CHAPTER ONE.
Doctor Edmond Fitzgerald sat with his back to the wall, and watched two men outside Antonella's Sandwich Bar. His gaze changed with a slight movement of the head, as he first observed through his glasses, then studied them over the rim of his bifocals.
"Now isn't that a curious thing," he muttered, more to himself than to me.
"Curious?" I answered, resting my pencil from my sketch of tall Palms and flowering bushes, encased in unsightly concrete squares the local council considered sophisticated.
He turned, smiled, and tipped his head towards the objects of his study.
"Them pair of Irish immigrants,"
I laughed. "You're joking of course."
"Joking did you say. Now why on earth should I joke about such a thing? I'm Irish m'self and know what I know."
I tapped my pencil against the pad to emphasise my point, and leaned towards him at the same time, causing a speckled effect of Staedtler lead to distort a drawn Pigeon, much to the doctor's amusement and my annoyance.
"How can you be so sure they're Irish? You don't know for sure. You're just guessing to bug me."
"I'd rub that out if I were you," he tapped the paper with his finger nail. "I know pigeons are famous for leaving little calling cards all over the place, but you've just drawn it like falling rain. God help that pedestrian walking down the mall. Still, he might get lucky and win that blasted Lotto everyone prattles on about."
I swore something and retrieved an eraser from my shoulder bag.
"You're just bored, that's all. And you're taking it out on me. Well I'm not bored. I'm enjoying myself here. The sun is beautiful..."
"It is,"
"The sky is clear..."
"Absolutely,"
"And Australia is a great place to be right now."
"To be sure," he echoed. "And them two Irish immigrants are enjoying it to."
I growled. I know I growled, and said 'Bullpit' through tense lips. It had been nearly five months since the Doctor had solved the murder of cousin Alice, and we had set off to see the great Australian continent, before returning home to Wales, and the cold wet weather of Britain.
At first, we enjoyed the landscape and diverse lifestyle of the ethnic community, balanced carefully in this multicultural society. We travelled north for a while, then flew south to Melbourne. That didn't last, as he wanted to return to the area he liked best - The Illawarra coast.
So here we were, sitting in Globe Lane watching people pass through the pedestrian mall, while I drew and he analysised everyone with increasing irritation.
He sighed and pushed a saucer towards me, with short little nudges.
"I wouldn't mind another one of them coffees."
"Fine. All you have to do is walk over there and ask. The lady is very nice. She won't bite your head off."
[hidepost]There was a short intake of breath.
"She's Italian," he stated matter-of-factly.
"They make the best cappuccinos," I answered sarcastically. "Besides, she speaks good English."
He reached over his shoulder and scratched the back of his neck, then rubbed his chin as though in deep thought.
"Me and them two Irish immigrants don't understand her all that well. She speaks too fast for me."
"Fine," I added, "Here's some paper. Write her a note."
He went quiet for a moment, then retrieved a fob watch from his short's pocket, tapped the cover twice, pressed the crown for the flap to open, looked at the time, then clipped it shut, while clearing his throat at the same time.
"There's more crime back in Britain, than Wollongong."
"You sound as though you're missing it," I snapped curtly, brushing the sketch with the back of my hand. "Thought you wanted to retire from forensic science. You're sixty three years old, you know. Take a break. Relax."
"I'm getting brain dead, Elizabeth. I'm doing what my father said he'd never do. Sitting on a park bench twiddling me thumbs, and watching the world go by."
"This is a pedestrian shopping mall. Not a park bench."
"Same difference," he muttered. I felt almost sorry for him. During the past year, ever since I'd known him, he was only happy when involved in crime.
"I can't go out and order you a murder."
"No, no," he agreed, "But you could be a good child, and get an old Irishman another one of them funny coffees."
I should have answered him, but it would have been pointless. I took the empty cups, crossed the uneven brick floor of the lane, and entered the arcade.
As I passed the wooden table outside, I heard one of the two men say to the other in thick brogue,
"Well Murphy, what d'yuh t'ink of the place?"
His companion answered "Hot!"
I rolled my eyes upward, ordered two funny coffees and made a mental note to ask the doctor how he'd known.
A few moments later he told me.
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