CHAPTER 41
Gary was impressed with the nativity scene at the Funland Shopping Centre. The stable was at least ten metres wide and had plenty of room for life-sized figurines of Baby Jesus in a manger, Joseph, Mary, the Three Wise Men, the Archangel Gabriel and several sheep and goats. Big hay bales were scattered around the floor.
His job was to sit in a chair, wearing a fecal-brown shirt that said "Security", and make sure nobody damaged or stole any of the figurines.
For the first 15 minutes, he was fully alert. Then his mind wandered and he spent a lot of time reading newspapers or books. After two days, he started going a bit crazy. If he sat there much longer, he'd probably start talking to Baby Jesus, or vice versa.
Several times, he had to stop little kids climbing over the small white fence around the nativity scene and approaching the figurines. When he did, their parents accepted his intervention with good humour.
However, near the end of the second day, a skinny straw-haired kid, about eight years old, stood in front of the nativity scene chewing gum and wearing a sullen expression. He pulled a lolly out of his pocket and threw it at Baby Jesus, but hit a Wise Man instead.
Gary rose from his chair. "Hey, you can't do that."
The kid extracted another lolly and shied at Baby Jesus again. Bullseye.
The kid pulled out another lolly and was winding up when Gary grabbed his arm. "Stop."
Someone behind Gary yelled: "Let go of my son."
Still holding the boy's arm, Gary turned and saw a tall guy with a bushy beard wearing a leather vest stretched over a big gut. "Is this your son?"
"Yes, let him go."
"Tell him to stop throwing lollies at Baby Jesus."
"He hasn't thrown anything."
"Yes he has."
The boy intervened. "No I haven't."
Bushy-beard said: "You hear? He hasn't done nothing."
Gary let go of the boy's arm. "That's not true. But it doesn't matter if he doesn't do it again."
The father crowded Gary. "We're not going to leave until you apologise."
Gary was ten kilos heavier, a lot stronger and obviously a lot smarter than this oaf. He wasn't going to back down. "I'm not apologising for anything."
"Listen, just because you're wearing a shit-brown uniform doesn't mean you can boss people about. What's your name? I'm going to complain about you."
The comment about his uniform struck a raw nerve. He was itching to sink his fist deep into the guy's pudding gut.
A female voice said: "Is there a problem here?"
Gary turned and saw Detective Constable Karen Phillips, standing close.
Bushy-beard said: "Who're you?"
She held up her NSW Police ID card. "I am Detective Karen Phillips, from the Homicide Squad. Like I said: is there a problem here?"
"Homicide Squad? What are you doing here?"
"I am trying to prevent a murder. What's going on?"
"This man grabbed my son for no reason."
She looked at Gary and raised an eyebrow. "Is that true?"
Gary was glad to see her and started enjoying himself. "No. His son was throwing lollies at Baby Jesus. You should arrest the kid for the destruction of property and maybe blasphemy."
"He's only a kid."
"He's a menace to society. Next thing you know, he'll be robbing banks."
"Hah, hah. I'm not arresting anyone." She turned to the father. "Sir, I suggest that you and your son move along."
"But …"
"Don't worry, I'll give this security guard a very stern lecture about how to behave in future - I promise."
The father looked uncertain and nodded. "OK." He grabbed his son by the hand and marched off.
Gary looked at her and grinned. "You saved him from a terrible beating."
"You can't stay out of trouble, can you?"
"I was just trying to protect Baby Jesus."
"It wasn't worth a fight."
"I've got a job to do."
She stared disdainfully at his shirt. "You call this a job?"
He shrugged. "It's a couple of weeks' work at a decent hourly. I couldn't say no. Why're you here?"
"I went around to your office. You weren't there, but I ran into a solicitor called Terry Fraser who said I could find you here."
"What do you want?"
"To tell you that we've closed the Parsons investigation. Basically, we've dumped the blame on Pringle who, of course, isn't around to complain."
"Good."
She shuffled. "And, umm, I want to apologise."
"For what?"
"Accusing you of killing Pringle. I'm sorry about that. I jumped the gun. I shouldn't have."
She obviously still believed he killed Pringle, but wanted to build a bridge between them. Hope fluttered around in his chest like a caged bird. "You mean, you're not interested in Pringle's death anymore?"
"Correct. That's a matter for the Queensland detectives. He deserved to die, anyway. Let's just forget about him."
The fact she was prepared to overlook that he'd murdered someone suggested she rather liked him. He smiled inside. "OK."
"Good." She shifted on the balls of her feet. "You asked me out to dinner a while ago - remember that?"
"Yes."
She looked nervous. "That offer still open?"
He smiled. "Of course."
"Good. Then I accept."
He told himself to stay cool. "Fantastic."
She smiled and regained her poise. "But there's one condition."
"What?"
"You wear a different shirt."
CHAPTER 42
Gary had often wondered whether Barbara Thompson was correct when she claimed her son had a million dollars when he died and Trixie Powell snaffled it. He got his answer the next morning. A postcard arrived in the mail. On the front was a photograph of a snow-covered hotel where the bill would give him a heart attack. Printed in the top right-hand corner, in gold letters, were the words "Hotel Augustine - St Moritz". Intrigued, Gary turned over the postcard and read the childish scrawl on the back.
"Hi Gary,
"I lied when I said Tony was broke when he died. He had about $2 million. I'm spending some of it on a holiday in Europe. Nice hotel, huh?
"Stay well. Thanks for everything. See you when I get back to Oz.
"Lots of love, Trixie."
Gary read the postcard twice and laughed until tears dripped off his chin.
THE END
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