Wet Graves by Peter Corris

a few new customers drifted in and took her attention. The coffee was a bit weak but acceptable. “Sane, balanced, contented people don’t disappear for no reason,” I said. “Either they fall victim to some random, senseless force or there’s something in their lives, their backgrounds, that … removes them from the scene.”
    â€œYou mean, makes them run away, change their names?”
    I shrugged and drank some more coffee. “That sort of thing. You haven’t tried your coffee. It’s okay.”
    â€œI don’t want it. I want another cigarette.”
    â€œFight it.”
    â€œKnow all about it, do you?”
    â€œNot about moderation, just quitting.”
    She drank some of her coffee. “I couldn’t, not possibly. Well, I hadn’t ever thought about Brian in the way you say, about a random act or a reason for disappearing. I don’t know what to think.”
    â€œYou can’t recall anything he said, or anything you overheard, or half-heard, that suggested some problem in his life? Past or present. Some … disorder? What about his marriage? Any threads?”
    â€œNo. He spoke about his wife a few times, but there was nothing to suggest that it wasn’t just a sad event in the past. Normal, almost.”
    I nodded. That was the word I had hit on when looking through the flat. “What about the daughter?”
    Suspicion flared. She lowered her cup. “She hired you, you said.”
    â€œIt’s been known. You hire someone like me, but you don’t give the real reasons.”
    Dell Burton shook her head. “Nothing. He’s a nice, funny, warm man. Good in all sorts of ways. Good for me.”
    â€œYou’ll have to forgive me, Mrs Burton. This is where it gets personal, and I have to be blunt. If you walk out, I won’t try to stop you.”
    â€œYou’re softening me up in advance.”
    â€œMaybe. I can see that you’re an intelligent, sophisticated woman. Perhaps a bit selfish.”
    â€œThat’s fair.”
    I put the coffee cup between her and the question. “Why didn’t you leave your husband for Brian Madden?”
    She lifted her cup. We were like two fencers, feinting. “He didn’t have any money.”
    â€œYour husband does?”
    â€œLots.”
    â€œI don’t believe you. I don’t think that’s the reason. Why?”
    She put the coffee cup down and lit another cigarette. I didn’t say anything. Like the government that collects taxes on the stuff, I could see the benefit. “You’re right. There was something strange about Brian. Nothing sinister, like you’ve been suggesting.”
    I wasn’t aware that I’d been suggesting anything sinister. Maybe that feeling I’d had in the flat was seeping through. “Tell me,” I said.
    â€œBrian wasn’t completely grown up. I know he’d been widowed and raised a child and held a responsible job and so on, but there was something boyish about him. Attractive, you understand, but …”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œNot very helpful?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m all at sea when it comes to psychology. Have you any idea why he was like this?”
    â€œWas?”
    â€œIs.”
    â€œNot really, unless it’s that he lived in the shadow of his father, who was one of the chief engineers for the harbour bridge. I gather that there was some pressure on Brian to become an engineer, but he wasn’t interested. His father was a strong personality, apparently. I suppose being a builder of the bridge was a pretty big deal back in the thirties and forties.”
    â€œI suppose. I guess fathers have to do something.”
    â€œMmm. Mine made a lot of money. What did yours do, Mr Hardy?”
    â€œNothing to be ashamed of,” I said. “That’s all you can tell me, Mrs Burton?”
    â€œThat’s all. What d’you think can have happened