Salt and Blood by Peter Corris Page A

anything I could take to Dr Weir. I didn’t like shelving the question of the runaway love birds, but Hughes’ message had a certain urgency. I dug out my notebook, looked up the scribbled note and rang him. He lived in Lakemba and we arranged to meet at a coffee shop in Haldon Street in an hour.
    I shaved, put on a clean shirt and went out to the car. Then I cursed myself and went back into the flat to check whether Glen had sent a reply to my email. Nothing. The wind had died down, leaving a clear sky and clean air that quickly became a memory as I went west and battled against heavy traffic going in several directions. Lakemba, with its concentration of Muslim and Asian migrants, has been an unquiet place for some time and more so since the attack on New York and Washington. According to newspaper reports, the initial unthinking racist reaction has died down but it simmers.
    Early as always, I parked a couple of blocks from the number on the street Hughes had given me to kill some time and look the place over. I hadn’t been there in quite a while and in this business it pays to stay abreast of the changes. There were plenty—Arabic and Korean contended for dominance on the shopfronts and hoardings and beards and veils were prominent on the street. I couldn’t help liking it—the change from the blandness of the eastern suburbs in my youth andthe uniformity that still prevails in the privileged parts of Sydney. But I could feel the pressure: some of the bearded men were unfashionably fat but prosperous-looking, and a good many of the Anglo-Celtic youths were thin and poor and with many of the thin, light-boned Asians it was hard to tell.
    The coffee shop had an outside pavement area with tables and shade umbrellas. I told them inside that I was waiting for a friend and that I’d order when he arrived.
    The woman behind the counter wore an abbreviated version of the female Arab costume but she said ‘No problem’ like a true Aussie. I took a seat and watched the passing parade. I was considering trying to phone Glen’s house and the Bondi flat when a wheelchair rolled up beside me. The occupant was a man a good deal younger than me with wide shoulders and a deep chest. His face was lean and hard. He looked as if he could throw a discus or put the shot out of sight, but he was anchored to the chair. He stuck out a big hand.
    â€˜Mr Hardy? Frank described you. I’m Brett Hughes.’ We shook hands and he wheeled himself in close to the table. I ordered two coffees and, remembering that I hadn’t eaten anything that morning, a toasted sandwich. He didn’t want to eat.
    â€˜Strict diet,’ he said. ‘Big danger of this kind of life is getting fat. I swim and work out but nothing beats normal movement.’
    I nodded. ‘Frank said you took a bullet.’
    â€˜Two actually. Zapped my spine. Did he tell you I got the guy who shot me?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜He’s dead. I’m not. I win.’ His grin took the bitterness out of it and I admired him. The coffee and the sandwich arrived and we went through the ritual of drinking before talking. I started eating because I figured he wanted to have first say.
    â€˜I was interested when Frank Parker phoned me. I’d always been curious about that Harkness business. I arrested him, you knew that.’
    I nodded, said nothing.
    â€˜Yeah, he’d beaten the living shit out of this guy in a pub. I just happened to be there. Wasn’t on duty. I was super fit in those days and I’ll tell you it took me all my time to get him under control. When we got to the lockup he broke free and took to one of the officers there. Tough bloke but Harkness put him in the hospital, multiple fractures. Again, it took three of us to subdue him.’
    I finished the sandwich and the coffee. ‘Most of this is new to me,’ I said. ‘I mean the detail. But I had the gist. When you say you were