Free The Dying Trade by Peter Corris

business to Mark quite a bit. In bed mostly, and he gave me the gist of what it was all about. He was involved in land and property speculation. He got tips from people in high positions and he profited from them. He paid off the people who gave him information, in cash sometimes, more often in land and shares. Sometimes the payments came years after the deal, sometimes the kick-backs went to the wives, you understand?”
    I did. If I’d got any kick-backs when I’d had a wife I’d definitely have seen that they went into her Swiss account. But the only kick-backs I’ve ever had have been of the in-the-teeth variety. I finished my drink and signalled for another. Ailsa’s had scarcely lost a drop.
    She went on: “Sometimes he told me names, but not often. Sometimes it was obvious to me who he was talking about even if names weren’t mentioned. It became a bit of a game with us, a sort of Mata Hari thing, a bedroom game. I’d probe and he’d be indiscreet.”
    â€œIt sounds like a bloody dangerous game to me,” I said.
    â€œIt turned out to be. Mark roasted me a couple of times when I let a name slip in company, when I’d had a bit to drink. I watched myself after that. Mark would say that he had things on everyone, there was no one who had anything on him that he didn’t have something on in turn. When he was low he even told me that he had something on his children, he never said what, and something on me. I didn’t understand and I didn’t want to. I used to try to pass it off as a joke. That was hard because Mark didn’t have much of a sense of humour, like Susan. He had a dramatic sense, our bedroom spy games showed that, but that’s about it. Jokes for him were visible, practical things. You know what I mean?”
    I nodded. “Yes. I’d say Bryn’s a bit that way too. Speaking of the practical-minded, did Gutteridge keep records of his deals?”
    â€œI’m not certain but I think so. I’ll get to that.”
    She drank down the tonic and lemon peel in a few gulps and refused another. I accepted the wine list, a little early perhaps, but busy people often eat early lunch I’m told. Ailsa sent the waiter for cigarettes and tore them open untidily as soon as they arrived. When she had one lit she went on.
    â€œI used to see Ian Brave occasionally, have a drink with him. I didn’t need him as I had before, but he was a confidant of sorts and I still didn’t have any friends to speak of. I had problems with Mark’s children and occasional bouts of depression. I went to the theatre with Brave twice. The second time he doped me.” She sucked in her cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thin, vicious jet. “He took me back to his place—not the clinic, a house he has on the beach. He put needles into me, he questioned me for hours and hours. You can guess what about.”
    â€œYeah. Where was your husband then?”
    â€œAway on business, interstate. He often was. When I came out of it, some time early the next morning, Brave told me what I’d told him. That is, he gave me some snippets, about big names. He thanked me and told me to forget what happened. He said he’d leave me alone.”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    She stubbed the cigarette like it was her last and she was giving it up for life. Except that she lit another straight away.
    â€œOh shit. He had some pictures. Are you with me?”
    â€œPhotographs?”
    â€œRight. He used them to keep me quiet and he used the information I’d given him to blackmail Mark to glory.”
    â€œDid your husband suspect that you were the source of Brave’s information?”
    She fiddled with the cigarette and lined up a napkin, an ashtray and her lighter on the table. “I’m not sure,” she said, “I suppose so. He became morose and withdrawn. I couldn’t reach him, no one could. My feeling is that