before putting the sound out of his mind and the car into gear. He made it past a couple more dumps before pulling in again, his eyes on the rear-view with Alice’s place in frame. He scratched the back of his head, cursed himself and turned off the engine.
A minute later, he was at the door. Knocked twice. When nothing happened, he knocked a third time. The door was cheap; if he knocked any harder, his fist would go right through it. The yelling ceased and a moment later the door swung open.
Stacy Cameron hadn’t aged well. By the looks of it, she had been around the block more than a few times and had the frayed edges to prove it. She stepped back, checked him out and seemed to like what she saw. ‘Well, well, well. Tom Bishop,’ she slurred. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Can I come in?’ he mumbled.
One glance at the joint was all Bishop needed. In a flash, he took in the mismatched junk-store furniture and the holes in the walls from the assembly of men that had passed through on sloppy drunken nights.
Stacy leant against the fridge, slipped. She was drunk and pretending she wasn’t. ‘What do you think of our little pride and joy?’ she said as she shoved a cigarette between her lipstick-smeared lips. She sparked her lighter and on the third crack got a flame. ‘You look like you’re doing alright. Give us fifty bucks.’
Bishop stared at her. She bored him.
Across the worn carpet, Alice stood in the doorway and, when she saw Bishop, she was embarrassed for smiling.
‘Want to get out of here?’ he asked.
Alice scooped up her handbag from the back of the couch. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ Stacy raised the back of her hand.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Bishop warned her.
The don’t-fuck-around tone of his voice was enough to stop her dead. She looked to her daughter and let out a sob. Alice saw right through the performance, and by the time Stacy realised it, they were already out the door and halfway to Bishop’s car.
Bishop explained to his daughter that he was a single man. He told her he wasn’t father material. He told her she could stay with him for a few days until they sorted something out, but when she smiled he knew he’d do whatever she wanted.
Chapter Four
Junkie. Rapist. Murderer. Roach was all these things and probably more, but that didn’t make him a liar. Bishop parked in the police bay and climbed out. The St Albans watch-house loomed over the street. Anybody pinched was initially kept at the station, but when the detectives were finished listening to their confessions and lies, they were transported to the watch-house for a short stay, then either released on bail or taken to a long-term holding facility out of the city. Bishop stepped through the double doors and into the quiet of the lobby. It was nothing special: four dirty walls, a couple of plastic chairs and a glass window for checking in and out. Bishop tapped his badge on the glass that somebody had tried scraping their name into.
The cell officer, Bean, waiting out retirement, looked up from the footy section of the Herald Sun . ‘Dropping off or picking up?’
Bishop put his badge away. ‘Neither. I logged an arrest earlier; I need to see him again.’
Bean rose to his feet, stretched out his back. It cracked all the way up to the top. He laid the paperwork on a clipboard and picked up a pen. ‘Name?’
‘Mine or his?’
Not impressed. ‘His.’
‘Leroy “Roach” Blacker.’
‘What's wrong with the names they’re given?’ Bean slid the clipboard under the glass. ‘Sign. Badge number and weapon.’
Bishop filled out the form, unclipped his sidearm and slid both under the glass. Bean buzzed the door and Bishop stepped into the man-made purgatory. It was after dinner but before lights out. The prisoners were relatively content, as content as prisoners were ever going to be anyway. The halls were calm and quiet.
‘Mate. Hey, mate.’ A prisoner leant through the