An Affair With Danger

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

‘YOU’RE a lawyer, Mr McPherson?’ Senior Detective Hunter asked.

He was an imposing man with a deliberate manner; his presence filling the small interview room at the police station.

‘I’m a corporate lawyer at Chapman and Goode. I specialise in insolvency.’

‘You were never tempted to do criminal law?’ barked Detective Ross, a petite, dark-haired woman with an abrupt manner. Or maybe she was just having a bad day.

I shook my head. ‘There’s no money in criminal law, especially when you’re representing the dregs of society like armed robbers.’

I neglected to mention that my father’s illustrious career as a criminal law barrister before he retired to academia had also put me off, although he’d managed to make a very good living by only representing white-collar criminals.

SD Hunter pressed a button on the digital recorder on the table. ‘Interview with witness William James McPherson by Senior Detective Neil Hunter and Detective Fiona Ross. Wednesday 15 June 2005 at 10 am. Mr McPherson, can you go through the events of last night again, from the moment you entered the store?’

I stared at the dewy young Queen Elizabeth 11 smiling regally at me from the painting on the wall as I recounted the events of the previous night. My heart was thumping as if it were happening all over again.

‘Apart from his physical description, what else can you remember?’ SD Hunter asked. ‘What was his voice like?’

‘Low and sort of gruff.’

‘Did he have an accent?’

‘He only said a few words, but he sounded Australian.’

‘What about body odour?’ Detective Ross asked with distaste, as if she could smell it.

‘I wasn’t close enough to notice, thank God.’

‘Any distinguishing marks or tattoos?’ she pursued.

‘The only part of his body I could see were his hands and I didn’t notice any marks or tattoos on them.’

SD Hunter took over again. ‘What were his hands like?

‘Just ordinary hands,’ I snapped. ‘He didn’t have any fingers missing, if that’s what you mean.’

He looked at me coolly.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

After the police had arrived and taken our initial statements, I helped Mike to lock up, made sure he was okay to drive home, then drove home myself and fell into bed. I lay awake for hours, the events of the night churning over in my mind. The birds were chirping outside my window when I finally drifted off.

‘What I meant, Mr McPherson, was were his hands large or small? Did he have broad fingers? Were they hairy? That sort of thing.’

I shook my head. ‘Honestly, I can’t remember. I was concentrating on the gun more than his hands. He seemed agitated and I was terrified the thing would go off.’

‘Did he seem under the influence of alcohol or drugs?’ Detective Ross asked.

‘I don’t think alcohol. His reflexes were too fast. Maybe drugs.’

‘And you didn’t see his vehicle?’

‘No, I just heard a car revving up and speeding away. I was going to run outside as soon as he left to get the number plate, but Mike stopped me. He said the guy probably had an accomplice and if they saw me they could take a pot shot at me. Poor guy. It’s not the first time he’s been held up.’

‘Thanks, that will be all,’ SD Hunter said. ‘If you’ll wait outside, we’ll get a statement typed up for you to sign.’

‘There’s just one thing,’ I said.

SD Hunter paused. ‘Yes?’

‘I got the impression of strength. Not in a good way – the brutal, beat-you-till-you’re-senseless kind.’ I shrugged. ‘I might just have imagined it because he was pointing a gun at me.’

‘Thanks.’ Detective Ross said. She scribbled in her notebook then looked up at me. ‘How are you coping?’

‘I’m fine.’

She handed me a business card. Victims of Crime Counselling Service. ‘If you need support, contact this agency. You’ve been through a traumatic experience and sometimes the after-effects don’t show up till later.’

I pocketed the card. I doubted I’d need their services. I didn’t want to dwell on the experience; I wanted to put it behind me.

#

The Three Monkeys attracted a local clientele of up-and-coming professionals on a budget who appreciated cheap, hearty meals, a cosy atmosphere and music that was not only good as background noise, but that you could dance to if you were in the mood. But tonight, the crowd was more interested in watching the rugby league on the wall-sized TV or checking their iPhones than listening to me. You got those nights occasionally and after a couple of years of doing this gig every second Friday night, I didn’t take it personally. It was especially hard going tonight as I hadn’t slept much in the three nights since the hold-up.

I finished my set to a smattering of applause, propped my guitar on its stand and fronted up to the bar in my usual corner spot.

‘Tough crowd,’ Joe the bartender said, mopping up the spills in front of me.

‘Yeah.’

He placed my usual order, a glass of mineral water, in front of me. I made it a rule never to drink during my gigs.

‘Don’t worry; you’ve got one fan. I’ll put in an order now for your album. When are you recording it?’

‘I’m still getting my song list together. It’s a theme album called Life’s a Stage, and it’s about the stages of life – childhood, adolescence, adulthood, parenthood, old age and so on. I’ve written all the songs bar one. Every time I try, I come to a dead end.’

A large, ruddy-faced man muscled into the bar beside me. ‘Two rum and cokes with ice, please.’

Joe scooped two glasses into the ice bucket. ‘Let me guess which one. Parenthood?’

‘No, even though I don’t have kids, that song was easy. It’s the one about love.’

‘Ah, love,’ Joe said with mock solemnity as he squirted Coke into the glasses. ‘I’m no help to you. I’ve been married for ten years.’

‘I can tell you about love, mate,’ the man beside me boomed. ‘You fall in love, get married, she runs off with your neighbour after 20 years, you spend the rest of your life paying out the property settlement. Write a song about that!’

‘Thanks for the inspiration,’ I said to his departing back.

Joe leaned forward and under the cover of the Rolling Stones blaring out ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ from the jukebox said, ‘Maybe you need a good night in the sack to stimulate your ... um ... creativity.’

I grinned. I definitely needed a good night in the sack, but wasn’t so sure it would stimulate anything above my waist.

In my next set I played some covers from the 80s and 90s rather than my own stuff, but the crowd was still lukewarm. Once the football was over, it started to thin out. At 10.30, I packed up my gear and was about to load it into the car when Sarah, the assistant manager, appeared beside me.

‘Would you like a drink before you go?’

I hesitated. She’d asked me the same question a couple of weeks ago and I’d given some excuse. I liked her, but I sensed she wanted more than friendship; and I wasn’t sure if I wanted that with her. Statuesque blondes were not usually my thing. And I was still hurting from being dumped two months ago by Angelique, an exotic, dark-eyed brunette who’d reeled me in with curves, flounces and smoulders, and then run off with her Salsa dance teacher.

‘Are you okay?’ Sarah asked. ‘You look a bit spaced out.’

‘Yeah. I had a bit of a scary experience earlier in the week.’

I told her briefly about the hold-up. She looked aghast. ‘My God, that’s terrible! You should have told me before – I could have found a replacement for tonight.’

‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired, so I’ll pass on the drinks.’

‘That’s okay, I understand.’

She was disappointed, but trying not to show it. On impulse I said, ‘But I’ll take you up on it next time.’

She smiled. ‘I’ll hold you to that. Have the police caught the guy who did it?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. But they will. Armed robbers are not usually known for their brains.’