Blood Sport (14 page)

The Sarge and I exchanged a wry glance that made me laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Xavier.

“That blonde girl just tried to crack onto the Sarge with no luck.”

“That’s not fair! She would have got lucky if she tried to crack onto me. I’m always in the wrong spot at the wrong time,” he complained.

“She doesn’t look too happy talking to Bum, so you should get yourself up to the bar, pronto. I reckon she’s ready to move onto another man.”

With undignified haste, he dropped my hand and took off, leaving me trailing behind and smiling to myself. I went over to lean on the bar next to the Sarge.

“Having fun?” he asked, looking down at me.

“Not until Mr X came to my rescue. How about you? You’re very popular with the ladies tonight.”

“It’s my animal magnetism.”

“So that’s what that horrible smell is, huh?”

He smiled and chucked me under the chin. “How are you holding up, Tessie?”

“Another drink will help,” I smiled back.

“How many have you had?”

“Two.”

“That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not nearly enough. It’s a party, you know.”

“Do you want me to check with the Super?”

I sighed impatiently. “You don’t have to bring her into
everything
.”

“It’s not your balls on the chopping block.”

I giggled. “I thought she was going to hang you by them, not cut them off.”

“Whatever she does, it’s going to be painful for me. Have you had much to eat?”

“No.”

He managed to catch the attention of a waiter immediately in that imperious way he had and before long I had a plate of finger food in front of me that I wolfed down. The food was delicious and I grabbed even more off another waiter when she walked past.

Instead of getting me another drink, the Sarge dragged me off to dance with him. Over his shoulder, I saw Mr X deep in conversation with the blonde girl, who was giggling her head off, her hand resting on his arm. He glanced up at me and winked. I mouthed “good luck” to him and he gave me the thumbs-up.

“Getting a bit fucking cosy there, aren’t you, Maguire?” accused that familiar growly voice off to our left. “I want to see some daylight between you two, if you don’t mind.”

“Fiona,” I complained. I was perfectly comfy where I was leaning against the Sarge. And he hadn’t objected either. “You sound just like Nana Fuller when I was sixteen and she used to chaperone at the school dances I went to with Abe. She had a strict rule about how far apart we had to be from each other when we danced.”

“Your Nana Fuller was the most sensible woman I ever met, Tessie. She wasn’t swayed by tall, well-dressed men from the city.” She glared at the Sarge. “And neither am I.”

He sighed dramatically and pushed me away a few inches. “Is that to your satisfaction, ma’am, or would you prefer us to dance together via web cam from different rooms?”

She eyed him off silently for a good minute. “You’ve got a fucking mouth on you, Maguire, and attitude to boot. I’m keeping my eye on you.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second, ma’am,” he replied politely. I hid my smile. He had the most wonderful way of being terribly insubordinate, but with such manners that nobody could directly point to any particular comment as being deliberately disrespectful. It was something I admired a lot about him – in a very hierarchical profession, he didn’t seem to care about brown-nosing to his superiors at all. It was as if he thought of his career as being bulletproof. He had quiet confidence in himself.

Shooting him one last threatening look, Fiona turned her attention to me. “Tessie, you can have one more drink then you’re off home. Understood?”

“Yes mum, I mean ma’am,” I said cheekily.

She narrowed her eyes at me, but the corners of her mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. She had a load of tolerance for me that she wouldn’t dream of granting anyone else. She was childless and I was motherless, and we both pretended to the world that it didn’t matter to us. Initially forged from the pain of violent deaths, it was a relationship that had grown stronger each year, especially after Nana Fuller was killed. When I’d returned to Little Town to take up the job of junior cop, Fiona had immediately taken me under her wing where I’d nestled contentedly ever since.

“One more drink, Tessie,” she warned, then did a one-eighty and plastered on her hostess voice. “Have you tried the smoked salmon blini with caviar yet? Absolute perfection. That blond-haired waiter over there has a tray full. Make sure you grab a few.”

She left us to accost some other nervous partygoers and the Sarge turned to me, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “She managed to say about five sentences then without any swearing. I’m impressed.”

I smiled up at him. “Get me another drink, Sarge. The Super insists I have one more.”

“I don’t think she meant it quite like that.”

“That’s what I heard,” I insisted, looking up at him.

“No, you’ve had enough,” he decided. I kept my eyes on his. “Tess, don’t look at me like that.” My eyes remained fixed on his. He sighed. “Oh, all right! One more.”

I smiled and reached up to pat his cheek. “Thanks, Maguire. You’re a real champ.”

“Then why do I feel like such a chump?” he grumbled good-naturedly. I followed him back to the bar, where he ordered us both a drink, me a wine and him another mineral water. We chatted while we sipped and ate whatever came near us. The Super was right – the blinis were exceptional.

I scanned the room, noticing instantly some movement from the same dark corner I’d been hiding in earlier. Straining my eyes, I recognised Mr X and the blonde girl. They were making out and it looked hot and heavy, tongues at very close quarters, her sitting on his lap, both their hands inappropriate.

“Aw, how sweet. Mr X has made a new friend.”

The Sarge looked over and grimaced. “God, I hate that kind of public display. Especially at a work party. X isn’t being too smart tonight, particularly with a probie.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not his brain doing the thinking,” I commented dryly.

We exchanged a glance. “Come on, drink up. Let’s get out of here before everything goes downhill.”

“We have to wait for the Super’s speech first,” I reminded him. “It’s only polite.”

Luckily, that much anticipated event started quickly afterwards. The Super stood in front of us and in the respectful hush, treated us all to a prolonged and profound blast of profanity, describing her difficult journey as a woman up the ladder in the police force. It was a speech so blisteringly crude that I was surprised the paint didn’t peel from her walls and her indoor plants didn’t wither and die instantly. The crowd was silenced – you could have heard a discreet fart from a flea. The Sarge and I stared at each other in shock, our ears scorched. Mr X and the blonde girl stopped groping each other, eyes wide with horrified astonishment, mouths agape. One of the younger waiters fainted. The journalist from the
Wattling Bay Messenger
sent to cover the social event of the winter blushed beetroot red, traumatised. His pen hovered over his notebook as he worried about how on earth he was going to report on a speech that was unprintable for any kind of polite company, but was supposed to head the social pages in tomorrow’s paper.

“And with that final sentiment, my husband Ronnie and I thank you all for coming to our little soiree tonight.” And Fiona bowed her head humbly before taking Ronnie’s hand and starting some very dirty dance moves in the cleared space, their hips grinding together suggestively, lips locked, hands getting busy.

The Sarge and I glanced at each other again. He pulled a comically appalled face and I giggled once more.

“Ready to go, Tessie?”

“Oh yeah! Definitely!”

We sneaked out just in time before the place turned into a bacchanalian orgy. Cops really knew how to let their hair down, given half the chance. The Sarge took my hand and we rushed to his car in the teeming rain.

I was suddenly exhausted and well on the way to being drunk after three glasses of wine, strapping myself in before leaning back on the seat. The Sarge looked over at me.

“You okay, Tessie?”

I decided to be honest for once. “No, Sarge. I’m very tired.”

“I think you should have stayed at home.”

“Don’t,” I pleaded. “I wanted to be there for Fiona.”

“I know, but still . . .”

He concentrated on guiding the car from the street crowded with parked cars. He drove towards Wattling Bay Road, which led to the Coastal Range Highway and onto Little Town.

My phone rang. I scrabbled for it in my handbag. It was Dad. He proceeded to tell me that the leaks had become so bad with the rain that he’d gone to spend the night with Adele, inviting me to sleep on her lounge. She rented a tiny granny flat under the house of the owner of the bakery/cafe, Fran. As a checkout chick at the local supermarket, she didn’t earn too much.

I wasn’t keen on that plan, needing some pampering after my ordeal. “No Dad, I’ll stay at home. I don’t want to sleep on a lounge. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The Sarge asked me immediately what was wrong, so I told him. “You’re not staying by yourself, Tessie. You’ll have to stay at my place. I have a comfortable guest bed.”

“I’ll be all right,” I protested.

“We’re not arguing about it,” he insisted firmly. “You’re going to do what you’re told for once. The Super would skin me alive and turn me into a pair of shoes and a handbag if she found out I left you alone tonight. You need someone close by, in case you start feeling sick or dizzy again.”

“I guess,” I conceded. “But we’ll have to go to my place to grab some things.”

“No, we won’t. I have a spare toothbrush and I can lend you some pyjamas. Okay?”

“I’ll be a nuisance,” I said, glancing at him, unsure.

“Probably,” he agreed heartily, which relaxed me. “You’ll even expect me to make you breakfast, I suppose.”

I mock-groaned. “Not your horrible omelette?”

“Only if you’re a good girl.”

I didn’t bother suppressing a huge yawn and leaned back on the seat, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed and go to sleep. Suddenly, I sat upright again.

“Do you hear that?” I asked him.

He listened. “Yeah. A rumbling or something.”

We listened as it grew louder and louder – a relentless deep, thundering noise that soon became deafening. The Sarge checked his rear view mirror.

“Holy hell!”

A few seconds later, lights swept dazzlingly across the interior of our car and we were swamped by motorbikes, thirty or forty of them, big mean mothers. The riders were all dressed similarly in leathers, jeans and boots, many with the same logo on their clothes – two black snakes on a red background, facing each other, tails intertwined and fangs bared, tongues out twisting together.

The bikes overtook us singly and in pairs, each rider slowing down for a good look at us as they passed, before speeding off down the highway. It was quite an intimidating experience and I was glad I wasn’t in the car by myself.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Trouble for us?”

“Possibly. It’s the Vypers – the gang who own the secret bikie retreat.”

The secret bikie retreat was on Beach Road, near the nudist community. The Vypers didn’t advertise that they owned it, which was why it was supposedly secret. But it was hard to ignore a mass of bikes rumbling through town late at night a couple of times a year. I didn’t know why they gathered in Little Town and I didn’t know what they were up to when they did, but they usually kept themselves to themselves and hadn’t caused me too many problems. This would be the Sarge’s first encounter with them.

The last bike sped off, leaving us in its exhaust, the quiet of the rain enveloping us again.

“There’s never a boring minute in Little Town,” commented the Sarge dryly.

I agreed fulsomely. “You can say that again!”

We pulled into the driveway of his house. He lived, rent free, in the old timber police house adjacent to the old timber police station. He had filled the house with his sleek, expensive modern furniture and that touch of the city didn’t sit comfortably in the rustic surroundings.

We dashed through the rain, up the stairs and inside. He dug up a spare pair of long pyjamas and some bed socks for me, and I went to the bathroom to wash my makeup off and change. The timber house wasn’t well insulated and had only a couple of old radiators, so it tended to be very cold during the winter nights. The pyjamas were too big and too long, but I tightened them as much as possible and rolled up the legs.

A strange expression crossed his face when I joined him in the kitchen where he was making hot cocoa. “You don’t look a day over twelve wearing those.”

“Remember I was in my pyjamas the first time we met all those months ago?” I reminded him, sitting down at his kitchen table.

“God, of course I remember! You made an unforgettable first impression –barefoot in your little nightie, armed with a gun
and
a knife, so angry. You sure caught my attention.”

I smiled. “Wasn’t the best way to meet my new boss for the first time though, was it? Trying to arrest you? You probably thought I was crackers.”