‘God,’ she sighed. ‘It’s been so long I’d settle for anyone with a pulse.’

‘Surely there must be some earnest, brooding student types that take your fancy?’ I asked. ‘All foppish hair and piercing, intelligent eyes.’

‘Yes, the campus is littered with them. But the psych ones take themselves so damned seriously. And they’re a bit skinny and pasty looking – too many Dunedin suntans. I need to find me some bronzed Grecian God with buns of steel.’

‘Can’t say I’ve seen many of those around here, and if I did, I’d race you for him.’

‘Well, you can’t be looking that hard, then. Haven’t you checked out the butt attached to your Detective Frost?’

‘Firstly, he’s not my Detective Frost, and secondly, I wasn’t looking at his butt.’ I had actually noted its merits, but I was never going to admit it to Maggie, or him for that matter. ‘If he does it for you, you’re most welcome to him. I don’t think he’s attached. I could set you up on a date, if you like.’

‘Like I said, I don’t do cops, and I believe his gaze falls elsewhere.’

If I had any sense, I thought, I’d walk down to work. It would only take twenty minutes or so. It would also save the usual parking drama at the other end. But, damn it, I owned my own car for the first time in my life and by God I was going to use it. My zippy black Honda Hatch was parked a block away and around the corner from the house, due to the usual scrum for parking and the heap of crap still hogging the space out the front, despite my best efforts. I hopped in the driver’s seat and was putting the keys in the ignition when I spotted the piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper. Driving with it wedged there, flapping in the breeze, would annoy the crap out of me, so I got out and grabbed it from under the wiper. I unfolded it, curious as to what vacuum cleaner, Dunedin band or home beauty product was being peddled this time.

Fuck you bitch.

I was so taken aback I almost dropped it. I checked over my shoulder, pulse racing, and then screwed the note up and tossed it into the gutter before jumping back into the safety of the car. Who on earth would write something that awful? Then I remembered the little note I had left under someone else’s wiper blade. Surely not? I’d been very polite and signed it from the general household, not specifically from me. It was carefully non-confrontational, so as not to offend. This was personal. Besides, my car was parked around the corner from the house, so the owner of the crap-heap wouldn’t know it was mine. Maybe it was random?

Or not.