On Cringila Hill by Noel Beddoe Page B

about Jimmy. But, no, Jimmy wouldn’t shoot no one, have any gun, nothin’ like that. Stupid thing to ask.’
    â€˜I’m sorry. Just came into my head.’
    Gordon caps his pen, starts to put his notebook back into his coat pocket. Then he says, ‘Please tell me the name of a friend. A special friend of yours I could talk to, who’d know you really well. I’d like to talk to someone who could tell me a little about you, who you were before this, how you’re doing now. One of your dancing friends? Someone who’s helping you with your maths?’
    â€˜Maybe Yasemin,’ she says, taking her time over the first name, giving it its three syllables. ‘Maybe Yasemin Hindouie.’
    Gordon uncaps the pen, writes the name into his notebook, spelling it phonetically.
    â€˜Luz,’ he says, ‘you’ve been very helpful. I don’t think I’ll ever need come back. I hope I won’t.’
    He draws a card from his wallet and gives it to her.
    â€˜This is how to reach me,’ he says. ‘If people from television intrude on you let me know and something will be done.’
    He nods to her, nods to her watchful sister, rises with some difficulty.
    At the gate he says, ‘Thank you, Samuel,’ and for reply receives an aggressive, sullen stare. He manages the steps to the street.
    In the car, he turns to David Lawrence. ‘Have you ever seen a more beautiful woman than Luz Solomona?’
    â€˜No,’ David Lawrence says. ‘No, I don’t think I ever have.’

Chapter Six
    Yasemin Hindouie is alone in her bedroom. She rises from the mat upon which she’s knelt while praying. She carefully rolls the mat, places it on the second-highest shelf in the bedroom wall. She lifts her leatherbound Qur’an and places it on the highest shelf, above the mat. She sits at her desk, writes down the questions that, later, she’ll discuss with her mother and her father as she reviews her religious study of the day. She picks up a folder marked ‘Legal Studies’, eyes it for a moment but decides to drink a glass of cold water before starting her homework.
    When she opens her bedroom door she is surprised to see that her father is waiting outside in the hallway, seated on a chair from the kitchen.
    â€˜Dadda,’ she says.
    Mr Hindouie is a big man with dark facial skin, eyes nearly black, oily dark hair swept back across his skull.
    â€˜I was waiting,’ he says. ‘I thought you might be at prayer.’
    â€˜I was.’
    â€˜There are two policemen come. They hope to speak with you, about Abdul. They say that this is not to be forced on you but hope that you will agree. I said you’ll decide, you’ve spoken to many police over the last two years and have found it to be distressing and exhausting. They say that they understand, but are hoping that they might see what has happened to Abdul in a new way. My view, they seem quite reasonable people.’
    Yasemin shrugs. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘okay, I suppose.’
    A kitchen table has been placed against a wall in the lounge room. At it Yasemin’s brother works, papers strewn before him. Several booklets are marked, among other things, the University of Wollongong. He winks at his sister as she passes.
    Yasemin opens a screen door and she and her father go out onto the verandah. She sees a man of middle height, only slightly taller than Yasemin herself. He’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt and a tie with a tartan pattern. His face is broad, slightly freckled, his thinning hair is coloured between blond and light brown. He supports himself with one pudgy hand grasping the verandah rail. The other holds, partway up its shaft, a walking cane with a metal handle in the shape of the head of a wild animal. The other, younger man is dressed in a similar manner and stands with one foot on the verandah, one on the topmost step.
    â€˜Yasemin,’ the older