Free Black Tide by Peter Temple Page A

knowing until Gary was found. I didn’t fancy my chances.
    At the office, I found the shopping dockets I’d taken from Gary’s kitchen. The most recent one was from a bottle shop in Prahran. On April 3, Gary bought a case of beer and six bottles of wine and paid an employee called Rick $368.60.
    Customers form relationships with their suppliers. Suppliers very much want to form relationships with customers who pay $368.60 for a slab of beer and six bottles of wine.
    A place to start.
    10
    Gary Connors’ source of liquor was near the Prahran Market and more wine merchant than grog shop. From behind the cash register, a slick young man smiled at me: white shirt, blue tie, long dark-green apron. I showed a card.
    ‘Mr Connors. Got two Connors. One’s really old.’
    I said, ‘He was in here on the third of April, bought six bottles of Petaluma chardonnay and a slab of Heineken.’
    ‘Police?’
    ‘No. I represent his father. Mr Connors junior seems to be missing.’
    He took this seriously, frowned. ‘Rick reckons a bloke was after Mr Connors that day.’
    ‘Rick?’
    ‘Works here. He’s in the back.’ He went to the back of the shop, opened a door and shouted the name, came back. A tall youth appeared in the doorway: teenage skin, cropped hair, wearing the green apron over a white T-shirt and jeans.
    ‘Rick, Mr Connors, the one you deliver to in Toorak?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘About the bloke following him.’
    52

    The youth took a few paces, stopped, sniffed, wiped his nose with a thumb. He had intelligence in his eyes. ‘I was at Ronni’s. On the corner. Saw Mr Connors get out of his car in the carpark.’
    ‘Remember the car?’
    ‘Yeah. Green Audi. Carried lots of stuff to it before. Anyway, he crossed the road, walked down this way and came in here. Then a bloke parks, blue Commodore, illegal park, on the lines, that’s why I noticed. It’s a joke around here—bout a million tickets a year in that spot. He jumps out, then he walks casual, like he’s just window-shoppin, round the corner. And he stops across the road.’
    Rick pointed to the other side of the street. ‘See the bookshop there? He looks in the window, looks over his shoulder. Then he goes inside, I can see him lookin out the window. And he stays there till Mr Connors comes out of the shop with Sticks.’
    ‘Sticks?’
    ‘Other bloke works here. He carried the stuff to the car. When they get down by the corner, the bloke in the bookshop, he comes out and he’s up the street, movin quick, not window-shoppin now. Not quick enough, the cop’s just puttin the ticket under the wiper. He gets in, doesn’t even take the ticket off. When Mr Connors comes out of the carpark, he hangs a U-turn and he’s off after him.’
    ‘What’d he look like?’
    ‘Sort of medium. Like a businessman. Suit. Dark hair, not long. Little limp.’
    ‘Limp?’
    ‘Yeah. Not much. Like a sore knee, sort of.’
    I found a ten-dollar note. ‘Thanks, Rick. I’m being paid, so should you.’
    He looked at the boss, took the note, nodded, left.
    ‘Thanks for your help,’ I said to the man behind the counter.
    ‘Not a problem.’
    ‘By the way, Mr Connors ever talk to any other customers? You get to know people at your bottle shop, don’t you?’
    ‘Sure do. Haven’t seen Mr Connors’ mate for a while either.’
    53

    ‘What mate’s that?’
    ‘Mr Jellicoe. Chat down the back there, where the fine wines are.’
    ‘Regularly?’
    ‘Every now and again, yeah. Two, three weeks. Mr Connors comes in when Mr Jellicoe isn’t here. But if Mr Jellicoe comes in, you know Mr Connors will be here soon.’
    ‘You wouldn’t have an address for Mr Jellicoe, would you?’
    Doubtful look. ‘Not supposed to give you that. Shouldn’t give out customers’ addresses.’
    ‘It’s just to ask about Gary,’ I said. ‘We’re very worried about him. His father would appreciate your help. No mention of how we got the address, of course. Absolutely