by JD Nixon
Afterwards, I abandoned the men and returned to the station in time to catch the phone ringing.
“Mount Big Town police station,” I answered politely.
“Tessie,” exhaled a very familiar husky voice into the receiver. “Please explain why that curdled-tits old sow Villiers is ringing me up and wasting my time to complain about you and Sergeant What’s-his-face?”
“I can’t imagine, ma’am,” I lied, my heart thumping. And then I proceeded to make my lie even worse. “It could be almost anything. You know she’s never happy with us.”
“She kept moaning about something to do with her car, as if I could give the tiniest possible shit. I don’t have time to deal with your boring problems in Catcrap Town. I have real work to do.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I tried to –”
“Sort Villiers out, will you? Or shoot her. Whatever shuts her up. Just get her off my arse.”
“I’m sure she’ll calm down soon, ma’am. I think she might just be a little worked up about an, um . . . altercation we had earlier today.”
A thoughtful pause from the other end of the line was punctuated by the sound of her flicking her cigarette lighter. Fiona was under no illusions about my particular policing style. She’d had to mop up after me before. “An altercation, hmm? Have you been up to something I should know about?”
“Absolutely not, ma’am,” I lied nervously again. Just because she was my friend, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t tear strips off me if I deserved it. And even I’d admit that I probably deserved it this time. But luckily for me, something distracted her.
“What the fuck?” she suddenly screamed, but not at me. “Bum! Get your dim-witted arse in here right now! What have you done to my fucking laptop, you brainless twat? My email’s disappeared! I swear to God that one day I’m going to ram this laptop right up your –”
The phone slammed down in my ear, making me wince, just as the Sarge and Kevin returned. Finely attuned to my facial expressions, the Sarge raised an eyebrow.
“Trouble?”
“Don’t think so. That was the Super. Mrs Villiers has been in touch with her.” I didn’t want to say any more, acutely aware of Kevin’s presence. I’d done enough today to shake his faith in proper police procedures. The Sarge and I exchanged a long coded glance.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Were awkward questions asked?”
“Asked and avoided,” I confirmed.
“For now,” he reminded me.
“For now.”
He shook his head. “You’re a bucket of trouble, Fuller.”
I smiled. “I know. That’s why you like me, remember? I add some spice to your life.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure you do. And that’s why I have heartburn every time you’re around,” he grumbled, opening up his spreadsheet program again. “I’m not finished with these stats. Kevin, do you want to work on your assessment.”
“I thought I might take him with me to check on Miss G. Joanna told me that she hasn’t cleared out her mailbox for a few days.”
He considered me, his head to one side. “Will this visit involve any high speed chases?”
“No!” He continued to regard me. My firmness wavered. “Well, none that I’m expecting.”
“None, Tessie.”
“Okay! None.”
“No matter what.”
“Okay! I heard you the first time. Geez!”
“I mean it.”
Rolling my eyes, I didn’t bother to respond, snatching up the keys to the patrol car and storming out the front door. He didn’t have to make it sound as if I was totally irresponsible, because I wasn’t – well, at least not totally. And it wasn’t as if I spent all day chasing people around town in the patrol car.
Famous last words.
We’d barely made it one hundred metres from the station when a flash of frog-green hurtled past us, flying in the opposite direction. I was about to spin around and set off after it, when I caught Kevin’s eye. Sighing inwardly, instead I radioed the Sarge.
“It’s Martin on the loose. He must have been doing a hundred and twenty in the sixty zone. What do you want me to do?”
“I can’t believe this town,” he muttered. “Leave him. He’ll slow down when he realises you’re not paying him any attention.”
“But then he’ll be worse next time. He’ll –”
His voice came through harder. “I said to leave him, Tessie. And that’s an order.”
“Can’t I even –”
“No, you can’t! Ignore him.”
I disengaged, growling in frustration.
“Who was that?” asked Kevin, shocked. And I think that was the most complete thing he’d ever said to me.
“Martin Cline. He’s a patient at the mental health clinic that’s located south of town. He loves driving and he loves police attention, so he regularly steals that green car from one of psychiatrists and goes joy-riding, hoping we’ll notice him.”
Kevin shook his head slowly. “This town . . .” He didn’t need to say more – I knew what he meant.
“Sergeant Maguire’s not letting us . . .” I trailed off, noticing in the rear view mirror that the little green car had slowed down and performed a dangerous u-turn in front of a semi-trailer, earning Martin an angry blast from its horn. He paid it no heed, speeding up again to catch up with us. The one thing he hated more than being taken back to the clinic was being ignored.
When Martin reached us, he stayed on our tail, following us closely as we drove to Pine Street where Miss G resided. At her rusted and broken front gate, I slowed and stopped, Martin pulling up behind us, his front bumper only a few centimetres from our rear. I strode to the driver’s door and yanked it open.
“Get out, Martin,” I instructed impatiently.
“Hello, Officer Tess,” he smiled, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Out of the car, please.”
He was in a good mood today and obeyed me instantly, stepping out without complaint. I locked the car behind him, otherwise it would be stolen. Again.
Trotting over to the patrol car, Martin opened the back door. He halted when he spotted Kevin, the smile on his face fading away.
“Who’s this, Officer Tess?” he demanded sulkily. He preferred it when I dealt with him on my own, intensely disliking both the Sarge and Jake.
I pushed him down onto the seat and reached over him to do up his seatbelt, slamming the door when I’d finished. Easing back into the driver’s seat, I checked the mirrors and spun around, heading south.
“This is Kevin, a recruit from the police academy. Kevin, this is Martin, second only to Chad Bycraft for automotive theft in this town.”
“I didn’t steal the car, Officer Tess,” Martin objected, hurt. “I borrowed it. I always return it, except when you arrest me. Chad Bycraft doesn’t do that.”
“I’ve never arrested you, Martin, and I’m not arresting you today either. I’m taking you back to the clinic.”
“You should arrest me. I want you to arrest me.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t.”
“Is this man staying in town?”
“No. He returns to the city tomorrow.”
“Oh, good.” He switched his attention to Kevin and enquired politely, “I hope you’re enjoying your stay. What do you think of Little Town?”
“Weirdest place I’ve ever been,” mumbled Kevin under his breath, but loud enough for us both to hear, strangely articulate again now it was someone else besides me talking to him.
“It’s true there are some eccentric people living around here,” said Martin, as if he wasn’t one of the main culprits. “But all in all, it’s a pleasant place to live.” Spoken as if he was one of the town’s leading citizens. “Except for the Bycrafts, of course. They’re horrible and spoil the whole town for the rest of us. Every single one of them is horrible.”
“Except Jakey,” I countered automatically.
“Every single one of them,” Martin r
epeated deliberately.
We wasted the next thirty minutes tracking down the director of the clinic to hand over Martin, reminding that man – yet again – of his duty of care towards his patients. But without the Sarge present, he was much less inclined to listen to my reprimand, instead spending the few minutes while I lectured him letting his eyes roam over my body. As we left, he wolf-whistled softly under his breath, something he hadn’t dared to do since the Sarge arrived in town.
“Did he just whistle at you?” asked Kevin, his face burning red, not with embarrassment this time, but with anger. “I’m going back to tell him a thing or two about respecting a female police officer.”
Though surprised at how being riled suddenly made him eloquent, I restrained him with a hand on his arm, something that made him blush again. “Forget about it, Kevin. He’s a sexist jerk and always has been. I just ignore him. I don’t intend on giving him the satisfaction of knowing he bugs me.”
He fumed silently all the way back to town. Almost there, my phone rang. It was the Sarge.
“Just had a phone call from Mrs Villiers. She’s complaining about her neighbours. Again.”
“Oh, great. The one person I want to see more of today,” I moaned.
“Have fun,” he laughed.
I changed direction from Pine Street to Silky Oak Street. At this rate we’d never make contact with Miss G. But thinking of that, I risked Kevin’s frown and pulled out my phone again, ringing her number. It rang out. She definitely wasn’t home. After we’d dealt with Mrs Villiers, I’d ring Miss G’s best friend, Bessie, who lived in Big Town with her daughter. Miss G often went to visit them for a few days as a bit of a treat. She was probably there now, enjoying a cup of tea and Bessie’s country fair award-winning fluffy scones that deserved every accolade they’d won.
I parked in front of Mrs Villiers’ house, the town’s previously most grand residence until Teddy and Lee started to build theirs. She lived here with her four unpleasantly malicious cats and her meek husband who never uttered a word. Three huge election signs filled her front yard, each featuring a rather large photo of the lady herself. And if I remembered the local bylaws correctly, I believed that was at least two election signs more than her own Council allowed on a residential property. I wasn’t sure why she thought photos of herself enhanced her re-election prospects. Personally, having that imperious, censorious face thrust in front of me for weeks automatically inclined me towards voting for her opponent, no matter who it was.
Two of her cats – Miranda and Carrie, I think – lazed in the sun on the stairs, swiping out at Kevin and me with their sharp claws as we made our way to the front door.
“Get out of it,” I warned them, and they watched us pass, their eyes unblinkingly hostile.
I rapped on the door and waited while the thunderous thumps of Mrs Villiers’ footsteps approached.
“Oh, it’s you, Senior Constable,” she said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm in her tone that probably matched the lack of enthusiasm in my face. “I was hoping for Sergeant Maguire to attend.”
“Sorry, Mrs Villiers,” I replied politely. “It seems you’re stuck with me today. What can I do for you?”
She drew herself up, her lips pinching together in irritation. “It’s my neighbours. And it’s not the first time I’ve had to complain about them.” No, I thought dryly, this complaint made number thirteen. “I want you to do something about them this time.”
“What are they up to now?” I’m sure she noticed the weary indifference in my voice because her lips compressed even further.
“Aren’t you going to take details?”
Sighing, I pulled out my notebook and pen and flipped over to a clean page, writing the date, time, the address and her name, underlining them all three times. It was merely busy work, but it seemed to make her feel as if I was taking her seriously. “And what’s your complaint this time?”
Her tone was frosty. “Senior Constable, I hope you’re not implying that my complaints are numerous or vexatious in any way.”
“Of course not, Mrs Villiers,” I assured hastily. And I plastered on my listening face, not wanting her to go running to the Super again. Fiona might start asking some real questions then – and even stay on the phone long enough to expect real answers.
“Those . . . people . . . have been cavorting around their backyard in the nude!” She gave me a few seconds to absorb the scandalous shock of that announcement. When I continued to stare back at her, no change in my expression, she continued coldly. “I could clearly see them when I stood at my office window. And Vern could see them from our bedroom if he stood on the dresser, held on to the curtains and leaned over to the far right. Those people are disgusting! And you should hear what that man says to me when I go over to complain in person. He’s unbelievably impertinent.”
I jotted down a few notes. “I’ll go speak to them now and advise them to cover up in future. I hope that’s a satisfactory outcome for you.”
“Aren’t you going to arrest them?”
“No. What would I arrest them for?”
“Lewd behaviour in public.”
“But they’re not in public. They’re on their own property. And just being nude doesn’t necessarily constitute lewd behaviour. Were they engaged in any sexual activity?”
“Not that I saw!” she spluttered with indignation. “Do you think I would stand there and watch sickening things like that? But bless his soul, Vern made that sacrifice and watched them for hours to gather evidence for me.”
“That was very noble of him,” I said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “Did he notice anything untoward in that respect?”
“Apart from people parading around in the nude where decent citizens can see them? No.” She said that as if it almost caused her physical pain to have to admit it.
“Okay, Mrs Villiers. I’ll look into it.” And I planned to be quick about it too as I wanted to move on to Miss G’s place.
“And why haven’t I heard any further about the complaint I lodged last week?”
“Which one?” I asked rudely.
“The theft I reported.”
“It was a relatively trivial matter, Mrs Villiers, and –”
“Somebody trespassing into my yard and stealing a blanket that I was airing on my clothesline is most certainly not a trivial matter to me, Senior Constable.”
“I’m just not sure what you expect us –”
“What I expect is for the police officers of this town to take their jobs seriously.”
“Of course we take our jobs –”
“It wouldn’t appear so from my point of view.”
“I’ll speak to Sergeant Maguire about it.”
“Tell him I expect him to contact me personally.”
“Oh, I will, don’t worry,” I smiled insincerely.
“I want him, not you. Do you understand? I won’t be fobbed off with a junior officer any longer.”
“I understand perfectly.” And without another word, I spun around and stomped downstairs, dodging cat scratches and muttering under my breath about her, Kevin trailing after me.
It would be my pleasure to hand her over to the Sarge.
Chapter 5
At the neighbouring house, we tramped up the stairs to the verandah. I had to knock a few times before the door was opened.
“Officer Tess!” exclaimed the occupant with startling exuberance, as if I was the very person he’d longed to see all day. And believe me when I say that a police officer didn’t often receive such a reception when they came calling. Especially in this town.
“Hello, Mr Whittaker. How are you today?”
“Fine, fine. Even more so now that you’re here. And please, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Len?”
I smiled briefly at his patent smarm. A handsome man, at a guestimate I’d put his age in the late-fifties. He was tall with stylishly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair and a penchant for dressing like a younger man in jea
ns, sneakers and surfware t-shirts with unbuttoned, untucked shirts over the top. His eyes were intelligent, an unusual charcoal colour, complemented by a proud nose, a still firm jaw and a shapely mouth that was prone to secretly amused crooked smiles. He oozed charm from every pore on his body and his arrival a few months ago had caused quite a commotion amongst the more mature ladies in town, and not all of them single.
The Sarge and I had fun speculating whether part of Mrs Villiers’ issues with him sprang from her own attraction, which she was too repressed to acknowledge. She did seem to spend an extraordinary amount of time spying on him.
The fact that he was also one of the country’s more famous contemporary artists caused somewhat less of a stir. Not to cast aspersions, but culture wasn’t much of a priority for the good townsfolk and surrounding farmers of Little Town. Not many of us had ever heard of him.
The Sarge knew who he was though, reluctantly confessing that his mother actually owned one of Len Whittaker’s small watercolours. I’d looked him up in Wikipedia, learning a little about his unconventional life and his painting style. Though he occasionally painted landscapes, he was mostly known for his portraits, particularly a series of nudes he’d painted when he was in his early thirties and which now hung in the National Gallery. I received a shock when I looked up the price of his art work, leaving me wondering how anyone could afford to spend so much money on a painting.
“What can I do for you today, Officer Tess? Or have the fickle gods finally smiled benevolently down on me? Have you come to tell me that my heartfelt pleas have been answered, and you’ll agree to pose for me?”
I laughed at that. “Er, no thanks, Mr Whittaker.”
“Len, please.”