‘You’re a star, Hamish. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Hamish and Moss arrived in Adelaide two days later. ‘I’ve booked us into the Grosvenor,’ Moss said as they boarded the airport bus. ‘We have adjoining rooms.’
Hamish felt a stab of rejection. He’d expected them to share a room. There was no particular reason for this expectation other than his wish that it were so. He and Moss had been getting on so well and he thought that this trip might be the catalyst that would move them to the next level. Still, he reminded himself, the rooms were adjoining . . .
After dinner, they stopped in the corridor outside Moss’s door. It’s now or never, thought Hamish as he leaned forward to kiss her lips. To his chagrin, he found himself offered her cheek.
‘See you in the morning, Hamish,’ she said, returning his kiss with a comradely peck. ‘Remember we’re meeting Brenda at twelve thirty.’ She looked at him gratefully. ‘You really are a mate, Hamish.’
Not quite in the sense I’d hoped, Hamish thought peevishly as he unlocked his door. A mate! It wasn’t much fun being Mr Nice Guy. Did he have a sign on him saying, Buddy/Mate/Pal ? A sign that only women could read? He glared at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth with unusual vigour. Women always called on him when they needed something—a tap washer repaired, a partner for a special occasion, a shoulder to cry on after a break-up . . . He was everyone’s ideal friend, and apparently nobody’s ideal lover. He went to bed feeling very badly done by.
Brenda was a full head taller than Moss, with spiky red hair and a pale, pinched face. She was nervous and twitchy, her restless hands moving the pepper mill, the cutlery, her water glass; twisting her bracelet, smoothing her sleeves and folding and refolding her napkin until Hamish felt quite dizzy.
Moss came straight to the point. ‘As you know, we need information, anything you know about a girl called Amber-Lee.’
‘I told the police all I knew at the time,’ replied Brenda, eyes narrowing. ‘But I might have something you’d be interested in. What would you say to a photograph of Amber-Lee’s family?’
Moss leaned forward, eyes gleaming. ‘Go on.’
I hope Moss never plays poker, Hamish thought. He was in a more sanguine mood this morning.
The other woman saw she had the upper hand. ‘I told Vince—he was her pimp—I told him where she hid her things, and he just tipped everything onto the bed. He took the money and left the other bits and pieces. He wanted her stash, but I didn’t know where it was. He beat me up real bad, the fucking bastard. I’d of told him if I knew. Anyway, I don’t know why, but when he left, I took the photo and stuffed it in my bra. That was just before the police arrived, so they didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Why didn’t you give it to the police?’ asked Moss.
‘Why should I help them? Anyway, if I told them I had that, they would’ve thought I took her other stuff.’
‘And did you?’ Hamish felt the need to assert some authority.
‘You a cop or something?’ Brenda scowled. ‘If you must know, all I got was a couple of fucking T-shirts and a poxy dress.’
‘The photo,’ Moss persisted. ‘Do you still have the photo?’
‘Yeah. As a matter of fact I do. Thought I might take it back some day or something. Then Damara said they might charge me—withholding evidence or obstructing the course of justice . . .’ Her exaggerated vowels mocked all poncy lawyers.
‘I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t do that,’ said Hamish.
‘You a lawyer? I don’t want to do anything till I’m sure I won’t be charged. I’ll deny it all. I’m not even sure I know where the fucking photo is now. It was a long time ago.’ She sat back, gauging their reaction.
Moss chose not to believe her. That photo was still in Brenda’s possession. She wanted to see it for herself and also wanted to ensure that it ended up in the hands of the police. Her aim, after all, was to discover the dead girl’s identity. She had a sudden thought. ‘What if I got you some legal advice? Would you hand it over then?’
Brenda couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Sure,’ she said casually. ‘But first we need to talk money. Information doesn’t come cheap.’