24

This had to be a bad dream. Perhaps if I closed my eyes and counted to ten, it would go away. I opened my eyes. The nightmare was still there—in words a foot high—in words spray painted on the thick wooden varnish that sent fear, like a terminal disease, racing insidiously through my intestines.

Who’d left that message? Was it a threat or a promise? Was the spray-painter still lurking in the darkness, watching me, feeding off my fear?

It took me three goes before I finally convinced my feet to move. For me to spill inside the house, close the door and fumble the lock into place.

There’d be no more sleep for me tonight—in fact, I’d be lucky to ever sleep again. Words from Hamlet’s famous soliloquy danced in my head.

‘to die, to sleep no more’.

Fear clutched at my gut, twisted its grip a little tighter. I tried to clear the knot in my throat as I keyed in DI Adam’s phone number but when he answered, the only word I could get out was…

Help!

* * *

Detective Inspector Garry Adams, his five o’clock shadow more like a ten o’clock forest, sprawled on one of my kitchen chairs, legs stretched out in front of him. The wall clock, hands shaped like racing greyhounds, ticked off a minute’s silence before revealing the time: 1.45 am. During the silence, the DI’s dark eyes teased at me like a persistent fly. He then bent over his notebook and scribbled on the half-filled page before looking up with a pronounced sigh. “You ignored my advice, didn’t you?”

“Advice?” I echoed, not sure which of the many lectures he’d given me he was referring to this time.

“I distinctly told you to leave catching criminals to the police.”

“Oh. That advice.”

“Let me put this another way, Ms. McKinley. Do you have any idea who would have reason to deface your front door?”

“Deface? Funny term for a death threat.”

“It’s not necessarily a death threat. ‘You’re next’ could mean…many things.”

“Like what?” I growled. “Like someone snuck onto my property in the dead of night to paint a message on my door in blood red paint—and throw a brick for good measure—just to remind me I’m next in line to see the doctor?” I yanked the thick plaid blanket the Inspector had taken off my sofa more firmly around my shoulders. “Not likely.”

The familiar smell of dog clung to the rough blanket, comforting me. But the warmth couldn’t stop me shivering. Someone out there was determined to scare me—or worse.

Adams swiveled his head in the direction of his assistant, the vinegary Constable Belinda Chalmers, who stood smirking in the background. I could almost read the thought bubble hovering over the woman’s head: ‘stupid ditz deserves everything she gets’. “Ms. McKinley is suffering from shock,” the Inspector informed her. “So stir yourself, Constable, and make a nice hot cup of coffee.”

Chalmers’ mouth gaped. Lucky for her, I’d doused the kitchen with fly spray the night before. “Me?” she squeaked. “You want me to make that woman coffee?” If looks were finely honed axes, I figured DI Adams’s would now be trolling on the ground, hunting for his decapitated head.

However, Adams didn’t appear to notice the incredulous snort or the tight lips or the rest of her pissed off body language. Instead, his hand moved to pat Lucky the greyhound, who was leaning up against his leg, adoring eyes smiling up at him. Tater, due to the fact that he was obsessed with raping Chalmers’ ankles whenever he saw her, was locked in my bedroom.

When her superior didn’t respond, the policewoman snatched the electric jug from the kitchen bench, filled it with water from the Pura tap over the sink and stabbed the three pronged plug in the direction of an electrical socket on the wall.

“Milk and two sugars for me, thanks,” I said, enjoying the entertainment.

Her reply was a snort and I winced when another cupboard door slammed shut. At this rate I’d be renewing the hinges on all my kitchen cupboards before the end of the day.

“You know,” DI Adams said flipping over a page of his dog-eared notebook while chewing on the end of his biro. “Over the past three months, we’ve had a gang of graffiti artists leaving their tags all over the neighborhood. They’ve been driving the residents insane with their spray paint. I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“If that’s a graffiti tag on my front door, I’m the Queen of the Undead.”

“Uh…huh,” he muttered and I was left wondering whether he thought the royal title suited me or not. Then, with a determined shove upwards, he lumbered to his feet and approached the coffee making constable who was still banging cupboard doors. If she ground her teeth any harder we’d be whisking her off to an all-night dental clinic.

The DI stretched up and lifted an unopened jar of Nescafe down from a top shelf in my cupboard. “This what you’re looking for Constable Chalmers?”

“Mmmgh.”

The corners of his lips twitched as he added another Simpsons’ mug to the one already on the bench. “Make that coffee for two, Constable.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you, Ms. McKinley?”

I shrugged. “Be my guest.” And then I smiled up at Constable Chalmers. “You’ll find chocolate biscuits in the larder, Constable. Bottom shelf. Behind the Coco-Pops.”

DI Adams selected a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and placed it in one of the mugs before making his way back to the table. For a man who’d only been in my kitchen a handful of times the Inspector seemed rather at home. Although, on reflection, I realized this gnarly policeman had been inside my house more times than my own mother…which was scary.

Before continuing our conversation, he carefully re-arranged his serge covered backside on the seat of the chair and encouraged Lucky to resume her leaning position against his leg. “Although I’m not saying you shouldn’t be careful,” he warned. “I don’t want you jumping to conclusions and fearing the worst, either. This could merely be the act of a couple of half-witted kids playing out some crime show they’ve viewed on the idiot box.”

“Or not.” I added and then decided to change the subject. “By the way, did your policeman mates up North fill you in on what happened to Scott Brady? How he was the victim of an attempted murder?”

“You mean, suicide attempt. Yes, Senior Constable Mark Kelly contacted me yesterday. An interesting case. He also told me about your brave—or maybe some people would call foolhardy—reaction to the event.”

“It wasn’t suicide,” I growled. “Someone slipped a drug into Scott’s drink while he was at the track and he woke up inside his car with the gas full on.”

“And you think the message on your front door—you’re next—is from the same someone?”

“Could be.”

Adams let out an exaggerated sigh before accepting a mug of coffee from Constable Chalmers. “I warned you, McKinley. I told you there are people out there who get a thrill from hurting others. But no, you wouldn’t listen to me. You had to bulldoze your way in without a thought in your head and tread on toes that didn’t relish being trodden on.” He raised both caterpillar thick eyebrows at me and when I didn’t comment, took a long slurp of his coffee. I was still waiting for mine. Probably still be waiting the day of my funeral—which the way things were looking could be sooner rather than later. “So, is there anything you want to tell me?” he persisted. “Anyone other than me you’ve ticked off lately?”

Let’s see…

There was the owner of the grocery shop where I’d tripped and accidentally broke most of the free range eggs in his store display. There was the grumpy sports car driver who shook his fist at me when I cut him off and pinched his parking spot—only because I desperately needed to use the loo at the shopping center. Oh yeah and the tall scruffy guy who I’d first seen in Gina’s barn and then at the track handling the Rambo look-alike. And of course the temporary racing-secretary who enjoyed watching threesomes and was prone to throwing temper tantrums…

I shook my head.

Not content to leave it there, Adams hung on like a dog with a bone. “Okay. Anything out of the ordinary you’ve poked your nose into lately that might have brought this on?”

Should I mention the scam? But what evidence did I have? An altered ear brand on a GAP dog and a slow greyhound I once trained coming in at 50/1? Hardly enough to prove my theory that the killer was also behind a ring-in scam. And of course this would set DI Adams off on another lecture about interfering in police business. I sighed. “You mean, other than looking for my sister because you lot don’t seem to care?”

He drained his mug and set it back on the table. “Your sister wasn’t actually missing at the time, Ms. McKinley. She was camped out with a mob of protesters whose main grievance seemed to be mining in Arkaroola. And like the other protesters, your sister was doing her best to hinder the workmen and cause them to lose three days’ pay.”

“But she’s gone missing again since then.”

Adams gave a low exasperated groan which caused Lucky, still leaning against his leg, to nuzzle his crotch in sympathy. The DI brought out a crumpled carton of Dunhills from inside his coat pocket, extracted one virgin cigarette, stroked its length with the sensitivity of a man caressing a lover’s face, lifted the cigarette to his nose and inhaled. I could see the tension rolling off his face as he spoke. “Is that so?”

“The last time anyone saw or heard from Liz was when she spoke to Bob Germaine on Friday. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Anything to do with your sister I consider odd, Ms. McKinley.” He slid the cigarette gently back into the carton, returned the packet to his coat pocket and stood up. His frown seemed to suggest I’d spoiled a sensual sexual experience.

When his pager beeped, he snapped out a gruff, ‘Adams here,’ then listened, his frown deepening. “Right. I’m on my way.” Then he turned to me. “A drive-by shooting has occurred at Munno Para so I have to go. But, don’t worry, I’ve posted two constables on guard duty outside your house for the remainder of the night.”

He looked at me and his frown softened. “But if you need me at all—I’m only a phone call away. Right?”

I nodded.

“Make sure all your doors and windows are locked when I leave. And open to no-one. I repeat—no-one. Is that clear?”

I nodded again. He really didn’t need to tell me twice.