Free Lugarno by Peter Corris

car. His office was in Bankstown, no great distance, and I was there inside the half hour. The business centre had a scrubbed up look as if it had all recently been renovated. The railway station had had a complete make over and was now super-modern with lotsof glass and aluminium, fresh paint and elegant paving. Asian faces dominated in the streets and a good number of the stores had their names and signs printed in Asian languages. The High Fliers had flown as high as the tenth floor in a Cubist-style green glass building named the Bankstown Civic Tower. Several of the floors were taken up by municipal offices and others housed the usual run of professionals and a couple of dot coms whose names gave no indication of their business. You could get just about anything done there from your tax return to treatment for your ingrown toenails. Price had a small suite of three rooms and a modest reception area, all outfitted in fake teak panelling. Pot plants.
    The receptionist was everything she should have been and more—young, pale, with Dusty Springfield eyes and a pointed chin that made her better than pretty. Pink silk blouse. I gave her my name and she said she’d see if Mr Price was free. She lifted the phone, but as his door was only three strides away I thought I’d save her the bother. I went past, knocked and walked in.
    â€˜It’s not the girl’s fault,’ I said as she hovered in the doorway just behind me. ‘I barged in.’
    Price was sitting behind a desk about the same size as mine but about fifty years younger. Unlike mine, it held a computer, In and Out trays and all the paraphernalia of a busy executive. He was in his shirtsleeves and looked harassed. ‘It’s okay, Junie,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’
    Junie gave a sigh of relief and closed the door. I sat down in a chair near the desk and tried tofigure out what was surprising me about the office. It was conventionally appointed with a serviceable grey carpet, some nondescript prints on the walls along with some framed certificates and citations. The desk, two chairs, a bookcase with more magazines and folders than books and a photocopier. Then I got it. The air, conditioned to a comfortable temperature, was clear. No ashtray on the desk. Probably accounted for the harassed look.
    â€˜Given it up?’ I said.
    He nodded. ‘Trying to. Did it once, I can do it again. What’s up, Hardy? You scared young Junie out there.’
    I gave it to him between the eyes. ‘Jason Jorgensen has been murdered. Strangled. Dumped in the Georges River at Lugarno.’
    He was shocked to the core, or he was a better actor than Brando. His face lost colour and his jaw dropped. He reached for the cigarettes that weren’t there and when he realised their absence he made two hard fists and put them on the desk in front of him. ‘Murdered!’
    â€˜Right. I saw him yesterday and gave him my card. It was found on his body. The police paid me a visit first thing this morning.’
    Another chance to check on how genuine he was—would the threat of my seeing the police erase the shock? It didn’t. ‘That poor kid. Do they know why or who …?’
    I shook my head and watched him while he processed the information. The phone rang; he unclenched one fist, picked it up and spoke without looking at the instrument. ‘Take amessage, Junie. No calls for a while.’ He hung up and sat back in his chair helplessly. ‘I can’t believe it. I saw a bit of him while Danni … A nice kid. What did you think of him? God, could it have anything to do with this business?’
    Price was scoring points with me. His concern about the dead boy looked authentic, and he hadn’t yet transferred his attention fully to how it might affect him. He was getting there, but not straight off. I told him I’d found Jason a bit dim, and hadn’t got very much out of him. I said I didn’t know