Blood Ties (9 page)

He bit back what he was going to say when Miss Greville poked her head out from the back door and asked us if everything was all right. I turned to the Sarge then and smiled again.

“We don’t need a computer. We have Miss G.”

Chapter 4

When we advised Miss G that we needed to speak to her further, she invited us to share her lunch. I insisted that she sit down while I quickly made us all some sandwiches with the bread, sandwich meat, mustard, cheese, onion, tinned beetroot, lettuce and tomato I found in her pantry and fridge. The three of us sat around the kitchen table to eat, the Sarge discreetly screwing up his nose at the white bread, cheap meat and plastic cheese. We ate the sandwiches, brewed and drank another pot of tea and then we got down to business. By tacit agreement, I spoke for the two of us.

“Miss G, there have always been rumours circulating around town about a big fortune hidden in this house,” I began.

She giggled charmingly. “Tess, my dear, I’ve spent over eighty years looking for that fortune. But do I look as though I’m roaringly rich?”

I smiled with her. No, it certainly did not look as though she was living the high life. Her clothes were patched, her food plain and her furnishings were very old, probably the original pieces her family had shipped over from Dear Old Blighty in the early 1880s.

“Did you ever think about any land holdings that the Grevilles might still own?” I coaxed.

That took her by surprise and her sharp blue eyes enlarged behind her spectacles. “Well, I don’t know, dear. I wouldn’t think we had any left, but you’d have to speak to the family lawyers about that. Murchison and Murchison. In Big Town.” She thought for a few moments. “We have sold off bits of land over the years to various folk, but I’ve no idea what happened to that money. I leave all the details of that sort of business to my lawyer, Mr Murchison.”

The Sarge and I glanced at each other.

“Do you know where the Grevilles owned land around these parts?” I asked.

She pushed back her chair and stood shakily. “I don’t, but I’m sure it’s all in the library, Tess dear.”

The Sarge and I stood as well and I indicated to him with a nod that he should follow Miss G to the library while I washed up the plates. I could never leave an elderly lady with any dirty dishes or mess after my visit. Fierce Nana Fuller, an absolute Gorgon for good manners, would never have forgiven me if I had. And ten minutes later, crockery and cutlery carefully washed, dried and put away, the benches and table wiped down and the chairs neatly pushed back in, I joined them in the library. It was a dim and dusty room, crammed with oversized chairs, tables and books. No one had been inside for years judging by the thick dust settled on every horizontal surface. Boxes of documents were stacked almost to the ceiling. The Sarge, covered in dust himself after moving a few to peer inside, was regarding them with resigned unhappiness.

“What was that you said about new-fashioned police work?” I teased, brushing at the sleeve of his expensive t-shirt, sneezing three times in a row when the dust went up my nose.

He turned to me, handed me his handkerchief and pulled a face. “We’re going to have to take everything back to the station and go through it.”

I blew my nose noisily and shoved his monogrammed linen hankie in my pocket. It was my turn to pull a face. “Or we could just ring Murchison and Murchison,” I suggested. “I know. Why don’t we have a race? You go through all of this and I’ll ring the lawyers and we’ll see who comes up with some information first?” I dared to flash him a cheeky smile.

“Good thinking, Fuller. Except
I’ll
do the ringing and
you
can do the sifting.” And he flashed me a smile in return that completely transformed his face into something almost handsome. But the smile was gone as soon as it came.

Miss G laid her gnarled, wrinkled hand on my arm. “Tess dear, was there someone at my window?”

I exchanged a quick glance with the Sarge and decided to be honest with her. She was a sensible woman. “We found some evidence that shows that there may have been someone standing underneath your bedroom window, Miss G. Just to be careful, can you stay for a few days with Bessie?” Miss G and Bessie Goodwill had been best friends since they were five-years-old, which was a long time ago for both of them.

“Bessie lives with her girl in Big Town now,” Miss G reminded me.

“That’s right.” Bessie’s ‘girl’ was over seventy herself. “We’d be happy to drive you to Bessie’s daughter’s place, and we could go and speak to your lawyer while we’re at it. With your permission of course, Miss G.”

She looked at me shrewdly. “You think this has something to do with the Greville family’s ‘secret treasure’, don’t you, Officer Tess?”

“It’s just a possibility, Miss Greville,” the Sarge reassured. “But we would prefer if you could stay with your friend for a while.”

She fixed her gazed on him, then nodded and went off to ring Bessie and pack. While she was occupied sorting her necessities, the Sarge used the phone to ring her lawyers, but it was Saturday and there was no answer at the office.

“Guess it will have to wait until Monday,” I shrugged. “Do you want me to drop you back at my place or at the station? No point you wasting your Saturday coming to Big Town too just to drop off Miss G.”

“I’ll tag along,” he insisted and I shrugged again, not caring one way or the other.
Whatever floats his boat
, I thought.

When Miss G was ready, we carefully locked up her house and the Sarge gave her his arm to help her down the stairs and into the patrol car, which was thoughtful of him. He stowed her bag in the boot while I settled her in the backseat, on the other side to the still damp stain, and ensured her seatbelt was securely fastened.

“It’s so lovely to be fussed over,” she twittered happily. I smiled at her in the rearview mirror and drove down her bumpy drive to the street.

I kept her occupied during the ninety minute drive by questioning her about what Little Town had been like when she was growing up. It surprised, and depressed, me just how little the town had changed since then. Most of the town’s buildings dated from its establishment as a timber town, including most of the private houses as well as the police station, lockup and police house. When the timber ran out, the townsfolk had moved the sheep in to replace it. These days though, small seasonal organic farmers dominated the local agricultural scene. Mount Big was an ancient volcanic plug and the surrounding soil was extremely fertile, which was great for us locals because we enjoyed cheap, fresh fruit and vegetables all year round. That was especially fortunate for Dad and me on our limited income.

We drove into Big Town, a pleasant coastal urban centre with a population nudging twenty-five thousand. It sprawled around a deep bay that provided good commercial and recreational fishing. When I was a kid, Dad had often taken me fishing there with a close friend of his who possessed a large boat and an even larger family (seven kids). That evening we’d have a beach barbeque of fresh fish, which made a nice change from all the lamb and mutton Dad and I normally ate. I had warm memories of driving back home at the end of the day, sleepy, happy after running around madly with all of those other kids, a bit sunburnt and windswept, the smell of fish permeating his old Land Rover.

We dropped Miss G off at Bessie’s house and I cruised past Miss G’s lawyers’ office just in case someone was working today even if they weren’t answering the phone. But the place was in darkness. Before I turned to head back home, I made a detour to the bay to the fishermen’s market. The Sarge gave me a look that spoke volumes of what he thought about cops who did their personal shopping in the patrol car.

“I won’t be a sec,” I cajoled. “You want some fresh seafood for dinner, don’t you?”

His disapproval wavered at the mention of fresh seafood, so I took advantage of his weakness and ran off to the market without a second glance. Of course all the good stuff was gone by that time of the day, but I still managed to squeeze out of my favourite fisherman some decent green king prawns that he’d been hoarding for his own family. True, I had to kiss his fishy, salty and stubbly cheek to win over that favour and then listen to a lot of good-natured and jealous ribbing from the others about that, but I didn’t mind. The older guys had all known me since I was a kid. Dad and his friend had always sheepishly bought our dinner from the market on the many occasions we’d returned unsuccessful after our own fishing expeditions.

Waving goodbye to them, their best wishes for Dad ringing in my ears, I was back in the car before the Sarge could change his mind back to disapproval. I sped off home towards Little Town. I thought I’d done quite enough unpaid overtime for the day and planned on heading straight home, whether he wanted to or not. As we approached Little Town though, I noticed something that I couldn’t ignore.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, then more loudly to the Sarge, “Hold on!”

I flicked on the siren and lights and planted my foot, swerving around other cars on the road, my eyes firmly fixed on the small frog-green hatchback in the distance ahead of us. It didn’t try to outrun me or avoid me, just kept driving along at a steady speed on the road that wound its way up the lower reaches of the Coastal Range. It was only when I was right up its backside and we’d reached the flatness of Little Town that the driver, with a pleased expression that I could clearly see in the car’s rearview mirror, noticed us and hastily pulled over to the side of the road. I pulled over too and turned off the siren, but not the lights.

“What’s going on?” the Sarge demanded to know.

“Stolen vehicle,” I said.

“How can you be so sure?” I really hated people questioning my judgement, especially other cops, but held my resentment in with some restraint. I replied with patience tempered through gritted teeth.

“Because I know for a fact that the person driving that car doesn’t have a licence or a car. He’s also unpredictable and can be very volatile. I wish I had my gear with me. I might need cuffs and spray. Can you look in the glove box to see if there are any quick restraints in there? I think I threw some in a while ago, just in case.”

He opened the glove box, dug through the mess, handed a pair to me and slipped a pair into his own jeans pocket.

“Ta. The driver is Martin Cline, a patient at the mental health clinic and the car belongs to one of the psychiatrists who work there. I’ve told her to stop leaving the damn car unlocked so many times now that I’ve lost count. Martin’s a regular escapee and he likes to drive. For some reason, he loves that car and tends to steal it more than any of the others, but that’s probably because the stupid woman keeps leaving it unlocked all the time. Normally he doesn’t cause any problems. He usually just goes for a little zoom around town then back to the clinic, but every now and again he becomes very aggressive, drives erratically, tries to run people over. I never know what mood he’s going to be in.”

“I’ll deal with this,” he decided, opening his door.

“No, Martin’s used to me. You’ll just scare him.”

I opened my door and climbed out, approaching the car slowly. He appeared to be calm, sitting quietly in the driver’s seat with his hands on the steering wheel, waiting for me. I’d long thought that being pulled over by me was a critical part of his fun and he loved the excitement of being caught by the police. When I hadn’t seen him for a while, or he’d gotten away with one of his little drives without being caught, he always made sure the next time that he drove around town for long enough that I would either notice him myself or someone would ring me to tell me he was on the loose again. Jake likes to tease me that Martin is in love with me and while I scoff at him, he might have a point because Martin does try to run down Jake every time he sees him.

I reached the driver’s door and Martin wound down the window.

“Hello, Officer Tess. You look really pretty today with your hair loose like that. But you’re not in uniform.” He was disappointed.

“No, it’s the weekend, Martin. I don’t live in my uniform, you know.”

He laughed in an inappropriately loud and raucous way that far exceeded any humour in my comment.
Oh dear
, I thought.

“You going to step out of the car for me so I can take you back home?” I asked.

“Who’s that man with you?”

“That’s Sergeant Maguire. He’s the replacement for Des.”

“Why are you hanging around with him on the weekend in your normal clothes? Are you on a date?” Slightly peevish tone.

“No Martin, we’re not on a date. We had some police business in Big Town to attend to. I was just showing him around town. You’re not helping to create a very good first impression of the town driving around in a stolen car, are you?”

He was hurt. “Officer Tess, it’s not
stolen
, it’s just borrowed. I’m going to take it back.”

“I know you are. But you took it without permission and that’s wrong, remember? That’s stealing. We’ve had this talk a million times before.”

A sulky expression settled on his face. “Are you still seeing that Jake Bycraft? The Bycrafts are nothing but scum.”

I leaned down to look at him more closely. Sometimes I could tell by his eyes how dangerous he was going to be. “It’s none of your business who I’m seeing, Martin. Get out of the car please.”