The photographer is doing his job. The medical team has just arrived and is starting to mark out the scene.
Ace’s partner, Ben Burrows leaves him standing next to the body and leaves the room.
“How long do you need?” Ace asks the medical team.
“The rest of the afternoon,” replies the medical examiner.
Ben exits the crime scene by the rear door. He walks down to the end of the garden, on the gravel path that crunches under his foot steps, where a nice Mandarin Tree grows next to the veggie patch. Poor Mrs Whippet, he thinks. He pulls a small gold pipe from his jacket pocket, which he grips between his lips, as he gets a small leather pouch from his other jacket pocket, from which he takes something dry and green that he pushes into the pipe, still between his lips. He folds the leather pouch and ties the string around it and places it back into his pocket. He removes a lighter from his pocket, where the pouch has just gone, flicking it until there is a flame. He lowers the flame to the pipe and sucks.
The back door bursts open. Ace is striding towards Ben.
"It beats me how the old girl ended up on the rug dead," says Ben.
"And you think that is going to help?" says Ace. He looks at the pipe in Ben’s hand as Ben sucks on it. He watches Ben exhale a cloud of smoke.
Ben Shrugs. Ace hates it when Ben smokes. Ben knows that.
"Your eyes are already red," says Ace. There is a demeaning tone to his words. He shakes his head.
“I have eye drops in the car,” says Ben. “When did you start worrying about…”
"There is nothing. No sign of injury. No sign of break in. Unless there is some medical history." Ace shrugs.
"Perhaps, it is suicide?"
"Ha ha!" says Ace. "That is the only thing I am sure it is not."
Ben slides the pipe back into his mouth, the metal mouthpiece hits his teeth, it makes him laugh, for no good reason. He flicks the lighter, tentatively. He giggles again. Nothing is funny. He sucks as the flame burns. He exhales the smoke. He looks up at his handsome lover.
"Oh Jesus! Look at you," says Ace.
"Fresh air," says Ben, before he realises he has said it out loud. It is only when he hears his own voice. He snorts amused. “All I needed was fresh air.”
"When I could really do with you as sharp as possible," says Ace. “You are out by the lemon tree…”
“Mandarin…” Ben turns to look at the tree.
“Whatever…”
He looks back at Ace. "You know it relaxes me." He shrugs. "I'm sharp."
"It makes you vague." Ace is dismissive.
"It puts me in the zone," insists Ben.
"But, can we wait until we are away from a crime scene."
“Why? Says Ben. “Are you worried about getting arrested?
There is a momentary silence. Ben flicks the lighter again. The pipe gurgles as it is lit. Gurgling. Flick, sounds the lighter. Ben coughs. The lighter flicks, and flick’s again.
Ben coughs. "There is no physical evidence." Ben’s voice is strained.
"No," says Ace. “Nobody has seen anything.”
"Are we taking about Mrs Whippet?" Ben holds the pipe up. "Or are we still talking about me?"
"Jesus Ben." Ace strides down the long garden path to the rear door to the property. He walks back. "She must have known them."
"She must have let them in."
Ace strides down the path again. And walks back. "Is there a Mr Whippet?"
"There sure is," says Ben. "Rupert Whippet. The neighbour told me when she came over for a sticky. She didn’t know where he was though."
"So where is he?"
"Work, I’m guessing."
"We’ll need to speak to him first," says Ace.
“You are talking about him like he is suspect number 1 and not a grieving husband.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
"Get the car," says Ace.
"You’re driving." Ben laughs. “You get the car.”
The sun is shinning brightly out in the street. Ben steps to the nature strips, as Ace does a fast u turn and pulls the charcoal grey Citroen Goddess up in front of Ben. He pulls the door handle and the frameless door swings open for him. Ben slides his arse into the passenger seat, with its big, soft cushions, and its Darth Vader headrests. Ben sinks down into the seat. The door clunks closed.
"It must be the husband, in that case," says Ben. "He must be suspect number 1."
"He sure is," says Ace."
"So, where is Mr Whippet?" says Ben.
“That is what we are going to find out first,” says Ace.
The Citroen’s tyres make a crunching sound on the debris in the gutter as the car accelerates into the traffic.
"Back to the station?" asks Ben.
"Aye Aye, detective."
"Let's go... detective."
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