The Dragon's Skin. Ross Gray

left his salt and pepper shakers in the bungalow,’ said Hazel. ‘When he’s allowed visitors I think I’ll take them to him. They’ve always been good luck for me.’ She began to inch her bottom forward in preparation to rise. He got up from the couch and offered his hand. ‘Thank you, Clarry,’ she said. ‘I’ll get Ben’s package for you now. And then you can tell me what I missed on The Bold and the Beautiful.’

9

      ‘Did your Halifax put together a profile?’ Damn! She knew it was a mistake as soon as she said it. The flip terminology gave him a wedge to drive between their dialogue and its subject.

      ‘Halifax?’

      ‘Forensic psychologist.’

      ‘Ah. Huh, huh, huh. I get it.’ He smiled – a zebra crossing with no black stripes. He tilted his head to one side and studied her face through hooded eyes. ‘You know you could be Rebecca Gibney.’

      ‘I know. I tried to be once, but Becky threw a hissy fit. Seems to think she has first dibs.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘And she’s blonde.’

      The smile stayed right where it was, just under his nose. She was impressed. ‘No, really,’ he persisted. ‘Have you ever considered peroxide?’

      ‘Often. But only when I’m depressed.’ Bloody hell. Stop the twee banter, he thinks you’re flirting.

      He had to think about that one. Even though his expression said he didn’t get it, he was alerted to change tack. He gave a clipped stagey laugh and ploughed ahead. ‘And what sort of things could possibly depress a beautiful, intelligent girl like you?’

      She shrugged and pouted her plump pink bottom lip. ‘Global warming, patronising male colleagues, the paucity of creative pickup lines.’

      He got that. The zebra crossing closed to traffic. He disguised it reasonably well though, with a pull on what was left of his beer and a scan around the crowded bar for a tardy friend. She felt a little sorry for him.

      ‘My round,’ she said cheerily, even though she didn’t want another drink. He looked at her closely. She immediately regretted her words. Bugger, he’s going to make another run.

      ‘I think, my dear constable,’ he said with sage pomposity – she was unsure if it was feigned or sincere – ‘that you feel ill-treated by the male of the species.’ Maybe he didn’t get the last bit. ‘It’s clear that one of the bastards in our brethren has not paid you the respect and adoration that is clearly your due.’

      Nope, he wasn’t joking; he meant it. You can’t verbalise diarrhoea with your tongue in your cheek. She had best nip this in the bud.

      ‘You’re very perceptive,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve made a vow not to become involved with a colleague. Or,’ and she tickled his retinas with her green lasers, ‘a married man.’

      ‘Well there’s one strike against me,’ he grinned, dropping the older and wiser act.

      ‘Sergeant!’ she said in the tone of a kindergarten teacher admonishing her favourite naughty boy. She looked up under her lashes in a way that usually made men put their hands in their pocket or cross their legs. He crossed his legs and his grin became sheepish.

      ‘Awright. Two strikes.’

      ‘Three, I’m afraid.’ May as well nail it down.

      Abruptly, he conceded the match. And seemed relieved. Why the hell do men do that? she wondered.

      ‘How did you know?’ he asked, after downing half his beer. ‘About being married?’

      She pointed to his left hand. He had his elbow on the bar and his hand dangled over the edge. His right thumb and forefinger were rubbing his ring finger at its base with a twisting motion, as if tightening a nut.

      ‘You did that every time you handed me a compliment today,’ she said. ‘Or looked at me in a … certain way.’

      ‘Well, I won’t apologise for my compliments,’ he said. ‘You’re – and I mean this, it isn’t a come on – you’re the prettiest cop I’ve laid eyes on. Believe me.’

      ‘Unfortunately I do.’

      He scoffed a brief low laugh and stared at her sceptically. ‘You can’t tell me you regret being a looker?’

      She offered a deadpan, parchment dry, response. ‘I’d trade beauty, brilliance, success and wealth, just to be loved for what I am.’

      ‘Huh – huh – huh,’ he chortled uncertainly. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

      ‘No. If you really think about it, it doesn’t.’ She glanced across his shoulder. ‘There’s a big bloke just come in. Lots of dark curly hair, dressed like a vet from the Yorkshire Moors. He’s looking for someone.’

      ‘That’s him,’ he said without checking. ‘Say something nice about his jumper. His wife knitted it.’ He turned around and waved his arm, ‘Nev, mate, over here.’

      Good, she thought. She was finally getting close to what she’d been seeking all afternoon.

      Her drinking companion, Detective Sergeant Frank Ricciardelli, was enrolled in one of the units she was taking at the Detective Training School. When he heard she had the ‘Jogger Murders’ for homework, he had volunteered to take her on a tour of the crime scenes. She thought she’d detected that look in his eye at the start, but his behaviour had been strictly professional, out there on the tracks.

      The tracks were shared walking and bicycle paths that spidered the city, mostly following creeks and rivers and connecting green belts and parks.

      ‘This was where the second one was found,’ he’d said earlier that day, as they stood in a wide smooth path of packed clay and fine gravel where it swerved away from the creek bank and climbed steeply to the adjacent bushland reserve. ‘As you can see this spot is out of sight of the park, unless someone’s standing right on the edge of the slope there. And someone coming along the path beside the creek, or on the footbridge, can’t see you.’

      She walked back to the bend. The footbridge was a couple of hundred metres away. The rear of commercial premises and blocks of flats overlooked the opposite bank. They were separated from the creek by a long high chain-link fence.

      ‘But he didn’t do her here,’ he said. Do her: she cringed inwardly. ‘There wasn’t a scrap of forensic evidence found at any of the scenes that suggested he killed them on site.’

      Her eyes swept around and probed between the dense shrubs and trees that bordered the path on the landward side.

      ‘The bush around here was scoured a kilometre both ways,’ he said in anticipation of her thoughts. ‘You can see it’s real thick. You couldn’t drag anything in there without leaving signs. There were places near the other sites where he could have done it without trace – if he was lucky. But no evidence was discovered. The conclusion was that he raped and killed them somewhere else and brought their bodies to the places they were found.’

      ‘But this was the track she ran on? She ran past this point?’

      ‘You’ve read what I’ve read. Regular as clockwork. Three or four times a week. Never missed Tuesdays and Thursdays. That was one thing they all had in common: a very regular routine.’

      ‘And a tendency to work late and run after nightfall,’ she contributed. ‘Plus big boobs, long legs and natural blonde hair.’

      ‘They all looked like Barbie,’ he agreed. ‘Oh, and they were left near water. The psychologist was fond of that point.’

      ‘The coroner’s report said they had abrasions and bruises indicating they put up a fight. They died of strangulation immediately after or perhaps during sexual penetration. There was