Dead Man's Footsteps

not any kind of alcohol.
    ‘You bet,’ Potting said.
    ‘George knows his way around Australian Shiraz,’ Troy Burg said.
    ‘Are we going to see you over the weekend too, Troy?’ Potting asked.
    ‘Sunday,’ George said. ‘Troy’s busy tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ll take you guys to the river on Sunday,’ Troy said. ‘Show you where the car was found.’
    ‘We couldn’t do that tomorrow?’ Nicholl asked, anxious not to waste any precious time.
    ‘He’s busy most Saturdays,’ George Fletcher said. ‘Tell them what you do on Saturdays, Troy?’
    After some moments, reddening a little, the Australian Detective Sergeant said, ‘I play the banjo at weddings.’
    ‘You’re joking?’ Norman Potting said.
    ‘He’s in big demand,’ George Fletcher said.
    ‘It’s how I switch off.’
    ‘What do you play?’ Norman Potting asked. ‘“Duelling Banjos”? Ever see that film Deliverance ?’
    ‘Uh huh, I saw that.’
    ‘When those hillbillies tie the guy to the tree and butt-fuck him? With the banjo music playing?’
    Burg nodded.
    ‘That’s what they should have at weddings, not the “Wedding March”,’ Potting said. ‘When a man gets married that’s what happens to the poor sod. His wife ties him to a tree and butt-fucks him.’
    George Fletcher laughed genially.
    ‘Know the similarity between a hurricane and a woman?’ Potting asked, on a roll now.
    Fletcher shook his head.
    ‘I think I heard this,’ Burg murmured.
    ‘When they come, they’re wet and wild. When they go, they take your house and car.’
    Nick Nicholl stared out of the window miserably. He’d already heard the joke on the plane. Twice. He saw a row of low-rise apartment blocks ahead. They were driving down a street of single-storey shops. A white tram crossed in front of them. A short while later they crossed the Yarra river and passed a geometric building in a wide plaza that looked like it was an arts centre. Now they were entering a busy downtown area.
    Troy Burg made a left turn into a narrow, shaded street and parked outside a shop advertising itself as a bottle store. As Nick Nicholl climbed out of the car he saw theshop had a bay-windowed, Regency front that looked as if it had been modelled on one of the antiques shops in Brighton’s Lanes. The window was filled with displays of rare stamps and coins. In gold Olde Worlde lettering above he read: CHAD SKEGGS, INTERNATIONAL COIN AND STAMP DEALERS AND AUCTIONEERS .
    They went inside and a bell pinged. Behind the glass-topped display counter, showing more stamps and coins, stood a skinny, tanned youth in his early twenties with spiky, bleached blond hair and a large gold earring. He was dressed in a T-shirt with a surf board emblazoned on it and faded jeans, and he greeted them as if they were long-lost friends.
    George Fletcher showed him his ID. ‘Is Mr Skeggs in?’
    ‘No, mate, he’s away on business.’
    Norman Potting showed him a photograph of Ronnie Wilson and watched the man’s eyes. He had never got the hang of Roy Grace’s technique for sussing a liar, but he reckoned he was pretty good at telling, anyway.
    ‘Have you ever seen this man?’ he asked.
    ‘No, mate.’ Then the Australian touched his nose, a dead giveaway.
    ‘Take another look.’ Potting showed him two more photographs.
    He looked even more awkward. ‘No.’ He touched his nose again.
    ‘I think you have,’ Potting said insistently.
    Cutting in, George Fletcher said to the assistant, ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Skelter,’ he replied. ‘Barry Skelter.’ He made it sound like a question.
    ‘OK, Barry,’ George Fletcher said. He pointed to Potting and Nicholl. ‘These gentlemen are detectives from England,helping Victoria Police on a murder inquiry. Do you understand that?’
    ‘Murder inquiry? Right, OK.’
    ‘Withholding information in a murder inquiry is an offence, Barry. If you want the technical legal term, it is perverting the course of justice . In a murder inquiry that carries a likely minimum sentence of five years’ imprisonment. But if the judge wasn’t happy, you could be looking at ten to fourteen years. I just want to make sure you are quite clear about that. Are you clear about that?’
    Skelter suddenly changed colour. ‘Can I see those photographs again?’ he asked.
    Potting showed them to him again.
    ‘Actually, you know, I can’t swear, but there is a resemblance to one of Mr Skeggs’s customers, now I come to think about it.’
    ‘Would the name