your bowser: does it work?’
‘It works.’
‘Video or hard drive?’
‘Hard drive.’
‘I need to see footage from Friday, mid-morning.’
Tennant was confused. ‘Somebody broke in? I’m not missing anything.’
With a just-routine air, Hirsch said, ‘Someone put a note under my door, no big deal, something about a tax cheat, as if that’s the police’s business, but if the lens range and angle allows it, I might get an idea who left the note, put a flea in their ear.’
Stop babbling, he told himself.
‘Tax cheat?’
‘Not you,’ Hirsch assured the shopkeeper.
Irritated, Tennant took him to the back room and showed him the equipment and how to run a search. He wanted to hover, so Hirsch said, ‘Police business.’
~ * ~
HE WAS IN LUCK: Tennant’s camera had been angled to cover the bowser, but also showed the footpath and part of the police station. He saw a woman of slight build and above average height, shoulder-length fair hair swinging around her neck and cheeks, moving rapidly. No clear shot of her face, damn it all. Of course it helped that he rarely locked his old bomb, but she was in and out of his car inside a minute.
Hirsch found Tennant at the front door, anxious to lock up and go home. ‘Finished?’
‘I need to buy a memory stick.’
‘Really? You found something?’ Tennant said, intrigued, unlocking a drawer, fishing around in it and coming up with an eight gig stick. ‘This do you?’
‘Fine.’
‘I can show you how to copy the footage.’
‘I’ll be right.’
So Tennant charged Hirsch twice what the device was worth and waited in a sulk at the door.
~ * ~
Where to stow the phone and cash? If Internal Investigations officers searched his car now—which was presumably the point— and found nothing, they’d tear the house, office and HiLux apart. And he knew and trusted no one here.
Hirsch walked around to the rear of the station, poked his head over the side fence, into the old woman’s back yard. It was overgrown by weeds and roses, the little garden shed mute testament to her inability to keep up anymore. He clambered over the fence. Concealed everything in an empty paint tin, taking reasonable care not to disturb the dust that covered it.
~ * ~
Back in his office, Hirsch dialled an Adelaide number.
‘We need to meet.’
Sergeant Rosie DeLisle said tensely, ‘You bet we do. In fact, I was about to call you.’
That made Hirsch tense. ‘What happened?’
‘You tell me.’
Hirsch knew then that the Internals had some fresh purgatory in store for him: new evidence, a new slant on old evidence, something like that. Rosie had always been straight with him; ultimately she’d gone into bat for him, but he’d always skated on thin ice, the sessions he’d had with her.
‘I’m being set up.’
‘Is that a fact,’ she said flatly.
‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’
‘Not over the phone.’
‘That suits me. I can be in the city by ten.’
‘Tonight? No thanks. Tomorrow afternoon sometime.’
‘That works for me.’
‘Somewhere off the beaten track, Paul.’ She named a winery in the Barossa Valley. ‘One o’clock.’
‘You think your colleagues don’t visit wineries?’
‘Not this one.’
‘Ah, somewhere nice,’ Hirsch said. ‘Boutique. You sure you’re not on the take?’
‘Just be there, all right?’
~ * ~
Tuesday morning, and Hirsch had things to do before he attended Kropp’s briefing in Redruth. He was on the road by seven-forty, the sun laid out along the eastern horizon. A washed-clean day with vivid green on both sides of the road, the birds soaring. He lifted his forefinger to oncoming drivers, who didn’t expect it from a cop. Halfway down the valley he turned right onto the road to Clare, the only town of any size in the area.
‘It works.’
‘Video or hard drive?’
‘Hard drive.’
‘I need to see footage from Friday, mid-morning.’
Tennant was confused. ‘Somebody broke in? I’m not missing anything.’
With a just-routine air, Hirsch said, ‘Someone put a note under my door, no big deal, something about a tax cheat, as if that’s the police’s business, but if the lens range and angle allows it, I might get an idea who left the note, put a flea in their ear.’
Stop babbling, he told himself.
‘Tax cheat?’
‘Not you,’ Hirsch assured the shopkeeper.
Irritated, Tennant took him to the back room and showed him the equipment and how to run a search. He wanted to hover, so Hirsch said, ‘Police business.’
~ * ~
HE WAS IN LUCK: Tennant’s camera had been angled to cover the bowser, but also showed the footpath and part of the police station. He saw a woman of slight build and above average height, shoulder-length fair hair swinging around her neck and cheeks, moving rapidly. No clear shot of her face, damn it all. Of course it helped that he rarely locked his old bomb, but she was in and out of his car inside a minute.
Hirsch found Tennant at the front door, anxious to lock up and go home. ‘Finished?’
‘I need to buy a memory stick.’
‘Really? You found something?’ Tennant said, intrigued, unlocking a drawer, fishing around in it and coming up with an eight gig stick. ‘This do you?’
‘Fine.’
‘I can show you how to copy the footage.’
‘I’ll be right.’
So Tennant charged Hirsch twice what the device was worth and waited in a sulk at the door.
~ * ~
Where to stow the phone and cash? If Internal Investigations officers searched his car now—which was presumably the point— and found nothing, they’d tear the house, office and HiLux apart. And he knew and trusted no one here.
Hirsch walked around to the rear of the station, poked his head over the side fence, into the old woman’s back yard. It was overgrown by weeds and roses, the little garden shed mute testament to her inability to keep up anymore. He clambered over the fence. Concealed everything in an empty paint tin, taking reasonable care not to disturb the dust that covered it.
~ * ~
Back in his office, Hirsch dialled an Adelaide number.
‘We need to meet.’
Sergeant Rosie DeLisle said tensely, ‘You bet we do. In fact, I was about to call you.’
That made Hirsch tense. ‘What happened?’
‘You tell me.’
Hirsch knew then that the Internals had some fresh purgatory in store for him: new evidence, a new slant on old evidence, something like that. Rosie had always been straight with him; ultimately she’d gone into bat for him, but he’d always skated on thin ice, the sessions he’d had with her.
‘I’m being set up.’
‘Is that a fact,’ she said flatly.
‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’
‘Not over the phone.’
‘That suits me. I can be in the city by ten.’
‘Tonight? No thanks. Tomorrow afternoon sometime.’
‘That works for me.’
‘Somewhere off the beaten track, Paul.’ She named a winery in the Barossa Valley. ‘One o’clock.’
‘You think your colleagues don’t visit wineries?’
‘Not this one.’
‘Ah, somewhere nice,’ Hirsch said. ‘Boutique. You sure you’re not on the take?’
‘Just be there, all right?’
~ * ~
Tuesday morning, and Hirsch had things to do before he attended Kropp’s briefing in Redruth. He was on the road by seven-forty, the sun laid out along the eastern horizon. A washed-clean day with vivid green on both sides of the road, the birds soaring. He lifted his forefinger to oncoming drivers, who didn’t expect it from a cop. Halfway down the valley he turned right onto the road to Clare, the only town of any size in the area.
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