Man in the Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page B

go?’
    He shrugged and folded his arms. The upper parts of his arms were fleshless, thinner than the forearms. ‘A couple of months back.’
    â€˜D’you know where he went?’
    â€˜No. Bondi someplace. That’s all. Have you got a cigarette?’
    â€˜No. Sorry.’
    â€˜Doesn’t matter.’ His skull-like face went back into the gloom.
    Sometimes I wish I’d get a case that would take me west, to Broken Hill. As it is, I always seem to be heading east, down to the sea. I drove to Bondi Junction where the office of the
Bondi Tribune
is located. Hilary Fanshawe thought the paper Greenway had advertised in was an Eastern Suburbs rag and it seemed likely that he’d put the ad in a few papers in that area.
    Everything is new in Bondi Junction and seems to be getting newer. Some of the people are old but they look as if they belong somewhere else. I had no trouble getting permission to look through back numbers of the paper. These sorts of papers are grateful for any interest shown in them. A bright-eyed young woman took me to a room which was glass on three sides. I was the only reader and everyone who walked in the corridors on all sides looked at me. No chance of making any sly excisions.
    I found the ad in the issues for the first two weeks in January.
Greenlock Enquiries—discreet & determined. Negotiable rates.
At least he didn’t claim experience. I wrote down the telephone number that accompanied the ad, thanked Bright Eyes and left feeling that I’d earned lunch and possibly dinner.
    I had a sandwich and coffee in the mall and then I phoned my home number. No reply. Greenway picked up his phone on the third ring.
    â€˜Greenlock Enquiries.’
    There was plenty of background noise in the mall to help and I deepened my voice a bit and spoke slowly. ‘Mr Greenlock, I . . . ’
    â€˜No, no. My name is Greenway. Greenlock is just the name of the agency. How can I help you?’
    â€˜Mr Greenway. I have a matter. I need some help.’
    â€˜Yes. Mr . . .?’
    â€˜Barton, Neil Barton. I’d like to see you. Are you free now?’
    â€˜I am. The address is Flat 3, 12 Curlewis Street, Bondi. Can you find that all right?’
    â€˜Is it near the beach?’
    â€˜Very near. A few doors away. My office is above a supermarket.’
    â€˜I’ll find it. Thank you. Thirty minutes?’
    â€˜That’ll be fine.’
    I hung up feeling slightly foolish about the charade. Neil Barton was an uncle of mine, an old Digger. I hadn’t seen him for twenty-five years and his name just jumped into my mind. Weird. I found myself thinking about tricks of the mind and psychiatry as I headed for Curlewis Street. I was looking forward to talking such things over with Gareth Greenway. At the back of my mind was some concern about Annie. I told myself that was foolish—she’d been handling herself in a rough world for a long time and she was a survivor, like Uncle Neil, who’d come through Tobruk and other tight spots.
    Number 12 was a large groceries and fruit barn with a two-storey cream brick structure behind it. There was a side entrance flanked by four letter boxes with Greenway’s number above one of them. A card was Scotch-taped to the inside of the fruit shop window at eye level: Greenlock Enquiries, G. Greenway Enquiry Agent, Unit 3. I went along beside the building to a double doorway; the doors had glass panels but they were dirty and smeared. Only one of the doors opened and that let very little light into a lino-covered lobby. Flats 1 and 2 were on this level. A flight of stairs led up into more darkness.
    The stairs creaked loudly and the banister was shaky. I found a switch for one of those lights that stays on for not quite long enough to let you see what you want to see. I pressed it and got enough low-wattage light to see the door to Flat 3. The door was half open. I knocked and pushed it fully