Free Wet Graves by Peter Corris

Me ‘n’ Pat’re grandparents. But you don’t want to hear about that. I hope you want some help. God knows I’d like to do something for you after what you did for us.”
    â€œI’m glad you feel that way. It’s not a big thing. I’m looking for a houseboat called the Pavarotti . I don’t suppose you know it?”
    â€œNo.” There was a lot of regret in the word. “I don’t get out on the water much these days. Getting a bit stiff for it.”
    â€œSorry to hear it. I wonder if you could tell me the marinas that could take such a thing? I gather it’s pretty big.”
    â€œSure, I’ve got a pretty good idea, and Ray’s here, he’d have an even better one. Can I call you back, Cliff?”
    â€œNo. I’m in a pub. I could call you again in, what, fifteen minutes.”
    â€œMake it ten. In a pub, eh? Still no home life? What happened to that woman you met? Hannah …?”
    â€œHelen,” I said. “It’s a long story. Say hello to Ray for me. I’ll ring back in ten minutes.”
    I still had an inch of wine left. As I drank it I tried to think about the good things, about helping Guthrie out of his trouble, trying to keep thoughts of Helen at a distance. To deal with those thoughts I’d have needed a good deal more help than an inch of cask red. When Guthrie came back on the line he sounded pleased.
    â€œRay knows the boat. He’s seen it quite a few times. Says it’s a flashy number with a good deal of rot in the hull.”
    â€œDoes he know where it is now?”
    â€œNo, but he can find out for you first thing in the morning.”
    I gave him the home and office numbers and got a number for Ray in return. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and I promised again to visit him and Pat in Cammeray. Maybe this time I would.
    All things considered, it looked as if I was through for the night. But you can’t be too sure. I hung around outside the gambling joint until Lou Campisi staggered out. He had to root around in his pockets for cab fare and since he was drunk this made a pantomime which would have been amusing if you didn’t know that the man had been a good jockey and a good fly half. I tailed the taxi, partly to check whether Lou might have had pangs of conscience or pocket that might take him to see Jackson, drunk and all as he was. Also, it never hurts to stay in practice.
    But the petrol was wasted. The taxi dropped Lou in Newtown; there was an argument about the fare, and then Lou reeled through the gate and up the steps of a boarding house. After a struggle he got a key into the lock and went inside. Lou was tucked up safe for the night; Jackson was sporting himself in a floating casino and my head was hurting again. I was glad Ray didn’t have the location of the Pavarotti to hand—I didn’t feel up to a row or a swim.
    I slept for six hours, which meant that I was up and making coffee as it started to get light. The house was cold and I turned on heaters and waited for the morning paper to hit the front door. I collected it and tore the front page getting the wrapper off. The tear went right through a report on the bad balance of payments figures, which saved me from having to read it. I picked my way through the rest of the paper without much interest until I spotted a small item on page four. It was headed ‘Body found in harbour’. Apparently the body of a man had been fished out of the water at Dawes Point. As yet unidentified, the body was of a middle-aged man of average build with no distinguishing marks. That gave me something to think about while I ate toast, shaved, drank more coffee and waited for Ray Guthrie’s call.
    â€œMr Hardy?” It was the voice I remembered—private school overlaid by the accents picked up in a working life as a boat charterer and repairer.
    â€œCall me Cliff, Ray. How are you?”
    â€œJust fine. I located that