Читать книгу Bleeding Hearts - Lindy Cameron - Страница 4

"Morning," Kit observed. There being nothing particularly 'good' about 9 am, she had elected to drop the adjective and acknowledge only that it was before noon. A waiter appeared offering coffee, a menu and a glass of water, before she'd even managed to settle her bum in the chair opposite the depressingly refreshed-looking and now easily recognisable Rebecca Jones.

"Double espresso," she said to the waiter. "My god, you look amazing," she said to Rebecca. "How long have you been awake?"

"Since six." Rebecca removed her reading glasses and adjusted the fringe of her blonde hair.

"There's something oddly obscene about that," Kit noted.

"You are not a morning person, I see," Rebecca said, as she folded her newspaper and put it to one side. "I think it's the best time of the day but then I'm quite hopeless after 10.30 at night. Mind you, it's only been that way for the last four years. I was a night owl before I turned 40."

Kit ran her hands through her hair and nodded to the newspaper. "Well, the world could end overnight and I wouldn't know a thing about it until the evening TV news - or until I realised there wasn't any evening TV news. Is there anything worth knowing at this time of the day?"

Rebecca shrugged. "Political skulduggery in Washington, bombs in the Middle East, floods in Queensland. Closer to home you have a teenager missing from Footscray, a by-election in Nareen, a body in an Elwood freezer, and two footballers out of something important due to groin injuries."

"Same old shit then," Kit said, noticing an odd encounter in the doorway of the café between a redhead and a very-much-taller than her, bloke. "And, I may well be alone in this opinion," Kit stated, "but I can actually get through a day without knowing about a footballer's groin."

"I have no interest in a footballer's anything," Rebecca agreed.

"And it's only March for god's sake," Kit grumbled, "footy used to be a winter thing." She kept an eye on the now-agitated redhead, who'd seemed unusually annoyed by a bloke who looked like he'd only approached to ask directions or... Or, maybe not! Kit hadn't heard their exchange but Mr Broad-shoulders had waved towards Rebecca - well, in their general direction - and, in response, the woman had seemingly either told him to nick off, or 'be less obvious'.

"Now we have to put up with knuckledraggers all bloody year," Kit continued, her senses on serious alert, as the redhead was moving haltingly but definitely in their direction. The waiter, delivering Kit's coffee, blocked her view for a moment; but that was all the woman needed. When he moved, she was right there - behind Rebecca and reaching into a shoulder-slung briefcase.

Kit leapt to her feet. "Can I help you?" she demanded.

The woman looked completely taken aback and Rebecca started laughing. "Whoa there, Kit," she said. "It's okay. This one's a friend."

"Are you sure?" Kit asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Yes, she's sure," the redhead snapped.

"In that case, I apologise," Kit said, covering her overreaction by offering a chair.

"Kit O'Malley, Sally Shaw, etc.," Rebecca said waving her hand between the two of them.

"Ah, the real thing," Kit pronounced. "You don't look anything like the drag queen Rebecca was impersonating last night."

"I told her the wig was overdoing it," Sally said with a smile that wasn't in the least bit friendly.

"There's no point going out half disguised," Rebecca stated, obviously trying to ignore the envelope that Sally had removed from her briefcase. She sighed. "Don't tell me that's another one."

Sally placed her fingers over her mouth so she couldn't speak.

"Who was the bloke you were talking to, Sally?" Kit asked.

"What bloke?"

"The big guy in the foyer on your way in," Kit prompted.

"Oh him. That was, um, you know RJ." Sally turned to Rebecca. "It was that up-himself wanker with the penis-name that we just had to have a drink in the bar with last week."

"You mean Donker?" Rebecca laughed, then turned to Kit and gave a dismissive wave. "He's a long, long-ago-ex of an old friend of mine. We'd crossed paths here a couple of times in the last fortnight and I finally did the sociable thing last week."

"Pff! You could have said no to the Donker bore," Sally emphasised.

"Is he staying in the hotel?" Kit asked.

"No. He has a business in the city and sometimes does lunch here."

"And there's no other connection?" Kit asked. "He's not an old ex of yours as well?"

"Good god, no!" Rebecca laughed. "And, until this visit, I hadn't seen him for twenty years."

"Okay," Kit shrugged. "Um, can I see today's note?" she asked Sally, holding out her hand.

Sally glanced at Rebecca and then drew her moment of total disapproval out for so long that Kit contemplated enrolling in a car maintenance course just to fill in time.

"For heaven's sake, Sally," Rebecca snapped. "Give it to her!"

"It's already open," Kit noted, trying to ignore Sally's antagonism.

"I open all of Rebecca's mail," Sally stated.

Kit glanced at Rebecca and raised one eyebrow.

"Sally is my PA," Rebecca finally explained.

Kit returned her attention to the envelope, which was exactly the same kind as the previous one and, like it, was also postmarked 'Melbourne'.

"Have they all been posted from the city?" Kit asked.

"I don't know," Rebecca said.

"Yes," Sally verified. "I checked," she said with a shrug, when Rebecca looked surprised. "It's something that detectives always ask, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," Kit laughed, wondering how the hell Sherlock Holmes would cope in this day and age with so many no-name brands of paper, and envelopes with no distinguishing features. Just like this one, she thought pulling out the single sheet, which was unusual only because of the collage of coloured letters cut from one in a million copies of the New Idea. This time it said:

So you're still here, you slut, you hore

And you think you can come back for more

Watch out or you'll die in a field of slime

For trying to take what's mine, all mine.

"Am I still going to die?"

"Looks like it," Kit replied.

"Don't talk like that, RJ. And you," Sally snarled at Kit, "you're supposed to be solving this."

"Hey, I'm good," Kit claimed, gesturing to herself with both hands. "But I'm not that good."

"Don't be so narky, Sally," Rebecca said. "I have only two choices while Kit is solving this; either I laugh about it or I hide in my room."

"The latter probably being the next best thing to running you out of town, which is obviously the purpose of these lovely poems," Kit said, handing the note to Rebecca. "You'll be pleased to know there's no mention of your cat this time."

"Thank god for that," Rebecca smiled.

"You don't have a cat," Sally stated.

"My pussy, Sal. My pussy," Rebecca said.

"Oh."

Darian Renault was a gangly, thick-necked, wiry-haired, bespectacled, no-other-noun-would-suit nerd. Oh, maybe dweeb, Kit thought. The guy looked like the closest he'd ever come to taking drugs was watching Trainspotting on video. His clean, arrogant, pseudo-intellectual image was probably why half the journalists in town where questioning the authenticity of his semi-autobiographical grunge novel Shoot.

The story of his alleged ex-life as a junkie, engendered by a childhood of abuse by yet another of those religious brotherhoods that had completely misunderstood the concept of cheek turning, had been successfully controversial because of its explicitness even before the brouhaha over its veracity was sparked by a leading question on a local radio show.

While Heart and Soul was culture not current affairs, high art and punk rock not foot-in-the-door tabloid TV, it was obvious that Rebecca Jones knew a 'story' when she smelt one. One of the trademarks of her show was the on-location conversations with her guests. Studio interviews were a rare thing, as Rebecca knew she and her viewers got a better feel for the artist, writer, rock singer or symphony conductor, if they were presented in their natural habitats - at the easel, in a room of their own, or in the beer-stained pub or Concert Hall.

Kit watched Rebecca at work in Darian Renault's lair. She was a consummate professional, relaxed and comfortable before the camera, and unfazed by Darian's deliberately tangled responses to her straightforward questions. And while it seemed she was doing a standard author profile, her questions were subtly circling the truth contained in his book.

Kit also noticed, with interest, that Darian's home turf was providing him with no advantage at all. His in-the-process-of-being-renovated workers' cottage in Abbortsford, reflected how he wanted to live, now that fame was shining a small spotlight on him, but his immaculately tidy office provided no backdrop and no insight into the man as a writer, or rather no insight into the man as someone who had written anything.

Darian Renault - and where did he get that name, Kit wondered - was cool enough when the camera was on him, but almost hostile when it wasn't, and he answered everything in generalisations, ultimately saying nothing he hadn't said before.

"I understand that you don't wish to name the school, Darian," Rebecca was saying, "but don't you think it's time that the so-called Christians who did this to you and the other boys back in the seventies are held accountable?"

"Of course I do, Rebecca. But I am not the only one involved in this tragedy. I have to wait until I have tracked down my fellow students before taking the matter further. I have found two old friends and I am hoping my book will bring the others to me. You see," Darian stopped, and swallowed dramatically, "I can only guess what their lives have been like. Some may have conquered our shared demons and found a peaceful or profitable life, others may have taken the road I did, but... but may not have survived it."

Oh yeah. Sure thing, Kit thought. She was unmoved, unimpressed and unconvinced by Darian's performance. She'd dealt with a lot of junkies during her time on the force. She'd also seen the eyes of the few who'd managed to get off the crap, and no matter how straight they got there was always that look of vacant yearning, for either the drugs themselves or for everything they'd lost because of them; as if their very souls were haunted.

The look in Darian Renault's eyes held none of that; it was calculating, way too calculating. Kit didn't believe a word he said.

She slipped quietly off her stool and retreated through the kitchen and out into the back garden where the still-very-pregnant girlfriend was being held captive at a table by a still-very-grumpy Sally Shaw.

"How's it going in there?" Sally asked pointedly. She'd been given the job of keeping Rhonda occupied and away from Darian, so no 'rescue me now with another fake labour' plan could be put into action. Sally looked greatly relieved to be rescued herself, even if it was by Kit.

"I should go and find out," Rhonda suggested.

"No, it's fine. I think they're about to finish up," Kit lied. "We wouldn't want to make any noise in there now."

"Of course not," Rhonda agreed anxiously.

"You must be very proud of Darian," Kit said, taking a seat opposite her.

"Oh yes."

"How long have you two been an item?"

"Three years. We met in Adelaide when he was on hols. I actually accosted him on the street," Rhonda smirked, "coz he looked like, um, like someone I knew. He thought I was chatting him up. And now with the baby almost here and the book being so successful everything's, like, wow."

"I imagine it is," Kit said.

"Yeah, like wow," Sally agreed, as she rolled her eyes disdainfully.

"So, are you a writer too, Rhonda?" Kit asked, ignoring Sally's incredulous look.

"Oh god no! One in the family is enough. I'm a nurse, or I was before I got knocked-up, I mean before the baby. Oh look, they have finished. Excuse me." Given that she looked like she was about to drop sextuplets any second, Rhonda was up and gone in a flash the moment Darian appeared at the back door.

"What a relief!" Sally exclaimed. "Honestly, she is one of the most idiotic and boring women I have ever met."

Kit smiled as she stood up to return to the house. "Never underestimate what you can learn from the boring idiots of this world."

"What? Are you saying you learned something from that?" Sally sneered.

"Enough to raise a suspicion," Kit hinted.

"What, for heaven's sake?"

"I deal in facts gained from investigating suspicions not gossip generated by them, Sally."

"Oh tosh!"

Kit shrugged. "When I know for sure, I'll pass it on. If it's relevant."

Kit sat in her driver's seat and waited until the camera, sound and lighting team, and a gofer called Barnaby, had crammed into the Heart and Soul van and driven off, before she started her own engine. Rebecca opened the passenger door and climbed in beside her and Sally took her sweet time fiddling with an armful of stuff before she got in the back. Kit wondered what her problem was.

"Sally tells me you found something out about Darian," Rebecca said, casually snapping her seat belt into place, "but you won't tell us."

"Yet," Kit finished, as she pulled out from the curb. "I won't tell you yet. At the moment it's just an anomaly in the space-time continuum, it may mean nothing at all."

"Does it have something to do with my letters and your case for me, or the man himself?"

"Himself" Kit repeated. "Nothing to do with you, as far as I know."

"OK. So what about him and me? Do you think he's writing the letters?"

"I think he's a born story-teller Rebecca, but not the kind he's pretending to be. In my opinion he's a liar and an impostor; one of your art world charlatans. I seriously doubt he lived the life he's claiming, but I don't think he's sending you death threats."

"You got all that from that piddly little chat with Rhonda?" Sally asked.

"No, I got all that from listening to Darian Renault," Kit said, glancing at Sally in the rearview mirror. "And I'll make you a bet: if that's his real name then I'll change mine to Boadicea."

"How come you can slander Darian but you can't tell us what you learned from his girlfriend?"

"Not can't, Sally. I won't tell you," Kit explained.

"But we're paying you to find stuff out and tell us," Sally insisted. "I mean, tell Rebecca."

"Yeah," Kit acknowledged. "That's true, if it has something to do with the threats against her. On the other hand if, during the course of my investigation, I discover 'stuff' about someone else then I'll use my own discretion to decide who, if anyone, I tell. If it's something that I think Rebecca will use responsibly, then she might get lucky." Kit cast a smiling glance at Rebecca who flashed a very charming 'go on, you can tell me' look back at her.

"This is something you could have uncovered yourself, Rebecca," Kit teased. "You're already digging, and I'm sure even an arts journo knows how to get the real dirt. Although, maybe it's the sort of thing you'd normally delegate to a PA, if they hadn't already thought of it themselves."

"Oh, ha!" Sally said snidely. "And I suppose you can tell us how it's done."

"Our jobs are essentially the same," Kit shrugged, waiting for the lights to change so she could turn onto Hoddle Street. "If you want to get the lowdown on someone you don't go to them for the answers, you ask the spouse or partner who washes their socks or pays their bills. You want to know something about a writer - or anybody who doesn't live a solitary existence - you ask the person who makes the coffee for them while they work. You give that person some attention, put them in the spotlight for a change. After all, how many writers would admit that they drink too much, that they can't spell Popocatepetl, or that they can only write with a pair of jocks on their head."

"Or that they are trying to pass fiction off as truth. Is that what you're implying?" Rebecca asked.

Kit waggled her head. "Or someone else's fiction off as their truth; or someone else's truth off as their semi-bio-fiction; or any combination of the above," she said, making a right turn into Victoria Parade towards the city centre.

"Ooh, this is intriguing," Rebecca grinned. "Come on, Sally, you were there. What did she say?"

"Buggered if I know," Sally said. "I switched off when she started talking about fluid retention."

"Not Rhonda, silly. What did Kit say?"

"She asked that moron if she was a writer."

"And?" Rebecca demanded, as Kit reached towards her CD player. "What was her answer?"

Melissa Etheridge's Yes I Am drowned out Sally's response and Rebecca's laughter.

Five minutes later Kit pulled into the sweeping drive of the Sofitel on Collins Street. Sally did a lot of harrumphing while she gathered her stuff together and got out. Kit figured she'd have stormed off in a huff had she not dropped the same thing three times on her way to the hotel lobby.

"Is it just me, or did Sally graduate from the College for Grouchy Assistants?" Kit asked.

"I'm sorry Kit, just ignore her," Rebecca said. "She's worried about me and it's making her crabby. Really crabby. Sally is my treasure and I would be truly, truly lost without her. But she thinks we should go home so she's taking her disapproval of my decision to stay, out on you. I will speak to her and ask that she at least be polite."

"No, don't worry about it Rebecca," Kit reassured her. "My contract is with you. Sally can be as cranky and disagreeable as she likes, as long as she doesn't mind me biting back."

Rebecca laughed. "I will tell her that. Under normal circumstances I take her advice on most things of importance, but I just don't agree with her on this. I refuse to be bullied by someone who doesn't have the guts to present their grievance face to face, or the sense to be more specific so I can do what they want - if I feel like it."

"I doubt you really want to come face to face with this bully," Kit stated.

"And you don't think it's Darian?"

"No. As non-specific as the letters are, they do imply that you have, or have taken, or you want something that belongs to the person who's writing them. Or, factoring in another aspect of your card-carrying whacko, he or she thinks whatever it is belongs to them."

"It's beyond me what it could be," Rebecca growled in frustration. "So, what next?"

Kit pulled a sheet of paper from her jacket pocket and unfolded it. "I'm going to start at the top of this very long list you gave me this morning. I should have enough time to visit Peter Wendle, Sylvie Asher and Rekon5 this afternoon. Does he really answer to that name?"

"Rekon5 was his graffiti tag."

"But now he's a sculptor," Kit said. "And a grown-up?"

"Yep. Well, almost grown-up, but he is a very talented sculptor," Rebecca replied.

"You're not doing anything else today, are you?" Kit verified.

"No. I'm going to have a bath and a nice lie down."

"Good. If you change your mind or get invited anywhere, let me know. Especially..."

"...if I've already been there or seen them since I've been in Melbourne," Rebecca finished.

"Spot on," Kit nodded. "And, given the drink you and Sally had in the bar with... Donk was it?"

"Donker," Rebecca laughed. "Or John."

"Right, Donker John," Kit shook her head. "I want you to think back and make a new list of people like him you may have forgotten to put on this one. You know, any other exes of old friends or their nephews, mothers, dogs or..."

Rebecca pulled an 'uh-oh, I've just remembered fifty-three people' kind of face.

"What?" Kit asked.

"Jack."

"Jack who?"

"Jack my ex-brother-in-law Jack. And, oh dear, you're right, I'd better think about this."

Kit sighed and smiled. "Also, to speed up my process of elimination, if would be great if you could organise another get-together with Tori Bennet and the old school mates you dined with the week before last. A few people in one place makes my job easier. Sometimes."

"Lunch tomorrow, at Tori's," Rebecca announced. "Already happening."

"Splendid. We'll think up a cover for me, but ask Tori not to let anyone know who I am."

Kit closed the front door and crept up the five steps from the inside landing, pressing herself against the wall. The black commando had started her raids again but still hadn't figured out that flicking her tail against the begonia leaves was a dead giveaway. Kit reached in and gave it a gentle tug.

Thistle leapt three feet in the air and then ran half way across the landing before skidding around to a stop near the island bench. Regaining her composure, by pretending once again that nothing she ever did no matter how ridiculous was unintentional, The Cat then strolled purposefully into the kitchen and sat by her empty food bowl.

"It's not dinner time Thistle," Kit laughed. "It's not even five o'clock yet." She grabbed a carton from the fridge and poured herself a glass of milk.

"Broonk," Thistle remarked.

"Oh really? And then what happened?" Kit asked wondering, as she poured milk into The Cat's bowl, whether she'd been living on her own for too long.

But things are going to change. Very, very soon, she sang to herself.

"Only two more sleeps before Alex comes back, Thistle. I hope for your sake she likes cats."

Kit placed her glass on the bench and watched it carefully for a moment, just in case it was something in the milk that had made her say that.

God O'Malley, what are you doing? You're starting to think like your mother. What's even worse is you're thinking about setting up house with someone you don't even know well enough to know whether she likes cats or not. Or whether she wants to set up house. Or whether she really wants to see you again for any longer than it takes to tell you she doesn't. No wonder the woman has stayed in Perth so long. You probably did scare her off.

"Do something normal, for heaven's sake," she said aloud. "Go write your report."

Kit wandered obediently into her office, turned on the computer and opened the file that she'd started on her new client before going to bed the night before.

Well, this distraction won't take long, she thought, flipping open her notebook and unfolding Rebecca's list. She keyed in the names and contact numbers of the twenty-seven people on the list, and the reasons for their inclusion - school friend, colleague, Heart and Soul guest. Then she added her impressions of the four she'd met so far, including the unlikelihood that any of them were responsible for the poetic threats against Rebecca's continued well-being.

Although Kit surmised the letter-writer was probably someone that Rebecca knew, she still had to run down every avenue of possibility. Sticking to her cover, that she was researching a book called Women in Television, Kit had had no problem in getting her 'suspects' to open up about their opinion of Rebecca and her show. And none so far had betrayed even a hint of animosity towards her. Even Darian Renault's evasive rudeness during and after the taping of his interview had been defensive rather than offensive, and aimed at the media in general and not Rebecca in particular.

The other three she'd visited today were even less suspicious. Peter Wendle, manager of The Funny Club, a bar-cafe venue for stand-up comedians was himself a very funny bloke who was over the moon about being featured on Heart and Soul; Sylvie Asher, an agoraphobic who hadn't left her house for seven years, was an otherwise cheerful writer of best-selling fantasy fiction who loved having visitors and thought Rebecca was an absolute delight; and Rekon5, who was still known as 'Bruce' to his afternoon-tea-serving mum Marjie, was only arguably a sculptor but he did think it was 'ace' that the Rebecca Jones was interested in his junkyard art.

Kit saved the file and closed it, then picked up the phone and hit Hector's speed-dial button.

"Yo! Graffico Game Design and Cyber Investigators; Hector Chase can't talk to you right now. You know what to do."

"I know exactly what to do," Kit said, after the beep. "What's this cyber investigators nonsense? I'll just have to do this job myself now, as you are obviously suffering detective delusions."

She hung up and headed into the kitchen, smiling to herself as she took a beer from the fridge. She still couldn't reconcile the snappy-dressing twenty-two-year-old Hector she knew now, with the punk teenager she'd had to arrest several times for joy-riding and burglary. The completely-together version was such a far cry from that angry and unhappy kid, who'd run away from several foster homes so he could care for his junkie mother, that Kit sometimes had to remind herself he was the same person. Despite his shitty life he'd barely missed a day of high school and had then put himself through TAFE college and started his own business as a freelance computer whiz.

Kit had used Hector's Internet skills a few times in the last two months and was contemplating making the deal official, if she could get him to stop referring to himself as a freelance cyberdick.

Kit was about to return to her computer, when something made her change direction. She jogged down the three stairs to her sunken lounge and dropped into her armchair instead.

It is so spooky, she smiled, how your own mind, can change your mind.

'News time', was all that her procrastinating bits of grey matter had to think in order to override the semi-subconscious suggestion that, as she had no other plans for the night, she could do some writing. Kit grabbed the remote control and, just in case the world had ended since Rebecca's rundown of world news that morning, closed her eyes until she heard advertising-kiddies singing "We're happy little Vegemites".

Phew! Proof positive that Planet Earth was A-OK.

Hang on a sec, she thought, sitting forward in puzzlement as she watched the 'in the news tonight' prelude that followed the ad break. Something dire had happened: today, Monday, had definitely been the day the Earth stood still.

Edward Bonney, the partly-mummified newsreader with 'decades of experience' (meaning he had a great voice but no journalistic background) had cast a patronising smile at his pert and young, blonde and female co-anchor (who'd just done a stint as a foreign correspondent), then carefully enunciated the day's events. There had been: political skulduggery in Washington, bombs in Iraq, floods in Brisbane, a missing teenager in Footscray, a by-election in Nareen, a frozen body in Elwood, and two knuckledraggers out of something important because they'd hurt their groins.

"Diddums," Kit said, thinking it was trés weird that absolutely nothing had happened in the world today that The Age hadn't known about when it went to press early that morning.

She was about to flick stations happy to remain half-informed, still, by relying only on the headlines, when it suddenly occurred to her that since the recent redistribution of whatever it is that gets redistributed so that electoral boundaries can be changed, she might now actually be a resident of the Nareen electorate and therefore might have to vote for somebody sometime soon.

The contest for the seat of Nareen heated up today as the major parties officially launched their campaigns for the forthcoming by-election, " Bonney announced, as the images flicked from his familiar face to a host of people Kit had never laid eyes on before.

"That's nice Bonney boy," Kit said to the television, "but where is Nareen?"

"Liberal candidate, Joseph Cramer, supported by the rousing cheers of the party-faithful, went for the big sell, while Labor's Ellen Drury, and her small entourage, pounded the pavement of three bayside shopping strips to meet the people whose votes she hopes to win."

"Does this bayside bit extend to Richmond?" Kit asked, as Bonney crossed to a 'live' reporter.

"In the second day of his campaign Carter Walsh, leader of the fledgling Australia First party, was struck but unharmed by rotten fruit thrown by hecklers who were, otherwise, kept at bay by a small contingent of police. The new party, whose platform of 'old-fashioned family values' has been labelled by some as sexist, racist and homophobic, continues to generate controversy. The growing number of very vocal detractors now protests at every meeting attended by the still swelling ranks of supporters.

"And with two weeks until the by-election, occasioned by the suicide last month of sitting Independent MP Barry Page, the situation in Nareen will only get more interesting with the separate campaign launches tomorrow of the two competing Independents. Retiring Mayor of Brinlea, Carol Webster, has the political credibility, but ex-footballer Malcolm 'Beaner' Brody is flying the local sports hero flag; and both, according to the polls, have as much chance as the candidates of the major parties to win this vital seat in State Parliament. Adrian Becker, reporting."

'Live. You forgot the 'reporting live from downtown-somewhere' bit," Kit said, hitting the mute button. "I still don't know where Nareen is."

"Manglewort," Thistle said, leaping on to her lap.

"If you say so, cat-face. Downtown Manglewort it is," Kit agreed, scratching The Cat behind the ears in the spot she loved until she suddenly hated it.

"Ow, don't bite. Ooh look, there's Jonno," Kit added, pointing the remote at the television again. Thistle showed her disinterest by sliding under the coffee table to flick magazines onto the floor.

Meanwhile, Ed Bonney's voice-over was saying: "...according to Detective-Sergeant Jon Marek, who is heading the investigation."

Marek, who had a forest of microphones waving under his nose, was answering questions in his usual friendly style: "Of course the circumstances are suspicious; the woman's body was found locked in a freezer. No, we don't know the identity of the victim. No, this is nothing like the case in Brighton last week. No, we are not likely to have any suspects this early in the investigation when, as I said, we don't even know who the victim is. Yes, it was an anonymous tip. No, we don't know who placed the call - that's usually what anonymous means."

Oh dear, Kit thought, carrying her beer back into her office. They really shouldn't let Marek talk to journalists; or the public; or live people. She lifted the receiver and dialled his work number.

"That bloody-well better be you," Marek growled.

"Well it would be, no matter who I was," Kit replied.

"Yeah? Well shit, you're the wrong you. What do you want O'Malley?"

"I don't want anything, Jonno. You're the one who wants a favour. But if I did want the snarly-snappy-cantankerous you, I'd just record tonight's news and watch you over and over."

Marek sighed. "Sorry mate, I've had a shit of a day. And it's not going to end any time soon."

"That's OK. Ring me back when you've got time, or call in later for a drink."

"Yeah, right," he said. "I'll have time in about July, and later is likely to be Saturday."

"Oh. In that case you'd better ask me the favour now," Kit suggested. "I'm canoeing across Bass Strait on Saturday."

"That's nice. Um, it's about organising a game of golf..."

"You don't play golf," Kit interrupted. "I don't play golf."

"No, but your mother does, and so does mine. And my Mum has landed on my doorstep for two months so I was hoping you could ask Lillian to play with Sheila. Every day - for two months."

Kit laughed. "Where has your father gone this time?"

"Saudi Arabia. He's got the tender for installing the air-con in some swanky new hotel. But Sheila said she didn't want to go to a place that was all bunker and no greens."

"Mum would agree with that, so I'm sure she'd be delighted to play with Sheila."

"Thanks Kitty. Gotta go."

"My pleasure," Kit said to the empty line. She replaced the receiver. "And I don't canoe either."

The phone rang. She picked it up.

"Make sure you wear a life jacket," Marek said, before hanging up again.

The phone rang again. She picked it up.

"O'Malley? I swear I'm not suffering delusions."

"Oh, hi Hector."

"What was the job?"

"I was wondering if you could do a background check on someone for me."

"Sure. Who?"

"A writer called Darian Renault," Kit said. "Author of Shoot. Have you read it, or heard of him?"

"Haven't read the book but I've heard that he's a wanker."

"That's a fair description. I doubt it's his real name. He says he's twenty-eight but looks older."

"Well he probably would if he's an ex-junkie."

"Maybe. But I don't think he is. Was," Kit commented. "Anyway, he lives at 42 Chumley St, Abbortsford with his pregnant girlfriend Rhonda Devon who used to be a nurse. She says they met in Adelaide three years ago when Darian was there on holidays."

"OK. Give me a couple of days," Hector said.

"Good. Then we should talk about making your detective delusions a reality - sort of," Kit said.

"Yeah? Are you fair dinkum, O'Malley?"

"Usually. We'll talk about it, OK?"

Kit hung up. Moments later she shook her head to retrieve her mesmerised consciousness from the swirling doodads of her screensaver. She batted the mouse with her fingers to stop the constant movement on the monitor, then decided she should check chapter nine of her detective novel to see if the crime-fiction fairies had written anything for her while she'd been out working her day job.

They hadn't.

Her hero - the bold, dashing, assertive, vivacious, clever and adventurous Flynn Carter - was still moping about, uselessly, having been struck down by a virulent strain of the once-resolved sexual tension bug. Which, unlike the unresolved variety, was much harder for the character, not to mention the writer, to deal with.

"Oh, you're hopeless, Flynn," Kit said to the half-written chapter. "Get with it. Okay?"

Kit tried to help by casting her mind back, just seven weeks, to draw inspiration from her own steamy, mind-blowing and passionate encounter with serious lust. When her right leg started the knee-jigging thing, a habit Kit was not prone to, she realised she was coming over all queer and tingly - and silly - and that conjuring that night was not going to help this fictional problem. It was one instance when the 'use what you know' theory of creative writing was a hindrance.

And why, you may ask? Kit asked herself.

Because, the lust part is not the problem - in fiction or fact, herself replied. Love is the problem. In fact love has always been the problem.

Kit had given lust and love to the fictional Flynn; now neither of them knew what to do with it. Actually, if Kit's own 'is it love' status was any indication, this was a thing she'd never figure out.

Crikey! she thought. Ooh, that's a nice old-fashioned word, her thoughts appended.

But yes! Crikey indeed! She'd had, how many phone calls with Alex in the last nine weeks? And what had they talked about? Not it, that's for sure. Not once had they talked about it. Not it, not them, not anything much. In fact, if she thought about it - which she did most of the time - she'd probably missed more calls and left more messages than had actual conversations.

She sighed. Deeply. If only it had been 'just lust', she thought. You'd be over it now.

Kit raised her eyebrows. Over it? What do you want to be over it for? If it is love, you want to be in it - forever. Fool.

Kit decided her screensaver was way more productive and sensible than she was, so she left the bytes to their own devices and headed into the kitchen to try and find something to cook for dinner.

Thistle, who raced her to the bench, had suggested salmon mouse, rabbit terrine, and chicken anything by the time Kit got there.

"Oh dear, this is sad," Kit said, noting the wide-open spaces inside her fridge. "We could film a not-likely-to-survive in the wilderness documentary in here, Thistle. Looks like it's bacon and eggs for me and, oh, bacon and eggs for you too."

"Mlaa-cack."

"Too bad," Kit replied. "Besides if I went out especially to buy you the canned SniffyPuss special, you'd only want my dinner anyway. So how about we start out with the same food and see what happens."

"Glaang," Thistle mewed.

"Good girl," Kit replied, figuring The Cat had said either 'okay' or 'bummer'.