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Kerry Greenwood
THE CORINNA CHAPMAN SERIES
‘. . . the endearing Corinna retains her love of food, cats, gin and
her tall, dark and handsome boyfriend Daniel . . . The clever,
whimsical crime writing [is] precisely the charm of Greenwood’s
off-beat series.’ The Courier Mail
‘Miss Fisher as usual powers through this newest case with grace,
poise and unerring confidence, the sense of underlying tension is
palpable . . .’ The Age
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He did, however, get his dab of butter. I am mere putty in the
paws of my felines.
Into the stout overall and cap and the stouter shoes. Down
the stairs to the bakery – aptly named Earthly Delights – where the
big air conditioners have already come on, along with the ovens.
Jason was there, reading a comic while waiting for his first rising
to mature.
‘Cap’n on deck!’ he said, jumping to his feet and saluting.
Jason is an ex-heroin addict who was saved by patisseries
and now lives in Insula in a grace-and-favour apartment. He
is thin, growing all the time, with curly blond hair like Harpo
Marx. I bless the day he discovered Hornblower and then Patrick
O’Brian. Barely literate, he was nevertheless sufficiently spell-
bound to persevere with Master and Commander and decided
he wanted to be a midshipman. I love having a midshipman.
Also, he is going to be a very good baker. Happily, his ardour
for bread has not been cooled by falling in love with a lot of
unsuitable girls. He has a weakness for tall, aloof blondes. So
far, they don’t have a weakness for him.
Colliding with my ankles in a furry scrum were Heckle and
Jekyll, aka the Mouse Police, a rough-and-ready pair of pied old
comrades. They are the first, last and best defence against rodents
in my bakery. I viewed the place of slaughter. Two rats, seven
mice and a spider. Quite a big spider. I approved, and doled out
cat food with a liberal hand. The Mouse Police, at least, knew
how to present their prey. Out in the open, for a start.
‘Steady as she goes, Midshipman,’ I ordered, and began pulling
out the tins for my sourdough, a staple of the business. My
sourdough had originally come from Italy, nestled in my old
master’s wife’s bosom, or so he claimed. Yeast is immortal. In
every little cell the strain of yeast which a certain prophet’s people
did not have time to allow to rise may even now be multiplying.
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Welsh dragon on the front. She asked for sourdough, was duly
given the first loaf out of the oven, and gave me in return the
exact change and a sweet smile.
The city was beginning to wake. Inside, Jason had put his
challah in the oven and was compounding the muffin of the
day. I could smell the ingredients: orange flower water, dates,
pistachio nuts and candied peel. Yum! Oasis muffins. The boy
is a genius with muffins.
I knew I ought to go back to the kitchen and mould my pasta
dura, a light, white Italian bread with a hard crust that my
customers loved. But instead I remained in the doorway, brushing
flour from my green apron, because down the alley came a man.
The light was behind him. He was of medium height. Stocky,
with short hair. Jeans and a khaki T-shirt. Something about
him said ‘cop or soldier’. His eyes flicked from side to side, as
if hunting for enemies. Snipers in Centre Arcade? I didn’t think
it likely. He was moving uncertainly. Drunk? It must have been
a monumental night, to be weaving his way home at six-thirty.
He came closer, his boots ringing on the cobbles. (Soldier,
then.) Close enough for me to see that he had light blue eyes with
dark smudges under them, cropped black hair, tanned skin. He
was shaking. No smell of alcohol, though.
He held out a much-creased envelope and I took it. It was
addressed to Sgt Alasdair Sinclair. On the back was written
Daniel Cohen will help you, the words signed Sr Mary. There
was no way I was going to ignore anything which came from
that admirable and formidable nun. What Sister Mary said went.
She was, as one of her clients had told another, ‘in damn big
with God’.
‘Corinna?’ the soldier asked. Scottish voice.
‘I’m Corinna,’ I told him.
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CHAPTER TWO
J ason began to stack the bread into the trays for delivery.
I left him flirting with the rickshaw driver, Megan – a short,
plump redhead with spark and drive; a much better choice than
his usual languid Nordic types – and went upstairs.
Daniel and Alasdair were in close converse in the kitchen, the
air redolent with fried bacon. I did not disturb them.
I changed into respectable garments: a pair of loose blue cotton
trousers and a shirt. I could at last remove my heavy boots and
put on sandals. My feet sang little songs of gratitude all the way
down the stairs.
Goss, or possibly Kylie, was waiting at the door of the bakery
when I opened it. The girls are the same height and weight – far
too low – and change their hair and eye colour so often I once
suggested they wear name tags. They refused, but agreed to
announce their identity every morning. I like knowing to whom
I am talking.
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The usual people came in and bought bread and traded money
and news. Nine am brought Mistress Dread, wearing her full
costume. This consisted of what are known as CFM heels (stiletto,
scarlet), fishnets, and a boned and laced red French corset. Her
black hair was piled atop her head and stuck with hatpins and she
was carrying – of course – her monogrammed whip. She lives in
2B, Venus, and was no doubt on her way home from her dungeon.
Habitual patrons are relatively immune to surprises in Earthly
Delights, but I suppressed a giggle at the reaction of a very conven-
tional-looking young man in a good suit, who had to hide behind
his bag of bread rolls to preserve his countenance. Mistress Dread
nailed him in a second and flicked him her card. He blushed.
But he caught it.
‘Hard day’s night?’ I asked her.
‘Brutal,’ she said in her gravelly, sexy voice. ‘Had to bar the
doors at midnight. Every man and his woofer wants to get flogged
these days. I blame the internet. Loaf of sourdough, Corinna.’
She hauled up and rearranged her formidable bosom. ‘If I don’t
get this corset off soon, I’m going to faint.’
There was a whimper from the conventional young man. He
would definitely be visiting the dungeon as soon as he could
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summon the nerve, with his heart (or other suitable organ) in his
hand and his posterior bared for the kiss of the whip. He was
eyeing said whip with fascination and his bread roll camouflage
was becoming inadequate.
Me, I dislike pain and do everything to avoid it, but as
Grandma Chapman put it, ‘Each to his own, as the old wife said
when she kissed the cow.’ Which now I come to think of it, is an
odd thing for her to have said – both Grandma and the old wife.
Cherie Holliday came in to buy sourdough, mentioning a
picnic. When I raised an eyebrow, she told me it was to be held
in our very own roof garden, where somehow the Temple of
Ceres and the wisteria had been missed in the mad vandalism
of the city during the sixties. Trudi keeps it alive with all the
dedication of a Dutch person in a blue jumper who wants her
very own linden tree and means to have it, even if she has to
carry all the bathwater in the building to the roof by herself. It
had been an overgrown wilderness when she came to Insula some
years ago. Now the roof garden is like a little slice of paradise
nine storeys up.
Cherie’s family had imploded when she was very young, and
though she’d been through some hard times she had done a good
job of bringing herself up. She’d found a job and a place to live,
and had avoided trouble, drugs and pregnancy. Her father Andy,
meanwhile, had crawled into a bottle and stayed there until she
had pulled him out. Cherie was studying textile design, and was
discussing it with Therese Webb, the resident of 5A, Arachne.
I got rather lost when they talked about methods of making
patterns but was able to inform them that onion skins made the
light golden brown shade of dye they were looking for.
‘So you make soup with the insides and dye cloth with the
outsides,’ Cherie observed.
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‘Thank you.’ I put on the kettle and looked at Daniel for a cue.
He put his phone back in his pocket and frowned. ‘Alasdair
has lost his dog, Geordie,’ he said gravely. ‘A sort of spotted
border collie.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said. And it was, but it hardly seemed like
a matter of life and death.
‘We were together in Afghanistan,’ explained the soldier in
his quiet, broad Scots. ‘He’s a trained sniffer. Bombs, drugs.
He go’ a medal. Then when . . . when I was taken oot, they let
me take Geordie with me. We were discharged from the army
in Townsville. I wasn’t gonny risk him in a plane, because they
don’t pressurise cargo holds. Ah’ve been drivin’ doon here for
weeks. Nice and slowly, gettin’ used to bein’ . . . no’ a soldier.’
‘Go on,’ I encouraged.
‘So, I go’ to the city, we’re bidin’ in a hostel in King Street.
I was just takin’ him for his evening walk when I were beltit from
behind. I fell, an’ Geordie . . .’
‘Ran away?’ I suggested.
His eyes flashed, his fists clenched. ‘He wudn’t run away. He
stayed with me through aw of it, the explosions and the gunfire.
He was taken. He was taken from me!’ His voice was rising.
Daniel put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Of course he didn’t run away,’ he said in a soothing rumble.
‘Now, you need to rest. Everyone is out looking for Geordie.’
‘I walked aw night,’ whispered Alasdair. ‘Callin’ him. He only
knows the Gaelic words. That’s why they retired him wi’ me.’
‘You walked all night and you had a blow to the head,’
confirmed my adored one. ‘Now you’re going to lie down in the
spare room and rest. Meroe’s given you a charm. You won’t dream.’
‘I won’t?’ he asked, very quietly.
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If you’re nailed to the cross and hanging up, you have a choice
between taking the weight off your feet and hanging by your
hands, or easing the pain in your arms and hands and having
your feet in excruciating agony. But the suffering lasts longer
than the Pathan method. That’s why Pilate was surprised when
the messengers came to him to say that Christ was dead. His
first response was ‘What, already?’
Daniel looked blank. Of course. Being a Jew, he only knew
the first bit of the Bible.
‘Never mind.’ I waved a discussion of theology away. ‘So he
was captured and tortured. But clearly he was either rescued, or
released, or he escaped, because here he is.’
Daniel scrubbed both hands through his dark hair. ‘I suspect
he was invalided out of the service with PTSD.’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Nightmares, flashbacks, hyperawareness, delusions.
High risk of suicide. The only thing he loves enough to live for
is his dog.’
‘You mean without Geordie he’s not likely to survive?’ I
was aghast.
‘That’s right,’ Daniel confirmed. He took my hand. ‘He might
be suffering from some sort of brain trauma too, if he’s had a
close encounter with an improvised explosive device. He could
have a contrecoup injury. The brain bounces around in the skull,
leading to fugue states, pain, despair.’ He made a very Jewish
gesture, spreading out his hands.
‘Poor Alasdair,’ I said, then gave myself a mental shake. My
pity wouldn’t help Alasdair. He needed action. ‘Right, then
let’s get down to it. Do you think Geordie ran or was he stolen
deliberately?’
Daniel drank some more tea and bit into an Oasis muffin.
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‘I really don’t think he would have run away. A dog who has
survived Afghanistan is probably immune to nervous shock.
Geordie was much more likely to have attacked whoever belted
Alasdair.’
‘So the assailant either wanted Geordie, or they killed him
when they knocked out Alasdair and took the dog’s body away
to dispose of it.’
‘Which is unlikely. If it was just an ordinary mugger, they
would have left the dog. And anyway, I know most of the muggers
in the city. I’ve spoken to one of the boldest, Big Charlie, who
said he saw Alasdair on the street last night and actually thought
about mugging him. But once he’d had a good look at him he
decided not to. He pegged Alasdair as a dangerous dude. And if
Big Charlie didn’t dare, none of the others would. Besides, I know
for a fact it wasn’t him.’
‘So someone stole Geordie.’
‘They did – or they tried to,’ said Daniel. ‘If he managed to
evade them, the homeless will find him. Sister Mary’s spread the
word. A special blessing on the ones who bring Geordie home.
Also, we’ll check with the RSPCA and the Lort Smith Animal
Hospital and the Lost Dogs’ Home. He’s microchipped. And
other than that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m waiting for something out
of the ordinary to happen.’
‘What sort of something?’ I asked, snitching a bit of his
muffin as a punishment for being cryptic. He patted my hand
and explained.
‘Knocking down a soldier and stealing his dog is unusual.
Whoever did it had a reason. So I’m expecting something odd
to occur as a result.’
‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Why are you so sure it wasn’t Big Charlie,
by the way?’
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‘Alasdair was only hit on the head,’ said Daniel. ‘All Big
Charlie’s victims are belted across the knees as well.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘Big Charlie’s a dwarf,’ said Daniel. ‘He always brings his
victims down to his level first. I’m a bit surprised that anyone
managed to assault Alasdair, though. He’s from Paisley, and they
breed them tough there.’
‘Where’s that? I assume Scotland from his accent, but I’ve
never heard of Paisley.’
‘Outskirts of Glasgow, in the wilds of Strathclyde. But he’s a
long way from home now.’
‘So the homeless are looking for Geordie. What should we
be doing?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘Like I said, ketschele, we wait.’
Daniel was waiting for something unusual. How was he going
to be able to tell in this very strange city? I left him in charge
of the sleeping warrior, packed my gin and tonic, picked up my
cat, and ascended to the roof garden for my afternoon drink.
The sole advantage of getting up at four am is that you finish
work early and can sit under the green leaves sipping a G and T
while the peons toil in their glass boxes. Occasionally I see their
poor tongues hanging out at the sight of me. I felt pity mingled
with relief that I was no longer one of them. Once I too had
slaved away counting other people’s money and helping those
who were far too rich already get even more obscenely affluent.
Not any more.
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