My house seemed quiet, if not entirely safe, once Curnow had gone. I finished the whisky I’d poured myself, wondering what had just happened. It seemed, though, that I believed Curnow, when he claimed that he hadn’t planted the baggie of coke in Ana’s room.

When he’d gone into Ana’s place he’d probably brought along a baggie of his own, ready to plant, but he’d found that one. He could take it into the station feeling like an honest cop. 

And I’d convinced Curnow that I hadn’t put that baggie in Ana’s room for him. He’d decided that I was more Machiavellian than I ever really managed, and that if I’d planted the drugs I’d have had six different ways of proving that I didn’t. Since I didn’t have anything, I must have been thinking that Curnow had planted the baggie. I could only think that if it hadn’t been me.

What was odd was how much that scared Curnow. I should probably be scared too, but I didn’t know who I should be scared of. I didn’t know anyone apart from Curnow who’d want to plant drugs on Ana. Or had it been to catch Curnow?

If Ana was the target, I was probably in danger too. If Curnow was the target, I probably wasn’t. Not that that helped at all. 

Curnow was a nasty man, but he was far from stupid. If he’d thought he was in danger, maybe he was right. If something happened to him and they re-traced his steps, they’d probably find out that he’d visited me. I didn’t want to be the person last known to have seen Curnow alive. 

It was nearly midnight, a bad time to call anyone. Jock wouldn’t be happy if I called the cops before I’d spoken to him. He wouldn’t be happy to hear from me at all, of course. For a second I considered a long distance call to Samoa, to talk to Sa’afia. I rejected calling Ana just as quickly. Poor Jock. I called him.