"There! Look!" Sarah exclaimed, her finger jabbing excitedly towards a car that had just screeched around a corner, emerging from the bottle shop's car park. Its abrupt turn sent a flock of pigeons into a frenzied flight, their wings fluttering in alarm.

"Shit! That was a close call," I breathed out, my eyes tracking the driver's reckless manoeuvre. The car, a silver Honda Civic, swerved perilously close to a small red hatchback, its parked position on the roadside making it an innocent bystander in this near-miss. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of adrenaline and professional alertness surging through me.

"Random?" asked Sarah, her eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"It would be irresponsible of us not to," I agreed, feeling a wide grin stretch across my face. Our involvement in pulling over cars for random breath tests wasn't a frequent occurrence, but sometimes the situation just screamed for it. A sense of satisfaction bubbled within me at the thought of catching someone in the act. Why people gambled with the lives of others, thinking they could slip away unnoticed, especially after blatantly pulling out of a bottle shop, was beyond me.

Sarah's grin mirrored my own, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. "Here we go then," she said, her voice tinged with an eagerness that was almost gleeful. She flicked on the red and blue flashing lights, their glow painting the interior of our unmarked police car in a dance of colours. The siren blared briefly, a clear signal to the Honda Civic that its actions hadn't gone unnoticed.

Following the Civic, I steered our car with practiced ease, pulling up behind it as the driver finally acknowledged our presence, easing to a stop along the main road threading through Glenorchy.

"You want to do the honours?" I asked, turning to Sarah with a knowing look.

"Sure," she replied, her eagerness palpable. She was always ready to jump into action.

"I'll do a plate check," I added, watching as Sarah stepped out of our car. Her movements were confident, each step calculated as she approached the other vehicle.

Purposely delaying the start of the license plate check, I found myself watching Sarah. Her approach to the driver's side was assertive yet measured. Leaning forward, she began to speak to the driver, her posture professional but unmistakably commanding.

After watching Sarah instruct the drunk driver to blow into the pen-sized plastic tube, a standard but crucial procedure, I shifted my focus to the more mundane task at hand. Sitting in our unmarked police car, I began to enter the vehicle's number plate details into the database. I tapped the keys with practiced efficiency, my mind half on the task, half on Sarah's interaction outside. The screen before me flickered with the irritating "processing" message, a pixelated hourglass spinning endlessly as it sifted through thousands of vehicle records. My patience, usually unwavering, was tested by the sluggish system.

Finally, the database emitted a beep, a sound signalling successful retrieval. My eyes narrowed in concentration as I scanned the information displayed. A name flickered on the screen, causing my eyebrows to furrow in confusion. "Surely that's not right," I muttered under my breath, disbelief colouring my tone.

Before I could fully process the anomaly or step out to verify, Sarah returned, her expression a mix of professionalism and evident disappointment. I wound down the window to speak with her.

"Well, that's a bit disappointing. She's recorded a zero blood-alcohol reading," Sarah announced, her voice laced with a hint of frustration.

"She?" I echoed, my confusion deepening. The name on the screen didn't match the situation unfolding.

"Yeah," Sarah confirmed, extending the driver's license towards me. The plastic card felt cool and firm in my hand as I examined it. 'Gladys Cramer,' the name stared back at me, incongruent with my expectations. "I think we might have a little problem," I murmured, more to myself than to Sarah.

"What is it?" Sarah inquired, her curiosity piqued.

"Is Gladys the only person in the car?" I asked, seeking confirmation of a growing suspicion.

"Yeah. Why?" Her response was quick, yet I sensed her growing unease.

"This car belongs to Jamie Greyson." The name rolled off my tongue, heavy with implications.

"Shit!" Sarah exclaimed, the gravity of the situation dawning on her. "Ok, what do you want me to do?” she asked, as her hand instinctively moved towards her holster. “Should I get my gun out?"

"No! Jesus, Sarah, what is it with you and your bloody gun?" I snapped, my tone sharper than intended. Sarah's readiness to escalate to force was a recurring point of contention between us. "You wait here. I'll deal with her," I said, determination settling over me like armour.

Easing myself out of the car, I felt the cool air brush against my skin. My mind was already working overtime, piecing together the puzzle. Who was Gladys Cramer, and why was she driving Jamie Greyson's car? As I closed the door behind me, my steps were measured, my mind racing with possibilities.

My footsteps echoing slightly on the asphalt as I approached the silver Honda Civic. I could feel the weight of my badge, a constant reminder of the responsibility I carried. Stopping beside the driver's side window, I peered inside, meeting the eyes of the woman behind the wheel.

"Gladys Cramer?" I asked sternly, extending the license towards her. My tone was authoritative, yet not unkind, a balance I had learned to strike over years of police work.

"Yes," the woman replied, her voice laced with a casual curiosity. "Have I done something wrong?" she inquired, her tone betraying nothing but innocent inquiry.

"I'm Senior Detective Karl Jenkins," I introduced myself formally, maintaining a professional demeanour. "Is this your car, ma'am?" I continued, scrutinising her every reaction.

Gladys hesitated for just a fraction of a second before answering. "No," she admitted. "It's a friend's car. He told me I could use it to go to the bottle shop," she explained, gesturing towards a bulging brown paper bag on the passenger seat. The bag, evidently heavy with bottles, leaned against the seat as if to corroborate her story. "We were planning on having a trashy movie binge session, but then we realised we didn't have any drinks to go with it. He's at home cooking now, which is why I went to get the wine," she added, her explanation flowing smoothly.

I paused, taking a moment to process the information. My mind sifted through her words, analysing their credibility. "Who is this friend of yours?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Oh, Jamie Greyson, of course. This is his car," she responded matter-of-factly, as if mentioning an everyday acquaintance.

"Jamie Greyson, did you say?" I repeated, a flicker of surprise crossing my features. A kaleidoscope of butterflies erupted in my stomach, the sudden rush of adrenaline surprising even me. Is this whole investigation about to end so anti-climatically? The thought crossed my mind, mingling with a mix of skepticism and hope.

"Yes," Gladys confirmed, her response simple yet loaded with implications.

"Well, how's that for timing," I remarked, a surge of energy coursing through my words. "We've been trying to contact Jamie for the last few days. We'll just follow you back to his house, if you don't mind," I said, carefully masking the excitement that was building within me. My gaze never left her face, watching for any telltale signs of deceit.

Gladys glanced nervously towards the passenger seat, her eyes betraying a momentary flicker of uncertainty. "Not at all," she replied, her smile forced but strikingly beautiful.

"Alright then," I said, tapping the edge of her car as a sign of departure. I turned and walked back to our vehicle, my mind racing with possibilities. Was Gladys telling the truth? Was this encounter with Jamie Greyson's car merely a red-herring, or are there really no missing people? I couldn't shake the feeling that we were on the cusp of unraveling something significant.

"Well?" Sarah queried impatiently, her eyes eager for the details as I slid back into the driver's seat.

I secured my seatbelt. "Well," I began, unable to suppress a grin at Sarah's eagerness. "It seems we are about to find Jamie Greyson."

Sarah rolled her eyes, a playful but exasperated gesture. "Well, where's the fun in that!?" she lamented, her tone half-joking yet revealing a hint of genuine disappointment.

I turned the key, the engine of our car purring to life. "Not everything has to end with murder and crime," I reminded her, my tone laced with a mix of amusement and seriousness.

"I know, I know," Sarah grumbled, her frustration evident. "But I haven't investigated a murder yet. I thought maybe this might be my first." Her words echoed a longing for the kind of action that had probably drawn her to detective work in the first place.

"Well, looks like you're about to be disappointed... Officer," I replied, emphasising the last word to underline the professional restraint we were expected to uphold, regardless of our personal feelings towards a case.

We fell into silence as we began tailing Gladys's car. The journey took us up the steep and winding Berriedale Road. I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, every sense attuned to the task at hand, while Sarah observed Gladys's movements with the intensity of a seasoned officer.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Sarah exclaimed suddenly. "Does it look like Gladys is texting to you?" Her training in spotting distracted drivers was evident; she could identify such behaviour with almost uncanny accuracy.

I squinted through the windshield, trying to get a better look. "Yeah. It sure looks that way, doesn't it?" The dark presence of a phone screen was intermittently visible in the distance.

"Lights or just keep following?" Sarah asked, ready to spring into action.

I was weighing the options when suddenly Gladys’ car swerved sharply to the left, nearly grazing the metal barrier that bordered the road. "Shit! We'd better pull her over," I decided without hesitation, recognising the immediate danger.

Sarah didn’t hesitate, activating the red and blue flashing lights. But to our surprise, Gladys didn’t respond immediately. She continued driving erratically, her car swerving as she seemed engrossed in her phone. Sarah sounded the siren, a clear command for compliance. Finally, Gladys seemed to acknowledge our presence, pulling over to the side of the road.

I brought our car to a halt behind hers, my mind racing with questions and concerns. What was so important that Gladys risked her safety and that of others by texting while driving?

As I stepped out of our vehicle, I glanced back at Sarah, who was already on the move, her hand on the door handle, ready to join me. "You wait in the driver's seat," I instructed firmly. I could see the protest forming in her eyes, the hunger for action almost palpable.

"Just in case she decides to do a runner," I added, knowing full well that the possibility would pique Sarah's interest. Her expression shifted from frustration to anticipation, her eyes gleaming at the thought of a potential pursuit. I couldn't help but shake my head slightly as I turned away, torn between concern over Gladys' possible flight and the eagerness I saw in Sarah for a chase.

Approaching Gladys's car, I heard the mechanical sound of the driver's side window lowering. "Gladys," I began, my voice carrying a tone of disappointment, "why were you texting while you were driving?"

"I wasn't texting," Gladys responded quickly, her voice firm.

"But you were," I countered, unyielding. "My partner and I saw you. We watched you almost run off the road. You could have done yourself some serious harm, or worse, gone over the embankment." My words were stern, but there was an undercurrent of genuine concern for her safety.

"I already told you. I wasn't texting anyone," Gladys repeated, her voice laced with adamant denial.

A sense of frustration began to simmer within me. It was clear that she was hiding something, or someone. My thoughts raced - she has to be protecting someone. Who is it? Jamie? Kain? The pieces weren't quite fitting together.

"Gladys," I said, my tone more stern now, "Who were you texting?" I fixed her with a steady gaze, trying to penetrate the façade she was putting up.

Under my scrutiny, I noticed Gladys's discomfort intensify. Her left eye twitched slightly, a subtle tell that she was under stress. She seemed to be struggling to maintain eye contact, her gaze darting around as if seeking an escape.

"I told you. I didn't text anybody. Here, check my phone for yourself," she blurted out, a mix of defiance and desperation in her voice. She unlocked her phone with a hurried swipe and thrust it into my hands.

Holding Gladys's phone, I felt the residual warmth from her hands, a subtle reminder of the human element always present in police work. As I gazed at the unlocked screen, I was acutely aware that what I was about to do could reveal much about her recent actions.

I was treading a fine line, a delicate balance between investigation and privacy. But in handing over the phone voluntarily, Gladys had implicitly given me permission. This small act had legally opened the door for me to delve deeper. She has verbally given me permission to look through it, I reassured myself, justifying the action as I navigated to her messages. The name Beatrix Cramer at the top of the message list caught my eye, igniting recognition.

How could I have missed it? Gladys Cramer and Beatrix Cramer - sisters. The realisation hit me with a mix of surprise and a tinge of embarrassment. Beatrix, a figure from a case years ago, one who had left a lasting impression. And Gladys, her sister, whom I had met but only in passing. The memories were hazy, like looking through frosted glass. I recalled Gladys' long, black hair, contrasting with her appearance now. The years had changed her, adding a few extra kilos to her frame, not much but enough to alter her from the vague image I retained in my memory.

Forcing my attention back to the task at hand, I refocused on Gladys's phone. The past connections were intriguing, but they wouldn't solve the case at hand. As I scrolled through the contacts in her message history, I found Jamie's name. Surprisingly, it wasn't as recent as I had anticipated. "I see you haven't messaged Jamie since yesterday," I commented aloud, eyes scanning the last message she had sent him:

Gladys: Sorry to hear you don't feel well. Call me when you wake up. G.

This message painted a picture of concern, but it raised more questions than it answered. "Did he call you?" I asked, my tone edged with suspicion. I was playing for time, trying to piece together the fragments of information into a coherent narrative.

While Gladys was responding, I quickly navigated to the call history. The last call logged was to Luke Smith, a mere thirteen seconds long, and it had been placed only minutes ago.

"Of course he did," Gladys retorted sharply, her impatience showing as she snatched her phone back. "I'm on my way to his house in his car, aren't I?" Her response was snappy, her tone defensive. It was clear she was feeling pressured, perhaps even cornered.

I mentally noted her reaction. The exchange had given me just enough time to see what I needed without revealing my discovery of the call to Luke Smith. Gladys's defensiveness, coupled with the brief call to Luke, sent my detective instincts into overdrive. My gut was telling me that Luke Smith was definitely up to no good.

"Our mistake then," I conceded, adopting a tone of polite professionalism. It was important to maintain a facade of routine procedure, at least until I could delve deeper into Luke Smith's involvement. "Shall we continue?" I suggested, gesturing up the road towards Jamie and Luke’s house. The suggestion was tactical, a move to keep Gladys cooperative and under observation.

Gladys nodded, a silent agreement to my proposal.

My stride back to the car was quick and purposeful, a clear reflection of the urgency and intensity of the situation. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, fuelling my movements. Jumping into the passenger side, I barely managed to contain the urge to rush. Every second felt crucial, and I was keenly aware of the importance of what we were about to uncover.

"Did you give her a ticket?" Sarah's question came almost immediately as I settled into the seat.

"No, just drive," I responded, my voice firm and focused. There was no time to explain the complexities of what I had just discovered, and issuing a ticket was the least of our concerns at the moment.

Sarah, sensing the gravity in my tone, asked no more questions. She put the car into gear and followed Gladys's vehicle. The tension in the car was palpable as we drove towards our destination, each of us lost in our thoughts about the case.