Junior looked away. Again he was on the brink of tears.
‘But you didn’t,’ I said.
‘He opened his eyes and looked at me, puzzled. The tough man; the killer. Here he was, reliant on a machine for air, not strong enough to lift a handkerchief to his nose or wipe his own backside. Time levels all.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I stood up and went over to him and put my face a few inches from his and said the words I had waited to say all my life — “You are under arrest for the murder of Hubert Dunkle Senior.’”
Junior had a cold, hard look on his face that I had not seen before. It was intimidating. Frightening. He had lead in his pencil, like his old man.
‘He started breathing erratically, ’Junior said. ‘I took the guide and left. He was dead that night. Stroke.’
‘The end.’
‘Not quite,’ said Junior. He drained the Scotch, and shivered at its impact.
The next morning I was back on the Gold Coast in my banana lounge overlooking the canal. Peg had last seen me on the banana lounge, and I hoped she’d assume I’d been there all along. But how to account for the three fluffy bandages encasing my pitiful mug?
She came through the sliding door and dropped the local newspaper on my large belly, then went back inside.
The front page, and six pages inside, were dedicated to the exposure of a nearly century-old corruption scandal involving hundreds of policemen, some as senior as deputy commissioner.
There was a picture of my old mentor Obe, and my one-time drop-kick partner Greaves, and poor young Susan Haag, and face after face of blockheaded police officers stemming back to the twenties.
There were politicians calling for a royal commission. There were photographs of records being seized. And a spoof cartoon of The Good Murder Guide, with star ratings for crimes and misdemeanours.
Junior had, as always, done his job with enviable thoroughness.
Peg brought me out a coffee.
‘You look like a koala,’ she said.
I grabbed her wrist, and smiled, and wanted to never let her go.