‘Much the same as I’d feel about Hobart.’
‘You know the solution. Sell the crumbling Glebe fortress to some IT couple with money coming out their arseholes. Buy a townhouse in Coogee. Learn to surf.’
‘I was surfing when I was ten years old.’
‘How often since then?’
‘Not often.’
‘There you go, learn to surf again. Or how about bush-walking? You could meet up with Bob Carr.’
‘Yesterday’s man. What does the new bloke do when he takes off his suit?’
‘No idea. But you have to find something that you want to do, that you’re good at and will bring in a buck.’
‘I know. Thanks, Frank. I’ll think about it.’
But I didn’t have to think about it because two days later Lily was murdered.
2
The sequence of events went like this: at 10.30 am I got a telephone call.
‘Mr Cliff Hardy?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Constable Farrow of the Northern Crimes Unit. Ms Lillian Truscott had your name in her passport as the person to contact in the event of an accident.’
That was news to me. ‘She’s had an accident?’
‘I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that Ms Truscott is dead.’
I felt the room spin and I had to lean against the wall. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles cracked. Lily had always been a wild driver and inclined to take risks with the breathalyser. ‘A car accident?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What then? When?’
Constable Farrow didn’t answer and I could hear muted mutterings as she shielded the phone. Then her voice came through, shakily but clear. ‘Ms Truscott’s body has been taken to the mortuary in Glebe. We’d be obliged if you could identify her.’ Police-person Farrow sounded about twenty.