Читать книгу Thicker Than Water - Lindy Cameron - Страница 3

One of the odd things about a human body that's been drained of blood is how ordinary it looks. The skin is not so much vampiric as just pale and inanimate; more grey flannel than white cotton pyjamas. If the deceased is face up with the eyes open, then the whites still look like boiled-albumen surrounding a black-centred disc of now dull-hued marble. The eyelids are greyish, the cheeks pale-greyish, and the lips slack and wan.

In some cases, like this naked one, the chest hairs look like they've been badly transplanted by Hair-A-Go-Go; the concave nipples look like paté and the penis like a limp anaemic slug. The groin and neck of this particular corpse was blue-black and bloody, but overall its outer dermal layer was just plain pallid. The only highlights were the pinkish-red puddles caught in the skin on the underside where the dregs had settled in the lowest points, for even gravity loses interest in claiming what the heart can no longer push around.

"Five litres. It's not very much when you think about it."

"Pardon?"

"Five litres - or eight pints - that's how much blood the average human adult contains."

Jon Marek looked at his colleague and raised an eyebrow. "Not this one."

"Well, not any more. It's probably all there though, that's a pretty big thing he's in...on."

"Looks like a man-sized cake rack and baking tray to me," Marek noted, "but I trust you'll find out exactly what it is before you write your report, Detective Senior Constable. Now, have you seen O'Malley?"

"Who?"

"Katherine O'Malley, Melbourne's single-greatest finder of suspiciously-dead persons."

"Really? What is she, a psychic or something?"

"No, Martin," Marek snorted. "She's more psycho than-"

"I heard that."

"Ah," Marek noted, turning to acknowledge his once upon a long-time-ago partner, who was sitting at the bar. "There is nothing spooky about Kit O'Malley," he continued, "except her tendency to stumble over things like this." His sweeping gesture had started with Kit and ended with the deceased who was posed, dramatically, in the centre of the dance floor.

"Oh," Martin nodded, "then I guess Katherine O'Malley is the friend of the owner-chick who called us re the 'bloodless bloke in the bar'. As you can see, she's over there trying not to throw up in her drink."

"I doubt it," Marek said. "And I wouldn't call either of them chicks," he advised, seeking a verifying gesture from Kit before clarifying his statement. "Well, I certainly wouldn't."

Kit smiled and swivelled on her stool as she listened to the two cops quietly debate political correctness versus language trends, over the body of a man who may never have given the subject much consideration while alive but, given his druthers, would no doubt love to be able to chip in his two cents worth now.

Chick or bird, Mr Dead Guy? Kit pondered, knowing that pc-bullshit had nothing to do with her preference not to be called anything that conjured the image of a huge-breasted, half-dressed, pouting girl straddling a Harley to advertise that great culinary-excuse for a phallic icon - the chico roll. Or is that a phallic excuse for... No matter!

And druthers? Where the hell did that come from, O'Malley? she wondered, noticing that her ex was now strolling in her direction.

As the rest of this homicide crew weren't his, Kit knew that Jon Marek was not in charge of investigating the presence of a drained and denuded man in the Terpsichore's dance room. She also knew he wouldn't be in charge of the inquiry into the naked man's murder; partly because of his recent promotion but mostly because of his role in the ongoing Barleycorn Task Force.

The latter meant that he shouldn't have a spare minute to scratch himself. Yet here he was with time enough to satisfy curiosity or, perhaps, check up on her. And by the looks of things, Kit tallied, he'd also had time for a hair cut and was obviously still working his buff body at the gym - unless of course his exercise regime was now totally lust-filled and Erin-centred.

Marek took a seat at the main bar next to Kit, and opposite Angie Nichols who was owner of the piano bar-restaurant-disco in which they were all loitering: he, because there was a homicide victim in a big metal dish in the other room; they, because they'd found said victim. Ordinarily, Marek wouldn't even be allowed in the place.

"Hi Angie," he smiled. "You okay?"

"All things considered, Jonno - no," Angie said. "And I'd like to state, for the record, that I had nothing to do with that thing over there or whatever the hell it's supposed to represent."

"I'd be surprised if you did. You know him?"

"Nope. Never seen him before this - dead or alive."

Marek shrugged. "Don't spose you'd make some coffee?"

"Yeah, sure." Angie busied herself with the cappuccino machine but kept glancing over at the unwelcome activity in her Red Room.

"I didn't think the sight of blood bothered you," Marek said to Kit, who was whacking the bottom of an up-ended tabasco sauce bottle.

"It doesn't," she said. Half the slurp went in her drink, the rest flicked over the bar and onto the clean glasses in the rack on the sink. Kit gave an unsurprised frown, stirred the tomato juice with her finger, drank the lot in one go, and then smiled at Marek. "I've just seen way more than my share lately. Besides, unlike you lot, I don't need to hover over the dead guy to make sure he really is. It's bloody obvious he's not going to get up again."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Nope." Kit emptied the rest of the juice from the bottle into her glass and waved at Angie.

"Is that all you're going to tell me, Kitty?"

"That's all I know, Jonno. How come you're here anyway? I would have thought Bubble-Wrap Man would be keeping you off on-call for the duration."

"I'm not on call. But I was in the office when I heard who'd rung in with this mess."

"Busy body," Kit sniffed, and then nodded at Martin. "Who's your new floozie?"

"She's not mine. Well, she's on the squad, but..." Marek shook his head. "Detective Senior Constable Cathy Martin is on Parker's crew."

"You are kidding!" Kit was horrified. "Please tell me that prick is not in charge of this investigation," Kit begged. "It will be embarrassing for all concerned - you know it will. I'm warning you right now Marek, you can't do this, it's..."

"A done deal, mate. His crew caught the job, you know how it works. You will just have to behave."

"Me?"

Angie returned with coffee and vodka just as Kit took up banging her forehead on the bar.

"Jesus Jonno, what did you do to her?"

"Nothing. She's unbalanced, you know that."

"Angie, go press the fire alarm," Kit urged. "We need to clear the bar of these pesky cops, so you and I can drag that naked dead dude out into the middle of the main road."

"Why?"

"So none of us have to deal with Chucky Scumbag."

"And that would be... who, why?" Angie asked with a shrug.

"You don't want to know." Kit was emphatic.

"I do if I'm going to have to, Katy darling."

Kit straightened up and peered through the doorway into the dance room, or 'The Red' as it was commonly known, where the forensic pathologist was crouching and, for some reason, pulling faces at the corpse. The Doc snapped her fingers to get the police photographer to pay attention to her and not DSC Martin and a male detective, who were the only other people in that area of the crime scene. The Terpsichore seemed to be safely Parker-free - for now.

"What gives, Marek? He's got two crew in here, four outside and even you're here. So where's Chucky?"

"Good question," Marek noted. "He should've driven over with Crosby and Martin, but when she rang him about the job he said he was too far out to be picked up."

"Chucky Parker couldn't be far out if his life depended on it," Kit stated. "Unless he's on drugs now, which would only surprise me for a day." She did another visual sweep of the bar and turned to Angie. "You remember the last year I was on the job, I got caught up in that little hoo-ha over cops who were on the take over burglaries and insurance claims?"

Angie squinted. "You mean that horrible time when you had to testify against other officers? God Katy, that was serious shit not a little hoo-ha."

"Yeah, well two of those cops were completely innocent and proven so. But they'd been loaded up, along with three seriously-bent detectives, in order to make it look like the corruption went way further than it did."

"And that has what relevance to the dead dude in my disco?"

"None at all. But the man who is now Senior Sergeant Graham Charles Parker, and who will be heading the investigation into your dead dude, was then the Internal Affairs whip-dick who set-up a couple of extra cops to ensure his case against Jackson, Boxer, and Doghouse got enough attention to get him noticed. The bastard should not be around to tell the tale."

"Which of course he doesn't," Marek added. "Tell the tale, I mean. If he did, he'd have to admit to an impropriety that he denied at the time."

"Impropriety!" Kit snorted. "On top of all that Parker's a sexist bully-boy."

"Given her ex-cop status," Angie said, "it's okay that Katy is ranting about this guy, Jonno, but should you be verifying her gossip? What if your colleague has to interrogate me?"

Marek gazed at the ceiling for a moment, and then gave a wicked smile. "I trust your discretion, Angie. Also, given the circs, I figure you need to know where Charlie Parker is coming from. Besides, the Princess of Rant sometimes needs clarification."

"True," Angie said, acknowledging Kit's green-eyed who me? "So, how did this cop get away with all that stuff?"

"Coz back then," Kit sneered, "it was seldom a case of what you knew, but whose arse you were on intimate terms with. It certainly had zilch to do with how good, or bad, you were."

"As several coppers discovered the hard way," Marek stated.

"Chucky also had brownie points with..." Kit shrugged, "someone of the right-ranked brass, who conceded on his behalf that the end justified his completely despicable means. So what if a few reputations got sullied, the force managed to shed some bad-bad boys."

"But surely if you have a bent cop on..." Angie began.

"I don't have one," Marek insisted. "And besides Charlie's not bent, at least not that way; or your way either for that matter."

"Chucky is one of those dubious good guys," Kit explained. "A card-carrying member of the moral high-ground brigade who believes, absolutely, that he is always right, that his actions are always warranted and that his methods are logically defensible. His is a small mind cloaked in a mantle of righteousness that conceals a twisted pile of his own scary shit."

"What? Like a TV evangelist with boy scouts in his basement?" Angie suggested.

"Yeah, except Chucky's not religious; or a pervert. He's more your redneck, Guns-R-Us, rabidly ambitious, chauvinistic, bast..."

"Jeez you exaggerate, Kitty," Marek laughed. "He's an arsehole, but he's not that bad."

"Bite your tongue, Jonno. He is the Antichrist's podiatrist. And what's more, it was barely three weeks ago that you asked me why I hadn't shot him on behalf of the entire force before I left it to become a private citizen."

"Yeah, but..."

"What I'd like to know," Angie said, through clenched teeth, "is how you can sit around joking about irrelevancies, when there's a dead murder victim in my establishment?"

"A dead murder victim no less," Kit smiled.

"Kit tells me it's called gallows humour," Marek explained.

"No it isn't, Jonno," Kit contradicted. "What we are engaged in here is a diversionary tactic; we're trying to pretend there isn't a dead person within cooee of our irrelevant banter. Gallows humour is when you make amusing and tasteless remarks about the body itself, or the crime scene, in order to laugh loudly in the face of death so you don't scream or puke or go completely mental.

"Example. Under more blokey circumstances you might say: 'Wow, the first naked guy to get into Angie's infamous lesbian nightclub' - which in the yobbo mind illogically translates as hetero-male heaven - 'and the poor bastard couldn't get it up if his life depended on it'."

"I'd never say that," Marek objected. "Given that he's lying over a roasting pan posed like Vinnie Barbarino in Saturday Night Fever, I'm sure I could have come up with something far less blokey and much more clever."

"You're still doing it," Angie marvelled.

"Yeah," Kit nodded, "Marek always mixes his characters and movies."

"No, you're still bantering."

"Ah," Marek said sagely, or tried to. "This is because: a) O'Malley really doesn't need to see any more dead people; b) as this will not be my investigation, I can honestly say I'm here because I've always wanted to see inside Angie's infamous bar; and c) between us, Kitty and I are trying to keep your mind off your dead murder victim."

"It's not working," Angie stated. "And he's not mine."

"Why don't you ask her some important questions then, Marek," Kit suggested.

"Um, I don't want to know anything? Marek replied questioningly, because either he was aware it wasn't a good response for a homicide cop, or he was suddenly distracted.

Kit followed his line of sight and glanced over her shoulder at Angie's only other patrons, sitting in the booth furthest from the crime scene. Nothing strange there, so she turned back to Marek with a palms-up shrug. "But you'll be a better judge of the facts than Chu..."

"Parker will do the right thing," Marek interjected. "I'll make sure of that. But I can't take over. I would, however, like to know who they are, especially the one with the tape recorder."

Kit swivelled around on her stool and took inventory of the group who were sitting where they'd been told to sit and wait. When Angie had discovered the uninvited naked corpse in her disco, and had rung her friend the Private Investigator at home in an understandable panic three hours before, Kit had told her to make sure that anyone who was there stayed, and to let no one else in until the police arrived.

"From left," Kit pointed, "Rabbit MacArthur, Booty Jones, Don't Know, and Sal...um."

"Armstrong," Angie finished. "Don't-Know with the walkman is Carrie... Someone."

"Rabbit, Booty, Don't Know, Someone," Marek repeated. "Don't they have real names?"

"Those names are as real as mate, Mate," Kit smiled.

"Or Doggie and Biffer or whatever you called those cops," Angie noted.

Kit widened her eyes. "So Marek, why don't you take Angie over there so she can help you interrogate the witnesses. That way we can all find out who Carrie Thing is."

"Good plan," Marek agreed, taking the hint that it might also distract Angie.

"Scooter Farrell was here when we found the body," Angie volunteered, as she lifted a section of the counter top so she could get out from behind the bar. "But she had to go to work because she was relieving someone. Besides which, she had a cracker of a hangover and the thought of him," Angie cast a thumb towards the dance room, "was vomit-inducing."

Marek, muttering something silly about a compromised crime scene, escorted Angie over to the booth, whereon Rabbit MacArthur leapt up and thrust her hand out to shake his with all the enthusiasm of someone who always wanted to be a real detective but had never bothered to join the police force in order to make the dream even a vague possibility.

Kit returned her semi-detached attention to Dr Ruth Hudson and the two forensic staff who had joined her in the soundproofed - when the doors weren't folded open - Red Room. She wondered whether the guy had been killed in there overnight, or had just been left for effect.

Some bloody effect, she thought.

She rubbed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose then tried to view her favourite haunt from a cop/crime-scene perspective. The huge three-sided (one short, two long) bar, at which she was sitting about thirty feet from the front door, divided the Terpsichore in half. The west side of the building, which looked out on St Georges Road - or would if it had windows - featured The Red at the rear, and ten booths lining the front half of the space.

Kit turned around to face east, where there were more booths and six pool tables in the area adjacent to the long side of the bar, which also had a small bistro-servery. Chairs and tables, and a grand piano occupied the front, or southern end of the building.

There were three ways in and out of Angie's: the front door, through the entrance foyer, off which were the toilets; an emergency exit at the rear of The Red; and the kitchen door beyond the servery. The Red and kitchen doors led into a side alley.

Well, that was singularly unhelpful, Kit thought, turning back to face The Red. Realising she was too disturbed by the imminent arrival of Parker to give a rat's arse about how the killer got into the premises, she debated whether to run and hide, but realised how unfair that would be on Angie. Leaving her to deal with Chucky alone would be grounds for dismissal from the friendship ring.

Bah! Who needs friends? Kit asked herself. Bugger Angie! I do not want to go to jail for involuntary prickicide.

Kit screwed her face into a serious pout. Bloody hell! It was bad enough that in the nearly four years of the Terpsichore's existence as a women's bar there'd never been any need to have cops on the premises - unless they were off-duty and women - but this particular need was beyond ridiculous.

The Terpsichore, commonly known as Angie's, was a nightclub, bar and poolroom with none of the attendant problems. Until now. Until the first time an uninvited bloke gets in.

Okay, Kit allowed, given his current condition the guy may not have wanted to get into Angie's but... Shit! Of all the cops in the state to get the right to traipse his little feet through her home away from home, it was going to be the traitorous Graham Parker.

Kit raked her hands vigorously through her short hair in a fit of frustration until she caught sight of the result, in the evil mirror behind the bar, and tried to pat it back into its usual dishevelled do. She closed her eyes, took a deep meditative breath, remembered she didn't have a clue how to meditate and then jumped in fright as a hand gripped the back of her neck to render her incapable of movement.

"Do I need to gag and handcuff you?" Marek asked.

"No. Why?"

"Your favourite Martian is here."

"Don't insult the non-terrestrials," Kit stated, swivelling on her stool in time to see Senior Sergeant Graham Parker slithering through the front door like the snake he was.

Kit couldn't help the snorting laugh that escaped her control while her senses rippled with a minor revelation. Having been, only mildly, concerned she'd be unable to resist the urge to ram the open Tabasco bottle somewhere in Parker where the sun didn't shine, she'd forgotten to remember just how distorted the nasty things in one's memory can get over time.

For here came the walking, breathing, insignificant proof: Graham Chucky Parker was so much less than she remembered. He was shorter, weedier, paler and balder. He still dressed very well and it still didn't give him any style; and he still walked as if he had a prickly golf ball up his bum.

Parker gave Marek a curious nod, glanced at Kit without recognition and continued on into The Red where he consulted Martin and his other detective, and was glared at by Ruth Hudson who waved him away from her space.

"Can I go now please Jonno?' Kit begged. "I'd really hate to go to prison for squishing that slimy little slugger-bug. If there was more to him it wouldn't be such a waste of my future."

Marek looked at Kit quizzically. "He didn't seem to know who you were."

"Ah well, the last time we saw each other I was in the middle of my bad hair year."

"What do you call this then?" Marek smiled, drawing a halo over Kit's head.

"Au natural. Remember that long-haired perm that looked like a crinkle-cut skull-cap when I wore it in a bun for work, and which went spackarse when it was loose. It's not surprising Chucky didn't recognise me as the snarling Medusa who threw hot coffee in his lap during our last encounter." Kit widened her eyes, "Speaking of snake heads."

"What are you doing here, Jon?" Parker asked. "Not checking up on me I hope, Boss."

"No," the boss stated, turning on his heel to face his colleague. Kit received Marek's follow-up you idiot by telepathy. "I'm having coffee with an old friend. You remember Kit O'Malley, I'm sure."

"Jesus! Um, yeah. You look - different, O'Malley. How come..." Parker ran out of words or wind or petrol, so he waved his hands around before anchoring them on his hips.

"Do you want me to brief you now," Marek asked pleasantly, "or are you going to tell me why it took you so long to get here?"

A surprised Parker hoicked his eyebrows at Kit while giving Marek a look that said either: 'steady-on Boss, not in front of the public - especially that member of it'; or 'I'll get back to you when I've thought of a good reason'.

Meanwhile Kit's insides smiled broadly as she counted three things she'd always liked about Jon Marek: he did not suffer fools, he made no allowances for dickheads and, while he did believe there was an appropriate time and place for most things, there were some occasions when he just didn't give a shit.

"You can fill me in, if you wouldn't mind," Parker said.

"The bar..." Marek began.

"A lesbian establishment I believe," Parker verified.

"Yeah, not that that's relevant right now. The bar is owned by Angie Nichols, who is sitting on the left with those women over there..."

Parker squinted. "Are they all women?"

Kit started squirming on her stool, so Marek squeezed the back of her neck where his hand still rested. "How about you take over, O'Malley," he said. "What time did Angie open up?"

"Twelve-thirty," Kit said, without spitting. "Which is later than usual because she'd been at a funeral; in Bendigo; where she'd driven yesterday morning. The others over there, plus one other woman who has since gone to work, were waiting to get in for lunch unaware that lunch wasn't on. Because of the funeral. Anyway they all came in to help Angie set up..."

"The patrons helped to set up?" Parker interrupted.

"The patrons who are also friends, yes," Kit explained, glad that Marek had hold of her. "Angie went around, as usual, opening windows to swap last night's air for today's. It was about fifteen minutes later that she got around to opening up The Red and..."

"Red? What's wine got to do with this?" Parker asked.

"Nothing," Chucky, Kit said, and didn't. "The Red is the dance room," she pointed. "Angie opened the doors and voila: very dead man in very big tray. She called the cops, then me."

"Why you?" Parker asked with a bemused wiggle of chin and brow.

"Me friend. Me private eye."

Parker's chest spasmed with a short soundless laugh. "And are you a dyke too?"

Before Kit could move an inch, Marek slid his arm down over her shoulder and pulled her snugly back against his body. "Yeah she is, Chuck," he said, "but only on the full moon. And, mate, you should see her lesbian fur and fangs."

Kit held her breath, while Mr Oblivious said, "Marek, please don't call me Chuck."

"Sorry Charlie, I forgot how much you hate it," Marek shrugged. "But do me a favour too, would you? Don't use the word dyke again. Or lesbian, for that matter."

"What?"

"Unless it is relevant to the investigation, the sexuality of anyone you come across in this establishment, or in connection with this case, is none of your business."

"What?" Parker repeated, casting his arms out to emphasise his astonishment. "You don't think these women are relevant?"

"Oh sure, the women may well be," Marek agreed, "but at this stage of the proceedings, I doubt the lesbians are."

"O'Malley!" bellowed one of the lesbians over in the booth.

"Yes, Rabbit?" Kit called back, as everyone turned in her direction.

"If we can't have beer, can Angie make more coffee, please? We're havin withdrawals."

Marek beckoned Angie back to the bar. "We could all do with a very strong brew," he said.

Kit watched Parker watch the approach of the statuesque Angie Nichols. Interestingly, Chucky seemed to get smaller the closer she came, despite doing the small-man back-stretch to compensate. Like it would make a difference!

Parker looked Angie over - up to her head and down to her feet - taking in her large-boned but trim and taut frame, and her hair which this week was silver and purple. His expression registered that she was, so far and without doubt, the likeliest suspect in the murder about which he knew nothing yet, apart from the fact there'd been one and it was strange.

Angie gazed down at Parker with complete disinterest. "Espresso or cappuccino?"

"Flat white," he replied. "Then perhaps you'd like to give me your version of events."

"My version? You mean you want to know what happened."

"Yes," Parker said impatiently.

"Why? Who are you?" Angie asked, though it was obvious to Kit that she already knew.

"Senior Sergeant Parker. I'm in charge of the investigation."

"Oh, right," Angie drawled, as she slipped behind the bar again. "God, you took your time. I'd have thought the investigation was nearly over. Everyone else has been here for hours."

"Ruth wants you, I think," Marek stated before anyone else could get a smart word in.

"Who?" Parker asked impatiently. "Oh, Dr Hudson," he amended.

"Sorry to interrupt you Senior Sergeant," the forensic pathologist smiled, "but I'm about to leave. There's nothing more I can do until the body is delivered for autopsy. I've slotted it in for six this evening. Cathy and your new bloke will do the honours with me."

"That's fine, Doc," Parker nodded. "Anything you can tell me now?"

"Only the obvious."

"Which is?" Parker looked expectant.

"He bled to death Chu... Charlie." Kit raised an eyebrow.

"Really, O'Malley? Well, if you don't mind, I'll wait for the expert's opinion."

"He bled to death," Ruth repeated straight-faced. "I'd say the vic was tied face-down-"

"Face down?"

"Yes. It wouldn't work otherwise, Senior Sergeant."

"What wouldn't work?" Parker asked.

Ruth smiled as she accepted the coffee that Angie offered. "Ordinarily," she said, "even with the major arteries severed, as they were in this case, a person would die before complete exsanguination. So, in order to deplete the body of most of its circulation volume before death occurred and stopped the heart pumping, a body - just like this one was - would have to be unconscious or restrained face down when his jugular and both femoral arteries were cut. The tray caught the flow but moments before death he was rolled onto his back."

"How do you figure that?" Parker asked.

"There is a degree of lividity, but not much, in the gluteus max and in the heels which are hanging lower than the rest of the body," Ruth explained. "That tells me the heart was still beating, but not for long, when he was posed like ET phoning home."

"That's not ET, it's Disco Man," Marek offered.

"God, here we go again," Angie moaned.

Parker looked from Ruth to Marek and then puzzled. "It's a signature," he said.

"Of what?" Ruth asked.

"Hel-lo!" Parker crowed. "Am I the only one on-line here?"

"More than likely," Kit muttered.

Parker waved towards The Red. "This is obviously a secret ritual-killing of some poor bastard by a bunch of raving bloody lezzos," he pronounced, giving Kit a cursory sneer before looking pointedly at his number one suspect - the rather surprised Angie Nichols.

Kit prepared a clench-fisted launch from her bar stool, until she realised that Marek's hold on her was only half-hearted. She settled down before he decided to let her go through with it.

"That's a moderately idiotic assumption," Ruth commented.

"You reckon?" Parker said.

"Oh Chuck, you ignorant little hetero," Kit sighed, in a tone so calm it was scary.

Marek released her completely and shoved his hands in his pockets; while Angie's low-voiced "Katy" was a definite warning - but for whom?

Kit smiled... like a Taipan. "I'm only going to explain this to you once, Senior Sergeant," she said. "By their very nature lesbian rituals don't actually involve men in any way, shape or form; nor in any condition - dressed, undressed, dead or alive. That's the best thing about them, our rituals I mean, they are exclusive to and for women. They are the ultimate women's business - but there's nothing secret about that."

"Well, I'd like to point out," Angie smiled, "that it's also not much of a secret if one of the alleged raving lezzos calls the cops."

"On top of which," Marek said, "apart from being quite prematurely dead, Disco Man is not some 'poor bastard'. That there is Gerry Anders, head thug of the Riley clan and youngest nephew of Queen Marj herself. And he may be late but I doubt he'll be much lamented."

"No way!" Parker exclaimed, scurrying back to take a decent look at his homicide victim.

"You knew who he was?" Kit said. "Why did you ask us...? Oh, okay; dumb question."

"Would someone explain why this pronouncement has got the little man's jocks all twisted," Angie requested. "What's the Rilycan?"

"The Riley clan," Kit enunciated. "You know, Angie: one of Melbourne's biggest, wealthiest, meanest, most notorious, um, dangerous-"

Marek held up both hands, "...bad, bad, very bad-"

"...families," Kit continued. "It's headed by the sixty-something matriarch Marjorie Riley - aka Queen Marj or Queenie."

"Nah-uh, Queenie's in her seventies now, Kit," Marek corrected.

"Oh, I suppose she would be by now," Kit said thoughtfully.

"The Riley family business goes way back, to Melbourne's boom years in the 1920s," Marek explained to Angie.

Unnecessarily, Kit thought, because her friend looked shocked rather than uninformed.

"But it was in the Depression and the war years that they really made it big. They grew rich on misery, or rather on helping folks escape the misery with gambling, opium dens, brothels, smuggling."

"Opium dens?" Angie exclaimed.

"Yeah. These days it's brothels, coke and protection rackets. They've always maintained a host of legitimate businesses so they can insist, regularly, that having underworld connections does not make them criminals. But the Rileys are the Melbourne underworld; every serious bad guy in town is connected through them. Their decades-long adversarial relationship with us has almost become a game with it's own rules of engagement and-"

"Stop!" Angie's voice was verging on the hysterical. "Are you saying I have a dead gangster in my bar?"

"Kind of," Kit acknowledged.

"Bloody hell!" was Parker's reaction from the dance room.

"That's a fucking understatement!" Angie declared. "Please, someone - anyone - tell me what a dead gangster is doing in my bar."

"I think that would be my question," Parker said, returning to the fray.

"Well don't look at me, Sunshine," Angie snarled at him. "You are the homicide detective; go detect something." She turned back to Marek and Kit. "Do you think you could get him out of here now, or soon?"

"Who? Chucky?" Kit smiled.

Parker's objection was overtaken by Angie's. "No goddamnit, the dead dude. Get him out before, before... I don't know, before the other gangsters find out he's here. Dead and here."

"How about it, Ruth?" Marek asked.

"Who's in charge here?" Parker demanded. "Ah," he said a bare second later, when it obviously occurred to him that it probably wasn't him - outranked as he was by Jon Marek, acting Head of the Homicide Squad; and by Dr Ruth Hudson FP, whose judgement alone could decide when the body was removed.

"Ruth?" Marek repeated.

She shrugged. "I'm finished; the autopsy is scheduled; the video and photos, as far as I know, have all been done; my team are finishing up; and I think Cathy is waiting for you."

"Or me," Parker said softly.

"Why don't you go find out then," Marek prompted. He waited until Parker was out of earshot before smacking himself on the wrist. "I wish I could control myself."

"Why?" Kit asked. "He doesn't."

"True." Marek turned to Angie. "Dr Hudson will arrange for the guvvy undertakers to remove the body asap. I'm afraid you will have to remain closed until Parker's crew is satisfied that the scene is secure. I'll get one of the other officers to take statements from your mates so they can all leave. Make sure you give some kind of contact info for the nickname who had to go to work, so that Cathy can do a follow up with her. Okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Jonno," Angie said. "How long will I have to keep the doors shut?"

Marek shrugged. "Unless there's anything suss, probably only until tomorrow. We'll see."

"I'd like to take your statement now, Ms Nichols."

Aaghh! Chucky III - the Nightmare Continues, Kit thought.

"You're kidding," Angie snapped at Parker. "So far I've stated the facts, as I know them, to the local cop who came first; then to the local CIB detectives, then to their Inspector. This was followed by a quite detailed statement to your Senior Detective Martin, then to Detective Inspector Marek - congratulations on the promotion by the way, Jonno - and now you want to hear the same thing again. Can't any of you read what the one before you wrote down? Don't you think this is overkill?"

"Compared to what? The deceased over there?" Parker queried, still trying to make some kind of point despite his passing look of horror at the disclosure that his prime suspect was on familiar terms with his boss.

"Lighten up, Charlie," Marek suggested. "She's right. If you need more information, Angie will be happy to oblige - later. Let's you and I go find out what else we need to find out now."

Kit watched them saunter back to the crime scene where Parker stopped in the wide open doorway of The Red, unaware they hadn't walked far enough away...

"I don't want to seem out of order, Jon," he said, "but I really think it's inappropriate that you talk to me like that in front of... well, in front of anyone."

"Yeah, you're right; I'm sorry, Charlie," Marek apologised. "But, mate, you get what you give." Marek brushed his hand back and forth through his snowy-white hair.

Uh-oh, Kit thought.

"What does that mean, Marek?" Parker asked.

Oh goody, Kit amended. You asked for it, Chucky.

"It means that you bring every kind of grief possible on yourself, mate. You're an A-Grade wanker, Charlie, and you have to learn some manners or people will continue to treat you the same way you treat them - badly and rudely."

"But I'm a cop."

Marek shook his head in astonishment. "Chuck, that response is so stupid and irrelevant that I'm at a loss for... You've lost me. I will say this though: leave your prejudices at home and do not hassle or insult these women in any way, because I will hear about it; and while you are in charge of your crew, Senior Detective Martin is in charge of this investigation. You weren't here to decide, so I made her lead investigator. Any problems with that?"

"None, Boss. It was her turn anyway."

"Good," Marek ushered Parker into The Red. "Now, why were you late?"

"Tell me," Angie whispered to Kit, "why didn't you shoot that moron on behalf of the entire police force all those years ago?"

"I'm not altogether sure now," Kit replied thoughtfully.

"It was an oversight on your part, I believe."

"There's no doubt about that," Kit agreed. "Who was the Carrie thing over there with Rabbit et al?"

"She's a newby. A brand new not-quite-sure newby, I gather. Her name's Carrie McDermid. She was here last night, for the first time; and came back today with Sal and Booty."

"What's with the tape recorder?"

"Dunno. You want me to find out?"

"Yeah, but later. I don't want to make a big deal about it, in case SuperChuck notices."