Lugarno by Peter Corris Page A

so,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting the doctor.’

9
    He buzzed from the gate and, guessing he wasn’t on foot, I pressed the panel that said ‘Main gate’ and let him in. He swung his green BMW inside and came bouncing up the path carrying a brown bag. He was small and dark, Lebanese maybe, or perhaps from the subcontinent. Late thirties—around there—bald head, clipped moustache, summer-weight light fawn suit with matching accessories. He barely acknowledged me and went straight to Sammy who had slumped down a bit and wasn’t looking as good as she had a few minutes before. The cigarettes and lighter were nowhere to be seen.
    â€˜I cut myself, doctor,’ she said faintly. ‘An accident.’
    â€˜Of course.’ Cross had a mid-everywhere sort of accent and deft hands. He raised the wounded arm to a level position and balanced it on his upraised knee. He had the hard knot I’d tied in the blouse undone in an instant and clicked his tongue as he inspected the gash.
    â€˜Very lucky,’ he said. ‘Missing a vein by a fraction.’
    â€˜I lost some blood.’
    â€˜Yes. But not too much I think.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Did you make the tourniquet?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Too tight. A danger in itself. If you would get some more damp cloths I’ll sterilise and stitch the wound. No problem.’
    Fuck you, Jack,
I thought, but I went for the damp cloths. When I got back the doctor had laid out on a baize cloth an ampoule, a syringe, some alcohol swabs, a fine needle and some sutures. I’d brought a footstool from Sammy’s bathroom, which I put the wet hand towels down on and stood over him as he crouched beside the padded bench. Sammy’s eyes were closed and her long lashes seemed to almost reach to her cheekbones.
    â€˜Listen, Dr Cross,’ I said. ‘This woman’s already injected herself with … Shit, can’t you see the puncture?’
    Cross took a towel, wiped away some blood and turned his pebble-hard brown eyes up to me. ‘I’m aware of Mrs Price’s dependency. Please go away.’
    I didn’t need asking twice. I planned to have a good look around the house while the opportunity presented. I took off my shoes so as not to tramp blood around unnecessarily and worked my way through the rooms. There was nothing of interest in the sitting or dining rooms or in the study, besides the evidence of money. All the fittings and furniture and equipment—TVs, VCRs, hi-fi, computer—were state-of-the-art. The paintings were originals and one was a Brett Whiteley, a small one.
    I went quickly through Sammy’s closets and drawers. She had enough clothes to outfit the chorus line of a Hollywood musical and an Imelda Marcos–like interest in shoes. Her personal papers were few and easily contained in a shallow drawer—I flipped them over with the long blade on my Swiss Army knife without much interest until a photograph of a young blond man came to light. He wore a suit and a slightly embarrassed expression. Jason Jorgensen. It was a polaroid photograph taken indoors without quite enough light. The subject was clearly enough defined while the background was muzzy, but my guess was it had been taken in a motel room.
    I barely looked at Martin Price’s bedroom because there was almost nothing to see—routine male stuff. There were a couple of books on marketing and management on a table beside the bed and a copy of Paul Kelly’s
The End of Certainty,
something I’d bought myself and hadn’t got around to reading. Judging by the turned-down page corners, Price was two-thirds through it. A drawer contained a pack of black condoms, some lubricant and a vibrator, all with a thin film of dust. He apparently kept his personal papers in the study and I’d already found all the drawers in the big, solid desk firmly locked.
    On to Danni’s chamber. Unlike the