her, but the viciousness of it still rocked her.
She muttered a few choice swear words under her breath and made herself focus on the task at hand. She had a job to do, and
puking and snivelling wouldn’t get it done. She reached up with a handkerchief covering her fingers, and gently closed the
boot, giving the woman the dignity of a little privacy, at least for the moment.
Gillespie sat in the patrol car, head up, staring straight ahead. A man she’d talked with, eaten with, allowed to sleep in
her home. Her certainty that he hadn’t put the body in his car didn’t make him innocent of involvement, and she could no longer
trust her own instincts.
She’d once thought she was a competent officer, until she’d discovered that she’d been face-to-face with a serial killer regularly
over a period of years, seen him go about his daily business, spoken with him politely in passing, and never recognised his
evil. Gil Gillespie could be anything – innocent, murderer, accomplice, instigator – and right now she just wished that he’d
never come back to Dungirri.
The drive to Birraga was long and mostly silent. From where Gil sat in the back seat of the patrol car, he could, if he wanted,
see the sergeant at the wheel, her face set in hard lines. In the front passenger seat, Petric made a few attempts at polite
conversation with her, but she kept her responses brief.
His arms uncomfortably behind him, Gil mostly stared out the window, ignoring them all, especially Macklin. When he’d got
in the car next to Gil, Macklin had given him the kind of grin that dared him to make trouble. Gil didn’t plan on givingthe man the satisfaction. He wasn’t stupid, and he was in more than enough shit already.
The sergeant might have spoken up to the dectectives about his whereabouts last night, but he didn’t expect to hear that again
in court. Cops closed ranks and backed each other in public – if not willingly, then through pressure. If by chance she stuck
to her guns, they’d crucify her. Gil hadn’t heard all the conversation back in Dungirri, but he’d heard her angry retort,
denying any relationship between them. The insinuations so soon meant Petric and his offsider had already started waving the
hammer and nails.
When they finally arrived at the Birraga station – relatively new, and at least four times the size of the Dungirri police
station – the sergeant waved Macklin and Petric through to the local detectives’ office, and escorted Gil to an interview
room, picking up a manila folder from a desk as she passed.
‘The folder’s got a list of legal firms in the region,’ she told him as she steered him to a chair, all briskness and business,
although, for an insane moment, the brief brush of her fingers against his wrist when she keyed the handcuffs open almost
drove business from his mind.
‘The local Legal Aid duty solicitor is Kent Marshall,’ she continued, oblivious to his distraction. ‘His number is there,
too.’
The cuffs loosened, fell away, and he brought his arms forward and flexed his freed hands, as much to erase the lingering
sensation of her touch as to relieve muscular stress. Disgust with his inappropriate lust loaded on top of his anger with
the rest of the frigging world and gave the detached response he intended a bitter edge.
‘If I asked for a recommendation, would I get an honest one?’
The flare in her eyes mightn’t have quite reached thermonuclear strength, but her voice was pure cold fusion. ‘I believe in
the law, and justice, Gillespie. That includes due process and representation.’
Oh, well done, Gillespie
. Question her integrity and join the queue of bastards making life hell for her.
With deliberate moves, she folded the handcuffs together, slid them into her trouser pocket, and tucked the key into its place
on the belt at her waist. ‘Whether you need Legal Aid or not, I’d suggest Kent Marshall. He knows his
She muttered a few choice swear words under her breath and made herself focus on the task at hand. She had a job to do, and
puking and snivelling wouldn’t get it done. She reached up with a handkerchief covering her fingers, and gently closed the
boot, giving the woman the dignity of a little privacy, at least for the moment.
Gillespie sat in the patrol car, head up, staring straight ahead. A man she’d talked with, eaten with, allowed to sleep in
her home. Her certainty that he hadn’t put the body in his car didn’t make him innocent of involvement, and she could no longer
trust her own instincts.
She’d once thought she was a competent officer, until she’d discovered that she’d been face-to-face with a serial killer regularly
over a period of years, seen him go about his daily business, spoken with him politely in passing, and never recognised his
evil. Gil Gillespie could be anything – innocent, murderer, accomplice, instigator – and right now she just wished that he’d
never come back to Dungirri.
The drive to Birraga was long and mostly silent. From where Gil sat in the back seat of the patrol car, he could, if he wanted,
see the sergeant at the wheel, her face set in hard lines. In the front passenger seat, Petric made a few attempts at polite
conversation with her, but she kept her responses brief.
His arms uncomfortably behind him, Gil mostly stared out the window, ignoring them all, especially Macklin. When he’d got
in the car next to Gil, Macklin had given him the kind of grin that dared him to make trouble. Gil didn’t plan on givingthe man the satisfaction. He wasn’t stupid, and he was in more than enough shit already.
The sergeant might have spoken up to the dectectives about his whereabouts last night, but he didn’t expect to hear that again
in court. Cops closed ranks and backed each other in public – if not willingly, then through pressure. If by chance she stuck
to her guns, they’d crucify her. Gil hadn’t heard all the conversation back in Dungirri, but he’d heard her angry retort,
denying any relationship between them. The insinuations so soon meant Petric and his offsider had already started waving the
hammer and nails.
When they finally arrived at the Birraga station – relatively new, and at least four times the size of the Dungirri police
station – the sergeant waved Macklin and Petric through to the local detectives’ office, and escorted Gil to an interview
room, picking up a manila folder from a desk as she passed.
‘The folder’s got a list of legal firms in the region,’ she told him as she steered him to a chair, all briskness and business,
although, for an insane moment, the brief brush of her fingers against his wrist when she keyed the handcuffs open almost
drove business from his mind.
‘The local Legal Aid duty solicitor is Kent Marshall,’ she continued, oblivious to his distraction. ‘His number is there,
too.’
The cuffs loosened, fell away, and he brought his arms forward and flexed his freed hands, as much to erase the lingering
sensation of her touch as to relieve muscular stress. Disgust with his inappropriate lust loaded on top of his anger with
the rest of the frigging world and gave the detached response he intended a bitter edge.
‘If I asked for a recommendation, would I get an honest one?’
The flare in her eyes mightn’t have quite reached thermonuclear strength, but her voice was pure cold fusion. ‘I believe in
the law, and justice, Gillespie. That includes due process and representation.’
Oh, well done, Gillespie
. Question her integrity and join the queue of bastards making life hell for her.
With deliberate moves, she folded the handcuffs together, slid them into her trouser pocket, and tucked the key into its place
on the belt at her waist. ‘Whether you need Legal Aid or not, I’d suggest Kent Marshall. He knows his
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