red Ferrari, but I can still afford a new red Italian
car,” he often said with a satisfied smile.
But his failing had always
been in music and arts. He didn ’ t like music and
he didn ’ t understand art. He would
complain that art was subjective and made you take a stand, and not
having any bias or preferences in art kept him neutral. Kroupa had
long given up arguing this point.
“I am a reporter who reports the facts, not
personal feelings or preferences,” Hendrych proclaimed.
Perhaps these differences had helped the two
men maintain their friendship for well over twenty years. They had
solved many mysteries together. It was usually easier for a
journalist to ask questions. People were keen to talk if they
thought there was a chance they might see their names in the paper.
On the other hand, you could come a cropper after an encounter with
DCI Kroupa.
It was steaming hot in Medlow Bath, which
was unusual in the Blue Mountains during summer. In January the
days tended to be hot, but dry. Sandra Whiteford was visiting her
friend Gertrude Winterbottom as she did every day, regardless of
the weather. The two had known each other for over almost fifty
years, since they’d met under somewhat peculiar circumstances. Due
to their family names, they were close to each other on the
electoral role, and the closeness on the roll resembled their
feelings. They could never agree on anything, except that they
would always argue. In later years they both remained old
spinsters, who visited each other on a regular bases, usually
daily, to sit at the table or on the sofa, have tea and the
cucumber sandwiches, which Gertrude occasionally prepared - and
they would argue.
On this particular day Sandra wanted to know
how many times she needed to ask Gertrude to keep Rascal away from
her cats.
“I understand he’s your pet, but cats and
dogs don't go together well. At least not my cats and your dog,
anyway."
"Be nice to him, Sandra, please. He won't
hurt them."
"Don't tempt me, Trudy. If he does anything
to Rosy or Brim, I'll kill Rascal. As my name is Sandra
Whiteford!”
"You wouldn't hurt my Rascal. He’s so
gentle. Just look at him. He understands and right now, he’s
thinking: What a nasty woman Sandra is?"
"Trudy, you've just crossed the line in our
friendship. I’ll have another sandwich and then I'll go. Thank you
for the tea." Sandra did exactly as she'd promised – although she
had not one, but three cucumber sandwiches in a hurry and went
home, which was next door to Trudy.
At home she pondered on the visit. She
couldn't get Trudy’s frightened look off her mind when she’d
mentioned killing Rascal. It wasn't nice. It wasn't right. She had
to set things right. But what would she say? They’d never
apologised for anything they'd said. That had always been the rule
of their arguments. She’d have to have another tea and to clear her
mind before going back.
"Sandra, is that you? I didn't expect you so
soon." Trudy went to the dining room to reconcile with Sandra. She
didn't have a clear conscious either.
----
DCI Rowan Kroupa was walking his beloved
Sara. She loved the fresh air and chasing her new ball that Kroupa
was clumsily throwing for her to catch and bring back. There was a
smile on Sara's face - a smile that only Kroupa could see. His
cheeks were touching the rim of his glasses at short intervals when
Sara ran after the ball, brought it back and pretended that she
didn’t want to let it go. Kroupa had to wrestle with her. When he
got off her, Sara stood a metre away ready to chase the ball
again.
All of a sudden she lost her interest in
playing, pricked her ears and indicated to Kroupa that they should
get on the move. Kroupa, as was his habit, trustingly followed
Sara. They arrived at a house and could hear a dog howling, that
sounded more like a wail.
"What's wrong, Sara? Are you afraid?"
Sara took up the pace. She could sense
something, thought Kroupa. He was right. Soon he
car,” he often said with a satisfied smile.
But his failing had always
been in music and arts. He didn ’ t like music and
he didn ’ t understand art. He would
complain that art was subjective and made you take a stand, and not
having any bias or preferences in art kept him neutral. Kroupa had
long given up arguing this point.
“I am a reporter who reports the facts, not
personal feelings or preferences,” Hendrych proclaimed.
Perhaps these differences had helped the two
men maintain their friendship for well over twenty years. They had
solved many mysteries together. It was usually easier for a
journalist to ask questions. People were keen to talk if they
thought there was a chance they might see their names in the paper.
On the other hand, you could come a cropper after an encounter with
DCI Kroupa.
It was steaming hot in Medlow Bath, which
was unusual in the Blue Mountains during summer. In January the
days tended to be hot, but dry. Sandra Whiteford was visiting her
friend Gertrude Winterbottom as she did every day, regardless of
the weather. The two had known each other for over almost fifty
years, since they’d met under somewhat peculiar circumstances. Due
to their family names, they were close to each other on the
electoral role, and the closeness on the roll resembled their
feelings. They could never agree on anything, except that they
would always argue. In later years they both remained old
spinsters, who visited each other on a regular bases, usually
daily, to sit at the table or on the sofa, have tea and the
cucumber sandwiches, which Gertrude occasionally prepared - and
they would argue.
On this particular day Sandra wanted to know
how many times she needed to ask Gertrude to keep Rascal away from
her cats.
“I understand he’s your pet, but cats and
dogs don't go together well. At least not my cats and your dog,
anyway."
"Be nice to him, Sandra, please. He won't
hurt them."
"Don't tempt me, Trudy. If he does anything
to Rosy or Brim, I'll kill Rascal. As my name is Sandra
Whiteford!”
"You wouldn't hurt my Rascal. He’s so
gentle. Just look at him. He understands and right now, he’s
thinking: What a nasty woman Sandra is?"
"Trudy, you've just crossed the line in our
friendship. I’ll have another sandwich and then I'll go. Thank you
for the tea." Sandra did exactly as she'd promised – although she
had not one, but three cucumber sandwiches in a hurry and went
home, which was next door to Trudy.
At home she pondered on the visit. She
couldn't get Trudy’s frightened look off her mind when she’d
mentioned killing Rascal. It wasn't nice. It wasn't right. She had
to set things right. But what would she say? They’d never
apologised for anything they'd said. That had always been the rule
of their arguments. She’d have to have another tea and to clear her
mind before going back.
"Sandra, is that you? I didn't expect you so
soon." Trudy went to the dining room to reconcile with Sandra. She
didn't have a clear conscious either.
----
DCI Rowan Kroupa was walking his beloved
Sara. She loved the fresh air and chasing her new ball that Kroupa
was clumsily throwing for her to catch and bring back. There was a
smile on Sara's face - a smile that only Kroupa could see. His
cheeks were touching the rim of his glasses at short intervals when
Sara ran after the ball, brought it back and pretended that she
didn’t want to let it go. Kroupa had to wrestle with her. When he
got off her, Sara stood a metre away ready to chase the ball
again.
All of a sudden she lost her interest in
playing, pricked her ears and indicated to Kroupa that they should
get on the move. Kroupa, as was his habit, trustingly followed
Sara. They arrived at a house and could hear a dog howling, that
sounded more like a wail.
"What's wrong, Sara? Are you afraid?"
Sara took up the pace. She could sense
something, thought Kroupa. He was right. Soon he
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