The Celibate Mouse

by Hockley, Diana

  She looks undecided for just a few seconds, genuinely not wanting to impose. ‘Well, if you’re sure ... I really don’t have time. All right! Thank you, Susan. Shall we just box up all the photos today and take them back to your place?’ She’s forgotten I am only house-sitting. We pack up the photographs. There are endless albums and boxes in the cupboards all bulging with photos. Fortunately, Daniella knows how many boxes there are.

  We are covered in dust and exhausted, after loading the last of the boxes into the back of Daniella’s station wagon and putting all of Fat Albert’s personal effects into a garbage bag. Albert squirms, kicks and yowls as we stuff him into his carry case, all fat furry arms and pleading paws waving through the bars, claws extended. It takes the two of us to lift his case and poke it in beside the boxes. ‘I’ll shut him in the guest bathroom when we get back,’ I puff. ‘Do you think he’ll cope with the dogs?’

  ‘I know he will!’ Daniella wipes her hands on a towel which she throws over the cat box, effectively blotting out the pitiful sight of Fat Albert’s big, round, orange eyes. ‘Edna had two dogs until last year when they died.’

  It is just after lunch-time by the time we get back to the house, run the gauntlet of the dogs and carry a furious Albert to the bathroom where he immediately kicks most of the litter out of his sand-tray and knocks over his water bowl, before settling down for a good sulk. Afterwards, we unload all the boxes into a side room.

  Daniella declines lunch, saying she has a hairdressing appointment. As I watch her drive off, waving, I realise with some surprise that I actually like her. But I wonder whether we will still be friends when she finds out I am a police officer, and if I discover that at least one of the faces in the old family photographs was a murderer?

  CHAPTER 14

  The Empty Bed

  The Policeman’s Wife

  Tuesday: mid morning.

  Nola Glenwood felt something was wrong. John had an afternoon to late evening shift and should be home during the morning, but she couldn’t hear the radio playing, hammering from the shed or whistling in the bathroom.

  Nervously she closed the garage door, set her overnight bag on the concrete, picked up the bags of groceries, walked into the kitchen and dumped them on the bench. Automatically, she looked at the table. In thirty-five years, if he had been called out, John had never failed to leave a note for her under the garish rooster and hen salt and pepper shakers which they’d been given as a wedding present.

  She slid her handbag off her shoulder onto the counter, took off her coat, checked the water level in the electric jug and switched it on. She walked along the hallway, glancing into the lounge room, slowing as she reached the bathroom. ‘John? John, are you in there?’ She cocked her ear to the door, listening for masculine sounds.

  Nothing.

  She moved on toward the bedroom, glancing into the rooms lining the hallway as she went, pretty much prepared for anything but the sight of the bed, neat as she’d left it late yesterday. Her heart rate picked up; he hadn’t slept at home. Had he gone in for another night shift? But he would phone her if that were the case. She went into the en suite, felt his towel and looked at his toothbrush; they were both dry.

  He’d phoned her at their daughter’s where she baby-sat the previous evening to tell her he intended to go to the city, but refused to say why. ‘Luv, I can’t tell you what it’s about right now, but I’m hoping to get some information.’

  ‘Silly old fool thinks he’s going to earn kudos from the CIB. They’ll take whatever he gets and make out they thought of it themselves. John thinks the world of his job and the sun shines out of George Harris’s bum,’ she’d muttered bitterly to herself. She hadn’t been able to argue the point, because she’d had to slip out before the supermarket closed to buy some chocolate treats for their grandchildren.

  Had he received a message on his mobile while in town and gone straight to the station? Surely after sitting outside Edna’s room all night, he’d taken time off. He must have been called out again. Nola had no faith in the police hierarchy to consider a person’s feelings after guarding a dead body. She’d experienced too many years of caring for screaming babies, and later the children on her own while John was on duty. Nola could count on her fingers, the number of public holidays they’d enjoyed as a family when he worked in the city.

  ‘He didn’t leave a note ... he’s never forgotten before ... but we’ve never had two murders in town before either,’ she chided herself. ‘That must be it. John’s been called in early and what with one thing and another, he’s forgotten.’

  The electric jug was boiling. She took a last glance at the pristine bed before hurrying back to the kitchen. She thought she might give the station a ring to see if he’d gone in. ‘I’ll wait until I’ve finished putting the groceries away. Don’t want to look like a fool if he’s there,’ she muttered, having forgotten her overnight bag left on the floor of the garage.

  ***

  Tuesday: late morning.

  Adam Winslow was not unduly disturbed when Nola Glenwood rang the station. ‘No, Mrs G, he’s not due in until this afternoon. Is there a problem?’ He grew increasingly perplexed, as he listened to her agitated voice.

  ‘No, he called in sick late yesterday afternoon. Loy covered for him.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Did you hear from John last night?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘His wife’s on the phone. Says he’s not at home and the bed’s not been slept in. Apparently she stayed with the grandchildren in town last night and only got back this morning. She’s worried he might have had an accident.’

  ‘What’s he up to?’ They smirked at each other. Being young bucks on the prowl to get laid, their minds immediately sprang to the one conclusion which made sense to them. But Senior Constable Glenwood was the last man they’d expect to be playing away. Too old, for one thing and not enough imagination for another.

  Adam knew he would need to cover all avenues of enquiry. ‘I’ll ring Loy and see if he knows anything. He was on last night until midnight.’ Loy Ng, the senior’s usual patrol partner and rostered with Glenwood on Sunday night.

  ‘Hold on a minute, Mrs G, I’ll make a call and ask if he came in this morning.’

  He laid the receiver on the desk and went to use another phone, only to be advised that Constable Ng didn’t know the whereabouts of John Glenwood.

  Reluctant to return to Mrs Glenwood with no news, Adam inquired of the civilian clerks in the back office the whereabouts of the Station OIC and discovered that Senior Sergeant Harris had been called out. Only Ron and he were available. He heard a steady murmur from the station conference room, now a major incident room. Should he ...? Maguire was the senior officer currently in the station.

  Adam hurried down the passageway and peered around the door at the far end. Detective Inspector Maguire, talking on the telephone but noting the constable’s anxious expression, signalled he’d be a moment.

  As he waited, Adam speculated on Maguire and his relationship to Mrs Prescott and her gorgeous daughter, Marli, with her father’s penetrating gaze, his square jaw line, high cheekbones, olive skin and lustrous dark hair. The DI hadn’t said anything as they drove away from the house the day before about catching him eyeing up his daughter, but Adam realised he’d better watch his step.

  Seemingly endless minutes passed before Maguire finished his call and turned to Adam, only too eager to unload the puzzle onto senior shoulders. When he finished talking, the DI was silent for awhile before asking, with a wry smile, ‘Senior Constable Glenwood isn’t one of your tribal connections, is he?’

  Adam almost choked. ‘No, he’s not. Do you think–?’

  ‘Relax, Adam. It’s most unlikely, but with two killings involving Robinson rellies ... on the other hand, didn’t I hear that he likes to walk around town talking to people?’

  Adam’s expression lightened. ‘Yes, sir. John knows which cupboards hold the skeletons in this town. But Mrs Glenwood said John always
left a note to say where he was going if he left before she got home.’

  Frowning, Maguire got to his feet and headed for the outer office, followed by Adam. ‘Is she still on the phone?’

  On being told she was, he went to perform damage control, but before he picked up the receiver, a weary-looking OIC walked in from the car park.

  The tension in the room sent Harris into full alert. ‘What’s happened?’

  Adam Winslow filled his boss in on the problem; Harris reached for the phone.

  ‘Sorry you’ve had to wait, Nola. No one seems to know where John is right now, but he’s due in this afternoon. He rang in sick late yesterday. You say it appears he didn’t sleep at home last night?’

  As the squawks from the receiver reached epic proportions, the Sergeant made soothing noises. After he’d finished calming Nola and hung up, he stared thoughtfully at the carpet and then looked anxiously at his colleagues, perhaps hoping for enlightenment.

  ‘Is the man likely to be playing away?’ asked Maguire.

  ‘John? I’d never have thought it.’ Startled, Harris looked a question at the two young constables, who shook their heads, guiltily remembering their snide joke at the older man’s expense.

  Harris glanced at his watch. ‘I can’t remember the last time John took sick leave. Well, we’ll have to wait and see if he turns up at four. He’s always in early. In the meantime, I’ll put out a call to see if anyone’s seen him, just in case something’s happened.’

  Maguire nodded and went back to work. Shrugging, the two young officers turned to the front counter where one libido perked up considerably. A young, attractive dark-haired girl had arrived and asked to speak to DI Maguire. The other, belonging to Adam Winslow, couldn’t even raise a twitch–her father was only metres away.

  Inspector Harris reached for his mobile, but before he could flip it open it rang with an urgent message, the content of which rendered them speechless.

  ***

  Nola could hardly breathe for the fear which flooded through her. No one knew where John had gone. She felt much as she had when her daughter, aged two, had gone missing in a department store. They’d finally found her an hour later, playing in the toy section a floor below.

  Where was John? He never “chucked a sickie.” But not coming home ... could he have had a heart attack? Was he lying in the hospital right now? But his fellow officers would have known if that were the case. What if he was lying injured somewhere? If only she’d known who he was going to meet last night. Why of all times did he have to turn off his mobile?

  She cursed the Robinsons and their shenanigans. She didn’t care about Edna or Jack Harlow. So what if they’d gotten themselves murdered? His wife, Penelope had probably ignored Jack’s infidelity because she understood on which side her bread was buttered. Everyone in town knew that Jack was a disgusting creature who’d played around with other women all his married life. Jack had not been too fussy and if a jealous husband finally snapped and shot him, in Nola’s less than humble opinion it was no more than he deserved. She hoped someone had told CIB about his carryings-on.

  She brightened as an obvious explanation for his absence occurred to her. ‘John’s come home from town, fallen asleep in the lounge watching TV. I’ll bet he’s woken up and gone off down the street, talking to people. He knows everything that goes on around here.’ The fact that under the circumstances this might be dangerous didn’t occur to her.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, pull yourself together,’ she said loudly, embarrassed because she’d rung the station in a tizz. ‘What they must think of me!’ she giggled. ‘Young Adam must be thinking I suspect John of having an affair. The very idea!’ This was no way for a police officer’s wife to behave, especially after all these years.

  She marched into the kitchen, turned the stove oven on ‘high,’ smiling at her foolishness as she put flour, butter, soda water and eggs on the kitchen table. ‘A batch of scones will go down a treat,’ she said to the cat, who had arrived in the kitchen as soon as the refrigerator door opened. She sifted the butter through the flour, mixed in the soda water, egg and milk, then lightly kneaded and rolled the mixture. When it reached the desired consistency, she put it back into a deep bowl, popped a clean damp tea towel over the top and then put it into the refrigerator to cool while the oven heated.

  Relief flooded through her as a car pulled into the driveway as she finished washing her hands. She quickly wiped them dry, smoothed down her apron and headed for the door.

  ‘You silly old fool! Where have you been?’ She flung the door open and came face to face with a grim Senior Sergeant George Harris.

  CHAPTER 15

  Breakthrough

  Detective Inspector David Maguire

  Tuesday: mid morning.

  Detective Inspector David Maguire’s patience had quickly worn thin when he interviewed Lady Ferna the previous afternoon. Bloody hell, why didn’t I bring the old battle-axe into the station before she got a chance to ring her mates?

  Lady Ferna had been in contact with the Police Commissioner and the local Federal and State members, not to mention the Premier, the Mayor and, ‘God only knows who else.’

  He tried for the umpteenth time to get Ferna to talk about her deceased relative.

  ‘I really don’t know, Inspector. Jack Harlow was not a close relation. Is there anything else?’

  He wanted to strangle the old bag with one of the thick plaits wound around her head. She had done everything she could to obstruct him, even ordering him to the back door when he arrived at the house. He’d ignored her, of course. Having taken a chance and driven out to the homestead to catch the elderly couple in their lair, he hadn’t been about to give up when Lady Ferna had begun her shenanigans.

  ‘Madam–’

  Her arched eyebrows did their dangerous best. ‘Lady Robinson, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Lady Robinson, you are not legally obliged to answer my questions, however, failure to do so will cause me to suspect you are withholding evidence. Now, let’s start with Jack Harlow. I am informed he is your husband’s second cousin and he lived in your household for about a year prior to his marriage eleven years ago and you have been in regular contact with him? So how well did you actually know him? I expect you to answer the question, thank you.’

  ‘If I must. He was a perfectly ghastly man. Sir Arthur insisted he stay with us all those years ago. It was not long after his mother passed away.’ Her mouth folded into hen’s bum mode. ‘He had a room out the back of the house.’ Where he couldn’t contaminate us,’ was the inference.

  Maguire clenched his teeth so tightly that his gums hurt. ‘Did Jack have many friends?’

  It transpired that Jack’s friends were numerous and of the hoi polloi–farmers, truck drivers and sheep people. ‘He was a disgusting reptile. Far too many dogs and an eye for the ladies,’ spat Lady Ferna. Could a disgruntled husband have gone over the top? Maguire wished a wife had gone over the top and “done” Ferna, but having seen a photo of Sir Arthur, conceded it was an unlikely scenario.

  Relations between Maguire and the old woman had deteriorated somewhat by the time Ferna led Maguire into the garden in time to see Sir Arthur collapse. The DI administered CPR while her Ladyship phoned, reluctantly he suspected, for help.

  The paramedics bundled the old boy into the ambulance and Lady Ferna, who seemed to feel her husband had let the side down badly, aimed a surreptitious kick at a fat, white Persian cat lurking nearby, then climbed into an ancient Bentley and followed the ambulance.

  His team had brought in reams of statements from townsfolk and the general consensus from the locals was that, ‘Jack was a good bloke. No one would want to shoot him, unless it was over a woman.’ Further inquiries amongst the relatives and friends yielded similar information. Uniform branch only recounted rumours. John Glenwood, who apparently knew in which cupboards all the local skeletons were hiding, seconded general opinion.

  ‘Was the old bat trying keep m
e from asking too many questions, or is she a just crazy old cow who like to treat the police like dog shit?’ Maguire suspected a bit of both. After two days there’d been no progress on the Harlow case and during that time, someone had ‘nailed’ Edna Robinson.

  The CIB team seethed with frustration. The perpetrator wasn’t about to leap into the arms of the law of his own accord. Short-staffed, Maguire ploughed bad-temperedly through the interview reports. The security camera recorded the perpetrator of Edna’s murder as around 190cm and of male build. A bulky, hooded coat precluded any identifiable feature, including the proportions of the killer’s form.

  Two members of his team interviewed the patients who were in hospital at the time. Most were elderly and those who still had all their marbles maintained they hadn’t heard anything. His partner, Detective Senior Sergeant Pete Hansen, commented wryly that as the majority were wearing hearing aids, it wasn’t surprising.

  Before the first killing, the press consisted of one local reporter, who could be intimidated and was grateful for any scraps of information the local station tossed him. Now, when the city press weren’t propping up the bars in the hotels, they were camped on the steps and in the forecourt of the station.

  Forensics advised Harlow was shot in the heart with an Enfield SMLE bolt-action rifle and as Susan had surmised, the sniper was probably positioned amongst the cars parked below the ring announcer’s box, around fifty metres from the victim. The point that the perpetrator was a marksman of some talent hadn’t gone un-noticed, but so far none of the Robinson clan fit the bill. Enquiries of the local rifle club had yielded nothing useful, although there were several members who had the skill to have picked Jack off at a considerable distance, CIB had uncovered no motive for the crime. The commentators in the announcer’s box at the sheep-dog trials swore they weren’t aware of what happened until everyone started gathering around Jack. Maguire was incensed. ‘Bastards had a radio up there and were listening to the cricket, more like.’