13

‘MISS ACHESON,’ I said, catching my breath. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Fancy indeed,’ she said, looking me up and down. ‘Nice night for a jog, detective, but you’re being a bit hard on that suit, aren’t you? I can hear the seams popping from here.’

I looked down at my suit and then back at her. She was silhouetted against the bright lights of a furniture shop, and though I couldn’t see her face, the warmth in her voice told me she was smiling.

‘There’s nothing wrong with these seams,’ I said, smiling back at her. ‘And nothing wrong with the suit, either, for that matter. Here. Have a closer look.’

I rubbed one of my lapels between my thumb and forefinger, and took a few steps towards her. I’d been right about the smile. There was a twinkle in her eye, too.

‘Pure new wool,’ I said.

She was looking at my right shoulder. I followed her gaze to a smear of cobwebs that I’d probably picked up in the garden across from her place. I brushed them off, gave her my best cheesy smile, and continued.

‘This venerable suit is from China, via New York,’ I said, hooking my thumbs under both lapels. ‘Bought off a street rack near Times Square, from some African guy. And, okay, maybe it hasn’t aged that well, but it is my favorite suit. And it’s got a story. Now surely that counts for something.’

She took a step towards me and gave my coat a closer inspection.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said, her brow lined with mock concern. ‘It hasn’t aged that well, has it? But it looks comfortable. And it’s a good fit.’

‘I guess I should say thanks for that.’

‘No, I think you should say, “Would you like to go out for a drink, Jean?” And I’d probably say, “Yes. That sounds like a good idea.” Then I could give you the history of my outfit. So what do you say? Are you up for it? A Guinness at Mad Dog’s?’

‘I’m always up for a Guinness,’ I said, a bit surprised at how quickly things had moved.

We made small talk as we walked around to the square. I asked her if she’d eaten, though of course I knew she had. She commented on the cold. It was the only bad thing about Canberra, she said. I couldn’t help thinking of her down at the lake — especially the look she’d given me. And now this. Was it personal or professional for her? Was it a come-on, or was she just out to pump me for information? Whatever it was, I’d have to let this play out before I could extract myself.

Mad Dog Morgan’s was an Irish pub set deep into the corner of Green Square. It had been years since I’d set foot in the place, but it hadn’t changed that much. It was still dimly lit, with a down-at-heel look. The same oddments of furniture were crammed into the same wooden cubicles, and the same old maps of the counties were fixed to the walls.

A few drinkers were standing at the bar, and a circle of musicians were thrashing out a jig in one of the cubicles. Other than that, the place was empty. I ordered a couple of pints and took them to where Acheson had settled on a church pew near a wall at the back of the place. We clinked glasses, exchanged smiles, and drank to each other’s health.

‘Do you play an instrument, detective?’ she said, nodding in the direction of the musicians.

‘You can call me Darren, if you like, Miss Acheson,’ I said. ‘And I’ll call you Jean.’

‘Darren Glass. There’s something well-rounded about the name. Do you play an instrument, Darren?’

‘I played guitar when I was a kid. Blues and rock — that sort of thing. And a mate gave me a mandolin the last time I was in the States, so I mess around on that a bit now. What about you? My guess is … piano?’

‘No. Violin. I started when I was four. And, yes, my parents were a bit keen. Too keen, you’d have to say, because these days I hardly take the thing out of its case. But I still love music, so no harm done really, I suppose. None that you’d detect, anyway.’

We laughed, raised our glasses again, and drank. The bar was filling up with young people dressed in black. And public servants, still suited-up, kicking off their weekend. A group of young men stared at Jean and made no attempt to hide the fact that she was the subject of their prattle. Then another wave of people swept into the place, including a fiddler, an older guy with a mandolin, and another guitarist. When this trio joined the circle, the tunes sped up, but the music became much tighter somehow.

‘How do you handle the gawkers when you’re out like this?’ I said, indicating a couple of guys who were still ogling her.

‘It comes with the job,’ said Jean, ‘and I love what I do. If that means being treated like a goldfish sometimes, I’ll wear it.’

We listened to the music, sipping stout and keeping time with our feet. Then Jean turned and probed me with those eyes of hers.

‘Darren, I’ve got to ask. Were you out there following me tonight?’

‘No,’ I said, reeling back slightly, as though the suggestion came as a complete surprise.

‘If it was you, I wouldn’t be angry or anything.’

‘I wasn’t following you,’ I said, putting some steel in my voice. ‘I came over to Kingston for some Indian, but I changed my mind and was on my way around here for sushi. That’s when I ran into you.’

She examined me closely for a few seconds, and then she turned away and stared without focus into the distance.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But there was someone out there. Following me. I didn’t see them, but it’s just like people say. I knew they were there — somewhere in the dark, when I was walking to the shops.’

‘Has it happened before? That you thought you were being followed?’

‘Yes. I had the same feeling on Wednesday night when I walked down here. Look, tell me honestly. Was it you out there tonight? I won’t go off at you if it was. I promise.’

‘No,’ I said, staring into her eyes. ‘I was not following you.’

She looked at me doubtfully for a few seconds. Then her eyes softened. My gift for bare-faced bullshit artistry had done it again. I could lock eyes with almost anyone and persuade them that I was telling the truth. It was a useful talent when I needed to convince a suspect that we knew more than we did. It had also proved handy in the odd courtroom situation. Not that I was a chronic liar; I could just be very convincing when I needed to be.

If you’re lying to someone who hates or fears you, or who has a strong interest in proving you wrong, you’ve got to be both convincing and irrefutable. But for a lie to work on a family member, a friend, or a lover, it’s got to be both of the above, and they have to want to believe you. Now, while I hated bullshitting to Jean, I really liked the fact that she wanted to believe me.

My one cause for worry was that she might be right. Maybe someone else was following her. If it was an obsessive fan, as often happened with celebrities, that could be easily rectified. But if it was either of Susan Wright’s killers, their motives would be nothing but bad. Then again, if it was them, their obsession with her was making them vulnerable. But as I thought about it, I realised that if someone else was on her tail, she hadn’t sprung them like she’d sprung me. This meant they were better at setting a tail than I was. And if that was the case, what else were they better at?