Itâs just that I have to make the most of this time for my own work.â
âUnderstood.â
She wore loose pants, sandals and a denim shirt. The top of a packet of her anti-smoking gum peeked from the breast pocket. No makeup, hair barely combed. Working, and not bothering about anything else.
âIâll get to the point,â I said. âHave you told anyone about hiring me?â
âWhy?â
Not the answer Iâd hoped for. âBecause I think Clement was behind the attack on me. There was more to it than just Thomas getting even. By the way, does Clement have a son?â
âYes, big lump of a lad, a nasty type, did a bit of mercenary workâJonas Junior.â
âHe was there last night. More or less in control. You havenât answered my question, Lou.â
âI told someone, yes.â
âWho?â
âI canât tell you.â
I drank some coffee and looked at her. She drank and didnât look at me. âWhy not?â I said.
âIâm not supposed to be seeing him. Heâs married and all that.â
âYou think Iâd spill it to âStay in Touchâ?â
She shook her head. âOf course not. Itâs just that I promised him I wouldnât tell anyone. Look, Cliff, I trust him. He wouldnât . . .â
âDoes he have any connection with Clement?â
âI . . . Iâm not sure.â
âCâmon, Lou.â
She wasnât the kind of woman you could push. She flared. âDo you want to back out?â
I looked around the room again. It had the appearance of a journalistâs placeâlots of print, up-to-date media machines, a couple of Whiteley prints and Dupainâs âThe Sunbatherâ on the walls. I finished my coffee and stood.
âLet me see your workroom.â
âShit, why?â
âIndulge me.â
She shrugged and pointed to a half-open door. I went into a room with the blind drawn. Bookshelves, filing cabinets and a big pine table with an iMac computer, printer, scanner and thumb drive lit by a desk lamp. The surface was awash with scribbled notes on post-its, notepads covered with scrawled handwriting, pens and pencils. Squinting in the dim light, I browsed the bookshelves. The Paul Barry best-selling jobs on Bond and Packer; Christine Wallace on Germaine Greer; DâAlpuget on Hawke; Watson on Keating; Knightleyâs A Hackâs Progress; some Richard Hall and a full shelf on African travel, politics and economics. And much elseâBernard Levin, Clive James, David Leich, Paul Theroux, and Bob Ellis. She was a journalism junkie, with a yen to travel.
I turned back to see her standing in the doorway. She opened her hands and did a perfect imitation of the guy in the beer commercial who freaks out his girlfriend in the spa.
âWhat?â
I grinned. âNothing. What you read you are.â
âAnother stolen line.â
âRight. I donât think Iâm getting a fair shake here. Your chequeâs going to bounceââ
âItâll clear tomorrow.â
I ignored her. âYou wonât tell me your deadline; you say Eddie was murdered but the official version is it was an accident; you wonât name your mystery man . . .â
âIâm sorry.â
âTell me the deadline.â
âOh, all right. Iâve got three months to finish the bloody thing and Iâm battling to make it, especially if . . .â
âYou donât find Billie.â
âYes. Are you pulling out?â
âNo,â I said. âItâs personal now.â
5
I told Lou to be careful about where she went and the company she kept. If my suspicion that Clement had tried to frighten me off was right, he wouldnât be beyond renewing his attacks on her. Except that I was an independent operator in a not-highly-regarded profession and she was in the media, the new aristocracy.
âI go from here to the
Caitlin Crews, Trish Morey