Whispering Death by Garry Disher Page A

them, with their boards under their ropy arms, sand on their powerful feet, a crusting of saltwater on their slender jaws.
    By late morning she was starving. As she headed back to her rented house in Penzance Beach she ran her mind around the contents of her fridge and considered the Balnarring supermarket on a Saturday morning. The obvious solution was: a smoked salmon baguette from the Merricks General Store, before the car park filled with Melbourne Porsches and Audis.
    The food settled her. She drove aimlessly for a while, thinking of her parents, thinking she should drive up to the city tomorrow, spend the afternoon with them. But when the time came would she have the energy? They were old, querulous, stubborn, didn’t know why she’d become a cop, wondered why she—unlike her high-achieving brothers—wasn’t married.
    Never in a million years would she tell them she’d been on antidepressants.
    Then Dido was singing White Flag on her CD of illegal downloads and she felt like crying. The only solutions were work and love. And given that she didn’t have any love in her life, she thought it was time she did some work.
    By twelve-thirty she was at the Waterloo Community Hospital, a small place, low and sleepy under gumtrees. Busy today, for some reason, with individuals, couples and families walking to and from the car park, grouping in the foyer.
    â€˜It’s often like this on weekends,’ said the admissions clerk, a small, round, slyly humorous woman with frizzy hair, ‘Rachel’ on the badge pinned to her breast pocket. ‘They get drunk and wake up on Saturday or Sunday morning with a broken arm or a shredded ear and no memory of how it happened.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘Or they wake thinking “Look! A sunshiny spring morning, I must do some mowing or slashing or chain sawing. I must climb onto the roof and clean out the gutters.”’ She shook her head. ‘And don’t get me started on Fathers’ Day, Christmas Day…’ The woman was a tonic to Pam. They grinned at each other, kindred spirits. They both had jobs helping people in distress, and therefore a full repertoire of stories of stupidity and ingratitude.
    Just then a man staggered in. A huge, white, hairy apparition of tiny bum-crack shorts, a wife-beater singlet and rolls of porcine flesh, holding a bloodied hand to his chest. His face was petulant and demanding. ‘Need some help here,’ he bellowed. His family pressed in behind him. A cowed wife; hot, avid children.
    Rachel and Murphy leaned automatically towards each other. ‘Chainsaw,’ Pam murmured.
    â€˜Pruning shears.’
    â€˜Not the bloke’s fault.’
    â€˜Of course not,’ Rachel said. ‘His tool’s to blame.’
    A quick, shared snigger, then Rachel worked a vivid smile onto her face and called across the foyer, ‘Yes, sir, let’s get someone to take a look at you.’
    Pam nodded goodbye and headed down the corridor to Chloe Holst’s room. She found a middle-aged woman sitting beside the bed, handing the girl a tissue. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll come back another time.’
    Holst managed an exhausted laugh and sank into her pillow. ‘It’s not what you think. Wherever I was the other night, it’s given me hay fever.’
    Pinkly damp around the nose and eyes, she went on: ‘Pam, this is my mum.’
    â€˜Chloe suffers dreadfully from hay fever,’ the woman said, ‘just like her dad. I remember…’
    Pam had been in situations that played out like a cheap novel, the anguished parent demanding, ‘Have you found the monster who did this to my daughter?’ but Chloe’s mother was content to prattle on about her daughter’s allergies until Chloe said, ‘Mum, for God’s sake, it’s not important.’
    Finally, responding to her daughter’s cues, Mrs Holst gathered her bag. ‘I’ll