Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker by Robert G. Barrett

— and they finally pinch her, knowing the feds they’ll say I was covering up for her because she’s an Australian. She’s only got to say, “Yes, I was paying him off”, and, bingo! I’m up shit creek without a paddle.’
    â€˜And a hole in your boat.’
    â€˜But if you think that’s good, Les, try this one.’ Mick stopped and stared directly at Norton. ‘Right in the middle of all this rattle I’ve got a serial killer running around necking hookers. Mainly hers.’
    â€˜You’ve what!?’
    â€˜I’ve got some ratbag, fuckin’ United States Marine, a fuckin’ jarhead, running around stabbing molls with a bayonet.’
    â€˜Bloody hell!’
    â€˜Yeah. And they’re trying to cover this one up too. It doesn’t look good for the tourism industry. You know, they want happy, smiling hula girls with leis and grass skirts. Not some nut carving sheilas up with a knife. Plus the marines have just closed ranks and want to do their own investigation. They say it’s a military matter and it’s not one of them anyway.’
    â€˜How many has he killed?’
    â€˜Six. Five of hers and one street hooker.’
    â€˜Shit! He’s not fucking around.’ Les suddenly flashed back to the pros avoiding him on Kalakau the previous night. He probably looked like a soldier with his shortish hair and build and the way he was striding along the footpath in search of an ale. Word would certainly be out amongst the working girls and they definitely wouldn’t be taking any chances. ‘So how do you know it’s a marine?’
    â€˜The weapon. A standard issue M6 bayonet. Plus he’s a strong fucker. He only stabs them the once, right in the heart. But he jams the blade up that hard he smashes and slices straight through their ribcages or sternums breaking the bones.’
    Norton shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’
    â€˜Yeah. But apart from the other rattle, I’d like to catch this bastard. I’m not all that rapt in jarheads. And I sure as hell hate nutters running around killing women, even if they are hookers. Which is why I want to have a word with this Aussie sheila.’
    â€˜What’s her name?’
    â€˜Andriana Hazlewood.’
    Les shook his head. ‘Can’t place her. What’s she look like?’
    â€˜I’ve got one lousy photo of her back at my office. And that was taken by a newspaper on the mainland.’ Mick stared at Norton again. ‘What are you doing now, Les?’
    â€˜Not much, I don’t suppose.’ As soon as he said that, Les got a feeling he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
    â€˜Why don’t you come back to the station with me for a while? I gotta pick up my pay. And I can show you what’s going on.’
    â€˜Yeah… righto. Why not?’ There were people on the beach, the sun was out and the water looked blue and inviting. Police stations never did much for Norton at the best of times and he could think of a lot better places to spend his time on a holiday in Hawaii. Still, Mick wasn’t a bad bloke; Norton still had almost a week to go and it would be something to talk about back home.
    â€˜Come on. I’m parked just down near Bennies.’
    They walked back to Mick’s car, which was a blue Buick of some make and model. But it was about the same size as the taxi Les got from the airport. Mick had picked up noticeably now, obviously happy at getting a few things off his chest. When he switched on the radio Les noticed it was the same station he’d been listening to in his room. The Dixie Cups were warbling ‘Chapel of Love’ as they drove along Ala Wai Boulevard, passed the canal, then crossed a small bridge heading towards the police station on Beretania Street.
    For a Sunday the traffic was still fairly heavy and although Mick pointed it out, Norton almost missed it because of the trees and Xmas decorations