Free Peepshow by Leigh Redhead

weights room and jumped on the treadmill. There’s nothing like working naked with a bunch of skinny chicks for motivation, and I ran for twenty minutes, visualising the fat just melting off my stomach. The gym was empty except for a nuggety guy with black hair and an overweight woman in leggings and a floppy T-shirt. None of those no-pore rich bitches here.
    My legs still ached from dancing so I worked my upper body and abs. I grabbed a bench in front of the mirror and did free-weights—shoulder press, side lifts, biceps, triceps—then lay down and did chest presses and flies. I got on the floor and managed fifteen push-ups, real ones not the girly ones, then found a fit ball to do crunches. I did four lots of fifty and my abs screamed in pain. Somewhere under this layer of fat there’s a killer six-pack.
    I was red faced, sweating and pumped up on exercise-induced endorphins. Doing weights always made me feel powerful and strong, ready to take on the world. I left the gym and popped into the solarium. It was Chloe who told me brown fat looks less fat than white fat.
    As soon as I got home I cooked scrambled eggs and wrote down a plan. I was going about this thing all wrong.
    Torcasio had told us in class that the most important thing in a murder or missing person investigation is the victim. I had to find out about Frank. And maybe Sal while I was at it. Then I had to systematical y go through the list of suspects. I took out my coaster from the night before. Jim, Shane and Honey, Ebony, Dick Farquhar.
    Farquhar. Suddenly it hit me, Jim talking about Alex:
    ‘What’s Farquhar doing sending one of his boys around here?’ Did Alex work with Farquhar? Did I still have his card? I raced into the bedroom, grabbed my black boots, held them upside down and shook. Two cards fluttered out. One said Tim Purcell, Junior Accounts Manager, and the other had the name Alexander Christakos and a mobile phone number. Bingo. Before I called him I rang Tony Torcasio. He was at his daughter’s under-eight netball game.
    ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I need information on a cop named Dick Farquhar.’
    There was silence on the line and I heard cheering in the background.
    ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Richard Farquhar of the southwest CIB?’
    ‘I guess so.’
    ‘Why do you need to know about him?’
    ‘It’s kind of a long story.’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Simone, but we need to have a little talk. Can you meet me at my office tomorrow?’ Tony sounded serious. He gave me an address in North Melbourne and we arranged to meet at midday.
    ‘Farquhar is not someone you mess around with.
    He’s corrupt and he’s dangerous. It’s people like him made me leave the force.’
    ‘Got anything on a cop who works with Farquhar named Alexander Christakos?’ I asked.
    ‘Never heard of him, but I can find out. In the meantime don’t do anything stupid, OK?’
    ‘I won’t,’ I said, and dialled Alex’s number.
    He answered after three rings. ‘Alex Christakos.’
    ‘Hi, it’s Vivien. We met at the Red Friday night?’
    I was walking around in nervous little circles with the portable phone.
    ‘Vivien,’ he sounded surprised and pleased. ‘I didn’t think you’d call.’
    ‘Neither did I. How’s Grant?’
    He groaned. ‘I have to apologise for that whole scene. What a fuck-up. Anyway, what are you up to tonight?’
    ‘Nothing much.’ I sat on the couch.
    ‘How about dinner?’
    I imagined sitting in a restaurant, all civilised.
    Hmmm. I flipped through the Impress on the coffee table to check out band listings. Doug Mansfield was playing at the Greyhound at four o’clock.
    ‘How about a band?’
    ‘A country and western band?’ The corners of Alex’s mouth turned down in distaste. We sat a couple of tables back from the stage. Actually I was sitting; he perched on the edge of the chair like he might get something nasty on his trousers.
    ‘Not western, just country,’ I said. ‘There is a