‘Officer Kensington rang to find out who Inger Holter’s visitors had been while she lived here. I told him that I’d been in her room and seen the photo pinned to the wall, and I remembered I’d seen the young guy with the child on his lap.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, the guy was here twice to my knowledge. The first time they locked themselves in her room and stayed there for almost two days. She was very, erm . . . noisy. I started worrying about the neighbours and put on loud music so as not to embarrass them. Inger and this bloke, that is. Although they didn’t seem to be too bothered about it. The second time he was only here for two shakes of a lamb’s tail, then he stormed out.’
‘Did they have a row?’
‘I suppose you could say that, yes. She called after him that she’d tell the bitch what a bastard he was. And that she’d tell some man about his plans.’
‘Some man?’
‘She said a name, but I don’t remember what it was.’
‘And this bitch. Who could it have been?’ Andrew asked.
‘I try not to meddle in tenants’ private lives, Officer.’
‘Excellent beer, Mr Robertson. Who’s the bitch?’ Andrew said, ignoring the previous remark.
‘Well, that’s the point.’ Robertson hesitated as his eyes jumped nervously from Andrew to Harry. He essayed a smile. ‘I suppose she’s important to the case, don’t you think?’ The question was left hanging in the air, but not for long. Andrew banged down the stubby. And leaned into Robertson’s face.
‘You’ve been watching too much TV, Robertson. In the real world I don’t discreetly push a hundred-dollar note across the table, you don’t whisper a name and we don’t each go our separate ways without another word. In the real world I ring for a police car, it steams out here with sirens blaring, they handcuff you, march you off, however ashamed you are, to the car with all the neighbours watching. Then we accompany you to the station and lock you up as a suspect overnight, unless you’ve coughed up a name or your solicitor’s made an appearance. In the real world, in the worst-case scenario, you’re accused of holding back information to cover up a murder. That makes you an automatic accessory to a crime and carries a penalty of six years’ imprisonment. So what’s it going to be, Mr Robertson?’
Robertson had gone pale around the gills and his mouth had opened and shut a couple of times without emitting a sound. He resembled a fish in a tank that had just realised that it wasn’t going to be fed, it was the food.
‘I . . . I didn’t mean to imply that—’
‘For the last time, who’s the bitch?’
‘I think it’s her in the photo . . . the woman who was here . . .’
‘Which photo?’
‘She’s standing behind Inger and the bloke in the photo in her room. She’s the little brown one with the headband. I recognised her because she was here a couple of weeks ago asking after Inger. I called her and they stood on the doorstep talking. Their voices gradually got louder and louder and they really laid into each other. Then the door slammed, and Inger ran upstairs to her room crying. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Would you mind, please, bringing me the photo, Mr Robertson? I have a copy in my office.’
Robertson had become helpfulness itself and shot up to Inger’s room. When he was back, it took Harry no more than a fleeting glimpse to see which of the women in the photo Robertson meant.
‘I thought there was something familiar about the face when we met her,’ Harry said.
‘Isn’t that Mother Kindheart?’ Andrew exclaimed in surprise.
‘I bet her real name is Angelina Hutchinson.’
The Tasmanian Devil was not to be seen anywhere when they left.
‘Have you ever wondered why everyone calls you Officer, as if you were a local bobby on the beat, Detective?’
‘It must be because of my confidence-inspiring personality. Officer sounds like a kind uncle, doesn’t it?’ Andrew said contentedly. ‘And now I don’t have the heart to correct them.’
‘You’re just one big cuddly bear, you are,’ Harry laughed.
‘Koala bear,’ Andrew said.
‘Six years’ imprisonment,’ Harry said. ‘You liar.’
‘First thing that came into my head,’ Andrew said.
17
Terra Nullius
IT WAS POURING in Sydney. The rain was hammering down on the tarmac, spraying against house walls and in barely a minute forming into rivers running alongside kerbs. People dived for shelter in squelching shoes. Some had obviously listened to the morning weather forecast and were carrying umbrellas. Now they were springing up like large, colourful toadstools in the streets. Andrew and Harry were in the car waiting at the traffic lights in William Street by Hyde Park.