Mike Dixon

man skin and she‟d spent time admiring herself in the mir-
ror. The effect was stunning. It looked as if she‟d contracted
something horrible and contagious. The barman averted his
eyes. He was probably holding his breath, too. The other aid
to her act was never to wash her Ms Revolting clothes.
She was waiting for Barry Waters. She had been following
him, eavesdropping on his conversations, using listening de-
vices she‟d failed to return to the Narcotics Bureau. Her favorite
was in the form of a small radio that had been spray
painted in psychedelic colors. It had a directional microphone
where the speaker was normally located and was fitted with
earphones. She had perfected a technique for staring aimlessly
into space, head nodding, lips moving – ears listening
to everything her target was saying.
The day before, Barry had received a number of phone
calls. Most related to horse racing but one was of a far more
interesting nature. Barry‟s whole demeanor changed. To Ja-
net‟s amusement, he‟d almost stood to attention. She heard
only half the conversation. Barry was being instructed to get
something ready. She had not been able to make out what –
but it was important.
Things were beginning to hot up. She was making progress
and so was Humph. At first, she‟d not taken his histori-
cal researches seriously. The events he was investigating
had taken place so long ago it seemed inconceivable that
they could have any relevance to what had happened to Tim
and David. Yet, contrary to all her expectations, the past had
come hurtling forward to confront the present.
Humphrey had done no more than show some old ladies
photographs of half-naked, fifteen-year-old Doris and – like
an evil genie from a bottle – Footsie had appeared. Humphrey
was doing his best to play down the incident. But there
were some nasty cuts on his nose. Given Footsie‟s past history,
one had to conclude that he had come off lightly.
186