Free Blood Feud by J.D. Nixon Page B

fully enclosed, though the fencing was badly dilapidated in places.
    The hurried arrival of Dr Fenn kept the Sarge busy, and it was up to me to crowd control while we waited for forensics. It didn’t take long before the first sightseers turned up, attracted by the unusual spectacle of the crime tape. Of course they were Bycrafts, the idlest people in town and the only ones able to instantly drop everything they were doing (namely boozing, smoking dope, shoplifting and procreating) if something more interesting arose.
    “Oh, you have to be kidding me,” I groaned, incredulous.
    Unbelievably, our first ghouls were Chad, Mikey and Sean Bycraft, boldly cruising past in the red Commodore we’d left locked in the station’s carpark.
    “ Hey! ” said Kevin, stunned out of his funk by their sheer audacity. “That’s . . . The car! . . . And it’s . . . them! ”
    “You get that car back to the police station right now, Chad Bycraft!” I hollered, in no mood to be messed around with by them again today.
    “Fuck you, piglet!” chorused the teen cousins out of the windows, grinning as they slowed to a crawl in front of us. Chad stopped the car to rev the engine a couple of times in provocation.
    “What’s going on? Did something happen to the old bag?” yelled out Sean.
    “I swear to God I’m going to shoot them one day,” I hissed between gritted teeth. “Kevin, take a very good look at the car’s occupants this time. It would be great if you could identify them with enough confidence to satisfy a court.”
    “What’s happened?” asked Mikey. “Is she dead? Did someone do her in?”
    Their insensitivity at such a time inflamed me. The town had been viciously robbed of the last of one of its pioneering families – a family that had actually contributed to the town, unlike the Bycrafts. Blood boiling, I ducked under the tape and strode towards the Commodore. I had no idea what I planned to do – maybe I was going to pull them out of the car and kick their butts, or maybe I was going to crack their heads together. I found my hand reaching for my OC spray. Maybe I meant something more serious.
    “You, Chad Bycraft!” thundered a voice from the veranda. “You better take that car back to the station now without one dent on it, or we’ll be hauling your arse off to the lockup for the rest of the day. Do you hear me?”
    I had no doubt he’d heard the Sarge. Half the town probably had, he was that loud. At the Sarge’s threat, Chad’s rat-cunning survival instinct kicked in. Realising that a couple of cops had now named him out loud in the presence of two witnesses – Kevin and Dr Fenn – he knew that could really spell trouble this time. The red car pulled a sudden u-turn and burned off back towards the station.
    “Thanks, Sarge,” I called out, climbing back under the tape. Once again, he’d stepped in to save me from my own impulsively thoughtless actions.
    He raised a casual hand in acknowledgement, but was soon engrossed in a serious conversation with the doctor. I watched them for a while, wanting desperately to confer with him and to hear what Dr Fenn had to say. But a steady stream of people began to arrive at the house, on foot, by bike and in their cars. Word of something amiss with Miss G had spread quickly.
    I remained tightlipped, declining to answer any queries and returning the questions of the more persistent folk with nothing more helpful than my expressionless cop face. However, it didn’t take the more astute townsfolk too long to work out that something seriously awful had happened to Miss G. The fact that I guarded the driveway, the lack of urgency in the Sarge’s and Dr Fenn’s actions and body language, and the general air of us all waiting for someone, but not an ambulance, gave it away.
    Most of those who turned up were visibly distressed by the situation. They huddled in small groups, speculating with each other in soft, shocked voices. Miss G was the town’s oldest