The Other Side of Sorrow by Peter Corris Page A

long,’ he said. He explained that the Tadpole Creek protest was a puzzle to the Olympic organising authorities and particularly to Millennium Security. He described the creek as ‘a puddle’ of no environmental value, although he admitted that it was an oversight that it hadn’t been included in the original environmentally sensitive plan.
    â€˜I won’t pretend this has been well-handled,’ he said. ‘When they saw that they’d slipped it up they tried to tidy things away sharpish. Crudely. This protest surfaced and we’re in the spot we’re in now. Somehow they got some mad judge to issue an injunction. It’s crazy.’
    â€˜Look, I’m not really interested. I …’
    â€˜There’s someone behind it,’ Smith continued. ‘Someone with money. That protest is being funded from somewhere. Food, equipment, vehicles, legal fees. Someone’s backing the whole thing and we don’t know who or why.’
    I shrugged. ‘You must have the resources to find out.’
    â€˜The way to find out is to get someone inside the protest. It seems you made a big hit with them.’ He opened his satchel and took out a notebook. ‘I’m told you had a long conversation with the sister of one of the leaders. That’s Tess Hewitt, sister of Ramsay. This is after you jumped the creek.’
    For my own reasons, I was interested now. ‘Who’s the other leader?’
    Smith didn’t need to consult his notes. ‘Damien Talbot. He’s a sort of environmental terrorist—the kind who drives spikes into logging trees. That kind of thing. He’s also got convictions for drug offences and criminal assault.’
    Just for a minute I was tempted. I’d heard of Millennium. They were international, of course, wielded influence and paid top money. But I smelt several rats. The theory that I was well-placed to infiltrate the protesters was only half-convincing at best. Millennium should’ve been able to come up with better strategies that that. Then there was Tess Hewitt and the warmth I’d felt from her. Not to be discounted. Also, I’d begun to focus in on the Meg French matter with all its emotional complications and I work best when I’m single-minded. Double-minded maybe. Triple-minded, never.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got something serious in hand and the protest is very peripheral to it. If that. I’m not interested.’
    â€˜If it’s a question of money?’
    â€˜No.’
    Smith sighed and put his notebook away. ‘Then all I can do is advise you to do as you say—leave those idiots to their fate.’
    I had to admire Hargreaves and Kamenka. Neither had said a word. Now both stood in mute and effective demonstration that the meeting was over. I stayed where I was.
    â€˜A threat of legal action brought me here, Mr Smith.’
    Smith had half-left his seat. Now he stood and moved towards the door. ‘Hardly a threat and I think we’ve resolved the issue.’
    â€˜I like a quiet life, too,’ I said.
    â€˜Do you? I doubt it.’
    And that was that. On consideration, Smith impressed me as an honest functionary. Maybe there
was
a mystery about the backer of the protest. Maybe I could ask Tess Hewitt about it.
    The information began to come in soon after I reached my office. Damien Talbot was twenty-six years of age. Born in Petersham, he had suffered a childhood accident that had left his right leg slightly shorter than his left. He wore a built-up boot but walked with a limp. He was 185 centimetres and 75 kilos with fair hair, blue eyes and pierced ears. He had attended state schools in inner Sydney and done one year of an acting course at NIDA then dropped out. Some time later he’d enrolled in a TAFE Environmental Studies course which he’d pursued for two years without completing the required written work. Addresses in Ultimo,