onto his sushi. ‘Somebody invented these soy fishes and a factory somewhere makes them, China probably. Keeps all these people in a job. How good is that?’ He lobbed it into a bin. ‘We’re still a long way from pinning this on Jimmy. Any ideas?’
Lara ran her hand along his thigh. ‘Maybe we can conjure up some magic from somewhere.’
‘Abracadabra,’ he said.
Cato was at home playing some Schubert on the Kawai but his fingers felt like they belonged to someone else: maybe a tone-deaf brickie with arthritis. He rested his left hand on the bass keys, noticing again the naked space where his wedding ring used to be. It had taken nine years for Jane to give up on his working hours, his obsessions and emotional distance. He hadn’t even seen it coming, too busy feeling sorry for himself when the bosses scapegoated him for a murder case frame-up. Bygones were bygones. Now he was back in the job and he had access to his son. Jane wasn’t coming back but he knew there was someone out there somewhere waiting for him to come into her life. Must be. And next time Cato would be different.
So what had brought about Shellie’s transformation? One day the mystery package – cruel and taunting, Shellie the despairing victim. The next, a new-improved walking-on-sunshine Shellie. Medication or meditation? Whatever, the effect was electrifying.
Are you sniffing around my Shellie?
Wellard, not your average raging sociopath it seemed. No, he was apparently gifted with prescience and telepathy.
She likes you. I can tell by the way she looks at you.
Maybe Wellard really could read the dark souls of men and women. Cato doubted it though. Sexual attraction would have been the last thing on Shellie’s mind that day as she prodded the ground searching for the corpse of her daughter. But what about since then? Shellie’s eyes across the rim of a coffee cup. Was the new-found chemistry real or was it a poisoned seed planted by Wellard? Either way it was wrong, Cato needed to watch his step and his hormones or risk a shipload of professional grief. He also needed to get some sleep.
Madge started barking. Cato was in a mood to kill that bloody dog. That’s what happened when you daydreamed about psychos. He closed the piano lid and went out into the street: the moon was three-quarters full and a breeze tickled the leaves in the trees. The lights were off next door. Mr and Mrs Madge must be out again. Cato picked some fist-sized bits of plaster out of the builder’s skip across the road and opened the side gate leading to Madge’s backyard. Theterrier’s barking was at fever pitch as the intruder ventured further into enemy territory. Cato threw a lump of plaster at the dog but missed. Madge scampered away, yelping and barking furiously. Cato threw and missed again. He steadied his aim for one last try. The backyard light suddenly blazed and a naked, semi-erect Felix stepped out onto the patio with a hockey stick held high.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Felix.
10
Tuesday, January 26th.
Cato woke up sweating. No, it hadn’t been a dream: he really did have a naked encounter with his neighbour last night. Cato had looked Felix straight in the eye – he didn’t want to look anywhere else – as he concocted a story about seeing off a prowler. Mrs Madge also made an appearance in a rumpled negligee, black with a scarlet bow. From the recesses of his mind Cato remembered her name, Janice. Felix seemed sceptical about the prowler tale but he was not going to call the police, this time, because he’d never really trusted ‘The Pigs’ and besides, with Cato being kind of ‘Asiatic’, there was no way they’d give him a fair go. Cato had thanked him and they all went to bed – their own.
Cato and Jake were going to the fireworks on the Esplanade tonight, come hell, high water, or even a Safer Streets Task Force meeting. Jake would be dropped off by his mum at 5.30. Cato needed to clear the decks
Lara ran her hand along his thigh. ‘Maybe we can conjure up some magic from somewhere.’
‘Abracadabra,’ he said.
Cato was at home playing some Schubert on the Kawai but his fingers felt like they belonged to someone else: maybe a tone-deaf brickie with arthritis. He rested his left hand on the bass keys, noticing again the naked space where his wedding ring used to be. It had taken nine years for Jane to give up on his working hours, his obsessions and emotional distance. He hadn’t even seen it coming, too busy feeling sorry for himself when the bosses scapegoated him for a murder case frame-up. Bygones were bygones. Now he was back in the job and he had access to his son. Jane wasn’t coming back but he knew there was someone out there somewhere waiting for him to come into her life. Must be. And next time Cato would be different.
So what had brought about Shellie’s transformation? One day the mystery package – cruel and taunting, Shellie the despairing victim. The next, a new-improved walking-on-sunshine Shellie. Medication or meditation? Whatever, the effect was electrifying.
Are you sniffing around my Shellie?
Wellard, not your average raging sociopath it seemed. No, he was apparently gifted with prescience and telepathy.
She likes you. I can tell by the way she looks at you.
Maybe Wellard really could read the dark souls of men and women. Cato doubted it though. Sexual attraction would have been the last thing on Shellie’s mind that day as she prodded the ground searching for the corpse of her daughter. But what about since then? Shellie’s eyes across the rim of a coffee cup. Was the new-found chemistry real or was it a poisoned seed planted by Wellard? Either way it was wrong, Cato needed to watch his step and his hormones or risk a shipload of professional grief. He also needed to get some sleep.
Madge started barking. Cato was in a mood to kill that bloody dog. That’s what happened when you daydreamed about psychos. He closed the piano lid and went out into the street: the moon was three-quarters full and a breeze tickled the leaves in the trees. The lights were off next door. Mr and Mrs Madge must be out again. Cato picked some fist-sized bits of plaster out of the builder’s skip across the road and opened the side gate leading to Madge’s backyard. Theterrier’s barking was at fever pitch as the intruder ventured further into enemy territory. Cato threw a lump of plaster at the dog but missed. Madge scampered away, yelping and barking furiously. Cato threw and missed again. He steadied his aim for one last try. The backyard light suddenly blazed and a naked, semi-erect Felix stepped out onto the patio with a hockey stick held high.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Felix.
10
Tuesday, January 26th.
Cato woke up sweating. No, it hadn’t been a dream: he really did have a naked encounter with his neighbour last night. Cato had looked Felix straight in the eye – he didn’t want to look anywhere else – as he concocted a story about seeing off a prowler. Mrs Madge also made an appearance in a rumpled negligee, black with a scarlet bow. From the recesses of his mind Cato remembered her name, Janice. Felix seemed sceptical about the prowler tale but he was not going to call the police, this time, because he’d never really trusted ‘The Pigs’ and besides, with Cato being kind of ‘Asiatic’, there was no way they’d give him a fair go. Cato had thanked him and they all went to bed – their own.
Cato and Jake were going to the fireworks on the Esplanade tonight, come hell, high water, or even a Safer Streets Task Force meeting. Jake would be dropped off by his mum at 5.30. Cato needed to clear the decks
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