Man in the Shadows by Peter Corris

locations, high enough to command a good look at the water and with its fair share of waving trees to shut out the less salubrious views. The parking bay allotted to Apartment 5 held a red Mazda coupe.
    There was no point in being subtle about it. No reason to throw pebbles at windows or climb up the ivy on to the balcony. There was no ivy anyway, and the balcony to Apartment 5 was ten metres up. I went through the glass door into the lobby and climbed the stairs. I knocked at Number 2. A middle-aged man in a cummerbund and dress shirt came to the door and said his name wasn’t Williams and that he didn’t know any Williamses in the block.I thanked him after getting a good look at the security chain: not much good—a heavy shoulder, properly delivered, would tear it from the frame. I hoped my stiff neck wouldn’t hold me back. Up another flight to Number 5; I listened at the door—music and talk. I smelled marijuana smoke. Hardy, with all senses on the alert.
    I took out the gun and held it low and out of sight. I knocked and pressed my ear to the door. The occupants didn’t fall silent or start cocking machine guns. The door opened ten centimetres and I saw a small woman with a mass of curling, red-gold hair.
    â€˜Barbara-Ann?’ I said.
    Her pupils were dilated and her eyes were red the way some pot smokers’ get. ‘Mmm,’ she said.
    I hit the door with everything I had. The chain tore out and the door flew open whacking her in the knee and hip. She staggered back and I bullocked through the opening. I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the short passage to a living room with a white carpet, white leather and chrome fittings and air like at a NORML smoke-in. There were two men in the room, stoned and slow-reacting. One wore his shirt collar turned up. He was the pale-faced driver of the Mazda.
    â€˜Hey, what’s this?’ he said.
    I shoved the woman into one of the white chairs and stood behind her. She swivelled around to look at me. That made three pairs of eyes focussing on the .38. Paleface was half out of his seat; I waved him back down. The other, a flabby-faced kid, dropped the fat, smoking joint on the carpet.
    â€˜You’d better pick that up or you’ll have a nasty burn there,’ I said. He bent slowly and recovered the cigarette.
    â€˜We don’t want any trouble,’ the woman said.
    â€˜Neither do I.’ I moved around and stood to one side from where I could have shot any one of them except that none was moving a muscle.
    â€˜I know you,’ Paleface said.
    â€˜You’ve seen me. I wouldn’t call it a relationship.’
    â€˜Who is he?’ The woman was recovering fast; she was slim and lean, like a gymnast, about thirty and with small, hard eyes behind which a lot of fast thinking was going on.
    â€˜My name’s Hardy, Barbara-Ann. I was a friend of Annie Parker. I’m here to invite you all to her funeral.’
    â€˜We don’t know anything about that,’ Paleface said.
    â€˜Shut up, Vic,’ Barbara-Ann said.
    â€˜No, I want to hear about it. I want to hear about how you took her some smack and she OD’d on it. I want to know why.’
    â€˜We didn’t . . . we didn’t!’ The kid’s voice was shrill. ‘You saw us drive off. We didn’t come back. We just . . . ’
    â€˜That’ll do then,’ I said. ‘You just what?’
    â€˜Watched your joint.’
    â€˜And what did you see?’
    Barbara-Ann and Paleface Vic both looked at the kid. He found some courage among the fear somewhere and clamped his jaw. Barbara-Ann stirred in her chair.
    â€˜You can just fuck off, whoever you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got no business here.’
    â€˜I’m a Federal policeman, Barbara-Ann. I’ve got business everywhere.’
    â€˜See!’ The kid yelped as the burning joint singed his fingers. He dropped it on the