Day 32

This isn’t what he expected

Tiffany arrives at the newsroom early, earlier than even on her first day.  She sits at the table in the centre of the shared workspace that is surrounded by the glass walls of offices, including her own, and waits.  Everyone who walks by says, “Hello,” to Tiffany but not a single one of them looks her in the eye.  Tiffany can’t figure out why she thinks it’s so ironic that news travels so fast in a newsroom, but she does.

When she sees Bob Mullen come in, Tiffany gets up and follows him.  She hasn’t expected him to stop and greet her or acknowledge her in any way, that’s not how it works, but it still kills, like a ray’s barb right in the middle of her chest.

Bob sits right down, unzips his laptop bag, starts getting himself ready for the day’s work.  He doesn’t look up.  Tiffany thinks for a moment about turning around and going home.  Better for everyone if she just does what’s expected and stays away.  Then she sucks in some air — it hurts as her diaphragm expands — and speaks.

“OK, Bob, special assignment it is then.”

For a calculated moment, Bob Mullen still doesn’t look up.  He keeps his eyes on the silver plastic of his laptop.  For a calculated moment, Bob Mullen thinks that if he just keeps his eyes down Tiffany Robson will go away and his first problem of the day will be solved.  Then he looks up, maybe a moment too soon.  Maybe he got his calculations wrong this time, because she’s still there.

And looking splendid, too.  He’d fuck her any day, but his enlarged prostate means that the all his dick does these days is drip and droop and keep him awake most of the night telling him he needs to piss and then changing its mind when he gets to the toilet.  What he’d give for one last go round with someone like her.  His lack of physical capacity doesn’t stop his imagination, but the torture of being able to think without being able to do is likely to drive him mad any amount of right now.

“That’d be a good look on tonight’s news,” he thinks, just about cracking a grin.  He levers thoughts of his useless cock out of his mind as he begins to speak.

“What?”

“Oh, very erudite, Bob.  Look, you fuck, you said I could work on special assignment.  Well, here I am.”

Bob just looks at Tiffany and blinks.  This isn’t what he expected.  No one he’s ever put on special assignment before has ever turned up the next Monday.

“So, I’ll be wanting a crew, camera and sound.  But not just yet.  Got some research to do first.  You won’t mind if I take my lappy home and work from there.”  It’s not a question.  Tiffany has gone from quietly shitting herself to enjoying this.  She’s always been a bit scared of Bob, he’s one of those blokes who rules the workplace on fear, sometimes a bit of praise, but mostly he’s a smarmy git, always likes you to think he’s got something over you.  Now there’s no reason to be scared.

“You can’t have a crew, Tiff, we haven’t got any to spare.  You know that.”  Bob’s coming back to life again.

“It’s OK, Bob, I’ll hire contractors.  I’m sure your budget can stretch to that.  I’ll let you know how long I think I need them for when I’m ready to start filming.”

Tiffany turns to leave Bob’s office, takes a step and then turns back.  “I’ll give you a call when I need to hire someone.  See ya, Bob.”

As she leaves, Tiffany swivels her hips so that her arse moves from side to side.  She knows Bob’s watching, knows he wants to get a hard on for her, knows he can’t.  On the other side of that arse, Tiffany is grinning like a mental patient.

You’ve misspelled pedophile

Lambert calls Captain Duncan early, while he’s still on his way into the station.

“Peter Johnson,” Lambert starts.

“What about him? Making any progress?”

“The guy I went to see on Saturday, Chris Baker.  We had a long chat.  Told me a lot of things about himself.”

Lambert describes his conversation with Baker, his kinks and how he was reluctant to account for his time on the morning of the accident that landed him in hospital.

“So, what’s your feeling about this guy, Frank?  It’s a long way from being a fucking weirdo with consenting adults to being a ped.  So the psychs tell us, anyway.”

“I dunno. I’m not convinced by his story. When he eventually told me what he’d been up to I thought, OK let’s check it out, but then I went to the address he gave and the woman there claimed never to have met the guy.  Fuck, I don’t know, I just don’t know about this one.  I still think there might be a connection.  I think he’s being very economical with the truth and I’d like to have a closer look at him.”

“What have you got in mind?”

“Well, he said he met these people on the Internet.  He had some interesting things in the car with him when he had his crash.  I can put him at the shopping centre at the same time as the boy on the day he disappeared and I’ve got witnesses who say they’ve seen a car like Baker’s cruising the kid’s school. If I put it together right, I think I’ve got enough for a warrant.  I want to have a look in Baker’s house, see what we can turn up.”

“Well, I guess it couldn’t do any harm,” is Captain Duncan’s reply.  “What did you say this Baker does again?”

“He’s a public servant.”

“Anything special, or just run of the mill?”

“Middle management, but nothing close to the top of the pile.  He’s a smart guy, knows his rights and all, but he’ll want to keep all of this as quiet as possible.  When I told him I’d been in touch with his work, he just about went green, poor bugger.”

“So not much chance of any come back if things start to turn to shit?”

“No, not from Baker.  Like I said, he wants this all to go away as quickly and quietly as possible.  If he’s our man, we need to have a look at him as soon as we can.  If he isn’t, then we move on.  But we’ve got to know.”

“Yair, righto, Frank.  Write it up and take it to the JP for sign off.  I don’t need to tell you to take someone with you.  How about Claire Martin?” Duncan suggests.

Detective Constable Claire Martin has been recently assigned to the station. Frank figures she’ll come to the party readily enough.

“OK, boss, I’ll pick her up when I’ve done the application and take her straight over to Baker’s house as soon as I’ve got the JP’s moniker.  No need to waste any more time now.”

“Good.  Let me know how you go.”

“Will do.”

Frank shuts off the phone and keeps heading for the station, formulating in his mind just the right pitch for a warrant application and wondering how fully to brief Claire Martin.

Detective Lambert completes the application for a warrant to search Chris Baker’s house before he walks over to Claire Martin’s desk.

“Hi, Claire, have you got a moment?”

Claire clicks on the minimise button to clear the file she’s working on from the screen before looking up form her computer monitor.  Frank takes note, likes her style.  You never can be too careful in this game.

“Sure, Frank, what can I do for you?”

“You know I’m the lead on the miss per, the kid who went missing a few weeks ago?”

Claire nods.  All the Detectives at the station have at least a passing familiarity with each other’s case loads through the weekly Detectives’ meetings and this case in particular has the attention of all the Detectives because it involves a kid.

“I might have a positive lead.  A guy who’s been seen driving by the boy’s school more than is healthy and who I can put at the shopping centre at the same time as the boy disappeared.  Frank goes on to describe some of the other reasons why he thinks Chris Baker looks good for the boy’s disappearance.  “Anyway, the upshot is, I spoke to the Captain this morning and he’s OK’d an application for a warrant and I thought you might like to come along.”

Frank doesn’t let on that Claire’s involvement is at the instigation of Captain Duncan.

“Have you done an application for the JP yet?”

“Just finished it now,” Frank replies, waving the paper.

“Can I have a look?”  Claire holds out her hand.

Frank hands over the single sheet of A4 paper which Claire reads intently for a few moments.

“You’ve misspelled pedophile.  Looks OK otherwise.”

Frank smiles at Claire and holds his hand out for the paper.  He takes it and walks back to his desk without saying a word.

“I’ll just be waiting over here then, will, I Frank?”  Claire says to her colleague’s back.

If Frank has heard, he gives no indication, just sits down at his desk and gets to opening the file again so he can make the correction.  After a few minutes, he’s back at Claire Martin’s desk.

“OK, it’s all tickety-boo now, all nicely spelled and coloured inside the lines. Let’s go.”  Frank turns for the door without looking to see if Claire is following.

Claire gets up and catches Frank at the entry to their office space.  The two walk side by side down the corridor to the security door that leads to the car park, Claire makes sure of that.

“This is going well,” Frank thinks to himself, not daring to look sideways in case Detective Constable Claire Martin finds something else to correct.

All the human interest she seems capable of

Chris wakes early on Monday morning having slept only a few hours, but his memory of the night’s telling him he hasn’t slept at all.  His head is heavy and fuzzy, his feet ache as he puts them on the carpet at the side of his bed.  The memory of his conversation with Detective Lambert has been with him all weekend and so has the depression it induced.  Chris walks from his bedroom through to the lounge and sits himself in front of the TV, flicks on the mindless window to a world outside the house that Chris knows he’ll never be part of again.  He sits still and in silence.  Blinking.  For hours.

When the phone rings, Chris jumps.  He settles and listens to the ringing without taking his eyes off the television.  It stops and Chris’s heart begins to return to a normal pace.  When the phone rings again, Chris is immune to the physical shock of the sound.  He gets up and walks over to the hand piece sitting on a table in the corner of the lounge room over from the TV.

“Hello,” Chris’s voice is dull.

“Chris? It’s Judy. From work?”

Judy Travers is Chris’s line manager.  He’s always got on OK with her.  She scares him sometimes, she’s just so businesslike.  But there’s also something he finds attractive in her, something about the brusqueness of her nature that gives Chris a rise.  She’s never shown any interest in him, other than work wise, and Chris hasn’t had the courage to put out any feelers.

“Oh. Hi.”

“We heard you’d had an accident, Chris. The police have been to the office. Are you OK? The Detective said it was quite serious. You’ve been in hospital?”

Chris is having difficulty paying attention.  He doesn’t know which question to answer first.

“Yes, um, yes, I’m OK.  Just need a few days off work that’s all.  The doctor says I’ll need to see him again in, um, ten days, and then I should be OK.” 

Chris can’t remember how much time has elapsed since he left the hospital, so he clings on to the ten days.  It puts the longest possible time between him and going back to work.  He’s also trying to give Judy the information he thinks she’s looking for so he can curtail the conversation.

“Well, all right then.”  Judy is switching into work-manager mode.  She’s shown all the human interest she seems capable of.  “Got to go, Chris.  Let me know if there’s anything we can do for you and give me a call when you know you’re ready to come back to work.”

“Thanks, Judy, Bye.”  Chris is relieved the conversation is over.  He waits until he hears the line disconnect before pushing the on/off button on his phone to disconnect at his end.

Chris puts the handset on the coffee table in front of the TV and goes back to watching, feet up on the edge of the table, knees bent.

We’ve all got secrets

“So, tell me more about Chris Baker,” Detective Constable Claire Martin asks Frank from the passenger seat of his unmarked.

Detective Senior Sergeant Frank Lambert fills in the details for his colleague, continually glancing sideways as he speaks to gauge her reaction.  Claire looks straight ahead as she listens, watching the traffic.  When Frank is finished, there’s silence in the car for a moment.

“So, tell me again how you’ve got Baker connected to the boy’s disappearance,” is all Claire says to fill the silence.

“The shopping centre vision, witnesses who put him at the school more often than is healthy and his, shall we say, interesting sex life.  Why?”  Frank’s face is beginning to colour up.  He’s already getting pissed off with this cheeky little bitch.

“Well, I’m not sure I can see a solid connection.”

“It was enough for the JP, Claire, so I don’t see what the problem is.”  Frank tries to put an end to the conversation.

“With all due respect, Frank, you know as well as I do that that JP would sign just about anything you gave him.”

“’With all due respect, Frank’.”  Frank mimics Claire and instantly regrets it, but goes on anyway.  “I don’t think you’re being respectful at all, Constable Martin.  You’ve been in the job what, two, three years?  Been to uni so you think you know a bit, don’t you?  Well, at the moment, this is the only solid lead we’ve got to go on.  There’s a missing boy who’s God knows where and you’re worried about a solid connection!”  Frank is exasperated, almost yelling.

“Watch the road, Frank.”

Frank snaps his attention back to the road and adjusts the steering away from the median strip.  Neither occupant of the car speaks for a long minute, both sit eyes fixed on the bitumen ahead.  The sound of the wheels on the road and the hum of the engine fill the interior of the car.  Frank leans forward to adjust the air conditioning, he’s beginning to sweat.

“Bloody hot again today,” Frank says to break the silence. He’s embarrassed by the heat of his response to Claire’s questions.

Claire says nothing, looks out the passenger side window.

And, then, Claire speaks, she can’t help herself.  “Look, Frank, being a cross dresser doesn’t necessarily make this guy a pedophile. That’s a big leap to make, you know.  I can see why he’d be cagey about what he was up to the day he had his crash.  I’m surprised he’s told you as much as he has.  And as for the people he told you he’d visited, they’d be even more reluctant to tell you anything.  A married couple like that isn’t going to want the world to know what they get up to in the bedroom.”

“More than just the bedroom, from what I can gather.”  Frank snorts.

“You know what I mean, Frank. Anyway, they’re not going to get in the middle of all this willingly. They’re just ordinary people and that’s the way they want it to stay. Chris Baker sounds like an ordinary bloke, too.”

“What?  You’ve got to be kidding!  An ordinary bloke?  That perve? “ Frank is incredulous again, his attention is off the road and back on Claire.  He’s looking at her with something like hatred.

“You’re telling me you haven’t got any secrets, Frank?  Nothing you don’t want people to know about?”

Frank’s silence is a telling response.

“Thought so.”  Claire is triumphant. She pushes home the advantage, putting on her most reasonable and logical-sounding voice.  “We’ve all got secrets we’d prefer people not to know about Frank.  I’ve got stuff.  I know you’ve got stuff.  So does Chris Baker.  Maybe he’s got more to hide than most of us, but it doesn’t make him any less normal than me or you.  Probably, anyway.  I’m just saying, Frank, this guy’s kink may not make him the right person.”

“Fuck you!  Don’t you dare compare that, that filthy little fucker to me.  Don’t! Just don’t.”  Frank tails off, he’s got nothing more he wants to say on the subject. He turns back to the road, keeps driving.

Claire looks away, leans her head against the passenger window, taking comfort from the vibration of the glass through her temple.

The rest of their journey is completed in silence.

He wonders for a moment about this woman’s sexuality

The knock at the door causes instant pain in Chris’s bowels.  His heart is racing, pushing to escape his chest, his brow is covered in beads of sweat.

Chris hears the sound of knuckle on wood again, but remains seated, focusing on his breathing.  The air moves in and out of his mouth in ragged lumps, almost choking him.  He feels light headed and begins to lose sensation in his toes and fingertips.  Chris closes his mouth and deliberately forces himself to breathe long and deep through his nose, in and out, counting each breath as it enters, holds and exits.  It’s a massive effort of will for Chris made more difficult by the knocking that renders the smooth entry and exit of air into his lungs impossible.

Chris doesn’t register the voice over the top of the knocking for a while.  He can hear it, but it doesn’t become a voice until the third or fourth sentence.

“Chris Baker, it’s Detective Lambert. Open the door.”

Once he realises it’s the Detective at the door, Chris gives up all attempts to calm himself.  He sits, clutching the front edges of the couch cushions, slumped with his head pressed hard against the soft leather behind him, eyes screwed shut.

“Open the fucking door, Baker.”  The Detective’s banging on the door now. Chris half expects him to come crashing through it.

Chris takes a breath in and stands, instantly feeling the light-headed blackness of a near faint resulting from the suddenness of his movement.  He bends over until the blood returns to his head and then moves unsteadily to the front door.

Chris opens the door and instantly finds himself standing inside the entryway to his house with Detective Lambert.  A woman is standing outside holding the fly screen door open.  She’s looking at Chris and the Detective, waiting to see what will happen next.

Lambert speaks first.  “Get inside, Chris. I’ve got a warrant to search your house.”  As he speaks, Lambert physically turns Chris around with a hand on his shoulder and points him towards the lounge room. Chris has no choice but to walk ahead.

“Take a seat, Chris.”  Again the Detective gives a direction to maintain the upper hand.

As he sits, Chris sees that the woman has followed them into his house. She’s young, about twenty-five and is wearing black Doc Martens, trousers and a shirt.  Her hair is long, blonde and tied back in a pony tail.  Her face is broad and tanned, brown eyes topped by thick, but neat, eyebrows, lips on the thick side and untouched by makeup, as is the rest of her face.  She’s a handsome woman.  Chris thinks back to conversations with workmates about one of their colleagues’ ‘lesbian shoes’.  He wonders for a moment about this woman’s sexuality, does it instinctively.

“I’m Detective Constable Claire Martin,” the hand she offers Chris has short fingers and nails, no rings.  She stands in front of Chris while Detective Lambert stands to one side, his back to the pair, eyeing off the hallway that leads to Chris’s bedroom.

“Um, Chris Baker,” Chris says as he takes her hand, ashamed at the clamminess of his palm in her firm, dry grip.

“Yes, I know,” there’s no hint of any emotion in Constable Martin’s eyes and face, just a fierce interest that makes Chris feel like a specimen.

The pair look at each other until Lambert breaks their engagement.

“Chris, we’ve come to have a look at your house, see what we can find out about you that you’re not telling us. I went to visit your friends last night. Guess what?” Lambert doesn’t stop for Chris to answer, “They’ve never heard of you. So, we’ve come to find out all about you for ourselves.”

“_______.”  Chris wants to speak, opens his mouth, but he’s got nothing to say.  He’s run all the possible scenarios that could follow Saturday’s visit from Detective Lambert.  What’s happening now was one of them, or something close to it, but it doesn’t make the reality any easier to be in the middle of.  He hadn’t anticipated the woman, though.  He’d imagined a long line of uniformed cops rummaging through all his things, queuing outside his front door and down the driveway, waiting to take a turn at his stuff.

The woman gives Chris hope.  He’s always got on better with women.

“Now, do you want to come with me while I have a look around, or are you happy to stay here with Constable Martin?”  Lambert’s voice slices into Chris’s remembering of last night’s fantasy.

“I think he’d better come with us, Sergeant,” it’s Constable Martin’s voice, making it clear what will happen next.

“Fair enough then,” Lambert replies, glaring at the Constable.  He turns and heads down the passageway.  “Let’s start in the bedroom, shall we?”

“This way, please, Mr Baker,” Constable Martin waits for Chris to get up and follow Lambert down the hall way before coming up the rear.

It doesn’t take long before Detective Lambert finds what he’s looking for.  He’s gone through the drawers in the chests at each side of Chris’s queen-sized bed, closing each one neatly before going on to the next.  When he opens the first door of the built-in wardrobe that lines one whole wall of Chris’s bedroom, Lambert first picks up a shoe box and takes out a pair of red, sling-backed women’s shoes, four inch heels.  He turns them this way and that and then looks at Chris with disgust.  The Detective puts the shoes back in their white box and drops the box on the bed, then the lid so that it sits askew and tilted over the side of the box leaving the shoes inside partly exposed.

“Let’s see what else is in here, shall we?”  Lambert is enjoying himself most thoroughly now. Chris and Constable Martin stand at the other side of the bed, near the door of the bedroom and watch.

When Detective Lambert is finished the queen-sized bed is covered with booty from his search.  In addition to the shoes Lambert first found is an array of women’s clothing  dresses, tops, skirts, lingerie, more shoes  three wigs, make up, jewellery and an assortment of sex toys and bondage equipment.

These last items most arouse the Detective’s interest.

“Fucking hell!  Will you look at that,“ the Detective says, mostly to himself, as he transports a large green dildo from inside the ’robe, holding it high up in front of his eyes by the base between thumb and forefinger, his stiff arm like a crane lifting the penis substitute over to the bed, where he drops it.

“I wonder what you do with that?” Lambert asks, although all three present in the room have a fair idea.

The next item, a ribbed black rubber cone, at least five centimetres at its widest end, raises Lambert’s eyebrows even further.  He says nothing as he transports it hanging by the chain that is attached to its base, simply glares at Chris.  When this item is dropped onto the bed, Lambert goes back to his work, pulling out, among other things, leather wrist and ankle cuffs, and shiny silver chains with a pair of handcuffs attached to either end.

After he’s retrieved this last item, Lambert puts his head inside the door of the wardrobe one last time and emerges, straightening himself as he addresses Chris.  “Anything else I should be looking for, or is that it?”

Chris shakes his head.

“Right then, let’s have a look in that study of yours, shall we?”  Detective Lambert has obviously become well acquainted with Chris’s house in the few times he’s visited.  The trio leaves the bedroom and walks back down the hallway to the open door of another bedroom that serves as Chris’s home office.

Lambert enters first and speaks while Chris and the Constable stand just inside the doorway.  “I think we’ll take that computer with us, get someone to have a look at what’s on the hard drive. Constable Martin, would you get it, please.”

The Constable steps forward into the room and begins to trace the cables connecting the computer’s CPU to the power and the other components.  As Lambert guides Chris out of the room, Constable Martin is kneeling on the floor, head under the desk, disconnecting wires.

“Come with me you dirty little fucker,” Lambert says in a low voice, his face close to Chris’s.

The two men walk together down the hallway.

“Sit down,” Lambert instructs Chris.

The two men resume their now familiar positions on the couch.  This time, Lambert sits leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs, hands between his knees, head bowed as he speaks, not making eye contact for the moment.

“Anything you need to say to me before we take your things away, Chris? Anything you want me to know?”

“I can’t … I don’t … You know everything already.”  Chris is stumbling for a proper response.  He so wants to give the Detective what he needs.  He so wants this to be all over.

“Chris, you know the people in Spring Lakes have no idea who you are. You just made that up, didn’t you, to give yourself a bit more time.”

“No … no, I didn’t. I can’t … I didn’t.”

“You can’t what, Chris?” The Detective makes eye contact, he thinks he’s onto something now.

“Nothing.  Everything I’ve told you is true.  Everything.”

“So, all that gear I found.  What the fuck’s that for, Chris?”  Lambert is leaning in towards Chris.  Chris can smell the sour sweetness of coffee on his breath.

“You know what it’s for. I’ve already told you.”

“You didn’t tell me you had all that stuff, though, did you, you sly little shit.”  The Detective’s anger is amplified by the softness of his voice.  This is an intimate conversation meant only for his and Chris’s ears.  “What are those cuffs for?  And the riding crop?  Is that what you use on little boys?”

Chris has no response to these questions. He’s confused and doesn’t know where to start.

“Sergeant Lambert.”

Lambert looks up and sees Constable Martin standing watching the two men, cradling the computer’s CPU that she’s just retrieved from Chris’s study.

“All finished, Constable Martin?”  Lambert’s voice is brisk and has no connection to the conversation that Claire Martin has just interrupted.

“Yes. Are you?”  Claire’s voice lets Lambert and Chris know that she’s onto them.  For one she’s a giant pain in the arse, for the other a small, faint hope.

“Well, why don’t you put that in the car and get the rest of the stuff out of the bedroom and then we’ll be ready to go, Constable.”  Lambert doesn’t shift from his position on the couch, making it clear he has no intention of helping.

“Won’t we need to catalogue everything so we can give Mr Baker a receipt for his property, Sergeant?”  Claire is still standing at the other side of the lounge room, adjacent to the still-on television. She’s not moving either.

Lambert pauses for a moment while he decides what to do next.  “Right-o, then, Constable, here’s what’s going to happen.  Give Mr Baker a receipt for his computer.  The rest of the stuff, take photos and we can come back and have another look later if we need to.  I’ll just stay here and keep Mr Baker company. Is that OK with you?”  As he says his last sentence, Lambert’s voice is a sing-song of sarcasm, challenging Claire Martin, daring her to either do as instructed or openly defy his authority.

Silently, Claire goes about her business as instructed.  Lambert sits and fumes on the couch next to Chris, not bothering to resume his conversation.

When she’s finished, Claire comes back into the lounge room and walks over to stand in front of Chris.

“Mr Baker, here’s a receipt for your computer.”  She hands him a piece of paper torn from a duplicate book.  “And here’s my card.  Please contact me if you’ve got any questions.” Then to Lambert, “I’m ready.”

Detective Lambert stares at his colleague and she stares back.  Chris watches the pair, trying to read the interplay between them, wondering whether he should start asking his questions now or wait until later.  He decides to wait.

Lambert gets up and follows Claire across the room towards the front door.  By the time they’ve covered the short distance, the Detective has tried but failed to get in front of his colleague.  He’s done everything short of giving her a hip and shoulder, but there’s nothing comical about their jockeying.

Claire Martin leaves Chris’s house first, closely followed by her superior officer.  Lambert doesn’t bother to close the door behind him.  It’s a long time before Chris gets up to close it.

I know a place

Their journey back to the station starts in silence, just where they left it on the way to Chris Baker’s place.  The only addition is the computer box sitting on the back seat of the unmarked.

Detective Lambert drives aggressively.  More than once, Constable Martin goes to speak from the passenger seat, makes to protest Lambert’s dangerous driving.  But the most she does is open her mouth.  And then she swallows back the words, knowing she’s already done enough damage for one day and trusting, as all humans in cars do, that today won’t be the day her life gets crushed out of her body inside a tin can wrapped around a light pole.

The melting bitumen, heated by the outrageous sun, helps stick the unmarked to the road.  Global warming well in tune with the technological, person-made future.

“Frank, let’s stop for coffee on the way back to the station.”  When Claire Martin does speak, she’s persuaded herself not to complain about her colleague’s driving.

Frank looks at her as if she’s mad.  He’s doing that looking away from the road thing again, staring at Claire like she’s the first alien out of the space craft.

“Frank!  Fuck!  Frank, look at the road!”

Frank snaps his attention back front and centre and just manages to pull the Commodore up millimetres before he rear ends a car at the lights.  Once the car is stopped, he looks back at Claire, his face still screwed up with building rage.

“Sorry, Frank. I promised myself I wasn’t going to complain about your driving.”  Claire is beginning to get the giggles, her eyes are crinkling, her lips are pursed to hold the laughter in.  “But, fucking hell, I thought I was going to have to call the cops.”  She begins to shake and let go some of her laughter.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?”  Frank’s anger is still building and Claire’s laughter is doing nothing to settle it.

“Aw, c’mon, Frank, give it a rest. I’m trying to meet you in the middle here.  You could have killed us.  Or at least given us some explaining to do.”  Claire is giggling as she speaks.

Frank begins to crack.  “Fuck off. I had my eyes on the road all the time.  I’ve got my advanced skills driving ticket, you know.”

“So why’re you’re sitting at a green light, Fran__.”  Claire is interrupted by the tooting driver in the car behind.

When Frank looks up the road ahead is clear.

“Fuck!”  Frank floors it and takes off with a squeal of tyres.

By now they’re both laughing.  Claire’s got tears rolling down her cheeks.  No mascara running with them.

“I know a place,” says Frank, turning off the highway.

The silence that follows is a bit more comfortable, punctuated with the odd laugh.  Claire’s face aches.  Frank feels like he’s let a bit of something go for the first time in a while.

The place Frank takes them to is a pizza shop where they also sell kebabs and, if you ask, coffee.  It’s got a few laminex tables with white plastic outdoor chairs out the back past the counter where you wait for your order.

And it’s bloody hot.

Claire wouldn’t have picked it, but she’s glad to be sitting across from Frank.  They’re both drinking what passes here for cappuccino – flat white with powdered chocolate sprinkled over a bit of froth.

“Look, Frank, we didn’t make the best start today.”  Claire starts the conversation.

Frank looks on, pretends to be busy sipping the hot coffee.  He keeps saying nothing even after he puts his cup back in its saucer.

“OK, how do I say this?  Um … there’s only one way I can do this, Frank, and that’s to go straight at it.”

“Noticed that,” Frank says.

Claire smiles, a sarcastic but friendly grin.

“Hmmmm. You did? I thought I was doing a good job keeping it under control today.”

“Not what I would’ve said.”  Frank has slipped into the shorthand usually reserved for mates over a few beers.

“OK, so I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut sometimes.  I should’ve let you take the lead back at Baker’s house, but I just couldn’t help myself.  He just seemed too normal to me.  I still don’t think you’ve got anything that links him to the boy’s disappearance.”

“Jeez, Claire, I just don’t know where to start on that.  Are you trying to make this right, or just give me more of the same?”

“Yup, sorry, just can’t help myself, I suppose.  But, you’re wrong about this guy, Frank.  You’re just wrong,” Claire adds for emphasis.

“Well, let’s look at your logic shall we.  Normal?  You just said Baker’s too normal?  Weren’t you in the room when I unloaded all those things out of his cupboard?  I mean, he wears women’s clothes.  And as for those other things, I don’t want to think about what he does with them.  I know what he does, but I don’t want to think about it.  Fuck knows what we’ll find on his computer.”

Claire is watching Frank as he speaks, not just looking at him, but really watching.  She makes to interject a few times, but manages to hang on until he’s finished.

“So, what makes you think he’s not normal, Frank?”

“What?  What d’you mean?  I just told you.”  Frank sucks down some more coffee, almost draining the cup and rattling the saucer as he puts it down.

“How do you know that’s not normal, Frank?”

“Well it’s not normal where I come from.”

“So, you’re normal?”

Frank looks at Claire for a long time before answering, “Yup.”  Frank challenges Claire to dispute his normality with a single word.

“Well, I’m not, Frank.  Fuck that.  I don’t want to be normal.”

“What d’you mean?  You’re like Baker?  You’re going to tell me you’re into kinky stuff like him?  If that’s what you’re getting at, Claire, keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know.”

“Don’t worry, Frank, I’m not about to share the ins and outs of my sex life with you.  Not enough ins at the moment, anyway.”  Claire flashes a grin at Frank.

Frank looks back, askance, waiting to see what she’ll say next.

“That’s right, Frank, I’m not a lesbian.  In spite of the shoes.”

Frank blushes.

“Anyway, I’m not talking about sex.  I just don’t want to be normal.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Claire?”  Frank’s beginning to feel confused now.  He doesn’t know where this is going to end up.

“Aw, nothing really.  I dunno.  I just don’t want to be ordinary.  I want to be good.  Better than good, I want to be fucking great.”  Claire is beginning to lose her way in the conversation as well.  She’s wondering whether she should have opened up to Frank or just left things where they were.  “I’m just trying to help things work between us, Frank.  I know I really pissed you off and I don’t want it to stay like that.”

“Well, if you want to be a good cop, just shut up and learn something from someone who’s been around a while.  I know what I’m doing, you know.”

“I know. But so do I, Frank. I know my stuff.”

“Jesus Christ, Claire, would you listen to yourself.  Even when you’re keeping quiet you’re running off at the mouth.”

“Well, see, I’m different.  You’ll just have to learn to put up with it.”  Claire is smiling again.  “I’m not normal.”

In spite of himself, Frank’s smiling too.

“So, Frank.  Are you just a normal bloke?”

Frank waits another long time before answering.  “No.”  The word comes reluctantly, like an admission of guilt.

“See, that wasn’t as hard as you thought it was going to be, Frank.”  Claire is warming up again.  “So, tell me, what’s your kink, Frank?”

“Go fuck yourself.”  Frank is smiling as he speaks.  “Let’s get out of here.”

The pair finish their coffees and leave.  On the way out Frank gives a nod to the guy in the surprisingly clean blue apron behind the counter.

As they’re walking back to the car, Frank takes a call on his mobile.

“Oh, hi.”  Claire see his eyes crinkle as he smiles while listening to whoever’s on the other end.  She can only hear his side of the conversation.

“Yep.”

“Sure.”

“I might just have, you know.

“Er, nup, not right now.”  Frank’s looking at Claire while he says this.  Claire’s looking at him.

“See you then.”

Frank doesn’t say anything about the conversation as they get in the car and, for once, Claire doesn’t ask. The familiar numbness

For Tiffany, doing research means going through her contacts, making some calls, sending some emails, seeing if there’s anything interesting happening in Dullsville.  She’s had a bit of a toot to keep her going through the morning, and she’s determined to enjoy this.  Making the news every day and being the newsreader every weekend has narrowed her social life to almost nothing.

When she gets to Lambert’s number, Tiffany remembers him from the other day.  She  also recalls he was one of the cops on the serial killer task force a few years back.  He gave her some details about the injuries the girls had, what killed them.  In the end, they couldn’t use them, the station’s lawyers said someone would’ve gone to jail if they did.

She almost doesn’t call Lambert’s number, not because she hardly knows him; screw that, she might not be on the air any more, but she’s still got it all over some middle aged cop who gets starstruck by the woman who reads the local news.  No, it’s because she thinks the call might be a waste of her time.

As she introduces herself, it’s obvious Lambert instantly remembers her.  And he’s definitely pleased to hear from her.

“I’m doing a bit of research.  Looking to do some more in depth stories, maybe some documentaries about local events, people.”  No harm in being expansive about what she’s up to.  “I was wondering if you might have anything interesting for me to follow up?”

When he says yes, Tiffany hesitates for a moment, there’s dead air on the line.  She’s breaking all the rules of broadcasting.  Does she really want to spend time talking to this man?  She decides a few more minutes won’t hurt.  Stations’s paying for the call anyway.

“So, can you give me an idea what it is?”

When Lambert says no, she hesitates again.  Then she arranges to meet him later in the week, on Wednesday.  It’s not journalistic instinct, she’s just got nothing better to do.

When she puts her mobile down on the glass-topped coffee table, Tiffany looks at the small plastic bag sitting there in the open, traces of white next to it on the glass.  She thinks she’d better have a go at cleaning up while she swipes the first two fingers of her right hand across the spillage and then sucks on them, feeling the familiar numbness on her tongue.  She should definitely clean up.  Definitely.  Before she dips into the bag again.

It would rip him apart

Lambert’s having a job trying to sort things out in his mind.  He’s getting a hard on for Claire Martin now?  It was only a few hours ago that he thought she was a dead set lesbian and now she’s straight?  And that stuff about not being ordinary.  Fuck knows what that’s all about.  It’s doing his head in just thinking about it.  Does she mean he’s the same as Chris Baker, the fucking kinky perve?  What does she know?  How could she know?  How could she know anything?  Anything at all?  There’s no way she could.

Lambert smiles to himself, he half wishes he could have told Claire about his late night trysts with the computer.  And then he remembers someone who does know.  Diana.  His wife.  She knows.  And the cold chill of fear clutches his chest.  It would rip him apart to have to explain himself to Diana.  He wouldn’t even know where to begin.  But, Claire.  He could imagine telling her.  At least he thinks he could.

This is getting him nowhere.  There’s a kid out there.  He could be dead, he could be hiding or hurt somewhere.  He could be… Frank Lambert doesn’t want to think about what else Peter Johnson could be.  He turns his gaze back to the computer screen and gets back to writing up his report on the search of Baker’s house.