“WHAT’S that?”
Connie, searching the destruction in
the rear of Jodie’s Corolla, snapped the query at me, who was doing likewise in
the front. Outside, Elliott was
checking the boot. I’d discovered a
book hidden – or was it? – behind the driver’s sun visor. You’d be surprised how many coppers neglect
to check visors, especially at night.
I handed it over, and Connie’s eyebrows rose. She clambered out and began to pore over
it. Seeing us with our heads together,
Elliott joined the party.
“What’ve we got?”
His use of the first person plural
offended me, but this wasn’t the time to be pedantic. “The life and times of Jodie Foster,” I told
him. When he frowned, I added, “Her
police diary.”
Unamused, he asked Connie, “Anything
interesting?”
Sensibly, she was checking the
entries backwards. Nothing excited
her for a minute or so; then she said, “It matches. She was in Benalla both days.”
“Doing what - officially?”
“Close personal protection of
Minister Onslow.”
Her Irish eyes were wicked. I would’ve bet my superannuation she was
going to say that Aston obviously took her duties literally but the gaze of
Elliott the Righteous gave her pause.
She thumbed the diary back through a few weeks or so before snapping it
shut. “All very official. Nothing incriminating.”
“And not a mention of Romano and
Son,” I said. It was not a question.
“Not a syllable.”
“What’d you expect?” Elliott
offered. “She might’ve been stupid but
she wouldn’t be into self-incrimination.”
Connie and I stared in wonder. We were wondering if, back when we were
senior connies, we’d come out with statements so banal. My assessment of Elliott as a future senior
officer nose-dived.
“Really?” Connie replied. She was not usually into sarcasm, but
inasmuch as police diaries are so squeaky-clean that even a saint would find
nothing to expurgate, I couldn’t blame her.
I think she was about to give him a serve when we noticed this
odd-looking bloke approaching us from the street.
I put him between fifty and
sixty. He was shortish and skinny and
moved with jerky, nervous motions. He
reminded me of the wind-up tin soldier I had as a kid. His small, narrow eyes were flickering at us
from beneath a brow that seemed to be in a state of permanent frown. He halted at the crime scene tape and gave
us the once-over, looking, I guessed, for the person in authority. He settled on me.
“You in charge here?” The voice was reedy, the attitude
self-important. Straight off, I didn’t
like him.
Neither did Connie. She stepped up to the tape and skewered him
with her best this-is
police-business-and-what-is-a-civilian-like-you-doing-poking-your-nose-in?
look.
“Detective Senior Sergeant
O’Brien. What can I do for you?”
The little bloke was unfazed. “It’s more what I can do for you.” He puffed out his meagre chest beneath an
old-fashioned sports coat. “I’m Anthony
Sturt, secretary of the local Neighbourhood Watch.” The introduction over, he waited to be
acknowledged as a fellow crimefighter.
He waited in vain.
“And…”
“I live on the other side of the
street. When that other detective came
to the door asking questions, he said I should show you what I’ve got.”
Do that and you’ll get it shot off, I
thought.
But if Connie was thinking likewise,
her reaction was forestalled when the little bloke dived into his coat and
brought out a folded sheet of A4.
“This.” He gave it a flourish. “Rego numbers of all the vehicles seen in
the street over the past week.”
We stared at him. It’s not often that something that may be
worth its weight in the 18-carat stuff finds its way to us so readily.
Connie took the list. “All the vehicles?”
“Well…” Sturt explained that he was retired and
spent most of his time in his study, which overlooked the street. A couple of years ago, he had noticed an
old panel van cruising the street at night.
Knowing it didn’t belong locally, he noted its rego. A week later, an absent neighbour’s house
was expertly done over. There had been
no clues until the police asked if anyone had noticed any strange vehicles in
the area. Sturt had become a local
celebrity.
“Obviously, I don’t see every vehicle
that passes, but I see a lot of them.”
I bet he did. I’d lay long odds that he spent nearly every
waking moment at the window, paper and pen in hand, hoping for another fifteen
minutes of fame, the greedy little… But
I told myself to can the judgemental stuff.
As they taught us at Detective Training School, you took what came your
way and were damned grateful for it, as Connie demonstrated. She was all over Sturt like a rash, telling
him how civic-minded citizens like him made our job so much easier and isn’t it
a pity there are so few of you and I see this list is printed and do you have a
copy and I’d be so grateful if you could give it to Senior Constable Elliott
here and make a statement about how this invaluable document came into
being. Sturt went off happily. If I’m any judge, he was imagining himself
at Government House being invested with an A.M.
Connie frowned at the departing
pair. “Wayne can check all those
numbers. Keep him out of mischief for a
while.”
“But…?”
She looked at me, and she knew that I
knew what she was thinking. Reporting
all this to the Commissioner’s lackey was not what the police manual
demanded.
Not at all.