Blood Ties (46 page)

“Tess, why do you want to go home so badly?” he demanded, impatient.

Why did he always have to make everything so damn embarrassing for me? I took a deep breath. “Because, Sarge, I don’t like to be on duty without a bra. It was soaked in coffee too, okay? I need a replacement,” I replied bluntly.

“Oh.” And almost as if not of their own volition, his eyes drifted down to my chest taking in my unfettered boobs, before hurriedly moving back up to my face again. His cheeks reddened slightly.

“That’s unless you have a spare one you can lend me?” I asked with a half-smile.

That coaxed a reluctant half-smile from him in return. “Even if she was here, my fiancee isn’t as –” He stopped himself suddenly, turning away. “No, I don’t have a spare, I’m sorry.”

Chapter 23

We experienced some trouble forcing the man into the patrol car again.

“You’re not locking me up with those Bycrafts. I’m not a criminal! You’re violating my human rights!” he shouted as he squirmed, kicked and twisted in our grip. Just when we were both about to lose it and I was sure that the Sarge was seriously thinking about kneecapping him, he stopped fighting suddenly. He stood in the carpark, staring at me, blushing an ugly beetroot red. “You know, I can’t concentrate with your breasts jiggling around like that. Shouldn’t you wear a bra at work? It’s unprofessional of you as a police officer not to. Your boobs are very distracting. How’s a man supposed to focus?”

“Yes, I should be wearing one!” I snapped at him. “But you spilled hot coffee all over it. Remember?”

“Oh sorry. I didn’t think about that when I did it. I should have poured it over him instead.” He nodded towards the Sarge.

In an arctic tone, I said, “And if you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if you would stop perving at my breasts.”

“Well, you better tell him that too,” he said defiantly, nodding his head towards the Sarge again. “I’ve seen him sneaking in a few looks as well.” I glared over at the Sarge.

“I have not!” he protested immediately, but another reddening of his cheeks belied his words.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” I snapped in disbelief and roughly pushed the man into the back seat.

“Not that you haven’t got very nice breasts, because you have, believe me,” the man continued, his face blazing red and a sweat breaking out across his forehead as I leant over him to do up his seatbelt. “And normally it would be a real pleasure to stare at them. It’s just that I’m trying to escape at the moment, and I need to concentrate and I can’t do that if there are jiggly boobs in my line of sight.”

“
Will you shut up about my boobs, you little creep?
” I shouted in his face, frightening him. I slammed the door, throwing myself into the car in temper. I crossed my arms and slumped in the seat. “Hurry up and take me home,” I ordered the Sarge.

We drove in silence all the way, and I suspected that the Sarge was too afraid to even look in my direction in case I accused him of perving on me. That almost led to us being t-boned by a speeding car when he pulled out onto the highway without properly checking to his left because that’s where I was sitting. Back home, I quickly changed into my uniform, my most practical and least sexy bra firmly fastened, pulled my hair up into its customary bun, gave Dad a speedy rundown of the morning, kissed him goodbye and headed back to the car, fixing on my utility belt as I did.

“You’re allowed to look at me now,” I said to the Sarge with a friendlier smile. “I’m all bra-ed up again.”

“Glad to hear it. Maybe you should keep a
complete
set of spare clothes at the station?” he suggested.

It was a good idea – we never knew what was going to happen to us from day-to-day. I would bring some clothes in the next day. We drove in silence for a while.

“I made a very tasty pasta and salad dinner last night,” he told me conversationally as we sped towards Big Town, both of us ignoring the man yelling in the back. “I used some of that fresh produce we were left. The vegetables were so crisp and flavoursome. Nothing like what I used to buy at the supermarket in the city. And I thought I was buying fresh produce then. But those tomatoes . . . Wow! They were simply delicious.”

“Sarge!” I exclaimed, delighted. “We’ll turn you into a grass-chewing, wood-whittling, banjo-playing, slack-jawed, cousin-marrying yokel like the rest of us in no time.”

“Do I get a choice about that?” he asked, amused.

“Not really,” I smiled. “The only choice you get is whether you prefer to hold your potato-sack hessian trousers up with braces or a belt made from string.”

He laughed, a pleasant, warm chuckle.
He should smile and laugh more often
, I thought. It made him look much nicer.

“You have lovely furniture, Sarge. The old police house has never looked so stylish,” I complimented sincerely.

“My furniture doesn’t really match the house though, does it?”

“No. But your furniture’s still lovely to look at.”

“I bought it all for my apartment. It looked good there. Maybe I should have left it behind for my tenant,” he mused, almost to himself.

I jumped swiftly on that new piece of information. “You have an apartment?”

“Yes. In the city.”

“You’re renting it out while you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Mortgages can be killers, can’t they?” I said knowingly, even though I’d never had a mortgage in my life and judging by my current bank balance, would never be eligible for one either. I understand you have to have a decent deposit first before the bank would lend you any money and that ruled me out straight away. Dad and I pretty much lived hand-to-mouth, my pay coming from the government into our bank account and then straight out again to cover all the bills.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, smoothly overtaking a slow moving vehicle in front of us. “I’ve never had one.”

What the hell did that mean? He paid
cash
for a city apartment? Who on earth can afford to do that? I was dying to ask him a million questions, but I didn’t think he’d answer any more about his financial situation. So I changed the subject.

“You have the softest, fluffiest towels I’ve ever used.” I hoped I didn’t sound as wistful or envious as I suspected I did. I thought I could get away with a few more questions if I kept them less personal. “I’m sorry, but I’m very nosy and my attention was captured by your photographs before I left your house. Are the elderly couple your grandparents?”

“Yes.”

“Was that your fiancee with you in the group photo?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, she is.”

“What’s her name?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Melissa.”

“Were they your parents with you in that photo?”

“My mother and stepfather.”

God, squeezing information from him was like squeezing a tip out of a pensioner
, I thought in frustration. He should have been a spy, he was so tight-lipped.

“Your mother looks familiar, but I can’t think why. What does she do?”

“She’s just a public servant, like us.”

“Oh. I could have sworn I’ve seen her face somewhere before,” I said. “It’s a lovely photo though. You’re all so happy in it. It must have been a very happy time in your life.”

“Our engagement party. Almost two years ago.”

Bingo! I was a good cop, I congratulated myself smugly, doing a small victory dance in my mind. Then what he said struck me.
Two years!
That was a long engagement period. I wondered why they hadn’t married already. I really wanted to ask more questions, but I sensed he was tiring of my third-degree already. I was a patient woman though, and let it go for now.

“We want to interview
him
ourselves, don’t we?” I asked, moving away from his personal life and indicating our guest in the backseat.

“Definitely. We’re not handing this case over to Big Town. They can deal with your Bycraft assault because there’s a conflict of interest involved with us dealing with it, but the Little Town peeper is all ours.” He glanced at me. “You agree?”

“Yep. Especially after that coffee incident. I want to nail his butt to the floor,” I said and noticed with interest his shoulders relaxing.
Hmm, had he started caring about my opinion?
That might be a promising development.

We pulled into the parking lot of the police station in Big Town for the umpteenth time this week and again we drove around the back to where the watch house entrance was located. When the Sarge killed the ignition, our man in the back decided to be difficult again. As we opened the door, he thrashed and fought us furiously. I stopped fighting against him, took my hands away and leaned my elbows casually on the roof of the car, watching him. After a minute the Sarge noticed me and did the same, so we ended up with the spectacle of our man wriggling and fighting nobody. He was loudly screaming about police brutality and human rights, wrestling and struggling with himself, eyes tightly shut. The Sarge and I both raised our palms to the heavens in a ‘wtf’ moment, much to the amusement of the curious audience that had gathered at the ruckus.

Eventually the man opened his eyes and realised that neither the Sarge nor I had our hands on him. He stopped fighting and screaming, looking around him sheepishly.

“Police violence,” he complained in a small, unconvincing voice. The cops nearby shook their heads contemptuously and moved on with their business.

“You ready to get out, Johnny Depp, or do you want to finish Scene Four?” I asked sarcastically.

He huffed, “I’m not an actor.”

“We can tell that,” I said unkindly. “But your cellmates might enjoy some entertainment.”

“No! Don’t. I’ll talk,” he promised, as the Sarge dragged him from the car.

“Oh, you’ll talk, sunshine. No matter what we do to you,” I threatened.

“No! Please. Not in the watch house. No Bycrafts. They won’t warm to me. I’m not like them.”

“Sarge, we have a right royal prince here. He can’t be locked up with the common peepers, perverts and flashers where he belongs. He’s special,” I said sarcastically.

“I’m not a pervert!” he yelled and struggled again. Two bored uniforms came over to help subdue him and bundle him into the watch house, glad to have something to do. I thought resentfully that we could have used the extra manpower back in Little Town.

We followed them into the receiving area. In charge of the watch house that day was a uniform that I liked – Senior Sergeant Daisy Yu. I introduced the Sarge to her.

“What’s he here for, Tess?” she asked, indicating our man, fingers poised on the keyboard ready to enter data.

“For being an arsehole, Senior Sarge.”

She laughed – a hard, sharp yap. “That would cover all the men we know, darl. But there’s no law against that, unfortunately. One day, let’s hope.”

“I caught him peeping on me in my bedroom and he’s resisted us about four times now
and
thrown hot coffee on me. I’ve been scalded and I was just trying to be nice to him! Look!” I demanded and unfastened the top two buttons and pulled my shirt apart to show her a glimpse of my pink chest skin. All the men nearby leaned over to have a good old look too, including the Sarge.

“That’s just unforgivable,” Daisy said as I rebuttoned, shaking her head sadly at the bad manners of criminals these days. “Don’t you have a mother?” she snapped at the man.

“Of course I do,” he protested.

“She’s rolling in her grave at your awful deeds.”

“She’s not dead!” he protested again.

“Are you contradicting me?” she asked with practiced menace.

“No ma’am,” he said immediately, his voice shaking at her contemptuous stare, Adam’s apple bouncing up and down like a tennis ball at Wimbledon.

“Don’t call me ma’am! I’m not an officer and I never want to be one of those butt-kissing brown-nosers either. Your mother is turning in her grave over your terrible crimes. First, peeping on the Senior Constable here for a cheap porno thrill.”

“I never –”

“
I’m talking now!
” she shouted. He recoiled in fear and I seriously thought for a moment that he’d soon cough up his Adam’s apple it rose so high in his throat. “You peeped at the Senior Constable through her bedroom window, am I wrong?”

“No. Yes. Well, I was trying to see –”

“Did you hear that everybody? Condemned by his own tongue as a pervert!” she shouted, looking around the room, making sure everybody in the vicinity was listening. And when Senior Sergeant Yu shouted, you listened. Our man flushed a dark red again.

She continued her rant, tapping on the keyboard as she did. “Not only did you try to peep on poor, injured Senior Constable Fuller, when she was at her most vulnerable, you then resisted her and her partner trying to arrest you. That’s a mountain of offences, right there.” She looked up and pinned him with her black eyes. “Let’s get some details on you, sport. What’s your name?”

“I’m not saying anything until I get a lawyer.” He crossed his arms, his face set in stubborn mode.

“Oh God,” she groaned. “We’ve got one of those, have we?” She turned to us. “Have you searched him yet?”