Shifty Business

By Liz Cameron

Shifty had planned the murder for weeks and he may well have pulled it off, except he didn’t account for Emma’s bladder.

It was a foul October evening. The gods were dumping the entire water reserves of the universe through the hole in the ozone, directly onto St. Kilda. But I didn’t give a hoot. The beef casserole was in the oven, the gas fire was doing its thing, the new Val McDermid novel was living up to expectations and Emma was snoozing on the sofa beside me.

Then as I sipped my glass of red, a god-awful clap of thunder shook the rafters. I jumped and spilled the drink down the front of my favourite blouse. Emma sprang to life, bolted off the sofa, hit the coffee table and sent the almost full bottle of claret flying across my brand new beige carpet. It spread like a gigantic blood splatter, resembling a gory scene from Val’s book.

“Shit Emma! It was only thunder. Look what you’ve done!”

Emma wasn’t listening. Her entire body was quivering like a lump of black jelly as she tried to get through the sheet I had hung over the balcony door. Down it came, enveloping her like a shroud. In her efforts to escape she knocked over a potted palm. I ran to free her before she wreaked more havoc.

Leaving her to bark at the storm, I grabbed the salt pot, poured the contents onto the stain and eyed the result dejectedly, almost in tears. When I bought the unit, the existing carpet was an atrocious green. I had it ripped up and replaced the day before I moved in, a bare two weeks ago!

“I’ll have to buy a rug to cover that, you know dog, a huge rug. What’s more, Paul can cough up for it. Yeah, and for another bottle of 58 Grange.” That claret was a house warming present. “It was liquid gold, Emma. I can’t afford stuff like that. Paul will find out that boarding kennels would have been a helluva lot cheaper than dumping you on me while he basks in the sun up north.”

Emma wasn’t at all fazed. Her response was to run to the front door, wag her tail madly and bark vociferously.

I groaned. “Now? You want to go out now? You realize it’s pissing down out there and it’s two blocks to the nearest grass?” I’ll swear the dog grinned as she danced around with her back legs crossed!

Ten minutes later, clad in neck to knee raincoat, I was being dragged along the street by the frantic Labrador.

Although the rain had eased to drizzle, the wind was fierce and freezing. In fact too strong to raise my umbrella, else I’d have taken off like Mary Poppins. Given the wind direction, I’d end up atop either the Shrine or the Arts Centre Tower.

For the umpteenth time I cursed Paul for training his dog not to squat on anything but grass. Must have taken massive willpower on both their parts! Fine, I guess, if you lived in suburbs with nature strips. There were none my immediate area and my block of units stands on a concrete jungle, not one plant to help the ozone along. I had briefly considered sneaking into one of the private gardens along the street, but they were all fenced and gated. So we were heading for a small car park I knew boasted several islands of grass under trees.

Once the dog had completed her business, we set off back along the narrow, badly lit street. Not a soul to be seen. Amazing since it was only a block from the hubbub of Fitzroy Street. The glitter of shop and restaurant fronts was definitely not echoed in their back yards. Fences partially hid grim spaces for rubbish bins, but failed to block their whiffy odours.

Halfway along the street a car backfired. Emma stopped dead in her tracks and growled. Unable to brake, I sprawled on top of her. Winded, I struggled to my feet as a figure emerged from the shadows. Suddenly the sky blazed with sheet lightening. The glare lit the man’s face for barely an instant. And in that instant our eyes locked. Then, as if in slow motion, the man raised his right hand.

“Shit! Gun!” I yelled, rooted to the spot. Not so Emma! She yanked the lead from my grip and my feet shot from under me again, as forty odd kilos of canine flew through the air, showering me with muddy water. Emma hit the gunman full in the chest. He fell back onto a tin fence. The gun spun across the road and clattered into the gutter.

“Fucking dog!” He shrieked.

“Clever girl!” I yelled. It was the wrong thing to do! Emma left her quarry and rushed to lick my face. The gunman headed for his weapon. As he bent to retrieve it, a car turned into the street. Saved, I thought. But no, the sporty Mazda turned into the hotel car park on the corner. Still, it had distracted the gunman. I grabbed the dog’s collar and together we slammed through a half open gate. I heaved the gate shut and bolted it, thankful that the corrugated fence was solid and a good two metres high.

“Fucking bitch!” The man screamed.

“Limited vocabulary!” I retorted as I pounded on the door of the building. A useless gesture since the sign on the door said, ‘Jago Men’s Wear’. Mr. Jago was probably home by his fire with Raymond Chandler or Shane Maloney.

The man thumped the fence, cursing like crazy. I doubted he was able to scale it, but since he was re-armed and incredibly angry, he just might decide to empty the chamber through the tin. So I threw myself flat to the ground, for the third time in as many minutes. I mentally added a Kevlar body suit to Paul’s shopping list.

“I know what you look like bitch!”

“Ditto!” I yelled back. The odd thing was his face was vaguely familiar. “Better hope you’re not in the police mug books.” I added for emphasis.

“Ha! I’m not. But your days are numbered. You won’t be safe anywhere, bitch.”

“And I’ve just dialed triple-o on my mobile you bastard.” I grinned as I pretended to have a conversation with a triple-o operator.

“Fuck you!” He bashed the fence again and took off.

“Aren’t I a clever girl, Emma. And so are you. You saved us both from being dead. That was a great way to apologize for ruining my carpet. Good girl.”

Her tail rotated and she licked my face again.

I got to my feet. “So, how long do you think we need to stay here? Do you think the sod has scooted? Cautiously, I slid the bolt, yanked the gate open a few inches and peered along the street. “I think it’s safe. Come on dog, let’s see what that little shit was up to next door.”

Keeping to the shadows, my back flat against the fence, I edged along the footpath. The thing was, I realized that what I’d thought was a car backfiring wasn’t at all. It was a gunshot. I was certain too, that the fellow had not been doing a simple bit of B&E. After all, when he came out of the yard, he wasn’t carrying any booty. Just the bloody gun.

When we reached the yard I lost what little bravado I’d mustered. It was as black as the inside of a cow’s stomach.

“Emma,” I said pointing. “You go first.”

Emma wasn’t at all hesitant and she disappeared into the darkness. Immediately, she began snuffling and making strange throaty doggy sounds. But I couldn’t see her. Black dog in black hole.

“Have you found something exciting girl?” Gees, here I was talking to a dog!

With heart pounding I carefully picked my way in. Then I did it again! I went flat on my face and the air was forced from my lungs. I raised myself to my elbows. I was lying on something bulky and soft. Definitely not a rubbish bin, but maybe a gar-bag. Gingerly I felt around. Not plastic. Material of some kind. I felt further and my fingers touched something wet. Understandable, I figured, given the weather conditions. But this was sort of oozy and sticky wet.

Ugh! Probably some foul garbage. Then I almost slapped myself on the forehead. “Clot,” I muttered aloud. Before leaving home I had slipped my small torch into my slacks pocket. I pulled it out and switched it on. The light fell on the unblinking eyes and sagging jaw of a man. Emma was busy licking his face!

“Ugh, Emma! Leave off!” She looked at me then back at the body. “Somehow I don’t think you can revive him, girl.”

Even so, I reached and felt his neck. His skin still felt warm but there was not a flicker of a pulse. I pushed my feet. His chest was a mass of blood. I shone the torch on my hand. Yuk! It was covered in blood.

“Okay, that’s it Emma, let’s scarp.”

I grabbed the dog’s lead and dragged her to the gate. Whoops, stop you silly woman! What if the killer was still lurking out there, waiting to kill you too? I switched the torch off and peered up and down the street. Once again, there was not a soul in sight. Where was everyone? Where were the police?

Then, to add insult to injury, it started to pour.

“Come on Emma, let’s make a dash for the pub on the corner.”

Breathless, I pushed through the hotel doors and rushed to the reception desk, leaving a dripping muddy trail across the polished tiles.

The young man eyed me suspiciously. “Hey lady, you can’t bring your dog in here.”

“Phone, where’s your phone?”

The young man continued to look me up and down. I swiveled and caught sight of myself in a mirror. God, I looked like I’d been dragged through a muddy battlefield. The hood of my raincoat had slipped back and my usually neat blonde hair hung in a damp dark mat. My face was wet and grimy. But worst of all, the front of my coat was smeared with blood from my boobs to my stomach.

I turned back to the desk. ‘Phone!” I repeated. “I need to call the Police, now! There’s been a murder.”

“Oh, right, yes Ma’am! You want me to dial triple-o for you?” The guy asked without taking his eyes from me. Obviously, he assumed I was the murderer.

“No, I’ll do it. I know the number I need to ring.”

He hastily slid a phone across the desk.

***

Fifteen minutes later, the street was lit by flashing blue lights. In the interim, I had dried myself, and dog, as best I could with paper towel in the ladies room. The face at least was clean, but the hair was still a disaster and I could do nothing about the blood.

I thanked the young man, who was busy mopping up human and dog footprints from the floor, then headed out to greet the police.

“Thank god you’re here, Jim,’ I called to the driver as he stepped from the car. “The body’s around the corner and halfway down the block.” I pointed in the general direction.

“Gees Jane, you look like shit. Is that blood all down your front?”

“Nice to see you too. If you’d been through what I have, you’d look like shit too,” I said. “And yes, it is blood.”

“Get in the car. You look about ready to drop.”

“I am. The dog will have to come too though.”

Jim took one look at the bedraggled Emma and shook his head. “Not in my car, it won’t.”

“Then I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”

Jim’s brow furrowed. “What if the gunman is still hanging around? Get in the car, woman. Bill can walk the dog.”

Bill slid out of the car and took Emma’s lead. “Hi Jane,” he said, then he too looked me up and down. “Hell you like..”

“Not another word!’ I snapped. “I bloody well know what I look like!”

“Oh, yeah, okay. So where the stiff?”

I gave him directions and fell gratefully into the passenger seat.

“Didn’t know you had a dog,” Jim said, gunning the engine.

“Emma’s not my dog. She belongs to Paul Grant. I’m the muggins who was silly enough to save him kennel fees while he’s sunning himself in Cairns.”

“So the dog found the body?”

“We both found it. I just did it the hard way. Fell over it, hence the blood. Whoa stop, that’s the yard there. Okay, he’s all yours now, or rather the Coroner’s.”

“You are positive he’s dead then?” Jim asked.

“Dodo dead.”

“And you said you got a good look at the perp?”

“Yes, thanks to a lightening flash. The odd thing is, I sort of recognized him.”

“Great!”

“No, not great. It’s the kind of face you know you’ve seen, but can’t think where from. You know, an out of place type face.”

“Oh, yeah, that sort of face,” Jim said. “I passed my dentist on the street the other day and didn’t recognize him without his white coat and drill.”

“Yes, exactly that sort of face. It may come to me eventually,” I agreed.

“Well who better than you to give us a good ID. Not every day the police artist finds a corpse.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one. And here I was planning a quiet week’s holiday. Aside from running around the streets looking for grass, that is. Paul’s sure going to cop it when he gets back. Certainly didn’t expect to be back at my computer tonight.”

“Wasn’t Paul’s fault you found a body though.”

“Was too. Do you honestly think I’d have been wandering the back streets in the middle of a thunderstorm for pleasure? Emma needed to do wees, no less.”

“Oh, Grant’s in deep shit then,” Jim chuckled.

“Big do-do. You don’t know the half of it, mate. Paul’s already mounted up mega bucks of compensation and I’ve only had Emma since two this afternoon.”

We were about to get out of the car when Bill Hoskins beckoned from the footpath. Emma, bless her doggie soul, had led him straight to the body. I wound down the window and Bill leaned in.

“Better call in the crew, Jim.”

“Oh, speaking of the crew,’ I said, “I know it’s a long shot and there’ll no doubt be hundreds of prints on it, but he did flatten his hands on the fence there. The wonder dog smashed him into it.”

“Good thinking double-o, but of course he may not have a record.”

***

It was three hours later that I finally got seated at my workstation and began to bring the murderer’s face to life. A patrol car had driven me home and waited while I quickly showered, changed, dried my hair and settled Emma down on her portable bed in front of the television. The latter on Paul’s instructions! ‘Makes her feel likes she’s got company if you go out and leave her,’ he’d said. Gees! A TV addict!

Then of course I’d spent some time being interviewed by the Homicide boys. I was feeling ragged by the time they’d grilled me. They’d undone all the good the hot shower had achieved.

“So,” I said to the computer, “this is what I’m trained for.” The great thing was, I found it simple to work on the photo-fit image I wanted. Usually it’s a slow process when dealing with a witness to a crime.

“Yes, that’s him,’ I said smugly to Jim, who was sitting at my side.

“Still familiar to you, Jane? He’s sure not to me.”

“He is, but I still haven’t a clue from where.”

“Okay, we’ll spread his face across the State. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, the print guys lifted forty odd sets of prints from the fence.”

‘Huh, that’s what I figured.” I pushed back my chair. “I’m out of here. I’m bushed.”

“I’ll get you a driver,” Jim said, “and I think we’ll get a car to watch your place tonight, just in case the little turd followed you home.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary, Jim? My guess is he got as far away from the crime scene as he could, as quickly as he could. He thought I had a mobile with me.”

“Can’t be too careful. He’s killed once. He won’t think twice about bumping off the only witness to his crime.”

I shivered. Cairns was suddenly looking pretty good to me right now.

As we rode down in the lift Jim chatted about mundane things, I suspect to take my mind off crazy killers.

“By the way, did you back a winner in the Cup today?”

“No. Was going to Caulfield with Leonie, but the dog changed all my plans. Paul’s flight left at three and he dropped her off on the way to the airport. Didn’t even get into the sweep here. So my day was a washout.”

Jim chuckled. “Literally a wash-out. When you came out of the pub you looked like you’d been in cyclone Tracy.”

“Don’t remind me, okay.”

***

Before I fell into bed, I looked out the window. The unmarked car was still across the road keeping vigil. Comforting. Also I moved Emma’s bed just inside my bedroom door. Mind you, I had no idea whether she would attack or welcome an intruder. Having seen her licking the corpse’s face, I had to wonder.

I read a few pages of my book then turned off the lamp and snuggled beneath the doona. But tired as I was, sleep eluded me. I kept playing back the night’s events over and over, trying to recall where I’d seen the killer. Finally I got up to make a mug of cocoa in the microwave. While it was heating, I wandered to the living room window, slid the door open and stepped onto my miniscule balcony. No police car!

As I turned back inside I heard a scraping sound coming from the front door. I crept to the hallway. More sounds. Metal on metal!

Cursing myself for not having a chain put on the door, I looked frantically around for a weapon. No baseball bat, no hockey stick, no brass candlestick. Just my soggy raincoat hanging limply on the hook behind the door. Then I spotted the fly spray on the hall table. My trusty spider killer.

I grabbed the spray and coat and stood behind the door, pulse racing. The door opened slowly and the first thing I saw was a hand, with gun!

Finger on the spray nozzle I reached round the door and gave him a continuous burst of Pea Beu. He let out a chain of expletives and the gun went off! Chunks of plaster fell from my ceiling. He’d shot a dirty great hole in it. Then he dropped the gun. I jerked the door back. He had both hands over his eyes. I threw the coat over his head and with everything I had, shoved him out the door. His heel caught in the jam and down he went. He slid off the landing, somersaulted down twenty concrete steps and finished in a heap at the bottom.

I stared at down at him. He was still tangled in the raincoat and lying perfectly still. Had he broken his neck? My brain flashed to Bruce Willis in the first ‘Die Hard’. Unlike Bruce, who bumped off seven or eight villains, I’d probably be charged with murder!

Then I spotted movement. Hell the bastard was still alive! I raced to my bag and grabbed my mobile and ran back to the door. He was free of the coat and starting up the stairs. I pocketed the mobile and grabbed his gun. With hands shaking, I aimed it down the stairwell and fired. All I managed to do was take a chunk of concrete out of one of the steps!

‘Bloody bitch!’ He shouted, turned on his heel and flew down the steps. He tripped on the last one and fell over the low brick fence. He picked himself up, glared up at me, shook his fist and took off into the night.

I let out a whoop. The incredible thing was, seeing him on the other side of the fence instantly reminded me of where I seen him before!

“Got you, you little shit!” I roared.

I collapsed on the step, buried my face in my hands and began to laugh hysterically.

Next thing I knew, two cops were leaning over me. My wayward bodyguards had returned. One of them carefully removed the gun from my hand. He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it, just as carefully.

“Never any around when you need them,’ I muttered.

They introduced themselves and I ushered them inside.

“He do all this damage?” John Selkirk asked, as he took in the room.

“No, that was the dog.”

“Oh.”

It took me a few minutes to tell the shamefaced guys my tale. Seemed they’d taken time-out to get take-away.

However, the wheels of the law soon burst into action. Jim Oliver arrived and I let him in.

He scanned the room. “Weren’t satisfied with the décor, Jane? The carpet’s a good look. Perp do that?”

I clenched my teeth. “Part of Emma’s bill.”

“Oh, shit, enough said. Okay, what happened?”

I repeated my story.

“So how come you remembered him?” Jim asked.

“When he looked up at me from the other side of the fence, something clicked. I immediately got a mental picture of him behind the counter of the TAB. The thing is, I haven’t put a bet on for about three weeks. I was too busy moving in here.”

“Well, as it happens we have ID’d the stiff. One of those quirks of fate, you might say. One of the guys at the morgue recognized him. Keen punter who frequents the local TAB. Body belongs to the manager. We’re thinking robbery of the day’s takings.”

“That figures.” I nodded. “Big haul today, I imagine.”

“Should be. The computers will tell us just how much. So with your info, we now know it was an employee, not just some crim off the street.”

I grinned smugly. “And if you get prints from the gun, that aren’t mine of course, they should match one of the sets on the fence.”

“Brilliant, that’s what you are.”

“I know. Me and my borrowed dog.”

Then he pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” I said.

“We can match the bullets.”

Duh!

***

Jim rang me at eleven the next morning. They had taken the killer into custody. His name was Robert Brian Spanner, AKA Shifty. But not shifty enough, it seems. When they burst into his shabby dwelling, he was swilling beer, watching the Motor Racing on TV. His haul, upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, was spread on the table in front of him.

“Emma,” I said after Jim hung up, “we made a great combination. However, we do need to find you a patch of grass closer to home. Fetch the Street Directory girl.”

Emma put her head on the side and made a gurgling sound. Did that mean ‘idiot’ in dog talk?

Shifty Business

By

Liz Cameron

2002 ©

Please note that permission to publish stories from the Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2002 online has been expressly granted to Sisters in Crime Australia Inc. You may not republish, reproduce electronically or in paper form, or otherwise make use of these stories without the permission of the author.

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