Saving Billie by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online

office and back as it suits me and them. That’s it,’ she said. ‘I phone out for groceries, grog and pizza.’
    â€˜What about when you meet up with Mr X?’
    â€˜Oh, I’d be safe enough with him.’
    I left and went to the gym for the lightest of workouts and a long soak in the spa. Back in the office I worked the Internet and the phone. I discovered that Liston was officially one of the thirty most disadvantaged postcodes in the country according to a sociological survey. The suburb had been named after a local farm and had become a dumping ground for battlers needing Department of Housing help in the eighties. Back then, it was at a distance from Campbelltown—out of sight and mind. It had a very high level of unemployment and welfare dependency and a considerable Aboriginal population.
    I had contacts in the parole system and social services and from some of them I got a picture of how the place had changed in recent years.
    Terri Boxall, a parole officer, said, ‘It was a shithole to start with. One of those good ideas gone wrong. They built the houses cheek by jowl all facing this big open parkland with virtually no private space per house. The dead-end kids turned the open space into no-go areas and the rest of the people huddled inside by the tele drinking and producing more dead-end kids.’
    â€˜You imply it’s got better.’
    â€˜It sure has. The Department turned the houses around—remodelled them so they faced away and knocked some down so there was some private space.’
    â€˜I can’t imagine a government department being that imaginative. Worked, did it?’
    â€˜To an extent, but the big thing was the introduction of the Islanders.’
    That got my attention. ‘Islanders?’
    â€˜Samoans, Tongans, Fijians. They sorted out the car thieves, burglars and yahoos. They’re churchy, you know? Law-abiding, despite their problems.’
    â€˜When was this, Terri?’
    â€˜It’s been progressive. Probably started eight, ten years ago.’
    â€˜That could fit.’
    â€˜What’s your interest, Cliff ?’
    â€˜I’m looking for a woman named Billie Marchant. Ever heard the name?’
    â€˜Sorry, no.’
    â€˜I know she’s got friends out there, and she’s got a kid and I’m assuming she’s in touch with him. I don’t know how old he is—maybe fifteen, maybe more. In a photo he looks to be black.’
    â€˜What’s his name? Are they in your kind of trouble?’
    â€˜No, not directly. I just might be able to help them. Hard to say at this point. I don’t know his name.’
    â€˜Good luck. Tell you what, there’s a sort of community protection set-up there. I’ve got a few . . . clients in Liston and these people help me keep tabs on them from time to time.’
    â€˜Community protection?’
    â€˜Civil rights fundamentalists might call it vigilantism. I wouldn’t. Have a word with John Manuma. Mention my name.’
    â€˜Got a phone number?’
    â€˜He wouldn’t be interested in talking to you on the phone, Cliff. You’d have to front him, face to face, as it were.’
    â€˜As it were?’
    â€˜He’s a Samoan, two hundred centimetres or thereabouts.’
    â€˜That tops me by a fair bit. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.’
    Terri told me that the community protection office was a shopfront in Liston’s only commercial centre and that it was staffed by volunteers and open seven days a week, so Saturday wasn’t going to be a problem. I wasn’t going out there today because tonight I was going to keep an eye on Lou Kramer, hoping to find out who her Mr X was. She was playing her game by her own rules, and in mine you just can’t be too careful.
    After a quiet afternoon, I was in my car at 6 pm equipped with field glasses and a camera, stationed across the way from the entrance to the Surrey Apartments.