Free Sensitive New Age Spy by Geoffrey McGeachin Page B

head’s up highest.’
    ‘You okay for money?’
    He laughed softly. ‘I’m a straight cop with a wife, four kids under two, a mortgage, six maxed-out credit cards and a leased Tarago. I’m bloody rolling in it, mate.’
    I heard a baby start crying in the background and Petersaid, ‘Shit, the twins are awake, gotta go,’ and hung up.
    Peter Sturdee was a little fish in whatever was going on here and he was being hung out to dry as part of the cover-up. That really pissed me off.
    I called Julie’s new mobile number. ‘Looks like they’re planning to scapegoat Peter,’ I said.
    ‘I know, I saw the news.’
    ‘Someone’s got to watch his back.’
    I heard a car door slam and Julie said, ‘I’m in the taxi now.’
    ‘You could be putting your career on the line here, Jules. Officially we’re both off the case.’
    ‘Why don’t you fire up the espresso machine. I’ll be at your place in twenty.’
    My landline rang about five seconds after Julie hung up. I didn’t recognise the number on the caller ID, so I picked it up and said, ‘Alby Murdoch.’
    ‘Oh,’ said a male voice on the other end, and there was a long silence.
    ‘This is Constable Whitfield from the Kings Cross Police,’ the voice continued after the pause. ‘I guess you’re not dead, then.’
    ‘Mate,’ I said, ‘it’s not for the want of a lot of people trying.’
    Since I’d had a couple of glasses of wine, I grabbed a cab. Julie’s taxi was halfway over the bridge when I called, so shehad the driver take the Woolloomooloo exit and beat me to the Cowper Wharf Road carpark by five minutes. I’d had more than enough of the ’Loo for one day, but here I was back again, and trying not to stand in more blood.
    The Navy’s staff carpark is a grim-looking, five-storey concrete building directly opposite the Navy wharf. They’d tried to hide the functional ugliness behind some scrawny trees, but the prolonged drought had given most of the greenery a severe case of death.
    A couple of police paddy wagons were parked on the footpath by the northern entrance, lights flashing, and I was directed up to level three. The dingy grey structure had the usual carpark smell of oil, urine and vomit. Julie was waiting with Constable Whitfield and some crime-scene examiners. She did the introductions.
    ‘Sorry about that phone call,’ the constable said, ‘but your name and phone number were inside his camera bag so I figured…’ He pointed to an area cordoned off with police tape. It looked like there was a severe case of death inside the carpark too.
    From time to time, I get roped in by the Australian Centre for Photography in Paddington to talk about my photography career to photojournalism students, and occasionally I’ll let a promising young talent do some work experience with me. Most recently that was Max Gallagher.
    Max was nineteen, enthusiastic, and had a great beginner’s portfolio. Frankly, all his boyish enthusiasm had beenbecoming a bit of a pain in the arse, but he was committed and he did have a good eye. We’d had our last meeting a month ago and I’d encouraged him to find a project he could put all his energy into. I’d also given him one of my old camera bags. And now young Max was lying face-down behind a pillar in a dingy carpark with a bullet in the back of his head.
    ‘Security guard found the body about an hour ago,’ Constable Whitfield said. ‘He took one look and spewed his dinner all over the hood of some poor bastard’s Datsun.’
    That explained part of the carpark’s aroma.
    ‘Guard reckons he didn’t see him on his rounds, but the doc said the kid’s been dead since early this morning. As it’s a public holiday, I figure Mr Rent-a-Cop wasn’t doing his job with a lot of diligence.’
    ‘Anything stolen?’ I asked.
    ‘There’s no wallet, which is why I was going on the name in the camera bag. But all this camera gear is still lying about and it looks like pretty expensive stuff, so I’d say