Whispering Death Read Free Page A

sister’s out there, right?’
    Grace let pain show fleetingly, evidence of an old heartache, a heroin habit to feed, trying to get back on track but you know how it is. She swallowed, coughed, and managed to say, ‘I see her whenever I can.’
    Steve nodded, still doubtful. ‘Who’s this? Your parents?’
    Grace leaned over the counter, cocked her head at the opened wallet. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜Autumn Years…Where’s that?’
    â€˜Out in Lakes Entrance.’
    He frowned. ‘Not exactly close by.’
    â€˜Can we get on with it?’
    Finch was still looking at the image of Grace and an elderly couple posed before a home unit in a series of home units. ‘You look too young to have parents in a retirement village.’
    Grace shrugged.
    â€˜Sorry, none of my business,’ said Finch, who liked to make her well-being his business. ‘What have you got for me?’
    She described the morning’s takings.
    â€˜Let’s have a look-see.’
    She left the shop first, and drove the Golf to a car park behind an abandoned factory. When Finch arrived in his van, she opened the boot. His face emotionless, he drew on cotton gloves and sifted through the items. ‘No coins, stamps? Those I can always handle.’
    â€˜Not this time.’
    He ran an ultraviolet light over laptop, iPod and cameras. When a name and a phone number showed on the Canon, he thrust it away as if scorched. ‘Get rid of this.’
    She would. Several grands’ worth, into the sea.
    He was frowning at the ground, working out costs and disbursements. ‘I can go two grand,’ he said.
    His tone was always apologetic, but, in Grace’s mind, $2000 was pretty good for an hour’s work, and sometimes he paid a lot more, depending on what she had. The apology also said that he knew how soon she’d run through the money, feeding her habit, but what could he do? He had a business to run.
    She showed him her photographs of the vases and the Whiteleys. ‘I might go back for them one day.’
    Finch gave her a half nod as if to say yeah maybe, if she lasted that long, then counted out her cut in crisp $100 notes. ‘Stay in touch, okay?’
    â€˜Sure.’
    Grace had a landline, an iPhone and several cheap pre-paid mobiles, but no one ever called her, she called them. If someone wanted her, they used the Hotmail account.
    Then Finch glanced around at the cracked concrete wastes and said, ‘Can’t stay, can you?’
    She never had stayed. She didn’t want to have sex with him, or listen to his crap. Clean yourself up, spend time with your daughter, family’s important…
    â€˜What’s the time?’ she asked, as if she wasn’t rejecting him out of hand.
    â€˜Noon.’
    â€˜I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’m having a new fridge delivered.’
    â€˜Fair enough.’
    She pointed the Golf at the city, up and over the West Gate Bridge, but wasn’t going home. Home was in another direction, and she didn’t need a new fridge. She was on her way to the Peninsula town of Waterloo. Out of habit and instinct, she would avoid the toll-roads and drive sedately for the speed and intersection cameras.

3
    The best place for lunch in Waterloo was Café Laconic. Detective Constable Pam Murphy fronted up to the counter and ordered her usual, focaccia and take-away green tea. Grab a napkin, she told herself, you’re wearing a white T-shirt.
    She was walking back to the car when her mobile phone rang. ‘Murphy.’
    It was the duty sergeant, something about a naked woman seen in bushland along a back road north-east of Waterloo. ‘Sorry to do this to you Murph, but I don’t have any uniforms available.’
    â€˜All right, I’ll deal with it.’
    Her Subaru was parked outside the camping shop. She got behind the wheel, demolished her lunch with some nifty finger-and-napkin work, then