Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(82)

Clint laughs. The part of the shed he’s standing in is kitted out with workbenches. There are tools lining the walls, and a big Anglepoise lamp. He’s holding a half-painted angel and a paintbrush. ‘What can I tell you? Folks just love snowmen. That model there is my most popular seller. I can hardly make them fast enough, especially this time of year.’

‘So this is what you do?’ says Philip.

Clint grins. ‘I love making this stuff. We got ourselves an online shop – Janice runs all that. I make the pieces, and she ships them out. Been doing it a couple of years now and it pays for all our cruises. Beats living on a pension.’

‘Did you do this as a trade before?’ asks Rick.

‘Hell no,’ says Clint, laughing. ‘I was an accountant. Hated it, of course, but it gave us a nice home and helped put the kids through college, so I can’t complain. I always did love Christmas, so when I retired I decided it was time to embrace that passion.’

Rick smiles. It’s strange how some people spend their whole lives doing something they tolerate just to be able to buy a bigger house, a fancier lifestyle, and pay the bills to support it. He’s never understood that. Law enforcement is a tough gig, and not the best paid, but for some it’s a calling. It was that way for him. He couldn’t have imagined doing anything else. ‘I’m glad.’

‘We’re here to talk about your patrol logs,’ says Philip. His face is expressionless, and there’s no hint of friendliness in his voice.

Jeez, thinks Rick. The man’s even blunter than usual today. He tries to soften Philip’s words with a smile. Keeps his own tone real amiable. ‘We’re checking in with all the patrollers who had eyes on the areas burglarised or where the murder victim was seen.’

Clint scratches his grey-flecked stubble with the paint-splattered hand that’s holding the paintbrush. ‘You think the two are connected?’

Rick nods. ‘Could be.’

‘Do you have your logs for the last month?’ Philip’s tone is unfriendly and accusatory. ‘You didn’t hand them over yet.’

‘Didn’t I? I’m sorry about that. Must have clean skipped my mind what with all these orders and—’

‘A dead woman skipped your mind?’ Philip’s eyebrows are raised. His mouth pursed into a thin line.

Clint’s cheeks and neck flush. ‘It’s . . . I . . .’

‘If we could get a look-see at the logs we’d appreciate it,’ says Rick, shooting Philip a warning look to back up. The man needs to stop treating every citizen like a suspect. It’s all kinds of disrespectful.

Philip looks away, but not fast enough to stop Rick seeing the anger in his eyes. Rick wonders what the hell has gotten into him; he’s even worse than he was at Betty Graften’s house.

‘The logs are in the house. It’s no problem to get them,’ says Clint, recovering his composure. He puts the half-painted angel down on the workbench and the paintbrush into a pot of white spirit, then gestures towards the door. ‘I’ll go get them now.’

They follow Clint back across the yard to his house. The reports are sitting on the sideboard in the hallway. He hands them to Rick. ‘Here you go.’

‘Appreciate it.’ Rick remembers back to the get-together at the Roadhouse. ‘At the patrol meeting a few days ago you said you saw a station wagon with a Bulls sticker parked at the head of the Wild Ridge Trail?’

‘That’s right. Seen it a couple of times, but I didn’t see any folks around. It was empty both times.’ Clint gestures to the reports in Rick’s hand. ‘It’s all noted down in there – times, descriptions and all that jazz.’

Clint keeps looking at the logs. There’s intensity to his stare, and a rigidity in his posture that wasn’t there before in the workshop. There’s something he’s not telling them, Rick’s sure of it. ‘Anything else you think we should know?’

‘Look here, I haven’t forgotten that poor young woman.’ Clint looks from Rick to Philip. ‘Whatever you might think. It’s just a bit complicated.’

Philip stays silent.

‘Did you see something?’ asks Rick.

‘Maybe,’ says Clint. ‘But I don’t want to get no one into trouble.’

Rick nods, hoping to encourage Clint to keep talking. ‘Okay . . .’

‘But, well, there’s been a few occasions, real late at night, that I’ve seen a person in the distance, crossing the border between my patch – quadrant three – into quadrant two. I never got a close look at them, and always saw them from behind, but I’m thinking it could have been the poor woman who was killed at Manatee.’

Philip steps closer to Clint. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘There’s a couple of reasons. Firstly, the person I saw kinda looked like a woman. They were wearing pants, sure, but the shape of them, you know what I mean, looked female. Then there was the hair. You said the woman who died had long black hair, well so did this person. They had black hair that came almost to their waist.’

‘You record this in your log?’ asks Philip.

‘Of course,’ says Clint. ‘It was just a few times, and it was real late. After midnight, sometimes way after.’

‘And you didn’t remember this or think to tell us back in the patrol meeting?’ Philip’s tone is disapproving.