The Undertow by Peter Corris Page B

maybe his best days were behind him.
    â€˜I don’t want money, doctor.’
    That’s when the poise left him completely. He coughed and spluttered and his wan face turned red. He shuddered and fought for breath. His chest heaved and the soft flesh covering it shook like jelly. I know I can look threatening but this was something else. He was having a panic attack. I grabbed him, pulled his tie loose and popped the top button on his shirt getting the collar open. I pushed his head down between his knees.
    â€˜Stay there and breathe.’
    I opened the bar fridge, got a bottle of mineral water, filled a glass and brought it to him. He was getting some air in painfully. I lifted his chin and gave him the glass.
    â€˜Sip it.’
    He clutched the glass in shaking hands and did as he was told. The flush slowly faded from his fat face and his hands steadied. ‘Who sent you?’ he whispered.
    â€˜We can talk about that,’ I said. ‘When’s your next appointment?’
    He looked at his gold watch. ‘In forty minutes.’
    â€˜That’s long enough. Tell me if I’m right. You’re still doing things you shouldn’t and they don’t always go right.’
    He nodded and took a couple of gulps of the water.
    â€˜Okay, now that’s the sort of thing I want to talk to you about. If you come up with the right answers I just might be able to put your mind at rest. No questions, just answers. Why did you take Michael Padrone’s file along with the others?’
    â€˜Pixie . . . Patricia asked me to.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜She said there were things in it that would make it worse for him.’
    â€˜How could things be worse? He’d confessed.’
    â€˜She said he’d done other things he’d told the doctor about and that if it came out he’d have a hellish time in prison for what little time he had left. Why are we talking about this?’
    â€˜I said no questions. What happened to the file?’
    â€˜She destroyed it and I destroyed the others.’
    â€˜Did Heysen have the same sort of problem you’re facing—dissatisfied clients? Could one of them have framed Heysen? Hired Padrone to kill Bellamy and lie about who hired him?’
    â€˜Easily. I suspected so at the time, which is why I . . .
    made myself scarce.’
    â€˜Names.’
    â€˜It’s a long time ago.’
    â€˜You don’t forget people like that. Especially when you’ve cut into them. I want a list of names of possible candidates for what you just admitted could have happened. You’re almost out of the woods, doctor.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Get your gold pen out of your pocket and write.’
    â€˜I don’t understand. This is twenty or more years ago.’
    â€˜You don’t have to understand. You just have to write.’
    â€˜They’re probably all dead.’
    â€˜That means you remember the names. Write.’
    He took out his pen, pulled a pad towards him and scribbled.
    I said. ‘Capitals.’
    He printed. I took a closer look at the things on the walls—expensive prints of paintings; degrees and diplomas, some American in the name of Lubitsch; photos of the doc when he was less fat with National Party politicians and a gaoled former police commissioner. One showed him standing proprietorially beside a slim blonde woman with a face stretched and frozen like Peggy Lee’s. Her hands, holding a glass and her sequinned bag, were claw-like. Had to be Pixie.
    â€˜There.’ He clicked the pen, tore off the sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk. I looked at it long enough to see that it was legible. One name jumped out at me but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. I folded it and put it in my pocket.
    â€˜That’s it,’ I said.
    â€˜I don’t understand.’
    â€˜You’re repeating yourself. I’m not interested in anything you’ve