Thicker Than Water. Lindy Cameron

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      "You're still doing it," Angie marvelled.

      "Yeah," Kit nodded, "Marek always mixes his characters and movies."

      "No, you're still bantering."

      "Ah," Marek said sagely, or tried to. "This is because: a) O'Malley really doesn't need to see any more dead people; b) as this will not be my investigation, I can honestly say I'm here because I've always wanted to see inside Angie's infamous bar; and c) between us, Kitty and I are trying to keep your mind off your dead murder victim."

      "It's not working," Angie stated. "And he's not mine."

      "Why don't you ask her some important questions then, Marek," Kit suggested.

      "Um, I don't want to know anything? Marek replied questioningly, because either he was aware it wasn't a good response for a homicide cop, or he was suddenly distracted.

      Kit followed his line of sight and glanced over her shoulder at Angie's only other patrons, sitting in the booth furthest from the crime scene. Nothing strange there, so she turned back to Marek with a palms-up shrug. "But you'll be a better judge of the facts than Chu..."

      "Parker will do the right thing," Marek interjected. "I'll make sure of that. But I can't take over. I would, however, like to know who they are, especially the one with the tape recorder."

      Kit swivelled around on her stool and took inventory of the group who were sitting where they'd been told to sit and wait. When Angie had discovered the uninvited naked corpse in her disco, and had rung her friend the Private Investigator at home in an understandable panic three hours before, Kit had told her to make sure that anyone who was there stayed, and to let no one else in until the police arrived.

      "From left," Kit pointed, "Rabbit MacArthur, Booty Jones, Don't Know, and Sal...um."

      "Armstrong," Angie finished. "Don't-Know with the walkman is Carrie... Someone."

      "Rabbit, Booty, Don't Know, Someone," Marek repeated. "Don't they have real names?"

      "Those names are as real as mate, Mate," Kit smiled.

      "Or Doggie and Biffer or whatever you called those cops," Angie noted.

      Kit widened her eyes. "So Marek, why don't you take Angie over there so she can help you interrogate the witnesses. That way we can all find out who Carrie Thing is."

      "Good plan," Marek agreed, taking the hint that it might also distract Angie.

      "Scooter Farrell was here when we found the body," Angie volunteered, as she lifted a section of the counter top so she could get out from behind the bar. "But she had to go to work because she was relieving someone. Besides which, she had a cracker of a hangover and the thought of him," Angie cast a thumb towards the dance room, "was vomit-inducing."

      Marek, muttering something silly about a compromised crime scene, escorted Angie over to the booth, whereon Rabbit MacArthur leapt up and thrust her hand out to shake his with all the enthusiasm of someone who always wanted to be a real detective but had never bothered to join the police force in order to make the dream even a vague possibility.

      Kit returned her semi-detached attention to Dr Ruth Hudson and the two forensic staff who had joined her in the soundproofed - when the doors weren't folded open - Red Room. She wondered whether the guy had been killed in there overnight, or had just been left for effect.

      Some bloody effect, she thought.

      She rubbed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose then tried to view her favourite haunt from a cop/crime-scene perspective. The huge three-sided (one short, two long) bar, at which she was sitting about thirty feet from the front door, divided the Terpsichore in half. The west side of the building, which looked out on St Georges Road - or would if it had windows - featured The Red at the rear, and ten booths lining the front half of the space.

      Kit turned around to face east, where there were more booths and six pool tables in the area adjacent to the long side of the bar, which also had a small bistro-servery. Chairs and tables, and a grand piano occupied the front, or southern end of the building.

      There were three ways in and out of Angie's: the front door, through the entrance foyer, off which were the toilets; an emergency exit at the rear of The Red; and the kitchen door beyond the servery. The Red and kitchen doors led into a side alley.

      Well, that was singularly unhelpful, Kit thought, turning back to face The Red. Realising she was too disturbed by the imminent arrival of Parker to give a rat's arse about how the killer got into the premises, she debated whether to run and hide, but realised how unfair that would be on Angie. Leaving her to deal with Chucky alone would be grounds for dismissal from the friendship ring.

      Bah! Who needs friends? Kit asked herself. Bugger Angie! I do not want to go to jail for involuntary prickicide.

      Kit screwed her face into a serious pout. Bloody hell! It was bad enough that in the nearly four years of the Terpsichore's existence as a women's bar there'd never been any need to have cops on the premises - unless they were off-duty and women - but this particular need was beyond ridiculous.

      The Terpsichore, commonly known as Angie's, was a nightclub, bar and poolroom with none of the attendant problems. Until now. Until the first time an uninvited bloke gets in.

      Okay, Kit allowed, given his current condition the guy may not have wanted to get into Angie's but... Shit! Of all the cops in the state to get the right to traipse his little feet through her home away from home, it was going to be the traitorous Graham Parker.

      Kit raked her hands vigorously through her short hair in a fit of frustration until she caught sight of the result, in the evil mirror behind the bar, and tried to pat it back into its usual dishevelled do. She closed her eyes, took a deep meditative breath, remembered she didn't have a clue how to meditate and then jumped in fright as a hand gripped the back of her neck to render her incapable of movement.

      "Do I need to gag and handcuff you?" Marek asked.

      "No. Why?"

      "Your favourite Martian is here."

      "Don't insult the non-terrestrials," Kit stated, swivelling on her stool in time to see Senior Sergeant Graham Parker slithering through the front door like the snake he was.

      Kit couldn't help the snorting laugh that escaped her control while her senses rippled with a minor revelation. Having been, only mildly, concerned she'd be unable to resist the urge to ram the open Tabasco bottle somewhere in Parker where the sun didn't shine, she'd forgotten to remember just how distorted the nasty things in one's memory can get over time.

      For here came the walking, breathing, insignificant proof: Graham Chucky Parker was so much less than she remembered. He was shorter, weedier, paler and balder. He still dressed very well and it still didn't give him any style; and he still walked as if he had a prickly golf ball up his bum.

      Parker gave Marek a curious nod, glanced at Kit without recognition and continued on into The Red where he consulted Martin and his other detective, and was glared at by Ruth Hudson who waved him away from her space.

      "Can I go now please Jonno?' Kit begged. "I'd really hate to go to prison for squishing that slimy little slugger-bug. If there was more to him it wouldn't be such a waste of my future."

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