Free The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... by NS Thompson Page A

instructions and I think I know what I’m doing but I don’t want to mess it up. Perhaps he’ll call me today. I want to start directing and filming my masterpiece of a movie.
    I just heard on the radio that the second Moorebank girl, whose surname was something else despite being the daughter of a Moorebank, died last night and so now the police are looking at a double homicide. You probably know the girls because I know just about all that family hang around Doctor Death trolling for pain killers. The kids play in your patients’ car-park while mum stumbles in for a shot of morphine for her bad back! You can feel my sarcasm dripping down the page, I’m sure.
    We’ll have police combing the streets and interviewing every man and his dog. I guess the township is going to be a media circus as well.  
    I’ve got to resolve this stupid matter of the bitch-tenant claiming I harassed her. SHE had the gall to ask the tribunal to hear the matter. If she wins this fantasy battle, I might lose my job or cop a hefty fine. Ron is still fuming and narrows his eyes whenever he sees me.
    It’s being heard on Thursday at 2:00p.m.  I’ve been swatting on the internet looking for loopholes and reading about similar cases. In situations like this it boils down to which side is more credible. Who is the most convincing? One is telling the truth and one is not. The victor doesn’t have to be right. The victor has to appear to be right. So in order for the tribunal magistrate to make the correct decision, I must be the epitome of righteousness. And I must paint her as a lunatic. I don’t think that will pose a problem.
     

    30/06/05 Wednesday
     
    The last day of the financial year. Accountants all over the place are rubbing their hands with glee.
    Frank, the surveillance wiz, rang me last night and I’ve ironed out the wrinkles I was having. We are all set to go, Gracie. It feels like Christmas. I’m about to unwrap a very exciting toy! Off to work. I’ll be SEEING YOU later tonight. I hope you’re not going out.
     
    6:35 p.m
     
    Well, I was right about the media and police presence in town. Blue and white have been the predominant colours of the day as a team of law enforcers, who look like adolescent rookies, go door knocking to see if anyone has any information of value to the homicide investigation. They could be here for weeks, knowing this town. Everyone will have some inconsequential tit-bit of gossip to throw into the melting pot, very little of which I would imagine, could be considered of value.  
    Two young officers stepped into our office mid-morning and asked if they could speak to everyone that worked there, one at a time. Ron very generously offered my office as the staff interview room. He kind of sneered at me as he showed them the way. I bristled but stayed quiet and went to stand behind the reception desk, behind Belinda who was aimlessly flicking through the mail.
    “Are you all psyched for Friday?” she whispered.
    I opened my mouth and gave a disbelieving shake of my head like a dashboard dog.
    “Of course.”
    How dare this girl inquire after something that was absolutely none of her concern?   
    She raised an eyebrow and went back to her tap, tap, tapping on the keyboard. I fumed at her insolence.
    Finally Ron came out and jerked his head in the direction of my office.
    “You’re next, Jack.”
    He went back to his desk and shuffled papers about as if he was looking for something important. The office hadn’t had a sale in over two weeks so he could pretty much put his shoes up on the desk and have a nap and not hold up business at all.
    I got asked the standard questions.
    Yes I had rented a property to Sandy Moorebank and her sister and the three children they had between them.
    No, I hadn’t seen either of them or the kids since they moved out without notice just over a fortnight ago.
    No, I didn’t know the names of her children.
    Yes, I had heard the rumour that Sandy was working as a