The Undertow by Peter Corris

squelching through the thick layer of leaves blown down by the storm. A woman in running gear pushing a pram was moving along at a fast clip, passing the slowcoaches.
    I’d more or less memorised the map and found my way to Glendale Gardens easily enough. The street was upmarket— apartment blocks interspersed with big houses and a couple of high-rent commercial buildings. The Lubitsch place was in one these—a pale blue structure, three storeys, set at the highest point of the street. The front suites on the second and third levels would have a nice view out over the park and the river. Lubitsch was in suites 12 to 14 and it was a fair bet that he’d be up there in front. When you’re at a prestige address you want the best position.
    I walked back to the motel, stopping to buy a bottle of wine and check out the eateries. Plenty to choose from. I’d been hoping the walk would give me some idea of how to tackle Lubitsch, but nothing came. Except this: he was obviously doing well, had acquired a lot, and while that can be a plus it can also be a minus because what you’ve got you don’t want to lose.

12
    I ’d given Frank the phone number of the motel and he rang me when I got back from dinner.
    â€˜Got you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying for a while.’
    â€˜What’s up?’
    â€˜Have you got any grog to hand? As if I need to ask.’
    I had a third of the bottle of white wine left from my meal at a Spanish joint. ‘Yes,’ I said.
    â€˜Pour it.’
    I did. ‘Hate to say it, Frank, but you sound a bit pissed.’
    â€˜I am, Hilde is as well. We’re well into our second bottle of champagne and thinking about a third. Peter’s been in touch.’
    I had a drink. ‘That’s good.’
    â€˜He’s in love.’
    â€˜That’s better.’
    â€˜Yeah, and his girlfriend’s pregnant with twins. Hilde’s over the moon. They’re coming back soon. Shit, I’m rhyming. I am pissed.’
    â€˜That’s great news. When did this happen?’
    â€˜Hilde told me when I got back from meeting you.
    Then Peter phoned again.’
    â€˜I see. And have you . . .?’
    â€˜Of course I have. Hilde was afraid I was hiding cancer from her or something. She’s relieved and she’s fine about it. I mean about the boy possibly being mine. She says I should find out for sure.’
    Yeah, I thought, and what about your attraction to Catherine Heysen? But I said: ‘What effect does all this have on the investigation?’
    â€˜I haven’t thought it through yet, but I want you to go on. If Heysen was railroaded I was partly responsible and I’d like that cleared up. I owe it to the kid whoever’s son he is.’
    â€˜And if he’s yours you’ll want to help him get out of the shitty business he says he’s in.’
    â€˜That’s right, and the same goes if he isn’t. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
    Frank didn’t usually speak in cliches and his voice was slurring. He put Hilde on the line and I made all the right noises. Too many times I’d had to tell a person someone they loved was dead. At those moments the misery fills the air like a mist. This was the opposite and, through the wine and the remains of her German accent, I could hear happiness in every word Hilde spoke.
    That left me alone in a motel room with two-thirds of a bottle of wine inside me and garlic on my breath. I stripped and had a warm shower followed by a cold one. I cleaned my teeth till my gums ached, made a cup of instant coffee and settled down with Stasiland. I was tempted to ring Lily, but that wasn’t the deal.
    I presented myself at the Lubitsch clinic dead on time— shaved, shampooed, neatly dressed and with my documents in hand. The giggling receptionist was a youngish blonde with a lively manner. She was good to look at, had a pleasant voice and was