Bad Debts by Peter Temple Page A

it on the little finger of his right hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They didn’t. They came to the door at home. It’s just around the corner. My unit. About nine at night. Smelling, reeking of drink, if you don’t mind. One expects more.’
    ‘You assumed they were detectives?’
    ‘Yes. I did. They were, I think. They had that manner. The smaller one took out some sort of notebook. He wasn’t small, mind you. The opposite. Just smaller. He said something like: “It’s in connection with the disappearance of someone you know.
    Ronald Bishop. We’d like to ask you some questions.”’
    I savoured the last of my drink. ‘Can I get the timing sorted out?’ I said. ‘This visit was after the break-in?’
    ‘Two days after. Mrs G and I had spent hours cleaning up and then I came home, utterly drained I can tell you, and I’d had a shower and slipped into a gown and there they were pounding on the door.’
    ‘What did they want to know?’
    ‘Refill time,’ Charles said. His drink was hardly touched but he took both glasses away. I took out my notebook, full of horse observations, and made a few entries. When he came back, Charles sat on the edge of his chair, glass held in both hands.
    ‘All they were interested in, Jack, was what Ronnie had told me about going to Melbourne,’ he said. ‘Names. They wanted to know any names he’d mentioned. And they wanted to know what he’d told me about his life in Melbourne before he came to Perth.’ He leaned towards me. ‘They were very crude, Jack. It upset me. I’m not used to that sort of thing. Not at all. I’d have complained if I’d thought it would do any good.’
    ‘Crude in what way?’
    Charles made sure we had strong eye contact. ‘The smaller one said: “You poofs tell each other everything, don’t you? What did your boyfriend tell you about Melbourne?”
    Those were his words, Jack. Chock full of hatred, I can tell you. Almost spitting. And that is not the nature of our relationship at all. It is not physical.’
    I nodded. ‘How did you respond?’
    He shrugged. ‘I said Ronnie was a good friend and that he told me nothing about his early life and never mentioned names. And I said I’d like to have my lawyer present.’
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    ‘And then?’
    ‘He became quite chummy in a nauseating sort of way and said they didn’t have any more questions. Then he asked if Ronnie had given me anything to look after for him. I said I didn’t want to answer any more questions and he said: “Answer me, cockbreath.”
    Those were his words. I felt scared. I said no he had not and would they please leave.
    And they did. Just walked out without another word.’
    ‘They never said anything about a court case long ago, in Melbourne?’
    ‘No. Nothing like that.’
    ‘Did Ronnie ever speak of giving evidence against someone?’
    Charles was looking into his drink. ‘No. You don’t think they were policemen, do you, Jack?’
    ‘It’s hard to tell, Charles. If they come around again, don’t let them in. Say you have to get dressed, something’s on the stove, anything, and phone the police emergency number and say you’re being attacked. Then phone your lawyer.’
    ‘I don’t really have a lawyer,’ he said.
    ‘Get one.’
    I finished my drink, gave him my telephone numbers, and he gave me his.
    At the front gate, I asked, ‘Charles, would you call Ronnie a trustworthy person?’
    He clicked the gate closed behind me. Another sigh, this one much deeper. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the gatepost.
    ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘He didn’t tell you much, but what he did was almost all lies. Even when it didn’t matter a fig. Variety. That’s all he wanted. New bodies, new sensations.
    Boys. Girls. Didn’t matter to him. He got beaten up quite often. Once in this house by some little thug he was tying up. Face swollen like a pumpkin. Kicked in the head, all the money in the house taken, VCR, CDs. I had to take him to casualty. I thought that