The Other Side of Sorrow by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online

shrewd and for all his youth experienced, difficult to fool. ‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said. I put the can down and pulled the leaflet from my jacket pocket ‘I came across this in the course of my work and was curious,’
    â€˜That jump of yours broke the ice, if you see what I mean,’ one of the protesters said. ‘They’ve shoved off.’
    â€˜Shut up!’ Hewitt smoothed out the leaflet as if it was a cheque in his favour that had got crumpled. ‘Are you with the media?’
    I was tempted to snow him for his arrogance but thought better of it. ‘No. I’m a private enquiry agent.’ I produced my licence but he scarcely looked at it.
    â€˜Another fascist,’ he spat.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m opposed to the third runway. I think.’
    A woman in the group laughed but as a whole they were losing interest. Hewitt turned on his heel again. He was good at that. ‘Piss off.’
    That suited me, more or less. I shrugged and put the leaflet and my licence folder away. ‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘how’m I going to get back over this creek? I hurt my ankle.’
    Hewitt swung back and looked as if he wanted to hit me, but he was smart enough not to. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t surprise me that the security service here’ve set up someone like you to do something fucking flash and infiltrate us. A good long jump. So what? It’s an old trick. It happened …’
    â€˜At the siege of Chicago,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’ve read the Mailer book too.’
    â€˜You make my point. Bugger off.’
    â€˜I’d like to ask a few questions.’
    â€˜Don’t push your luck. No one here’ll talk to you.’
    â€˜You speak for everyone, do you? Who’s the fascist now?’
    He walked away. It seemed to be coffee time and the other protesters were milling round the urn and the microwave, except for a woman who was watching me from a distance. For no good reason I formed the impression that she was the one who’d laughed at my third runway reference. I moved away slightly and she followed. She kept an eye on Hewitt until she saw he was fully occupied in discussion over his precious piece of paper. She approached me with her hand out.
    â€˜I’m Tess Hewitt, Ramsay’s sister. Don’t mind him, he’s on edge.’
    She was in her thirties, tall and athletic-looking in jeans and a denim jacket. She had short blonde hair, brown eyes and regular features. A slight over-bite. Her handshake was firm.
    â€˜He’s too suspicious,’ I said. ‘I’m not what he said.’
    â€˜Then what’re you doing here?’
    I took out the photograph of Eve and showed it to her. ‘A missing persons case. Do you know this woman? Or someone who looks like her?’
    She glanced at the photo and bit her lip. ‘Of course I do. That’s Meg French, the poor thing.’

6
    Her remark jolted me. ‘Why?’ I said, ‘What’s the matter with her?’
    I must have spoken more urgently than I’d intended because she looked at me closely. ‘Now I see it. The slight resemblance. Is there a family connection?’
    â€˜Could be. It’s a long story. But why did you call her a poor thing?’
    She reached out and touched my arm. ‘I was referring to that dreadful boyfriend of hers, Damien. He’s violent and dishonest. I don’t know what she sees in him.’
    â€˜I’ve been told he’s good-looking.’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Certainly he’s that. And bags of charm. He comes across as bright, but I suspect he really isn’t.’
    Generally speaking, I don’t like being touched by strangers, but I didn’t mind at all in her case. There was a warmth about her that was welcome and I was in need of some human comfort. ‘You say he’s violent. Towards her?’
    â€˜I saw him hit her