The Constable’s Card

"I went in looking for a dog and came out with a policeman’s number. Even I can’t decide if that’s progress or madness."

The Broken Hill police station didn’t so much loom as sulk. A squat, rectangular block planted squarely on Argent Street, its brickwork had been bleached one weary shade lighter by decades of dust and sun, until the whole thing looked less like a civic institution and more like a sulking child left too long in the heat. A faded blue sign declared POLICE in letters so big it almost seemed embarrassed by itself, as though the building had been forced to wear a badge of office it would rather have left at home.

Out front, a flagpole stood at permanent attention, its flag hanging limp in the still morning air, flapping half-heartedly only when the breeze remembered its obligations. The effect was less ceremonial, more resigned. Even the flag had given up.

I lingered on the opposite pavement, squinting against the hard white glare bouncing from brick and glass. Functional—that was the word. The place had been built to tick boxes, not inspire awe. Windows sat in obedient rows, tinted just enough to keep the air-con from sighing itself into retirement. A ramp had been bolted awkwardly to one side, more afterthought than inclusion, its metal railings already freckled with rust. No pretence of grandeur, no swagger of architectural confidence—just four walls and a vague implication of authority, the municipal equivalent of a shrug.

And somewhere inside—or perhaps out back, tucked behind steel mesh or chain-link—they’d have Charlie. I could picture her too easily: ears pricked at the sound of boots on concrete, tail thumping uncertainly, every wag a question she didn’t know how to answer.

The problem, of course, was me.

There were two approaches here: the sensible one, and the one I usually gravitated towards.

The sensible way meant patience. Hanging back until after dark, circling round to the rear, scouting for kennels or holding cages. Counting cars in the lot, memorising faces, mapping out blind spots in the shadows. In theory, that would give me a chance to build a plan with something resembling coherence before attempting a rescue.

The other way?

The other way meant exactly what it sounded like—walking straight in through those apologetic glass doors and seeing what happened when I opened my mouth.

And knowing myself, I already had a fairly good idea which way my feet would end up pointing.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, eyes pinned on the glass doors across the road. They weren’t exactly intimidating—just your standard automatic panels, their once-clear sunstrip peeling at the edges like skin after sunburn. They slid back and forth with the dutiful sigh of machinery that had long since given up on enthusiasm.

People came and went as though it were nothing more than a post office or bank. A courier in shorts dropped off a parcel, already scrolling his phone as he left. A bloke in hi-vis wandered out, squinting against the glare, his gait slow with the baked-in fatigue of someone halfway through a twelve-hour shift. Then a woman clutching paperwork stalked in, her mouth a thin, furious line—the kind of expression you wear when you’re about to lose an argument over a parking fine but are determined to fight it anyway. None of them looked harassed. No one was frisked for weapons, no one dragged into back rooms. Just another building, if you squinted and ignored the fact that half the town’s gossip mill revolved around what went on inside.

Gertrude’s voice flickered back, sing-song in its cruelty. Massey and Polden. The police who’d come for Charlie. My stomach gave a quick, sharp twist at the thought of them spotting me—placing me as someone who didn’t belong, someone they ought to question. But then the thought shifted, almost automatically.

I wasn’t Beatrix Cramer here.

I was Sophie.

Sophie didn’t hang back on pavements, measuring escape routes like a petty thief on a lunch break. Sophie didn’t concoct elaborate midnight break-ins or second-guess every step. Sophie walked straight into police stations with her chin lifted, her story smooth and ready, her smile sharpened to just the right degree. Sophie carried herself like she belonged everywhere—especially in places I very much didn’t.

I let out a huff, half a laugh at my own expense. “Bloody Sophie,” I muttered under my breath. “Always volunteering for the suicide missions.”

Still, the logic was sound. This was Broken Hill. I was from Tasmania. Nobody here knew me, nobody was looking for me, and unless there was some clandestine national registry of suspicious women with bad sleeping habits, I’d pass.

So I straightened my shoulders, tugged my jacket into line, and rehearsed Sophie’s smile in the reflection of a shopfront window. Professional, but approachable. Polite, but not servile. The smile of a woman who’d never broken into a stranger’s house, pocketed their family photograph, or planned a police-station dognapping.

Then, pulse steadying into determination, I stepped off the kerb, crossed the street, and aimed myself at the doors.

The warm blast of air-conditioning wrapped around me the moment the doors sighed closed at my back. It carried that oddly sterile scent found in every institutional building across the country—half cleaning fluid, half old carpet, with just enough chemical sharpness to suggest competence without actually proving it.

The lobby looked exactly as a police station lobby ought to: linoleum polished into submission but still dulled by scuffs; a cork bulletin board sagging under the weight of curling flyers—missing cats, community notices, outdated ads for Neighbourhood Watch meetings that no one had attended in years; a row of hard plastic chairs bolted neatly to the wall, their rigidity discouraging anyone from thinking comfort might be an option.

Behind the counter sat a woman in her forties, every line of her posture spelling out efficiency. Her hair was yanked into a bun so tight it looked like it might squeak if you touched it, glasses balanced halfway down her nose in that deliberate way that forced you to see her eyes properly. This was a woman who had already fielded at least five ludicrous requests before morning tea and was more than prepared for a sixth.

I summoned Sophie. Chin angled high, stride purposeful, smile polite but firm. A smile that carried the faintest warning: I belonged here, so don’t you dare suggest otherwise.

“Morning,” I said, stepping up to the desk with all the breezy confidence I could fake.

She glanced up, gave me a nod that was all professional courtesy. “Morning. How can I help?”

Here was the tightrope. Too blunt, and I’d reek of suspicion. Too vague, and I’d sound like I’d wandered in off the street chasing conspiracy theories.

I smoothed Sophie’s smile into place, warm but measured, pitched perfectly for casual legitimacy. “I was wondering… if the police had, say, taken custody of a dog recently… where would that dog be kept?”

Her blink was slow, deliberate, the corners of her mouth twitching with the first stirrings of amusement. “A dog?”

“Yes. Hypothetically.” I leaned in just enough to suggest discretion, lowering my voice like I was about to share the kind of secret only responsible adults discussed in police stations. “Let’s say an animal was picked up, maybe as part of… an incident, or for safekeeping. Would it be here, or… somewhere else?”

Her brows knitted, but the twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement. “We don’t keep dogs in the cells, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Right. Of course.” I let out a clipped laugh, pitching it perfectly as Sophie’s laugh: light, professional, untouched by nerves. Inside, Beatrix was groaning, rolling her eyes so hard I could practically feel the strain at the back of my skull. Smooth. Very smooth. Why not ask if they stored them in the evidence locker next to the bolt cutters and bagged cannabis while you’re at it?

The receptionist tilted her head, the motion sharp with the kind of mild curiosity that came from years of reading people before they’d finished their sentences. “Depends on the situation. If it’s a stray, it usually goes straight to the pound. If it’s involved in something… else, sometimes it’s held here short-term before arrangements are made.”

I nodded, the gesture clipped and calm, as though this was exactly the sort of small-town logistics I made a habit of asking about before breakfast. “Good to know. And the pound, that’s council-run?”

“Mostly. Contracted out, really.” Her eyes lifted over the rims of her glasses, steady, weighing. “Are you looking for a dog?”

My mind skidded like tyres on gravel, panic sparking at the edges. Beatrix wanted to bolt, to mumble some excuse and flee the building before my own skin gave me away. But Sophie didn’t flinch. Sophie leaned lightly on the counter, gave the kind of answer that sounded rehearsed only because it was perfectly plausible. “Not me personally. Just… helping someone. They were worried.”

The woman held me in her gaze for one beat longer than was comfortable, her silence stretching just far enough to sting. Then, with a shrug, she broke eye contact and returned to the stack of papers at her desk, pen scratching back into its rhythm.

“Well, if a dog was collected, it wouldn’t be far. Either a holding pen out back for a night or two, or down at the pound. You could check with council, but if you’re after something specific, you’d need to speak to one of the officers who handled it.”

“Of course,” I said smoothly, the words sliding out on Sophie’s polished tongue rather than mine. I tucked the information away, already assembling it into something useful, though my pulse betrayed me with its insistence. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

She gave me a faint smile—polite, dismissive, the kind of smile reserved for odd but harmless enquiries—before lowering her head again to the task at hand.

I turned slightly, air snagging in my chest. My heartbeat thudded louder than the quiet lobby deserved, faster than I cared to admit. Sophie, though—Sophie had passed her first test. No alarms. No suspicion. Just another fragment of information folded into my pocket under the guise of bureaucracy.

Gertrude had been right: Charlie wasn’t in the house. And now I knew—she wasn’t lost either. She was on the grid. Somewhere between a holding pen and a council pound, waiting.

And that meant she could still be found.

And yet, the fragile thread of relief snapped almost instantly.

I’d barely stepped aside when the glass doors slid open with a mechanical sigh, pulling in a gust of dry, dust-charged air. Two silhouettes filled the entrance, sunlight flattening into the clean lines of their uniforms. The glint of polished nameplates caught my eye — and I didn’t need more than a heartbeat to read them.

MASSEY. POLDEN.

Gertrude’s voice slithered back into my skull, uninvited, smugly nasal: Massey had the lead… Brock Polden, now there’s a proper man…

I’d half expected the reality to crumble under its own weight — for the gossip to have been overblown, inflated by repetition into something more theatrical than the truth. But no. Gertrude, curse her, hadn’t exaggerated.

Felicity Massey looked exactly as I’d imagined her: precise, composed, every detail sharpened and deliberate. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail so sleek it seemed aerodynamic, her uniform pressed within an inch of its life, her boots reflecting the ceiling lights as though someone had buffed them by hand that morning. She moved like she was still patrolling the grid of some larger city, shoulders squared, pace clipped, as though Broken Hill was lucky she’d agreed to downgrade. She didn’t just wear the badge; she radiated the fact that she’d earned it.

And then there was Brock.

Brock Polden was… different. He carried his authority like a second skin rather than a uniform. Less parade-ground stiffness, more lived-in assurance. Broad shoulders filled out fabric that bore the fading and sun-bleaching of long years, but fit him with the kind of ease that didn’t need tailoring. His hair, too light for strict regulation, caught the light; his stubble softened the square of his jaw without dimming the steadiness of his expression. He had the sort of open, solid presence that suggested people trusted him instinctively, the sort that probably convinced half the town that their fences were safe and their kids could walk home unbothered. And yes. Against my better judgement, against my stubborn insistence that I was immune, I had to admit it — he was handsome. Distractingly, unfairly so.

I tried to channel Sophie — Sophie, who was always unfazed, always grounded, always exactly where she was meant to be. Sophie wouldn’t falter just because a jawline had wandered into the lobby. Sophie would hold her ground.

But my body betrayed me. A faint lurch twisted in my stomach as they crossed the tiled floor, each step shortening the distance between us. Awareness sharpened, ridiculous and unbidden: the warmth of their proximity, the weight of the names that had already threaded themselves through my morning like a warning.

I told myself I wasn’t fazed.

Gertrude’s phrase — “a proper man” — had sounded almost comic when she’d first hissed it through her fence, quaint and old-fashioned, like something embroidered on a sampler. But now, with him only a few feet away, the words landed differently. He wasn’t just a proper man; he was a man who wore ease the way others wore armour. Warmth clung to him like an afterthought, trailing in his stride. The sort of presence that could probably stop traffic with a grin, and not simply because of the badge and boots.

I forced my jaw to tighten, a small act of self-defence masquerading as composure. I was Sophie, I reminded myself. Sophie didn’t gawp at policemen like she’d been transported back to high school. Sophie didn’t hesitate, or flush, or get caught staring at shoulders broad enough to belong in a glossy recruitment campaign. Sophie was crisp, confident, and very much in control.

Still, my eyes betrayed me with one last flick — sharp, deliberate — to the gleaming plate on his chest. POLDEN. I filed it away, the name settling with unwelcome precision. And beside him: MASSEY. Her gaze was already on the room, quick and appraising, a sweep that missed nothing.

Professional, polished Massey.

Easy, disarmingly handsome Polden.

Gertrude’s gossip had painted the outline, but standing here in the artificial warmth of the lobby, they were more than outlines. They were solid, breathing, impossible to ignore.

I inhaled slowly, quiet and measured, tugging Sophie’s smile back into place. This was fine. Manageable. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

So why did it feel as though the floor had just shifted, tilting me a fraction off balance?

They nearly sailed straight past. Massey, efficient and no-nonsense, already angling towards the counter, a neat stack of files clutched in her hands. Polden a step behind, his stride looser, his weight carried as though he had nowhere urgent to be but was perfectly content in the getting there.

I would have let them. Gladly. Let them walk past, let me vanish with the receptionist’s vague directions tucked under my arm — job done, complication avoided.

But Massey glanced up mid-stride, and her eyes caught mine. Just a flicker, sharp enough to cut, followed by the faintest crease in her brow.

And then came the second look.

It was nothing — barely a pause, barely a fraction of a moment — but it was enough. Enough to make her slow, enough to make him slow with her.

Enough to stall them both.

Brock’s gaze followed hers, settled on me, and lingered a shade too long. Not intrusive, not sharp — just long enough to be noticed. His mouth curved into a smile that seemed more instinct than choice, an automatic setting honed over years of greeting strangers. And before I could sidestep, melt into the background, make myself part of the bland linoleum, he angled neatly toward me.

“Morning,” he said, voice warm enough to soften the air between us. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

My pulse jumped. I summoned Sophie’s smile, the one I’d practised in mirrors and doorways, the one that smoothed over cracks like plaster. Practised. Polished. Composed. “Morning. First time in Broken Hill.”

“First time?” His brows lifted, not sceptical but engaged, curiosity tugging at the edges of his expression. “Welcome, then. Not every day we get tourists wandering into the station. Everything alright?”

Tourist. Perfect. A gift. Sophie could work with that. “Oh, everything’s fine,” I said, letting the words float out lightly. “I was just making a general enquiry.”

Beside him, Massey slowed but didn’t ease. Her look was surgical: polite, contained, but sharp as a scalpel. The kind of stare that made you double-check whether your shoelaces were tied and your story airtight.

“What sort of enquiry?” she asked.

I shifted slightly, resisting the twitch of nerves. Sophie didn’t fidget. Sophie stood still, smile intact. “Just… about procedures. If, say, an animal was taken into custody. Pure curiosity.”

Brock chuckled, low and easy, like he’d heard every flavour of odd request. “That’s a first. Most people come in to complain about dogs, not ask where we keep them.”

I answered with a laugh that aimed for breezy but fell somewhere closer to awkward. “What can I say? I like to be thorough.”

Massey’s eyes narrowed — barely, but enough. Her tone remained smooth, professional. “And you are…?”

My throat hitched, just for a fraction, before Sophie stepped in cleanly. “Sophie,” I said, voice steady, as if it had always been mine. “Sophie Archer.”

Brock extended his hand without pause. “Senior Constable Brock Polden. And this is Constable Massey.”

His hand was firm, warm, calloused — a handshake that spoke of work done, not just practiced etiquette. It unsettled me more than it should have, the way my grip faltered, how quickly I pulled back as though his steadiness might scorch. The faint flush warming my neck was entirely unwelcome, but entirely there.

“Pleasure,” I managed, the word landing heavier than I’d intended.

“Likewise,” he said, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

And damn it, even his eyes smiled.

I scrambled for balance, grasping at composure like a handrail on a swaying train.
“So, hypothetically, if a dog were brought in, would it stay here long-term?”

Brock leaned one elbow on the counter, folding his arms in a way that managed to be both casual and steadying. “Depends. Usually not. We’ve got a holding run out back, but that’s just for overnight. Council pound takes most of ’em. Unless…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest curiosity rather than suspicion. “Unless there’s a reason to keep them closer. Evidence, maybe.”

My stomach clenched, a knot twisting hard at that word — evidence. It echoed like a stamp across paperwork, official and inescapable. But Sophie kept her composure intact, her expression smooth, eyes bright with only the mild curiosity of a researcher. “I see. Good to know.”

Massey hadn’t taken her eyes off me. Her arms folded tighter, the file clutched against her chest as though she could shield herself with it. “And why the sudden interest in police kennels, Ms Archer?”

There it was. The test. Her tone was polite, professional, but sharpened just enough to cut.

I let Sophie smile, quick and unfazed, showing teeth without warmth. “Research. I write. Bits and pieces. You never know when the detail might come in handy.”

Her gaze dipped, subtle but sharp, as though she were cataloguing the hesitation I couldn’t quite iron out, measuring the cadence of my words against some internal ledger. The way I shifted weight. The beat before I’d said research. But then she only gave a cool nod, a clipped, dismissive concession. “Well. Now you know.”

Brock, either oblivious to her undercurrent or choosing not to wade into it, grinned. “You picked a good place for research. Plenty of colour here.” His gaze lingered just long enough to feel personal, warm, and steady, not at all the clinical assessment of his colleague. “If you’re in town a while, I could show you a bit of it. Coffee, maybe? For research purposes.”

Before I could conjure a sensible excuse, he was already sliding a card from the neat fold of his breast pocket and placing it on the counter with easy confidence. The local crest stamped in blue, his name printed cleanly beneath: Senior Constable Brock Polden.

I froze. Sophie smiled back, as though this were exactly the kind of casual banter she fielded daily. Beatrix, however, was screaming silently at the recklessness of entertaining this. A police officer. Coffee. A card with his number. Every alarm bell in my body should have been deafening.

And yet—

“That could be nice,” I heard myself say, my voice smooth where my chest felt like breaking glass.

“Great.” He tucked his hands back into his belt, the smile never dimming as he glanced at Massey. She had already pivoted toward the inner doors, unimpressed, her file held like a barrier.

“Well, we’re around,” he added, tipping his head in a farewell that carried the ease of someone who always expected to be remembered. “Enjoy your stay, Sophie.”

His boots carried him after Massey, the steady thud of his steps matched by the sharp click of her heels. And just before the door swung shut, Brock glanced back, eyes catching mine, offering one last effortless smile — the sort that lingered even after he was gone.

I stood there longer than I should have, Sophie’s easy smile still plastered across my face like a mask I’d forgotten to peel away. The card in my palm seemed to radiate heat, its edges digging into my skin as though it wanted to leave a mark. Behind me, the receptionist shuffled papers with the soft, deliberate rhythm of someone politely ignoring the spectacle in front of them. No comment, no raised eyebrow. A small mercy.

And there it was: in one tidy exchange, I’d secured the confirmation I needed about Charlie’s fate… and, for reasons that defied all logic, agreed to a coffee date with a police officer.

Well done, Sophie, I thought grimly, pressing my lips together. Top marks for infiltration. Zero for self-preservation.

The automatic doors sighed open at my approach, a mechanical exhalation that ushered me back into the world outside. The air hit me at once — sharp, dry, unapologetic. Not the briny damp chill of Tasmanian winters that seeped into your marrow, but a brittle kind of cold that stripped the moisture from your breath before you could catch it. White vapour bloomed briefly in front of me before the desert air stole it away, as if even breath couldn’t be bothered lingering in Broken Hill.

I paused on the pavement, hands buried in my jacket pockets. The card was still there, pressing against my knuckles like an accusation. I tugged it free and turned it over between my fingers. Senior Constable Brock Polden. The ink was clean, the crest embossed, the card stock too heavy for casual use — designed to be kept, remembered.

“Coffee,” he’d said. For research.

A laugh escaped me, too sharp, too quick. “Research, right.” I’d walked into a police station trying to sniff out a dog and walked out with a constable’s number tucked in my pocket. Smooth work, Sophie.

For a moment, the absurdity lingered — ridiculous enough that I could almost enjoy it. But reality pressed back in, cold and certain. I wasn’t here to entertain local charm with uniforms and warm smiles. However distractingly neat his jawline might have been, I was here for Charlie.

And yet… my thumb traced over the raised crest again. I had smiled at him. Smiled and played along. Slipped neatly into his line of sight and stayed there, as though I wanted to be remembered.

I could almost hear Gladys’s dry laugh in my ear, her voice sharp with disbelief. Really, Beatrix? This is your master plan? Infiltration via coffee date?

I shoved the card back into my pocket with more force than necessary, burying it deep, as though the weight of fabric could muffle the mistake. It didn’t.

The street was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that magnifies every small disturbance. A car door slammed somewhere down the block. A magpie warbled its liquid call. Gum leaves rustled with the faintest scrape of breeze. Each sound felt amplified, etched against the stillness until even my own footsteps struck me as too loud.

It should have been calming. Instead, I felt the thrum of tension still alive under my skin, quick and restless.

I’d got what I came for — confirmation that Charlie hadn’t slipped into nothingness. That was the victory. But victories here came with barbed edges. Now I’d walked myself straight into the memory of two officers who would not forget me quickly. One with suspicion; one with… something else.

My breath left me in a sharp cloud. “Brilliant,” I muttered. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”

And with that, I turned down the street, boots scuffing the pavement, the constable’s card still smouldering like a live coal against my thigh.