Free Salt and Blood by Peter Corris Page B

but I didn’t. I hadn’t the heart. She was smartly turned out again though less formal than last time. Her hair gleamed; her clothes became her; she smelled good, but it was more a matter of the way she moved and the gestures she made. A survivor of a few relationships, I knew the signs. No matter how intelligent and wary, a woman who’s interested in a man gives off certain vibes. The object of her affection may not pick them up but an observer, especially a slightly jealous one, can.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing. I’m off to see this bloke who may possibly have been the shooter and …’
    â€˜You didn’t tell me about this.’
    I grabbed my keys. ‘No time. Rod’ll fill you in.’
    Glen put the bullet in the pocket of her pink linen jacket. ‘I’m right. You are shitty,’ she said.
    Douglas A. Schirer, PEA, advertising himself in the Yellow Pages as ‘former NSW Police Service senior detective—3 citations for meritorious action’ plus ‘discreet and hi-tech enquiries’, had an office on the Great Western Highway in Five Dock. Not far to go. But Doug’s ad included his phone number, fax number, mobile number and email address. After getting back from the beach yesterday and seeing Rod off to a late afternoon nap thanks tohis Valium, I’d rung the phone numbers and been shunted from one to the other. Then I went to an Internet café and sent Schirer a message suggesting a meeting to discuss a professional matter. He also had a website with his photograph—wavy hair grey at the temples with the regulation copper’s bristly moustache, also with a touch of grey. Hard to judge from a head and shoulders shot, but he seemed to be on the large side; he hailed from the era when there was a height requirement for police. Now I was on my way back to my office to check the state of play generally with my business, but mostly to see if Doug had responded.
    Darlinghurst changes only subtly, a touch here and a touch there. The email addresses and websites have sprouted on every second shop front and I fancied there were a few more fetish clothing stores in recent times. The street people cleared away for the Olympics were back, perhaps in greater numbers. It was said that the safe injecting room had cut down on street shooting-up but I hadn’t been to that end of the Cross lately to find out. St Peters Lane, which my building backs onto, gets a clean-up from time to time but the old look—cardboard boxes, discarded implements, broken plastic milk crates—always creeps back in.
    I went up to the office, checked the answering machine and fax and found nothing important pending. I made a cup of instant coffee and sat down at the computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I examined Lucille Harkness’s letters.
    Rodney
    I can’t take any more. I’m leaving with Rose. Please don’t try to stop me.
    Lucille
    Rodney
    I know you’ve been trying to find me. I told you not to and I mean it.
    Lucille
    Rodney
    Don’t make me hate you. Please. Please. Please.
    L
    Rodney Harkness
    It’s no good. You’ll never understand. I’m sorry but there’s nothing left.
    L
    The script was loopy, almost childlike, and the pressure on the ballpoint pen had varied almost from word to word. The last letter in particular was written in something between script and the printing of individual letters as if the writer was ready to stop at any time. If the police expert said this was evidence of extreme distress I was ready to believe it.
    I folded the letters and put them in a folder with the copy of the contract I’d signed with Glen and the other papers she’d provided. The photographs of Lucille Hammond and Rose Harkness I kept tucked inside my notebook. I turned my attention to the computer and logged on for my email. Along with a routine message from the server, onefrom the bank about getting