Felicity Young - Take Out

‘Like I just said, I want to buy you lunch.’

‘I don’t have time for lunch. I have to go back to Central and grab some notes in time for the next session.’

‘You so do have time for lunch. I asked one of the bailiffs while I was waiting and he said you have an hour and a half. Are cops sub-human, don’t they need to eat? I have my Vespa—I can scoot you over to Central for your notes after we’ve had a snack and a talk.’

When Stevie continued to make noises of protest, Skye lowered her voice. ‘I’ve just come back from the hospital, went to see the kid. There’s still no sign of his parents and the police haven’t been able to trace any relatives. The ward social worker says at this rate he’ll have to be fostered out when he’s discharged. There’s some other stuff too, stuff we need to talk about in private.’ The way her eyes slid toward a group of bewigged lawyers waiting for the lifts, suggested something furtive.

Soon Stevie would be commencing three weeks of leave and she had more than enough to do than get involved in a case she’d been warned to step away from. This was to be an important family time for them. Monty needed her; Izzy needed her even more. She would be the perfect mother: school runs, excursions, sitting through assemblies, helping with reading classes...

When she didn’t get the desired response, Skye raised her voice to an unnaturally loud pitch. ‘Okay, Stevie, it’s like this, the police are handling this case like DICKheads...’ The lawyers at the lift ceased their murmurings, all heads turned. ‘Did you get that? D—I—’

A bailiff caught Stevie’s eye and frowned.

‘Okay, you win.’ Seemed there was no choice. If she didn’t want to be evicted from the building, she’d have to hear Skye out. Stevie took Skye’s arm and guided her firmly toward the stairwell. A tall, fair-haired man stepped out in front of them as they were about to make their way down, deliberately bumping her on the shoulder. ‘Watch where you’re going, Stevie Hooper,’ he said, disappearing into the crowd outside the courtroom before she could get a good look at him.

Did she hear him correctly?

‘Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?’ Stevie started after him, only to find herself held back by Skye.

‘Stevie, we don’t have much time.’

Stevie pulled against her friend’s hand, but not enough to dislodge her grip.

‘Who was that guy?’ Skye said. ‘Hey, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.’

Stevie absently touched her cheek, stared back into the whirlpool of people and shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m not sure; I think the case is getting to me. I must be imagining things.’

Stevie hitched her skirt and climbed onto the pillion behind Skye. Dodging traffic and parked cars, they caught more than a few gaping stares and whistles as they sped down the terrace, to which Skye laughed and raised her middle finger. They arrived at the wine bar more than a little out of breath, Stevie laughing despite the annoyance at allowing herself to be so easily manipulated. The incident with the man on the stairs was forgotten. They ordered cheeseburgers and settled into a corner table, Stevie nursing an orange juice, Skye a vodka and Red Bull—it was her day off, after all.

‘How’s Monty? Do you think he’ll go through with the op this time?’ Skye asked.

From anyone else, the question might have been contrived, something off-topic to ease into the intended subject matter. But Skye had shown genuine concern for Monty’s health problems when they’d first come to a head last year, even offering to come over and talk to him about the operation if it would help.

‘Maybe he’ll go through with it if Wayne—he’s a guy Mont works with in Serious Crime—keeps his mouth shut this time,’ Stevie said. ‘He insisted on showing Monty his own scar, said the operation was like boning a duck with a pair of poultry scissors.’ She scissored her fingers. ‘I mean, it used to be dick length, now it’s bypass scars. What is it with guys growing older?’

Skye laughed. ‘Jeez, no wonder he’s been put off. But it’s really not that bad these days. Cook me dinner and I’ll come over and explain it a bit more gently. Better not make it poultry, though, just to be safe.’

‘Or rare beef.’

Skye took a swallow of her drink, smacked her lips. ‘That’s hitting the spot.’ Then she casually said, ‘I guess he’s also worried about sex.’

Stevie put her glass down. ‘What?’

‘Don’t be coy, he’s a man; sex is never far from his mind.’

Stevie broke into a smile, ‘Well, now you mention it...’

‘When he gets home from hospital, he’s got to find some stairs to start practising on.’

Stevie laughed.

‘No, not that, you dag; I mean once he can climb two flights of stairs with no pain or breathlessness he can get back into it again.’

‘I’ll pass on your words of advice. I’m sure he’ll find them very comforting.’

Their burgers arrived and Stevie was running out of time. ‘Okay, Skye, spill it, what have you been up to?’

Skye’s eyes took on a worrying gleam. ‘Well, for a start, I think a lot more is going on with this Pavel case than Luke Fowler is capable of handling.’

Stevie frowned. ‘You and Fowler know each other, right?’ Whatever Skye thought of Fowler, Stevie got the feeling it was mutual.

‘No time to explain the sordid details of my life right now, but let’s just say we have a history and he hates my guts.’

‘Okay,’ Stevie said, ‘Change of topic. You said before you thought the baby was adopted.’

Skye swallowed one bite of burger and took another, speaking with her mouth full. ‘Yeah, it’s the obvious explanation seeing as both parents are Caucasian.’ She pulled a crumpled newspaper photo from her bag to remind Stevie what the Pavels looked like. The images were grainy, but Jon Pavel’s high forehead and blunt features spoke of an eastern European heritage. While not quite so obviously European, Delia’s small, mousy face could never have been mistaken for Asian.

‘Yes, Romanian, they’ve been in the country for about six years,’ Skye said. ‘I’ve no idea if the police are going any further with this, or if they’ve just given up and chucked the matter into the too-hard basket. A mate of mine in the DCP tried to dig up the adoption papers but hasn’t been able to find a thing.’

‘He’s probably telling you a furphy—what you asked him to do is a serious, sackable offence. Still,’ Stevie added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose the baby might have been adopted from overseas.’

‘That’s what I’m getting at. He was adopted overseas and the papers burned in the house fire last year. But is there any way you can follow through with Fowler on this? Just so we know all the bases are covered. I feel this might be important.’

‘No way, I’m keeping away from this.’ Stevie eyed her friend suspiciously. ‘Wait a minute, how did you know about the fire last year? The newspapers haven’t mentioned it.’

‘Just a bit of, er, networking.’ Skye’s gaze dropped to a sprinkling of crumbs on the table and she pushed them around with the stub of a black-painted fingernail.

‘Go on,’ Stevie prompted.

Skye took a breath. ‘Yesterday Mrs Hardegan’s phone was out of order. I needed to visit the neighbours on the other side to see if theirs was working—and it was by the way.’

‘And Mrs Hardegan’s was never broken anyway, you just needed an excuse for a chat.’

‘Muriel and David Blakeman are nice, friendly people, but they don’t like the Pavels at all. David said Jon Pavel was a slimy, inconsiderate wanker—my words—who he wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw. The Blakemans told me about the house fire, an electrical fault apparently. Jon Pavel was obnoxious even when they put him and his family up for that first night when they had nowhere else to go. The baby was only a couple of months old then.’