Free Saving Billie by Peter Corris Page A

at a table with a view across some paddocks to the hills.
    My eye was throbbing. I swallowed a couple of painkillers with the last of the middy and ordered another. I bought a packet of chips at the machine and munched them slowly, trying not to be too obvious about watching the woman. Five or six people were in the bar minding their own business. A television set was tuned to the races and I looked up at it from time to time, pretending an interest. With my glass half empty I ordered a gin and tonic, surprising the barman.
    â€˜For the lady,’ I said, pointing.
    He nodded, more interested in the races.
    I had another good, long look at her as he prepared the drinks. Tommy had said she’d looked ill when he’d seen her. Must have made a quick recovery because she looked healthy now. Back straight, head up. What she really looked was angry. She flicked ash from her cigarette without caring where it went and sipped her drink without apparent pleasure.
    â€˜Shit,’ the barman said, and I gathered his horse had lost as they mostly do.
    I took the drinks through to the outside sitting area and reached over her shoulder to put the gin down in front of her.
    â€˜Hello, Billie,’ I said.
    I moved around to face her and she looked at me as if I’d just tipped the drink down the front of her top.
    â€˜My name’s not Billie,’ she said. ‘And who the hell are you?’

8
    I t took us quite a while and another drink to get it sorted out. Her name was Sharon Marchant, and she was Billie’s younger sister.
    â€˜I know we look alike,’ she said after a few preliminary exchanges, ‘but we’re not twins. I’m taller; she’s thinner.’
    â€˜I’ve only seen a photo that goes back a few years.’
    I said I’d followed her from Liston, showed her my credentials and gave her a carefully constructed version of the reason for my interest in her sister. I implied that money could be a factor, but didn’t say how much or how it might be earned. She listened, smoking, drinking. Then I asked the obvious question.
    â€˜So what were you doing in Liston, Sharon?’
    She wasn’t about to jump into anything. ‘Have you got the number for this client of yours?’
    â€˜Sure.’
    She took a mobile phone from her bag and raised an eyebrow. I read off the number from Lou’s card and she dialled it.
    â€˜Hello, Ms Kramer? My name is Sharon Marchant. I’m Billie’s sister. I understand you talked to her not so long ago—that right?’
    There aren’t many things worse than being excluded from a conversation that interests you intensely. I fiddled with my glass.
    â€˜Okay. And you’ve hired a man named Cliff Hardy to help you?’
    The painkillers and the alcohol had cut in. I was feeling competent, in control, and let my gaze wander to the horizon. Maybe the painkillers were having a mind-altering effect because I was suddenly aware of what had been nagging at me since I’d reached Campbelltown. The sky was immense, the horizon far distant and human problems seemed less important than they do in the enclosed environments of the city. Careful, Cliff, I thought, you’ve got a living to earn.
    Sharon closed her phone and picked up her glass. ‘She wanted to talk to you but I said she could do it on her own dime.’
    â€˜My mobile’s in the car. I kind of dislike it.’
    She shrugged.
    I guessed her age at around forty but she was carrying it well. Her figure was firm and her face, though lined, was still taut where it mattered. Those Marchant genes had to be good. ‘Well, I’ll tell you why I was in that shithole. Billie’s there. She’s shacked up with this Tongan arsehole, Yolande.’
    â€˜I’ve heard of him. Some kind of vigilante?’
    â€˜I dunno about that. He’s a God botherer, like a lot of them, and he’s trying to get her off