Spring had finally hit Moorabool, draping the winter streets and back roads with bright yellow explosions of wattle and creamy eucalyptus blooms. Even the cop shop parking area looked tarted up, with its pink and white magnolias.
The jacaranda branches were spreading tentative flashes of lilac over the verandah steps as Constable Petrovic came sauntering down them, heading off to trout fishing or pig shooting or fox baiting, whatever he did on weekends to escape his mother’s
bad temper.
When the phone rang, Petrovic glared back at it, mouthing curses. Senior Constable Ross Bligh watched him, and grinned at Neridah Wakeley.
‘I’ve got it. Go.’ Neridah waved Peter away and answered the phone while he scurried to his car, never in danger of looking back.
Grateful wasn’t a word to be found in Petrovic’s limited vocab, but if it was, even he would have been. Neridah was twenty-one, blonde, smart and considerate for her age. Any age. Gutsy too. Petrovic would half-jokingly call her Dickless Tracy, and she would half-jokingly wave her little finger at him with a wink and say, ‘Really no need to feel threatened, Petey.’ Which made Ross and Mick laugh, and confirmed their view that the only thing standing between Probationary Constable Wakeley and a successful police career was the fact that she was a woman. And one that was, all said and done, very easy on the eye. Ross, casually observing her slim back and the curve of her hip as she leaned over the counter, thought not even the hideous policewomen’s blues could take that away from her. He heard her call his name. All loose thoughts scattered as he took the phone…
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