Read Online Gladiatrix by Rhonda Roberts - Free Book Online Page A

pimples across his chin.
    â€˜I’m Desmond Carmichael …’
    â€˜Oh, right. You rang last night. I spoke to you, I’m Constable Perkins. You wanted to see one of the detectives?’ He looked over at the big clock on the foyer wall.
    Des cut in. ‘Yes, yes. We’re a bit early. Just let us know when they arrive.’
    The constable nodded, then ticked off a box on his clipboard. Looked like the bean counters had been here as well. Our box was ticked.
    Des sat on the grey plastic bench, under a black-and-white photo of three Lithgow miners, probably taken in the early years of the last century. They were covered in black dust, but smiling as though it was pure joy to go down a hole in the ground.
    He squinted up at the photo. ‘That used to hang in my office.’ He looked away, shoulders sagging ever so slightly.
    I sat next to him. There wasn’t really much else to look at, that was until I focused on the front door. There was a nasty pattern of knife-shaped gouges at breast height in the wall to the left of the architrave. Someone had stuck a spindly rubber plant in front of it, but it didn’t do the job.
    We both stared at the gouges, and speculated.
    â€˜Was that here last time?’ I asked.
    â€˜Not that I remember.’
    Maybe that explained the heightened interest in security.
    There was a vending machine near the front desk, just like all waiting rooms on the front line of public suffering: hospitals, police stations; anywhere you’re likely to wait and worry. Got to have your caffeine so you can stay awake for it. I was standing next to the thing, contemplating the dismal choice of beverages, when Perkins waved us back to the desk.
    â€˜Mr Carmichael? You can come through now.’ Perkins opened the side door for us. Behind the partition was an open plan room with a cluster of five desks in the middle, each with its own computer and filing cabinet. There were four doors set into the rear wall, two were offices.
    â€˜Through there, sir.’ Perkins opened the office door on the right.
    A short, thick-set man, probably somewhere in his early thirties, was still unpacking a navy and white gym bag, dumped open on his desk. There was a squash racket next to the bag, and his hair was damp.
    He was neatly dressed in a white shirt, a slate grey tie and navy work pants. He put his lunch box ona side table, and stored the gym bag in a tall steel locker next to the door. There was a large disposable cup full of aromatic coffee on his desk, steam rising from the top. The cup was marked ‘Lithgow Coffee Factory’.
    The man extended his hand to Des, saying, ‘A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Cooper.’ They exchanged a firm handshake.
    Des started to introduce himself, but Cooper said, ‘Am I correct in thinking you’re Des Carmichael? The same one the Mayor keeps measuring me against?’
    Good. So there was a glimmer of institutional memory here. Thank God for Harry Stockwell, the perennial mayor and inveterate mind game player.
    â€˜Perkins didn’t seem to know me last night,’ said Des with surprise.
    â€˜No.’ Cooper gave a wry smile. ‘He’s brand new, just like me. But the townspeople here have long memories, and any time something goes wrong they tell me that you wouldn’t have done it that way.’
    Des covered his pleasure to say, ‘So Harry’s still running the show?’
    Cooper nodded. ‘And doesn’t let any of us forget it.’ He gave me a quizzical glance.
    Des introduced me. ‘This is Kannon Jarratt.’ He didn’t say more, possibly in the hope Cooper would react to my name.
    Cooper just extended his hand, without a flicker of recognition. We shook. So he knew Des’ name but nothing else. If he’d known much about Des at all, he’d know why Des had moved to the coast. He politely indicated the chairs in front of his desk and we all