Dead Again

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

‘It’s always the b****y way,’ Franklin grumbled.

‘How’s that?’

‘Look forward to a quiet one at the pub and a pair of jokers have to spoil it.’ He set his half-full pot on the table and scanned until he spotted the culprits. So far, they were merely heckling.

‘Drink up.’ His mate nudged Franklin’s beer closer. ‘They’ll be right.’

‘Maybe.’ Franklin took another draught but kept a watch on the two blueing men.

‘We’d play better next year if you make a comeback. Can we talk you into it?’

Quietly flattered to be begged out of retirement, Franklin knew it reflected more upon the piss-poor talent on the senior footy team than his skills. ‘Nuh, I’ll stick with coaching. The old knee has a hard enough time keeping up with the little tackers.’

‘Any future AFL stars coming through?’

Franklin chuckled. ‘Mate, you always ask me that. It’s off-season and all. Do you really think our Daylesford Under 15s will spawn the next Matty Richardson?’

Georgie lay on the bed after phoning AJ. Although exhausted from lack of sleep the night before and the intense afternoon, it would be a mistake to try to sleep now because her mind was in overdrive. But for once what happened in autumn, and other recurring worries, didn’t figure. They’d been sidelined by this new assignment.

She replayed Kelly’s interview in her mind. The photos she’d taken around town afterwards were on a repeating slideshow on her computer but already burned into her memory. And she couldn’t shake the hostility she’d encountered at the pub tonight.

After ordering a counter meal, she’d tried to chat with the publican. He’d stared her down. His ‘That’ll be all, then’ hadn’t been a question, and he’d moved off to huddle with a couple of guys who intermittently turned to look at her.

She’d managed about a quarter of her veal parma when one of the men peeled away from the group. He’d strutted towards Georgie and sat on the stool next to hers.

Without introduction, he’d said, ‘Instead of writing some poncy story, why don’t you do something useful?’ He’d jabbed a stumpy finger at the counter, making Georgie’s cutlery rattle against her plate. ‘Like find the murdering bastard that did this.’ He’d waved around the virtually empty bar, probably meaning the whole town.

He’d abruptly risen, overturning his stool. ‘Print that and I’ll shoot you.’

His raw hurt had ruined her appetite. She’d felt the men talking about her as she left the pub.

Georgie stared at her photo slideshow. She wouldn’t have a problem finding a story. Everyone here carried a tragic story. The tricky bit was finding the right one. And people who would go on record.

Franklin abandoned his beer as the volume of the troublemakers elevated.

‘I’ll have you!’

‘Yeah, well, come on!’

Shorty shoved Lanky. Lanky had a good three inches on him in height, but Shorty’s stout build propelled him into the bar.

Franklin rose as Lanky retaliated with a cruel verbal jab. ‘What would Monica think?’

‘Leave me wife out of this!’

One of Franklin’s companions moaned. ‘You’re off duty. Let them sort it.’

Franklin threw back, ‘A cop’s never off duty,’ as he closed the gap to the bar.

He set his shoulders, angled his body in between the men and pried them apart. It worked a treat; they had no leverage to strike him or each other. ‘Cut it out, fellas.’

Shorty said, ‘Mind your own business. This is between me and that prick.’

The bloke swatted Franklin’s hands away. He had sodden rings under his arms and whiffed a bit. Might be a stress-sweater.

Franklin gave him a hard look. Shorty was familiar, a local, although not on their books as far as he knew. Not a habitual hothead then, unless he generally did it behind closed doors.

‘It is my business. Senior Constable Franklin.’ He flipped his badge. ‘What’s the problem here?’

‘It’s private,’ Shorty retorted, folding his arms.

Lanky smirked, and Franklin decided the fellow’s attitude matched his slick shirt. He needed to be knocked down a peg or two. ‘Names?’

‘Don’t think we have to tell you that.’ Lanky hooked his thumbs through his belt loops.

I should’ve let Shorty land a knockout punch.

‘You’re disturbing the peace, and Manny here could have you up on charges.’

The barman dipped his head once.

Shorty said, ‘Neil Hudson.’

Lanky gave a deep sigh. ‘Marc Jones.’ He held out his hand to shake. Franklin ignored it.

The mob gathered and jostled for prime position. One knucklehead yelled, ‘Who’yer backing, boys? Five bucks on your favourite.’

‘Get back to your drinks, people,’ Franklin called, keeping one eye on the original troublemakers.

The crowd inched back. Not far enough for his liking.

He asked Hudson, ‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s between me, him and me wife.’

‘Well, you blokes sort it out peacefully or I’ll be down on you like a tonne of bricks.’

Lanky sniggered.

Franklin pinned him with a glare. ‘What’s your problem, Jones?’

‘That’s funny considering he,’ Jones pointed at the other fellow, ‘is a brickie.’

Onlookers booed or chuckled, depending on which corner they were in, and Jones laughed, egging them on further.

‘And what’s funny about that?’ Hudson shot back, attempting to grab his adversary.

‘Righto, settle or we’ll take this to the station.’ Franklin eyed the two rivals. No way he’d let them out on the street together. ‘One of you has to leave. And one stays until I say differently.’

He shook his head at background grumbles from the spectators who wanted blood sport, countered by a sprinkle of applause.

It didn’t surprise him at all that Jones said, ‘Why should I go?’

Hudson re-folded his arms.

‘Decide who or I will. One of you goes. Now!’

‘All right. All right. I’ll go,’ Jones said. ‘She’ll be gagging for it again anyway!’ He grabbed his own groin and bucked.

Hudson’s punch almost connected. Franklin shoved him against the bar. Even if Jones deserved it, he couldn’t let it happen.

‘Keep that up and I’ll take you both in.’

They dropped their fists but kept bitching under their breaths.

‘Okay, people,’ Franklin shooed the crowd, ‘the show’s over. Move away.’

He waited for the throng to disperse and warned in a low voice, ‘Jones, get out of here. Both of you, remember you’re on notice. Any sniff of trouble, whether I’m on or off duty, and I will take great pleasure in slapping you with charges and then into a cell. You got that?’