pointings on the dormers, the work of a Mornington architect. You saw his places all over the Peninsula, anything from gingerbread cottages to Tyrolean Cape Cods. Pearce hated them and was looking for a way to channel that into his Meddler column for the
Progress
.
Everything reminded him of his shame this morning, so when the elderly couple emerged from the driveway in their Audi—typical, a classy, imported kind of car, but not too over the top—and gave him a look of wonderment and consternation as they accelerated toward Waterloo, his bitterness increased tenfold. He thought he recognised that look on their stupid old faces. It was a look that said, oh dear, who is that man and why is he walking along the road by himself and what if he robs our house while we're at the shops?
So Pearce watched the Audi disappear over the first rise— the stupid old fool driving painfully slowly as he craned his neck at the rear-view mirror—and concealed himself behind a big roadside pine.
Twenty to one the old couple would fall into a heap and turn around and drive back to their house as though they'd forgotten something. They'd come back over the rise and not see him anywhere and fall further into a heap.
Sure enough, half a minute later the Audi reappeared. Pearce crouched behind the trunk of the tree, feeling bitter satisfaction deep inside himself. They'd be wondering where he'd disappeared to. They'd be clutching each other, going, oh dear, he must have gone onto our property, what shall we do?
While this was going on he heard a car behind him, coming down from Upper Penzance. That cop car again. He didn't know or care whether or not he'd been spotted. He was having fun watching the Audi—everything about its movements spelling fear and trepidation—turn in to its driveway.
And the lift to his spirits helped him to work out exactly what he was going to do about the wanted man on his videotape. It was time he profited from his vigilance. Direct action this time, no more letters to the shire. He would confront the guy, take the shotgun with him for a bit of extra leverage.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'Your hair's still fairly blonde from summer,' John Tankard said.
They were climbing the winding road out of Penzance Beach and through farmland to Ian Munro's farm, Tankard driving this time. Pam ignored him, just looked out at the dusty blackberry canes and bracken that choked the ground between the roadside gums and pines. Not a good walking road, she thought, glancing at the man who'd stepped off the gravel onto the grassy verge to let the divvie van pass. But then she supposed that there wasn't a lot of traffic, so you could safely stroll along the centre of the road and enjoy the view across Ian Munro's paddocks to the sea and Phillip Island.
But what about snakes? Snakes in the grass, she thought, and wondered why. Maybe the man standing in the grass made her think of 'snake'. Something quick and flickering about him. A hint of snake in the way his tongue-tip rested on his upper lip and his neat shaved head had watched her. Where was his dog? Somehow you expected a dog when you saw a solitary figure walking along an unsealed road.
'I notice the way your hair goes lighter in the sun,' Tankard said.
Pam wanted to call him a try-hard, but thought that any response at all would encourage another clumsy overture.
It was hot in the van. The sleety winds of Easter had given way to an Indian summer. A top of twenty-eight degrees expected today. She wound down her window. A turbulence composed of grassy odours, dust and heat swirled past her face. A tendril of hair escaped from her clip and pasted itself to her damp neck. The way Tankard had been talking about her hair lately, he probably imagined it spread like a fan over his meaty thighs and stomach. Vomit.
Too bad he'd had to see her in her black bra at the stakeout on Saturday night. He'd been generally inflamed ever since.
'Must've spent a lot of time at the beach this
Progress
.
Everything reminded him of his shame this morning, so when the elderly couple emerged from the driveway in their Audi—typical, a classy, imported kind of car, but not too over the top—and gave him a look of wonderment and consternation as they accelerated toward Waterloo, his bitterness increased tenfold. He thought he recognised that look on their stupid old faces. It was a look that said, oh dear, who is that man and why is he walking along the road by himself and what if he robs our house while we're at the shops?
So Pearce watched the Audi disappear over the first rise— the stupid old fool driving painfully slowly as he craned his neck at the rear-view mirror—and concealed himself behind a big roadside pine.
Twenty to one the old couple would fall into a heap and turn around and drive back to their house as though they'd forgotten something. They'd come back over the rise and not see him anywhere and fall further into a heap.
Sure enough, half a minute later the Audi reappeared. Pearce crouched behind the trunk of the tree, feeling bitter satisfaction deep inside himself. They'd be wondering where he'd disappeared to. They'd be clutching each other, going, oh dear, he must have gone onto our property, what shall we do?
While this was going on he heard a car behind him, coming down from Upper Penzance. That cop car again. He didn't know or care whether or not he'd been spotted. He was having fun watching the Audi—everything about its movements spelling fear and trepidation—turn in to its driveway.
And the lift to his spirits helped him to work out exactly what he was going to do about the wanted man on his videotape. It was time he profited from his vigilance. Direct action this time, no more letters to the shire. He would confront the guy, take the shotgun with him for a bit of extra leverage.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'Your hair's still fairly blonde from summer,' John Tankard said.
They were climbing the winding road out of Penzance Beach and through farmland to Ian Munro's farm, Tankard driving this time. Pam ignored him, just looked out at the dusty blackberry canes and bracken that choked the ground between the roadside gums and pines. Not a good walking road, she thought, glancing at the man who'd stepped off the gravel onto the grassy verge to let the divvie van pass. But then she supposed that there wasn't a lot of traffic, so you could safely stroll along the centre of the road and enjoy the view across Ian Munro's paddocks to the sea and Phillip Island.
But what about snakes? Snakes in the grass, she thought, and wondered why. Maybe the man standing in the grass made her think of 'snake'. Something quick and flickering about him. A hint of snake in the way his tongue-tip rested on his upper lip and his neat shaved head had watched her. Where was his dog? Somehow you expected a dog when you saw a solitary figure walking along an unsealed road.
'I notice the way your hair goes lighter in the sun,' Tankard said.
Pam wanted to call him a try-hard, but thought that any response at all would encourage another clumsy overture.
It was hot in the van. The sleety winds of Easter had given way to an Indian summer. A top of twenty-eight degrees expected today. She wound down her window. A turbulence composed of grassy odours, dust and heat swirled past her face. A tendril of hair escaped from her clip and pasted itself to her damp neck. The way Tankard had been talking about her hair lately, he probably imagined it spread like a fan over his meaty thighs and stomach. Vomit.
Too bad he'd had to see her in her black bra at the stakeout on Saturday night. He'd been generally inflamed ever since.
'Must've spent a lot of time at the beach this
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