‘Gadgets and guns, Hannah. And when I say she’s asking for you, it’s actually more like an order.’
Crap. ‘Thanks, Sandy. Let me see the dog first in case it really is an emergency. Perhaps you could offer her a water or something and explain the hold-up.’
‘Mrs Grundy’s in early for her two o’clock, and she’s been trying to pry out the reason for the sergeant’s visit for the last ten minutes. Is, um, is everything all right? I can be with you if you want.’
‘Sandy, you’re a sweetheart. I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer.’
Half an hour later, Hannah was resting a hand on the affronted pug sprawled on the stainless steel table. The Lego hat that the dog had managed to get stuck in his trachea sat in a metal dish beside her and the owner had returned to the waiting room because he’d been grossed out by the phlegmy noises.
The door swung open and a policewoman moved into the treatment room.
‘Oh, hey, I’m not quite done.’
‘But I was done with waiting. I’m Sergeant King.’
Hannah cleared her throat. ‘I’m not trying to avoid you, I promise. Flower here had a time-sensitive problem. I just need another couple of minutes with him.’
‘I’ve got an hysterical Instagram influencer—his words—from Cooma emailing me pictures of the crack on his prize lens every twenty minutes. I think the crack on his ego’s even bigger.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was hard to hear the dog’s breathing through the stethoscope with her blood rushing in her ears.
‘Here’s what I don’t get. You’re at a family event, kids everywhere, everyone’s having a great old time, and then you apparently lose the common sense you were born with and ram your fist into the expensive property of a total stranger. How am I doing?’
Flower’s breathing was steady, his heart rate was back to normal and he was eyeing off the liver treat in Hannah’s hand as though he hadn’t eaten anything in days, let alone a Lego pirate. She fed him the treat, then picked up the fat little body and held it against her chest.
‘Um, Sergeant King. This isn’t going to be a short conversation.’
‘Okay. I’ve got time to listen.’
‘The dalmatian out in the waiting room needs his heartworm and kennel cough shots and a liver treat, and he’s my last patient for a bit. Can you wait while I do that? Ten minutes, tops.’
The sergeant looked at her watch. ‘I can wait.’
Hannah gestured to the doorway. ‘My place is upstairs, top floor. The door’s unlocked if you want to wait there. We’ll be able to talk without being interrupted.’
‘I’ll find it.’
She vaccinated Mrs Grundy’s dog, Spot, and made some gentle commentary on his girth being on the hefty side of normal according to the dog obesity chart.
Mrs Grundy responded by giving her a rundown on every household item he’d consumed in the last month. ‘And then he ate the library book I’d left on the window seat. How am I going to explain that to those dragons up there at the loans desk?’
‘Dalmatians aren’t known for their brains, Mrs Grundy. Was it a cookbook? Maybe it smelled like food.’
‘It was one of those fabulous romances. You know, the steamy historical ones with a woman on the cover about to tear off her ballgown and command some bare-chested laird to lift his kilt.’
She laughed. ‘You interested in bare-chested lairds, Mrs Grundy?’
The old lady pulled a neatly embroidered, lavender-scented handkerchief from her purse and fluttered it in front of her face. ‘Those heroes have skills, Hannah. Dexterous with their swordplay, if you get my meaning. I should have slipped Mr Grundy a title or two to give him some pointers. Too late now, more’s the pity.’
As Mr Grundy had been a resident of the Hanrahan cemetery on Hope Street for about two decades, the idea was almost enough to take Hannah’s mind off the conversation she was about to have upstairs. ‘So,’ she said to the dog, ‘you have no idea what’s edible and what’s not, but you have excellent taste in romantic literature. Spot, you’ve got hidden depths. Have another liver treat.’
She walked them through reception to the main door and watched them head down Dandaloo Street in the direction of the lake. Perhaps when she was making her New Year’s Eve resolutions she should have thought of dalmatians and romance novels.
No-one would have tried taking a photograph of her then.
The sergeant had made herself at home at the small table by the window overlooking the park, a mug of black coffee and the newspaper set up before her.
Hannah poured herself a cup of coffee using the still-hot kettle. ‘I’ve got biscuits.’
