The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Nine

I had an entire day to spare until the drop-off of the money that night, so I decided to waste it. Over a lonely breakfast, I had my thoughts about the university socialists, but I also about Samuel Pearson, as well as a couple of lingering ones about Anthony Ramsey. How any of them fit together was still beyond me, but the three of them were stuck nagging on my mind, even if they were shaped like a square peg laying dead on top of a round hole.

I got up and placed another call to the Quinto office at Sutherland. It was a Saturday, and I didn't expect anyone to pick up, but tried anyway. While my phone trilled, I picked a hefty vinyl travelling bag from my closet and took it downstairs to my car.

To my surprise, the same blandly pleasant voice came through the line, after ringing for a longer time than I'd expected. She gave me the same spiel, though now in a voice that sounded flatter and thinner: 'Quinto Energies, proud to be sustaining the south-east Pacific and now Australia with clean and pure petrol—I'm afraid our offices are closed today due to unforeseen circumstances...'

'What are you doing there, then?' I asked.

I caught her off-guard. She sputtered a little. 'I'm afraid there was an incident recently. All external customer business here is shut down until further notice due to pending investigation. Thank you.'

Before she could escape, I tried to hook her. 'I know all about that. This is Howard Barter, except my name is actually Holden Burke. I'm a private investigator.'

'A private—' Her voice shrunk even more.

'Samuel Pearson, your boss, correct? He's dead?'

She paused. I could hear a short intake of breath.

'Are you with the police?' she asked.

'In a sense. Listen, I don't need anything that the police can't handle of their own. But what I would like is Mr Pearson's address so I can sort one or two things out.'

We had a little more back-and-forth of responsibilities, but it sounded eventually as if I wore her down and she gave me a house in the Newham district.

I thanked her. 'One last thing: what was your impression of Mr Pearson?'

'My impression? I don't know,' she said weakly. 'I didn't know him very long. He was a very...heavy person, I guess. I mean, he seemed preoccupied with a lot. That's all, really. I don't know; I really need to go now.'

She hung up on me. I made another mental note in the pinboard hung inside my brain.

I got in the car and started it up. On the road west I made another call to the Queensland State University and used my deepest policing voice to get the registered address of Darcy Locklin as well. Unfortunately they gave it to me without much hassle. It was less fun.

Newham was a winding neighbourhood of drab wooden houses and overgrown footpaths; the house I was given was a quiet little thing on the upward slope toward a main road. I parked across the street and walked over.

The door was locked. I knocked, but there wasn't anybody else home. I guessed that Pearson wasn't married, and didn't have anyone else to notice he wouldn't ever be coming home. I wondered if the police had already been through.

Instead, I went to the neighbour's front door and roused someone out of their late Saturday morning sleep. He came to the door tousled in flat bed-messed hair and with a look of weary annoyance.

'Pardon me,' I said graciously. 'I was wondering if you knew anything about the man next door.'

The man in front of me barely twitched a muscle of his stony face. 'Hasn't lived there long. Older guy, never met him, saw him a couple times. If you're a cop, is this about the other night?'