do you reckon, Tony? Shall we cuff her?’
Tony – the other cop – flashed his torch around the back yard. ‘I reckon so. Girls in underwear can be hazardous.’
I felt a hot flush of anger. Men were all the same.
‘Down boys,’ said a female voice. The cops from the other car had joined our merry little group. One of them was a woman. ‘What’s your name, love?’ she asked.
‘Tara,’ I said.
‘That your bird there?’
Everyone stared at Brains. She was sitting huddled in the midst of our feet.
‘Yes.’ I bent over and made friendly sounds. If Brains decided to pull another running-away stunt now, they’d never believe me. But Brains – bless her beak – waddled over to sit on my hand. She was looking sleepy. I lifted her onto my shoulder. She click-clicked in my ear and then purred.
‘Can I please go home?’ I asked. ‘I need to put her in her cage.’ Before JoBob finds out.
‘’Fraid not, Tara.’ The woman reached over and scratched Brains on the crest. The bird let her do it without ruffling a feather. She liked women more than men. ‘You’ll have to come to the station and make a statement.’
‘Then can I please go and get my pants.’
‘Don’t get dressed on my account,’ said Whitey. He and his sidekick burst out laughing.
Chapter 11
T HE E UCCY G ROVE COP shop was a fifties brick and tile with a concrete parking lot out the front and a rose garden at the side. At night, in winter, with only the station floodlights on, the rose garden looked like grotesque sculptures.
It turned out that the perp – whose name was Sam Barbaro – had taken fright when an occupant disturbed him, and fled into the night.
The female cop, Fiona Bligh, took my statement and then said Brains and I could go home.
‘Any chance of a ride?’ I asked. ‘I don’t have my purse with me. Prefer not to ring my parents.’
Bligh glanced around. ‘Well, we’re not supposed to, but . . . under the circumstances . . . alright.’ She turned to her partner, ‘Bill, find a towel for the seat. That bird is a crap machine.’
‘All birds are crap machines,’ I said, scratching Brains under the chin. ‘But she’s also a hero.’
Bill and Fiona agreed on that count.
They drove me home and promised to drop some peanuts around when they had a chance.
I returned Brains to a very grateful and slightly frantic Hoo, fed them both and staggered off to bed.
It seemed I’d just laid my head on the pillow when JoBob’s voice perforated my dreams. I sat up floundering as I fought off a nightmare involving Whitey and his tentacle fingers.
JoBob was at the sliding door, rattling the handle for all it was worth.
I pulled some jeans on under my knee-length tee, stumbled over and flicked the lock open. ‘Wassa panic,’ I mumbled, unhappily. I had pins and needles in one arm and a crappy taste in my mouth.
Joanna was clutching the daily paper, which she thrust under my nose. ‘Tara Mary Sharp, explain page two .’
I took the paper and retreated to my couch where I spread it open. The headline read ‘ One Bird in the Hand . . . ’ with a subheader, Childhood sweethearts reunited to foil robbery. Alongside the article were photos of Whitey in his cop uniform, wearing a smarmy smile, and me, taken at Bok’s birthday party the previous summer. I had on a strapless top and looked liked I could easily do ten rounds with Kostya Tszyu.
My heart lurched as I skim read the lead-in. Eucalyptus Grove socialite and one-time state athlete, Tara Sharp, was reunited with her former boyfriend, Constable Greg Whitehead, as they foiled a robbery on an aged woman living in Ms Sharp’s home suburb.
What about the bird , was all I could think!
My phone rang and I fished it out of my jeans automatically. ‘Tara Sharp.’
‘Keep your hands off my husband!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My husband. Keep away from him,’ she screamed before hanging up.
I sat in stunned silence, with Joanna doing the hands-on-hips, furrowed
Tony – the other cop – flashed his torch around the back yard. ‘I reckon so. Girls in underwear can be hazardous.’
I felt a hot flush of anger. Men were all the same.
‘Down boys,’ said a female voice. The cops from the other car had joined our merry little group. One of them was a woman. ‘What’s your name, love?’ she asked.
‘Tara,’ I said.
‘That your bird there?’
Everyone stared at Brains. She was sitting huddled in the midst of our feet.
‘Yes.’ I bent over and made friendly sounds. If Brains decided to pull another running-away stunt now, they’d never believe me. But Brains – bless her beak – waddled over to sit on my hand. She was looking sleepy. I lifted her onto my shoulder. She click-clicked in my ear and then purred.
‘Can I please go home?’ I asked. ‘I need to put her in her cage.’ Before JoBob finds out.
‘’Fraid not, Tara.’ The woman reached over and scratched Brains on the crest. The bird let her do it without ruffling a feather. She liked women more than men. ‘You’ll have to come to the station and make a statement.’
‘Then can I please go and get my pants.’
‘Don’t get dressed on my account,’ said Whitey. He and his sidekick burst out laughing.
Chapter 11
T HE E UCCY G ROVE COP shop was a fifties brick and tile with a concrete parking lot out the front and a rose garden at the side. At night, in winter, with only the station floodlights on, the rose garden looked like grotesque sculptures.
It turned out that the perp – whose name was Sam Barbaro – had taken fright when an occupant disturbed him, and fled into the night.
The female cop, Fiona Bligh, took my statement and then said Brains and I could go home.
‘Any chance of a ride?’ I asked. ‘I don’t have my purse with me. Prefer not to ring my parents.’
Bligh glanced around. ‘Well, we’re not supposed to, but . . . under the circumstances . . . alright.’ She turned to her partner, ‘Bill, find a towel for the seat. That bird is a crap machine.’
‘All birds are crap machines,’ I said, scratching Brains under the chin. ‘But she’s also a hero.’
Bill and Fiona agreed on that count.
They drove me home and promised to drop some peanuts around when they had a chance.
I returned Brains to a very grateful and slightly frantic Hoo, fed them both and staggered off to bed.
It seemed I’d just laid my head on the pillow when JoBob’s voice perforated my dreams. I sat up floundering as I fought off a nightmare involving Whitey and his tentacle fingers.
JoBob was at the sliding door, rattling the handle for all it was worth.
I pulled some jeans on under my knee-length tee, stumbled over and flicked the lock open. ‘Wassa panic,’ I mumbled, unhappily. I had pins and needles in one arm and a crappy taste in my mouth.
Joanna was clutching the daily paper, which she thrust under my nose. ‘Tara Mary Sharp, explain page two .’
I took the paper and retreated to my couch where I spread it open. The headline read ‘ One Bird in the Hand . . . ’ with a subheader, Childhood sweethearts reunited to foil robbery. Alongside the article were photos of Whitey in his cop uniform, wearing a smarmy smile, and me, taken at Bok’s birthday party the previous summer. I had on a strapless top and looked liked I could easily do ten rounds with Kostya Tszyu.
My heart lurched as I skim read the lead-in. Eucalyptus Grove socialite and one-time state athlete, Tara Sharp, was reunited with her former boyfriend, Constable Greg Whitehead, as they foiled a robbery on an aged woman living in Ms Sharp’s home suburb.
What about the bird , was all I could think!
My phone rang and I fished it out of my jeans automatically. ‘Tara Sharp.’
‘Keep your hands off my husband!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My husband. Keep away from him,’ she screamed before hanging up.
I sat in stunned silence, with Joanna doing the hands-on-hips, furrowed
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