Death Delights by Gabrielle Lord

out, he wants to watch his back. Men like this aren’t fit to live.’ The accompanying photograph captioned ‘Peter Carter outside court yesterday’ showed a stooped man in his forties. I made a note of his name and jotted down a bit more information, then stood up, feeling that at last, I was getting somewhere with this case. Here was the possible link—apart from their crimes—that connected these four men. Frank Carmody was right to be fearful. Had Peter Carter taken note of these four names and decided that their sentences weren’t enough? Or someone else with a similar brief? Bob had told me that the relatives of the dead had all been checked out, but I wanted to talk to this Peter Carter myself.
    I rang Bob, told him what I’d discovered, how those four names and the relatively light sentences they had scored were the basis for several newspaper articles. Then I asked him about Peter Carter.
    ‘Carter,’ he repeated after my question. ‘Yes. I do remember him. We had to restrain him during the trial on a couple of occasions.’
    ‘I want to check him out again,’ I said. ‘He made threats that were reported at the time of Carmody’s sentencing. And I want to watch Frank Carmody. See where he goes, who he talks to. I want a surveillance team.’
    ‘Not possible. We haven’t got the manpower to keep tabs on someone like Frank Carmody. Nobody cares whether he lives or dies.’
    I rang off. It had been worth a shot. And what Bob had said wasn’t quite true. Someone out there seemed to care very much.
    •
    I drove round to Charlie’s place at Little Bay after a quick phone call and found him hidden under the bonnet of his car in the driveway, shirt off, surrounded by tools. On the ground near him lay several intricate bits of gearing, a little fly-wheel, a tiny gasket and other small and delicate mechanisms. He looked pleased to see me and wiped his hands on his trousers before trying to grab me. Where I’m tall and solidly built, Charlie is narrow and whippy. All his energy goes into his brains. I pulled back from the bear hug he always tries on, and he patted my arm instead.
    ‘What’s up with the car?’ I asked him as we walked into his place, passing one of my less successful watercolours of Jervis Bay.
    ‘Buggered petrol pump,’ he said. ‘I just put a new one in. You can buy the little kit. It’s all finished now.’ As he washed and wiped his hands, I recalled the bits of machinery I’d noticed lying on the driveway.
    ‘But what about all the bits you left out? Lying on the ground?’
    Charlie shrugged. My young brother, as well as having a doctorate in psychology, was also a great bush mechanic. He could pull a car apart, put it back together, have all sorts of parts still lying around and the bloody vehicle would still go like the clappers. The minute I tried my hand at mechanical repairs, something worse happened. Charlie says it’s because of my state of mind and suggests that I should examine the deeper implications of quantum physics. I shake my head when he says things like that.
    ‘Siya’s gone to her mother’s place for a few days,’ he offered by way of explanation as he opened the fridge and peered in. ‘I can only offer you a beer or a glass of orange drink.’ Charlie lives with a succession of girlfriends, none of whom seems to last more than a year or so and at the moment he was cohabiting with a wild Cypriot, Anastasia, who trained as a commando in the Cypriot army before coming to Australia. Charlie works very hard as a psychologist for the Health Commission and also takes some private clients.
    I took the drink and followed my brother outside onto the back deck. Charlie bought this cottage just before Sydney prices went crazy and built the extra room and decking out the back. It was shaping up into a hot day with the humidity already sticky and sapping despite a weak nor’easter. We sat together in front of a display of pansies, gardenias, lavender,