Free Bad Debts by Peter Temple Page A

Cove.’
    Legge whistled. ‘Now those boys know how to treat the media,’ he said. ‘Nothing but the French at the launch. Non-vintage but the French. Like the good old days. It’s been local pissfizz at these things for years.’
    ‘Only the fittest have come through,’ I said. The machine started spitting out my drink.
    Legge took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. ‘This stuff tastes like piss too. Bloody machines. Christ knows why we put up with it. Fucking useless union. Follow me.’
    We left the building and walked up two blocks towards the city centre. Pacific Rim News had the fourth floor of a small office block. A security man gave us labels and we went into a huge room full of formica desks and computer terminals.
    Legge said, ‘I still owe you that lunch. What about tomorrow? It’s on the paper. I’m reviewing a new restaurant. They fall over themselves.’
    ‘Don’t you do these things incognito?’
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    ‘Certainly do. But I gave them an anonymous tip-off.’ He laughed, an unpleasant gurgling sound.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’m out of town tomorrow. Some other time would be nice.’
    Linda Hillier was in a corner of the room where several desks seemed to have formed a huddle. She had been alerted and watched us coming, a pencil crosswise in her mouth between toothpaste-commercial teeth. When we got to her, Legge said, ‘Linda Hillier, I want you to meet Jack Irish, the lawyer who kept me out of jail for punching that food bitch.’
    Linda Hillier removed the pencil from her mouth. She was in her mid-thirties, shiny brown hair, a full mouth, dark eyes and a scattering of faded freckles. She wasn’t good-looking but she was handsome.
    ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Next time tell us what you’ll take to throw the case.’
    ‘Jack’s interested in something you covered when you were a young groupie,’ Legge said.
    ‘That far back?’ Linda said. ‘When you were still married to that nice plump girl from Accounts? The one who was sweet enough to blow all the Age copyboys at the Christmas party?’
    ‘Touché,’ said Legge. ‘I can’t stand around all day talking about old times. Jack, I’ll ring you about lunch.’
    We watched Legge walk off. I noticed that all the men in the room were frozen into poses suggesting deep concentration while all the women seemed to be typing. Could it be that the men were transmitting thoughts to the women, who were typing them up? I suggested this to Linda Hillier. She looked at me speculatively.
    ‘Thoughts?’ she said. ‘Most of these guys couldn’t transmit herpes. What’s your interest in history?’
    ‘I’m interested in the Anne Jeppeson hit-and-run,’ I said. ‘Remember her?’
    She nodded.
    ‘I saw your byline on some stories in her file.’
    She said, ‘Is this a legal matter?’
    ‘No. I don’t practise much anymore.’
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    ‘What do you do?’
    ‘Live off my wits,’ I said. ‘Gamble. Drink.’
    She smiled, an attractive downturning. ‘Then you’ll be keeping much the same company as before. Well, what can I tell you about Anne Jeppeson?’
    ‘Did it cross anyone’s mind at the time that she might have been deliberately run down?’
    ‘By that drunk? Was he capable of forming an intention?’
    ‘What I mean is, did anyone think he might have been used to kill Anne Jeppeson?’
    She shrugged. ‘I’ve never heard anyone suggest that.’ She paused and looked at me intently. ‘Hang on a minute. It’s just come back to me. Didn’t you appear for the driver?’
    I nodded. ‘Not with any distinction. He came out of jail a few years ago. New person, good job, wife and kid. Then a cop shot him dead in Brunswick last Friday.’
    ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I read that the bloke’d done time for hit-and-run. I didn’t make the connection.’
    The phone on her desk rang. She talked to someone in monosyllables for a while, then put the phone down. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m under the gun here for a while. I’ve got to