Crystal Coffin by Anita Bell Page A

references or a curriculum vitae or formal resume.
    She wondered if it was the lingering guilt for doing that which made her gut ache, but she knew it had to be the name that still buzzed in her ear louder than the march fly. Nick Fletcher , she repeated in her head. It sounded so wrong coming off that stranger’s lips, as if he didn’t like the taste of its venom any better than she did whenever she spat it off her tongue.
    Nick, short for Nikola, too masculine for someone attempting to trace her trail on paper. And Fletcher, because no hunted girl in her right mind would choose to live with the burden of her torturer’s name on her lips.
    But as she stepped into the searing heat of a hot summer’s sunset, it struck her as ominous that someone by the name of Nick Fletcher would step from the ladies toilets in a quiet country park in a town called Lowood.

    Sydney’s youngest detective, Kalin Burkett, rocked back in his grey swivel chair and meshed his fingers together behind his head. He watched his subordinate pace the office and wondered just how long it would take him to confess that he’d blown the surveillance. A sixteen-year-old girl had slipped a police net — but worse than that, she’d done it twice. Once had been within days of her mother’s murder, and then again early yesterday, when her stepfather had caught her back at the crime scene, allegedly attempting to tamper with the evidence.
    Both times, Burkett noticed, it had been Sergeant Underwood’s responsibility to bring her in.
    He watched the sweat gather at the sergeant’s temples as he paced the room. Fifty-four-year-old sergeants often had a problem handing case files to younger men of higher rank, and Sergeant Joseph J. Underwood was no exception. Sweat was even swelling in the bald patch at the back of his head. And considering the fact that Sydney Central HQ was kept at a comfortable twenty-four degrees, Detective Burkett began to wonder if there wasn’t more to the story than what Underwood had put in his incident report.
    â€˜So where’s the girl?’ Burkett asked again — and a dozen more sweat beads swelled across Underwood’s forehead.

    Locklin studied his enemy as she emerged from the public toilets, wishing to his core that she wasn’t a she. His fists clenched and then released, and as he watched her hips rock below a slim waist, heat surprised him as it rose up from low in his belly. He kicked his boot against the curb and tried to look away, but couldn’t. Then his eyes narrowed again at a new opportunity that he saw.
    â€˜Nick Fletcher,’ he whispered, rolling the words on his tongue. Then he hurried to the passenger door, swung it open for her, and waited.

Scotty threw the last bucket of soapy water on the cafe floor and scrubbed the electric doodlebugger over it as hard as he could. When he was finished, the sweat on his forehead was nearly as thick as the froth on the floor scrubber’s twin brushes. The kitchenette was spotless, but his arms and back ached like they’d been hit with a giant dentist’s drill.
    He looked at the clock over the microwave and wished he could get away with winding the hands forward a few hours. Four o’clock. And he still had four and a half hours before closing.
    Who’s stupid idea was this? he wondered. But the Yamaha key in his pocket answered that question. Cleaning the store was hard work and figuring out correct change for customers was even less fun, but the job paid well enough for a fifteen year old.
    Janet Slaney’s mother could talk, but she wasn’t half as annoying as her two daughters and he had to admit she was honest when it came to employing him. She’d hired him as casual instead of part-time, which meant that instead of saving up sick pay, holiday bonuses and superannuation, she had to pay him an extra nineteen per cent higher hourly rate. Being casual also made his hours more