Free Make Me Rich by Peter Corris Page B

don’t eat lunch,” he said. “How about you?”
    â€œDon’t care. How about some coffee?”
    â€œRight. Can you get through to six without a drink?”
    â€œIf I have to.”
    He laughed. “Same here. But I’m doing it. Worst possible thing for a man in my situation would be to go on the grog. I haven’t done anything about your enquiry yet. Anything new?”
    The kitchen was small compared to the one in Helen’s flat; it was more modern but, oddly, less practical. There seemed to be gaps in the equipment, and a shortage of spoons and crockery which reflected the departure of Nola. The bathroom had a spartan, austere air, and it looked as if the rest of the house would rapidly get that way too. Frank made coffee in a twelve-cup filter machine, and he did it neatly and efficiently, as if he enjoyed it. All Parker’s work that I had seen was neat and efficient.
    He poured two big mugs, set the milk and sugar down on the table and eased down into a chair.
    â€œPretty fair work-out,” he said.
    I put my photographs on the surface and swivelled them around to face him.
    â€œThat’s young Guthrie,” I said. “You’d know Catchpole and Dottie Williams—question is, who’s the other joker?”
    He sipped his coffee and studied the pictures carefully.
    The coffee was strong, but a touch bitter. I wouldn’t have minded some lunch—you can’t be too careful about getting a low blood sugar level.
    â€œHe looks familiar, but I just don’t know. He’s a cop, wouldn’t you say? Or was.”
    I hadn’t considered the “was” angle. “That was my impression. I didn’t speak to him, mind.”
    â€œI’m not surprised. He doesn’t look as if he’d go in for the small talk all that much. Where was this, by the way?”
    I told him about the events of the night before, editing slightly. Parker was smart enough to do his own filling in. My account upset him: I’d seen an academic learn that one of his students was a spook and a union leader find out that his right-hand man was in the pay of the bosses. Frank’s reaction to my tale of the two police types in the Cross affected him the same way.
    â€œYou didn’t hear anything, I suppose?”
    â€œShit, no. I kept my distance.”
    â€œWise. You should know what to look for, did you pick up anything at all from the way they acted?”
    â€œThe dark guy’s the boss. There’s something on between Dottie and the kid—she was feeling his bum.”
    â€œBrilliant. Can I keep one of these?” He took one of each photograph.
    â€œSure. Look, this might be indelicate, but I’m on good expenses for this job and …”
    â€œYou wound me, Hardy. You wound me deeply.”

8
    We left it that Frank would get in touch with me as soon as he had anything useful. I told him I’d have a word with Tickener about a former senior police officer prepared to make revelations. I couldn’t tell whether or not Parker was serious about that; it would have gone against at least one of his prejudices—a belief that all journalists were frustrated somethings-else; and therefore untrustworthy. The tennis, the lunch-skipping and the abstinence suggested to me that Parker had action in mind rather than talk.
    When I got back to Glebe it was after four o’clock, much closer to six than twelve and, therefore, by that logic, time for a drink. I changed my underwear and socks and tucked the denim shirt into my pants—a complete re-vamping of the wardrobe for me. The gun was in a clip under the dashboard of the Falcon. I was working on a big white wine and soda, sucking at the ice, when the phone rang.
Helen Broadway
, I thought, no, not yet.
    â€œHardy? This is Paul Guthrie.”
    â€œYes, Mr Guthrie?”
    â€œRay’s been here. Everything’s a shambles. Could you come