A little over an hour later they were back at the station. Hugh Collins had made no progress with 'Amnon', but had struck unexpected gold when he began ringing around the other stations with his description of the dead man. A constable from Fitzroy had recognised him, not as a missing person, but as someone he had arrested for brawling just a couple of weeks earlier. A distinctive scar on the victim's forearm had rung a bell, and the file the constable had sent over to City South had included a photograph that confirmed it.
"Peter Halswell, a.k.a Peter White," Jack read aloud. "Twenty-one years old, arrested twice for harassing a female, and again for brawling-" he turned the page and skimmed ahead "-over a woman."
"Sounds like our man," Phryne observed in a tone that mingled anger and contempt.
"Lives in Collingwood with his widowed mother," Jack finished.
"Collingwood..." she had considered going back ever since she had returned to Melbourne, but somehow she never had. She supposed she was scared – no, she knew she was scared – of what going back might do to her.
Jack's gentle touch on her arm recalled her to the present moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather I took Collins?"
She thought for a moment, then straightened, determined. "I can't run away forever," she told him firmly.
...
The house was a grim, pokey thing, surrounded by other houses that were similarly grim and pokey. There was little that was fresh, or green, or clean in their surroundings; broken furniture and rubbish on the street, the gutter overflowing with filth. Phryne shuddered. She remembered all of this, the squalor that inevitably accompanied the presence of a large number of people so ground down by circumstance that they had simply stopped caring.
She waited until Jack opened the door of the police vehicle for her, and stepped down. No, this was not her childhood home, or even her childhood street, but it might as well have been. Grubby children that might have been her and Janey not so very many years ago hovered at a distance, both fascinated and frightened by the police car, and intrigued by the fine lady who was being handed down from it. No doubt intrigued, too, by the idea of a man who would offer a woman his arm rather than roughly dragging her wherever he wanted her to go.
"Easy, Phryne," he whispered, and she could see the concern in his eyes, concern for her personally, rather than their case. She knew that if she asked him to he would take her away from there immediately, even if it meant losing their first lead on the killer.
"I'm alright, Jack," she murmured in return, trying to force herself to believe it.
It took a moment for the door to open at his knock, suspicious eyes peering through the crack. "Whaddya want?"
"Mrs. Halswell? I'm Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. I'm afraid it's about your son."
The door was thrown back, revealing a woman who might have been beautiful once, before the cruelty of her character and the burden of her lot in life etched themselves into her features. "My Peter ain't done nothin' wrong!" she snarled. "'F those whores wanna go testing a man's restraint they should be grateful they don't get more. 'N men what run with whores outta know what to expect."
Jack and Phryne exchanged a look. "Your son is dead, Mrs. Halswell." Jack told her. "We fished his body out of the Yarra this morning. Now, may we come in and ask a few questions? It might assist us in finding his killer."
"My Petey? Dead?" Mrs. Halswell staggered backwards into the small room on the other side of the door, and collapsed into a chair at the rough wooden table.
"I'm afraid so." He gave her a moment to absorb what he had said, waiting until she seemed ready to continue. "Mrs. Halswell, can you recall the last time you saw your son?"
"O' course. We 'ad dinner together last night. A nice bit o' mutton, almos' fresh."
"And then were did he go?"
"Pub, with a few of his mates. I thought he'd just stopped over with one o' them."
"I see. And do you have any other children?"
Her expression darkened with what could only be called hatred. "None of my own. Just a stepson, Thomas. But he ain't welcome here anymore, not after what he tried to say about my Petey."
"What about daughters?" Phryne spoke for the first time, barely-contained anger in her voice.
"Not any more. My step-daughter, Annie, stupid little tart, went an' got herself in the family way a few years ago. Drowned herself in the Yarra. Best thing all round, 'f ya ask me."
Jack gave Phryne a sharp look, hoping she wasn't about to do anything foolish. Her eyes glittered with a dangerous combination of anger and pain, and after a moment she turned and walked swiftly from the house, all but slamming the door behind her.
"And what exactly did Thomas have to say about your Petey?"
...
She was sitting in the car when he emerged a few minutes later, her face still set in anger, tears on her cheeks. "It's this place, Jack," she said, when he was seated beside her, regarding her in wordless sympathy. "It's what it does to people. It sucks all the goodness and compassion out of you, all the altruism and understanding, until all that's left is animals clawing at each other. All you remember of yesterday is the grudges; all you know of tomorrow is that it's better not to think about it because it'll only be like today, or worse. And so you drink, and you whore, and you fight, and you never give a damn about anyone or anything, because what's the point when no-one gives a damn about you?"
"Phryne..." he was lost for words.
"Just go, Jack," she closed her eyes, tilting her head back tiredly. "Just take me away from here, anywhere, please. I should never have come."