Dark Secrets

By Helen Iles

When Police Lieutenant BJ Strafer returns to Benjamin, his old home town, many things are rekindled – his thoughts of returning home for good; his fears for old Sam Carstairs; the long-running feud with that man’s son who’d once idolised him, and the hopes of reclaiming the love of the Police Chief’s daughter.

While

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linellen Press
• Release date: Apr 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922343185

Helen Iles

Perth author Helen Iles is a horse breaker and trainer when not writing prose or poetry. Many of these poems were composed from her personal experiences as a horse rider and trainer over many years and during her travels through the outback. In this collection of poems The Horse From Ethel Creek was awarded the ABC's State Country Session Poetry Prize; The Breaker's Walk received a highly commended certificate at the Grenfell Henry Lawson Festival of Arts; Any Place received a Commended Award in the Ethel Webb Bundell Literary Awards and Kimberley Dream gained a Special Mention in the Bronze Quill SWW-WA Awards.

Book preview

Chapter One

June 1987

Below the Blue Ridge Mountains on that chilly Wednesday morning, Lincoln Street slept. By Friday that week, the street would never be the same. And nor would peaceful Jayburg County.

It all started when a battered white pickup turned into Lincoln Street at the far end and crawled down to the farther end. The truck made a U-turn to face the way it had come and parked on the verge in front of a shabby-looking house. The old man driving winced as the brakes gave a short, high-pitched squeak, the noise intruding on the pre-dawn peace.

Killing the headlights as the first rays of sunlight peeped over the distant hills, the driver sat back and sighed – watched as fingers of gold crept down through the pines, hickory, and sycamores behind the row of clapboard houses – watched as inch by inch, lawns returned to splendid Virginia green and flowers woke with splashes of wild color. And swallows took to the wing. This slow, golden reveal was his daily reward for rising so early.

Way back, beyond the decrepit house, low-lying fog lay across the wetland. Within the hour, it would steam away into nothingness and reveal the Calpasture River. And he sighed again … Ahhh! Another blessed Virginnie day!

The truck’s engine purred in idle as the old man soaked it in, the gold fingers fanning out, stretching up over the cab, and shining like a spotlight down into the truck tray. Another deep sigh released and he cut the motor, ready to start a long day of toil.

Truck doors opened simultaneously and two men heaved themselves out of the cab. Both wore similar blue overalls, light flannel shirts, and thick padded jackets, the layers to be removed as the day warmed up. A faded peaked cap fixed firmly to each head, almost concealing their silver-grey hair. Tall and sturdy for their age, the men were still able to outwork most younger men, which is why they wouldn’t hire any. And, less outlay, more in their pocket.

Hunched against the cold, though spotlit by the morning sun, the two men stood in the tall, damp grass, staring at the house. Seymour sighed again, this time with dismay. This was Sam Carstairs’ house; Sam had been his friend.

Dark and broody, the house stared back at them.

Seymour eased the truck door shut with a quiet click, leaving the street to sleep, a street much like their own on the other side of town. An old street with old houses. The last row of suburbia before farmland spread away into the hills. The yards here were all well-tended too, except for Sam’s.

Leaning their butts against the truck’s buckled fender, the men crossed their ankles; folded their arms.

He’s late again, Seymour huffed, glancing at his watch. He half glanced at Walt. It was already half-past six. Walt liked to start work dead on the half-hour – any half-hour.

Seymour sighed again. Then silence reigned as each man studied the house, one considering the best way to tackle the job, the other still thinking of Sam.

Sam’s ramshackle house sat on the fringe of a wide but withered field that stretched into the wetlands. This old house had stared down Lincoln Street for many a year; its rear watching over the river and wetlands beyond. It had stood idle for years – a lonely eyesore separated from other houses on Lincoln street by the flat fields around it. At a recent Council meeting, it had been deemed ‘unrepairable’ and issued a demolition order on the property. Who better to task with the demolition than the Tully Brothers.

The furrows in Seymour’s brow deepened: Sam must have owed the Council so much money by now they could do as they pleased with the old place. He glanced around the yard; acknowledged that the lack of maintenance over the years had given the Council a case. A real shame, he thought. The place was handsome once. A long, low-slung bungalow with wide sweeping verandahs of highly polished floorboards and a fancy balustraded stairway leading to the porch, painted glossy white like Lydia wanted. Its frontage once sported rich red Bergamot that lined the drive and bordered the gardens all around the house, and smooth lawns nipped at the roadside. The gardens were beyond resurrection now, the bare trees gnarled and twisted.

Don’t look like that anymore, Seymour muttered. It ain’t had a lick of paint since Lydia died.

The house stared back at him, harsh and defiant as if it knew what they were there to do.

That had been a great yard for scaring the bejesus out of kids on Halloween, he mused further, trying to bolster his mood, trying to erase the feeling that the house windows glared at him, the gaping black holes accusing. Even the porch drew a shadowy grim line along its face. It knows what we’re here to do.

A real shame it has to go, he muttered again, reluctant to take his eyes off it. What the hell in tarnation will Sam do if he ever comes back?

Well accustomed to Seymour’s one-sided conversations, Walt focused beyond the façade, beyond the paint-chipped clapboards and rubble marred yard, imagining the ancient, centuries-old beams cut from upper New England forests. He’d taken this job for a reason; had taken a gamble to ensure he won the tender. They would make a fortune from the sale of the internal timber, triple their fee for the demolition.

Sam’s off with his high falutin’ son in the city, he jawed. He won’t ever be coming back for it to make a difference.

Seymour’s head turned as a drab-olive sedan bearing City Council decals cruised along the street towards them.

’bout time, he grumped, pushing his butt away from the rusty fender.

The sedan pulled in behind them.

What does this young upstart think? … we got all goddamned day?

It was 6.45. Walt wouldn’t want to start now for another fifteen minutes, which meant they would knock off later in the day. He liked to be heading home by three.

The short, wiry Council worker alighted from the vehicle, looked at the house, and shook his head.

Tear it down, he ordered. Make it disappear.

He could start a new trend in Benjamin housing then. Put his stamp on the town by approving only modern architecture – this part of Benjamin was long overdue for a facelift. Council wants it gone in three weeks, before Senator Durack’s visit. And that means clear and bare, do you hear?

He slapped the Authorisation Notice into Walt’s hand: Walt always did the paperwork – Seymour maintained the tools.

With barely a glance at his brother, Walt stuffed the paper into his coverall pocket; turned to the truck tray, and started removing tools. Sullenly, Seymour joined him, the clerk ducking beneath the careless arc of crowbars and sledge-hammers as Seymour swung them onto his shoulder.

Walt shuffled down the driveway, the clerk following a short distance behind, stooping at times to peer beneath the porch. But long planks sealed the cavity between the ground and flooring and therefore, he saw nothing. Seymour passed by him, laid the tools down at the back of the house, and returned to the truck for more.

I don’t know why someone hasn’t done something about this eyesore before, the upstart whined as they passed him. He dusted imaginary dirt from his hands onto a handkerchief.

Maybe most of us hoped Sam’d come back, Seymour mumbled, his words drawing Walt’s attention. Seymour rarely spoke to strangers. For Sam, he apparently made an exception.

The young man’s lips twisted at the comment. Well this won’t be here if he does, will it? The frame’s rotting away, and Council won’t tolerate it falling over in the next storm.

Straightening, Walt stared at the house again. Stopped his slow shamble back down the drive. Adjusting the broad ax on his shoulder, he considered the man’s statement; thought Bullshit … frame looks solid as a rock. Indeed, this was old wood. These old houses would stand another century. Then his thoughts followed Seymour’s. What would Sam do when he came back to Benjamin to find his home gone? He wondered how he would feel finding a large vacant block where once his house stood. At their ages, there wasn’t time to start all over again.

He shuffled on, hoping Seymour was behind him. He’d worked too hard to get this job to have Seymour rankle the clerk and lose it.

Remember to watch out for rats, the young upstart called as he back-stepped down the drive. I have a file this thick of complaints. He gauged three inches with his fingers. This place is riddled with them.

He reached the sedan; folded into the driver’s seat and watched as the Tully Brothers removed the last of the tools from the truck tray. Shaking his head, he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

We’ll start ripping it down from the back, Walt suggested as Seymour bent to peer beneath the porch.

Seymour stood up as the skin on the back of his neck began to crawl. Beady eyes watched him from the house and the garden. More eyes stared at him from the deepest depths of darkness; from the cavity beneath the ancient flooring. He couldn’t see them … but he could feel them. And shuddered violently.

Walt, you know I hate rats!

Yeah, well I don’t like ’em either.

Maybe that’s what drove Sam out, Seymour figured, scanning the area to be sure he wasn’t surrounded by rodents. Can’t understand how someone could simply up and walk away like that, abandoning this big old block. It must be worth a mint.

Aww, I don’t think he wandered so much, Walt jawed as they headed for the truck again. Word has it that no-good son of his became a rich fancy lawyer, offered him a better life up-state.

Yeah … I heard that too, but can’t see it meself. I don’t think those two’d ever settle their differences. Not after all this time.

Seymour scratched the grey stubble on his jaw and shook his head again. Nah! I don’t believe a word of it. That young pup wouldn’t toss old Sam a cracker if he was starvin’ in the gutter. Nope. Can’t see anything ever changin’ there. Not then. Not now.

Well if that be the case where’d old Sam go?

Seymour shrugged.

Nobody knows … and few care … Walt figured. … which is more the pity. All I know is, we gotta pull this place down and collect our money at the end of it, so I’m not complainin’.

Pulling the truck door open, he lifted out his lunch box, Seymour’s attention shifting as a sleek, silver sedan turned into the street. The car cruised slowly towards them, its paintwork glistening with early morning dew.

Seymour watched it too, noting a car like that was rare in Benjamin.

The Mercedes crawled on, its driver scrutinizing the house, the truck, Seymour. At the end of the street, it swung in a smooth arc to turn back the way it had come. It passed by them again.

Seymour glanced at his wristwatch. It was nearly seven o’clock. In a few minutes, they would wake the whole street.

Chapter Two

The Council sedan turned left off Lincoln Street and disappeared behind the pines and houses on Munroe Street. Four blocks further down, the main highway, which some creative genius had called ‘Main Highway, ran north-east across Jayburg County. That road linked Bodallin in the south to Charterville in the north. Benjamin, on a map, sat forty-five miles equidistant between the two. All land in a forty-mile radius of Benjamin’s town center came under the watchful eye of Chief Lyman Moresby of Jayburg County’s Sheriff’s Office.

Crossing the main highway, the Council sedan crossed the narrow steel bridge that spanned the Callpasture River and turned left into Birch Street. Munroe Street ended in a parking bay at the town’s grassy square. Skirting the emerald-green park, where pine trees towered from each corner, the car passed the town’s business center. Here, the General store, Suzi’s Fashions & Hair Salon, and Trenton’s Barbers all sat opposite the park square. All were closed at this early hour. The car swung right into Elm Street where sat the Courthouse and City Hall, and here the clerk parked, below City Hall’s wide stone steps.

Alighting from the vehicle, he slammed the car door and climbed the stairs to the solid, brown oak doors. At this hour though the doors were still locked, and he glanced over his shoulder. He had an hour before he needed to start work, and his breakfast in the early hours had been a rushed, tepid cup of coffee and a flimsy piece of toast. He had time for something better.

On Birch Street, wedged between Whitmore’s Drapery and Benjamin’s only bakery, sat Queenie’s Coffee Lounge, its narrow window frontage emblazoned with her name in thick gold letters. Without further thought, the clerk headed across the road.

Inside Queenie’s, a row of orange leather-upholstered stools bordered the chocolate brown counter in the front half of the room. Further back, brown fabric-upholstered booths jutted out from one wall. Some booths and stools were occupied.

The clerk took a seat at the counter; nodded good morning to Altira Moresby as she pushed open the plain glass door and strolled in on elegant spiked heels. She returned his nod and continued to her usual booth at the rear of the room, her stunning emerald eyes skimming the men at the counter as she passed. Each nodded her a genial good morning which she returned with a friendly smile. The men were all friends or acquaintances of her Daddy’s. None were clients of hers.

Ideally, she would have liked to sit at the counter but ‘ladies weren’t supposed to sit at counters’, her Daddy had always impressed. Ladies graced tables and waited to be served. Where once she wouldn’t be caught dead sitting at a table, now, in light of her position and who her Daddy was, a booth was far more fitting.

Sliding into a booth, she laid her slender clutch purse beside her and looked up. Queenie immediately nodded that she’d seen her.

Altira frowned as she scanned the counter, where Denton Remley devoured a double slice of Queenie’s home-made apple pie – he owned the gas station down on Hickory Drive, but maybe for not much longer. The thick cream piled high on the pie was not conducive to Denton’s heart staying healthy. Doctor Hartford would have a fit! Then she thought of old Mr Buckmeyer who’d passed away the previous afternoon, at the precise moment Bridie MacTanish had pushed her baby boy into the world. She would miss Mr Buckmeyer – she and the pigeons would miss him a lot. The old man spent most of his days in the park below her library window. It would be different now. The seat would be empty. And if Denton Remley wasn’t at the gas station when she drove home each day … Well, it just left Benjamin open to too much change, and she really hated change.

Queenie smiled as she came to Altira’s table with the coffee pot. It was not the same smile she reserved for her Daddy, but a friendly smile just the same.

Morning, Altira honey. How’s your Daddy this mornin’? she said, pouring the pungent brew into Altira’s cup. All packed up and rearin’ to go? Her round pink cheeks matched her pastel pink uniform whenever she mentioned that man, the bottle-blonde curls framing her face making the color even more pronounced.

Not quite, Altira admitted with a thin smile. You know Daddy … we’ll have to send him off on this vacation a-kickin’ and a-screamin’.

Backwoods slang seemed so natural when she spoke of her father: the man had the strongest southern drawl in the whole of Jayburg County.

Well, things have been pretty quiet here in town of late, so I dare say he’ll be less worried about going this time. Queenie said, hoping she was right. Lyman Moresby hadn’t had a decent vacation in nigh on eight years, and he was starting to look old.

Altira’s lips twisted. "Daddy never stops, you know that. Whether he’s sittin’ behind that cluttered old desk in his office or stretched out naked in his tub, he’s always expectin’ the phone to ring and drag him off to something.

Personally, she said, adoration in her eyes, I think he feels indispensable. She propped her chin on lightly tanned knuckles and sighed. I’m still waiting for something to give him reason to back out of it this time.

Suppressing a smile, for she had news Altira didn’t know yet, Queenie nodded. Now don’t you worry none about that, honey. That Cliffy Bowers isn’t taking no for an answer this time. If he has to carry your Daddy out to that van a-kickin’ and a-screamin’, and hog-tie him till he gets him to Maine then he’ll do it. But I don’t think he’ll have to.

Altira picked up the cup, hoping that was true because she just couldn’t see her father leaving Benjamin for a whole month. If the man wasn’t developing ulcers working out how to keep the town safe from boogie men, he was keeping a close eye on his only precious daughter.

Queenie pulled the notepad from her pocket and lifted her pen to paper. "Besides, I heard he’s already asked Bobby-Joe Strafer to come on down and take his place while he’s gone … so he must be going."

Altira’s cup slipped in her hand, spilling coffee across the table.

Now, you want anything to go with that coffee, child?

She glanced at the younger woman’s face, her mind filling with visions of the storms that would rage through Benjamin when those two met again. In a small town like Benjamin, it would happen sooner than later.

My, what’s the matter, child? She fought hard not to smile. You’ve gone positively pale.

Over on Lincoln Street, the first outer boards of the old timber house groaned, nails still biting deep into centuries-old wood. Walt and Seymour Tully pressed hard against the crowbars, arms, shoulders, back, thighs, and boots keeping pressure on the jemmy irons. Pointed iron bars squealed against the wood, but nothing wanted to yield. Seymour’s sledgehammer lay within reach, ready to join the fight.

Chapter Three

Right on noon that day, a black and white Police sedan cruised along Grant Street and turned into Adams Loop, Grant Street starting behind Police Headquarters at the southern edge of town. It ended at the base of the hills further down, Adams Loop intersecting it a mile down from headquarters and connecting again another mile further on. Local black-and-whites often traveled these roads.

Following the gentle curve around Adams Loop to Number 17, the black-and-white pulled up at the curb. A stout, medium-sized man slid from behind the wheel. He wore the uniform of a Jayburg County cop: blue shirt with a large gold emblem over the left breast pocket – navy blue trousers – black belt – black boots, and a wide-brimmed Mountie-style hat to keep off Benjamin sunshine. His white hat signified he ranked higher than his sub-ordinates who always wore black. In winter, they all donned fleecy-lined, black, waterproof jackets to keep out the mountain chill and the seemingly endless drizzle. The back of his jacket boldly bore the words ‘Sheriff’. His name badge read: Sheriff Lyman Moresby.

As he strode up the path towards the white front door his blue eyes searched the house for signs of life. Nothing moved at the windows; no activity stirred the yard. He stepped up onto the porch, listened at the door; tested the latch. It opened easily. Unlocked!

He opened the door a crack; called gruffly through the opening. Altira? You home, little girl? If she wasn’t and all was in order, he would grab a meal at Queenie’s. A week had passed since he’d last been there and it would be some time before he would be there again.

The smell of frying chicken wafted to his nose before she even answered. Yes, Daddy, I’m home. My car’s in the garage.

He went in. You gotta start learnin’ to lock this door, little girl. Times are a-changin’ …

And things indeed were changing. Up-State, crime had doubled. People would have to start protecting themselves. But, growing up in a time when nobody locked their doors, he knew it would be hard converting those who preferred the old ways. Including Altira Moresby.

There’s a big upsurge in violence and break-ins all around these parts, he said, striding through the entry, a room dominated by a white balustraded stairway and a small round table that held the precious phone. … and I’ve told you it’s only a matter of time before Benjamin suffers the same.

He entered the lounge through sliding glass doors, the room displaying a woman’s touch, though he remembered the years it hadn’t. Altira had slowly converted the house back to the home they’d once known: fresh flowers now perfumed the air and added a splash of color to the coffee table, and the mantel above the fireplace. New magazines and the daily paper sat within easy reach of his chair, ready for him to relax with, or for his guests to while away the time should he be called to the phone. The open floral curtains let sunlight into the room, making it bright and spacious, the way Altira liked it. Altira liked her space. And he sighed as a silent pang of pity needled that she couldn’t totally fill the void her mother had left.

He went through to the dining room where the table was set with knives, forks, and seasoning shakers, the aroma of Altira’s chicken sizzling in the pan flooding his mouth with saliva. Queenie’s left his mind.

Shedding his Sheriff persona, which landed on the sideboard between a bowl of waxed fruit and the ornamental bonsai Altira had been cultivating, he pulled a chair out at the head of the table and parked his broadening beam. Well I’m home too, he added, tipping back on two legs to peer into the kitchen.

There Altira doled portions of fried chicken and mashed potato onto large white plates. He was glad she was so well-organized, for noontime was the busy hour in town. Trouble-time. He knew she felt guilty dragging him away for this routine weekly lunch, but if he didn’t make Wednesday lunch with her, he would see precious little of her. Either she worked late, or he did, and their time together had grown to almost nothing. It had grown so bad that one night he’d dreamt she had linked up with a boy, married, and their time together was nil. It was the worst nightmare he’d ever had – the impetus for the weekly Wednesday lunch on Altira’s half-day off.

Watching her, he wondered if she sensed his fear. Did she know how much he worried about her leaving him alone one day. Lyman stared intensely at Altira as she bustled about serving the meal. She caught his stare, frowned at him and said:

I thought you might have gone to Queenie’s instead today. She indeed sounded mildly surprised that he hadn’t.

Now why would I go and do a thing like that? His blue eyes brightened when she came into the room carrying plates of steaming chicken. Whatever could Queenie cook that is better than this, may I ask?

A mischievous glint twinkled in his bright blue eyes as she laid the plate in front of him, and his eyebrow raised. Don’t you worry, little girl, I always know where I’m better off.

The recurring thought that one day she would pack her bags and leave Benjamin forever pushed forward again. He tried to push it back, but time kept it foremost in his head – one day his little girl would marry, or want to further her career. Shoot, most girls in Benjamin had at some stage. Some had gone to college. Some had found rich husbands. Others just hitched a ride on a northbound truck and simply disappeared. Every way was an escape in its own right. So far his luck had held out: Altira seemed contented with her life.

And he’d felt incredibly fortunate that she’d not met a boy who had fully taken her fancy. Well, he hoped not anyway. She certainly hadn’t professed to him to have any love interests. For a second selfishness overrode his fears – at nearly twenty-four, her life was drifting away.

He nodded and shook the thought away – yes, she was his little girl, and Queenie could certainly wait another day for his visit. He would make a point of stopping by for coffee before leaving town with Cliffy.

Three colorful salads slid onto the table and his mouth moistened further. He glanced up at Altira, pleased, hoping dearly that whoever she fell in love with deserved her. More so, he hoped it was someone placid. Someone who would handle her volatile streak quietly, for that was her only flaw. He hoped he could handle it without malice for it wouldn’t be easy educating the man while maintaining good relations with his daughter. Shuddering just thinking about it, he reached for the salad bowl.

Altira stayed in the corner of his vision, her high cheekbones smooth and tanned, the gentle bounce of her auburn hair falling neatly about her shoulders. Just like her mother’s. Indeed, she looked just like Rosie when she was that age. She had Rosie Moresby’s glimmering green eyes. The same manner in them … the way they watched and assessed everything. Like Altira was doing now staring at him across the table. If things were on his mind, something was definitely on hers.

He stabbed a chunk of carrot as Altira laid her fork precisely beside her plate and patted her mouth with her napkin.

I heard you requested BJ Strafer to replace you while you’re gone, she came straight out with it.

Lyman Moresby’s eyebrow hiked. Altira had been to Queenie’s! Now would that be a sparkle I see in those big green eyes? he tried to defuse her tone.

Her napkin hit the table. It certainly is not!

Lyman Moresby chuckled with relief and piled his plate higher with greens. Then what’s all the worry about then?

Her elbows thumped on the table as her fingers linked beneath her chin, her eyes hardening as she looked straight at him. Why haven’t you left Leroy in charge? I thought seeing he’s been your right-hand man for so long you’d at least give him the chance.

Lyman’s face straightened as he directed the prongs of his fork at her. Because, little girl, Leroy Collins is city-bred, and while he might know his job, so does BJ Strafer. But there are other factors I’ve given deeper consideration, whether you think so or not. As much as you might dislike him, little girl, Strafer knows the people here. Probably better than anyone. Except me, of course. He almost stabbed himself with the fork before turning it back at her.

On top of that, there are certain elements in town that are a lot less likely to want to mess with Strafer than they would with Leroy Collins. And furthermore … he laid the fork down and picked up a wing with his fingers, Strafer wears two hats. If something happens while I’m gone, I don’t want to be called back for some half-cocked matter. Strafer’s had a good deal of detective training up at the academy. He can handle most things should they eventuate.

He ripped a strip of meat off with his teeth, looked at his plate to see how long he would have to endure her silent protest. Too long. And furthermore, little girl, he ended the matter swiftly, if you hadn’t noticed, I happen to be left-handed.

Altira’s glare turned icy but she held her words. If there was one thing she’d learned as a child it was not to talk back to her father. She lowered her gaze to her meal, her teeth clenching as she picked up her fork and stabbed a morsel of meat. The churning in her stomach, however, had diminished her appetite.

I heard something myself the other day, the Chief defused her anger. He savored the honey-sweet taste on his fingers, stalling. Did you know Buddy Carstairs is also coming home? … they called him to collect his family belongings now they’re demolishing the old farmhouse over on Lincoln …

Chapter Four

Noon, Thursday

Workers in Benjamin scurried into diners for a quick bite to eat while others loaded groceries into cars outside the general store. Like any other day, a few withered gossips fired verbal bullets at the town’s newest targets. Today it was Doris Tucker and old Floyd Rankin’s turn.

So engrossed in their own business, no-one noticed the squad car from Charterville enter the square from Munroe Street. The vehicle turned into Birch. Cruised along Elm. Passed the Courthouse and City Hall then wheeled into Oak Avenue. It passed the drugstore; the struggling Five & Dime; the onion-scented burgery where school kids hung out after class. It swung into Cedar, and, further along, nosed in at the curb below the steps of Jayburg County’s Police Headquarters.

Two doors opened. Two men disembarked. The first was tall and lean; his dark skin glossy like polished walnut. Masses of tiny curls stuck tight to his crown like a black wool cap. But for the uniform of a Charterville police officer– blue shirt, grey pockets, gold emblem on the sleeves, blue pants – he could have been mistaken for an athlete. He slammed the door shut and walked to the front of the vehicle.

The driver did the same, meeting his partner on the pavement. A taller, broader man, his tanned muscular biceps nipped snugly at the edges of his short sleeves indicating activities of strength rather than speed and agility. His thick, wavy coal-black hair lapped at his collar in a less rigid Police specification haircut, and framed a rugged face.

I’ll drop your bag at the boarding-house on my way out, the Black man said as he continued around the car to the driver’s side.

The other man nodded and gazed up at the large glass windows that overlooked the sidewalk. He took a deep breath and let it out.

Like coming home after being away too long …? his partner suggested as he pulled open the driver’s door. It’s not too late to back out and drive back with me, Lieutenant. He grinned, knowing that wasn’t going to happen. The Lieutenant just needed time to steel his nerves and set his bearings. He would, after all, be working for Lyman Moresby.

The Lieutenant grinned back. Shook his head. I’ll see you in a month … and don’t get too comfortable in my seat, Issac.

He walked to the base of the stairs, looked back as the black man slid behind the steering wheel. Whitmore Street is that way, he said, pointing towards the intersection that would take his partner to the boarding-house. Looking up again, he climbed the five wide steps and entered the station-house.

When he’d disappeared inside, the squad car reversed out and headed around the square. It turned right at the intersection; passed the bakery; passed Whitmore’s drapery and headed towards the Church. Somewhere down there was the boarding-house. From there Issac would skirt the lake, cross the one lane bridge and take the scenic route back to Charters.

Inside the station-house, the Lieutenant scanned reception and the desk-strewn room behind it. Nothing had changed since his last visit. Nothing had changed much since he’d last been hauled into the jail, so many years ago. But that was Benjamin. Nothing ever changed.

Almost immediately he changed his mind on that. The officers had changed. Where once Sloane, Carter and Fat-boy Wilson had sprawled idly behind the desks, now three new deputies sat, all athletic-looking, all looking busy. He glanced further round. Chief Moresby sat in his office behind the fine shield of glass. That hadn’t changed either. Lyman Moresby had been Chief of Police when he’d moved to the town as a boy. He was still here, only now heavy lines mapped his round, southern face. The man looked old.

Next, he noted the two white males, and the young Black female on Dispatch, watching him. They had probably noted the subtle difference in uniform. Apart from the grey shirt pockets and gold county emblems on the sleeves, his blue Charterville uniform almost matched Jayburg’s. They were now peobably wondering what a Pierce County copper was doing in their foyer. Had they not been told he was coming?

As he moved to the counter the young woman rose from the radio desk, her brow creasing as she glanced back at her colleagues, and subtly shrugged. BJ imagined her quandary … through the window where she sat, she would have seen the car leave. Then excitement crossed her face. From the ‘Who is this dude? And why did the Pierce County car leave him behind? concern, to the ‘Maybe something’s going down and Benjamin needs to assist’ smile, BJ read it all. Then came the creases around her eyes again. But that doesn’t explain why the squad car left him here, confusion.

The Chief is expecting me, he said outright, his deep voice full of self-confidence. The name’s Strafer.

Her shiny brown eyes now flicked over the uniform, confirming his rank. Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll tell him you’re …

You don’t have to tell me anything, Olive-May, a raspy voice interrupted. You couldn’t miss him a mile away.

Moresby stood in his office doorway. Come on through, Strafer. I hoped you’d get yourself down here before I had to leave. He went back to his desk.

Nudging open the swinging wooden half door to the bull-pen, BJ entered the larger room. He passed the clutter of desks, chairs and filing cabinets that formed a barrier around many of the workstations, and reached the Chief’s office. The Chief was back behind his big oak desk, sitting in his big, padded leather chair.

Strafer closed the door.

Separated from the main chamber by wainscoted walls of wood and glass, the Chief’s office also contained an assortment of tall cupboards and filing cabinets. The desk’s surface was stacked with an array of files, its top blotter now devoid of the usual scrawls and doodling. The Chief’s gold-lettered wooden nameplate, presented at a ten-year testimonial dinner eight years earlier, sat on the front line beside a large gold-framed photo that angled across the desk’s corner. The photo was a recent one and instantly grabbed his attention.

She’s looking mighty fine, BJ muttered, the words falling out before he could stop them. Immediately he cursed himself and tried to shift his eyes from the image. It was difficult even though the Chief watched him closely.

Forcing his eyes elsewhere, BJ realised for the millionth time how the glow of her auburn hair and the glimmer in her emerald eyes still captivated him. More … they turned his guts to fire. And his heart to stone. Don’t even go there!

That she is, Moresby replied sharply. And, he emphasised, she’s doing just fine too. Got promoted to Head Librarian over the road there a few months back.

Nice, Strafer responded. He forced his gaze to move across the room; fixed it on the small high window above the mahogany cupboard behind the desk. Outside that window was the rear parking lot, and the start of Grant Street. About a mile down Grant was Number 17 …

I think so too, Moresby added tautly, and being so handy I can keep a close eye on her, just in case she runs into any trouble.

Strafer felt the stab dig deep in his chest, so deep his chest muscles tightened. Deliberately his eyes locked on another item of interest – the pile of folders on the edge of the Chief’s desk.

This will be your office while I’m gone, Moresby said, satisfied enough with Strafer’s discomfort to change the subject. But you don’t get it till I’m done with it, you hear? That’ll be when the shift changes this evening. You be here to take over then, but I’ll warn you … not all them boys out there are going to take kindly to an outsider filling my shoes.

Strafer pulled a breath, the action straining an already tight shirt. His chest felt tighter beneath it. He glanced over his shoulder at the front desk, noted the cold stares coming his way. Yeah? Well, I’m not an outsider, am I!

You are to them.

That’s their problem.

Moresby looked at him with cold eyes. So you’re still a snitchy hard-ass. Donnigan not taught you how to control that attitude yet?

You have time to request another replacement if …

I have my reasons for requesting you. Then he changed tack again as his gaze shifted to the desk sergeant in the ante-chamber: Leroy Collins. You’ll undoubtedly wear flak from one in particular.

Strafer’s dark eyes hardened, but that was all. He’d worked that out when he’d walked in: the man with the cold grey eyes and air of superiority.

Handle him gentle. He might be your right-hand man one day.

Strafer’s head turned slowly back, his eyes narrowing. Did I hear that right? Mentally he chewed over the words and a frown creased his brow. Apparently the Chief isn’t just looking old – he’s going senile.

He gave Moresby a more realistic possibility. Or I his.

Or maybe the Chief meant Collins was considering a transfer to Charterville. Or was he predicting BJ’s own possible return to Benjamin? It had been a long, long time since he’d thought of returning