Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ Del had caught hold of Kit before she hit the ground and later, after a second divisional van had taken the three drunks away, Del had treated Kit's cut lip while Marek took the necessary statements.

      'Where's Brigit?' Kit asked.

      'Hanging round the knicker department of Dimmey's. There's another sale on and our Brigie does so love a bargain,' Del said rubbing her hands together. 'I swear I don't know what the woman does with all that underwear.'

      'Are you two going to Angie's tonight?' Kit asked.

      'Probably. It is Friday after all. Will you be joining us or is sultry Sam still in town?'

      'No and yes. We're going out for dinner.'

      'That should be exciting,' Del said flatly. 'I don't know what you see in that air-head.'

      'There seems to be a lot of things you don't know today Ms Fielding,' Kit snarled. 'I'll thank you to keep your uncharitable remarks to yourself.'

      'Oh, excuse me! I'm sorry for living in hope that one day you'll take up with someone who's at least half as smart as you are.'

      'I don't want to hear this Del,' Kit said picking up her shoes.

      'Of course not, sweetheart.'

      'And don't be patronising. Just because it's been centuries since you were in lust.'

      Del shook her head slowly as she watched Kit stuff several manilla folders and the shoes into her briefcase. 'That remark couldn't be further from the truth,' she said with a smile. 'It does, however, show how little you know about long term, meaningful relationships, Katherine. With you it's only ever lust, which may be exciting, orgasmic, weight-reducing and the best way to spend a spare hour or two, but it is also superficial, empty and above all transitory.'

      'Thank you for the analysis, Dr Freud,' Kit said, one hand on her hip in a gesture of standing her ground. That was impossible to do for too long under that know-it-all gaze, and she really hated it when Del was having one of her 'it's time to get serious and settle down Kit' days. Unable to think of a clever parting shot, she shrugged her shoulders, grabbed her briefcase and opening the office door said 'My love life, Delbridge, is none of your business.'

      'Sure. Until next week when you don't have one and are in desperate need of company,' Del called after her.

      'That's what friends are for,' Kit said closing the door behind her. She took the stairs two at a time and dumped her brief case on the small landing at the top while she unlocked the door to her apartment. As she stepped inside she heard a faint rustling sound above her and, expecting a surprise attack, quickly removed her pantihose before ascending the five steps from the inside landing. She was right. She only made it half way past the sitting room before a deranged black commando launched itself from behind the begonia and grabbed hold of her leg.

      'Let go, you lunatic!' she shouted as she tried to walk Quasimodo-like into the kitchen with The Cat clinging tenaciously to her right ankle. When she bent to pick it up it darted manically off in several directions at once before leaping onto the kitchen bench to sit demurely as if butter wouldn't melt in its mouth.

      'I heard you this time, you feral feline. You're getting careless Thistle,' Kit said leaning in for the customary head-butt hello.

      She turned the kettle on, threw some coffee into a mug and stared absently at the collage of photographs on the wall. There was a polaroid shot of herself sprawled on the couch with the Cat from Hell perched on her shoulder. It was only the two bright satanic eyes that distinguished the tiny black ball of fur from the shoulder-length curls of Kit's worst-ever haircut. The Cat was a lot bigger and Kit's hair a lot shorter now than when that shot was taken about the same time, two years ago, as the one of her brother Michael above it. He was poised in front of one of his cosmic landscapes waiting for a reaction from Lillian who looked like she was suffering severe indigestion. Amongst the collection there was also Detective Sergeant Jon Marek peering over the top of a Phantom comic; Nick and Phil grinning lasciviously at each other at last year's Christmas party; Genevieve looking totally ravishing outside a cafe in Firenze; and Del, at Angie's, mouth open as usual, haranguing someone else for a change, while Brigit overflowed a bar stool in the background.

      Kit had never been able to figure out why Del was so disdainful of her personal relationships. That wasn't entirely true; of course she'd figured it out. She was just reluctant to acknowledge there was a certain amount of truth in what her friend was saying. It really riled Kit that it had reached the stage where the moment she met someone new she realised she was also anticipating Del's reaction. There would always be some unsolicited remark about her choice of partner, and when the affair didn't work out it would undoubtedly be because of Kit's cavalier attitude towards any sort of commitment. Though why Del would want Kit to commit herself to someone she'd called an air-head, or worse, was something Kit couldn't fathom, but that was Del.

      Kit placed the coffee on her desk and was about to turn on her computer to tackle chapter five of her novel, when she noticed the light flashing on the answering machine. There was a message from her mother about going to Adelaide, a reminder from Marek about a barbecue on Sunday and then the dulcet tones of Sam Hellier.

       'Um, this is me. I'm really sorry Kit but we'll have to postpone dinner. Dominic wants me in Sydney this afternoon for a re-shoot of that Callio thing. Got to go. Sorry. See you next week.'

      'Shit! Shit, shit, shit.' There was no way Kit was going to break down and join Del and Brigit at Angie's after being stood up by sultry Sam.

      She flicked the switch on her PC, typed three pages of murder and mayhem into chapter five of her novel, then went out and hired the latest Die Hard and two Steven Seagal movies and settled in for a night of vicarious body thumping, alone - again.

      CHAPTER THREE

      The worst thing about any surveillance job is the sheer boredom. And the cramps. You can't take along a good book in case you get too involved in it and forget why you're sitting in the front seat of a car in a dead end alley on a Saturday night suffering periodic muscle spasms. And besides, you can't turn on the interior light to read by, as the whole idea is to be inconspicuous. For the same reason you can't have the car radio on, at least not too loud, and you can't get out of the car too often to stretch your legs because that would look a bit sus too.

      So Kit sat, with her feet up on the dashboard, trying to do a cryptic crossword by street light. She had a clear view of The Patrician Club's main entrance which, despite the address, was not in Collins Street proper, but in the narrow lane which ran beside the featureless two-storey bluestone building. The lane, unlike the alley piled with rubbish in which Kit was parked, was about 50 metres long and ended in a small car park, sentry box and all, reserved for Patrician members.

      Kit had witnessed the drivers of several cars, on their third or fourth circuit of the block in the impossible quest for a legal car park in the centre of Melbourne, finally take a punt on parking illegally in the vacant lane. Each time, the mountain disguised as a balding, moustached doorman and employed to prevent such liberties had waited till the driver and any passengers were out of the car before sauntering over to inform them that in actual fact parking there was just not on.

      It was only 11 p.m. but Kit felt as if she'd been sitting in her car for a week. It was damn hot and the stinking alley, bordered as it was on three sides by buildings that blocked out all but a tiny patch of night sky, offered no respite from the heat.

      Just in case the 7.30 appointment at The Patrician was a cover for something else, Kit had begun СКАЧАТЬ