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my phone rang. I grabbed it from my handbag. But it wasn’t ringing, and come to think of it, it wasn’t my ring tone either. It took me a moment to realise. It was the phone I’d been finger-swiping.
    I snatched it off the table. The name flashing up was Jazz .
    I threw in a quick half-mouthful of egg before I answered.
    ‘Yeah, hi,’ I said, doing my best to channel a deep-voiced book basher. When you operate in an investigative capacity, there are occasions when you need to temporarily deepen your voice, so it’s something I’ve taken a more than casual interest in. There’s no entirely foolproof method,but these are the two that work best for me: one: half-swallow a Panadol; the trick is to let it sit at the very top of your throat. Once it’s uncomfortable, and you think you might vomit, make the call; or two: throw in a small mouthful of food. You have to use minimal words and get them out quickly, before choking.
    So it was fortuitous that I happened to have that boiled egg to hand when I grabbed the phone.
    ‘What the hell have you done?’ A female voice on the other end. Familiar, somehow.
    ‘No idea what you’re on about.’ I said. Another quick nibble of egg.
    ‘Where were you last night?’
    ‘Depends who’s asking.’
    ‘You know it’s me, you bastard. Did you…hurt her?’ Her voice was a whisper.
    ‘Who?’ I swallowed. Threw in another mouthful.
    ‘Cass Tuplin, you idiot.’
    She knew my name?
    ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Not a bad effort, if I say so myself: always good to fire out an open-ended question.
    ‘Who knows what you want.’ A pause. ‘Where were you that night, anyway?’
    ‘What night?’
    ‘You know what bloody night. Did you…do something to Natalie? Tell me the truth.’
    Shit, I was onto my last skerrick of egg. I shoved it in. ‘Let’s meet. I’ll tell you everything.’
    A pause. ‘You sound weird.’
    ‘Got a cold.’ I coughed on the egg. ‘Feel like shit, actually.’
    ‘All right. You’ve got five minutes. After my kickboxing practice. Six o’clock tonight. Outside the community centre.’
    ‘Where?’ I croaked.
    ‘Oh for God’s sake. In Hustle, you dickhead.’

7
    I drove along Hustle’s main street, past that damn mural: a multicoloured council-sponsored painting of the Mallee Farm Days. Endless tractors, smiley happy children, contented chooks. No mention of how Hustle stole those Days from Rusty Bore, of course.
    I parked outside the community centre, a red-brick building with a long crack running down a wall; used to be the high school. There’s no high school in Hustle now, these days the kids are bussed to Muddy Soak. But the community centre still has a multitude of uses: community lunches, Men’s Shed, job seekers agency, evangelical meetings, patchwork group, reiki for beginners. And kickboxing.
    It was almost six o’clock.
    I sat waiting in my car and watched the clouds move slowly across the sky: high ice-ripples, white puffs that reminded me of Ernie’s early-morning hair and, lower inthe sky, thick blankets of dark grey. Maybe we’d get rain.
    A few moments later a group of young women spilled down the steps, heading for their cars. One girl lingered, waiting by the entrance. Freckly face, dark hair in a ponytail. She was wearing a huge blue T-shirt and black leggings. She hugged herself tightly, like she was cold, or scared. Maybe both. Not really the kind of demeanour you’d expect of a kickboxer.
    I got out of my car and walked over towards her.
    ‘Jacinta?’
    She turned her head, a quick movement like a frightened bird.
    ‘Cass. I heard you had a break-in. Are you OK?’
    I waved a hand. ‘I’m fine. You should see the other bloke.’
    A quick intake of breath. ‘Oh, did you get a look at him?’
    ‘No, unfortunately. Anyway, I was…just passing and saw you here. Need a lift home?’ I said.
    ‘Err, no. I’m meeting a friend.’
    ‘Anyone I know?’
    She looked everywhere except at me. ‘I doubt it.