hankering to do that.
In the waiting area, four enormous Maori guys balanced on the tiny wooden chairs provided. They were all reading Woman’s Weekly s, their legs stretched out in identical postures of relaxation. Seven entirely different coloured socks were on display. One naked foot sat proud in this company. None of the men looked up when I entered.
Directly in front of me was a chest-high counter where a uniformed cop leaned, reading the paper, a lock of sandy hair falling over his forehead. His finger traced a line of text, lips moving as he silently read. He straightened as I approached, flicked the hair back, and looked directly at me. He kept his finger planted on the paper.
‘Hi. I’m Diane Rowe. Inspector McFay said you’d be expecting me,’ I said, noting his eyes were the warm, deep brown of bush honey. He held my look for a moment and then his free hand disappeared below the counter.
‘Yeah, sure.’
A loud buzzer sounded and a light went on above the door next to the counter, indicating it was now unlocked. It always surprises me how easy it is to get into a police station, but I guess it’s the getting out that’s meant to be difficult. I stepped into an empty office. A couple of desks were piled with report forms, ring-binder case files and dirty coffee mugs. On the wall was the ubiquitous girlie calendar alongside a whiteboard listing the station’s jobs for the day. According to the ‘Urgent’ list, Lou should ring his mum ASAP.
The cop from behind the counter was right behind me.
‘I’m on my own here, sorry. Pat and Lou are out doing warrants, so I’m going to have to juggle you with the desk.’ He hesitated, and then held his hand out. ‘Rob. Robbie. Robert. Take your pick.’ He bobbed his head shyly towards an invisible crowd of people clamouring to pin a name on him.
Robbie wore his good looks as casually as a favourite T-shirt. He must have been at least six foot three or four but hunched his height down into his shoulders with a slight stoop. Very broad shoulders they were too, but he didn’t seem the gym bunny type, so my guess was he played a bit of sport.
I shook his hand. Firm. Warm. Dry. A lot of men have trouble shaking hands with women. Some make their hand go all limp and take yours in their fingers like it’s a half-dismembered rat the cat has presented them with. Others crunch your knuckles in an attempt to make some point or other. But Rob, Robbie, Robert’s handshake was plain … nice. I let him go. Reluctantly.
‘You can use my desk if you like.’ He smiled.
‘Thanks. That’d be great. But listen,’ I said as he stacked papers and cleared an area for me. ‘You don’t have to babysit me. I know my way around a case file.’
‘It’s not exactly what I’d call a case file,’ he said, tapping a slim manila folder. ‘This is it, I’m afraid. A couple of report sheets and some snapshots of the remains.’
I picked up the folder. ‘Okay. Well, I’ll have a read and then maybe you could take me out there to look at the body in situ .’
I looked at the half dozen photos paper-clipped to the inside. The first photo is always a shock, but then it gets easier. This one was a close-up of what I recognised as a femur. The bone was bleached white, with what remained of the muscle stretched the length of the bone and attached tenuously at each end. It resembled an overcooked leg of roast mutton.
Robbie screwed up his face. ‘Can’t do that, sorry.’
I slid the photo out to reveal the next one. ‘I don’t mean now,’ I said. ‘I can come back when it suits.’
The next photo was a close-up of the ribcage. There was no flesh on the bones but patches of what looked like fine mesh or filament adhered and draped into the chest cavity.
Robbie shifted his weight. ‘It’s not that. I can take you out there but it wouldn’t be any use.’ He scratched his upper arm in a nervous gesture.
‘Actually, Robbie, seeing the body is a lot of use to
In the waiting area, four enormous Maori guys balanced on the tiny wooden chairs provided. They were all reading Woman’s Weekly s, their legs stretched out in identical postures of relaxation. Seven entirely different coloured socks were on display. One naked foot sat proud in this company. None of the men looked up when I entered.
Directly in front of me was a chest-high counter where a uniformed cop leaned, reading the paper, a lock of sandy hair falling over his forehead. His finger traced a line of text, lips moving as he silently read. He straightened as I approached, flicked the hair back, and looked directly at me. He kept his finger planted on the paper.
‘Hi. I’m Diane Rowe. Inspector McFay said you’d be expecting me,’ I said, noting his eyes were the warm, deep brown of bush honey. He held my look for a moment and then his free hand disappeared below the counter.
‘Yeah, sure.’
A loud buzzer sounded and a light went on above the door next to the counter, indicating it was now unlocked. It always surprises me how easy it is to get into a police station, but I guess it’s the getting out that’s meant to be difficult. I stepped into an empty office. A couple of desks were piled with report forms, ring-binder case files and dirty coffee mugs. On the wall was the ubiquitous girlie calendar alongside a whiteboard listing the station’s jobs for the day. According to the ‘Urgent’ list, Lou should ring his mum ASAP.
The cop from behind the counter was right behind me.
‘I’m on my own here, sorry. Pat and Lou are out doing warrants, so I’m going to have to juggle you with the desk.’ He hesitated, and then held his hand out. ‘Rob. Robbie. Robert. Take your pick.’ He bobbed his head shyly towards an invisible crowd of people clamouring to pin a name on him.
Robbie wore his good looks as casually as a favourite T-shirt. He must have been at least six foot three or four but hunched his height down into his shoulders with a slight stoop. Very broad shoulders they were too, but he didn’t seem the gym bunny type, so my guess was he played a bit of sport.
I shook his hand. Firm. Warm. Dry. A lot of men have trouble shaking hands with women. Some make their hand go all limp and take yours in their fingers like it’s a half-dismembered rat the cat has presented them with. Others crunch your knuckles in an attempt to make some point or other. But Rob, Robbie, Robert’s handshake was plain … nice. I let him go. Reluctantly.
‘You can use my desk if you like.’ He smiled.
‘Thanks. That’d be great. But listen,’ I said as he stacked papers and cleared an area for me. ‘You don’t have to babysit me. I know my way around a case file.’
‘It’s not exactly what I’d call a case file,’ he said, tapping a slim manila folder. ‘This is it, I’m afraid. A couple of report sheets and some snapshots of the remains.’
I picked up the folder. ‘Okay. Well, I’ll have a read and then maybe you could take me out there to look at the body in situ .’
I looked at the half dozen photos paper-clipped to the inside. The first photo is always a shock, but then it gets easier. This one was a close-up of what I recognised as a femur. The bone was bleached white, with what remained of the muscle stretched the length of the bone and attached tenuously at each end. It resembled an overcooked leg of roast mutton.
Robbie screwed up his face. ‘Can’t do that, sorry.’
I slid the photo out to reveal the next one. ‘I don’t mean now,’ I said. ‘I can come back when it suits.’
The next photo was a close-up of the ribcage. There was no flesh on the bones but patches of what looked like fine mesh or filament adhered and draped into the chest cavity.
Robbie shifted his weight. ‘It’s not that. I can take you out there but it wouldn’t be any use.’ He scratched his upper arm in a nervous gesture.
‘Actually, Robbie, seeing the body is a lot of use to
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