Saving Billie by Peter Corris Page B

for you, Mr Hardy?’

6
    T erri Boxall phoned me about you.’ .
    Now we shook hands. As well as being taller than Terri had said, he had considerably more than a hundred kilos with it. He wasn’t particularly friendly and his big, broad face wore a sceptical look as I gave him a version of the story.
    â€˜Lot of people out here, brother. Lot of coming and going.’
    I read off the address where Lou had talked to Billie Marchant. I’d driven past it—indistinguishable from dozens of others, perhaps a bit more rundown looking than most. ‘D’you know the people there now?’
    He shook his massive head. ‘Nothing comes to mind.’
    â€˜Terri said she thought you’d be helpful.’
    â€˜She shouldn’t have said that without me hearing your story first.’
    â€˜You’ve heard it now.’
    â€˜Yes, and I reckon it’s a lot of nothing. I don’t think there’s anything here for you, Mr Hardy.’
    He gave me a hard stare, then looked over my head at whoever was next in line. Not hard for him to do; sitting down, he was bigger than me in every way. His hands, on the paper-strewn desk, were the colour of teak and the size of shovel blades. He oozed impatience and aggression, and the combination lifted me out of the chair as if a hook had taken me by the collar and swung me aside. It was a new experience—being dismissed with a curiously strong element of indifference. I left the room struggling to maintain dignity.
    I learned long ago not to expect things always to turn out well, but a knock-back of this intensity took me by surprise. I wandered out into the sunshine and stumped up the steps to the car park. I hadn’t replaced my sunglasses and was slow to adjust to the bright light and was almost run down by a cruising police car. I stepped back just in time and swore. An Islander woman standing nearby gave me a dirty look. All in all, it wasn’t a good start to my work in Liston.
    I went back down to the shopping area and took another look at the liquor store. Still closed. I went into one of the all-purpose shops where three immense Polynesian women were sitting chatting while cooking something on a portable stove.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ I said, ‘can you tell me when the bottle shop opens?’
    â€˜Closed,’ one woman said.
    â€˜I know, but when will it be open?’
    â€˜Closed for good.’
    â€˜Why?’
    She shrugged and they went on talking as if the subject was of no interest. What they were cooking smelled delicious, but the shop sold vegetables, clothes, shoes and other things that meant health regulations forbade food preparation. They didn’t look concerned and it seemed that Liston was in some ways a law unto itself.
    I left the shop and a man approached me with a smile on his face, the first smile I’d seen there. Tall, he was Aboriginal, built on a much smaller scale than the Islanders. In his late teens at a guess, and to judge from his clothes—a threadbare T-shirt, dirty jeans and thongs—not doing too well.
    â€˜Think I can help you, brother,’ he said.
    â€˜How’s that?’
    â€˜I was in the office when you was talking to Johnny. I know who lives there.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜At that address you said. And I know the woman you was talking about. I mean, I seen her.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    He nodded his head and his ill-kept dreads bounced. I looked closely at him. Despite the signs of poverty, he didn’t appear to be mentally adrift, drunk or drug-damaged. His eyes were clear and his body was lean but not withered.
    â€˜All right,’ I said. ‘You are?’
    â€˜Tommy.’
    â€˜My name’s Cliff Hardy. You heard what I’m here for. What’re you suggesting, Tommy?’
    He smiled again and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture. ‘You want to talk to the chick, I can