Chapter One

The regulations of the Victorian Police Force insisted that a constabulary officer, when on duty, must wear the correct uniform.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had informed Senior Constable Hugh Collins, the moment the train pulled out of Spencer Street, that he was damned if he was going to sit watching Collins dissolve into a puddle of sweat for the next fourteen hours, and that he should go and change, and that that was an order. As the father of the twins to whom the Inspector had stood witness at their baptism, Hugh Collins grinned, grabbed his suitcase from the rack and thanked him, and reappeared a few minutes later in open collared shirt. Jack, still dutifully suited as fitted his rank, tried not to resent the literal interpretation of his instruction

Eight interminable hours (apart from the one spent devouring the lunch carefully prepared by Mr Butler for two hungry policemen with nothing better to do than focus on the food, which they did to a degree which would have produced Mr B's second chin, thanks to the depths of its gratified smile) later, the train made its first stop, at Horsham. The compartment emptied, including both Jack and Hugh, who used the forty-five minute stop to find a cup of tea made with Actual Boiling Water and stretch their legs.

They were the only people to re-board the train in their compartment, and stretched out with relief; Hugh finally took the opportunity to explore the facts that would certainly not have been divulged at City South.

"So, sir …?"

Jack raised his eyes from the file that he'd started studying once more, and snapped it shut, acknowledging the opportunity that might not be presented once they'd reached their destination.

"There's a lot we don't know, Collins. Two deaths, within a week of each other; and the local sergeant says there's no reason to suppose either was suspicious. It was only because someone in Russell Street with sharp eyes was checking over the report, and noticed that both men were quite young, and the circumstances didn't seem to add up, that the Chief decided we needed to check what was happening."

He tilted his head and met his constable's enquiring one with a pensive look. "Policing out here is very different to what we do, Collins, and we have to respect that; we could just be doing exactly what our cover says, which is to do a resourcing check for our man in Balmoral."

He handed over the file, and dug a novel out of his bag to while away what was left of the daylight hours.

The first mishap occurred as soon as they arrived in Balmoral. In terms of times at which to have something go wrong, ten thirty (yes, they were late) on a Monday night was probably not the best in this part of the world. If either of them had had the chance to work off some energy during the day, the outcome could have been entirely different.

Which, for at least two of the local families, was going to be a matter to be debated for years hence.

"Sir?"

"What is it now, Collins?"

"Sir, I don't quite know how to say this."

"Try." The Inspector was Testy, no doubt about it.

"My suitcase is missing."

"What?"

"It was on the rack, and it's not there any more."

"Oh, no. When did you last see it?"

"It was definitely there when we went to stretch our legs at Horsham."

"And was it there when we got back on?"

"I … er … I don't know, sir."

Collins could not have been a brighter red if he'd placed his face on Dorothy's stove – which, if given the option, he might seriously have considered as preferable to the experience he was currently enduring.

"Your uniform was in that suitcase, is that right, Collins?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack sighed. "It's partly my fault, I told you to change clothes. I'll give you half the cost of the replacement." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's going to make life difficult now, though."

They retrieved the one remaining suitcase they had between them (Jack had already resolved that no amount of fellow-feeling on earth was going to have him sharing any of its contents with Constable Collins, even if he was a Senior Constable) and left the railway station.

Walking to their hotel didn't take long, as in the style of small townships, it had been built handily for the station. A group of children, out playing long after what the only father there present would have described authoritatively as Bedtime, screeched with glee over a football and one of them, going for a wild catch, missed it and careened straight into the Inspector.

Jack, winded, caught the lad and with only a marginal loss of dignity and scrabbling hands, restored him to his feet.

"Time for the final whistle, surely?" Jack asked mildly.

The boy didn't so much as glance back but scurried off with his friends, a cackling mass of juvenile misbehaviour.

Collins had drawn ahead, and pushed open one of the two front doors of the hostelry.

Which proved to be A Mistake.

The hotel had, in the traditional way, a bar and a Ladies' Bar. Presumably no-one ever came to Balmoral who didn't know which was which, because neither was labelled. It was therefore entirely understandable that Hugh Collins picked the wrong door.

Unfortunately, Tiny didn't see it that way.

Mrs Tiny gave only the slightest squeak to interrupt her companion's monologue, but it was enough for her husband to hear in the adjacent room.

Tiny … wasn't. His name was one of those jokes that is always hysterically funny to the people who make it up.

Hugh was pretty handy as a boxer, but Tiny was another proposition altogether. Consideration for J. Timewell (Prop.) had him take out his exception to his wife's finishing of her last drink (definitely served before 10pm, officer) in the street outside the hotel, and Hugh was a bit hazy about the precise sequence of events. Jack was less hazy, but no more able to help.

When Sergeant Mason had hastily shrugged his uniform jacket back on and pulled the melee apart, accusations were being flung far and wide.

Jack was calm, though. "Sergeant, I can explain."

"I'm sure you can, sunshine. Down to the station we go, you can explain there to your heart's content. Tiny, take your missus home and tell her I said I was sorry she was inconvenienced." Tiny clearly placed a heartening confidence in the workings of the law, and did as he was told.

"Sergeant …" Jack was struggling to make much impression on the man, and eventually decided it would be better to wait until they got to the station anyway.

There were two rooms to the station, and one of them had bars on the door. Hugh stumbled to the bench at the side of the entrance and leaned forward, struggling to recover his breathing from the punch he'd taken.

Jack dumped his case against the desk and reached into his pocket.

"Sergeant, I'm sorry that this wasn't the best way to introduce ourselves. I'm Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of Melbourne City South, and that," he nodded towards the choking Collins, "is my Senior Constable Collins."

He was still delving into his inside pocket, and reached instead into the other one.

"Of course you are, mate," said the sergeant amiably. "And I'm your Senior Aunt Sheila. Because, in case you weren't aware, your Constable ain't in uniform, and you ain't showing me any identification. Those are the sort of things we feel quite strongly about, which you'd know, if you was actually police."

Jack wasn't showing any identification; because Jack was coming to the increasingly disturbing realisation that his identification was Absent Without Leave.

Reassured that they could make all the telephone calls they wanted in the morning – as long as it was only one each, and they'd have to wait until Betty had started her official working hours to connect them – Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and Senior Constable Hugh Collins were invited to spend their first night in Balmoral township sharing a room.

The one with bars, in the police station.