‘No, but I won’t tell if you don’t.’ Donna slid the window open and the sweet fragrance of the newly mown oval wafted in.

Stevie blew out an angry jet of smoke.

‘It must be frustrating for you,’ Donna sympathised.

Stevie tried to shrug it off. ‘Most police work is frustrating, one way or another, whether it’s directing traffic or a cold case murder investigation.’

‘I imagine dinner conversations at your place must be quite lively at times.’

‘They can be,’ she said. ‘But the good thing about not officially living together is that if one of us is in a foul mood or pissed off, we simply stay out of the other’s way. Monty stays in his flat and I wall myself up with Izzy at my place until we feel like talking again.’

The staffroom door opened. ‘Quick, put it out,’ Donna said like a naughty schoolgirl. The half smoked cigarette plopped with a brief fizz into Stevie’s coffee as Donna went and dealt with the person at the door.

Stevie twisted the ring on her finger as she waited for Donna to return. Monty was cooking at his place tonight: curry, she suspected. His taste for spicy foods, his rust red hair and skin that turned fire engine red with ten minutes of full sun—everything about Monty McGuire radiated heat. It was no wonder he lived near the sea. With all the stresses of his heavy workload lately, she thought the only thing that saved him from spontaneously combusting was the chance of a quick dip in the Indian Ocean.

She found herself worrying for Monty. The pressures of the job had been weighing him down more than usual and he’d been having trouble sleeping. He said she wouldn’t be who she was if she wasn’t worrying about something or other. If it wasn’t Monty it was Izzy, and if she wasn’t worrying about their daughter, it was someone else’s child. Her mother always claimed that worry and guilt were a woman’s lot. Reluctant as she was to pay much heed to her mother’s pearls of wisdom, she had to concede that on this occasion, Dot was probably right.

Donna’s voice brought her back. ‘Sorry, that’s the problem with being new to the job—so many files to catch up on, and my predecessor was hardly an organised type.’ Donna paused. ‘I suppose you’ll have to leave to pick up Izzy. You’re lucky your hours are flexible enough to accommodate school pick-ups.’

‘Not always, sometimes Monty picks her up, often my mother—’ This train of thought lead to another. Now she remembered where she’d seen the girl with the messy dark hair.

‘What was the name of the girl sitting in the front row, the one asking the sensible questions?’

‘Emma Breightling, why?’

‘I’m sure I’ve seen her before; I think she baby-sits for one of my neighbours. My mother’s away on holiday, Monty’s stretched thin and I’m desperate for someone as back up for after-school care. What’s she like, is she old enough do you think?’

‘Some thirteen year olds wouldn’t be, but I don’t think Emma would give you cause to worry. As you’ve seen for yourself she’s very mature for her age, comes from a good home, her father’s a doctor, her mother’s some kind of professional. Other than that I don’t know much about her, which is good, really.’ Donna patted the pile of files on her desk, ‘I only get to know the problem kids.’

4

EXCERPT FROM CHAT TRANSCRIPT 150107

DANTHEMAN: tell me what u look like

BETTYBO: nooooooooo!

DANTHEMAN: go on

BETTYBO: ule think Im ugle

DANTHEMAN: no I won’t. u sound sooooo cute!

BETTYBO: I hav shot hair and im fat

DANTHEMAN: still sound cute to me!

Stevie carefully prised the fat from the chunk of curried meat and pushed it to the side of her plate. Her father used to say she had the metabolism of a greyhound, that the calories were burned up by nervous energy alone despite the arduous outdoor activities of her youth. But time had proved him wrong. The bull riding, rock climbing and orienteering had long given way to a demanding career and motherhood. The nervous energy was still there, but no longer seemed to have the same effect upon her body. If her metabolism continued to slow at this rate she thought, remembering the struggle to do up the button of her jeans that morning, the greyhound might soon be turning into a golden lab.

She finished a second glass of wine.

Then ate the scraps of fat from her plate.

She thought about telling Monty about Tash’s behaviour in the park, that she was worried her friend might be cracking up, but changed her mind. He was too high-ranking—his code of ethics wouldn’t let the matter slide. Life would be a lot easier if one of them worked as a pen pusher for the local council, she thought with a sigh, leaning back in her chair to look at him.

The pale face and violet circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and the crinkles around his eyes had more recently been used for frowns, not laughter. This evening he’d been unusually quiet as if he too was absorbed by his own thoughts. As head of the Serious Crime Squad he was in charge of several ongoing investigations. The case that was losing him the most sleep recently was the discovery of a body some three weeks ago in the Swan River.

‘How’s the floater going?’ Stevie asked him.

Monty put his fork down and pushed away his plate. ‘He’s Asian, had a couple of Triad-type tattoos on his arms. That’s about all we know so far.’

‘Did Angus Wong have anything to say about the tatts?’

‘Angus said he’d seen something similar from Hong Kong, a dragon around one bicep, a white tiger on the other. But in our guy, the colours are different. He thinks the guy might have been from mainland China.

‘The single bullet to the head, the mutilated face, the severed fingertips—all smacks of organised crime if you ask me.’

‘Maybe, but not by an Asian gang; I think his murderer might be a westerner.’

‘Why’s that?’ Stevie asked.

‘If the murderer was Asian, especially an Asian gang member, he would have known about the tattoos and cut them out along with the face and the fingertips. The body was found in the river fully clothed, wearing a long-sleeved shirt. The murderer would have no idea about the tatts. He’s probably be feeling pretty cocky, thinking he’s done a good job at disguising his vic’s identity.’

Stevie smiled, ‘But not good enough to fool you, eh, Sherlock?’

Monty held up his finger. ‘None of your sarcasm,’ he said with the flicker of a smile. ‘I’ve had people scouring China Town, Northbridge and East Perth, but nothing so far. It’s hard when they don’t have a picture to show around. He was probably an illegal.’ He took several gulps of beer. ‘And now I have a child missing under mysterious circumstances.’

She should have realised it would take more than a floater in the river to keep Monty McGuire silent. ‘Shit. Is this going to be a combo job?’

‘Afraid so. Unless she turns up unharmed within the next few hours we might find ourselves in this together.’

The Cyber Predator Team was under the umbrella of the Sex Crimes Division and joined forces with Monty’s Serious Crime Squad in cases of overlap, such as child murder and abduction.

‘Does she have a computer, have they checked her hard drive?’ Stevie asked.

‘She does have a laptop and it’s missing. It’s the first thing I asked when the file appeared on my desk. See,’ he shot her a smile, ‘despite what you think, I do listen to you. Sometimes.’

Stevie twisted the ring on her finger. It had been a while since they’d worked together. Not since she’d transferred from the SCS, when their engagement had become official. She wondered how she’d cope if technically he was her boss again. Before it had been easy, she’d enjoyed working with him—but now? Maybe he would finally see why she was still so insistent about keeping their lives separate. She squinted hard at the single diamond, as if she might see their future in it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him looking at her over his beer glass and could tell he knew what she was thinking.