Worse than Death (Anna Southwood Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF

to the expensive view. “At first I thought it was just that bitch being difficult — trying to screw more money out of me or something. She kept telling me Beth was sick. Too sick to go out with me, too sick to speak to me on the phone. I had to go interstate for a week or so, and when I got back it was more of the same. That’s when I realised there was something serious going on. I rang the school and went over there. When I realised no one had seen her for weeks I called the cops. I want my daughter found,” he said, sucking on his cigar, looking at me now. His face was red with anger, or some other suppressed emotion. “Dead or alive, I want her found. Understand? And when she is, I want to be the first to know. Not that fancy lefty lawyer, not the police — me. How much do you charge a day?”
    “A hundred and fifty dollars,” I said. “Plus expenses.”
    He opened a drawer and took out one of those huge double chequebooks. He wrote, tore, and handed me the slip.
    “There’s a thousand dollars there, on account,” he said. “Now you’re working for me. Right?”
    “Right,” I said and restrained myself from saluting.
    I drove back to Balmain in a puzzled daze, shooting at least three red lights. If there was one thing I was absolutely sure of, it was that Rex Channing didn’t have the faintest clue what had happened to his daughter.
    When I got back to the office, Graham and the curry had gone. There was a note for me on my desk:
    Auditioning. Catch you later.
    G.
    P.S. Thanks for the food.
    “Arsehole,” I muttered with feeling. He hadn’t even hinted at how his questioning had gone.

 
    Chapter 3
     
    Next morning Graham was in early. When I came in, he’d already let Toby into the office and was sitting playing with him on the floor. Toby doesn’t much enjoy being played with and when Graham got up he shook his slightly ruffled fur and turned his back on us very firmly.
    “Well?” I said. “What happened yesterday?”
    “Sorry, love, I meant to ring, but after the audition — which was terrific, I really think I might get the part — some of us went drinking. You know how it is.”
    “I mean what did you find out, dickhead? What did the neighbours have to say?”
    He made coffee and we sank into the alcove chairs for a note-comparing session.
    “Well,” I said. “ Did you talk to the neighbours?”
    “Sure did.” He looked rueful. “Most of them didn’t know anything, but there’s one old bat who’s really got it in for Leonie Channing. She’s apparently the one who called the cops over the arguments. And she’s full of complaints about how Leonie never mows her lawn and throws rubbish over the back fence. She also reckons Leonie’s been in the bin a few times and that she’s on drugs or an alcoholic — says she never appears until afternoon and then she’s in a daze — doesn’t seem to listen when she’s spoken to. Mind you,” he said, taking a sip of coffee, “I wouldn’t listen either. She never stops talking, this old girl.”
    “What were the rows about?” I said. “I mean, was it just shouting late at night, or what?”
    “Well, the first time it was yelling and what sounded like furniture being smashed at about two in the morning. This neighbour,” he consulted his notes, “Mrs Darroch, says she tried to knock at their door to complain, but they were making so much noise they didn’t hear her. That’s when she called the police. But by the time they arrived it was quiet, and the girl, Beth, said it was nothing, just an argument.” He looked at his notes again.
    “The next time was similar, except they came out into the yard. Leonie was brandishing a poker or something and shouting ‘I’ll kill you, you little bitch’, or words to that effect. Again, when the cops got there it was quiet and the girl said everything was fine.”
    “No idea what the fights were about?” I asked.
    “No. Old Darroch obviously couldn’t get close enough to hear much.