The Undertow by Peter Corris

the first time senior police kept secrets from juniors. Not always dodgy either. There can be valid reasons. But this sounds strange. You believed him?’
    â€˜He wanted the money like a dog wants a bone. He needed it.’
    Frank said he hadn’t a clue what the hidden information might be. He hadn’t been full-time on the Heysen case but he’d attended most of the briefings and thought he was in the picture. I said it was an angle I’d have to do some work on. He sounded depressed when he responded—understandably, thinking back to the state of the police force in those days—so I didn’t tell him his information on the other detectives was out of date.
    â€˜How’s Hilde?’ I said.
    â€˜Okay. I’ll put her back on. She wants to talk to you.’
    That was a worry—had she twigged that something was being hidden from her?
    â€˜Cliff, I just wanted to know if you were still with Lily,’ she said.
    â€˜Ah, the word with doesn’t quite cut it. She’s still staying here while her place gets fixed up. She’s away at the moment, in Adelaide. But . . . it’s going well.’
    â€˜Good. Bring her over for a meal.’
    I said I would and rang off.
    It was interesting that Padrone’s medical records were missing. Interesting, but what it pointed to I had no idea.
    I rang Catherine Heysen.
    â€˜Mrs Heysen, Cliff Hardy. I’m wondering if you remember a woman named Roma Brown.’
    â€˜No.’
    A minion, not worth remembering.
    â€˜She was the receptionist at your husband’s surgery.’
    â€˜Oh, yes. I remember now.’
    â€˜Do you happen to know where she lived? I want to talk to her. Perhaps your husband had a Teledex or something?’
    â€˜He did. The police took it and never returned it. But I remember that she lived very close by. The surgery was in Crown Street, and I recall Gregory saying she was never late because she lived just around the corner. He was a stickler for being prompt. But what street he meant I don’t know.’
    â€˜Thank you. That’s a help.’
    â€˜Have you made any . . . progress?’
    â€˜I hope so. Goodnight.’
    I brought my notes and expenses up to date. Fifty bucks for Rex Wain. No receipt.
    That night the storm picked up again and the branch I’d sawn at came crashing down. The noise woke me and I checked on the window. Intact. I made a mental note to retrieve the ladder and do something about the branch, but my mental notes don’t always get acted on.
    Next day I located an address for Roma Brown in a mid-1980s electoral roll in the Mitchell Library. The address checked with one of the many R. Browns in the phone book. She was in Burton Street, which meets Crown just below Oxford, so it all fitted. I rang the number without expecting to get her in business hours but she answered. I explained my call by saying that I was working with a police officer writing a book about some of his old cases, such as the murder of Dr Bellamy, and wanted to tie up some loose ends. She gave a little yelp of pleasure.
    â€˜I’d be delighted to see you, Mr Hardy. I haven’t got many distractions these days, apart from my little hobby. When do you want to come?’
    I was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump away, so we agreed on half an hour to give me time to find a park. The block of flats dated back a bit, to the sixties maybe, with the plain lines and absence of extra comforts of that time. No balconies. I buzzed her flat and she released the heavy security door. I ignored the lift and went up the four flights of stairs for the cardiovascular benefit. At her door I buzzed again and she opened it with the chain on.
    â€˜Mr Hardy?’
    I looked down. She was in a wheelchair. I showed her my PEA licence and she undid the chain.
    â€˜Do come in.’ She backed the wheelchair expertly and we went down a short passage to a small living room with a minimum of furniture to