll be willing to listen, just yet.”

    “No. Look, Molly, granted he shouldn’t have done it—and I think it’s ninety to one you’re right and he did do it, but let’s not condemn him without a hearing—but whether he did or didn’t, this is a bloody nasty business: anonymous faxes?”

    “Yes.”

    Mike rubbed his chin slowly. “Ring old Jim Baxter at the cop shop?”

    “Mike! She told us in confidence!” she cried.

    “Ye-ah… Look, this is pretty well the 1990s’ answer to the good old Agatha Christie anonymous letter.”

    “Um—yes. Oh, dear.”

    “I think I’d better have a word with Kincaid,” said Mike reluctantly.

    “Mm,” said Molly, swallowing. “Then he can ring Jim if he thinks he ought to.”

    “Something like that, yeah. May just be some other bird that he’s slighted: you know: got her nose out of joint. All the same…”

    “You’d have to be pretty worked up to actually do a thing like that,” said Molly. “I mean, you might get very cross and plot about it, but that’s not the same as actually doing it, is it?”

    Ex-Detective Chief Inspector Collingwood looked at his little fluffy wife with great approval. “No, it most certainly isn’t. That’s why I think the cops oughta know.”

    “Yes. Maybe you could help Jim find out who it was, Mike.”

    “No, thanks; I’ve left all that behind me!” he said with feeling.

    “Unofficially…” said Molly vaguely.

    Mike looked at her uneasily. She didn’t insist, so he left it at that.

    Luckily they had time to get the Devonshire tea down them before Kincaid arrived.

    “She’s in Number Seven,” said Mike as he came into the office. He’d told young Huia to get over to the restaurant and help old Janet lay the tables, he didn’t feel it was fair on the kid to expose her to Kincaid in all ’is glory. Boy, did he look ropeable!

    “Thanks,” replied Alan tightly. “Is Dicky back from school?”

    “Yeah. Uh—send him over here,” said Mike weakly.

    “Thanks, Collingwood,” he said with a sigh, going out.

    “Oh,” said Catherine limply, opening the door of the unit.

    “May I come in?”

    “Y— No! There’s nuh-nothing to talk about,” she gulped.

    “I think there is,” said Alan levelly. “Hullo, Dicky.”

    Dicky was watching television. “Hi, Alan! Hey, ya wanna watch—”

    “No.”

    “We don’t have to stay here, do we, Alan? ’Cos how am I gonna get to school—”

    “That is a point. We’ll talk about it later. Mr Collingwood said—er—could you go over and help in the office,” said Alan, with a mental cringe or two.

    “Yeah! Neato!” He made to rush out, then paused. “You aren’t gonna go away again, are you, Alan?”

    “Certainly not without talking to you, at any rate. Off you go. –Yes, I promise,” he said as Dicky urged him to. “Yes!” he said as Dicky repeated his urgings. “Are you deaf? Mr Collingwood’s waiting for you: now go!”

    Dicky went.

    “Did he?” faltered Catherine.

    “Mm? Oh: ask for Dicky’s help? No, he’s not an idiot. He did say he could get on over there, though.”

    “Oh,” said Catherine, sagging.

    “It’s cold out here: can I come in?”

    “There isn’t any point,” she said, nevertheless stepping back and letting him in.

    Alan waited until she’d shut the door, then he said: “Sit down, Catherine.”

    “No, you’ll only tower over me,” she said faintly.

    “No, I won’t.” He sat down in the little wooden-armed easy chair. Catherine came and perched on the edge of the bed.

    “It’s true,” said Alan grimly. “I was seething because you wouldn’t come away with me, more fundamentally I was bloody upset because you wouldn’t set a date for the wedding, and I drank too bloody much and let myself slip back into old habits.”

    “Yes,” she said faintly. “Mrs Collingwood—Molly, I mean—she said it must have been something like that.”

    “I see,” he said numbly.

    Catherine stared miserably at the carpet.

    “I—all I can do is—is ask you to forgive me,” said Alan haltingly.

    A tear ran down her round cheek. “I don’t think I can,” she said faintly.

    “It won’t happen again,” he said tightly. “I can promise you that.”

    “I didn’t think you… I knew you’d always been like that… I suppose I thought you wouldn’t, now,” she said dully, not looking at him.

    “You had every right to think it.”

    “No: I suppose you never made me any promises,” said Catherine drearily. “You don’t need to feel guilty or anything.”

    “But I do feel guilty!” he said strongly.

    “Well, you don’t need to. I think we—we’ve got different assumptions, Alan. I don’t think I can marry a person who doesn’t think the same way over things like that.”

    “Catherine, please!” he said, leaning forward urgently. “At least don’t condemn me without thinking about it!”

    “I have been thinking.”

    “Look, it won't happen again! Hell,” he said as she stared obstinately away from him: “it wouldn’t bloody well have happened this time, if only you’d come to the damned thing with me!”

    Her lips trembled. “It’s not my fault. And I don’t want to be your kuh-keeper.”

    “My keeper!”

    There was a short silence in the choice end unit of The Blue Heron Motel. “No, well, possibly I do require a keeper, but I—I don’t see you in that rôle,” said Alan in a voice that shook slightly.

    “It’s… To you, it’s just a convenience,” said Catherine in such a low voice that he could hardly hear it.

    On going over the scene in his mind later Alan was eventually to realise that if only he’d fallen to his knees and declared he loved her in so many words, everything would have been all right. Dolt that he was. What he actually said was—and God knew, he reflected bitterly after it was over, whether he’d hesitated to tell her he loved her out of fear of commitment, or what the Hell—what he actually said was: “Darling, it’s not just a convenience, I thought you realised it was more than that? Haven’t we been happy these last few months? I don’t expect you to forget all about this, but couldn’t we just agree to—to settle our differences? Start again? If I promise to bloody well behave myself and—and you try a bit harder to be the sort of wife—”

    “I WON’T!” she shouted, bounding up. “And stop saying bloody!”

    Alan’s jaw sagged.

    “And go AWAY!” shouted Catherine, bursting into loud tears.

    He stood up slowly. “Look, can’t we discuss this like two rational—”

    “I’m NOT RATIONAL, and that’s the whole POINT!” screamed Catherine. “Go away, go away, go AWAY!“

    “You’re certainly not rational, now, no. –I’m not giving up,” he said, edging towards the door as she looked round wildly.

    Catherine snatched up a pillow. “Go—”

    Alan ducked out hurriedly. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said loudly, putting his head round the door.

    “Grrr!” growled Catherine furiously through her teeth, hurling the pillow.

    Alan retreated.

    “Rational!” she shouted bitterly after him. The door of the unit was slammed viciously.

    “Hullo, again,” said Mike mildly as, breathing very deeply, Alan stepped into the office. “Dicky’s out the back with Molly. Watching Smurfs or something equally bloody mindless and licking out the cream bowl.”

    “Er—good. Thanks, Collingwood.”

    Mike hesitated. Then he said: “You'd better call me Mike; I gather we’re going to be seeing a bit more of you?”

    “I’ll certainly be back,” said Alan tiredly.

    “Rational fellow that you are,” he said lightly.

    Alan winced. Admittedly the office was in the middle of the row of units, but he’d thought that Number Seven was far enough away—evidently not.

    “They don't like rational: not if she's the same sort as Molly, and I think there are similarities,” said Mike lightly.

    “Oh, shut up,” replied Alan tiredly, leaning heavily on the counter.

    Mike’s good-looking face remained perfectly neutral, but he produced a bottle of Black Label and a shot glass from under the counter, and poured silently.

    “Thanks,” said Alan limply. “Though I don’t deserve it,” he noted, having downed it.

    “No. –First time I’ve heard you sound in the least Scottish,” said Mike.

    “What?”

    “You said ‘desairve’.”

    “Did I? I suppose that makes us even, first time I’ve heard anybody out here say Scottish instead of Scotch.”

    “In that case I’d better put it away. Anyway, you’re driving,” said Mike, tucking the bottle back under the counter.

    “Mm. Um—I’d better talk to Dicky, I suppose.”

    “I think he’s on your side; but mind you, he doesn’t seem to understand what you’ve done,” said Mike cautiously.

    “Uh—no. Uh—how much do you know, Mike?”

    “I haven’t seen the actual fax,” replied Mike calmly.

    Alan grimaced. “Mm. Well, it’s true. I’m a bloody fool.”

    “Yes, well, no bloke expects his mild conference peccadilloes to get reported to the little woman.”

    “No.”

    “And especially not while the sheets are still warm. Is there a time on that fax?”

    “What? Er—here,” said Alan with a shrug.

    Mike looked at it carefully. “Early on Monday morning: yeah. Not remarkably so, though: any number of people could have been faxing at that hour if the hotel was infested with these other conference types—was it?” Alan nodded, and he said: “Mm. Educated person, ability to spell… On top of the lingo: ‘registered with’, blah, blah… Something a bit childish in this last sentence, do you think? Emotionally undeveloped, maybe?”

    “Of course, you were in the police,” said Alan limply.

    “Mm-hm. Any idea who sent it? Another lady?” he said, raising his neat eyebrows.

    “What? No, for God’s sake, I’m not a bloody Casanova! Er—well, no, I’ve no idea,” he said, frowning over it.

    “Someone who hates your guts… Could be that, plus a large helping of righteous indignation. Got any moral re-armers at Sir George Grey?”

    “I don’t think so. Dorothy’s Faculty Liaison librarian does belong to some odd sect, come to think of it, but he’s gay, I don’t think he’d be interested in me or my doings; added to which, he picked up a tasty morsel himself,” he said with a sigh.

    “All at it, were they?” concluded Mike neutrally.

    “Didn’t you just imply, yourself, that conferences are like that?”

    “Mm. Not that. Was there anyone who didn’t pick up a tasty morsel and whose nose appeared particularly put out of joint by the fact?”

    “No-o. No-one who’d take it out on me. Or want to hurt Catherine, for God’s sake!”

    “The pure in heart,” said Mike with intense distaste, “tend to assume that this sort of revelation is doing the injured party a favour.”

    Alan grimaced. “No doubt.”

    “Look, I know it’s none of my damn business: but this sort of anonymous attack can be quite serious—even lead to something nastier. I’d strongly advise you to take it to the police.”

    “Who will do what?” said Alan coldly.

    “Make discreet enquiries. Check out the hotel’s records: who was faxing what.”

    Alan sighed. “I can tell you now that won’t do them any good. Anything faxed from a laptop would have been debited to the individual rooms, but in addition they had several public fax machines: you paid on presentation of the report slip.”

    “Um… receipts? Would they have kept carbons?”

    “Possibly, though it appeared to be cash transactions only.”

    “Convenient for someone. All right, who would have known you picked up this American female and that she spent the Sunday night with you?”

    Alan sighed. “Half the hotel, probably. Er—well, we did go up quite late, there weren’t any of our people left in the bar except Inoue Takagaki.”

    “Rule him out,” said Mike instantly.

    “Given that he’s the sanest man I’ve ever met, I had done so, yes. Let me see… On the stairs, we bumped into Jack Perkins and the bird he’d picked up. He waved coyly at me and said ‘Night-night,’ but before you ask me if he was so drunk that he wouldn’t remember, no, he wasn’t.”

    “Should have taken the lift.”

    “It’s not a very tall building.”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Mike limply. “What about in the corridor?”

    “Inoue, Dorothy and I had rooms in the same corridor. There was no sign of her. We did see a man from their group: Hank somebody, another of the American guest speakers; but he appeared neither interested nor surprised to see us. And in any case, whoever sent this must have known my home number.”

    “That’s right. Your fax machine on the same line as the phone?”

    “Yes.”

    Mike rubbed his lean jaw slowly. “Mm.”

    “The next morning,” said Alan grimly, “Millie and I didn’t go down to breakfast; we had Room Service send something up. Then she showered and went back to her own room.”

    “Yes-es… Who was in the bar the night before? I mean, you said you went up after the rest of your lot.”

    Alan sighed, and told him. Adding that as he’d sat next to Millie at dinner anyone in the dining-room might have seen they were interested in each other.

    “Mm-hm… Could she have bumped into one of your lot as she was going back to her own room? In the clothes she’d worn the night before, presumably?”

    “Yes. Um—well, I’m not sure. She was on my floor, but in the other wing: Thomas Baranski and Jack Perkins were both along that way. Oh, and Sammi Wolfe, that's right.”

    “So any of those three might have seen her and drawn the obvious conclusion?”

    “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

    “Mm…”

    “What?” said Alan, watching his face.

    “This ‘She slept in his room last night’ sounds so definite. Sure there was no-one who knew for certain?”

    “Not unless anyone was lurking right outside when Millie went out,” he said tiredly.

    “Was anyone? Did you look?”

    “Of course I didn’t damn well look, I’m not bloody paranoid!”

    “Possibly you should be,” said Mike thoughtfully. “Look, old Jim Baxter—Sergeant Baxter—at the police station here is bloody discreet; you can trust him.”

    “I don’t want my staff interrogated,” said Alan on a note of finality.

    “Kincaid, this thing is on the same lines as an anonymous letter campaign. True, that sort of personality usually confines itself to written spite: but not always. You’ve got Mrs Burchett and the kid to think about, not merely yourself.”

    Alan bit his lip. “I see. Thank you. In that case, I will speak to him.”

    Mike sagged. “Good.”

    “Oh: before I forget: has Catherine given you or Molly any indication of how she intends paying for that room?”

    Mike smiled. “No. She seems to think of it as a haven. We didn’t mention cash.”

    Alan got out his wallet. “Thank you, Mike. Please continue not to mention it. Let me pay you something in advance.”

    “I won’t say no: it is our best room,” said Mike mildly. “American Express’ll do nicely, ta.”

    Alan duly paid in advance and then, at Mike’s invitation, went through to speak to Dicky. There was a little sitting-room directly behind the office: the television was on, but Dicky wasn’t there. Alan poked his head round the door to the adjoining room. A kitchen with an array of large refrigerators and freezers. Dicky was standing by the sink-bench next to a little, wizened old woman: after a moment Alan recognised her as the Blue Heron’s elderly waitress.

    “This is Janet! She’s neat: her brother, he was in the Air Force during the War and guess what! She was a gunner!” he gasped.

    “Good afternoon, Dr Kincaid,” said the little old woman. “Yes; I was stationed near Portsmouth for most of the War.”

    “You must have seen some action,” said Alan, smiling at her.

    “Yes, we did that.”

    “Though that wouldn’t have been your native shores, would it? Is that a Derbyshire accent?”

    She laughed. “Fancy you picking that up! I’ve been out here for nigh on fifty years, now.”

    “She come out on a big ship!” gasped Dicky.

    “Came.’”

    “Alan, c’n I go an’ see her brother?” he gasped, hopping.

    “A real World War II flying ace? Of course. –So he’s out here, too?”

    “Yes: we all came out after the War: me and Pete and his wife and our sister, Gertie. Gertie died years back: she was the eldest. Pete’s in a home, now, but he’s still got all his wits about him. He’d like to see the little boy.”

    “You know, Alan!” urged Dicky, hopping. “We seen it! Near The Tavern!”

    “Glen Osmonde,” explained Janet. “It’s very nice.”

    “Oh, yes. Er—well, you’ll have to ask your mother, Dicky, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t visit Mr—er—Janet’s brother.”

    “Squadron Leader Ames,” said Dicky importantly. “He’s got medals!”

    Alan smiled and nodded and managed to prise him and his piece of toast and peanut butter away from Janet and take him into the other room.

    “C’n we go home?” he said wistfully.

    “Not just yet.” Alan turned the television set off.

    “Aw! Who’s gonna look after King Peng-Cat an’ Biggles?”

    Alan had to swallow. What with the piece of living history they’d just encountered… Biggles was Buttercup’s new calf: a bobby-calf, with odd sooty marks round his big Jersey eyes, which Dicky, who had lately become absorbed in the works of Captain W.E. Johns, had declared were like flying goggles, naming him Biggles on the spot.

    “I will, and if I don’t know what to do, I’ll ask the Fermours. Listen, Dicky, did your mother explain why you’re here?”

    Dicky looked vague.

    “Did she?”

    “Um—she said she didn’t want to marry you after all an’ we couldn’t live in your house,” he growled.

    “I see. Um—look, Dicky, it’s my fault. I did something very silly that—that upset Catherine.”

    “Ye-ah… Did you write something rude?”

    “No. Oh: the bloody fax.”

    “She bawled,” he said glumly.

    “Mm. Um—no, somebody told on me: that’s what the fax was.”

    “Oh. What did ya do?”

    Alan winced. “I—uh— Look, Dicky, it was just stupid. Lots of men do stupid things that—um—that they don’t really mean to do and that—that upset the ladies they’re living with. Do you understand?” he said without hope.

    “Um… like Mr Tamehana?”

    “Er—Steve? What did he do?’

    Dicky’s eyes narrowed. “He bought this huge four-wheel-drive—”

    “No. Well, it was bloody silly, but it was something different. I—um—kissed another lady.”

    “Why?” he said blankly.

    “I—um—I was a bit drunk.”

    Dicky thought about this. “Are you gonna marry her instead of Mum?”

    “No,” said Alan grimly.

    “Oh. Um—are you gonna get a divorce, then?’

    “No, Dicky: you have to be married first, before you can get a divorce.”

    “I knew that, really,” he said vaguely.

    Alan ran his hand over his forehead. “I think I see. I’m going to give Catherine time to cool down and then I’m going to persuade her to come back to my house and then I’m going to marry her—okay?”

    “Can I still have my room?”

    “Yes.”

    He appeared to lose interest. “It’s the quiz show now,” he said hopefully.

    “Is it? Good, you might learn something,” said Alan, turning the television on again.

    Dicky sat down in front of it but said: “How am I gonna get to school?”

    “Is there a bus?”

    “Sort of. Down the shops.”

    “Um—I’ll come and get you every morning without fail in the car, Dicky.”

    “Neato,” he said contentedly.

    “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be ready at ten past eight.”

    “Righto,” he said vaguely, eating toast.

    Alan staggered out. “Do they take in as little as they appear to, at that age?’ he said feebly to Mike.

    “No. A lot more. They don’t always understand the bits we think they’re going to, and their lack of experience means they can’t always relate it to anything in a way that allows them to make sense of it. And they don’t necessarily see the same things as important as we do. But in general, they take in a Hell of a lot.”

    “What the fuck did you do your degree in?” said Alan, staring at him,

    “I did a combined B.A.-LL.B., but that was a fair while back, when Auckland was still the last bastion of behaviourism. –That’s not mine: verbatim Dr Jill Davis: ya know her?”

    Alan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

    “Probably just as well. I’ve read the odd book or two since. A lot of it’s observation. What I wrote down in me little Pleece notebook, Alan.”

    “Mm. Um—well, do me a favour and keep an eye on Dicky, will you?”

    “My pleasure.”

    Alan went over to the door. “Thanks for everything, Mike. Oh, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, I’m collecting him for school.”

    “Good. See ya.”

    Alan nodded and went out.

    On due consideration Mike got the bottle of Black Label out and poured himself one.

    Sergeant Jim Baxter was due to retire at the end of this year. He could have taken early retirement a while back, but those ulcers he'd had a few years earlier had stopped bothering him, and he and Moana could certainly do with the regular income. And crime in Puriri County had more or less settled down to the expectable bit of petty thievery: shop-lifting, the occasional minor break-in, and the odd spate of teenage car-stealing. In Jim’s opinion these outbreaks coincided with whatever piece of American garbage happened to be on at the flicks in town, but the Powers That Be weren’t likely to ask the opinion of a small-town copper about the causes of teenage crime. They hadn't, really, had anything out of the ordinary up this way since that last case that Mike Collingwood had been involved with, and that was a few years back, now! Their Hayley’s little Dana had been about two: Jim remembered her clear as day, standing on his doorstep bawling her eyes out in nothing but her singlet, that time that D.C.I. Collingwood had dropped him off at home. Mike had mellowed a fair bit since then—mind you, he’d needed to. All down to Molly, of course! That was when he’d met her: funny to think if old Don Banks hadn’t been knocked off on Jake Carrano’s ruddy patio, Mike and Molly would never of met.

    “I needed this ruddy case, at this juncture,” he said sourly to Mike over a beer at The Tavern.

    “Go out with a bang, Jim,” suggested Mike with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Hah, hah. –Coulda been anyone: far’s I can see they all loathe Kincaid’s guts. That or they’re shit-scared of him. That or both,” he noted heavily.

    “Uh-huh. You didn’t let on what it was really about, did you, Jim?”

    “’Course I ruddy well didn’t, whaddaya think I am? No, spun ’em a fairy story about Auckland CIB suspecting that a well-known con man had infiltrated this conference dump and we were checking up on phone calls and faxes.”

    Mike stared. “What well-known con man?”

    Jim shrugged. “Don’t ask me. They all swallowed it, though.”

    “Too much TV,” diagnosed Mike with a twinkle.

    “Yeah.” The sergeant drank beer and sighed.

    “So—uh—what did you make of the cast of characters, Jim?”

    The plump Sergeant Baxter smiled a little: that always had been one of the D.C.I.’s phrases! “Him apart, ya mean?”

    “Yeah.”

    Jim grimaced. “Pretty ordinary bunch… One or two fairly unusual types, I s’pose, but not unusual for the varsity, if ya get my drift.”

    Mike nodded.

    “Can’t see Baranski or Dorothy’s brother sending spiteful faxes to their boss. More likely to tell him what they think of him to his face and have a right royal barney in front of the assembled staff,” he elaborated.

    “Yes; well, certainly in Baranski’s case.”

    The sergeant ate peanuts reflectively. “Jack Perkins struck me as pretty sane. I’d say he’s high-strung, but ya don’t suddenly go potty and start a persecution campaign against your boss at his age, even if your daughter has just died and you’ve suddenly been landed with a grandson ya didn’t know ya had.”

    “That’s pretty much what I thought,” agreed Mike mildly. “Ever had an anonymous letter campaign up this way, Jim?”

    “Have you been getting your old mates in CIB to look up the old records?”

    “No,” he said simply.

    “Sorry, Mike. Um—well, it was years back. I’d just got me stripes… Crikey, it was before they built the varsity campus, even. It was one of the Mannings: think Molly knows them.”

    “Yes, Nicky Manning used to mow the lawns for her.”

    “I remember: yeah. A right little tearaway he was, too! Yeah, well, it was a Miss Manning: Ida, her name was.” The sergeant finished his beer, and sighed. “Ida Manning… Mad as a meat-axe. Well, spinster, of course. When it all came out, the neighbours reckoned that what set her off was the ruddy Council turning round and saying she couldn’t keep chooks.”

    “Eh? In those days?”

    “Yeah. Musta been just around the time they started to get ideas into their heads about zoning and all that crap. Their story was she lived too close to the shopping precinct.” He eyed him ironically.

    “Two dairies, the flaming Puriri Emporium, and a service station each end of the main drag?”

    “Yeah. Well, more or less. They had started building The Arcade. Think that was it, actually: her chooks woulda lowered the tone. She lived in Seddon Street: the house is gone, now, it was one of the last ones that they bought up for the carpark extension. Anyway, having to get rid of the chooks was probably the last straw. Her old cat had been run over a bit earlier and then, don’t laugh, the ruddy budgie had died.”

    “I’m not laughing.”

    “No. –Want another?”

    “Ta, Jim.”

    “This Manning bird: did she have a job, given that this wasn't actually in the nineteenth century?” asked Mike when Jim came back with the beers.

    “Yeah, she worked as daytime receptionist at Wenderholm.”

    Mike grimaced: the poshest of the motels on the main drag, on the waterfront: showing its age a bit now, but if you liked Fifties moulded stucco in fake Art Deco, painted pale apricot with cream and green trim, still definitely the motel of choice in Puriri. “That would have been a bit seasonal, wouldn’t it?” he murmured.

    “Yeah, they made her do shorter hours in winter; but it’s never been owner-run.”

    Mike nodded.

    “That was how we got onto her: one of the regulars at Wenderholm, a travelling salesman, he was one of the victims; and there was nobody else, really, in Puriri that coulda known all about him and his dirty doings, plus known about some of the locals. Added to which she was nicking the motel’s stamps for the letters: the management came down on the motel staff like a ton of bricks about the over-spending on postage while the anonymous letters case was on, and it just suddenly struck me as a really odd coincidence, that here were a lot of stamps being used up that shouldn’t of been, at the same time as something like twenty people a week were getting hate mail: ya know?”

    Mike nodded, looking at him with considerable liking and a certain respect. “Well done, Jim!” he concluded with a grin.

    “Ta.” He shook his head. “Poor old Ida. Got sent to the loony bin—never done time, mind you. The relatives shoved her in a home once she came out.” He pulled his ear. “Don’t ask me the ins and outs of that one, either! All I know is, Sid and Freda Manning and their kids moved into the old bird’s house after we arrested her, and they were still in it—at least, Sid and Freda and the younger boys, plus Leon Manning and his kids: the two girls, Sheryl and Velda, they’d moved on—they were still there when the supermarket bought the place for five times what it was worth.”

    Mike’s eyes sharpened. “Velda Manning?”

    Jim shrugged. “Lives up at Carter’s Bay these days: calls herself Mrs; well, good luck to ’er. She's all right. Well, think all them kids have got different dads, but there’s only her supporting them, and she works bloody hard. She is the same Velda Manning what Perkins has hired to look after that flaming great palace he’s built himself miles up the boo-eye, but if your great detective brain can make anything of that, I’d like to hear it!”

    “I wouldn’t dare,” said Mike mildly.

    The sergeant merely grinned.

    “Um… Is she working for any of the others?”

    “Would she know the dirt, ya mean,” diagnosed the sergeant heavily. “Baranski’s offered her a pittance to trail right round to the far shore to clean his ruddy great palace, when it’s finished, but she isn’t accepting it, it’d cost her as much as he's offered in petrol alone, there and back. Added to which, he apparently expects her to supply a vacuum-cleaner!”

    “He’s like that.”

    The sergeant sniffed. “Yeah. That Ms Wolfe—ya know her?”—Mike winced and nodded.—“Yeah. She’s latched on to Velda, too. Got the impression that poor old Velda was torn between admiration of Ms W’s executive efficiency and indignation at being told she expected to find the bath properly cleaned, my good woman: words to that effect.”

    “She would.”

    “Yeah. Well, Velda’s doing her cleaning, but if she finds more clients it’s quite on the cards that she’ll dump her; but at the moment she’s the only other one.”

    “Not Kincaid?”

    “Um—sort of. What I mean is, apparently he has just asked her: he offered to pay extra because of her petrol, not like some!” he noted.

    Mike’s eyes twinkled: he didn’t point out that this approval was entirely inconsistent with Jim’s demonstrated antipathy to Alan Kincaid. “I see.”

    “Yeah. Only, when it happened, she hadn’t even set foot at Toetoe Bay.”

    “No. In any case, it would have had to be someone who was down there at the bloody brainstorming seminar.”

    “Was that what it was?” said Jim Baxter on a snide note. “Yeah, well, you’re right.”

    “Um… well, talking of Ida Manning, any of the females strike you as a bit over the edge?”

    “No. Well, that Beth Martin, she’s as vague as they come: typical varsity type, ya know? But sane enough. And if Ms Wolfe had anything to do with it, I’ll eat me hat and me uniform along with it!”

    “Ye-es… She’s a very controlled personality, Jim,” he said uneasily.

    The uniformed man replied immediately: “Not over-controlled, though, I wouldn’t say. Well, I had a good talk to the Admin staff, even though most of them didn’t go,”—Mike nodded—“and they all burst out with some story about her and that Froggy type having a flaming row all over the offices—woulda been a couple of months back, I suppose. I think she’s pretty normal. Mind you, they also reckoned her nose was out of joint because Mr Takagaki, he picked up some dame that was with that other conference lot.”

    “I see…”

    “But if she was that ropeable about that, wouldn’t she of had a go at him? Well, she coulda turned it on Kincaid if she was mad enough, I’m not saying it’s theoretically impossible, but meeting her, I'd say there was no way she’d do anything a quarter so nutty.”

    “I agree, Jim. One of the most horribly sane people I’ve met in a long time.”

    Jim blinked, and laughed. “Yes!”

    “So how many of the females went? Who does that leave?”

    Jim counted laboriously on his fingers. “Ms W., Beth Martin, Akiko Takagaki, Kincaid’s secretary—PA, so-called—and Dorothy. –If she done it, I’ll eat me hat, me uniform, and this here table,” he noted genially.

    “Quite!” agreed Mike, laughing.

    “Those nice bird ladies didn’t go, and nor did the Japanese lady that’s a professor, or the forestry lady: she’s what they call a Fellow.”

    “I see. And that was all? No other secretaries?”

    “No: it was all high-level stuff, ya see.”

    “Mm… Jim, I know you’ve known Akiko Takagaki for a while, and of course she worked for the Carranos for ages: if there was anything a bit odd there I’m sure Jake Carrano would have spotted it, but— Well, there’s been a fair amount of gossip about her since she came back, you know.”

    “Not to mention before she left. That fat film-director type that was staying with the Carranos, wasn’t it? Well, it was several years back. Nothing in it, really. Anyway, we don’t see hide nor hair of her for a few years and I grant you anything mighta happened while she was in Japan, but according to Polly Carrano, nothing did, except that her mum and aunties tried to persuade her to marry some fat-faced idiot with horn-rimmed specs. Well, don’t look at me!” he said with a muffled laugh. “‘Girls never make passes at blokes who wear glasses’? Something like that,” he recognised as Mike, taken unawares, went into a spluttering fit. “Since she’s been back there’s been a fair few young blokes hanging round her, but she doesn’t seem to fancy any of them in particular.”

    “Ye-es… Maybe there is something wrong, then, Jim. Um—some hang-up?”

    “Balls. Had a thing with one of Jake’s corporate mates: dunno if you know him—”

    “Armitage. I met him on an earlier occasion.”

    “Oh; so ya did. Right, well, then you’ll know he’s old enough to be her father—grandfather, probably, though mind you, these Japanese girls don’t show their age. Then that older dame he’s been mixed up with for yonks came back from her holiday and grabbed him back. Don’t think there was ever anything serious on either side.”

    “No-o… Probably not. It’s just… Well, a history of unsatisfactory relationships with older men?”

    “What you mean is,” said Jim immediately, “she’s filled with seething, unrequited passion for that cold fish, Kincaid, boils over because he’s getting it together with some American dame for a one-night stand, and rushes off an anonymous fax to the lady he wants to get it together with permanently! Yeah, smacks of verisimilitude,” he said with horrible relish.

    “Um—well, it’s not impossible.”

    “It’s ruddy unlikely, though! Have you met her since she came back?”

    “Um—well, she’s eaten in the restaurant a couple of times. Not to speak to, no. Why?”

    “She's saner than you are, Japanese poker-face or not!” retorted Jim with some heat. “Look, she’s boarding with old Mrs Adler—I know you don’t know her, Mike, but I’ve known her all me life. And if there was anything wrong with a girl that’s boarding with her, Mrs Adler woulda had it sussed out before you could say ‘knife’. And her opinion of her—I’ll translate this for ya, Mike, me and Mrs Adler, we was conversing in the vernacular,” he said pointedly, “her opinion of her is that she’s a highly intelligent young woman what most of the wet-behind-the-ears lads that pass for New Zealand talent bore out of her skull. Get it? –Got it? –Good.”

    Mike grinned sheepishly. “I was never that bad, was I, Jim?”

    “You were worse!” retorted the sergeant with huge satisfaction.

    “Cripes. Just as well I got out of the Force when I did, then,” he said mildly.

    “Just as well for you, yeah. Not so sure about the Force. Ya do know that Dave Short’s made D.I. do ya?”

    Mike spluttered into the remains of his beer. “Hell’s teeth!”

    “Yeah,” said Jim with satisfaction. “Um… Who does that leave?”

    “Kincaid’s PA.”

    “Oh, yeah: Mayli Coffi, she seems like a nice girl. She did admit she was using the fax machines that morning, but then, so was Akiko, and Jack Perkins, and—uh—Whatsisface, Nigel Barrow, he’s what they call the Faculty Liaison librarian. He’s the one that makes sure everything runs smoothly with the academic staff—don’t ask me what that entails, that’s what Dorothy told me.”

    “He’s probably the one that has to calm them down when Dorothy’s system tells them how much they’re overspent,” he murmured.

    “Something like that, yeah,” said Jim without interest. “Well, he had a bunch of stuff to fax off. And so did the Frog, Gautier. He’s some whizz-bang computer expert. And I did ask him,” he said, giving Mike a hard look, “why he didn’t use his laptop, and he said he’d had it at home and his wife had let one of the kids spill orange juice all over it.”

    “Ouch.”

    “Yeah, right. –A wonder the poor little blighter wasn’t electrocuted,” he noted by the by.

    “Mm. –You did say Perkins was using the fax machines? The public ones?”

    “Uh—yeah. So?”

    “Why wasn’t he using his laptop, Jim?” he said nicely.

    “He was. It was upstairs, plugged in, ya see, sending off multiple faxes or some such garbage, don’t ask me to explain it, but that was what he said; the things can apparently do that if ya press the right button. Anyway, it was doing it, all on its ownsome. Our ruddy machine can’t even send one page to Auckland HQ without getting its wires crossed and Ronnie Ngatea’s knickers in a knot,” he noted by the by. Mike knew Ronnie Ngatea of old: he choked slightly. “–And so he’d come downstairs to use one of the others.”

    “Before breakfast?”

    “Yeah. So?”

    “Before breakfast and after a night spent with some reputedly glamorous bird from the other conference?”

    Jim shrugged. “Maybe he’s got stamina, Mike.”

    “Must do. It seems circumstantial enough. Did you check to see what all this faxing was in aid of, Jim?”

    “Yeah. And it was all ruddy boring, but perfectly legit! And that Nigel Barrow, he might be gay and I grant you they can be spiteful, but he didn’t seem in the least interested in Kincaid, and if ya wanna know,” he said on a defiant note, “he spoke quite sensibly about him: said he was a cold personality but seemed a very fair man to work for; and that in any case Dorothy was the one who dealt with him, any contact her staff have with him would be through her.”

    “That would tend to rule Barrow out, then. Um… I suppose there was no hint of any sexual interest in Kincaid from the other women?”

    Jim rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t call it that, no. Beth Martin’s just plain shit-scared of him. –She’d be quite an attractive girl, ya know, if she bothered. Anyway, as I say, too scared of him to notice if he’s male.”

    “Or that was the impression she was careful to— Sorry, Jim.”

    “I’m giving you my feeble impression of the impressions they were all careful to give,” said the sergeant evilly.

    “Yeah. Sorry. Go on.”

    “Where was I? Aw: yeah. The whole of Sir George Grey apparently knows that Dorothy fancies that Baranski character. She—uh—she said she found Kincaid satisfactory to work with,” he said on a dubious note, scratching his bald spot.

    “And?”

    “You might call that damned with faint praise, only you oughta hear the things she used to say about the ruddy town clerk! –County Manager,” he amended sheepishly, grinning.

    “I have, thanks. And I’ve also heard Dorothy’s opinion of Kincaid. But I thought we’d agreed you were gonna eat your hat, your uniform and this table if she dunnit?”

    “Yes, but she mighta justa been giving the impression,” he said earnestly.

    “You can drop that,” recommended Mike, grinning all over his lean face. “Um—Ms Wolfe fancy him, ya reckon?”

    “Mm, I think so, but I got the impression—sorry, that slipped out—what I thought was, she’s actually a bit in awe of him. I don’t think she’d dare to make the first move, if ya get my drift.”

    “Ye-es…” There was pause. Jim Baxter looked at him dubiously. “I was trying to imagine it sort of turning her all twisted— No, garbage," said Mike briskly,

    “You said it.”

    “Who does that leave?” said Mike.

    “Your favourite, the crazed Yum-Yum, and Kincaid’s secretary. She’s too young and too attractive herself to be interested in him as a man, if you ask me. She’s a Black girl, didja know? Really stunning looks. Only a few years out of secretarial school.”

    “Very young to have landed such a good job, then?”

    “Yeah, but he can pick them: known for it. Dorothy says she’s superbly competent. Mind you, keeps herself to herself, but then, the office up there’s full of gossipy middle-aged moos: ya know the type?” Mike was shuddering already, so he evidently did. “Yeah: ya can’t blame the girl. Seems quite pally with Beth Martin, doesn’t spend much time with the other secretaries—dim bimbos, reading between the lines—and has an invalid mum at home.”

    “Ye-es… Boyfriends?”

    Jim sighed. “None in evidence. Which could mean there isn’t one or that she just doesn’t want the whole of Carter’s Bay knowing her business. And as I say, she's ruddy well young enough to be Kincaid’s daughter.”

    “Er—there have been cases…”

    “Crap! Anyway, she’s black as the inside of your hat. Not a Maori: looks Ethiopian or something.”

    “Really? That’s very unusual, out here.”

    “Especially when your dad was a Black American. So?”

    “Well, nothing. I’d be happier if there was a boyfriend in evidence but… How old?”

    “Around twenty-two, I think.”

    “That’s very young to have successfully completed a high-powered secretarial course and landed yourself a very high-powered job, as well as turning yourself into a certified nutter in your off-time,” conceded Mike.

    “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Can’t discount stress, though.”

    “Eh?”

    “Well, admittedly the whole office told me she never looks stressed. Though they all seemed to think she oughta, working for Kincaid. And the mother’s got one of those wasting diseases. Multiple sclerosis, that’s it.”

    “That would be stressful, mm…. Can’t see it. And how long’s she worked for him?”

    “That applies to all of them, Mike. None of them really know him. And to do something like this… Well, either you’d have to be pretty well a certifiable case, and you’d think someone woulda noticed something, if that was so—and if it is so, we can expect a spate of bloody anonymous faxes; or you’d have to have some definite grudge against Kincaid, if it was more specific. Don’t ya think?”

    “Yeah, absolutely,” agreed Mike, frowning over it. “What about Mrs Burchett? How well do they all know her?”

    “I don’t think anybody could hold a grudge against her, Mike!” said Jim Baxter in a shaken voice.

    “No, not that: in the highest degree unlikely. Be like someone holding a grudge against Molly! But what if it was someone that believed they were doing her a favour, Jim? Someone that really likes her?”

    “I see what you mean… A man, in that case?”

    “We-ell—could be a woman.”

    “Nah, they got a couple of those: quite nice little dames, bit of a waste, really,” he said instantly. “They’re only interested in each other. And both new to the district, think they mighta met her once, at the outside. Added to which, neither of them was at the flaming hotel!”

    “It gets odder, really.”

    “Yes, well, if we discount your favourite, Yum-Yum the Crazed Jap!”

    “She isn’t; I just thought… Well, of the ones I’ve met, I thought she fitted the profile best,” said Mike feebly.

    Jim eyed him drily. “What profile ’ud that be?”

    “Um… almost undoubtedly female or spiteful gay, emotionally immature, possibly not capable of any sort of sexual relationship… Possibly just unfulfilled, and bitter about it.”

    “In that case, it wasn’t any of them, and especially not any of the girls.”

    “No, but Jim, are any of them in relationships? Of the ones that went to the hotel?”

    “Uh—Ms Wolfe’s involved with Takagaki, told ya that, eh? Beth Martin hasn’t got a boyfriend, though one or two of them hinted that she would have if she’d give Jack Perkins a chance. –He’s keen, she’s not,” he said before Mike could open his mouth, “Akiko’s fancy-free but doesn’t fancy the local talent. Likewise Mayli, apparently. Dorothy— Um, well, I won’t tell you I’ve known her for years. I will tell you that she may not be Puriri’s answer to Mata Hari but if her life’s unfulfilling, I’m Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

    Mike smiled a little but said: “Her job may certainly be fulfilling, as far as it goes. She’s got no sort of sex life, though, and as far as can be ascertained, any inclination she may have had to start one with Baranski has been trompled on good and proper by his great male ego. –Sleeps around, doesn’t much care who with as long as it’s leggy and under forty.”

    “Yeah, I got that impression. And I’m Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

    Mike sighed. “I know… But crikey, someone sent it, Jim!”

    The sergeant rubbed his chin slowly. “Ye-ah… Look, could it just have been a spur-of-the-moment thing? A one-off? Someone had a bad night, came downstairs, the fax machine was there, thought Bugger bloody Kincaid and his flaming useless brainstorming weekend, I’ll drop him in it—and did?”

    “Uh—that seems horribly likely, on the face of it.” Somewhat uneasily Mike recalled Molly’s remarks on the subject of plotting to do it being very different from actually doing it. Still, if it really had been an impulse… “Doubt if you’ll ever catch them, if it was like that, Jim.”

    “No, well, at least they won’t bother poor Mrs Burchett again, if it was. Or anyone else.”

    “Mm… If I was you— No, sorry, Jim,.”

    “Go on, I can take it,” he said stolidly.

    “I think I might just check up a bit on Kincaid’s past history, and some of the names that were at that other conference. He told me himself there was a bloke there he'd known in his Cambridge days. –Cambridge, England,” he stressed.

    “Ya don’t need to tell me, he's got an accent you could cut with a flaming knife! Well, maybe it was someone that knew him way back and didn’t love him—or maybe loved him too much?” He shrugged. “But it’s a pretty slim chance, they’d of had to know his home number!”

    “Yes. Would it be on his card? Coulda given that out to all and sundry, Jim: ya know what these executive types are like.”

    Jim shrugged, and got out his wallet. “Hang on…” Mike waited while he sorted carefully through old bus tickets, dog-eared photos of the grandkids, and so forth. “Got it. –Nope.”

    “No… Still, if it was someone he thought was an old friend but had a secret grudge against him, he could have given him or her his number.”

    “I’ll ask him. My theory is,” he said with a dreamy look on his plump face—Mike eyed him warily—“that this American dame he picked up, see, she wasn’t the level-headed type he thought she was, instead she was a bit like that Black Widow female, only instead of doing them in for their dough she draws them into her web and if they let themselves be drawn, reports ’em next day to their wives! Sort of misguided Women’s Libber with a hate against men. Using their sexuality against ’em—see?”

    “You wanna stop watching all this American popular culcha, Jim,” said Mike in a shaken voice.

    “Moana’s got that on tape. She loves the bloody thing. ’Ve you seen it?”

    “No.”

    “Ya wouldn’t want to. I said to her, Have you got a warped psyche or something? Or have ya spent the last thirty-odd years secretly wanting to put strychnine in me tea?”

    “And what did she say?”

    “‘She was much too cunning ever to do something as obvious as putting strychnine in their tea,’” quoted Jim drily.

    Mike broke down in splutters.

    “Yeah, highly hilarious,” conceded Jim with a sigh. “Well, what’s the consensus? Chuck away megabucks the New Zealand Police haven’t got on investigating Kincaid’s past?”

    “Um—I might be able to put you onto someone who could help you do it a bit cheaper,” said Mike, his long mouth twitching.

    “Look, if this gonna involve the word ‘Internet’—”

    “No! Strewth, who suggested that? Not bloody Ronnie Ngatea?”

    “Nah, wouldn’t know it if ’e fell over it, let alone be able to spell it. No: Dorothy; she got all keen and eager. –It wasn’t me,” he said heavily. “Kincaid seems to have told her. He never breathed a word to any of the others, mind you.”

    “Who would want to tell Wolfe, Baranski, or Perkins anything private about their private life?”

    “Ya got a point.”

    “Hold on a minute, Jim,” said Mike, his mouth beginning to twitch again. “Have we considered all the candidates? Wasn’t Leigh Gore at this wing-ding?”

    “It wasn’t him!” he shouted.

    “Ssh! No, well, I agree, any copper that suspected him’d need his head read.”

    “Added to which he had an alibi for the crucial time.”

    “Ooh, that’s suspicious!”

    “No, it isn’t. Evidently he’d faxed Angie Michaels the day before with some of the crap they'd talked about and it was waiting at the office for her—don’t ask me how these bloody machines work, what ours is best at is curling all the paper up inside its works and you don’t realise it’s done it until the Chief Super rings you up absolutely ropeable because no-one’s answered the message he sent two days since. She rang him up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—new-broom syndrome—first thing on Monday morning to talk about it. I checked: it was a toll call from the university’s number. Musta jabbered on for ages. Don't tell me the bloody machines can send the messages themselves, no-one’d be cretinous enough to leave that in a public machine for all to see, and anyway, he did not do it.”

    “No, right,” agreed Mike, smiling at him.

    “So, if it’s not the Internet, who do ya reckon knows about Kincaid’s past that doesn’t live on the other side of the world in ruddy Cambridge, England?”

    “Jill Davis. You know her, don’t you?”

    “Know her? I was playing bridge with her last night, me and Moana went to the do the Tennis Club put on.”

    “Do she and Gretchen play bridge?”

    “Gretchen doesn’t usually: she reckons it hasn’t got enough element of chance for her. But she was there last night, supporting the Club: fund-raiser, think Cyril Blake’s decided they better do something about the roof before it falls in on poor old June and her everlasting Saturday and Sunday lunches. Oh, and so was that brother of hers.” He eyed Mike warily.

    “Eh?”

    Jim cleared his throat. “You musta forgotten. I wasn’t with ya that day, think it was that young tit Tony Harrod. You went along to question Polly Carrano—Mitchell she was, then, of course—and—”

    “Good God. One of the Mittel-European lot? That was ten years back, Jim!”

    “He’s come out here again; nothing stopping him, was there?”

    “No,” said Mike limply. “It suddenly brought it all back. I sort of remember him. Well, I remember him as very drunk and very foreign. Is he out on holiday again?”

    “Nope, gonna be one of the professors up the new varsity. Economics?” He shrugged. “Something like that. Not as high up as Leigh Gore and them.”

    “No,” said Mike weakly. “I see.”

    “Gerhard,” said Jim helpfully.

    “Oh? Well, be that as it may, get on to Jill.”

    “I’ll do that, Mike. Fancy another?”

    “Better not, I’ll have to stay awake tonight.”

    “Thought it was tonight’s the restaurant’s closed?”

    “’Tis. Molly wants to go to the flicks. Taka’. The bughouse.”

    “Gawdelpus, not the rerun of Dr Zhivago?” he gasped.

    “No, think that was last week, Jim. She did mutter about it, but I failed to hear her, the human constitution can stand only so much. No, this is relatively new.”

    Jim eyed him warily. “And?”

    “It’s a rerun of Pretty Woman.”

    “You poor bugger!” he choked, going into a paroxysm.

    “Yeah, well, look out: she’ll ring Moana up and tell her how lovely it is.” He stood up, stretching. “I’d better go, persuade her she doesn’t have to slave over getting tea, we can grab something at McDonald’s.”

    “No, try Ching’s in Brown’s Bay. They’ve got a new takeaway menu.”

    “Might do that.” Mike wandered over to the door but then just stood there looking blankly at the carpark.

    “What?” said Jim.

    “Uh—dunno. It suddenly took me back… S’pose it was the mention of Gretchen’s brother and that Mittel-European rave-up at Polly’s place. Um, well, woulda been in the middle of that case, I gave Jill a lift down to her place—she had a flat in town, back then. I thought she was pretty much of a snot-nosed dykey Pom, and she thought I was a dim Colonial Mr Plod…” He turned and smiled at him. “I think I suddenly had a vision of what life might have been like—mighta gone on being like—if I hadn’t met Molly.”

    Around ten years back Jim Baxter wouldn’t have dared. Today he simply bashed Mike on the shoulder, laughed and said: “Ya better sit through ruddy Pretty Woman and like it, then!”

    And ten years back D.C.I. Collingwood would have frozen him solid. Today Mike merely sniggered and said: “Hadn’t I, though?” And strolled on out to the car.

    “Sit down,” said Jill graciously, waving a hand.

    Jim looked uneasily at the mounds of papers covering every available surface of the usually neat sitting-room in Kowhai Bay.

    “Essays,” said Jill with a groan. “Sit,” she groaned. “Not there!” she screamed.

    The sergeant’s large form hovered.

    Jill gathered up a small pile of papers and deposited them on the carpet, telling them tenderly: “Almost A’s. You go there, dears, and remind me that standards are not totally dead in this nadir of Antipodean scholarship. –Sit, Jim.”

    Somewhat weakly, Jim sat.

    “Haff you got my dictionary?” demanded Gretchen from the doorway.

    “Only the German-English vol., what in God’s name do you want that for?”

    “Vhat do you think?” she replied grimly, retrieving it from the mantelpiece. “Vhat on earth did you vant it for?”

    “I wished to check whether the German spelling of Leitmotiv was as I suspected it always had been—at least since Herr Wagner’s time.”

    “And vas it?”

    “Yes. Thus proving that my cretinous Third-Year students cannot spell it in English, French or German,” she said sweetly.

    “I could haff told you that. How are you, Jim?”

    “Fine, ta. I can see how you are!” he said with a chuckle. “So I won’t ask.”

    Gretchen’s usually neat, short fair hair was sticking up in mad spikes, she had a pen behind her ear—highly reminiscent of Dorothy back in the good old days, recognised Jim silently—and she was wearing a saggy tee-shirt emblazoned with streaks of ball-point ink in addition to its own faded message—not immediately legible, as the tee-shirt appeared to be on inside-out—with a baggy pair of khaki shorts which Jim had a vague idea were actually Jill’s, and a huge pair of Ugg boots.

    “Ja, marking,” she groaned.

    “Yeah, so I gather.” He waited, but she didn't go away, just leaned in the doorway.

    “If this is about her speeding fines—” began Jill.

    “No, we don’t do traffic,” he said mildly.

    “It’s the tree,” deduced Jill with a groan.

    “I tell you!” shouted her housemate.

    “Ssh, don't shout. We’ll have it cut down, or trimmed. Or blown up with a keg of dynamite, whatever the Council regs say, only just keep Barker in person off our backs,” she groaned.

    “I’ll do that,” replied Jim amiably, “just give me a yell if he gets anywhere near ya backs, it’ll be my pleasure, but it’s not him. Or the tree.”

    “You mean he hasn’t reported us?” she gasped.

    “He could of. But if he has, no-one’s taken any notice of him, Jill,” he said soothingly. “He’s the tit that reported Ronnie Ngatea’s mum for roadside vending without a license that time she had a glut of peaches. Uh—what I've actually come about,” he said, clearing his throat, “is to have a word with you, Jill, about—uh—Dr Kincaid.”

    Jill’s jaw dropped.

    “Officially?” asked Gretchen dubiously.

    “Well, more or less, yeah. Um—I am on duty,” he said on an apologetic note.

    “Yes, you are wearing your uniform. I think I don't mean officially, perhaps. You see, Jill has been forcing unsolicited reports about Alan Kincaid’s shady past upon all her friends and acquaintances ever since he got the appointment at Sir G.G.”

    “What’s he done, Jim?” asked Jill dubiously.

    “Nothing. What did you think he mighta done?”

    “Nothing illegal, he's the soul of probity. Nothing immoral, if you discount anything related to the ladies, many of whom misguidedly adore him. And nothing that makes you fat, he's too damned in control of himself to indulge. Added to which he was in the supermarket two days since, looking disgustingly svelte.”

    “You’re pretty svelte yourself,” said the plump Jim Baxter kindly.

    “Yes, but I can’t take the credit for it: I was born skinny, my whole family’s skinny and I can eat like a horse and drink like a fish and never put on an extra ounce.”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Jim limply.

    “Jill, you talk too much,” said Gretchen sternly. She came and sat down in an easy chair, ignoring Jill’s anguished cry as she dumped its contents on the floor, and said kindly: “I vill shut her up. Please ask your qvestions, Jim.”

    Jim scratched his chin. “Um—well, Mike Collingwood said you used to know Kincaid back when you were a student.”

    “What—has—he—done?” said Jill clearly, leaning forward.

    “Nothing.”

    “Then I know noth-thing,” she warned, sitting back and crossing her arms.

    “Oh, for Pete’s sake! I’ll tell you, but for God’s sake don’t breathe a word of it to a soul! Um, well, Dorothy knows all about it, but don’t repeat it to anyone else, will ya?”

    “No,” said Jill simply.

    “I am not in the habit of repeating confidences either,” said Gretchen mildly.

    Rather red, Jim replied: “No. Good on ya. Never thought ya were, actually. Well, see—” He related the story of the anonymous fax.

    There was a short silence.

    Jim sighed. “Mike thought it mighta been someone out of his past. You know, one of the ones at the other conference. Coincidence.”

    “She would haff had to know his number, to send the fax,” noted Gretchen.

    Jim passed his hand over his face. “We been through all that, ta, Gretchen.”

    “Ja. Sorry. Would you like a cuppa?” she said kindly.

    “Personally I think this calls for a gin,” said Jill with a sigh, “if, as I conclude you have, you’ve come to get the Wendy Briggs story.”

    “Uh—dunno. Have I? Mike didn't give me any details,” he said cautiously.

    “He vill not vant gin, he iss a policeman in uniform," objected Gretchen.

    “Look, just stop harping on his uniform and go and play your nice video of An Officer and a Gentleman,” returned Jill soothingly. Jim choked, and then looked apologetically at Gretchen.

    “I’ll get the tea—not gin,” she warned, getting up. “Tell him, I haff heard it a million times, I don’t vant to hear it again.”

    Jill groaned, but told him. “Interesting, wasn’t it?” she concluded evilly as he was sipping his tea.

    “Not all that, no,” said the plump sergeant with a twinkle in his eye. “S’pose it throws some sort of light on his character. Mind you, we can all be pretty bloody stupid when we’re that young.”

    “Vhich one?” asked Gretchen clinically.

    “I meant Dr Kincaid, actually, but I don't mind if you apply it to this Wendy girl. –What happened to her?”

    Jill reddened. “No idea.”

    “She vent home, but Jill can’t remember vhere that was,” Gretchen explained.

    “It was a Helluva long time ago,” said Jill with a sigh.

    “Have you honestly got no idea where she was from?”

    “No. I suppose we didn't talk about our origins all that much, nasty little scholarship snobs that we were.”

    “Um… thing is, there’s one or two that are from England and—um—I suppose it's not outside the bounds of possibility that they could be… um, well, not her, as such, if my arithmetic’s correct.”

    “Mid-forties,” said Jill neutrally.

    “Mm. A relation, then?”

    “Ve vould not vish to throw cold vater, Jim, but this sounds like bullshit to me,” noted Gretchen.

    “Yeah, does to me, too, actually,” he sighed.

    “Ja, and in any case, who is English? Leigh Gore? Sammi Wolfe?”

    “None of the rest of them, are they?”

    “Baranski is,” noted Gretchen dubiously.

    “Much as I would like to, I can’t envisage it,” sighed Jill.

    “No-o… Could Wendy Briggs have been a relation of his?” suggested Jim.

    “Vith that accent?” cried Gretchen.

    Jim just looked at her blankly.

    Jill cleared her throat. “Baranski’s is pretty plummy, you see, Jim. Wendy Briggs was a scholarship girl, like me: lower-middle?”

    “Um—I see,” he said doubtfully.

    “Vas the English very good?” asked Gretchen clinically.

    “Eh? Oh! Of the fax? Yeah, it was. Um… Mike reckons its got the earmarks of an emotionally undeveloped personality. Bit childish?” he said dubiously. He heaved himself up. “I better go. I don’t really think this can be connected with your Wendy Briggs story, Jill. Thanks, anyway. Sorry to interrupt your marking.”

    “Oh, we’re grateful, we don’t want to do it!” she said with a laugh.

    “Ve are forcing ourselves,” explained Gretchen, “because marking is inevitable, like death and taxes.”

    “Ignore her: it’s Aryan elaboration, she can’t help it,” said Jill, graciously showing the sergeant to the front door.

    “Thanks again. See ya!”

    “Wait,” said Jill.

    Jim waited.

    “Seriously, could this be the beginning of something nasty?”

    “Uh—” He scratched his chin. “Dunno,” he admitted at last. “Could be.”

    “Generic, or directed at Alan Kincaid and Catherine Burchett specifically?”

    Jim grimaced. “Either. That or a spur of the moment, one-off.”

    “That bloody brainstorming session would be apt to tip you over the edge; particularly if Kincaid had had a go at you lately.”

    “Yeah, that’s what I think, only as far as I can discover, he hasn’t had a go at anyone! Ya don’t know young Teddi Bates? No. Well, he didn't even tell her off for eating pies and Sally Lunn all over the office the day they left her on duty while the rest of them went to Jack Perkins’s daughter’s funeral.” He shook his head. “Terrible thing, that. No, well, actually most of them admit he’s very fair. Never flies off the handle, either.”

    “No… It seems an extreme reaction, doesn’t it?” she said slowly.

    “The fax? Yeah.”

    “Still, a one-off induced by the brainstorming seems the most likely solution, to me!” she said on a bracing note. “You won’t have much hope of discovering who it was, in that case.”

    “No. I’d rather not end my career with an unsolved case, but then, I’d prefer that to arresting some unfortunate female that ends up in the loony bin!” he said with feeling.

    “Understandable. So it’s this year you retire, is it, Jim?”

    “Yep. This Christmas. Thought we might go on a trip next year.”

    “Europe? I can give you lots of addresses,” said Jill, smiling.

    “Um—no: actually Moana’s suddenly decided she fancies Japan. Don’t ask me why. Well, see ya!”

    “Bye-bye,” said Jill, smiling at him.

    “Do not theorise,” warned Gretchen grimly as she came back inside. “I intend to get my marking done and put in their pigeonholes by 3.00 p.m. on Friday.”

    “Give yourself the weekend,” she groaned.

    “No. This vill be one October veekend that iss not ruined by marking! And may I remind you,” she said evilly, “that exams start the day after Labour Day—”

    “Yes! All right!”

    Gretchen was scowling over her First-Year proses and putting laborious corrections on them when Jill appeared in the doorway. “Go avay, Jill!”

    “No, listen,” said Jill, beaming. “You know Jim Baxter’s about to retire?”

    “Ja, Moana vants to go to Japan; und?”

    “‘Baxter’s Last Case’!” said Jill, beaming.

    Gretchen seized a paperweight in a threatening manner, and she fled.

Next chapter:

https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/pot-pourri.html