said.

I had to smile. ‘Are you new at this?’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘The hard stare and the threatening tone. If you really thought I’d killed him you’d hardly invite me here so politely. And if I had killed him would I be likely to leave him with my card, or be hanging about, having chatted to the barmaid like that?’

‘Good point. No, I think we can say we’re asking you to help us with our enquiries.’

‘That’s usually code for being a suspect. You mean in the true sense of the words?’

‘Exactly.’

I had no real reason to be concerned. My client wasn’t compromised in any way. I gave him a selective version of my investigation for Elizabeth Farmer. Farrow took notes but didn’t seem very interested. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t mention Matilda’s interest in buying the Wombarra block, nor Lucas’s hint about why insurance claims are sometimes settled quickly. If there was a connection between MacPherson’s death and the Farmer matter, I wanted to see it for myself before I let the police in on it. Unfortunately, Farrow was a good actor and he’d been faking.

‘You’re full of shit, Hardy. I’ve spoken to a detective at Bellambi.’

‘Barton,’ I said.

‘Right. He says your client thinks her dad was murdered. You go down and sniff around and the guy who sold the insurance on that particular house gets shot after you shout his name about.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I doubt that anything’s ever exact with you. You’re slippery. But we’ll try-what did you want to talk to him about?’

‘Look, I was just going by the book. My client hired me to investigate the circumstances of her father’s death. The death was by fire. The house was insured. So you talk to the insurers. Routine.’

He consulted his notes. ‘You talked to the investi-gator-Lucas. What did he tell you?’

‘Nothing much. He signed off on the claim. Couldn’t find anything dodgy. One thing he told me was how to find MacPherson, which was to hang around in that same pub.’

‘Sounds to me as if you were just going through the motions.’

There was contempt in every syllable and I struggled to keep my response under control. I studied Farrow closely and decided that he knew he wasn’t on firm ground. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Aronson watching us. This wasn’t a confrontation I wanted to lose.

‘I’m guessing MacPherson was a drunk,’ I said as I got to my feet. ‘I’m guessing he was sacked by the insurance company and probably had very dirty fingers in lots of pies. You need to find out who killed him. I don’t. So unless there’s something else, I’m out of here.’

‘Intending to go back to Wollongong?’

‘Are you offering me a lift?’

‘Don’t press your luck, Hardy. Obstructing a police investigation is a crime.’

So it is, I thought, but there’s nothing to say I had to help it along. I left, nodding to Aronson as I went. I had things of interest to report to Dr Farmer but not all of them reflected well on me-to get both the Bellambi cops, who’d played a part in the fire investigation, and a senior Wollongong policeman offside wasn’t good going.

Glebe doesn’t quite have the variety of ethnic food Newtown boasts, but it’s not too bad. After my emotionally stirring time with Marisha Karatsky and a three-round no-decision bout with canny Inspector Farrow, I needed some fuel. I bought a can of Guinness at the bottle shop a block from the police station and took it into the Italian joint across the road where I ordered veal parmigiana. It was the sort of meal I bought to impress women in my brief student days-with chianti and Peter Stuyvesant, the height of chic.

By the time I’d finished eating it was after one. I rang Elizabeth Farmer who told me she could see me between classes a little after three o’clock. Not enough time to reconnect with Marisha. Nothing to do but linger over a couple of long blacks and think. Trouble was, I was trying to think of two matters at the same time and as far as I know that can’t be done. So I just drank the coffee.

Dr Farmer had suggested we meet at the coffee shop just across the Broadway footbridge. Said she needed fresh air at that time of the day. The air wasn’t all that fresh, with the traffic flowing past twenty metres or so below, but the breeze was in the right direction at least. I was there first and saw her walking along beside one of the ivy-covered walls. In long blue coat, scarf and boots she looked the part and it occurred to me that Germaine Greer would’ve walked along the same road, probably dressed in much the same way. Forty years ago. This coffee place wouldn’t have existed, nor the footbridge, but not much else had changed.

We went through the she-sits-you-stand routine, and I asked her what she’d have.

‘Long black,’ she said. ‘I’ll be paying, won’t I? You being on expenses.’

‘I don’t always keep the receipts. Might let you off this one.’

The coffee came in plastic cups but tasted okay. She took a drink and leaned back. ‘Had to get out of that room. It’s a bit claustrophobic.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a touch of asbestos around as well.’

She grinned. ‘Thanks. So, Mr Hardy, how do things stand? But first, what happened to your head?’

‘What?’

‘Your hair’s all matted at the back. I notice these things. I look for bald patches, comb-overs…’

I shuddered. ‘Comb-overs. Yeah, I bumped against a wall. Nothing to do with this.’

‘But to do with something. You’ve got a look in your eye. You’re uppish, despite the injury.’

‘I thought you were a doctor of philosophy, not-’

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Down to tintacks. Shit, what good would tintacks be? Sorry, I’m…Never mind, I haven’t got long, let’s get on with it.’

I filled her in, telling her the things I hadn’t told the police. There’d been no need for her to complete the sentence she’d interrupted. Elizabeth was wired, high on something chemical. There was a brightness to her eyes and a sheen to her smooth skin and her hand, as she raised and lowered the coffee cup, wasn’t entirely steady. Her body was betraying her. Maybe you needed something chemical to survive in the university scene these days. She unwound the scarf and let it hang down. She’d already undone her coat, and now she sat there in a quite cool breeze with nothing between it and her except a silk shirt. But her brain was working and she reacted sharply when I got to the bit about MacPherson being killed.

‘Jesus, is there a connection?’

‘Don’t know. Possibly not. I’d have to find out more about him and what happened.’

‘How would you do that?’

‘I’ve got ways.’

She accepted that but still shook her head. ‘I can’t see it. I can’t see some developer killing two people to get hold of that land. It’s all subject to slip, it’s honeycombed with mine workings.’

‘So Sue Holland said. There’s an entrance on her property.’

She blinked at the name. ‘Mine too. But as well as that, there’s a height limit to any buildings. Where’s the profit?’

‘Why did Matilda offer to buy it?’

‘Just to screw me’s my guess. Pick it up cheap. Although come to think of it, the offer was on the high side. It’s a great spot, as you must’ve seen.’

I nodded. ‘Pretty good. Bit cold under the scarp in winter I bet.’

‘Barbecues, wood fire inside. Lovely.’

‘Could the land have any other value?’

She laughed. ‘I suppose you could grow a lot of dope there, but it’d be a bit obvious. The spotter planes go over all the time and with the yuppies moving in there’d be dobbers galore. In case you’re thinking otherwise, I don’t consider myself a yuppie blow-in. I’ve been going down there for more than twenty years.’

‘You’ll rebuild then?’

‘You bet. Something as close to the original as I can.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I have to get back. You’re not going to stop are you? There must be something behind this.’

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