Free Thrill City by Leigh Redhead Page A

kitchen better than I did. Curtis reckoned he was having trouble finding a place, although I doubted he was trying too hard and suspected that Sean was not exactly pushing him out. It had been years since I’d lived with a guy and normally I’d never have jumped in so quick, but it had been a godsend having him around. If he hadn’t been there, the previous six weeks would have gone down as the worst of my life.
    Since I’d stumbled upon Isabella’s body, things had really turned to shit.
    Several blocks from Nick’s house, I’d finally stopped running, burst into a pub and screamed for the barmaid to call the police. I knew they’d take me in to interview me, but hadn’t expected to be kept for over eight hours and questioned like they thought I’d killed her, either alone or in cahoots with Nick. It didn’t help that by the time the cops got to his place he’d disappeared without a trace. I’d been worried that I might have had to deal with Detective Inspector Duval, the head honcho of Homicide who’d threatened to arrest me or take away my PI licence if I got involved in any more crap. Instead I was confronted with his offsider, Talbot, a whippet-thin forty-something broad with a straight brown bob, who smelled like instant coffee and strong cigarettes and had gone for me like a terrier, probably following Duval’s orders to arrest me for whatever she could. She’d drilled me on my relationship with Nick, what I was doing at the house and even why I’d been at the writers’ festival that weekend.
    I’d been completely honest and told her everything I’d seen and heard, but she still insinuated I was guilty, that Nick and I had cooked up some sort of plan together. I couldn’t wait for them to bring him in and was hoping he’d confess so I’d be off the hook, but they couldn’t find him. Despite news bulletins, wanted posters, and Rod Thurlow going on TV, begging for information, Nick remained at large. Albeit with that many false sightings he could’ve been Elvis.
    Of course, it was a huge story in the press. Famous writers, a love triangle, and me, the stripping detective. Once again I refused to talk to them—even Andi and Curtis, who attempted to guilt-trip me into it.
    The media had always pissed me off in the past, but I hadn’t realised they’d actually been giving me a fair trot until they turned. Articles appeared posing questions about why I’d been involved in so many deaths, stopping just short of actually accusing me of murder. Opinion pieces popped up questioning if I was morally capable of holding a PI licence, having worked as a stripper. I couldn’t quite understand how taking off my clothes made me unethical, but it didn’t stop the current affairs and radio talkback programs running pieces with such titles as ‘Melbourne’s Dodgiest Detective?’ I’d kept my head down, waiting for it to blow over, but there was worse to come. The cops bowed to public pressure and suspended my licence, pending investigation. I wasn’t the villain, I was the victim, but nobody else saw it that way, not even my mum. After weeks without contact she finally called to tell me I was seeking out violence and darkness, attracting negative energy into my life, and she didn’t want anything to do with me until I saw the error of my ways and sought out some vigorous spiritual cleansing, preferably with a rebirthing component. Hippies.
    I would have been completely screwed up if it hadn’t been for Sean. He’d cooked and cleaned and made love to me, and for the first couple of weeks he was still off work so he took me down to a cottage on the Great Ocean Road where he dosed me up on sex and sauvignon blanc and kept me away from newspapers and TV.
    When he was back at work he continued to keep me occupied whenever he had time off: movies, plays, art galleries, picnics in the park. Normal shit, like a normal couple. And on days when I couldn’t face leaving the house he hunted and gathered,