The first cops on the scene separated Frawley and Georgie. Then, as the area swarmed with uniforms and officious plain-clothed personnel, they were whisked to the nearby police station.
There, Georgie waited and waited. Was interviewed and her every phrase probed, then forced to wait further. Eventually, a two-finger typist who couldn’t spell words with more than double syllables prepared her statement. The detective took her through it. She signed and escaped.
Georgie was exhausted. Thanks to f**k all sleep, dealing with Mr Plod and being a witness in a homicide.
Outside the cop shop she considered her battle plan. Her head pounded and her stomach growled. Her car was about a kilometre away, outside what used to be Margaret Pentecoste’s home but was currently a crime scene.
It had bee
