Next to the phone was an old brown wallet. I opened it carefully. The plastic window inside was empty—no family photos, no reminders of loved ones. Maybe he didn’t have any. I looked down at Merv, dead on the kitchen floor, and thought fleetingly about life and death. Was this all there was for some? You lived, you drank, you went to the TAB, won a few, lost a few, then died? What did Merv leave behind? In death, are we simply the sum total of the life we lived? Or the sum total of those who loved us?

And if so, what would I leave behind?

‘Anything in the wallet?’ Wozza’s voice behind me made me jump.

‘Didn’t hear you coming,’ I said, peeling open the space at the back of the wallet that held the notes. Extracting a small bunch of twenties, I dropped them onto the table and fanned them out. Took a photo with my phone. Two hundred dollars.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Wozza. ‘Could those twenties have come from Jack?’

‘One way to find out,’ I said, then carefully collected the notes and popped them into an evidence bag for fingerprinting.

‘And if this is unrelated to Jack, robbery’s not a motive,’ said Wozza.

‘Nope. No robbery.’

Jane announced the arrival of the government undertakers and soon the kitchen was full of people manoeuvring Merv’s mortal remains onto a stretcher.

CHAPTER 20: SUNDAY LUNCH AND A HOMICIDE FILE

CHAPTER 20

SUNDAY LUNCH AND A HOMICIDE FILE

I needed the day off more than I could say. Cases can get under your skin, but unless you take the occasional step back, they consume you like fire. I awoke with the Sunday sun, shook off the lethargy I felt after the last couple of days, and whistled to Waffles. I could hear his nails scrabbling on the wooden floor in the living room as he leaped off his cushion and bolted to my side. He sat on the floor by the bed, his body vibrating with excitement, tail sweeping back and forth.

‘Gee, I wonder who wants a walk?’ I said, my voice croaky from sleep.

Sarcasm was lost on Waffles and the word ‘walk’ made him add an excited high-pitched whine to his repertoire of sounds. Five minutes later, dressed for a run, I flung open the French doors and Waffles shot out like a cheetah. I loved to watch him run full pelt.

The dog made his way straight for the shed. No doubt the memory of Friday night’s catch was fresh in his mind. As I stretched, I watched him skid to a halt and sniff enthusiastically at the shed door, tail wagging. Nothing. He moved around the perimeter, and when he was sure it was safe, he raised his leg and piddled on the side of the shed.

‘C’mon, lazy bones!’ I shouted as I took off and ran past him.