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

But the other interesting thing she said was about another family called Johnson, who’ve moved interstate. Something about them having a daughter who disappeared, too. The old girl said she’d always thought it was a local maniac.”
    “How long ago?” I said.
    “Oh, years, I think.” Graham referred to his notes. “Yeah, three or four years back. They never found any trace of her, but they took in some bloke for questioning. They had to let him off in the end for lack of evidence. But Darroch reckons it was him. He still lives round there, with his mother.”
    “Well,” I said impatiently, “why didn’t you go and see him?”
    “Running late. Anyway, it doesn’t sound very likely, does it? Not if the police were satisfied.”
    I chewed on my pen. “They might not have been. They just couldn’t prove anything. Anyway, we should follow it up. What’s his name?”
    Graham referred to his scrawls again. “Joseph Kominsky. But she didn’t know his address.”
    It was easy enough to find — A. & J. Kominsky, Lilac Avenue, Liverpool. I’d have bet all Clyde’s money that the street hadn’t ever seen a lilac anywhere near it. When I rang, a querulous, heavily accented old voice told me that Joe wouldn’t be home until five. I couldn’t call him at work — he was ‘out on the truck’. I arranged to go over after five, to suspicious and reluctant agreement, then sat back, thinking.
    “You’d better come, too,” I said to Graham. “I got a bit scared talking to Rexie-baby, and this Joseph bloke might be a real maniac. Oh shit,” I suddenly remembered. “I haven’t even told you about Rex Channing yet. We’ve got a real client.” I filled him in on my meeting with Rex Channing and he looked at first amazed and then worried.
    “Anna, I don’t like it,” he said. “Why would someone like him employ us ? He must have stacks of money, and connections. It doesn’t make sense.”
    It had been worrying me, too, but I’d persuaded myself there must be reasons.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Perhaps he doesn’t want his mates to know too much about it. Anyway,” I said sheepishly, “he knew Clyde…”
    Graham was still dubious, but he brightened at the sight of the cheque.
    “Meanwhile,” I said, “we should find out some more about the other missing girl.”
    I made a phone call to the office of the National and got their extremely efficient secretary Clare, who said she’d go through the back files and fax us anything she found on Kylie Johnson’s disappearance. It must have been a slack day in there, because the copies started coming through within the hour. We took them up to the Satasia to read over a late lunch. There wasn’t much — the National had simply picked up on the dailies and the case got only a few brief mentions. I realised we’d have to go to the State Library to look up the other reports. Still, it gave us the broad outline, and some idea of what to ask Joseph Kominsky.
    *
    Lilac Avenue wasn’t an avenue, and Clyde’s money was safe. It was a cul-de-sac down near the oval and the football club, we discovered as we got slightly lost. I was navigating — never my strong point. The row of plain fibro houses, with tired but well-mown lawns and a bit of obligatory cactus displayed here and there, abutted the stretch of public land and the back windows looked out over the field and what seemed to be a creek heavily overgrown with sheoaks and wild bamboo. In the fading evening light it looked like a good place for a murder.
    The Kominskys’ place was unusual in that it had a well-established small garden of natives — bottlebrush, grevillea and willow-leaf gums. An elderly woman was at the letterbox next door when we pulled up. She stared at us — at the car, my clothes, Graham’s television good looks, and stood like a rock, her hands full of leaflets. She hushed ineffectually at a nasty yapping little white dog, apparently called ‘Gough’. On her porch was a