Winton Police Station had two holding cells. Concrete boxes with steel-bar doors and mattresses that had seen better decades. For a town this size, two cells were more than enough.
Bruce yelled the whole way about Cassidy, about his ute, about what he was going to do when he got out, and about how I had no idea who I was dealing with. His voice bounced off the concrete walls and came back doubled, like even the building was sick of listening to him.
In the second cell, Walter stirred and sat up.
Walter was a regular. Sometimes, I wondered if he got himself arrested on purpose just to guarantee a decent night’s sleep. The poor bloke had been living rough for years, and every time he seemed to get his act together, he’d tumble down an alcoholic landslide and end up back here, staring at the same cracked ceiling.
I undid Bruce’s cuffs, shoved him into the empty cell, and slammed the grill shut.
Bruce spun to me and grabbed the bars. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.” His tone was quieter, which somehow made it uglier.
I held his gaze for a moment. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He shouted curses as I walked away.
Small-town policing meant the same faces, the same problems, the same complaints on rotation. Most days, there was a rhythm to it, and it was almost comforting, in a grim sort of way. However, every now and then, I’d catch myself wondering what it would feel like if something big actually happened.
The air conditioning had been losing its war with the afternoon sun since lunchtime, and the thin wheeze from the vent above the front counter did nothing but push the warm air around in slow, miserable circles. I was looking forward to going home, standing under a cold shower until I felt human again, then collapsing onto the sofa with a beer and something completely mindless on the TV.
I headed back through the station toward my desk. Nate caught my eye, gave me a nod, and the kind of grin that said, not bad.
“He’s your problem for the rest of the night,” I said with a half-smile.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Delaney!” Bob’s voice cut across the station like a whip crack. Not a question. Not an invitation. A summons.
Nate’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh shit, what’ve you done now?” He winked.
I gave him a look and headed for Bob’s office.
Senior Sergeant Bob Ackerman was behind his desk, half-buried in the organized chaos that had been accumulating there since before I’d arrived in Winton—files stacked on files, a coffee mug with a brown tide ring staining the inside. Framed commendations lined the wall behind him. Forty-odd years of service to the Queensland Police, each certificate a little more faded than the last. The Venetian blinds hung at an angle that suggested someone had attempted to repair them once, but they’d given up.
“Shut the door,” he barked.
That was unusual. I shut it.
“Sit.” He didn’t look at me the way he normally did. There was a tightness around his jaw, his hands were flat on the desk, and I had a feeling he wanted to strangle someone. I hoped like hell it wasn’t me. I was an absolute stickler for doing everything by the book, and on a few occasions, that had totally pissed Bob off.
I sat and waited.
“Frank Branson is missing.”
“Missing?” I frowned. “How long?”
“Over three weeks. His sons say he rode out on his horse and never came back.”
“And they’ve only just reported it?”
“They didn’t report it.” His lip twitched, and I had the feeling he hated wasting time on this. Which was weird because Bob and Frank went back years. “I asked them where the hell he was. That’s when they told me.”
I let that sit for a second. “And you think it’s suspicious?”
“Of course, it’s bloody suspicious. Frank’s rooted to that property.”
“Do you believe what they told you?”
“No.” No hesitation. “I don’t.”
