Free Hindsight (9781921997211) by Melanie Casey Page B

he saw it happen.’ This last titbit was delivered with relish, between bites of liberally buttered toast.
    â€˜Really? I hope the police have better evidence than that. Mick couldn’t remember his own mother from one day to the next,’ the man scoffed.
    â€˜Don’t be so hard, he called it in, didn’t he?’
    â€˜Yeah, and then he bolted I bet, straight down the neck of the next bottle. We won’t see him around these parts again any time soon,’ the man said, turning his attention to slathering marmalade on toast.
    The eavesdropper tuned out. He’d heard everything he needed to know. Murdered? The drugs shouldn’t have killed her. He never wanted them dead. They needed to be alive when he got them home.
    He downed the rest of his coffee and left the café in a daze. One problem was solved but it had been replaced by another, bigger one. Someone had seen him.
    That night the murder was reported on the TV news. The Jewel Bay police were appealing for the witness to come forward, and offering a reward. It was perfect. He needed to get to Old Mick first, and so here he was, sitting in his car with a clear view of the police station, watching, waiting and trusting his instinct that Old Mick would be tempted out of hiding.
    He shivered. It had been a long and difficult day. He’d rescheduled the two services booked for that afternoon and the families were furious. He pleaded illness but it didn’t seem to matter. He could still hear their angry voices in his head. They couldn’t understand why there wasn’t someone else who could just step in and do it.
    The answer was simple: another person would snoop around. They might notice things. Still it wasn’t good for business, having to shut up shop and spend the day just sitting here. If Old Mick didn’t show up today he would have to come back tomorrow as well and maybe even the day after. That could be difficult. He had five more services booked for the rest of the week: two on Thursday and three on Friday including the two he’d cancelled today and rescheduled. He could imagine their reactions if he cancelled again.
    Then there was the other problem. If he sat parked in the street two or three days in a row in the same car people might notice and start asking questions. He couldn’t risk using the van with his logo on it.
    The street lights flickered on. He looked at his watch — five fifteen. It got dark early at this time of year. He decided to call it quits. Sergeant Johnston had already gone. Only the young constable was left and he would probably go home in the next fifteen minutes. He started the car and looked in the rear-view mirror. A glimpse of someone moving through the gloom in the distance made him tense. He turned the car off and waited.
    The figure got closer. Was that him? It could be; it was an older man, dressed in a shabby coat with the collar turned up against the bite in the wind. He wore a hat pulled down over his ears, its colour lost under years of grime and sweat. He shuffled along, casting anxious glances around him. When he reached the entrance to Stuart Lane he stopped and peered around the corner. It had to be Old Mick.
    The watcher sank further down in his seat and pulled his cap down over his brow as the old man got closer and finally tottered past the car. He threw the door open, slid out and jogged around onto the footpath.
    â€˜Excuse me?’
    The old man turned, fear widening his eyes. ‘Yes?’
    â€˜Fairfield Police.’ He flashed a fake badge, confident that it was too dark for the old man to tell the difference. ‘Are you Michael McKenzie?’
    The man turned away, looking down the length of the street, trying to decide what to do. ‘Depends who’s asking.’
    â€˜The Sergeant has already left for the day. He posted me here to keep an eye out in case Michael McKenzie decided to come in and assist us with our enquiries. If