Saving Billie by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online Page A

Lovers get together on Friday nights if they possibly can, for however short a time. Husbands tell their wives they have to work late cleaning their desks; working wives do the same. For both sexes there’s the excuse of a drink with the fellow workers. Just the one.
    I came into the business as the no-fault divorce laws were taking away work from private investigators. One or two of what were called ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ cases and it was all over. As a beneficiary of no-fault divorce myself I wasn’t sorry, but it took some zip out of the profession, like the end of the Cold War did out of spying. This was about the closest I’d been to it since those days.
    I was still there at 8 pm with no sign of Lou or a likely candidate for her lover. The few men who’d arrived had either been in the company of other men or women or, in the cases of the two who arrived alone, and whom I photographed, they left again within a few minutes, barely time to have given Lou a peck on the cheek.
    At about eight thirty a silver BMW circled the block searching for a park. The driver made two circuits before a space opened up and he slid the car into it. He got out and approached the apartment building, passing within thirty metres of me. The camera could cope with the dim light and I got a good shot of him in profile. For a nasty split second I thought something had alerted him to my presence because he turned full face towards me, but he was only looking at a skateboarder who’d jumped a gutter with a clatter and a bang and was whizzing along the footpath. I didn’t need another picture because I’d seen him before. He was the man at the party who’d been cynical about the pro-Americanism and speaking style of Jonas Clement.
    He went into the building. I got out of my car and walked past his, noting the registration number. I was back behind the wheel when Lou and the BMW driver came out. She was dressed pretty much the way she had been at the party. He was in a business suit, no tie. Probably passed for casual with him. Out of the tailored dinner suit, with his jacket open, he looked less impressive than he had at the party. He was tall and spindly, but carrying ten kilos he didn’t need, mostly around the middle, also around his face and neck. He had thin, dark hair slicked down and a bustling walk. Lou held on to his arm as if he might get away. They stood on the footpath for a few minutes until a taxi pulled up. He handed her gallantly into the passenger side back seat, then went around and got in beside her. I started my engine, waited, U-turned and followed the taxi.
    The cab cruised down Devonshire Street, negotiated the lights at Eddy Avenue and took George until it turned off towards Darling Harbour. It was a slow run through heavy traffic and easy to keep it in sight. It pulled up outside the Malaya restaurant at King Street Wharf and the happy couple went inside. Must have had a reservation because the place is packed most of the time and especially for dinner on Friday night. I could’ve gone a prawn sambal myself but I wouldn’t have got a seat and there was nowhere to park. How the other half lives.
    I drove back and found a semi-legal parking place in Chinatown. A short walk and I was at my favourite Sydney restaurant—the Superbowl in Goulburn Street. No problem for a single diner here as long as he’s ready to share a table. I was and got a seat at a table with a Chinese couple who ignored me. As always, the clientele was ninety-five per cent Asian which, to my mind, is the best indication that the food is good. The service is lightning fast as the object is to move people through as quickly as possible and that’s always fine by me if I’m on my own.
    I had what I always have—shredded chicken with salty fish in fried rice and a big glass of the house white. I ate as much as I could manage of the perfectly cooked and blended meal and left the rest