Lugarno by Peter Corris Page B

other rooms, it was a mess, and a mess teenage style. I remember seeing an episode of Bill Cosby’s TV show where he opened the door to his son’s room and said, ‘This is where clothes come to die.’ It was like that. Clothes scattered everywhere; video cassettesand compact discs likewise; wall posters pulling away from the Blu-Tack, and pizza and hamburger boxes competing for space with wine bottles and beer cans. The bed was a tumbled ruin with a blizzard of used tissues covering it. The room was large, say twenty-five square metres, but the chaos made it seem small.
    Light flooded in from where a Holland blind had come adrift from one of its moorings. The other blind was drawn down tight, as if the intention had been to keep the room as dim as possible. You hear untidy people say they know where everything is; I’m no housekeeper but I don’t believe it. There was no way Danni would be able to tell that someone had sorted through her detritus. I set about looking through the cluttered closets and impossible-to-close drawers without a thought for secrecy.
    Danni evidently carried everything of importance on her person because the drawers and shelves and discarded handbags and purses contained nothing of interest. I found a scrap of silver foil but no sexy silver dish, no spoon, no lighter, no syringe or syringe cap. The only thing of interest I found was another photograph of Jason Jorgensen. He was standing in what looked like a wine bar. He appeared happy and relaxed with a glass in his hand and was wearing casual clothes—sports shirt, shorts, sneakers. The photograph had a quick snap look about it and had been tucked under the satin pillow on the sleeper’s side of Danni’s unmade bed.
    Cross had made a good job of repairing Sammy’s arm and he was helping her back into the house when I stepped into view.
    â€˜What the hell are you still doing here?’ Sammy almost shouted.
    â€˜Calm yourself,’ the doctor said.
    â€˜I don’t want that man snooping through my house.’
    â€˜I’m the man who saved you from bleeding to death,’ I said. ‘Remember?’
    â€˜Hardly that,’ Cross said. ‘A clean wound. Glass is a sterile medium, more or less. I think you’d better leave.’
    I followed them into the sitting room. ‘What about the mess?’
    Sammy allowed the doctor to ease her down into a chair. ‘Do you think I could have a brandy, please?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Cross left the room briskly, obviously knowing where they kept the liquor.
    â€˜What’s Marty going to say about all this blood?’ I asked.
    â€˜I’ll have it cleaned up before he gets home. He gets home very late these nights, now that he’s got that … But I suppose you’ll tell him all about it.’
    I liked that choice of words—
I’ll have it cleaned up:
Sammy hadn’t cleaned anything herself in a long while. It occurred to me that the best way to handle Sammy at the moment was as the man of mystery. I’d lifted the cigarettes and lighter from where she’d tucked them under the padded cover on the porch bench and I dropped them into her lap. ‘I don’t know that I will.’
    Cross came back with an inch or so of amber liquid in a small brandy balloon. Nice touch. He’d taken a while and I edged closer to get a sniff of his breath. ‘Here you are, Mrs Price,’ he said. ‘A few sips over the next few minutes, I would suggest.’
    I had to admire Sammy. She’d secreted the smokes and lighter again as smoothly as Houdini with his all-purpose handcuff keys. She accepted the glass and gave Cross one of her full candle-power smiles and eye massages. I caught its effect even standing off at an angle. ‘Thank you, doctor. Thank you for everything.’
    â€˜I’m sure she’ll be all right,’ I said.
    He ignored me. He had smoothness to spare and he couldn’t