Page 64 of Bay of Plenty

“You’re right, of course,” I said, groveling.

A smile curled smugly on his face.

“There were no official interactions with Janey on any of the days before her death,” I said.

The way to get in with him? Think like him. “Stroppy madam” had been one of his most damning criticisms of a woman. “Sorry if I came off as a stroppy madam. You’ve stuck your neck out to ease my mind, and I appreciate that.”

I swung my backpack lightly, like we might be almost friends now.

Sarge tracked my motion, then flicked his eyes to my face. “I notice you carry this backpack with you everywhere since you bought it… was it two days ago? It’s new, isn’t it?”

My muscles tightened. Janey’s diary was in the backpack because I couldn’t leave anything in my room after it was broken into last night. The last thing I wanted was for him to notice it.

“This one?” I asked. “I’m like Clarebear. I like to carry my bag everywhere, and usually I have a laptop too. The beach messed up my leather bag.”

He nodded. “Clarebear says I have a backpack fixation, one for every minute of my day. I was looking for a special one for fishing. This would fit a tackle box and lunch.”

I clutched the bag tight. “Think it’s too small for that.”

He held out a fleshy hand. “Mind if I try the zippers? That’s one of my bugbears—the zippers must be quality.”

I snatched the bag firmly behind me.

“Like most women—Clarebear, for a start—I’m privateabout my bag,” I said. “I have personal female medical items in there.”

“Oh, sorry.” He flipped up his hands like I’d burned him. “Very inappropriate of me. Please accept my apologies.”

Inappropriate? Apologies? That didn’t sound like him. And he’d noticed I’d bought a new backpack and carried it everywhere. He wasn’t as slow as I’d thought.

Still, his adoration for Kui had proved his weakness. He’d stuffed up by letting me see the police daily logs. Something had sprung out at me. Something small but revealing.

*

While Dad was resting and Declan still in the bedroom, I printed the logs and showed them to Mum.

“See here? Entries for each eight-hour shift were in one set of handwriting, with one set of initials.” I turned to the last page. “But the day before Janey died, the handwriting and initials changed halfway through the day. And they’re on a fresh page. The initials were the same as Sarge’s.”

“Does that mean Sarge had tampered with the daily log?” Mum frowned. “Why?”

“Maybe something did happen with Janey,” I said. “But Sarge ripped out a page and rewrote that part of the day.”

“Why don’t we start with the officer who worked that morning?” Mum said. “This is a small town. There can’t be too many in the police with those initials.” She pressed her forehead and started rattling off names until she came up with Thatcher Bell. After a quick search on my phone, I clicked on one of the articles about him. “Look here. Sarge gave him a big promotion to The Mount after Janey disappeared. That put him on the ladder to be superintendent—a huge job.”

Mum flicked through some more. “He’s well-loved in the community. Active in kids’ beach sports.” She lifted her head, horror warping her face. “Are you thinking maybehecould be the creeper?”

“Not sure. Janey’s disappearance. His promotion. Those two things might be linked.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “Which means Superintendent Thatcher Bell might know something very incriminating about Sarge.”

We called Kui and Bevan to tell them. They were intrigued and offered to research him. I wanted to contact Thatcher Bell, but when? That was going to be a frightening conversation. Declan had told me to leave this until after the case. Still, my gut roiled and writhed at the thought that there was someone who knew what had happened to Janey and I wasn’t confronting him.

On the beach an hour later, I was still thinking about this with a sick feeling in my stomach. Declan tapped my arm. He’d been taking a call.

“I’ve found this scientist.” He seemed excited. “Let’s go somewhere private and call her.”

One of the London companies we were investigating belonged to chemists who developed synthetic heroin. Declan and I had theorized that this new “White Cloud 1.0” could be synthetic. Maybe Snow’s heroin had paid for the development of this new, stronger product. If that development was complete, they would no longer need Snow, which could explain why the shipments were ending.

Parked in the dunes near the golf club, Declan called our expert and recorded her on speakerphone. She spoke for thirty minutes about the synthetic process. I kept glancing at my watch, impatient to get to the point. We told her about White Cloud 1.0.

“Even though it’s called synthetic heroin, you still needto extract the DNA from the poppy,” she said. “If this drug is as elevated as advertised, the poppy will be engineered at the time of growth in a sophisticated facility.”

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