He sighed, fished out his notebook. ‘Did you see anything? Hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘Name?’
‘Clara will do.’
He shrugged, noted the name and put the book away. New Zealand accent. He turned to go. ‘I’ll make a report and see that one of our patrol cars comes by here every night for the next week or two.’
She had another attack of hysterics. ‘You’re not going? You’re not leaving me?’
‘Miss, the fire’s out, it was probably kids, they won’t be coming back. There’s nothing more I can do here. Would you like me to contact someone for you? A neighbour? Family? Friends?’
He saw her close down, as if she were suspicious of him. Who was she? What was eating at her?
‘Why would you want to contact someone? Who?’
Bewildered by her mood shift, he replied, ‘Well, someone who could stay with you, look after you. Family, perhaps.’
She looked away from him. ‘They’re all in Darwin.’
‘Darwin? From your accent I’d have said New Zealand.’
She shot him a look. ‘A long time ago.’
He didn’t believe her, but didn’t push it. ‘A neighbour?’
‘Don’t know them. Besides, it’s late. Can’t you stay for a bit? I could put a dressing on your burnt hand.’
‘I’m on duty, miss.’
‘Clara.’
‘Clara. I’m on duty. I’ll call in tomorrow, around lunchtime.’
He could smell wet ash and smoke, and see, in the moonlight, the pine-tree skeleton at the end of her driveway. He opened the door of the police car and at once she wailed, ‘They’re out to get me.’
‘Who are? Why?’
‘I don’t know why. They are, that’s all. It’s a signal.’
‘A signal.’
‘They’re saying: We’re coming back, and next time we’ll get you.’
He shut the door and walked back to her. ‘Clara, it was kids.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s been on my radio. At least a dozen mailboxes torched between here and Mornington. No pattern to it, just any old mailbox on a back road somewhere. You’re one of many.’
She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘You’re sure? You’re not trying to make me feel better?’
‘I swear it.’
She laughed, unclasped herself and stared at the dim form of her hands in the half-dark. ‘Look at me. Can’t control myself, shaking like a leaf.’
‘You need a stiff drink.’
‘I’ll say. Scotch, vodka. You want one?’
‘I’m on duty, Clara.’
She stepped closer. ‘What’s your name?’
He said awkwardly, ‘Kees. Kees van Alphen. It’s Dutch, originally. There’s a few of us on the force.’
‘Kees. I like it.’ She grinned. ‘Justice never rests with Kees on your case.’
‘I’m generally called Van.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘In the force, a name sticks. I’m used to Van. The wife called me Alf or Alfie, a kind of a put-down.’
Clara touched his chest briefly. ‘Not very nice of her.’
‘Not real nice, no. Still, old history now.’
‘Just one drink. Or at least sit with me till I stop shaking.’
He found himself warming to her, to the notion that someone wanted to touch him, that someone needed him. ‘I’ll have to call in and tell them I’m still here.’
‘Tell them you’re following up clues,’ Clara said, with shaky humour.
Four
Seven a.m. and already some heat in the sun. Showers with a weak change forecast for later in the week. Ellen Destry poked her head around the door of her daughter’s room. Larrayne lay on her back asleep, apparently peaceful, but as usual the top sheet was tangled about her slim legs and her hair was fanned over the pillow and across one cheek. She’d been a restless sleeper ever since she was little. Then Ellen returned to the kitchen and kissed her husband, putting her arms around his neck briefly as he read the paper at the kitchen table. She paused on the way out, standing at the door that opened on to the carport. No, Alan didn’t look up, nothing to bid her a good day ahead.
She wound the car past holiday homes and shacks, slowing for the speed bumps. She lived in Penzance Beach, some distance south around the coast from Waterloo (for you didn’t live where you worked, not if you were a copper). On an impulse, she began a sweep of some of the township’s side streets on her way to the intersection with the main road. There had been an 18 per cent increase in burglaries in Penzance Beach over the past year.
Penzance. What did the ‘pen’ prefix mean? Penzance, Penrose, Penhaligon, Penrith, Penleigh, Penbank, Penfold, Pengilly. ‘Town of…’ maybe?
Then she saw the new uniformed constable, what was her name, Pam Murphy, waiting at the bus stop with a surfboard.
Ellen stopped the car, wound down her window. ‘Morning.’
The younger woman stiffened, eyes darting warily left and right before fixing on the car itself. Cop’s instincts, Ellen thought.
‘Sergeant Destry. Didn’t recognise you.’
‘Day off?’
‘Morning off. I’m on again this afternoon.’
‘Surfing. Lucky you,’ Ellen said. ‘Where?’
Pam Murphy pointed farther south. ‘Myers Point.’
They stared at each other for a moment. Ellen said, ‘How are you finding things? Settling in okay?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Ellen took a chance. ‘What about John Tankard? Or Sergeant van Alphen?’
She saw the wariness in Murphy’s eyes. Who could you trust in this job? ‘I wouldn’t know, Sarge.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Ellen leaned her head out a little more. ‘This is off the record.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Yes.’
The younger woman looked away. ‘They do things differently.’
‘Like how?’
She swung back. ‘They get people’s backs up. Shouting. The odd swift clip over the ear. Pulling old people over and breathalysing them, people who’ve never had a drink in their lives. Always lurking to catch people speeding. Just to increase their arrest rates. They say I’m too soft. Not performing.’
Ellen mused on that, and sighed. ‘I’m CIB, not uniform. There’s not much I can do.’
‘Will that be all, Sarge?’
‘You’ll have to get yourself a car,’ Ellen said. ‘That bus? God.’
She saw the younger woman close up and look away. What nerve had she touched? ‘Well, I won’t keep you.’
‘Have a good one, Sarge.’
Ellen Destry skirted around the naval base and on to Waterloo. Murphy seemed lonely. She tried to imagine
