Dark Clouds on the Mountain. John Tully

He'd have to report it. He wasn't about to set off into that darkness without a torch and, besides, their quarry would be far away by now. His breath regained, he turned to face his subordinate and lit a cigarette, still shaking his head at Bishop. It began to rain heavily and by the time they had reached the police car beyond the hotel, both men were soaked through. The car refused to start. There was no way they could get over to Harrington Street, where the tunnel re-emerged, to apprehend the figure in the camouflage jacket and hoodie. That is, if he hadn't taken a side tunnel.

      Jack led Bishop back on foot to the station and gave him an A grade bollocking. He was useless, just fucking useless, a brain-dead drongo who was about as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. Was there anything at all in that ginger nut he carried on his shoulders? And if he didn't mend his useless ways, Jack would see him back on the beat in Burnie or back shagging sheep or whatever it was they did for entertainment up at Stanley. As for the police mechanic who had serviced the car, Jack intended to throttle the little bastard with a fan belt.

      He sent Bishop out into the downpour to retrieve the spray can, but it was no use. The report came back later from the lab that there were no prints; the dauber had been wearing gloves. Nor did he return in the ensuing nights. Hobart was a small city and there were no reports of sightings of skinheads or other likely lads from any snouts or coppers on the beat.

      At the end of the week, Booker Sahib told him that the investigation was suspended, and besides, he wanted Jack to do him a very great favour. Jack winced. He knew all about Booker's favours. This one turned out to be 'just a little temporary transfer' to Queenstown, with promotion to Acting Chief Inspector as an incentive. The favour included leaving at dawn the next day. There had been a vicious assault against a mob of 'greenie' protestors camped near a new hydro site. One young woman was on the critical list and several others had sustained broken bones and lacerations. Inspector Ron Butters, an elderly, much-respected detective, had been sent up to take charge of the investigation, but a hoon had run him off the Lyell Highway near lonely Mount Arrowsmith and Ron was now in hospital. The hoon was still at large, along with the thugs who had bashed the protestors. Boss O'Flaherty was enraged about the whole thing and wanted it sorted out by yesterday, as usual, Booker laughed.

      Helen was cool about Jack's temporary transfer. Sure, he might be Acting Chief Inspector, but was she supposed to like it while he was gone? She had her work and her university studies, so she couldn't just put everything to one side and go with him up to Queenstown. Oh yeah, he said he'd come down at the weekends, but how often had she heard that story? They argued back and forth over the dining room table, picking at the coq au vin and pommes de terre maitre d'hotel she'd prepared, Jack flinging back the red wine. And what about the holiday they had planned with the Rattray-Spencers to Bruny Island for the coming weekend, she demanded. Off, like so many other bloody things, she supposed, attacking her meal savagely and quite without appetite. A big black fly had somehow got inside - what was it doing around at this time of the year anyway? - and Jack sprang up and swatted it savagely with the newspaper, smearing its insides across the window. God, it was disgusting, Helen said, crying hopeless tears, throwing down her fork and motioning him to get something to clean up the mess. Couldn't he just say no, just for once put his family ahead of the bloody job?

      Jack heard Wendy's key in the front door. It rattled around for a while without success. Wrong key again. The doorbell rang and Jack almost laughed out loud with relief; saved by the bell. But these little tableaux were becoming too frequent - Jack Martin arguing with one or both of his womenfolk, one or the other walking in yet again to a zone of emotional frost or blaring emotions. Wendy kissed them both but said nothing, though the tension between them was palpable. After a while, Jack went through to the bedroom and started packing his suitcase. It was as if it were a separation, he thought, grimly stowing away his socks and shirts and, upon reflection, a couple of bottles of half-decent wine and a carton of Marlboro. Books, too, including The Fatal Shore; one of Sholokhov's novels of the Don; Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, which he was already wading through and Gitta Sereny's book on Franz Stangl, the commandant of Treblinka, Into that Darkness.

      There would be plenty of time to read in the dark winter nights at Queenie and Jack relished the thought, until a stab of pain brought him back to the reality of Darcy Street. Jack and Helen were polite, but distant from each other that night, each conscious of the other's sadness, but not knowing what to do, their backs almost touching, but not quite in the loud silence of the night. Jack's mind wandered as he drifted off. Who the hell was Jean Amery?