`Self, self, self! It's all about little Miss Decca! Try to think outside the square for a minute would you, Dr Brand. I am so not interested in setting you up with a root!' She paused to process nicotine. `I want you to meet mine!'
Never one to mince words, Zan McGann, single mother of one for almost a decade, had long since given up conducting step-daddy auditions. Her business, ZMG — a booking agency for bands and cabaret acts across the country — kept her chained to the desk and a battery of telephones 24/7. Her life, jam-packed with musicians, jugglers, fire-eaters and cute techs, was far from dull.
`Really?' Decca was incredulous.
`Yes, really,' Zan replied. `A real dinner and you're invited. I know you're pretty much committed to your Breatharian diet but the occasional lettuce leaf wouldn't go astray.'
It was true. Decca was, at heart, queen of the leanest cuisine. Zan loved to mug horror at her friend's barren shelves and pristine fridge housing the occasional lemon.
`What do you live on?' she would gasp.
It wasn't an eating disorder — Decca loved food — so much as a lack of order. She couldn't be fagged getting it all together herself but was more than happy to eat what other people prepared for her.
`Who is he?' Decca asked.
`You'll see. After seven. Bring wine.'
She hung up and Decca smiled. The Victoria Police calling card lying next to the phone wiped the smile away. Might as well get it over with, she thought.
`Detective Sergeant Crockett?' she said, when he answered. `This is Decca Brand.'
`Oh, g'day. Thanks for returning my call,' Davey said, sitting up to attention and hitting Save on the computer.
`Did Mr Danehart give you my home address?' she carped.
`Electoral roll,' he replied. `Apologies, but this is rather an urgent matter. The case goes before the magistrate tomorrow.'
`Has Oleg said anything yet?'
`No. He's not giving his lawyer much help, I'm afraid.'
`So, what do you want from me?' Decca asked.
`Have you got time to come in to the station this afternoon?' Davey asked. `Or I could come to you. I don't want to take up too much of your time. We would appreciate your help.'
It was three o'clock. Clouds were rolling in across the bay. With any luck the temperature would soon drop.
`I've got a dinner engagement at seven,' Decca said, smirking to herself at the way that made her sound. `I could call by at around five thirty.
`Great,' Davey said. `I'll let the desk know to expect you.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Davey hung up and did a small air punch. His phone rang immediately.
`Crockett,' he said.
`Sir!' came the urgent voice at the other end. `Get in here quick will you. It's Kransky.'
Blood was gushing from Kransky's forehead. There was blood on the wall and on the floor where the suspect lay in a heap.
`Ambulance?' Davey asked while he felt for a pulse.
`On its way,' said the duty-sergeant, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
`Was there a fight? What happened?'
`I don't know, Davey. I mean, I didn't hear anything. He must have been banging his head away since last time I looked in.'
`And when was that?'
`One o'clock, I think.'
`Two hours ago?' Davey yelled. `This suspect's supposed to be on suicide watch!'
Archie thundered into the room.
`What's going on?'
`Kransky's been bashing his head against the wall for the past two hours and no one seems to have noticed,' Davey said angrily.
`What the fuck were you doing?' Archie asked, rounding on Ellis.
`I thought he was okay. He seemed fine. I mean, he just sat there most of the time, singing a bit, like I said before.'
`Singing!' Archie roared. `Why wasn't I told?'
`Didn't seem important, boss,' Ellis barely whispered. `It was just singing.'
`Didn't seem important?' Archie's face had reddened. `This suspect hasn't said boo since his arrest, and now you tell me that he has been making audible noises! And you chose not to inform me or any member of the team! The suspect could have been singing an entire confession! He could have been singing something which may later be used in evidence against him!'
`I did mention the singing to Davey, boss,' Ellis said softly. He wasn't going down alone.
Archie rounded on his partner, who was saved from a similar bollocking by the timely arrival of the ambulance crew.
An hour later Archie, calmer now, was taking the odd bite from a sallow-looking cherry Danish.
`I'm not sure I could do something like that,' he said.
`What?' Davey asked.
`Bang my head against a wall until I knocked myself out.'
`Medics say they're going to keep him in ICU until he comes round. No serious damage, they reckon. Just going to have one hell of a headache.'
`Maybe when he comes round this time he'll decide to speak.'
Archie took another desultory bite.
`What is going on with that bloke, Davey?' he asked, throwing the rest of the Danish into the bin. `I can't work him out.'
As if on cue, Davey's phone rang. Decca Brand was at the front desk.
Had anyone ever carried out a scientific study, Decca wondered, into what it is that triggers the mental picture we form of a person when we only hear their voice? Nine times out of ten, in Decca's own experience, the brain created the wrong picture. Detective Sergeant Crockett in person was not at all what she had pictured.
The voice of the short, fat, bald man who had beamed through her mobile phone belonged to the body of a tall, dark and handsome heart-throb straight off the pages of a romance novel. In her low-cut, sleeveless sun dress and chunky jewellery Decca felt uncomfortably frivolous in the prosaic surroundings of police headquarters.
Another man rose to greet her as they entered the small interview room. Now, here, thought Decca, was your classic copper: solidly built, medium height, big round head with sparse hair, drinker's nose, old man's ears and a paunch to rest a tie on. When his meaty hand gripped hers, Decca experienced that inexplicable frisson of fear even the innocent felt when in the presence of the law.
Detective Senior Sergeant Archie Stock lugged around the weight of every case he'd ever investigated in the bags beneath his eyes. And at that moment, his eyes were running all over Decca like ants at a picnic.
`Thanks for coming in, Miss Brand,we appreciate your time.'
`No problem,' Decca said, putting her handbag on the floor and trying to sit without flashing too much leg.
`What can you tell us about Mr Kransk?' Crockett began, notebook and pen at the ready, inadvertently creating an odd reversal of Decca's usual work situation. It wasn't at all like on television, she noted. They hadn't switched on a tape recorder or read out her rights.
`Mr Kransky began coming to see me in May last year.'
`Why?' Crockett asked.
`I'm a psychologist,' she said. `I specialise in the area of Panic Anxiety Stress Disorder. Oleg came to see me because he was suffering panic attacks which were impacting upon his ability to work.'
`Panic Anxiety