Free Frantic by Katherine Howell Page B

against the table, tears blurring her vision.
    Wednesday 7 May, 11.36 am
     
    Ella flipped dully through the photographs of the ruined takeaway shop then leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She was alone in the detectives’ office in Hunters Hill Station. Of the six separate desks in the large room, four belonged to individual detectives and the other two were piled with the various dross that came with police work: forms mostly, and manuals that explained how to do stuff in the PC bureaucrat-speak that had taken over the world. There was also a copy of today’s newspaper. It was open to articles about the anonymous caller, Roth, the death of Duds in the crash, and a short piece about the bank guard whose funeral was to be held that afternoon. The statement by police management about all these matters was exactly what Ella expected: vague and brief. Investigations were ongoing, nothing could be confirmed. Blah blah.
    Ella rolled up a scrap of paper and flicked it at the ceiling. Fifteen years she’d been in the job. It was funny, really, that she could recall every early step – the application process, starting then finishing at the Academy in Goulburn, her first job on her first shift – but the last four years were a blur. Sure she remembered moving into the detectives, and there had been a couple of decent homicide investigations she’d been part of (and naturally she’d never be allowed to forget the one where she’d told off Assistant Commissioner Shakespeare), but these days she was tired and bored. Whatever life was meant to be, surely it was more than this. Shouldn’t she wake up each morning with at least some enthusiasm?
    She spread the fire photos out and stood over them but found no insight, no breakthrough – just the throb of an incipient headache and the memory of the stink of burned plastic.
    One thing that wasn’t helping her frame of mind was what she’d overheard in the Jungle the night before. People said that Strike Force Gold was going to be widened in scope to take in the crash that killed Dudley-Pearson. The Homicide Squad would join in. Ella had been hit with the thought that Dennis was the investigating officer. In that light, his reluctance to talk made perfect sense.
    The phone rang. ‘Detectives, Hunters Hill.’
    ‘Um, Detective Marconi please.’
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘Hi, it’s Edman Hughes, from the fire? I called in yesterday but you were out. I was wondering if I could come in and make my statement today?’
    ‘That sounds fine, Mr Hughes.’ Ella checked her watch. It was almost midday. ‘How does one o’clock suit you?’
    ‘That’d be good. Thanks.’
    ‘See you then.’ Ella put the phone down and reached for a piece of paper. ‘ Steve, had to go out. Do us a favour and grab a statement from this Hughes guy, please? Thanks. ’
    Detective Steve Clunes ran his life like clockwork. The mornings he spent out, the afternoons in, wherever possible. He liked to finish each day with pages typed out and neatly collated. This morning he’d been to see a witness in hospital and Ella knew he’d be back soon. She left the note on his desk, grabbed her bag and headed out the door. She might not know what she wanted but she knew talking to Edman Hughes was not it.
    5.52 pm
     
    The phone rang as Sophie walked into the ambulance station. ‘The Rocks, hello and good evening.’
    ‘You nightshift? Your partner there?’ a stressed voice asked.
    Sophie heard noises in the locker room. ‘Yep.’
    ‘I’ve got two people code seventeen, unconscious, query not breathing, in Bourke Street, Woolloomooloo,’ the Control officer said. ‘It’s crazy out there; this is the fifth OD call in the last half-hour.’
    ‘Heroin?’
    ‘Yeah but way strong. People all over are going down and some aren’t coming back up.’ Phones rang in the background. ‘Good luck.’
    Sophie banged on the locker-room door. ‘The sick of the city await your loving care.’
    Mick stuck his head out. The