Lugarno by Peter Corris Page A

Tuesday night. The Falcon protested in second gear a couple of times, otherwise, no trouble.
    The Perfect Storm
got me off to sleep in the sense that I had to finish it and by then it was late and I was tired. I made a mental note to catch the movie—it was hard to see how they could fuck it up, but interesting to see if they managed it. There must have been a cool change during the night because I woke up cold under the sheet, pulled up a blanket and slept deeply after that. Too deeply. The ringing of the door bell dragged me up from well down and I was surprised to see that it was close to nine o’clock when I surfaced.
    I hauled the pants of the tracksuit I sleep in when it’s cold up from the pile of clothing detritus that lives in the corner of the bedroom between clean-ups, pulled them on, and went down the stairs to the front door. Pulling on the pants hurt my bruised mid-section and so did going down the stairs.
    â€˜Mr Hardy?’
    A new-breed cop, no question—lean face, blue business shirt, white linen jacket, no tie. I didn’t need the open ID folder to confirm it and didn’t even look at it.
    â€˜Come in.’
    â€˜Just like that?’
    â€˜I’ve had more cops through this door than good-looking women. I don’t like it much, butthat’s the way it is. I’m just up and need coffee. You?’
    I retreated and he came in and closed the door quietly behind him. Nice manners. New breed. ‘Thank you. Hard night?’
    â€˜Up late reading.’
    He took that with a grin and followed me down to the kitchen where I put the coffee on to perk before going upstairs to put on some clothes. The physique these days isn’t so impressive that I can stand around half naked with well-dressed cops and feel in charge. He was sitting relaxed at the breakfast bench when I returned. If he was thirty that was all but he had a knowing look to him that they get after attending traffic accidents and domestics and telling lies in court. The coffee came through and I poured two mugs full. I got milk from the fridge and pushed the bowl of raw sugar towards him.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said. ‘I missed the name. And what’s this about?’
    He wrapped his hands around the mug the way I do myself, whether the morning is cold or not. This morning wasn’t particularly, but it’s a comforting thing to do.
    â€˜Stankowski, Detective Constable. Major Crimes, southern area.’
    I raised my mug in a salute. ‘And …?’
    â€˜Do you know a person named Jason Jorgensen?’
    â€˜Well, I’ve met him. It was just yesterday, so I wouldn’t claim to know him.’
    â€˜What was your business with him?’
    I tried the coffee—too hot for a good slurp but okay for a judicious sip. ‘Come on, Constable. You obviously know the game I’m in. You can’t expect an answer.’
    â€˜I do though. Mr Jorgensen is dead. He was murdered. Your business card was found on his body. So yes, Mr Hardy, I do expect an answer.’
    It hit me harder than I’d have expected. I was still feeling some guilt about hurting the kid and I’d sort of liked him. I’d thought he had promise with his athletic good looks and his mostly polite behaviour. He’d had enough aggression in him to make him a good competitor, and that’s something I admire. Against that, I’d had my doubts about his honesty and had made a mental note to talk to him again. All snuffed out.
    â€˜How?’ I said. ‘And when?’
    â€˜You haven’t answered me.’
    â€˜Tell me a bit about it and we’ll see how far I can do that.’
    â€˜You think you have a choice? You’re not a lawyer or a priest.’
    â€˜I’ve still got a choice. The thumbscrew went out a few years ago.’
    I could tell he’d been considering not drinking the coffee to give himself the edge of austerity and self denial, but he changed his mind