him.’
‘Thurgood’s supposed to be on leave.’
‘Like fucking hell he’s on leave. He’s out looking for another job. They’re just giving him a bit of time.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks. Look, when did you last see Scott? Was it close to when he got killed?’
‘Brian! Keep moving! Two minutes!’ Coach Parkin shouted.
Roberts signalled with a clenched fist and did a little jog on the spot. ‘Yeah, I saw him at the gym. Musta been only a coupla nights before. He told me what he’d told the lawyer and that everything’d be sweet.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Funny thing, that. He had a work-out, a real hard one. He was a pretty fit bloke but he really pushed himself. Did a lot of that karate shit, you know? I reckon he was expecting to have to fight someone. Jesus, I never thought about that till now.’
I stuck out my hand. ‘Thanks.’
We shook, with him using about five per cent of his strength. ‘Look, if I can help in any way, just ask. I owe that bloke me peace of mind and probably this good knee as well.’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘What’s wrong with your arm?’
‘It’s called a frozen shoulder. Ever had that?’
He laughed as he went into another series of knee bends. ‘No, but I’ve had just about every other fucking thing. You want to come down to the club. We’ve got a real good physio. I could fix it for you.’
He jogged back onto the oval and caught the first ball thrown at him. Then he kicked it out of sight.
There was a message from Glen on the machine when I got back to Glebe-a time to ring and a number. I had an hour to fill in and I did it by having a hot shower, putting an ice pack on the shoulder, drinking whisky and thinking. The two live cases Scott had had on his books seemed unlikely to be connected to his death, but there was still the puzzle of what had happened to his notebook. He’d done some leg and phone work evidently, and he must have made records of the conversations and of his expenses. My interest was in what else he might have written down- say about the passenger in his car when he made the late call to his office or who he thought he might be coming up against that made it necessary for him to brush up his karate.
I phoned Glen and discovered that she was in an Ulladulla motel.
‘You sound funny,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
Glen’s antennae for moods, resentments, misunderstandings are supernaturally sensitive. I had the counter this time though. ‘I’ve got a frozen shoulder.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve heard of the cold shoulder. What’s the frozen shoulder?’
I told her about the injury, not making it clear how it happened. She sounded unimpressed. If you’ve taken a bullet in the arm and come close to losing the use of it a frozen shoulder probably doesn’t sound like much. I mentioned football and physiotherapists.
‘Bloody physios,’ she said. ‘They all vote Liberal. How are you otherwise?’
‘OK. Got your car back. Three hundred odd bucks. I’ve been driving it because the automatic’s easier on the arm. It’s going well.’
‘Good.’
It wasn’t like her to be indifferent to the condition of the Pulsar. ‘Now it’s you who sounds funny. What’s up?’
‘Nothing. I’ll be here for a couple of days. They’ve got a few rookies in the station who don’t know breakfast from dinner. Then I’ve got a bit of time in Nowra. I’d say I’ll be back in a week. OK?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘What’re you working on?’
For the first time in our relationship, I didn’t want to tell her. And I didn’t know why. ‘Just the usual stuff. Bits and pieces.’
She didn’t believe me. I could tell from the pause and the tone of her voice when she spoke again. And I didn’t believe that she was just dealing with dumb rookies in Ulladulla and would need an indeterminate amount of time in Nowra. Glen was normally super-organised; she knew exactly how long she needed to spend doing what, where and with whom.
‘Well, take care,’ she said. ‘See you next week. Love you.’
‘Same here.’
‘Cliff…’
Concern in her voice. A confession coming up? An ultimatum?
‘Don’t forget to feed the cat. There’s some food in the cupboard.’
We rang off more or less simultaneously and I realised that we’d made no arrangement to speak again before she got back. She must have been aware of it too. Bad sign.
11
Ian Sangster had been right about the sleeping. A few pain-killers and a couple of glasses of wine got me under, but I’m a restless sleeper at the best of times and when I rolled onto the shoulder I woke up yelling. I slept in snatches, waking often. If I managed to keep pressure off the shoulder, the arm stiffened up on me. It was a bad night. When I was in the army in Malaya, the brass told us that sleep-deprivation and disruption was one of the ways the Chinese would torture us if we were captured. The other ways involved bamboo splinters and water. Losing sleep sounded like the softest option then, but after this night I wasn’t so sure.
I was glad to see the sky lightening and to hear the cat mewing for food. I found the cans Glen had bought and opened one awkwardly. I didn’t have a lot of gripping power in my left hand. First time I’d ever felt the lack of an electric can-opener. I read the paper, ate breakfast and had a shower as hot as I could bear. The heat seemed to ease the shoulder and allow me a little movement. I stretched it until the pain made me sweat and need another shower. I decided to ignore the injury, use the arm as normal and put up with the pain. I drove the Pulsar into my office, determined to be purposeful and productive, the way all the politicians kept urging us to be.
I put the high-powered Ms Cornwall’s file in an envelope and addressed it. Then I attended to some untidy small matters, putting off the moment when I’d have to decide my next step in the service of Gina Galvani. The phone rang, a further welcome delay.
‘Hardy.’
‘This is Peter Carboni, Mr Hardy- I think it’s time for us to have our talk. I’d like you to come down here.’
‘When?’
‘Why not now?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Let’s talk about it when you get here. I’ll expect you in fifteen minutes.’
‘Make it twenty.’
Visiting police headquarters isn’t one of my favourite activities. There are few pats on the back and, although these days there aren’t usually any whacks over the head either, it’s still an unsettling experience. The difficulty I have is trying to believe that the cops, with all that manpower, firepower, computer power and influence are on the same side as me. I’ve never heard of a private detective becoming a policeman. There’s a certain amount of movement the other way, but the examples aren’t encouraging.
I identified myself at the modernistic reception booth, went through a metal detector, and was escorted up two floors to Carboni’s office. He opened the door for me, nice touch.
‘Have a seat. I hope you don’t smoke. It’s a smoke free zone.’
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘It used to be compulsory to smoke in cop shops.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
Carboni was a smooth number. Above average height, medium build, dark hair and plenty of it. He looked conscious of his neat, pleasing appearance but not vain about it. His office was small and functional with the
