Day 21

Running total: 17645 words
Getting used to Lloyd and writing as fast, or almost as fast as I normally do. 1638 words, this morning. I'm quite pleased with that. And as you can see, Lloyd is listening very, very well.
Pat followed Julie into the dim interior. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw there were two men sitting on the table on the far side of the room. High up on the front of the room two narrow windows let in the pale afternoon light. The only other light source in the room were the downlights from the bar. They crossed a narrow tiled area onto the garishly patterned carpet. Pat wondered who made these carpets. Could you just walk into a carpet shop and say. I'd like something bright and garish with little musical notes please? He shook his head. Taste was not a consideration when you were decorating a nightclub.
Pat studied the two men as he approached them. He smiled thinly suspecting that the poor lighting was for reasons other than economy. The men nearest to fulfill all of Pat's expectations of what a nightclub employee should be. over tight jeans, scruffy shirt unbuttoned to the naval, greasy hair. He was rocking back and forth on his chair as the two policemen approached , he gave them a casual nod.
" Where's my bloody lighter, you bastards" said Paul as he reached the table. He pulled out of chair and dropped into it, but did not invite Pat and Julie to sit. Pat stopped just behind Paul's right shoulder, with Paul would have to turn uncomfortably to look at him.
"Where did you leave it?" Said The man on the other side of the table. Pat studied him covertly. The men interested him, simply because of the way he was sitting. The man who was dressed in a suit of indeterminate colour, was sitting with his back to the flickering downlights. His face was in deep shadow and he appeared colourless; dark hair, dark clothes, dark face. Pat would bet his next pay that there was a sharp briefcase on the floor beside his chair. The man's voice was clear, without trace of an accent.
Paul Milton was still going through his pockets looking for the missing lighter. This looks like it's a constant occupation , thought Pat. He decided to take the initiative. "Is there somewhere, we can speak Mr Milton?"
"Yeah Yeah , go ahead," he snapped.
"In private. Please," said Pat.
"Aw Jesus Jesus." Paul swivelled around in his chair so that he could look Pat. "You think I keep a bunch of interrogation rooms out the back?" Pat said, nothing in response to that and Paul swivelled back again. "Jesus, I need a smoke."
A lighter sailed out of the darkness and landed onto the table in front of Paul.
"You can use my office, Mr Milton."
Out of the corner of his eye. Pat saw the vast shape blocking out the light from the bar. He didn't turn his head.
"Thanks Charlie, thanks" Paul grabbed the lighter and stood up. He jerked his head at the policeman. "Come on." Paul led the way across the floor to a door beside the bar. As they drew level with the bar, Pat glanced at the large man behind it. Nightclub security guards tended towards large but this man was an obese mountain. In the world of nightclub security prevention was the word. Charlie would cow any rambunctious college kid into submission. Pat turned away and shrugged. In the long run, he was pleased with anyone who would keep the peace but he suspected that Charlie was better at finishing fights than preventing them.
Paul opened the door in front of them and flicked on the light switch beside it. The office inside was simple, with a metal desk, a metal chair, and the calendar displaying the questionable charms of a woman and a bike.
Paul pulled out of chair with fake gallantry." Lady's choice" he said. Julie gave him polite smile and sat in the chair, which was bowed slightly as a result of its regular occupants. Paul leaned on the desk had shut the door behind him and pointedly did not lean on it. He pulled a notepad and pencil out of his pocket
"do you mind if I smoke?" Said Paul.
Pat did that he didn't say anything. The man was as highly strung as something very highly strung. A smoke might calm him down.
" Mr Milton. I'd like to ask you if you know John and Kate Parkinson (address)."
Paul lit his cigarettes and drew back with obvious relief. "Yes, I knew them. They were pals with mumsy and Daddy" he drew back again and flicked the ash onto the floor. "I read in the paper that they were murdered, so why you talking to me?"
"I'd just like to ask your whereabouts on the night of the third."
Paul snorted and waved his hand in a circular vague motion "oh, around and about. I'm a busy man, you know,"
"could you be little more specific, please?"
"Not really no. I was driving around seeing people. I have a lot of people to see. This nightclub won't run itself, you know."
"If you could give me a list of the people you saw that night?"
"Oh Jesus you've got to be kidding me! I can't remember everyone."
"Just a few names will do to start with, Mr Milton, and if you remember anyone else you can let me know."
Paul flicked some more ash onto the already dirty floor. "They were to service people, you know, napkins drinkies that sort of thing. Scratch that."
"The names of businesses will do, Mr Milton."
"Look I don't remember okay? I was a bit under the weather that night"
"Driving under the influence is a crime, Mr Milton."
"Hey, what are you try to pin on me? I was under the weather not drunk. You know, sick?" He glared at Pat. "Just watch what you say. And why the hell all these questions anyway, you think I was involved in the murder?"
"These are just routine questions, Mr Milton."
"But he would be asking me if you didn't think I might be involved."
Pat smiled his policeman smile. "We have no suspect that this stage, Mr Milton, where just asking people who knew the deceased. Any information you can give us may be helpful."
"Such as where I was on the night in question?" The Paul snorted and stubbed his cigarette out on the desk leaving a grey stain. "You people are a real piece of work, you know that?"
Pat didn't bother replying. He stared neutrally back at Paul.
"All right, all right. Let me think for a moment." He rubbed his eyes. "Let's see, I was here until about 10 p.m. then we got low on Bourbon, so I went down to the bottle-o and picked up a crate. Then I went home and had a kip for a couple of hours. I came back for closing around 4am. Charlie can vouch for that them with the closing and I went home again. Will that do?"
Pat finished jotting down his notes. "So, in fact, when you said you have a lot of people to see. You only actually saw one person."
Paul looked uncomfortable. "What I meant was a lot of people came and talked to me that night."
Pat raised an eyebrow. "Could you give me their names please?"
"No, I couldn't!" Paul pushed himself to his feet and glared angrily at Pat. "I don't keep notes of everyone I talked to. Jesus, most of them are just friends. People who want to say they were sorry about my parents. I have just lost my parents or isn't that on my file?"
"Yes, Mr Milton, we are aware that your parents are deceased." Pat said, carefully. But apparently not carefully enough. Paul took an angry step forward.
"Are you insinuate something?" Paul's voice was hard cold.
"Not at all, Mr Milton." Pat closed his notebook realising that the man was not in the mood to be questioned. They have enough to start with, anyway. "Thank you for your time we'll show ourselves out." Pat nodded at Julie and opened the door.
When they walked out, the man in the suit was gone and the man in the tight jeans was on the far side of the room, fiddling with the sound system. The light was getting worse is not better. As they approach the back door, the huge obese figure of Charlie blocked out the light. Pat kept walking and wondered if Charlie would move out of his way at the last-minute Charlie did move stepping aside slightly, so that he and Julie had to push past the vast bulk. Pat glanced up into the fleshy face. The man's nose had been broken multiple times, and the narrowed eyes were colourless in the afternoon light. He was aware of the sharp smell of sweat.
As they walked across the car park and back into the alley, Julie glanced back and shivered. "Foul," she said, "absolutely foul."
"Not the most reliable interviewee," said Pat.
"I can't decide if he's lying because he didn't speak to anyone or if he's lying because he spoke to more people than he said."
" at least we can agree that he's lying," said Pat.
Pat looked up at the front of the nightclub as they came to the car. Opening hours, 6 p.m. to 4 AM, he read. Not much help unless he could get someone to substantiate his whereabouts for those hours.
"So, how about those beers?"
Pat opened the door. "Not to night. I have to remind my family that I live there. Do you want me to drop you at home or at the office?"
"Drop the back at the office, I bought my car in today."
Pat started the car. "No problem," he said.

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Day 20, back from hiatus

Running total: 16007 words
Well, I'm back, though I won't make ti to the end of Nano. But the software at least lets me write again, or rather dictate my story into the computer, and I'm all good with that. If you read it, you'll see that it's not as polished as the typed ones; I'll be happy on the day that the dictation software can keep up with me. I'm not going to clean it up now though, I'll leave that until I've finished it.

The important thing is, I'm back!
Pat was just finishing his reports that the day when Julie walked into his cubicle.
" fellow Pat" she sat on the corner of his desk and picked his hand.
Pat leaned back in the chair and looked at her " well"
Julie flipped the pen and cord is expertly." How many beers do you owe me now" said.
Pat smile" obviously, one more" he folded his arms" well"
Julie put down the pen and leaned forward" have you heard of raz-time?"
Pat grunted." Should I have?"
Julie grinned." That depends, you get much nightlife these days?"
" only when I'm working."
" well," said Julie," the esteemed older son of David and Janice Milton owns a shoddy little club call Raz-time down in the valley. It's a bit of the dive. Cheap booze, cheap acts, you name it is there. Dear little Paul has been known to put his fingers in bad pies."
Pat raised his eyebrows." Does he have a record?"
Julie shook her head" not as such. However, however, he's been close and guess what. Even with all his little side ventures, Raz-tine is on the rocks. By the looks of that he is a bad businessmen."
" the sort of businessmen who could do with the bit of ready cash? Or example and inheritance?"
Julie nodded and put down the pen. "So yes, I'd say junior Paul could do with the money right out now."
"Perhaps we should drop in and see him?"
Julie grinned. "Before, after sunrise?"

Raz time was cheap little enterprise them from nestled between Chinese shop and pawnbrokers. Pat slid into the loading zone in front of the shop. He looked around, Mortimer Street was a little side street, two blocks from the main valley shops. The neon sign of the door proclaimed raz time in vibrant pink lettering.
"Charming place to live harm?" Said Julie, she looked around.
"Not the best neighbourhood."
Pat opened the door from them, the metallic stink of fresh cat piss, assailed his nostrils and he pinched his nostrils. "Lovely aroma"
Julie pull a face at him and she opened the door "Charming."
Pat looked around the neighbourhood, older narrow houses had been converted to shopfronts, simply by painting in garish colours and adding the appropriate nametag. Them, the pavement was Cray is like an old Maesteg puzzle and brown we struggle to grow between the cracks. From that the industry, someone had attempted beautification by planting trees. However, all that remained where dead sticks poking at the sky. The shook his head, not to streets away houses cost over $800,000. Even here, he suppose, the little club for shacks were bringing owners a tidy sum. Pat reached into the dashboard and grabbed his cap. He targeted onto his head. "Let's have a look inside."
Pat walked up to the front door. It was heavily padlocked with the chain going between the two sturdy door handles. He pounded on the door. Silence followed
"nobody home?"
"Let's take a look around the back."
Pat led the way along the street until he came to a narrow alley. Here the smell of cat piss was even worse, mixed with the smell of rotting garbage. Julie put hand to her nose.
"Even better."
Halfway along the alley of wasting was overflowing. Both lids were missing. The local crows had seen an opportunity for a feast, and had torn into the banks exposing the rotting food beneath. The fragrant remains have someone's Chinese meal was played across the asphalt. Pat slipped hastily passed the bin to the end of the alley. To their left, a barren piece of dirt, scarred with tire ruts, served as a rudimentary carpark. A battered sedan was the only occupant. Pat and Julie made their way across the carpark. As they drew level with the door to the Chinese shop. They saw a face peering through the battered screen door. The face with drew, and they heard voices from inside. On the other side of the carpark and narrow track leading to the grassy rear of the nightclub. The yellow convertible was parked on a slab of cement. The number plate was PDM 01
"any bets that that is our man?" Said Julie.
"No bets," said Pat.
Pat led the way to the back door, which was just as heavily padlocked as the front. However, the chain and padlocked was hanging loose on the door slightly ajar. Pat raised his hand to knock as he did so. The door was wrenched open.
"Well, get another act, for God's sake. What the hell do I pay you for?" The men in the doorway swung round the nearly collided with Pat. "Jesus! What are you doing?" He blinked as he noticed Pat's uniform. "oh Jesus," he groaned. "What the hell is it now?" He glared at the two policemen. "This is harassment. I'm going to complain!"
Pat put on his professional policeman smile and. "Paul Milton?"
"You know, it is. What you want?"
"I'd like to speak to you, Mr Milton."
A Figure appeared out of the smoky darkness behind Paul. Pat was aware of a vast amount of fat advancing upon them. "Everything okay, Mr Milton?"
Paul waved his hand vaguely in the figure's direction. "Yes yes," he said. "I receded. Paul glared Pat. "So what the hell is this time?" He fumbled in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. "I swear you guys are really harassing me." He searched his pockets frantically for a lighter. "Jesus! Which one of you bastards stole my lighter?"
"Mr Milton," said Pat with as much patience as he could muster, "we would like a few minutes of your valuable time."
Paul glared at him "and you can keep the sarcasm to yourself, copper." Pat said, nothing. "Alright, alright, you better come in." He turned and led the way into the gloom.
Pat stood back and gestured Julie to precede him.
"Thanks," she muttered, as she passed him.

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Day 8

Running total: 15009 words
Hayley opened the door and walked in to the empty apartment. She took a deep breath; the smell of freshly cleaned carpets, paint, new plastic. So different from her musty old flat. The carpet looked thick and clean so she kicked off her shoes and wriggled her foes on the yielding surface. The curtains across the wide windows were closed so she walked across the empty room and flung them open. The view across the river was breathtaking.
She fumbled with the keys until she found the one for the balcony doors and flung them open. Distant sounds of the city floated up to her as she stepped out on the balcony and looked down
The height made her dizzy for a moment and she grabbed the rail to steady herself. She would get used to it. She heard a distant horn and looked down onto the river to see the ferry slide into the terminal. To her left, another riverside apartment building rose into the sky. To her right, she had an unobstructed view of the river's gentle curve and the green expanse of Southbank.
For 10 minutes she stood on the balcony, savouring the height, the view but above all the sharp, hot feeling of joy that made her stomach flutter and her eyes tear up. No more tiny, smelly flats, cheap chipboard furniture, no more denying herself the future she wanted.
In her minds eye, she saw a large, new-age shop, stocked with crystals, incense and cards, with lines of people at the counter, and in the back room, herself doing astrology charts for grateful customers. "Have you been to Hayley? She's the best!"
Hayley looked around the empty apartment. This was her first step. First, go back to the flat and get what little she wanted from there. Then shop for furniture.
Downstairs, she stopped at the newsagent to pick up this month's Astrologers Journal and (Dream?). As she neared the counter, the front page of the courier mail caught her eye. "Couple murdered, kids survive." She stared at the picture. Was that...? She grabbed the paper. The picture was the front of the Parkinson's house.
Frantically she skimmed the article. "The housekeeper found the traumatised daughter in the morning and called the police." Poor Avril, she thought, poor Aster.
So that's why the police were there. She felt relieved for a moment, then guilty. And for Avril to find them! Avril was a nice lady. They often had coffee in the kitchen when Aster and Marcus were napping. She wondered what happened to them. Maybe they were sent to their grandmother in Bundaberg.
Hayley realised she had been staring at the paper for ages. She picked up the magazines and the paper and went to the counter. Maybe she should visit Avril, see how she was. Leslie was nice too, but a bit slow. Where did she live again? Oh yes, Inala. Hayley frowned. She didn't want to take her car there. Well maybe Avril could come into the city and they could have coffee. She would call her. Hayley paid for the paper and magazines and walked to the lift. After she finished shopping, she would call her.

Pat sighed and turned over another page. Post incident forms were huge and the bane of his life. Reams of paperwork had to be filled in, all of it fiddly, tedious stuff that filled up far too much of his day. Two days later and he was still writing up the Parkinson murder.
The grey walls of his cubicle had notes from the case and photos of the house and surrounds pinned onto the surface. Every time he looked at the neat garden he felt how out of place the murder was. Someone knocked on his cubicle wall and dropped a mail packet on his desk. Internal mail. He threw it on the floor between his desk and the wall. He could look at it later. In the background the phones jangled constantly, overwhelming the short bursts of conversation from the officers on admin duties.
He reached over for another pile of forms, knocking down one of Ben's colourful scribbles. He picked it up off the floor and pinned it back up. The caption was "We went fishing" in an uneven hand. Pat smiled. The trees he had worked out, but when he pointed to a blobby figure and asked if that was him, Ben had looked at him with scorn. "That's the fish, dad." Pat ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. He could really do with a day out on the boat and a couple of beers. Ben wouldn't complain, either.
Someone perched on the corner of his desk and he looked up. Brian picked up a paperweight and tossed it from hand to hand.
"Well?" said Pat.
"Well," said Brian, "going on the information we have, I've checked agencies and TAFE student lists and Centrelink files. I've found four girls called Hayley French in the metro area. None of them are registered childcare professionals and only one of them could remotely fit Joe's sketchy description of the girl he chased."
"And?"
"And she was at work on the day in question which has been verified by several people. Besides which, she's an engineer."
"Huh."
"On reflection, I suspect 'Hayley French' is not our runner's real name."
Pat sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, lets leave the girl's identity for a while. Something may become apparent later."
"Do you want me to post a request for information?"
"Not at this stage. I want to contact her, but she's not a suspect and I don't want to scare her off."
"So what's next?"
"What have you got from forensics?"
"No report yet. They're doing some trace tests and say they'll be a couple of days."
"I'd hate to be in a hurry. Okay, we'll- damn."
"What?"
"I forgot," Pat picked up his phone, "I meant to call Jane Saunders and ask her if Judith Brinkley takes a sedative." He dialled as he spoke. "What's going on with the papers and the computer?"
"Well, that's an interesting story. The papers-"
"Hello?" Pat waved Brian to silence and held up a hand for him to wait. "Mrs Saunders?"
"Speaking."
"It's Detective Inspector Levington. I just wanted to ask you some questions."
"Oh, certainly."
"Does Mrs Brinkley take sedatives?"
"Yes. Quite a few, in fact. She has Guillain-Barré Syndrome and often experiences phantom and transferred pain due to the demyelinsation of her peripheral nerves."
"Ah, I see." Which he didn't. "Had she taken any sedatives on the Tuesday night?"
"No, none. She was feeling fine."
Pat thanked her and hung up. So Judith had not been sedated. He pulled his lower lip.
"What's up?" said Brian.
Pat leaned back in his chair and swivelled from side to side. "I keep wondering why no-one heard anything. Those were horrific injuries. The two kids down the hall slept through the whole thing. The next door neighbours didn't hear a peep."
"They must have been gagged."
"I agree. And the coroners report will confirm or deny that. But I just can't figure out why." Pat got to his feet and grabbed his coffee cup.
"Does there have to be a why?" Brian fell into step with him. "Maybe they were a couple of low-life's looking for some jollies." Brian grimaced.
"You don't believe that any more than I do."
"No, I don't."
"So why?"
Brian shrugged. "At this point, who knows? We'll find the reason. Something will come up in the investigation. Which reminds me, the papers."
"Oh yes, you were saying. Go on."
"They were all legal documents. It turns out the Parkinsons were the executors of the estate of some friends who died a couple of weeks ago."
"Really?" Pat stopped in the hallway. People pushed their way around the two detectives. Brian motioned for them to move on. "Go on."
"David and Janice Milton, late of Hervey Bay. Killed returning home from Brisbane after the wedding of their niece."
"How did you find that out?"
"I looked up the incident report."
"Fair enough." They walked into the lunchroom and over to the urn. "So what was in the papers?"
"Estate stuff. Insurance, property, the will, bank accounts."
"Huh. Life insurance?"
"Nope."
Pat picked up a sachet of instant coffee and one of sugar and tore the ends off over his cup. "Who benefits from the will?"
"Their three kids. All good friends of the Parkinsons, who were Godparents to the eldest boy."
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-one."
"And the Parkinson's eldest is five."
"The Milton's obviously started earlier."
"Okay." Pat filled the cup from the urn. "I want details on the three kids, financial and personal, plus their movements around the time of the murder."
"Right."
On the way back to his desk, Pat stopped off at Leah Havram's desk. She looked up and smiled as he approached.
"You still owe me a beer."
"So I do. Want to make it two?"
"Propositioning a junior officer?"
"I thought you might like to get involved in the exciting world of police detective work."
"You mean it gets more exciting than babysitting?"
"Actually, that's probably about the most excitement you can get."
Leah sighed. "Wonderful. What did you have in mind?"
"I need some information on the will of John and Kate Parkinson. Find out who their executors are and who benefits."
"Sure." Leah jotted some quick notes on a post-it. "And don't forget those beers."

* * *

The coroner's report landed on Pat's desk the next day. He flipped it open and skimmed it quickly. Yes, there it was; traces of fibres in the victims mouth and teeth; they were gagged. Pat leaned back in his chair. That explained why no-one had heard them scream, but where were the gags? Why were the gags not on the bodies when they were found? He leaned forward again and turned back to the front of the file.
An hour later he put the file down and rubbed his eyes. Brutal, horrific. An image flashed into his mind, slender limbs with dark, ugly bruises. He clenched his fists and pushed it away. Focus on the Parkinsons. Pat grabbed his coffee cup and walked to the lunchroom. The kids couldn't have slept through that, even if their parents' screams were muffled. He filled the cup and walked back to the main room.
Amberly was waiting at his desk, holding a box of photographs. "I thought you might like to see these."
"Thanks." Pat took the photos and opened a packet at random. "Where are the bodies?"
"Here." Amberly pulled out a packet and spread the photos on Pat's desk. The bloody bodies lay twisted on the stained carpet, muscles taut and eyes wide and staring.
Pat ran his eyes over the wounds. He picked up a photo of Kate that focused on deep lacerations on her back and sides. "What do you think made those?"
Keith pointed to some blue Cat-5 cable lying near her. "As far as we can tell, the murderer modified the weapons at hand."
"Hmm." Pat stared at the photo. "How much noise do you think that would make?"
"Hard to tell. Why?"
"I'm wondering why the kids didn't hear anything."
Keith rubbed his chin. "It may have been a dull sound, not easily transmitted."
"Would it crack like a whip?"
"I don't know." Keith snapped his fingers, and then dived under Pat's desk.
"What are you doing?"
Keith's voice was muffled. "Getting some experimental material." He emerged from under Pat's desk with the same type of blue cable.
"Did you just break my computer?"
Keith snorted. "Can you type with more than two fingers yet?" He wound the end of the cord around his hand. "Let's try a little experiment." Keith pulled the cord back and slapped it hard against the partition. It made a sharp cracking noise.
Pat shook his head. "That wasn't really loud, and flesh is a lot softer."
"You're right. And it's too noisy in here to tell." He looked around and grinned. "I know. Let's use the boss's office."
"I don't think he'll be pleased."
"He won't be there. I saw him go off to a meeting with the Chief Superintendent about half an hour ago. We've got plenty of time."
Dubious, Pat followed Keith to Fergus' office. Keith opened the door and they slipped in and shut the door. The drone of the office immediately receded.
"Not perfect, but better," said Keith. He walked across the room and into the smaller meeting room. "If I shut this door, and you stand at the far end, we might get some idea of the noise level."
"Okay." Keith shut the door and Pat noticed Fergus' leather chair. "Keith!"
Keith opened the door again. "I haven't started yet."
Pat rolled the chair towards him and Keith's eye opened wide. "The boss's pet chair?"
"It's the closet thing we've got, unless you want to volunteer. Just for god's sake don't mark it."
"Okay." Keith wheeled it through the doorway and shut the door.
Pat listened. In a second, he heard a sharp cracking sound. He walked to the far end of the room. Without the background rumble muted, the noise was much clearer. Was it loud enough to be heard by the neighbours? He thought it might be loud enough to be heard by the kids. Maybe they should take their experiment to the crime scene.
"Is there a reason you're flogging my chair with an electrical cord?"
Pat strode hastily across the room and opened the door. District Superintendent Bell stood in the doorway of the meeting room, glaring at Keith, who flushed crimson.
"Just performing an experiment," he said.
Fergus raised his eyebrows and Pat interrupted hastily. "It's for the Parkinson investigation. I wanted to know how far sound would travel."
Fergus looked from one to the other. "Put my damn chair back. Why couldn't you use someone else's chair?"
"You have the only leather chair. It's the closest thing we have to skin."
"Skin?" Fergus motioned Keith and Pat to sit and settled into the chair. "Sounds nasty."
"It is." Pat handed over the picture of Kate.
Fergus looked at the picture with the detachment of a professional policeman. "A nasty customer. What made the wounds?"
Keith leaned forward and pointed out the blue cable. "Cat-5. It's standard networking cable. The murderer just pulled it off the computer."
"And the head trauma?"
"He dropped the monitor on her head."
"After death?"
"Before. I've just read the coroner's report."
"Time of death?"
"Between 6 and 7am. The corpses weren't even in rigour mortis when we arrived."
"Hmm." He handed the photo back to Pat. "And why the chair experiment?"
"I wanted to know if the kids could have heard their parents being tortured."
"The kids were in the house the whole time?"
"They were."
"And heard nothing?"
"As far as we know. We haven't spoken to them yet, they're in care."
Fergus shook his head. "An interesting case. Let me know how you get on." He leaned back. "Can I have a private word, Pat?"
"Sure."
Keith stood and put his chair back against the wall. "I'll hook you back up."
"Thanks."
Fergus waited until the door closed and leaned forward again, placing his arms on the desk.
"How are you doing?"
"Fine."
"How's Angela?"
Pat felt the muscles in his jaw clenching. "She has good moments and bad."
Fergus looked sympathetic. "If you need any time off-"
"No, it's ok." Pat stood suddenly. "Thanks."
Fergus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and nodded. Pat turned and walked out the door into the background hum of the office.

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Day 7 final

Running total: 12196 words
Pat dropped Brian off at police headquarters and drove out to Inala to interview the housekeeper, Avril Sachs. As he approached the house he slowed to look at the neighbourhood. Inala was a low income area and that was born out in the small yards with their straggling weeds, blocked up cars and broken fences. A patch of colour caught his eye and he looked ahead, slowed and then stopped. He checked his notebook; number 56. This was the Sachs.
The front yard was a mass of colour. The picket fence was freshly painted and the gate hung evenly on the hinges. Pat got out and locked the car. The front lawn was tiny but still lush and even, regimentally trimmed along the borders of the flowerbeds. He opened the gate and walked up the old concrete path towards the front door.
The house itself was an ancient fibro shack, but had been tidied up by an expert hand and now looked, among its shabby neighbours, to be a class above. Pat looked around at the neighbourhood and wondered what the residents thought of the trim little cottage.
He was about to knock on the front door when a large man came around the side of the house and spotted him. Pat and the man looked at each other before the other retreated back down the side of the house without a word. Pat paused indecisively, then decided to go with his curiousity and followed him.
Down the side of the house was barely room for one person to walk, and Pat could have easily touched both the house and the fence at once. There was no sign of the man so Pat walked to the end of the house and into the backyard. In the centre of the backyard was an old hills hoist with new clothesline. The backyard was as neat and well-kept as the front.
"Can I help you?"
Pat turned to see a tall, thin woman in her mid-forties standing in front of the back door, at the top of three steps that covered the distance between ground and floor level. Her expression was not friendly. The door behind her opened and the large man Pat saw before stepped out and stood behind her. Embarrassed, Pat fumbled for his badge.
"Detective Inspector Patrick Levington," he said, holding it up and approaching slowly. "Are you Avril Sachs?"
"Yes," said the woman. She turned slightly towards the man, who slipped past her and down the steps. As he passed Pat he looked at him briefly before his gaze flicked away.
"Come in," said Avril, holding the door open for him.
He mounted the three steps and stepped into the cramped kitchen, onto cracked and ancient lino.
"Tea? Coffee?"
"No, thank you."
Avril stood and looked at him silently.
"I need to speak to you about your work with the Parkinsons, if that's all right."
Avril nodded. "I thought so." She looked around, hesitated, and then led the way into the lounge room. Pat followed her. The furniture and the fittings in the room didn't match. A walnut sideboard stood beside a solid table. The brocade couch and chairs looked odd on the thin brown carpet. He sat on the chair she indicated and she placed herself neatly on the chair opposite.
"What did you want to know?"
"How long have you worked for the Parkinsons?"
"Not long. About 9 months, I believe."
"And what was your position there?"
"Leslie and I were employed to keep the house and garden maintained."
"I see." He made a note. "How did you get hired?"
"We were employed a few years ago by a couple who know- who knew Kate and John. We contacted Mike and Sarah because we were looking for work. They gave our names to Kate and John when they were looking for someone to take care of the house."
"And were you involved with the children?"
"No. They hired a babysitter for that."
"Do you know her name?"
Avril paused. "Hayley, I believe. We didn't speak much. She preferred to keep to herself."
"Do you know her full name, or where she lives?"
"I believe her last name is French, but I've no idea where she lives. We both had different jobs, and she spent all day with the children."
Pat jotted that down. At least now they had a name to go on. "Did Hayley start with the Parkinsons before or after you?"
"Before."
"Do you know how she was hired?"
"I've no idea, I'm sorry." Avril paused. "Can I ask, why all these questions about Hayley?"
"We need to get in contact with her. I have some other questions, though. When do you normally start work?"
"Sometime after 7am."
Pat jotted that down. "And you normally leave…?"
"Depending on what needs to be done, anytime between 3pm and 6pm. I prefer to be gone when my employers get home. That way I'm not intruding on their lives."
"So you've done this sort of work a lot?"
"For years. We had a small break for the last three years, but- circumstances have necessitated that we start again."
Pat nodded. "And does your husband keep the same hours?"
"Not always. We only have one car though, so if he's only working half a day he will come back and pick me up."
"Can you tell me much about the Parkinson's daily habits?"
"Not much. John left for work just after I got there, and Kate would leave for work around 8:30, as soon as the babysitter turned up. Although she was often late, and Kate would have to wait."
"She wouldn't ask you to look out for the kids until Hayley turned up?"
"No. Kate wouldn't trust the children to anyone except a professional child care attendent. I do know that the kids used to go to a centre, but that wasn't good enough for Kate. She preferred to have them at home."
"But Hayley sounds a bit unreliable. Was she good at her job?"
"I don't know."
"Did you ever hear Kate complain on that front?"
"No."
"What time did you leave their house on Tuesday?"
"Around three o'clock."
"And was Hayley still there when you left?"
Avril hesitated for a moment. "No. Hayley didn't turn up for work on Tuesday. Kate was furious. She had to hire someone at short notice."
Interesting, thought Pat. "Any idea who it was?"
"Her name was Angela, I believe. She was from an agency."
"No idea which one?"
"Sorry, no."
"Okay. And she was still there when you left?"
"Yes."
Pat jotted that down and looked over his notes. Nothing concrete, but more people to talk to and the babysitter's name. He stood up. "Thanks for your time, Mrs Sachs." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything odd, please give me a call."
She took the card silently and slipped it into her pocket before showing him to the front door. Leslie was in the front yard, pulling weeds from around some bright red flowers. He looked up as Pat passed.
"Afternoon," said Pat.
Leslie said nothing, just turned back to his flowers.

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Still day 7

Running total: 11000 words
Pat stared across the patchy grass between the eucalypts and bottlebrushes. The park was vast, running over two blocks, with twisting bikeways, wooden picnic tables and public barbeques. Standing there he counted twenty people just in his direct vision from his position at the end of the walkway. He shook his head, and walked back along the path, this time stopping to look at the Parkinson's gate. Someone could have easily slipped along this path and into the street.
He walked the possible path of a murderer. Around the corner and onto the footpath in front of number 4. Twenty metres max and you would be at the Parkinson's front gate. The driveway gate was one of the automatic, sliding ones, and would normally be locked. So it would have to be this gate. He lifted the latch and opened the gate. It swung smoothly on oiled hinges and didn't make a sound. Great. If there was a god, it would have been old and squeaky and would have woken someone who would have looked out of the window and seen a distinctive and easily recognisable shape slip into the yard and would have been able to identify him later. Or even called the police at the time. But there was no god and the murderer could have slipped through this gate silently and killed the Parkinson's in their sleep.
Except they weren't killed in their sleep. They were killed in the study of their house. Not in nightclothes, but in their work clothes. As he walked down the side of the house, he wondered about their habits. Did they come home at a reasonable hour and get straight into comfortable clothes? Did they come home late and stay in their workclothes before going to bed? Was this normal or abnormal?
There were too many questions he needed answers for. The coroner could tell him the time of death, but what he wanted to know was the time that the intruder broke into their house, tied them up and tortured them. And he wanted to know why no-one heard anything. Pat had heard many people screaming in pain, and he didn't think for a moment that, if the Parkinsons had been screaming, no-one would have heard them. Not with all the closed windows in the world.
Pat walked into the house and up the stairs. So many questions. He always hated the start of an investigation. When he was just starting out as a Detective Constable, he would get excited at the puzzle before him, work at it, pull threads and poke it until it made a picture of a murder that they could decipher. After so many murders, all he could feel was a dull hatred of humanity who could maim and kill each other so easily for such pointless reasons.
She had twenty dollars in her wallet. That was it. No cards, nothing valuable. Nothing that was worth her life.
Pat hunched over and brought his mind angrily back to the Parkinsons. Why were they murdered? For money? For revenge? For jollies?
The study looked empty now. All the papers and the computer had gone and the chairs lay on their sides on the bloody carpet. Pat made his way carefully to the window and looked out.
The study window looked down into the side garden between the Parkinsons and Judith Brinkley's house. He opened the window and stuck his head out, craning his neck around. Yes, from here he could just see Judith's window. He pulled back inside the room, shut the window and pulled out his notebook. Follow-up question, he wrote, ask JSaunders if JBrinkley takes sedative.
He slipped the notebook back into his pocket and walked out into the hall. The children's rooms were at one end of the hall, the parent's bedroom at the other. Once again, he shook his head. How had the intruder, or intruders, managed to break into the house, tie up the parents, torture and then kill them without waking the children? He walked down the hall and opened the door into the first kid's bedroom. Obviously the girl by the pink and cream tones. He shut the door. The killer left them alive. They hadn't woken until late and then looked for their parents. Why didn't they hear anything? Why were they even alive? It was baffling. People like that didn't stop at killing children. No matter how innocent they were.

"Oh come on, Hay!" Ronnie clutched Hayley's arm dramatically. Hayley wished she wouldn't, she still wasn't used to the gear changes and had already made some awful sounds.
"Nope." Hayley took pleasure in Ronnie's anticipation. "I'll tell the story tonight, when we're all together. Otherwise I'll just have to tell it more than once and it will get boring."
Ronnie flung herself back in the seat with a sigh. "You're cruel Hayley, did you know that?"
Hayley laughed and changed lanes so she could accelerate past a slow car. She flew through an orange light and on to the freeway on-ramp. "Watch this!" she said. She floored the accelerator and Ronnie shrieked with delight as they flew down the freeway. The car slipped up to 140kph and Hayley slid from lane to lane around slower cars sticking to the speed limit.
"Fantastic!" yelled Ronnie, "but you'd better slow down. They usually have speed cameras around Mount Gravatt."
Hayley pouted but did slow down. She only had one point left on her license after a traffic violation and didn't want to lose it now.
Ronnie leaned back and closed her eyes. "Isn't it heavenly to have the wind in your face?"
"Absolutely." Hayley changed lanes to get to her exit. "How long will you be at the TAFE?"
"Not long. I've just got to run in and drop off the assignment and then change my tute times."
Ten minutes later they pulled to a stop in the carpark at Nathan Campus. Ronnie grabbed her bag and opened the door. "I'll be ten, maybe twenty, ok?"
"Sure." Hayley waved as Ronnie dashed off, and then reached over to the back seat for her bag. She scrabbled in the depths for her mobile and address book. Adding all her friends numbers to the mobile kept her occupied for a while. She looked up but Ronnie was nowhere in sight. Sighing, she wriggled into the seat. She should have bought a CD to try in her car stereo. She checked her watch again. Come on, Ronnie.
A couple of girls pulled up in another spot and jumped out. She examined their clothes surreptitiously. Not bad, she liked the two-shirt look on the tallest girl. She suppressed a snort of laughter at the last girl of the group; slightly overweight, she still tried to pull off hipster pants and a mid riff shirt. But it was a nice shirt. She would have to look for one like it.
The girls were openly admiring of the car as they passed and Hayley exchanged smiles with the tallest one. The group of four reminded her of her own clique and she hoped they would all be home tonight so they could go out.
Hayley decided she couldn't wait to find out and pulled out her mobile to SMS them. Ronnie didn't bother with a mobile but Aleisha and Nina both had one. Well, now she had one too.
It took her a while to get the hang of the predictive text and she hadn't finished the message when Ronnie got back.
"Hey, who you messaging?"
"Leish and Nina. Just saying we're going out tonight."
"Leish will come but Nina's got her dance classes on, so I doubt she will."
Hayley paused for a moment and then added 'xcitng news" to the end of her message. She sent it to them and then slipped the key into the ignition.
"Ready to go for a cruise?"
"You bet!" said Ronnie.

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Day 7

Running total: 9677
Hayley jiggled impatiently then rang the doorbell again. Come on, come on. As the seconds dragged on, her disappointment rose. If Rhonda was out, that was it. All of her friends were at work or TAFE and she had no-one to go for a drive. She turned and looked down at her red convertible, parked in the driveway. The little lift of excitement she got from looking at it was wearing out with nothing to sustain it.
The door behind her opened suddenly and she jumped and turned around.
"Hayley!" Rhonda's hair was wrapped up in a towel, and without her glasses, she was squinting slightly. "Hi!" Rhonda frowned. "Why aren't you at work?"
"I quit." Just saying the words made her feel breathless and giddy again. "I told the old cow what I thought of her and walked out."
Rhonda's eyes grew round. "Ohmigod, no way!"
"Yep! It was great. She was so pissed."
"I thought you really liked those kids."
"I did, but really, there's a limit to what you can put up with."
Rhonda shook her head. "I never thought you'd have the guts to do that, Hay. Way to go." She grabbed Hayley's arm and dragged her inside, shutting the door behind her. "Now tell me all about it while I do my hair."
Hayley followed Rhonda across the worn carpet of the tiny flat. She leaned on the doorframe of the cramped bathroom while Ronnie unhooked the hairdryer and plugged it in. "Well, I got the idea from you Ronnie, when you told that dirty old chef to shove it, and dumped a tub of gravy over his head."
Ronnie giggled, then looked horrified. "You didn't dump anything on Kate Parkinson's head, did you?" Rhonda pulled off the towel and shook out her hair. "Kate's pretty well known. Mum says she's a regular tiger at the CWA."
Hayley thought about what she might have dumped on her ex-employers head, but gave up. "No. I just told her I was sick of putting up with her shit."
Ronnie dragged a comb through her damp hair. "Was she really that bad?"
"Awful." Hayley raised her voice as Rhonda turned on the hair dryer. "She was such a cow if you were even minutes late. If I missed my first bus in the morning that was it, she's be waiting there tapping her foot, whinging that she had to get to work and I'd made her late."
Rhonda shook her head sympathetically, watching Hayley in the mirror.
"I mean, she's deputy chief executive! Who's going to call her out? She could come to work at midday and no-one could say anything. If I was that high up, I would come and go as I pleased. She was just being a cow."
Ronnie shook her head. "Sometimes you have to put up with the cows though, hon." She flipped her head upside down and began to dry the underside of her hair. Her voice when she next spoke was muffled. "So what are you going to do now?"
"Well, I thought I'd sort of do my own thing for a while. I've always wanted to be an astrologer. There's a couple of courses you can do. I think that would be awesome. Then I could start my own business and work to my hours."
Rhonda stood up, flipping her long curls to the back. She shut off the hairdryer. "I meant work. Or are you going to go on the dole? They won't let you study, you'll have to look for work."
"It's okay. I've got a bit of money put aside to tide me over." She couldn't help grinning as she said this, thinking how ridiculous it was to call her millions 'a bit of money'. She almost came out and told Ronnie, but stopped herself. She wanted them all to be there, to see their faces and hear them shriek with amazement.
"So anyway, I'm at a loose end this afternoon and thought you might like to get together and do something."
"I can't, hon. I've got to get the bus out to Nathan and drop off an assignment, and see my tutor." She ruffled her curls to give them bounce. "It sucks that the local TAFE doesn't do my course and I have to go out so far." She walked out into the kitchen and started stacking up papers from the table. "I guess I should move out there but I like being this close to the Valley." She grinned. "It means I don't have to stagger too far to get home on Friday nights."
"Well, why don't I drive you? Then we can get a coffee somewhere."
"Oh, have you got your mum's car? That would be super! Just give me a minute." Rhonda dashed off to the bedroom.
"No, I haven't got Mum's car," Hayley called after her. "I bought my own car."
Rhonda came out of the bedroom with a large, chunky handbag slung over one shoulder. "What was that? I missed it."
"I bought a car."
"Really? Cool. I couldn't afford a car right now. But then I'm only working part-time. What sort of car is it?"
"A red convertible."
Ronnie giggled. "And isn't that what we all want." She grabbed her papers and motioned Hayley out the front door. On the landing she fumbled in the bag with her keys. "Oh where are they? I know I put them in here."
"Do you want to see it?" Hayley moved awkwardly onto the top step, so that if Ronnie looked down, she would see the car. But Ronnie was preoccupied with the lost keys.
"I brought them home with me last night, I know I did, because I unlocked the door this morning for the water guy." Ronnie, for all her budgeting, refused to drink Brisbane water, and had a cooler full of Spring Water in her kitchen. She said it wasn't an indulgence, but a necessity for someone brought up on rainwater. "I followed him into the kitchen and, ah, oh, that's right. Just a mo." Ronnie dashed back into the house.
Hayley resisted the urge to hurry her. Ronnie went at her own pace and would get stubborn and mulish if pushed. Hayley wondered how she coped at work when the orders were piling up and the head chef was getting pushy. Obviously she did, because she had worked at the same place for four years now, and was almost finished her pastry chef's certificate. Hayley wrinkled her nose. One year of TAFE to get her certificate III in Childcare had been enough for Hayley.
"Got them!" said Ronnie triumphantly, appearing in the doorway with the keys gripped in one hand. She locked the door, turned around and shrieked. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" She ran down the stairs past Hayley to get a closer look at the car.
"I told you," said Hayley.
"Is it really yours, hon?"
"Yep." Hayley pressed the button for central locking and the car blipped. "Hop in."
Ronnie slid into the bucket seats with a moan. "I don't believe it. This is awesome! It isn't a joke, is it?"
"Nope." Hayley's face felt like it was splitting in two from smiling so hard. This was exactly how she had imagined Ronnie's reaction.
"Right," said Ronnie, slipping on her seatbelt. "I want to hear every, last, detail. Everything."

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Still Day 6

Running total: 8440
Hayley staggered to a stop. She was dripping with sweat and her heart beat painfully in her chest. Through a film of red she saw the cars flying along the road. She glanced back into the park. She couldn't see anyone running along the bikeways after her.
She leaned on the fence until her breathing slowed. Her head started pounding with the unaccustomed exercise. Angrily she pushed off the fence and started walking. That dumb kid Marcus. If he hadn't called out to her the police would never have noticed she was there. And now she couldn't go back and tell the kids to tell their mother that she was finished with babysitting forever.
Hayley saw a white car pull up to the curb beside her and fell back with a cry. But it wasn't a police car after all, just a woman stopping at the corner store for milk. Hayley walked faster. She desperately wanted a drink, but she also wanted to get out of here in case the police drove by. She turned the corner into the next road and kept walking, wishing she knew the number of a cab company so she could call a cab and get out of here. She's put up with any old bore at the moment just to get away from Hamilton. Back tot eh city, that's where she needed to go. Then she could get a bank cheque and go and buy her car.
Hayley felt a lift of excitement inside just thinking about it. When she picked it up, she would go for a cruise and see which of her girlfriends was at home. She's bought a four-seater specially so she could take people out. She could take them to lunch, treat them. Wouldn't they be surprised. She imagined their reactions to her new clothes, her mobile, her new car.
Ahead of her was a bus stop and Hayley read the flashing timetable. There was a bus to the city in 9 minutes. She chewed her lip. That should be ok. She could wait behind the shelter, in case a cop car drove by. Satisfied, she checked her purse for change. Still over $200 in cash. She felt her wet underarms and decided that she would pick up her car and then go home for a shower before dropping in on her friends.

Pat glanced out of the kitchen window and nodded. No wonder Jane hadn't seen or heard anything. The kitchen looked out onto the backyard, which was full of statuary and shaded by a huge Jacaranda. Along the fenceline, tall, dense hedges of camellia gave the yard privacy.
"How did you know something was going on this morning?" he asked.
"Judith called upstairs. She has a very wide view from the front window. She asked me to go down and find out what was going on."
Ordered was more likely he thought, but didn't say it. "Do you mind if I just go down the side of the house? Then I'd like to see upstairs."
"Sure. But I'd better go up first and tidy, or I'll never hear the end of it."
Pat stepped out the back door and walked towards the Parkinson's fence. There was a reasonable space between the house and the camellia hedge. Absolute silence came from the other side. Pat was surprised they could hear anything from the neighbours house. Even the traffic noises from the main road just a block away was muted.
He turned and walked down the path beside the house until he came out onto the front lawn. The fence was rendered cinderblock, limiting the visibility to the neighbours and onto the road. No wonder Mrs Brinkley preferred the top floor window. He glanced upwards; yes, she would have an excellent view from there.
He went back towards the house. He was about to enter via the front door but changed his mind and went back down the side of the house to the back door.
As he moved down the hall he could hear Judith's voice and Brian's baritone. By the sound of it Brian was charming the old lady and Pat shook his head. Trust Brian to be able to get on with anyone. But that's what made him such a good sergent. Unconsciously Pat walked softly as he approached the stairs. He glanced towards the couches but Judith was facing away from him and Brian appeared to be hanging onto her every word. He slipped quietly up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, a hall ran the length of the house, opening into a small sunroom at the front. Pat made his way to the large window that Mrs Brinkley had been looking out of that morning and looked out. Yes, she had an excellent view here. He glanced at each of the neighbours houses in turn. The house on the opposite corner was number 7. House numbers in the tiny cul de sac started at number 3 and went up to number eight. Numbers 1 and 2 were nowhere to be seen. Pat shook his head and wondered how the councils worked out the numbering system.
In number 7 an elderly man walked out of a side door with a bag of garbage, which he deposited in the wheelie bin. There was no movement from number 5 and only a limited view of number three. Number 6, the Parkinson's, was next door and he could only see a small section of the front yard and driveway from here. Of number 4, at the end of the street, he could see the corner of a fence. Between number 3 and four was a fenced pathway.
He could hear Jane moving around in one of the rooms and went in search of her. He found her in a large bedroom on the Parkinson's side of the house, pulling up the covers on a bed with more frills than an old fashioned chocolate box. He knocked gently on the doorframe.
Jane looked up and smiled as she tucked the coverlet over the pillows.
"May I come in?"
"Of course." She glanced around and picked up the empty glass beside the bed.
"Where does the pathway at the end of the street go?"
"The- oh! It just leads into the park." Jane turned and gestured in that direction. "There's a big park here, (name of park), that runs all around the houses and almost to the main road. It's one of the reasons this are is so expensive."
Pat made his way to the window and looked out. He could see the tops of some large trees over the Parkinson's roof. The window here looked directly into the Parkinson's back yard, though much of the view was obscured by the hedge.
"Did you need me for anything else?"
Pat turned back from the window. "No, that's fine. I won't be a moment." He smiled. "And I promise not to steal the spoons."
Jane laughed and shook her head. "I'd better go and rescue your sergent. Call if you need anything." She walked out of the room.
Pat waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs and then stepped up to the bed. How much of a view did she have from here? He leaned over, trying to guess what she could see from where she was lying. Could she see the back door? He manouvered around, but still wasn't sure. Finally, after looking around guiltily, he lay down gingerly on the bed, trying to keep his shoes off the covers. First he lay his head on the pillow; no, only the top floor visible from there. Then he sat up as if reading. From this position he could see a corner of the back door, still hanging askew. The window was closed and the only sounds he could hear were the voices from downstairs. He got up carefully and shut the door. Now the silence was thick. Pat sighed, and wished that she slept with the window open. Maybe then she might have heard something.
He opened the door and then glanced back at the coverlet, now showing a definite imprint of policemen. He went back to the bed and tugged at the coverlet until it was smooth, though definitely not the crisp neatness of Jane's work. He wondered if she was a nurse previously; it would be quite likely, he thought.
He made his way downstairs. Mrs Brinkley and Jane were laughing; Jane looking a little scandalised. He wondered what his sergent had been telling them. Pat cleared his throat and they looked around.
"Thank you, Mrs Brinkley." Brian stood up as Pat approached. "If you remember anything at all, please call us."
"Of course," she said. "And remember what I told you, Brian."
"I will. Thanks for the tips."
"I'll see you to the door," said Jane.
They said their goodbyes and walked down the driveway.
"First name basis already?" said Pat quietly.
Brian grinned. "I guess it's just my natural charm."
Pat snorted as they stepped onto the street. "Have you spoken to all of the residents?"
"All except number 4, the Bakers, who are away at the moment."
Pat groaned. "Typical!" He looked over to Joe, who was talking to a man holding a camera. "The papers are here already I see." Pat nodded to Joe. "I'm going to have a look at this pathway."
"Sure. I'll go keep Joe company for a while."

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Day 6

Running total: 6857

Pat followed Jane into the house. The hallway was well lit and spotlessly clean. He followed her down the hall. Halfway along they passed a pale sculpture of white marble, contorted into a grotesque shape. The hallway opened up into a large open plan lounge, with cream, overstuffed couches and a view through the mulliouned windows onto an old-style cottage garden.

"Judith?" she called.
"I'm coming!"
"Do you need a hand?"
"No thank you. Make a pot of tea."
Pat groaned inwardly. Weak milky tea and biscuits when he really wanted a strong black coffee.
"Please sit down," said Judith. She glanced over to the stairs, where the hum of machinery could be heard, and lowered her voice. "Jane has been an invalid for a long time, and can be quite rude sometimes. Please don't take offence."
"I won't. Thanks for the warning."
Judith nodded to him and walked towards the rear of the house. As she passed the stairs she manouevered a wheelchair close to the foot of the stairs.
The hum of machinery increased and Pat turned to see a chair lift coming down. It stopped a the bottom stair. A frail looking woman with white hair reached out and pulled the chair closer. Pat stood up.
"Sit down," she snapped. She pulled herself up off the chair and onto the wheelchair. Pat sat.
Judith wheeled herself carefully across the carpet and brought the wheelchair to a stop at an open space between two couches. She sat back and made herself comfortable. Pat watched quietly, knowing that this sort of independent older woman would give him more trouble than he wanted if he put a foot wrong.
"Well," she said when she was settled, with a shawl over her wasted legs. "I see the police haven't become more polite over the years."
Pat took off his hat and stood up. "Detective Inspector Patrick Levington," he said, holding out a hand.
She viewed it for a moment then shook it, smiling. "How do you do? My name is Judith Brinkley." She indicated the seat and he sat. Judith examined him in depth and Pat felt an urge to shine his shoes on the back of his trousers. He resisted the urge, and examined her in turn.
She was easily in her late fifties, possibly early sixties, though the wasting of her body made her look much older. However her hair was perfectly set and she was dressed in a classy pantsuit in a subtle lavender that didn't overpower her wispy paleness. Her eyes were clear and a strong hazel. Pat thought that she must have been a striking woman once.
"Are you finished being nosy?"
Pat forbore to say that he was returning the courtesy, instead he changed the subject. "Mrs Brinkley, I need to ask you some questions about the incident at the Parkinson house this morning."
"You mean the murder." Judith leaned forward. "I saw the body bags come out." She nodded her head. "Call a spade a spade. They were murdered and you want my opinion on it."
Pat didn't want her opinion of the murder but knew that he would get it anyway, as well as a flood of information on the neighbourhood goings-on. Neighbours like this were a gold mine of information, though what they considered information and what the police wanted to know where not often the same.
"I need to ask if you saw or heard anything last night or this morning that you would consider out of the ordinary?"
Judtih pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. "Actually, no. The first idea I had that anything was wrong was hearing the police sirens. Nothing before that was out of the ordinary."
Pat pulled out his notebook and jotted this down, then had a thought. "Did you hear Aster scream this morning?"
"The girl? Oh yes. But that's not unusual. Both of those children are horribly spoilt and scream if they don't get served the cereal they want." Judith waved her hand dismissively. "Neglectful parenting, that's what it is. What it was," she added thoughtfully.
Pat jumped in with another question to avoid becoming involved in a discussion on parenting. "Were you already awake at that time?"
"Oh yes. I wake up quite early. In the winter, a little later, but in summer I usually wake up just before sunrise."
"Do you get up?"
"No, I normally lie in bed and read."
"So you were awake this morning when Aster screamed?"
"Yes I was."
"Did you hear anything before that?"
Judith put her head on one side. "No. At least…no."
"What were you going to say?"
"Something is niggling at me, but I can't think what."
Jane came in with the tea things on a tray and placed them on the coffee table. "Tea, Inspector?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Milk? Sugar?"
"Neither, thank you." Pat pursued the topic of early morning disturbances. "Mrs Brinkley, anything that you may have heard could turn out to be important."
"Yes, yes," she flapped her hand at him, "but I can't just call it up at will."
Pat wondered if perhaps she could remember perfectly, but just wanted to prolong the interview.
Jane placed a cup of tea in front of him. He glanced down at it. The cup and saucer were liberally painted with flowers and edged in gold. Ancient, horrible memories of Saturday afternoon tea at his great aunt Hermione's place surfaced and he swallowed involuntarily. Thirty years on and he still couldn't stand tea, especially weak, milky tea. Black and sugarless was all he could stomach.
"Biscuit?"
"No, thanks." Pat smiled and wished she would sit down. She finally did, after making sure that Judith was comfortable, and with much complaining from the older lady.
"While you're here Mrs Saunders, I'd like to ask you what time you got up this morning."
"Oh." Jane placed her cup gently on its saucer. "Around six I believe. I usually get up then and start breakfast."
"Did you hear or see anything abnormal after you got up?"
Jane thought for a moment and then shook her head. "No. But my bedroom doesn't face towards the Parkinson's, and neither does the kitchen."
Pat nodded and jotted this down. "Thank you. If you do remember anything odd, please contact me." He handed her his card, but Judith intercepted it and examined it eagerly.
Pat picked up the tea cup gingerly and sipped at it. Horrible.
The doorbell rang and he looked up.
"I'll get it," said Jane. She moved quickly down the hall.
"Well?" demanded Mrs Brinkley.
Pat blinked at her. "I'm sorry?" He heard a murmur of voices coming from the front door.
"The murder! What happened?"
Pat felt slightly sick, remembering the scene in the Parkinson's study. "I'm sorry, I can't divulge that to you."
Judith looked disappointed, then perked up. "Oh well, it will be in the paper tomorrow."
As that was perfectly correct, Pat didn't say anything. The woman looked delighted at the thought of reading about a horrible murder that happened just next door. Pat reminded himself that the average citizen didn't understand the horrors of murder as only a few unlucky ones ever saw the body.
Jane walked back down the hall, followed by Brian. "Detective Sergent Brian Michaels," she said to Judith.
Relieved, Pat placed his cup back in the saucer harder than he had intended.
"Careful!" snapped Judith. "That's Royal Doulton and belonged to my mother."
"Ah. Sorry," he stuttered. He glared at Brian who was grinning. "Mrs Saunders, I'd like to look around if that's all right."
"What for?" snapped Judith.
Pat turned to her. "Just to see the proximity of your house to the Parkinsons, and what sort of view you have."
"And to pick up any stray money lying about, I suppose."
"Judith!" Jane looked shocked. "These are policemen!"
"So?" Judith's stare at Pat was challenging. "I remember the times before the Fitzgerald enquiry. You can't tell me they got rid of all the dirty cops."
Jane was crimson with mortification. "Inspector, I apologise-"
"Don't you apologise for me! You just make sure you keep an eye on him!" Her voice softened and she smiled at Pat. "Not that I'm accusing you of anything. I'm sure you understand."
"Absolutely," he said, because he couldn't think of a more suitable response. "And if you could think what it was that you found odd this morning, I would appreciate it." He grinned suddenly at Brian. "Sergent Michaels will be happy to help jog your memory." He gestured down the hall. "Mrs Saunders?"
As they moved down the hall, he heard Mrs Brinkley's voice.
"So, only a sergent, eh? Having trouble getting a promotion? I've got some tips that might help you."
Pat smiled happily and followed Jane down the hall.
"I'm terribly sorry, Inspector. She does get these funny ideas."
"That's alright Mrs Saunders. My skin's quite thick." He glanced into a doorway as they passed.
"What would you like to see?"
"Lets start with the kitchen."

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Day 4

Running total: 5345

"And I said to him, you know what? I don't care about the consequences, you know? If someone do that to my sister, I'm not going to worry about going to jail. I'm just going to go down there. You know? People like that, they shouldn't be-"
Hayley signed and looked out the window. She wished now that she had taken the bus instead. At least people didn't speak to you on the bus, unless you were unlucky enough to sit next to some old bore.
"You want me to go in here? This where you work?" The taxi driver craned around in his seat as the taxi turned off the main road. "This is a nice area. My cousin-"
"Yeah, just here thanks." Hayley scrambled for her purse. She couldn't stand this old bore any longer. She would walk around the corner to the Parkinsons. "How much?"
"For a nice girl like you, $34.50." Hayley flung two twenties at him and dived out of the car. "Keep the change," she said as she slammed the door.
"Hey, thanks! You have a nice day!"
Hayley flipped her hand at him and hurried up the road. As she heard the taxi drive off she slowed to a dawdle and checked her watch. Twenty past nine; Kate should be long gone to work. The only person in the house at this time of day would be the housekeeper, Avril, and Aster and Marcus, unless they had been sent to a daycare facility. Hayley frowned. She hoped they were at home. She wanted to see their faces when she told them her story.
Hayley turned the corner into Alson Street. She was so focussed on the anticipated reactions of the kids to her new-found wealth that she was past the Finlayson's front gate before she realised what she was seeing. She stopped in her tracks. Police cars were pulled up on the street and footpath, and the area was cordoned off with yellow tape.
"They know!" Panicked, she backed off and stumbled over the roots of the
Jacaranda on the footpath. She put out a hand to stop herself from falling. Her heart was in her mouth.
An ambulance backed slowly out of the driveway and then moved sedately past her. Someone must be sick. She eased out from behind the trunk to peer at the house. Some of the people from the neighbouring houses were gathered across the street; there was Minnie, June Prestons cleaner and Mr Walton from the Birches. Maybe someone died. Hayley crept forward to get a better look at the house.
A policewoman stepped through the front gate, holding Marcus by the hand. The little boy toddled determinedly beside her. Hayley's stomach plummeted. Something must have happened to Kate. Or maybe Avril was sick. Marcus was talking loudly and pointing at the police cars. He looked around and spotted her.
"Hayley!" he shrieked.
The policewoman looked up and caught her eye. Hayley turned and ran. She heard someone shouting at her to stop and Marcus's wail of despair. She ran down the street and turned onto the main road. Halfway along the block her left shoe came off but she didn't stop. Her breath was rasping. At the end of the block she glanced behind her and saw a policeman run around the corner. She turned and dived into the park and kept running. Was that footsteps behind her? Her odd shoe made it hard to run so she tore it off and kept running, her bare feet slapping on the concrete bike path.

****

Marcus was lying on the ground, feet kicking and screaming in full tantrum by the time Pat, Brian and Keith arrived at the front of the house.
"What happened?" said Pat.
"I was taking the boy to the car when he called out "Hayley" and pointed. A girl was hiding behind the tree over there. She bolted when I spotted her. Joe called out for her to stop and then ran after her." The constable raised her voice as Marcus redoubled his vocal efforts. "Marcus knows her. She might be family."
"We certainly need to talk to her." Pat winced. "Why don't you try to calm him down and find out who she was?"
The constable gave him a resigned look. "I don't remember babysitting being in my position description."
"Firmness with Courtesy, remember? Got to stand by the force motto."
"You're out of date, Inspector," she said. "1990, 'With Honour We Serve', remember?" She bent down and picked up the screaming boy and walked off. "You owe me a beer," she flung back at him as she walked away.
Pat shook his head as the boy's screams mercifully receded. He turned to Brian and caught sight of Joe walking turning the corner, dangling a pink plastic pump with an orange flower on the toe.
"What's all this?" he said as Joe came closer.
"Cinderella has left the ball." Joe held up the shoe, then handed it to Brian. "She didn't want to talk to me, that's for sure. But the boy knows her."
"So we heard. Did you get a good look at her?"
"Not really. Nothing I could identify later."
Pat sighed. "Okay. Well, one of the neighbours might know who she is. Who wants to doorknock?"
"I'm on guard duty, sorry," said Joe, holding up his hands and backing away. "Got to keep the crowds away from the crime scene."
"And I've got to get back and do these photos."
"Looks like it's you and me," said Brian.
"Seniority wins. I'll do the crowd, you knock on doors."
"Wouldn't you rather knock? Someone might invite you in for a cuppa and a chat."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Pat suddenly noticed the silence. "Looks like Julie has managed to calm the boy down. I'll talk to him first, then she can take him to a care facility."
Brian nodded. "All right. Ten to one nobody heard anything."
"No bet," said Pat.
He walked diagonally across the road to the front of the house where Joe was keeping an eye on the group of onlookers. He nodded to Joe and approached the car.
Marcus was sitting on Constable Havram's lap, and she was playing patty-cake with him. His face was red and ter stained but he was giggling. Pat crouched down in front of them on the bitumen.
"Hello Marcus. I'm Detective Inspective Levington." He held out a hand. Marcus grinned and then turned his face into Julie's shoulder.
"Marcus, I wanted to talk to you about the girl you saw. About Hayley."
"Hayley ran away," said Marcus.
"I know, and we wanted to talk to her. Is she a friend of your mother?"
Marcus shook his head.
"Is she family?"
Marcus shook his head, then hid in Julie's shoulder again. Julie eased him around on her lap until she was facing the inspector.
"Do you know what her name is?" said Pat.
"Hayley."
"What about her last name?"
This was obviously too much for Marcus. Pat tried a different tack. "Do you see her often?"
Marcus nodded.
"Does she come inside the house?"
Marcus nodded again. "She tells stories," he said.
Well, and what did that mean, he wondered. "What kind of stories?"
"Stories about her. She's a princess and I'm a prince." Marcus's wildly waving hands knocked Julie's cap off.
"Steady!" said Julie, trying to hold the wiggling boy.
Pat grabbed the cap and handed it back to her.
"How often does she come to the house?"
Marcus stopped waving and frowned at Pat. "She comes when Mummy goes to work. She didn't come yesterday and Mummy was mad." Marcus looked around. "Where's Mummy? Where's Aster?"
Pat looked blankly at Constable Havram.
"They're not here at the moment, sweetie." She looked at Pat. "Anything else?"
"Where are they?" demanded Marcus.
"Not at the moment," said Pat.
"Aster's gone for a ride. Do you want to go for a ride?"
Marcus's face reddened and Pat backed away.
"No! I want Mummy!"
"Don't forget that beer!" said Julie, over the rising wails of the boy.
Pat stood back as Julie and the boy were driven off. As he looked around he noticed that the group of onlookers was visibly smaller. He made his way back to Joe.
"We've lost some," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the group.
"They haven't gone far. One man into number 7 and a woman into number 4."
Pat nodded. "Thanks."
He walked across the road towards the group, who unconsciously bunched closer together as he approached. He was reminded of the DI who had been his instructor for the junior inspector's course. "People don't like policemen. Especially detectives. Everyone has something to hide." He studied them covertly under the pretense of extracting his badge as he drew near. One male, late forties at least, one woman mid to late thirties and an asian woman in her late twenties.
"Good morning," he said as he stopped in front of them. He held up the ID for them to examine. "I'm Detective Inspector Patrick Levington." He slipped the badge back into his pocket. "May I have your names, please?" He looked pointedly at the man.
"Peter Brooks." "Jane Saunders." "Minnie Lao."
"I'll need your address and contact details, please." He wrote down what details they gave him. Minnie, who on closer inspection turned out to be on the other side of thirty, came from the other side of the river, while Peter was from Ferny Hills. Jane gave her address as number 8, the house between the corner and the Parkinsons.
"I'd like to know when each of you got to work this morning." Peter and Minnie were late starters, both of them arriving after the police. He dismissed them politely and turned his attention to Jane.
"You are a resident of this street?"
"Yes. No. I mean-"
Pat waited patiently while she foundered.
"I live here, but only as a companion nurse for Mrs Brinkley. She's an invalid and needs a lot of care."
Pat raised his eyebrows. "Should you be inside?"
"Oh no, I'm keeping an eye on her." She pointed towards the house and Pat turned and saw someone sitting in a wheelchair next to one of the upstairs windows. The figure had a pair of binoculars up to her eyes and was watching the Parkinson's house.
"Takes a bit of an interest in the neighbourhood, does she?"
"You might say that." Jane shook her head and waved her arms at the windows. Pat turned and saw that she was gesturing and pointing at him.
"What does she want?"
"I'd say she wants you to come in." She shook her head again at the figure, who made wilder gestures with her hands. "I'm afraid she gets a bit lonely for company, you see."
Pat nodded. He opened his mouth to say that DS Michaels would probably be visiting her soon, then changed his mind.
"I need to talk to her anyway," he said. "After you."
Jane smiled at him and stepped forward. "She'll be very excited. I'll put on a cup of tea." Pat shuddered. Jane was quiet for a few steps.
"Can you tell me-" she paused and glanced at him sideways. "We saw the bodybags come out. Are they…was it…"
"They were murdered, I'm afraid."
Jane shook her head. "Those poor children."

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Day 3

Running total: 3443 words

"The insurance company won't get involved because they say it's a council issue. The council say that it's an insurance issue and meanwhile we have no clothes and nowhere to stay. I've grabbed what clothes I could from the dry cleaners but they won't let us into the house because of the health issues."
Angela's liquid voice coming over the mobile phone sounded strained. "Luke and Ben are furious. They've got projects due for school but everything is in their bedrooms. We'll have to speak to their headmaster."
Pat signed and walked back towards the house. "Any idea how long before they fix it?"
"They can't give me anything concrete. I've been back and forth to our local councillor and the council offices all day. Everyone's just passing the buck. Pat, I have to go back to work tomorrow. I've got a teleconference and a wedding to do. Can you drop in and see the council tomorrow?"
Pat looked around at the police cars and ambulances parked haphazardly around the house, and the yellow tape snapping in the morning breeze. "I don't think so. But I'll see if I can ring around later this afternoon. It's going to be a busy time for me too."
Angela sighed. "All right. I'll see you at the hotel tonight. Any idea what time?"
"None. I'll call you if it's after five. Bye." He pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the disconnect button.
"Great start to the day, huh?"
"Couldn't be better." Detective Sergent Patrick Levington slipped the phone into his pocket and regarded Sergent Michaels. "Are forensics still at work?"
"Working on the upstairs bedroom now. We're cleared to look around the bottom floor if we want to."
Pat nodded. "All right. Where's Amberly?"
"Following them around with a camera."
"See how much longer he'll be. I'll meet you at the back door." Pat watched Sergent Michaels for a moment then returned to examining the house.
From his position at the front gate he could admire the sweep of the short gravelled drive leading in a gentle curve to the front door. The lush green lawn rolled gently between the white, wrought iron fence and the house, occasionally circling a neatly clipped bush or ordered flowerbed. Pat thought guiltily of the dandelions and nutgrass choking the garden beds at home. Here every leaf and blade was in place, except for the harsh brown ruts left by the ambulance on the green sward.
His gaze travelled upwards to the white mullioned windows with the green shutters. Colonial style, but not particularly secure. But security wasn't an issue in this quiet, well-heeled corner. Policemen were not supposed to set foot in suburbs like this. Nothing should disturb the elegance of these houses or disrupt the owners' well-trimmed lives.
Pat turned and looked at the short cul-de-sac, now choked with police cars. In any other suburb the street would be choked with curious residents, all rubbernecking madly as they tried to figure out what was going on, but not the residents of Alson Street, Hamilton. That didn't stop the daily help from gathering in a discreet group on the footpath across the street. Pat frowned and wondered if anyone was getting names and taking statements.
Pat looked around and spotted and Senior Constable at the gate, stationed there in case someone's curiousity overcame them. He walked towards her, his feet crunching on the white gravel of the driveway.
"Morning, Sir." She nodded to him.
"Morning, Constable." He jerked his head towards the group of onlookers. "Has anyone spoken to them yet?"
"Not that I know of. They've all come from the houses here from what I've seen, so I guess they won't be going anywhere for the moment."
Pat nodded. "It looks pretty quiet at the moment. Get one of the juniors to take names and addresses, just in case."
"Sure." She turned away and spoke into her radio.
Pat walked back through the gate and across the lawn. At the side of the house a paved path led under a trellis of wisteria at the end of its bloom. The ground beneath the trellis was littered with lavender flowers. The path led to a formal courtyard at the back of the house and a solid back door, now hanging open.
DC Amberley was leaning against the wall as Pat came around the corner. He was changing the lenses on his camera and didn't look up. "Brian's in the kitchen," he said, jerking his head towards the interior of the house as he juggled camera and lens. "I'll be there in a minute."
Pat slipped past him and into the house. He knew the kitchen was the first door on the left from the quick examination of the house he had after they arrived at 7:20am. It was now well past nine and all the interior lights were still on.
DS Michaels was examining a chrome and glass appliance on the bench. He glanced up as Pat entered and grinned. "Get a load of this. What do you think it is?"
Pat looked at it. If it wasn't for the cord coming out of the base he would have said it was some sort of modern art, the type his daughter was so fond of. "I give up. What is it?"
"It's a kettle."
"My god," said Pat. "How do you get the water in?"
"I think this top bit unscrews, see-"
One of the forensics team stuck a head around the door. "We're finished upstairs. What the hell is that?"
"It's a kettle." DS Michaels removed the top and displayed the shining interior.
The forensic officer snorted. "Each to their own. Did you want to see the bodies again or can we bag them?"
Pat shook his head. "Bag them." He'd seen enough this morning. Murder was bad enough but the position of the bodies and the obvious signs of torture had turned his stomach. Sometimes when he saw the bloody remains of a car crash he thought he was hardened to death, but when he saw something like this he thought he would never understand the depths that human depravity could sink to.
He walked out into the living room. The forensics team and his own group had tracked dirty footprints across the pure white carpet, yet another violation of the stately house. Pat shook his head. White carpet in a house with children? The thought of the Parkinsons' kids triggered another thought.
"Brian."
DS Michaels stuck his head into the living room.
"Where are the kids?"
"The eldest has been taken to hospital. The boy is with one of the ambulance officers, I think."
"Why didn't they take him with his sister?"
"She was having screaming hysterics. I think they thought it would be better if they sat down somewhere quietly with him for a while."
"Does he know?"
Brian shrugged. "Doesn't look like it. He's only young, he may not have grasped what's happening."
"Unlike his sister." The poor child had found her parents' bodies and run screaming downstairs, straight into the arms of the housekeeper who had called the police. Pat spared a thought for the girl, who would probably have to live the rest of her life with the image of her dead parents.
"What happened to the housekeeper?"
"We took her details and one of the constables drove her home. She was pretty shaky."
"Coming through."
They stepped aside as the two body bags came downstairs. DC Amberly slipped into the house after they had gone through.
"Anything else?"
"I don't think so," said Pat. "Lets have a run down and then tackle these residents."
"Ok." Brian pulled a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it. "Signs of forced entry on downstairs back door. Crowbar found in bushes at back of house. Preliminary fingerprinting negative. Victims found in upstairs study. Victim one, John Parkinson, bound to chair. Death by strangulation. Victim 2, Kate Parkinson, bound to desk, death by head trauma. Estimated time of death between 2am and 4am." He looked up. "We'll get a better estimate after the coroner has done his bit." He looked down and ran his finger over the page. "Computer monitor destroyed. Evidence of missing items may include documents and cash from John Parkinson's wallet."
"Jewellery?" said Amberly.
"Not that we can see. The bedroom was intact. The only evidence of an intruder is in the study and the kitchen. There's been no disturbance anywhere else." He gestured to the spotless room. "It would be pretty obvious."
Pat folded his arms and rested gingerly on the arm of the sofa. "So someone broke in, caught the Parkinsons in the study, tied them up, tortured them and killed them and then took some papers and cash?" He shook his head. "That makes no sense at all. And where were the kids? Their bedroom is just down the hall. Did they not hear anything?"
Brian shrugged. "We won't know until we talk to them. They may not be much help; the youngest is only 5 and the eldest is currently sedated. I doubt we'll be talking to her at all."
Pat stood up and hitched up his trousers. "It doesn't make sense to me. Any suggestions?"
"Honour killing?" said Amberly. "Some of these wealthy families have nasty links. There's been a bit of activity lately from the Russian Mafia. One of their big guns went down for property fraud. The Parkinsons could have been involved with something like that."
"Maybe. Brian?"
Brian shrugged. "Random break and enter just doesn't seem to cut it, does it? This has got to be personal."
"I agree." Pat glanced down at the carpet and moved guiltily onto the tiles. "There's something nasty going on here. Amberly, you get some constables and box up what remains of the papers. See if you can piece anything together. Brian, keep in touch with forensics and give me a report on what they find. I'm going to talk to the son and then tackle the peanut gallery." He walked towards the back door as he spoke, then turned back. "Actually, get onto the neighbours first and see who's home and who's not. Might as well tackle everyone while I'm here."

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