The Killing Hour

‘Who wants to know?’


‘Mr Charlie Feldman? My name’s Bill Landry,’ a small pause, then, ‘Detective Inspector Bill Landry. With the Christchurch Police Department. Mr Feldman, I’ve a few questions for you. How about you let me ask them inside?’

‘I’m quite busy.’

‘I figured as much since you didn’t come to the door straightaway.’

‘Sorry about that,’ I say, ‘but I didn’t hear the first knock.’

I put the chain on the door, unlock it and open it enough to look at him. The man standing there looking at me is around two metres and heavily built. He has the same build as Cyris, but is far better groomed. He’s wearing a suit without a tie that looks like he’s slept in it for a week. He’s standing on a slight angle that makes him appear as though he could pounce forward just as easily as he could jump back. He looks like he’s expecting me to do something. Maybe run. Maybe attack. He has one hand behind his back, perhaps reaching for a gun, or for some handcuffs. His other hand is holding out his identification. I take a look at the photograph. A good, long look. Same buzz-cut greying hair, same brown eyes, same strong jawline, same long nose. The sort of face you’d expect to see cast as the hero in some war movie. The sort of face you don’t want on your doorstep behind a policeman’s badge with the intent of arresting you. His lips have little or no colour in the photograph but even less in reality, just like the rest of his face. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look unhealthy and tired. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in the background on the news. I suddenly feel like I’m going to faint.

I close the door, toss the stake into my bedroom, close that door, then take the chain off and hold the front door open, standing in the way so as to not invite him inside.

‘Expecting trouble?’ Landry asks.

‘Huh?’

‘The way you inspected my badge, it looked as though you were expecting somebody else. Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse not to let me in.’

‘I’m merely being cautious. Is that a crime?’

‘Not at all, Mr Feldman.’ His smile has about as much warmth as ice. ‘In fact I wish more people were as careful as you. Have you finished taking a look?’

When I nod he closes the ID and tucks it into the back of his pants.

‘You look anxious, Mr Feldman. Like you think half the world is out to get you.’

‘What half are you in?’

‘That depends on how you answer my questions. Perhaps we can step inside?’

Before I can answer he tilts his head and gives me a direct look. ‘Unless of course you have something to hide?’

‘Come on through,’ I say.

He moves past, keeping his eyes on me the entire time. I shut the door behind him. I wonder what Jo is thinking. He waits in the hallway until I’ve locked the door then I lead him into the dining room. A light sweat has formed across my forehead but I do nothing about it. I drag a seat from the table for him and sit opposite. He pulls out a notebook and rests it on the table. He doesn’t open it, just slowly taps a fingernail against the cover. I rest my right elbow on the table, cross my legs and don’t offer him a drink.

‘I’m curious – if you didn’t hear me the first time I knocked on your door how did you know you were answering it after my second?’

I open my mouth to answer but can’t come up with anything. He smiles, then saves me from the awkward moment by taking me into another one.

‘Who hit you?’

I raise my hand to the bump on my forehead. It stings on contact. I try not to wince but fail. Gets me every time. ‘Nobody hit me.’

‘Walked into a door, did you?’

‘A tree.’

‘Wouldn’t be the same tree that broke into your house?’ The detective twists his head and points his thumb at the back door. ‘Who broke in?’

‘I don’t know.’



‘Anything taken?’

‘No.’

‘Damaged?’

‘Just the door.’

‘Have you made a complaint?’

‘Not yet. I just got home.’

‘Would you like me to help you look through your house?’

‘I’ll be okay.’

‘You don’t seem too upset that somebody has broken into your house, Mr Feldman.’

‘I’m in shock.’

‘You sure nothing was taken?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘If they didn’t take anything, why do it?’

‘No idea. You’d have to ask him.’

‘Him?’

‘Or them. Whoever.’

‘Take a stab at it,’ he says, his finger still tapping on the notebook. Slightly quicker now.

‘At what?’

‘At what they wanted.’

I shrug. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘Okay. So you said you just got home. From school?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I rang your school today, Mr Feldman, they said you weren’t in.’

‘I took the day off, but I had to go pick up some work. What do you want, Inspector?’