by Angus McLean
He subtly turned the air con up a notch and looked out the window.
Traffic was steady as they made their way across town from Otara to Papatoetoe, no major snarl-ups yet. They turned left from East Tamaki Road into Great South Road, into the guts of the Papatoetoe town centre. Traffic immediately slowed but that was no drama – the bank ATM they were going to service was just round the corner.
Big Al eased the van round the corner, ignoring a blaring horn as he slowed to a crawl and slid into a loading zone. A beat up car went past with the passenger hanging out the window. He was giving them the bird and shouting obscenities.
‘Ha ha, funny.’ Big Al chuckled as he pulled the handbrake on.
Joshi glanced at him. He found such behaviour abhorrent, but nothing seemed to bother the fat man. Big Al looked at him now.
‘All good, bro?’
‘Yes.’ Joshi nodded and smiled. ‘All good, bro.’
It amused him that the Maori guy called him bro. As if because they both had brown skin they were brothers. It was okay, he didn’t mind. It was better than the last guy he’d worked with, who called him Rogan Josh at every opportunity and mocked his accent.
They both alighted and Joshi took a position on the footpath. Big Al unlocked the sliding side door and grabbed the locked canister they needed.
Joshi glanced around him, sussing out the passing pedestrians. He always felt comfortable here in Papatoetoe. They were plenty of Indians here and he felt he didn’t stand out so much as in some other parts of town.
He caught the eye of the old boy standing guard at the door of the bank. He was from a different security company but the uniform was the same – an ill-fitting jersey over a shirt, black polyester trousers and black sneakers. He had thick specs and big freckles on his bald pate.
Joshi gave the old boy a nod out of professional courtesy. A lot of good he would be if there was ever a robbery. He had to be sixty if he was a day.
He heard the door slide shut again and the rattle of Big Al’s keys.
‘Let’s go, bro.’
Joshi glanced back to Big Al as his partner stepped away from the van, the cash canister handcuffed to his wrist.
There was a blur of movement behind Big Al and two guys burst out from between the van and the car in front of it. Joshi was vaguely aware of a car double-parked in the nearest lane.
Both guys wore dark balaclavas over their faces and bulky jackets. They were moving fast and cannoned into Big Al from behind, sending him crashing to the footpath.
They both moved up on Big Al while a third appeared in front of Joshi, shoving a gun in his face and screaming at him.
Joshi couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying, but he got the message. He threw his hands in the air and dropped to his knees, staring at the ground. All the training said to be non-confrontational, give the bad guys no reason to get violent.
The problem with training is that they always give you the best-case scenario.
The thug stepped in closer and smashed the barrel of the gun down on the top of Joshi’s head. Pain exploded in his brain and he saw stars as he collapsed to the footpath. He was oblivious to Big Al being given the good news by the other two, one of them taking his keys and unlocking the handcuff to take the canister. He saw one of the thugs deliver a last kick to Big Al’s big guts.
He saw legs hurry past him, then one set paused and came back. A boot slammed into his back and took the wind from him. Joshi gasped soundlessly, gaping like a hooked fish.
Joshi rolled onto his side, trying to call out for someone to help, but his mouth wasn’t playing ball.
He didn’t hear the catcalls of the robbers as the car took off or the groaning coming from Big Al.
Right now, his whole world was just pain.
One
Wednesday
Someone moved his cheese, and Dan Crowley didn’t like it one bit.
He’d been attacked by a mongrel dog as he biked to work that morning, the beast deciding that the man on the battered mountain bike resembled a chunk of dog roll. It had chased him for a full block while Dan biked on oblivious, his ear buds in, wondering why he’d never heard the snarling dog undertone on his favourite Noiseworks album.
When he finally clicked that he had company he’d tried to outrun the hound, only to be nipped on the calf and forced to dismount. Unfortunately for the dog its breakfast carried a spare canister of OC spray in his bag – it paid to be prepared in the dodgier parts of Mount Wellington – and the beast got a full dose of pepper in the face. The journey to work which normally took twenty minutes had taken an extra ten by the time he’d called Animal Control and got himself together again, and it hadn’t got him off to a good start.
He reached the Otahuhu Police Station without further incident, only to realise the dog attack hadn’t been a random hit from the Dark Lords of Fate.
Dan had a very set routine in the morning, always parking his bike in the same place, reaching the locker room at the same time, ironing a shirt, showering, shaving and dressing in the same way every day. He liked routine and it worked for him. But when someone moved his cheese – it was a term he’d picked up from a book Molly had tried to get him to read before they married, and was much politer than how he would have put it – it threw him into a tailspin.
So to find a stranger using the locker next to his, with the contents of his bag spread over the communal bench and his trousers hanging on the hook Dan always used – his hook – brought a scowl to his face. The locker the guy was using had been empty for some time, so whoever this guy was, he’d just arrived. The trousers were light grey with a brown belt. A pair of brown shoes was on the floor under the bench. Dan didn’t like brown shoes for work, or grey trousers.
He shifted the guy’s bag along the bench and dropped his own bag down, dug out his key and turned to his locker. The other guy stared at him silently. Dan sized him up in a nano-second and his mood got darker.
The man was half dressed, wearing only a white singlet and flowery satin boxers. His socks were pulled nearly to the knees of his thin white legs. The socks were black with red roses on them.
Dan looked back up. The man’s chest was sunken, almost inverted, and he wore a gold necklace. Dan met the man’s eye. He looked to be a few years older than Dan, somewhere in his mid or late thirties maybe, with thinning hair combed over the top. The hair was dotted with flecks of dry scalp. Dan didn’t like novelty socks, and the only jewellery a man should be wearing was a watch and a wedding band.
His beady eyes were sussing Dan out, and now he spoke.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
Dan noticed his teeth were small and rodent-like, and could do with a visit to the dentist. He nodded.
‘Gidday mate.’
He opened his locker and grabbed a shirt. While the iron heated up he stripped out of his sweaty T-shirt and light rain jacket, dropping them by his bag. By the time he’d finished with the iron he expected the guy to be gone. He wasn’t. In fact, he had even moved Dan’s bag along and had his foot up on the bench while he laced his brown shoe.
Dan gritted his teeth but said nothing. He hung his shirt up and grabbed his towel. By the time he got out of the shower the guy and his brown shoes better be gone, or there was going to be blood on the floor.
Or, at the very least, cross words spoken.
Message from the Author
Thanks for taking the time to read my book.
Please take the time to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.
If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to McLean’s Hitlist at www.writerangusmclean.com or email me at [email protected].
Cheers,
Angus McLean
About the Author
Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.
His experience as a cop and a private investigator gives his writing a touch of realism. He believes reading should be escapist entertainment and is inspired
by the TV shows he watched as a youngster.
His real identity remains a secret.
www.writerangusmclean.com
Discover My Other Titles
The Division series:
Smoke and Mirrors
Call to Arms
The Shadow Dancers
Chase Investigations series:
Old Friends
Honey Trap
Sleeping Dogs
Tangled Webs
Dirty Deeds
Red Mist
Fallen Angel (coming soon)
The Service series:
The Service: Warlock
Nicki Cooper Mystery Series:
The Country Club Caper
