Free The Other Side of Sorrow by Peter Corris Page A

thoughts, don’t come here. There’s police all over the place and I’m going to be flat out keeping Ramsay calm. I just snuck off to let you know.’
    â€˜Did she go with Talbot willingly?’
    â€˜Look, I can’t talk now. We’ll have to meet later.’
    There was sense in what she was saying and I fought down my impatience. ‘Okay. Where and when?’
    â€˜Come to my place this afternoon. Say about three. The police should be finished with us by then.’
    She gave me an address in Concord and rang off. I dropped the phone on the passenger seat and stared through the windscreen. The rain of the past few days had cleared and the day was fine and still. The water and wind had removed the pollution and I could see the whole length of the tree-lined street. I could see the arch of the bridge above the building line. Things were changing here too. They were knocking things down and throwing things up in search of the dollar but at least it wasn’t the Olympic tourist dollar. Just for once, the north side of the city had more appeal for me than the south.
    On the drive south I caught a news broadcast that gave the usual sparse details on the events at Tadpole Creek. No names were mentioned and the writer of the bulletin obviously had almost no knowledge about the picket line. A man had been killed and police were investigating and that was about it.
    I was worried, but I tried to adopt a professional attitude. I had a good source and would learn more in time. I drove to the public library in Glebe and used the internet to dig up whatever I could on the work at Homebush. The information was vast and I printed out only the odd page. According to the official version, every effort had been made to clean up what had been dirty, restore what had been damaged and preserve everything of value. The sanctimonious tone of the material made me suspicious and I knew something the compilers didn’t—that a straggly waterway named Tadpole Creek had escaped their notice.
    Just to be thorough, I searched for Tadpole Creek. Slim pickings—an account of a picnic there in the 1930s attended by some minor member of the Royal family; a stormwater and drainage proposal not proceeded with after the war; an offer by a consortium to build a tennis facility involving piping of the creek, rejected by the council in the mid-eighties and a Native Title claim lodged in 1996 but withdrawn a year later due to the discovery of an unspecified mistake in old maps of the area.
    Tess Hewitt’s house was a Californian bungalow on a large block with the backyard abutting the golf course. The driveway held a newish Holden Barina that would have had to brush branches aside to get to where it was parked. The front lawn was badly in need of mowing and the bushes and shrubs wanted a trim. I parked behind the Barina and went along a series of cement circles to the porch. The circles were overgrown and in danger of disappearing. A large thistle poked up knee-high in front of the porch steps.
    â€˜Neglected, isn’t it?’ Tess Hewitt said.
    I pulled up the thistle, knocked the soil from the roots and tossed it aside. ‘You should see my place.’ Tess stood at the top of the steps looking down at me. She wore black ski pants, medium heels and a white silk blouse with full sleeves. She held a glass of red wine in one hand and a bottle in the other.
    â€˜You caught me red-handed.’
    Despite my anxiety, I laughed and went up the steps. ‘I’m glad you’re all right. You seemed pretty upset on the phone. The news people don’t know a thing. What’s happening?’
    â€˜Come in and I’ll tell you all about it. I know you’ve got an interest, but so have I. Ramsay. I’m resolved not to panic and I regard red wine as the best anti-panic formula in the world. Do you drink red wine?’
    â€˜I do.’
    We went in. The front rooms were dim, as they often are in