Free The Undertow by Peter Corris Page A

Cup victory—1983—with Hawkie calling any employer who’d docked a worker’s wages for taking a day off ‘a bum’. Hawke and Bond, two fallen heroes. Give or take a bit, that date fitted in with Karl Lubeck, having dropped Roma Brown, operating as Pixie Padrone’s pimp. And it firmed up the likelihood that she had got her hands on a useful sum of money for her rehabilitation.
    Not wanting to get distracted from the Heysen matter, I’d left checking my email until I got home. The rain had stopped but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the fallen branch, and aluminium ladders don’t rust. I made myself a gin and tonic and hit the keys. There was a scattering of spam as usual—offers to lengthen my penis, harden it and make it more responsive. Delete, delete, delete, though the day may come.
    My accountant wanted me to send in my quarterly tax stuff, and my annual dues for the Balmain Rugby League Club, my one such membership, were overdue. The only message of interest was from my daughter, Megan, who was on a cruise ship in the Pacific providing nightly entertainment in the form of a two-hander song and dance show. Her partner was one Daniel Wilson-Fox and they were apparently an item:
    Hi Cliff. Danny and I are wowing ’em here on the boat. It’s a good gig and we’re saving money. Did you know that old women dye their hair blue because it looks yellow to them because their eyesight is shot? Thought that might be helpful professionally.
    Love
Megan
    I couldn’t see how, but it was nice to get the message. I sent a quick reply and felt glad that Megan had life by the scruff. I’d been lucky; all her major troubles happened before I even knew she existed. And ever since I’d helped her out of the aftermath of them we’d got on well. That returned me to thoughts of William Heysen, who may or may not have been Frank Parker’s son, and who I was supposed to find. Hadn’t put in any time on that as yet.
    I went up to the Toxteth Hotel for a meal, a few drinks and a couple of games of pool. I teamed up with Daphne Rowley, a regular, and we held the table for a while against a succession of young bloods. Always a good feeling.
    On Saturday morning I got up early and bought the papers, skimmed them, and went to the gym. I sometimes get good ideas on the treadmill where the activity is so boring the brain is forced to make a contribution to help the time pass. I set it at the moderate pace for the first ten minutes and then lifted it for the next twenty. The machine is set to stop after thirty minutes to prevent people from hogging it, simulating a City to Surf run. I built the grade up gradually but not too far, out of consideration for my hamstrings.
    An aerobics class was going on in an adjoining room with the appropriate music pumping out at high decibels. Preferable to the inane commercial radio station that occasionally pollutes the air until someone complains. I blank the music out and concentrate on finding a rhythm. I broke into a light sweat, which is about the time the ideas come. It’s nothing to do with endorphins because by then I’m feeling the pain.
    I ran the case over in my mind, recalling the conversations as I’d written them up and the connections and associations. I sweated, but nothing came except the renewed conviction that Pixie Padrone and Karl Lubeck felt like the keys to the whole affair. Neither of them was old. To judge by Roma Brown’s account, Lubeck was in good health, and when last heard of Pixie was in the pink. They should both still be alive, but where? With sweat running into my eyes I looked up at the bank of television sets I usually ignore. One was tuned to CNN and George W Bush was stumbling through a speech. I hoped to hell they hadn’t gone to America.
    I got home with that depressing thought in mind but my mood lifted immediately when I found that Lil was back. We had a shower together and went