Master's mates

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Did my name mean anything to you when we spoke on the phone, Mr Hardy?’

Her name was Lorraine Master and she was in my Darlinghurst office at 2 pm, as arranged, right on time.

‘I’ve known a few Lorraines and some Masters, but no one putting them together.’

‘Put together’ described her pretty well and that was probably why the remark occurred to me. She was tall with broad shoulders and then everything tapered down. Her eyes, skin and hair were dark and her teeth and tailored suit were snowy white. She had high cheekbones and a broad mouth over a strong chin. She smelt vaguely of some flower, one of the thousands I couldn’t name, and the perfume was working well against the dust and damp spores that flavoured my office. She exuded confidence, but with it there was a note of strain, a tension.

‘I’m Stewart Master’s wife, Stewart Henry Master, that is.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That can’t be easy. What did he get, ten years?’

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