Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron
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We have a perfectly composed, unposed irate pic of our TGB, or rather a pic of our irate TGB and the truckload of cow shit that was dumped on his front lawn - courtesy of a wonderfully disgruntled ratepayer. It made my day. That man is such a prick."
"Want me to deal with him for you?" Brigit asked sweetly, punching her fist into her palm.
"Oh would you? That would make my year."
"Well I never! It's Katherine," a now very familiar voice called out from across the bar. "Imagine meeting you twice in one day."
"Yeah, small world. Um...?" Kit replied, snapping her fingers, as if to jog her memory. She smiled at Rebecca Jones, Sally Shaw and Carmel Fisher while she snapped and mumbled "undercover" to Brigit, who was now doing her own ogling.
"Rebecca," said Rebecca, with a half smile. "You remember Carmel, from lunch? And this is my friend Sally."
Kit gave a wave.
Brigit said, in awe: "You're Rebecca Jones," and then turned to Kit. "How could you not..."
Kit plunged her hand between Brigit's thighs, which shut her friend up quick smart.
"What's her problem?" Sally asked Rebecca, with a nod in Kit's direction.
Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Maybe we'll catch up later, Katherine," she suggested, recognising the cover-blowing potential of the situation. Carmel, luckily, was busy talking alcohol with Barman Phil. Rebecca smiled and dragged Sally away. Hopefully, Kit thought, to have serious words with her.
"Are you playing with my woman?" Del asked Kit.
"Not exactly," Kit replied, trying to remove her hand. "Your woman has very strong thighs though. You can let go now, Brigie."
"Oh," Brigit sulked. "I thought my luck had changed. But what's with you? How come you didn't recognise Rebecca Jones? Come to think of it, how come she did recognise you?"
"Sorry, it's a need to know situation, Brigie," Kit grinned. "I tried to tell you I was undercover, but being gobsmacked apparently makes you deaf."
"Undercover? Wow! Are you investigating her?" she whispered.
Kit sighed. "No Brigit darling, I'm not. But I can't tell you what I am doing, so don't ask. Please."
"Okay. But you know her, right? And she knows you. You know each other."
"Yes, yes and yes," Kit replied. "Oh look, a policeman. Evening Officer."
"O'Malley," growled a dishevelled and unshaven man, modelling the very latest in shouldn't be worn by anyone, ever, suits.
"Everyone, this is Detective-Sergeant Simmons; Simmo this is everyone. The bad guy is Tony the pencil-dick in the corner," Kit said, pointing at the wet waiter who was now starting to look really depressed.
"Oh," she added, "just in case he tries to sue me for unnecessary verbal abuse or something later, the genital reference is not an insult - well, it is - but it's also a description of the offender given by a pretty reliable eyewitness. But enough of that, why are you here Simmo? This should be a uniform job."
"I'm here because you are O'Malley. I was at the desk when the call came in, I had to see if the O'Malley was you."
"Well, as you can see - it is," Kit acknowledged, raising her hands and wiggling her fingers. "And it's good to see you too."
Simmons laughed. "Yeah, right. So what gives?"
"Well, this is the evidence," Kit explained, handing Simmons the plastic bag of stolen goods. "Tony there was caught red-handed with these items, all stolen from the patrons this evening who will no doubt want them back ASAP. You'd better speak to the owner of the gallery, one Miranda Prentice, who will, I'm sure, lodge a complaint against this perp for prior instances of similar theft on other Tuesday evenings."
Simmons tugged on his trousers to pull them up but, as he'd neglected to do any exercise for at least 15 years, the action only achieved a jelly-wobble of his beer gut. His pants went nowhere.
"Good show then, O'Malley," he said.
"Actually, it was Brigit here who witnessed the theft and apprehended the Tony," Kit explained.
"We'll need a statement," Simmons said to Brigit. "The uniform guys out the front can take it now, if you like."
"I'm happy to oblige," Brigit pronounced, sliding off her stool.
Simmons beckoned to Tony. "Do I need to cuff you?"
"No, sir, Detective. Um, no," Tony replied, approaching cautiously.
"Good. Because I'm really serious about this: don't try anything stupid - like making a run for it," Simmons drawled. "I hate crooks that run. If you run, I won't chase you; I'll just shoot you. You got that?"
"Yeah. I swear I won't run. But you're not the one I'm worried about." Tony glared at Brigit.
"Good," Simmo said. "Thanks again, O'Malley. Ah, Brigit is it, if you'd come with me."
"Friend of yours?" Erin asked, as she, Kit and Del watched Brigit clear the way to the front door for Simmons and his charge. They took a detour via Miranda and escorted her outside as well.
"Ex-colleague," Kit replied. "Simmo's actually one of the force's finest. He just can't dress himself," she added, shaking her head in ongoing disbelief.
Erin glanced at her watch, then scowled at the crowd. "I dunno," she said softly. "What's the world coming to when you can't even trust a snitch to turn up for some money?"
"Is that why you're here?" Kit asked.
"Yeah. That's also why I'm wearing purple sneakers," Erin stated. "I trust, my dear, that you did not think this was a fashion statement. Nor that I came here to have my artistic tastes challenged, or to be picked up by men half my size."
"Of course not, " Kit lied.
"Who would know, in this company?" Del asked, waving her arm about. "About the fashions, I mean."
"True," Erin said. "But these," she waggled one foot, "were specifically requested by my new and mysterious informant as a condition of us meeting face to face. The jerk is an hour late and I feel ridiculous, so if he turns up now I shall probably shove these shoes up his bottom."
"What was he going to inform you about?" Kit asked. "Or can't you tell us?"
Erin hesitated for only a second, said 'shit' and then laughed. "I wish, like yours, my situation was a 'need to know' kind of thing," she added. "But, as I don't know the situation or the guy - hence the variation on the red carnation in the lapel thing - and he is, so far, fifty per cent unreliable, I don't mind telling you that he was going to tell me about the cow shit I mentioned earlier. Actually, I suspect he is Mercury, but seeing as how he hasn't turned up I may never know."
"Mercury?" Kit asked.
"The disgruntled doodoo-delivering ratepayer," Erin smiled. "For some reason, known only to himself, he calls himself 'Mercury'. My so-called informant, who may or may not be Mercury, rang for the first time on Wednesday and told me that 'shit was going down at Cr Higgins' joint' - literally; which is how we got the photo opportunity. Jack himself certainly wouldn't have wanted anyone to know about it. When Mr Deep-Throat-He-Ain't rang again this morning, saying he had info on Mercury's next offensive, I asked to meet him. So here I am, and he isn't."
"Maybe he was Stuart," Kit suggested. "Or should that be: maybe Stuart was he?" Kit looked questioningly at Del. "Him?"
"Don't look at me," Del said. "I've only just worked out what split infinitives really are, and why we shouldn't get our nickers in a twist over them."
"I don't think so," Erin was saying emphatically. "Stuart was definitely working his way around, very bloody tediously I might add, to the subject of human fluid exchange - his and mine. He was not here to discuss bovine dung delivery schedules."
"Well, that is a perfect note on which to