‘Outside his modest Claxton Street cottage in the southwest corner of the city, a blind hero and his faithful companion wait in hope …’
Couldn’t have put it better myself. I sat in front of the TV, beer in hand, wanting to shout. Still here, arsehole! Same address! I had no way of knowing if the mosque were visible in the background, but no matter. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but a few well-chosen words can also be a picture. Or better still, a map. The phone started up before the interview had finished; I let it ring through. I didn’t want to miss a word.
‘… This was Sophie Fox, on the spot for Eyewitness News, signing off.’
Beep. ‘Mr Zadow? You don’t know me, but I just had to ring. Is that a boy dog or a girl? I got your number from the TV station. They didn’t want to give it at first, but being a dog-lover, well, the nice young man said you wouldn’t mind.’ A woman’s voice, thirty-something, overexcited. ‘I have a boy Shepherd, he’s very handsome, people are always stopping us in the street, and I wondered if you’d like them to get together. I would love them to meet.’
‘Delete message,’ I said. Never share the stage with animals? The phone was ringing again before I’d finished smiling to myself.
Beep. ‘Sergeant Zadow? You don’t know me. I’m calling from Broken Hill.’ An older woman’s voice; calmer. ‘Is your dog a Belgian Shepherd? I have four of my own. It’s a big old house – well, an old pub really. Just me and the dogs since Bert passed. They’ve been such a comfort. There’s plenty of room. I thought – if you felt like a holiday. I’d love to look after you. Show you the Hill. Both of you. I could drive down and pick you up if that’s okay with you–’
‘Delete message,’ I said, but pleased that my sticky spiderweb had reached beyond the state border.
Beep. ‘Gemma again, Rick. Just saw you and some arsehole from Seeing-Eye Dogs on the idiot box. Nice ambush. Bit pissed off, though. Why didn’t you give the story to me? Instead of that jumped-up weathergirl.’
I allowed myself an inner chuckle. Now, now, Gemma.
‘Anyway, I forgive you. I’m writing a follow-up, and would appreciate a few minutes. It’s definitely front-page material. Although what the fuck was Miss Hard-face Bitch doing giving out your address on prime-time TV? Ring me back. Please. Pretty please. With sugar on it.’
‘End call,’ I said to Siri, chuckling out loud now, not least because Sophie’s face had felt as soft as a peach. Or was I just channelling her alter-ego Willow’s? I thought about returning the call but the phone was ringing again. The dog story was going viral; Gemma’s headlines could write themselves.
Beep. ‘It’s me, Richard. Jilly.’ Who? I recognised neither voice nor name. ‘Long time no see. I felt so – touched by the story on the news tonight. I thought – well, things haven’t been so good for me as well. My marriage broke up. Custody problems. I’d love to catch up. I’m still in the same place. And think about you when I see a cop on a bike go by. We had such fun. Remember?’
‘Delete message,’ I said, not remembering and not wanting to. My days as a speedie were years back. Decades back.
Beep. ‘It’s me, Richard. Janet. Janet Warburton. Remember? Terrible what they tried to do to you. It’s been so long, but you haven’t changed at all.’
‘Delete message.’
Beep. ‘It’s me, Richard. Lucy.’
‘Delete …’ I began, then bit my tongue. Voices are faces to me, arriving with instant recognition. This one took an instant longer. Perhaps the name threw me; in my head she was always the Prof.
‘I’ve just seen the story about Scout. On the news. I’m concerned you didn’t mention any of this to me either. Especially given your apparent distress in the TV interview.’
Apparent? Was there a note of sarcasm in her voice? Surely not.
‘It must have been traumatic for you, having the seizure of your dog hanging over your head. Sensitised to loss as you already are.’
Definitely not.
‘So, if you need to see me earlier than our scheduled appointment, please ring my secretary. On second thoughts just ring me back on this number. You know I’ll always squeeze you in. Please.’
‘End call,’ I said, then: ‘Create new contact.’
‘Contact name?’
‘Lucy Hotline,’ I said, even as the phone rang again.
Beep. ‘It’s me, Rick. Sylvia. Just saw that story about your dog. I’m so sorry about what you’ve been through. I so wanted to ring after you got shot, but Bob wouldn’t have understood. I hope you can forgive me …’
Sylvia? Bob? No bells ringing there. ‘Delete message.’
Beep. ‘It’s me.’
An unexpected voice, but instantly recognisable. Pre-instantly, my heart skipping a beat before my brain registered her. ‘What do you think you’re doing, you bloody liar? Your message said you were in a safe place! You and your stupid pride! You’re impossible! Proper risk management, you stubborn idiot.’ A pause, a deep breath. ‘Okay, I just got off the phone to Terry. He doesn’t think you’re in danger. Patrols are coming by regularly. But Jesus, Richard! There’s no shame in taking precautions. And what about Scout? The dickhead from Guide Dogs?’ Another, even slower, calming breath. ‘Okay, your funeral. If you insist. None of us could ever tell you anything! But the offer still stands. You can stay here. At least let me take Scout for a few days. Till this thing with her blows over.’
Delete message, I felt an urge to say. Answer call, likewise, almost in the same thought-bubble. I did neither. I took a deep, calming breath myself as my heart thumped on. I wanted to see her. Part of me wanted to run straight to her. Except for one small sticking point: her mixed message added up to exactly what? She missed the dog?
As for ringing back: a risky move. As long as she thought I was merely being proud, or stupid, or stubborn – fine. But if I spoke to her at any length she would see straight through me. Especially since I was finally seeing through myself. When had the vague hope that revenge was the reason he had broken out of jail become set in concrete? The last couple of nights, while I slept? My unconscious sixth sense, working overtime?
Cue a knock on the door, as if she had seen through me anyway. I sat there startled, until the knock was repeated and I realised it wasn’t hers.
‘You got a TV in the car now, Chief?’ I said, opening the door.
‘Why? I miss something?’
I wasn’t about to tell him what. ‘Shaggy dog story. But with a happy ending. So why are you here? Brought my shooter back?’
‘Been trying to ring you,’ he said.
‘You could’ve left a message.’
‘Got a bit worried when I couldn’t get through.’
I snorted. ‘No need to ask how the manhunt is going, then?’
‘No joy. Yet.’
Joy of a strange kind for me, though. I didn’t want the villain caught. Yet. ‘You search the knock-shop?’
‘Took two days to get a warrant. No joy there either. Apart from embarrassing a few prominent legal identities. Two silks and a judge.’
He would have named names if asked, but I had no time for gossip. I stood there, waiting, as usual, for the real reason he had come.
Beep from inside the house. A woman’s voice, faintly strident. ‘Yo, Ricky. It’s me, big boy. Saw you on the box …’
‘You want to get that?’ from Terry.
‘Delete message,’ I shouted over my shoulder, then turned back.
‘Message deleted.’ Another beep; another female voice; this time I let it burble on.
Terry chuckled; a small explosion of the usual pungent smoke. ‘No wonder I couldn’t get through. What’s going on? You putting yourself about on Tinder?’
‘There’s a lot of love out there looking for its next victim, Chief.’
‘Which is sort of why I’m here,’ he said, without a beat. ‘It’s the Detectives’ Dinner. Saturday night. Thought you might like to come with me.’
‘You want me to be your date. How sweet. But you’re a married man, Chief Inspector.’
‘I won’t tell the missus if you won’t. Cancer stick?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
A match was struck; a lit Camel jammed in my mouth; the phone rang again inside. Beep. ‘It’s Tessa, Rick. Long time, no see. Oh, sorry. Shit. That was a great start. What a dumb thing to say.’
‘I might be busy Saturday night,’ I said.
Terry chuckled. ‘Come for the pre-dinner drinks at least. See how it goes. You can always piss off if you’re bored. I’ll get a night patrol to run you home.’
I pondered this through a long, smoky filling of my lungs, followed by an equal and opposite emptying.
‘You can’t tell me you don’t miss it, Rick. Happy hour at the Club.’
‘Shop-talk hour,’ I said. ‘Not much fun if you don’t work at the shop anymore.’
‘Think of it as your first day back in the shop. Keep your ear to the ground, and who knows what you might hear. Especially after a few drinks.’
‘What happens in the Club stays in the Club,’ I reminded him. ‘Especially confessions extracted under the duress of a pint or three.’
‘Beer-boarding?’ he said, chuckling, and lit himself another. ‘Anyway, a night out would be good for you. Better than locking yourself up in your fortress here.’
It occurred to me to ask if the patrols had noticed anything suspicious in the street – match-flares in darkened cars, shadowy figures under streetlights – but I kept my lips tightly clamped around my own cigarette. He’d see straight through to my vengeful heart if I spoke. And perhaps even to the Glock, skulking behind that.
‘Remember the Consorting Squad?’ he said, exhaling. ‘All we did was sit in the pubs all day. Drinking. Listening. Get pissed, get the bloke sitting next to you pissed, and just listen.’
‘If you remember the Consorting Squad, you weren’t in it,’ I said.
Another chuckle. ‘Keep the beer flowing, and the talk followed. Softly, softly, catchee bad guy.’ He took a long drag at his cigarette. ‘Your mission, Detective Sergeant, should you decide to accept it. Beginning at the dinner.’
‘Cops are the good guys, remember?’
‘Once upon a time, maybe.’
‘I liked that time,’ I said. ‘Ye olde times when we had the quaint habit of backing each other up.’
He ignored the barb. ‘I’m not talking about looking the other way over a few quid on the side, Zads. I’m talking serious shit. Leaks to the clubs, for one.’
‘Any clues?’
‘Yeah – two. It’s not me. And it couldn’t be you. Not for the last two years at any rate. Another smoke?’
‘Ta.’
‘Keep the pack,’ he said. ‘Again.’
I stuck out my hand, made another lucky catch.
He stepped back off the porch. ‘I’ll pick you up Saturday. Sevenish. If I don’t hear from you before.’
‘You’re hearing from me now.’
‘Now doesn’t count. Sleep on it for a couple of nights.’
I opened my mouth again; shut it. I was happy enough to think about it, especially at night. My fast-hatching plan meant sleeping by day, and keeping watch by night. So to speak. Rats were nocturnal creatures; the one coming my way wouldn’t be knocking on the front door during business hours.
A car door slammed; an engine started; I waved goodbye, then stepped inside. That he was coming I was certain, if still a little bemused by that newfound certainty.
Beep. ‘Sophie here, Rick. Huge response. Ratings through the roof. I’ve been trying to get through; you’ve probably had a few calls from well-wishers. I knew you wouldn’t mind us giving out your number. I’d like to do a follow-up in a week. A what-happened-next story.’
‘Delete message,’ I said. The idiot-box had done its work; I needed no further distraction. And I hoped to be an even bigger story in a week. ‘Delete all messages,’ I almost added, then remembered Willow.
‘Send text message, Siri.’
‘Who do you want to send it to?’
‘Reckless Idiot.’
‘What do you want to say?’
The words seemed to dictate themselves ‘Dear Willow. Thanks for your offer. It means a lot. Scout sends her thanks, too – she’s very touched. She says don’t worry about her, the dog catcher wouldn’t dare show his face around here again.’ I paused, giving her time for a smile. Hopefully. ‘As for me, I’m perfectly safe. Patrol cars cruising by every five minutes. They might as well have the place staked out. Besides, it’s a fortress. My fortress, so I’m staying put. Call me stubborn, but I’m more likely to get hit by a meteor. They’ll catch him soon and then – well, I’d love to see you. End message.’
‘Ready to send it?’
‘Send,’ I said, then, ‘disconnect phone.’
No more interruptions. It was time to build a better rat-trap.